Atomic Blog

Happy New Year!

2012-01-20T07:07:00.000-08:00

Here's a little doodle. I've been doing little sketches here and there. Nothing fancy, just something to keep my mind busy. Oh, yes I nearly forgot - Happy New Year! It's never too late to wish one a Happy New Year. I've planned a busy year of writing and submitting work to be published - I don't have any resolutions, making resolutions only sets one up for a fall. And I don't want to fall.

Friday challenge

2011-12-23T12:59:00.000-08:00

Here's a pic from Lissy Laricchia for the Friday Challenge.

Friday Challenge week 1

2011-12-16T12:14:00.000-08:00

Every week, on Friday, I'll be challenging myself to write a poem or a short story with a photo, a title, a song, or a few words/a line. This image said something to me though I can't find out who took it. As always copyright belongs to the photographer.

The Troubled Spirit

2011-12-09T14:55:00.001-08:00

When the phone rings I think of you.
Outside rain lashes, legs stand in
puddles and ponds. Little rivers creep up
waist, and drown out voices.

Storms are blowing. I count them like
I count memories and crawl into a
dark black hole. Imagine the sun.

When no one looks I talk to the rain,
it doesn't answer. Much like my
dead mother. I drink until the sun rises,
I drink some more, and it rises more.
I board trains, rocket up through
universes. I hike down networks,
connecting civilisations and
put my heart to your ear.

Listen to the beat.

30,000 words

2011-12-01T04:47:00.001-08:00

Happy December. I'm glad that November is over. Time to celebrate and do a dance.

While I did not reach the 50,000 word mark I was aiming for, I got to 30,000 words. That's something to be proud of, isn't it? I guess that's a start and only 20,000 words shy. It's definitely a step up from my 10,000 words last year although I did start ten days into the thing.

I'm continuing to write both poetry and fiction. Just because November is over doesn't mean writing is over. It continues on.

Nanowrimo Update

2011-11-26T08:22:00.001-08:00

It's nearly over, thanks be to God! I haven't enjoy it one bit. I have a lot of words (swear words) that I can fling at the thing, but I won't. Why such a challenge exists in November is beyond me. Isn't that a busy time for most people? It was very busy for me this year. Everything seemed to happen at once. At least I have 26361 words so far and I am still plugging away. I think the idea of just write, it doesn't matter if you have no plot idea or characters fleshed out, doesn't work - at least not for me. It has made me sick.

The story has gone through a lot of changes and it will continue to do so. I wanted to keep it serious it is far from that. At the moment it is about a man who invents a machine that types out a strange code. Another machine exists that can translate this code but it is in a secret location. The man dies mysteriously. Meanwhile anyone who had direct or indirect contact with him is visited by a strange and secretive organisation. Some of these people that get visited are: a contract killer, a postgraduate student, a retired couple, and a hotel porter. Somehow all these people are connected and only through them can the code be translated and the mystery of the man and his code machine be revealed.

Odd things you can find in the story so far:

clowns.
a talking duck.
an interview with the world's last alcoholic.
a giant kettle.
a house that has developed a consciousness.
a day in the life of a shower.
an obese man who lives in a virtual world as an A-list actor.

And so the fun continues.

Good News

2011-11-03T16:56:00.000-07:00

I copped on, took a breather from typing crap, and got down to business. I talked to myself, as you do, addressing the issue of plot. I came to the conclusion that writing with a haphazard plot in mind was like writing in gibberish or similar to looking at a map with half of it missing. I scrapped my idea of Survival City, though the idea is stored away perhaps for later use. The idea was too big for me, sometimes ideas run away. I came up with a smaller plan that seems more focused.

This is a rough draft I came up with of my synopsis:

The Ghost of Plot 184

Paul is having one of those Mondays. He turns up to work soaked to the bone and notices his desk, where he works as technical support, has been sabotaged by his workmates. When he cleans up the childish graffiti scribbled all over his work station and deletes the obscene messages that clutter his inbox he notices one of his work colleagues, Mary, drunk and off her trolley. Mary proceeds to puke into his wastepaper basket and as a result she's bundled into a taxi. Paul is nominated to take the bulk of her work. The fun continues as clients struggle to cope with basic instructions such as how to turn a computer on and connecting to a power supply. Halfway into the morning his wife rings letting him know his darling little angel, Paul Jr, has been acting the maggot at school again and given detention. He must collect him after work and must not forget the milk.

When lunch arrives the sun makes a rare appearance. Paul buys a sandwich, makes his way to the nearby park and sits on the grass soaking up the warm glorious sun. He takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves and undoes the top button of his shirt. Finally a moment of peace. Suddenly a foul haggard man with a sea-weedy beard and a large overcoat that resembles a fishing net disturbs the scene. He approaches Paul, sits down next to him and counts the change in his paper cup. Paul, flustered and annoyed, politely asks him to leave, says he doesn't have much time to chat, has to finish lunch so he can get back to work. The man takes no notice, rambles incoherently, begins dropping hints of his life as a property developer, until the recession arrived and he lost it all. This leaves Paul perplexed. He excuses himself and gets back to work. But the meeting with the park bum worries him. There is no recession, in fact the economy is booming, and the property developers he knows have no shortage of work.

Paul plays out different scenarios in his mind, draws up a multitude of stories, paints backgrounds and imagines the life of this illusory character. In an attempt to answer questions and connect the dots he dons his investigatory cap and goes in search for answers. What results is an adventure that leads him down dark seedy lanes, through construction sites and into wide open spaces that are being transformed into housing projects. He scours the city, traces his steps, follows leads, and chases sightings of the man he has dubbed, 'The Ghost'.

[end of synopsis]

So things appear to be picking up. I have something more concrete to work with and the idea is becoming clearer. Work, yes it's work, will also start on character bios and background information over the next few days. I will continue to chip away at the daily word count.

Chin up! Happy NaNoWriMoing!

Day 3

2011-11-03T16:53:00.000-07:00

The third day of nanowrimo is here and nearly gone and it has been terribly frustrating since day one. Nearly poked my eyes out a few times. The main thing that's getting to me is writing the bloody thing. After procrastinating for a while I managed to write 1,770 words on the first day, which ended up being a pile of poo. Paragraphs of crap aren't great motivators though I've heard they're great for throwing or lighting.

Another thing that wears me down is all this cheeriness coming out of nanowrimo. Great snakes, are they always like that?! What's with all the sappiness? Could it be me and my cheery self? Maybe I'm not used to Americanisms, apologies to Americans, but I swear to God some things on that site are highly irritating.

Enough of that.

Yesterday I managed 0 words! I stared at the screen and couldn't get the words out. Well done old chap! I'm sure the purpose of nano is not to shred holes in my confidence. At the moment it is taking a hammering. I came to the conclusion I have no idea why or what I'm writing. I continued in the same vein today. I managed, however, to type up 1324 words though I've been going for a mindless ride with my nonexistent plot. Here are a few of the scenes I managed to write:

Two people in a canteen introduce themselves then get down to the serious business of talking about genetics as a lightning storm rages outside.

A man stands on an abandoned runaway suddenly a helicopter flies overhead with a delivery from Fedex.

Bob, the hungry milkman, licks his lips as he stares at a sandwich.

A figure nears the edge of a city that's surrounded by a wall and proceeds to blow it up.

It is not all bad news. Reasons:

I'm writing.
I know where I'm going wrong - no bloody plot, no focus and purpose.
I'm not the only one struggling - I'm certain I'm not alone in my struggle. Someone else must be feeling the pain as well.
A few realisations: writers write, it isn't easy writing (damn near impossible), habits must be formed, great stories are character driven, and time management is essential.

I had an epiphany, okay maybe that's too melodramatic, and maybe it's taken me far too long to figure it out but I realise now (bloody spell check at me again with my use of s - yes, I am a crank) that having a focus in the first place is the key. This informs the story and lets the writer know where they're heading. It establishes what drives the characters to act at the start of the writing adventure. I am wildly psychotic when it comes to writing ideas so having no character bios, beats, plot outlines and so forth in the first place lets my characters run riot, in fact they've trampled over me numerous times.

You can argue, of course, and say: "No, you've got it all wrong, let your characters run free. If you establish focus and give your characters traits and guidelines from the word go it holds them back from doing what they want. Don't put them in restraints."

What if I my character wants to frolic in the fields? He wants to dance butt naked - so be it. Aliens want to turn up and capture him and go to work on his ass. Sure let them. And if an asteroid happens to hit him in the middle of a probing session, and due to the collision, not anal probing, he develops superhuman powers let him be. If his only weakness happens to be he's allergic to olives and it turns out he has to stop the world's largest olive oil corporation from falling into the hands of the super villain, Juan Carlos, the olive fiend, let him be allergic.

I could continue in this vein for sometime. Maybe that is my calling, but for now I'd like to establish a focus, something I'm incapable of at times, and get a hold on structure. I could, however, resort to a story about a Mexican cross dresser who has his heart set on becoming a Guinness World Record champion for eating the most guacamole in a single sitting.

I may have a change of heart when nanowrimo is done and dusted. What do you think? Do you think fleshing out plot and character beforehand is beneficial or do you think it's too cruel and restrictive on the creative process?

Books

2011-10-23T14:34:00.000-07:00

I'm a book whore! There I said it. I love books. They hold my attention big time. Ebooks, however, give me a lot of trouble especially when I can just press the page up and down key. The home and end keys are also delightful. Look all finished! My eyes tend to wander far too much when I read ebooks. And reading comics on the computer is even worse. I shiver just thinking about it. So because of that I like to buy books that I can hold.

Over the years I have built up a collection of books from comics to photography, art and writing journals, novels and poetry books. Some of my books, however, I would be horrified to lend out even though they are wonderfully revolting it would scare the be-Jesus out of anyone.

A few of my favourites:

Out of Control by Kevin Kelly. A book on technology and how computers, social systems and economics interact. This book made me think. A good thing.

Peace and War by Joe Haldeman with three stories. The Forever War is the best of the lot. A sci-fi yarn about a soldier who fights in a war in a distant galaxy, however, every time he returns to earth, on leave, centuries have gone by making him totally out of touch with reality.

The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr and E.B. White. A great little book that I never tire of. The book itself is an example of good writing and style.

Wilfred Owen poems selected by Jon Sallworthy. Wilfred Owen was a war poet whose work represents the lives of young men sacrificed in the First World War. There are some beautiful images and wonderful sound to be heard in his poems. There is also an informative introduction from Sallworthy

Capacity by Theo Ellsworth. This illustrated book is a crazy creative journey, it reads like a dream or some mad drug-fueled trip. Thumbs up.

NaNoWrimo 2011

2011-10-20T11:24:00.000-07:00

NaNoWrimo is nearly here so I'll be having another stab at writing 50,000 words during the month of November. Apparently September and October were the months to get the plot in order! Was it now? Well that's news!

Last year I got nowhere near the word count. This time around, however, I hope I'll be able to complete it. I never had stamina for writing more than 10,000 words. Giving it a go is the main thing - isn't it?

After giving it a little thought here is a really rough proposed title and synopsis (feel free to point out the glaring obvious - terrible writing). It will change, I hope.

Survival City
Life is at a premium. Basic necessities are at an all time high. Cities experience constant power and water shortages. Large corporations vie to be number one in selling survival packages to the desperate inhabitants. With a variety of products ranging from survive a day to a lifetime salesmen scrounge for a quick sale and a high profit. But there's a rumour about to break that somewhere in the north lies a city in which its inhabitants lack for nothing.

Now for the 50,000 words.

Breakdown

2011-10-07T16:29:00.000-07:00

You sit in car broken down

wait on hard shoulder.

You ring for assistance, glance at time

check phone for messages

turn attention to radio

traffic reports and news updates.

You drink a flask of tea, polish off a whole

packet of chocolate biscuits.

Outside traffic motors on. A woman

drives by with screaming kids. An

articulated lorry rolls on. You look up

out of windshield spy a bird in the

sky. You wonder what it would be like up

there so far away with the rush of cool
wind and warm sun on your back.

Happy National Poetry Day!

2011-10-06T04:53:00.000-07:00

Considering the day here's a poem:

Elsewhere

He lifts boxes day in and out, packs them with Styrofoam,

sends them on their way, repeats this over and over and over.

Above the whir and hum of machines he whistles while he
works, never looks at the clock for he discerns time in
his mind the seasons become white then blue. He doesn’t
move, he stands, working, pace steady. He does not ask
what goes inside, nor has he ever looked for that is not
his concern, he just shifts and shuffles on. Maybe in his
mind he is elsewhere, perhaps in a cool mountain forest
or swimming in a moonlit lagoon.

A site for Sore Eyes

2011-10-04T12:10:00.000-07:00

Nearly two years have gone by and no updates. Terrible. I hope to change that. I will be editing and chopping things up. Fingers crossed I'll be able to get it up and running again.

Winter

2009-12-09T06:14:00.000-08:00

The day arrives skin-cold and dog damp,
sun wilts, soot clouds coat sky.
Temperatures frost, ice over walls
and footpaths, cover layers of earth.
Hills curve, disappear
afternoon arrives arctic,
the moon grows round and full,
white smoke dances out of chimneys.

Light Fades

2009-11-27T13:19:00.001-08:00

Afternoon light curls
autumn sun over hillsides,
lightly tiptoes past greying trees,
sways through forests
blankets over tall oaks,
creeps in like the customary stray
uninvited at the door. Then vanishes,
leaving us lost and alone in memories.

Once

2009-10-25T04:56:00.001-07:00

The sky darkened,
and the stars gathered
as we sifted through dirt and fragments,
carefully uncovering a man
quiet and skeletal,
fragile and peat,
fingers sharp as little arrows,
and thin curled toes.
With a skull shaped like the moon.

We knelt, picking our minds
for information
wondering who this man was
and where he hunted food.
Travelling with no roads
or maps as guides
only the stars.

Setting

2009-10-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

The sun sets in the purple bay,
spills light over masts,
creeps into panelled cabins
of old rotting boats, illuminates
charts and compasses, highlights
old worn pipes and dog-eared photographs
of women who once kept seafarers
company on cold stormy nights.

Burning

2008-11-01T14:29:00.001-07:00

This forest fire ignites,
thick fumes of black.

A nest of ravens cry out
as high above
their mother watches
them burn.

Rain

2008-11-01T14:28:00.000-07:00

Catching the forecast,
we watch the weather,
waiting for a sign
to ease our deja vu.

We hang our coats
posthumously on the door
the aspirations draining
minutely in droplets.

We bear our companion
constant on our sleeves,
deep in the compartment
of a shoe, in the fibres of
damp old cords.

If the weather could speak
over a loud "achoo!"
or above a raspy cough
it would talk in some
foreign tongue, inviting
a translator to interpret
the long lash, the gentle
downpour of rain.

Static

2008-11-01T14:26:00.000-07:00

We speak in hushed tones
Not knowing
Whether to talk
Or keep quiet.

We stare at
The table
Set with plates
For the dead

And we fill our
Heads with nothing
But air
As we listen
To the radio
slowly spill static.

Coming to an Understanding

2008-10-22T04:20:00.000-07:00

Granny never talked about the Lusitania, I quickly learned that such a topic was off limits. Most days she would sit on a chair by the fire, hunched over her knitting. Sometimes I would sit for lengths at a time in the round bath, enacting a full scale battle; suds were perfect places to hide battleships from the roaming eyes of submarines. Low sonar sounds would pause momentarily as they surfaced. Panic ensued on an ocean liner as a torpedo tore into its side. “Abandon ship!”

At the public pool the smell of bleach was thick in the air. A young lifeguard tried to establish some sort of order with a group of kids engaged in horseplay. I slipped into the deep end and did a few leisurely lengths of the pool. I quickened the pace, thinking of the up-coming competitions. All of a sudden I panicked. My arms and legs were useless. Above muffled screams and shouts slowly disappeared as I floated helplessly towards the bottom of the pool. I could hear the pounding sound of my heart. When I came to I was lying on a deck chair. A crowd had gathered. A lifeguard asked, “Are you okay?”

When I got home my worried parents said that I would have to go to the hospital for tests the following morning. Granny arrived from upstairs to see if I was okay. She ushered me into the sitting room. A cup of tea and biscuits were in order. I sat by the roaring fire on her favourite chair.

“It must have been terrible when the Lusitania sank” I said, cupping my hands around the piping hot mug. She grew tense.

“It was,” she said “though I was lucky to have survived”.

I looked at granny, her white hair and her wrinkled hands, and pictured her struggling to survive out there in that giant ocean, in that pitching ship.

Record

2008-10-18T10:43:00.001-07:00

Captured on a plate of glass, an echo filters through tone
of sepia, over the dark monochrome landscape
over night breeze seas into lonely white
sky of syllables.

Beach Walk

2008-08-12T18:07:00.001-07:00

Searching for shells, I found
the bottlenose lying by the tideline,
its echoes carried over cliffs
and through sand banks
as migrating birds flew overhead, reflecting
on the cloudy, coiled-sky water.

Rest in Peace

2008-07-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

rain sounds deep in heart. wild weather

wears holes in bones. I anguish under

clouds of grey, listen to constant drizzle,

wonder when sweet rest will come, deep

in the soft, damp earth.

Vacant Man

2008-06-13T15:33:00.001-07:00

His eyes hide the hollow endless universe.

his parched mouth says: I have nothing.

life wilts away, one death at a time.

he crawls into a heart of a coffin

where the sun has nothing to mourn,

the red walled house will one day decay.

It has been quiet here

2008-05-25T10:31:00.001-07:00

Apologies for the lack of input on this site. I have been quiet for sometime now. I do not know when i will become more creatively affluent, hopefully some day soon.

A little bit of my screen treatment

2008-05-02T17:50:00.000-07:00

What do you think -do you want to see more? By the way it is how to write a script treatment.

ACT ONE

In a large metropolitan area. Rush hour. MARK KELLY a slim attractive man in his late twenties sits in his twelve-year old Toyota taping the steering wheel. The traffic starts to crawl. Mark turns off into an underground car park. He parks, hurriedly jumps out of the car, tightens his tie and runs into a nearby lift. As the elevator passes each floor it fills up. The lift stops at floor twenty-five, Mark pushes through the crowd and enters a busy office. A large sign reading: “In- Designs” hangs over the entrance. The floor is covered in a sea of cubicles.

Mark works hunched in front of a computer in a small cluttered cubicle. He is wearing headphones. A picture of an older woman sits on his desk. DEREK MALLOW a stern, man in his forties raps his knuckles on Mark’s desk. Mark puts down the headphones and looks up. Derek berates him for turning up late. He tells him to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Mark tries to tell him that he was stuck in rush hour; Derek says he is in no mood for excuses. He tells Mark to give him an update on the progress of the web ads for a Bank of Ireland web promotion. Mark says it’s completed and it was handed over to the proper channels. Mark clears his throat suggesting that he be assigned a more creative project, one with fewer constraints. Derek goes all quiet. He informs Mark that soon everyone will be asking for creative jobs. He asks how long Mark has been working for. Six long years, replies Mark. Derek tells him that he’s lucky to even have a job given the economic downturn. Mark sticks his head down and gets back to work.

Good Morning to you...

2008-04-27T01:20:00.000-07:00

Good Morning! I am up nice and early on a Sunday, I'm going to go for a walk and then a day of study awaits. Yippee! If all Sundays could be as fun-filled as today.

Hullo!

2008-04-22T23:56:00.000-07:00

I have been very busy. I guess that is a good thing, not much time for causing trouble. I have thought my blog would die a death, I am still thinking it will go the way of dinosaurs. Fingers crossed it will not, and I will have things to post. Perhaps I can start posting my essays, the ones I have to write on a regular basis for university. Hopefully not! What have I been doing? I've been writing a film script treatment and a series of film scenes. I've been writing essays that have to do with the state of the Irish media and been reading books on photography for my thesis. Oh the joy!

So this is what I have been thinking since I have been laid off. You know I used to work in a newspaper as part of the production team? I have been thinking I'll become a teacher (again- taught for over a year) and teach English as a foreign language, get paid well and travel the world. Quite the plan. While I am at it I will become a Chinese language translator, a professional photographer, a proficient writer, and a documentary maker that straps cameras on to elephants and asks them nicely to film all the shots I need for my animal doc. Such mighty plans!

Some of my old Pics

2008-04-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

Pink Week!

2008-04-03T06:39:00.000-07:00

So it's pink week! There is no reason for such a week or reflection on such a colour. I thought I'd pimp up my blog and instead of wearing a pink t-shirt because that means I have to buy one, I'd dress up my blog, pink style. Perhaps it is a way of expressing any inward femininity I may have. Waah! I never cried before. To coincide with my self-declared pink week here are some interesting facts:

In Western culture, the practice of assigning pink to an individual gender began in the 1920s. From then until the 1940s, pink was considered appropriate for boys because it was the more masculine and decided color while blue was considered appropriate for girls because it was the more delicate and dainty color. Since the 1940s, the societal norm apparently inverted so that pink became appropriate for girls and blue appropriate for boys, a practice that has continued into the 21st century
Though the color pink has sometimes been associated with gender stereotypes, some feminists have sought to reclaim it. For example, the Swedish radical feminist party Feminist Initiative uses pink as its color.

Pink is the color of the Breast Cancer Awareness ribbon. Pink was chosen partially because it is so strongly associated with femininity.

It has been suggested that females prefer pink because of an evolutionary preference for reddish things like ripe fruits and healthy faces.This suggestion, however, has been criticized as unsubstantiated.
In Japan the color Cherry Blossom Pink is associated with a woman's vagina, and therefore, in Japan, softcore pornographic films are called pink movies.
Wearing a dark pink bandana means that one is into tit torture.
Seeing pink elephants is a euphemism for drunken hallucinations caused by delirium tremens.

Divulge in the Postive

2008-04-02T06:23:00.000-07:00

One day I will have a permanent smile on my face - I will smile at the sun. I will never have a pimple, never need to defecate, always say a kind word, never raise my voice in anger, always sing praises of others, and never age because one shouldn't have be fascinated with aging. I will never think of death because thinking of death will depress me.

Who needs to remember the dead or the living for in the living we are reminded of death. Neither should blood be thought of for in the thinking of blood we divulge in evil - the colour of red, the act of menstruation, the infusion of death. For when we bleed we die. You can take the world full of flowers that smell I'd rather have a world with a small bit of heaven and a little bit of hell. I am the resurrection and the life, I shall never die!

What is good? Does youth win out over an aged man? Does life win out over death? Does darkness win over light? Let's have our cake and eat it too. No man is an island, come sail on my cloud.

Butter-flying

2008-03-22T17:49:00.001-07:00

Shadows scatter, while winter widows
hug door frames, feeding off heated walls,
black robed mourners scrounge for silence.

Underground, coffins butterfly,
as little angels ask:
"Where do wings come from?"

Leprechaun Up a Tree

2008-03-14T08:31:00.000-07:00

Since paddies day is coming up thought you might like this vid

A Picture of Health

2008-03-08T06:09:00.000-08:00

Thanks for all your well wishes. I am doing a lot better now. I can happily run and skip without collapsing. Now to start writing again.

Sick

2008-02-28T03:44:00.000-08:00

I really felt like I was dying last night. Don't know why I started to shake violently, or go between stages of feeling cold and hot. I really felt miserable! Thank God I feel a little better this morning, although my head is spinning and I think I've lost my balance. Oh well I must be positive.

Chatroom

2008-02-20T06:12:00.000-08:00

She typed the word help on her computer screen. The screen flickered for a second, a reply soon came.

Why?

She typed back a hurried little flurry of words and a letters. She sent an attachment of an image. There was a window, the sun stretched out onto a bed that had a dark red bedspread, a few teddies sat on top of the pillow. A mirror from the cabinet positioned next to the bed showed up a white desktop computer, a face of crying girl mirrored on the screen.

Her hair was shoulder length, dark and curly. Her green, dark eyes were red, her mascara was streaming down her checks.

How can I help? Came the reply.

There was no movement from her, no typing, no little letter to assure the person on the other end that she was still alive.

She sat, glued to her screen, stuck to her chair, wondering what she could do. She put her hands to her face and cried.

U still there? Hullo?

No reply. She took a deep breath of the stale, still air and positioned her fingers on the keyboard keys.

Sorry, I had to do something- a lie.

So how can I help?

Well, I don’t know at least you can talk with me, you know not many people have time to talk anymore.

Hmmm, I know what you mean, not many people talk, talk anymore

She sensed the little hint of a joke but she was in no mood to be humoured at least not for the moment.

Have you ever thought of killing yourself? she typed.

There was a pause on the other end; she nervously had a little bite at her nails.

I guess, yeah sometimes, you know it seems difficult enough…things do anyway…

Yeah, she typed back, my sister is in some mental institution, apparently mental illness runs in the family, and my mother’s an alcoholic.[/i]

The screen went quiet again, whoever was on the other line may have decided that there were better people to talk to.

Sorry didn’t mean to scare you, just it’s pretty tough for me at the moment.

Yeah, I guess it would be. Do you have any friends or anything with who you can talk to?

No not really. You know no one to really talk, talk to.

Yeah sure I’m going nowhere for the moment.

You sure?

Sure to be sure

And you sure you want to talk to me, you know I have a lot of baggage.

Baggage doesn’t come cheap these days.

A little smile stretched across her face, it’s a shame computer screens can’t pick that up.

So you go to school?

Yeah sometimes…

I’m in fifth year, what year are you in?

Sixth, I should be finishing up soon, seems to be dragging on a bit.

I know it seems like it’ll never end, school sucks though at least it’s a break from my home.

I guess…

You don’t seem too talkative.

Yeah sorry I’m not the most conversation savvy person. It’s just me and my mum at home, and the dog Jess.

She received an image file and opened it up. It’s a picture of a yellow golden retriever with its tongue hanging out. Must be Jess.

So you like sports?

Yeah, not really a sporty person but at least I enjoy watching sports, you see when the Cougars beat the Crystal Lakers 89-83? That was a great game.

So you like basketball, I watched that game, it was down to the wire.

So you like your sport?

Yeah I played basketball, but I had to give it up, mum gave me some silly excuse. I think she was just jealous. I can’t even remember the reason for it. She’s a real bitch, doesn’t even know what she is doing half the time at least she tells me that, I think she drove my sister mad. You know she can drive people mad. Sometimes I think I’m losing it.

There was a pause only this time it was longer and intense. She watched the light filter in through the net curtains as she listened to the whirr of the machine echo throughout the room.

She glanced at the screen again, he was typing.

Yeah but you haven’t lost it yet, have you? You’re still talking to me.

She liked his sense of humour, she hurridly replied.

Should I be afraid of you.

Afraid?[/i]

You know, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, you could be a serial killer for all I know.

Haha! And how do I know that you are not a serial killer yourself. You know men are not the only ones known for being serial killers.

They had both extensively checked each others profiles, certain key facts had been established such as age, sex and location.

So you’re 17?

Yep, been checking out my profile?

I’m sure you checked out mine, and browsed through all my pics while you were at it.

Yeh, I’m not a stalker! Ok I’ve been busted. Found out where you live too!

Yeah stalker you! You’re about an hours drive away. Hey, why don’t you have a pic of yourself?

Aw…couldn’t be bothered, you know showing someone a pic could mean picking up a stalker for life.

And have you had any bad experiences, are you scarred for life?

No, no just a precaution, you have to be careful these days. I don’t normally talk to random strangers you hear all sorts of stories.

Like…?

Well you know like the guy on the other end might not be a 13 year old kid but might be a 40 year old man you know…

Yeah…so you are 17 right?

Yep. Ok I’m sending you a pic now.

She opened up the attachment this time Jess was lying on the bed with a boy’s arms wrapped around the dog. The boy had short brown hair, a little bit of stubble on his chin, bright blue eyes, and wide bright smile.

Hey, pretty boy.

You’re not supposed to laugh. You’re one of the privileged ones that got a pic of me!

She felt good now, actually quite happy, she forgot about her mother that had passed out on the couch downstairs, about the fact that she quit school just to support herself and her mum.

Actually I’m not in school, I have to work with mum’s boozing and all.

Silence

What was with all the long pauses?

Yeah, sure I haven’t really been in school much everything is on hold at the moment, something came up that is stopping me from school at the moment. But sure what type of music do you like?

Rock, mainly. You?

Kings of Leon, a bit of ACDC, and maybe some Muse. Depends what I feel at the time.

Yeah, Kings of Leon are cool. I like White Pony by the Deftones.

Now that’s a good album.

She didn’t hear her come in the door but all of a sudden she was face to face with her mother. The smell of her breath was an awful rotten, choking smell that could suffocate if someone was to stand within two feet of her.

“What’s with all this computer stuff!??” The mother roared.

“Ehh,” the girl replied.

She had no time to tell the boy what was going on or a: give me one sec, brb

Her mother’s fist flew through the air striking her neatly at the back of her head.
It hurt!

The tears came back to the girl as she flew up and readied herself for another torrid of abuse. Would it ever stop, would mum just be a mum and not a deranged psychopath?

Her mother starred at the screen.

“Who you talking to, who you talking to? You know you have to watch who you talk to. You know all the time you spend on this internet is a waste, you’re spending all my money!”

She tried to focus on the screen, tried to readjust her eyes, but it was pointless. “Mum I was doing nothing wrong!” She yelled back, if she could scream loud enough she would tell the world that she wanted out.

“Yeah that’s right yell at your mother!” She stretched out her arm and grabbed a handful of her daughter’s hair. Her mother’s nails dug into her scalp – blood followed.

You still there?

She couldn’t reply not with her mother throwing punches at her with one hand and the other pulling her hair. She tried to resist but she was no match for her mother who was a strong burly woman.

The mother left the room, her daughter was once again reduced to tears. Her face was full of scratches and bruises, and a little bit of blood poured here and there.

You still there?

She raised her fist high and then slammed it down onto the computer desk. What to do? She needed help.

She had to let it all out, so she typed, my sic mother nearly killed me! I swear to God someday I’ll…

It was his turn to go silent. It was eerie. She lowered her head onto the table and cried, her life was the pits no one could have a worse life than her.

Sorry to be such a pain, she typed trying to be brave, you must really think I’m nuts.

No, not at all, I actually enjoyed chatting, even though I never chat with random strangers and it’s odd we live so close you know I could have even seen you before, or passed you.

Yeah. She shook a frightened kind of shake that tore any bit of self-worth out of her. Hey, you know thanks for taking your time to talk with me, I’m not the best to talk to at the moment, but I would like to be able to chat again, add me as a friend or something.

A friend request arrived, it was the boy, -Jailbreakboy_1976. An obvious ACDC fan. She quickly added him and left the chat room after chatting for a good while longer. For some reason she felt good afterwards, when she sank into her bed and when sleep took charge she smiled. At least she had someone to talk to.

Several weeks passed and the girl had developed a special relationship with this oneline user. She felt she could say whatever she wanted to him and he didn’t freak out or log off, she was actually quite happy the chats she had on a regular basis gave her the needed lift to get her through the day.

Then the conversations stopped without warning. Not even an email or a quick, Sorry but I won’t be able to talk for a bit, or the internet will be down for a few days, sorry. Nothing. She missed him, missed the smile that he brought to her face, even though her abusive mother would show no sign of letting up.

There was no milk in the fridge again, typical. After several roars and screams from her mother to go get milk and groceries she went to the nearest newsagents that stocked milk and staple foods. When she neared the counter to pay for the grocers she saw a picture of a boy with his arm around a golden retriever in one of the local papers. She picked up the paper to get a better look, it was him! The boy she had been chatting with! What was he doing in the paper! And there it was as bold as day in big lettering: Local boy looses battle – dies of cancer. It came as a shock. Stunned she read the article. It was local boy Michael Rivers, a big ACDC fan who died the previous day surrounded by friends and family. “Always had a positive outlook on life,” said one person in the article. “Always there to lend a hand,” said another.

She turned to leave the grocery shop, stunned by the news. She never knew he was dying, never knew that he was probably in agony when he was chatting with her. He didn’t tell her to shut up: “Everyone has problems; I’m dying what’s your problem?”

She looked up at the blue-grey sky, and thought maybe he was watching her, maybe he would be able to help her even more now to sort out her problems. Maybe he would.

Sweet white sparks of cold

2008-02-12T20:54:00.000-08:00

I like to live, I like to die, again and again. I want to become passionate, I want to kiss and lick you all over.

I want to eat the moon, sun will you be my passion, will you pleasure me till I rise? Some days I wish I could shower you, like the sweet winter weather, with the sweet white sparks of cold. Shine, shine like you love me, like you adore me, like you want to kiss me again and again.

One day I will love forever.

Too busy

2008-02-07T03:25:00.000-08:00

So I have been informed that the idea for my script is too busy. I can see this. It makes me wonder what the hell is going on. Sometimes I have big ideas, I guess the best thing to do is keep it simple. So I have to stop thinking big and go for something a little less complicated, and not start firing ideas left right and centre. Though brainstorming and freethinking is important I think to get one thinking.

So I have to write a script

2008-02-05T09:00:00.000-08:00

Brief outline: In the not too distant future a young man enrolls in a sea exploration academy determined to lead the way in solving the world's energy crisis but his dreams are sent crashing down when he is faced with a frightening realisation that everything is not what it seems.

Overview

In the not too distant future natural resources have been drained from the earth. Production of fossil fuels are at an all time low, and big corporation bosses have monopolised what little reserves are left.

Due to the depletion of natural resources an emphasis has been placed on finding an alternative energy source. The sea is seen as an ideal candidate as the depths of the sea have been largely unexplored. Sea academies have been set up through-out the world to capitalise on the possible benefits that exist in the sea. Multi-national corporations remain at odds, internal and external conflicts ensue as they battle it out for supremacy in the race to find energy sources.

In steps the central character, Alan (name could be changed), 22. He enrols into one of the top sea exploration colleges in the country. He has been brought up having to worry for nothing, and knows nothing of hardship. He enters the world naïve, and unaware of the power struggles that exist within the corporations. His ambition is to succeed, to become the best in the academy and be a central component in solving the world's energy crisis. He has high goals and he sets these by pushing himself to train and study hard. He is an example of what dedication and hard work can accomplish. He is not quiet about his achievements, he makes it clear to all involved that he is there to succeed and that other activities outside of his study mean nothing to him. He is good with the ladies but this does not concern him, as his drive to succeed is the dominant factor that rules his life. He makes it known to others that he is the best and his drive to become the best is never far from his thoughts.

After spending over six months in an underwater training facility he is given a weeks leave on the surface. The academy feels that students must receive some time on land to clear the head and to get a break from the pressures that exist when training. Alan sees this as a step backward, even a short break could jeopardise his plans of success. On land things are quite different there is an uneasy feeling in the air, as a lack of energy resources have put a dent in the economy, corporations restrict what little resources are available to achieve their own ends, they also barter the resources to the highest bidder. Other problems have arisen. Alan is in a small bar watching the news (though how the owner has secured such a commodity is unknown). The main headlines comes on reporting on the growing cases of missing persons. This is then followed on a report of the growing problems of synthetic organs that are beginning to malfunction. Alan realises there are more problems on the mainland then he realised and wishes to be back at the training academy.

Before his leave is up, however, he is involved in a hit and run, which ultimately puts his dreams on hold. When he discovers the news that he is paralysed from the waist down, he is distraught, and in disbelief he struggles with the fact that his dreams will never be realised. Alan is at a loss as he built his entire life on fulfilling his goals. He is visited by the academy's head of exploration, Gary Wiseman in hospital. Mr Wiseman tells Alan that the academy wishes to have no part in the investigation of the hit-and-run. Such an investigation would only slow down the progress that the academy has made in recent times and means that resources would be used up into finding the culprits rather than exploring the possible resources that were in the sea. So Alan remains alone, he cannot contact his parents, and has no link to the outside world. Then one night he overhears talk about the recent disappearance of corporate bosses, blackmail and unethical practises within powerful corporations and sea exploration academies. He hears that it is common for sea exploration employees to be harassed, and even killed by other academies and power hungry corporations. He realises that the corporations have made everyone believe that there was an energy crises so that they could control and dominate the market. He has all this information but he is paralysed. He struggles coming to terms with the fact that feuds and corporation infighting was probably the cause of his predicament. He realises, however, that he must do something with the information to expose the corporations that are at fault. However, when a reporter calls around to print his story, he is quickly informed of his confidentially agreement which was signed when he joined the academy. Alan realises he is up against a brick wall and that friends and parents that he wants help from cannot be contacted. We leave Alan in the hospital, the TV is blaring with reports of allegations and corporation mishandlings in the race to solve the energy crisis. All Alan wants to do is realise his dream but he realises that he has been screwed over by the academy on which he pinned his hopes on to achieve his goals. This, however, is marred by the fact that he is naively holding onto his dreams and even if he was fully functional his world is driven by greed and corruption and that if he was to make a full recovery he may be forced to become ruthless if he is to succeed.

A few thoughts:

An underwater scene or one of Alan training would be a possible opening sequence. This could give one an idea of what is going on. The endless expanse of dark cold world, contrasted with underwater vessels might be plausible. Or a shot of the sea being overrun by corporate ships all fighting to discover an energy source.

Would there have to be a discovery in the sea to warrant a mad energy race?

Is there a government, or do companies dictate the goings on in Alan's world?

What does the world look like? Is it a highly complex society, dominated by technology or is the world a picture of chaos?

Who are the corporations? Would two rival corporations be enough? At least there would be two entities to latch onto.

What significances do the sea exploration academies have? Couldn't the corporations drive these academies?

Would I need another somewhat central character? Such as a female student that shows some interest in him, but Alan disregards any form of attention? Would a more central baddie would operates on the scene be more accessible than just 'the corporation'?

What relevance does malfunctioning synthetic organs have on anything? Could this be a sub-plot?

When Alan overhears a conversation, is this enough to make him believe that something isn't right? The introduction of Wiseman relating to him of his need for silence may make him suspicious but does something more have to happen to drive the point home that something isn't right?

Who controls the media? Why would corporations be telling the people about the state of the country or economical/political scandal?

Is Alan's character paper thin? He is a character, a driven one at that, who must succeed. While he is a strong, and a hungry to succeed character he is also naïve. He is unaware that his noble characteristics and his ethical qualities that push him to succeed may be put to one side if he is to fully succeed. If he did succeed would he become a ruthless, power hungry character that carries out the wishes of 'corporate' bosses? He could end up as a corporate boss, who despises everyone and everything. Maybe he never gets hit and never ends up in the hospital. Maybe he discovers the corporation's corruption and is at odds with his ethical response to such a dilemma and his wish to fulfil his dreams? Maybe he doesn't care, but then the character wouldn't matter to us - he must care about something, but maybe his faith in humanity becomes destroyed.

Is there a resolution? Is it too weak to leave the character hanging in 'space'? Does this leave one wondering what really happened, and what decisions were made?

Segment

2008-02-05T04:17:00.000-08:00

I often sit and wonder why,
blue skies imitate the wide
expansive ocean, the stars
sparkle like the coral reef
in the midnight sea.

in the sky-light ocean
where all is quiet,
let me find my peace.

Thoughts

2008-01-30T04:56:00.000-08:00

My thoughts grow arms and legs, two eyes for weeping,

one voice for the dead. If I could smoother the

green-land with white sky of winter, I would. If I

could stab the sun and dissect its marigold light,

I would. I would do it slowly

and beg the round old moon to mourn.

Moo-ve over

2008-01-30T04:35:00.000-08:00

Hullo! So I have started my script writing course, and it is tough. It is difficult to come up with ideas, to flesh out characters, to know more about them than your best friend and the list goes on. The main thing is having an idea, a character, something that is of interest, even a death of a dog could be a starting point, could be the focus of the script.

I was reading an article about this cow heist, a few robbers managed to steal a cow, fit it into their stolen car and then they ended up crashing the car and injuring the cow. If that wasn't enough the poor cow was then killed and barbecued by the local villagers.

How does one fit a cow into a car??!!! That thought had me thinking for a while.

Such a bizarre story needed a mention.

So the script writing course is tense, just thinking about it gives me the shakes, and I don't enjoy the shakes.

Oh, so it is going to be a month now, well by the end of this week since i have started working for a newspaper. I do layout and the like, although at the moment I am a newbie and don't know much. Wait a minute - that's not true- I know everything! Hahha!

I was stuck on proofreading one day - surprise I can proofread- and I realised that a lot of journalists sucked at writing. Simple errors littered some of the articles, though I had to use my brains and realise that I could not really edit their work as it meant that what ended up on the page would not resemble their work at all. And I don't want a ratty journalist latching onto my throat. So I just did a quick spell check, and searched for glaringly obvious errors that struck me like a ten foot pole. Then I went home and smirked to myself - I can become a proofreader.

A dream

2008-01-21T16:13:00.000-08:00

I had a dream the other night. It had a beginning, a middle and end. When it was over another dream progressed and it was mostly in German, even though I can't speak German but that's a different dream.

It was a story, had a linear narrative. I had a special view of the main character. When I woke up I felt very good with myself, like I had written the dream. I remembered it all when I woke up, but now it is vague. The place was a holiday resort and a few of us had to steal a boat from a corrupt businessman who owned most of the business in the place. It was kind of silly but it turned out to be a dingy, and there was this elaborate plan to get it. We had to go through all these hotels, and secret passages to get to the dock that was heavily guarded. From what i remember we finally got to the place and stole what could be loosely termed a boat.

Then we started having secret tours showing a select few how we robbed the 'boat'. There was a love interest, blonde - she was running around in this gold Victorian gown half the time. So anyway the main character gets guilty and decides to return the boat, but in doing so he gets caught though he makes sure everyone escapes before he gets caught. The girl who is smitten by him disappears and in captivity the guy senses that she is going to kill herself because she thinks that she'll never see him again. So he escapes, and looks everywhere for her. There's this big glass building and he looks through the glass that is not broken and senses she is in there. So he smashes through the glass. He sees a big black hole below and a kid who is falling just beneath him he reaches out and grabs her and pulls her up to safety. He then decides to jump. He knows his the girl is down there somewhere, he has to get to her. But it seems insane as he falls into the darkness. He sees skeleton's and bodies that have fallen against the sides. He knows she is still alive, but he has to act quick. Strangely he doesn't think as to how he will manage to rescue her and remain alive. He reaches out and grabs onto blonde braided hair. It's her! So he he pulls on it, but her hair starts to unravel and stretch out like a long rope. Somehow he pulls her up into his arms and they are both looking into each other's eyes. What to do now? They are still falling. All of a sudden there is a big loud sound and a pair of wings unfold from the guys back. A great big pair of white wings. And there the both of them are floating in the dark, his wings illuminating the scene, the girls golden dress, turning a deep dark purple.

And that was that. There was so much more to the story, but i only remember some of it and all of the ending. Haha! Do you want my dreams?

Bukowski: Poetry and Motion

2008-01-16T03:31:00.000-08:00

Hahaha! This is brilliant - Good hot beer shit! Bukowski's drunken thoughts on poetry taken from Voyager's Poetry in Motion multimedia series from the '90's.

A pic(not mine) and a poem

2008-01-11T12:42:00.000-08:00

Despair

the night falls, soulless.
the god for which you sacrifice,
flares once, then dies,
devoured by obsession.
all hope must die.

the heart-howls no more,
shadows surround, crying,
"sanctuary".

Essays

2008-01-11T10:08:00.000-08:00

So I've been writing essays like mad, somewhat neglecting my main writing but the essay writing has to be done for college. I've written well over 10,000 words another 30,000 plus to come for assignments. While I wish i could be writing something else i think writing such pieces helps in my structure of written work as well as clarity and purpose.

And I just remembered i have to do my assignments or otherwise I will get a little slap, methinks.

Searching for a Heaven -not my pics

2008-01-03T13:25:00.000-08:00

The line of the ocean horizons,
and I have nothing to see,
into shimmering white-winter
where ghosts angel-dance in snow--

it will slowly come back,
the sun-shine-sounds,
the soft, sheet-showers,
the cool, bell-blue breeze,
the summer sips of rich, red wine.




Deep in the damp dawn
fuchsias flower,
as a seagull spirits
into clouds.
Searching for a heaven,
I sit, wingless,
wondering why
earth holds ties
and binds the feet
to rest on ground.

New Year Thoughts

2007-12-29T10:33:00.000-08:00

On top of college work and work I have vowed that i must write more, especially in the upcoming year which is only a few days away. I have been reading, I need to read more, something to add to my list of to dos. I think reading helps. I should also get out more rather than just exist or survive. Something I want to do in the new year is not just exist but to obtain a certain state of life and creativity. Freaky!

Merry Christmas!

2007-12-24T00:31:00.001-08:00

Since it is now officially Christmas, Merry Christmas. Have a wonderful time whether it's in heat or in snow. Many Happy Returns!

I Wait

2007-12-23T23:58:00.000-08:00

On blue-purple hill I wait,
tall grass tickles,
brushed
by a playful breeze.

The moon shines,
looks down, bug-eyed
splashes greys and whites,
flirts with sky.

I wait as darkness devours,
the skyline grows ghostly,
I disappear under dark canopy.

An Overture of Night

2007-12-23T23:45:00.000-08:00

the night is still strong,
the deep blacks suffocate
the bright blues of day.

Here is where the mind lives
in overtures of night
when the body lies foetal,
a resting place of moon-white,
There is a wilderness of thought,
where clouds circle blue-blooded,
a sun shine shower of black.

I am Alone

2007-12-23T23:36:00.000-08:00

I am lost,
the sun does not
shine without you.
you are my light.

I am depressed,
the moon does not smile
without you,
you are my touch.

I am dreaming,
the night only darkens
without you,
you are my warmth.

I am alone,
the shattered sun,
only sallows, the flat still sky
bleeds a pasty pale blue.

And I cry,
I am lost without you.

Who brings Pepsi to Children for Christmas?

2007-12-22T01:27:00.000-08:00

Why are there labels on blogger and no tags? Tags are good, no?

I slept for fifteen hours the day before yesterday, all that sleeping bit me in the arse and i only slept for two last night. Great! Fifteen hours sleep is good going especially if you could sleep for a lot longer if it wasn't for a phone ringing and waking you up. So much for technology, bears are not woken up by phones when they are trying to hibernate. "Hey, Mr. Bear could you answer your mobile phone! The ring tone is annoying!"

I don't like Chirstmas this year, Santa has gotten fatter than ever, the Coca-Cola ads are getting worse. You know the one where he visits this girl when she is little all the way to when she is a grandmother with her grandchild. It's this 3d glazed animation sort of thing. She is this eternal ray of light, Santa the jolly roger, stalking her, her child, her grandchild. He knows what she looks like so he has a good idea of what her offspring look like. Tragic. At the end she gives him a coke back for all the times he has been good to give her one. Now I am assuming that coke doesn't come once a year for this girl, yes i know Christmas comes once a year, but a bottle of coke? And who brings Pepsi to children for Christmas? Huh? Unheard of perhaps.

Surprise, surprise Santa was invented by coke! Santa really spells Satan! Shock Horror Gasp! Ever heard of Santaic Metal??!! Hum...I think it could work!

Coke, red, blood, rose, romance, blush, terror, emergency, Siamese twins joined to the head, a superhero alligator, a milted lover, an 'it', a useless tit.

And I wish I could float endlessly in the purple sky of ether. Do not scream, no one can hear you, talk softly and we will listen to your pleas.

What is colour,
what is light,
what is evil,
what is right?
What is good,
what is bad,
what is happy,
what is sad?

Great a rhyming poem! I'll try another one, done up randomly on the quick.

Dead cold,
there is a chill,
this shopping air
is enough to kill.

eyes stalk presents,
as Santa roams the sky
lights suck electricity,
over each passersby.

Imagine the glee,
when shoppers rush by
and start to fry,
from a bit of electricity.

So i admit the last stanza was dire but yes i tried. I wrote a Christmas poem! Yawn! I need some more sleep.

What's your Shell Type and What are you Thinking?

2007-12-19T06:58:00.000-08:00

I feel useless, the sun is not for me, I am no saint.

I am quiet, I do not say much...I am told this, but I do speak, I say what's on my mind and that's all. Sometimes there is nothing to be said, and then one is accused of hiding in ones shell. I wonder what my shell looks like. Is it cone like or an auger shell, does it have the name Venus attached to it or pearl? Who cares about star signs I want to find out what shell I have. I think that might tell me more about myself.

What are you thinking? That is one of the most annoying things that one can ask, especially when you are not thinking the most pleasant thing about the person when they ask you such a question. Or you could really not be thinking at all, and such a question makes you question why you are not thinking and if you should really be thinking. Confusion sets in and then you just make up something about what you were thinking. Because god forbid you can't be thinking about nothing and you can't be floating in the stars.

Do you like what you see? I like what I see sometimes, sometimes I just see, when one is accustomed to a certain view, one does not ask the question: "Do you like what you see?" There are times I do not like what I see, I do not like what I have done, what I have become. And I wish I could sleep forever, spread my arms and dream, swimming in the sky. If I could disappear I would, into someone's mind, into the heart, into the blackened night.

What is the heart? I have eaten hearts before, with a bit of potatoes and gravy, with vegetables on the side. Quite tasty really. It used to beat before, used to power an animal, pump blood through veins. It used to give life - end result, it ends up in my plate. I have taken away someone's heart, a life only identified with the vessel. I have robbed the world of this creature!

I would rather a bit of moonshine than sunshine, the moon tastes much better. Hurry up you lazy drunk! If all eyes were to be trained on me I think i would die, I am not into the prying eye, the ones that record all things.

Bright light, perfect blue, the sun lives deep down in you.

Banal Nationalism

2007-12-19T06:23:00.000-08:00

I'm sure anyone visiting this blog is not really interested in essays, especially not my college ones. However, for any of you who might be interested and who want to see what's keeping me busy this is some of the writing I've been doing for my studies.

And, yawn, it may be boring, but sure, life can't be all fun and games- something I just discovered recently! I promise some more decent material that doesn't consist of study coming soon.

Banal Nationalism

In his book, Banal Nationalism Michael Billig claims that ‘daily, the nation is indicated, or “flagged” in the lives of its citizenry’. He uses the term ‘banal nationalism’ to convey the daily ‘flagging’ that we as individuals experience on a daily basis.

Billig realised that there had to be a way to distinguish common daily nationalism from national extremism. A negative connotation has been associated with the word nationalism over time as much of the focus has been given to extreme nationalists and separatist movements within the last century. This means that nationalism in western societies has been met with certain ambiguities. Such a term has led to a disjointed misrepresented view of the power of nationalism by suggesting that it operates within an extreme set of principles. He notes (Billig 1995) the ‘hidden’ political discourse in the importance of nationhood referring to historical events such as the Gulf War in 1991 and the Falkland War in 1982 where calls were made to ‘protect and to serve’. In more recent times further examples of ‘hidden’ political discourse can be seen such as in relation to televised media discourse in relation to the War on Terror. Billig recognises the ‘veiling’ of nationalism, making it an authoritative ideology in which it can operate subconsciously in the minds of a nation, while remaining unopposed to opposition. This modern type of nationalism is the key for political movements, a way in which political goals can be achieved covertly without subjecting the masses to nationalist extremism. In earlier times ‘nationhood’ was not as important a concept as it is now, borders and boundaries were not clearly mapped out, ideas of ‘nation’ and ‘citizenry’ were dubious and other important issues such as religion and family would have been of more concern.

There are two views of nationalists, one is that they can be viewed as extremists who are driven by violence seeking irrational ends and then they can also be portrayed as patriots who battle against repressive colonists (Billig 1995). “Nationalism includes the patterns and belief practices which produce the world - ‘our’ world – as a world of nation states, in which we live as citizens of nation-states” (Billig 1995:15). “When talking of ‘our’ beliefs one might prefer other different words such as ‘patriotism’, ‘loyalty’, or ‘societal identification’. Such terms banish the word nation and with it the spectre of ‘nationalism’, at least in ‘our’ regard to attachment and identities. The problem is such terms overlook the object to which the ‘loyalty’ or ‘identification’ is being shown: the nation-state. Then present approach does not restrict the term ‘nationalism’ to the ideology of ‘others’. Nationalism is broadened as a concept to cover the ways that established nation-states are routinely reproduced. This frequently involves a ‘banal’ nationalism, in contrast with the overt, articulated and often fiercely expressed nationalism of those who battle to form new nations” (Billig 1995:16).

Every nation must have an account of its own history, its own identity –a shared remembrance. It’s in this remembering that a collective forgetting occurs, remembering is simultaneously a collective forgetting (Billig 1995). Renan points out, that a nation’s unity “is always affected by means of brutality” (Billig 1995:11). However, while nations are affected by means of brutality they soon forget the violence and extremism that brought the nation into existence. Once a nation is established, it depends for its continued existence upon a collective forgetfulness. Not only is there a collective forgetting of the past but so there is a corresponding forgetting of the present. National identity in established nations is remembered because it is embedded in everyday life continually reminding, or ‘flagging’, nationhood. However, these reminders or ‘flaggings’ are so frequent and such a common part of the social environment that they operate ‘mindlessly’ rather than mindfully (Langer, 1989). “The remembering, not being experienced as remembering, is, in effect, forgotten. The national flag hanging outside a public building illustrates this forgotten reminding. Thousands upon thousands of flags each day hang limply in public places. These reminders of nationhood hardly register in the flow of daily attention, as citizens rush past on their daily business” (Billig 1995:38). Nationalism is the ideology by which nations have come to view their everyday world. It is as if there couldn’t possibly be a world without nations” (Billig 1995). National identities of nation’s citizens may be strengthened due to these routine flaggings.

Banal nationalism is evident in everyday life and operates over a wide spectrum. Feeling a sense of pride and belonging is what human beings feel the need for, and being able to express one’s own identity in a more collective world. Citizenry allows for people to feel a collective worth that they can experience what others around them are experiencing. Sporting events are also a form of banal nationalism as it allows the individual to belong to a collective group and experience the joys of sharing in a collective experience. Representing a country’s team means that as a nation its citizens are having a shared experience and are subjected to small reminders of what it means to be a citizen. A collective understanding of heritage comes into play that citizens share in the knowledge of ones own past, a subconscious collection of knowledge that is shared with all. Other themes that are subjected to banal nationalism are national songs, language, popular euphemisms and national myths (Billig 1995). Many of these symbols are most effective because of their constant repetition, and almost subliminal nature.

It is argued that an identity contains a psychological element though it often difficult to explain what this constituents. Billig realises (1995) that identifying ‘identity’ remains ambiguous as it does not just contain one state or being. “An identity is not a thing; it is a short-hand description for ways of talking about the self and community” (Shotter and Gergen, 1989).

Whether we are aware or not we are continually reminded of our identity in our daily lives. This does not mean being reminded blatantly of our national identity, it is not enough to keep the concept of identity embedded into public thought it must be “flagged discursively” and repeatedly in “the ears of the citizens, or passing before their eyes” (Billig, 1995, 93). Billig (1995) notes that nationhood is near the surface of contemporary life and habits of language will continually be acting as reminders of nationhood. Everyday words that are often taken for granted are barely conscious at times but they serve to stamp out our national identity. The media operates constantly in our everyday lives and transcends boundaries, offering ways for banal nationalism to enter unobtrusively into homes across nations. Media is with us constantly from our waking lives we are constantly surrounded by media messages and we communicate to others what we think of the media content we consume. Media helps us to build both our own and collective identity. Media, such as television is seen to account in assisting to maintain identity and helps contribute to the “reflective project of the self” (Giddens 1992). With this in mind one can be aware that while certain media texts use nationalism in an obvious context they rely on more covert forms of nationalism.

Habits of language are continually acting as reminders of nationhood. Language is not confined to violent discourse but acts on everyday language that is taken for granted and which inhabit nations. Clichés, rhetoric types of speech offer barely conscious references to nationalism but act covertly seeping into the minds of nations (Billig, 1995). Not only are politicians responsible for helping to spread forms of banal nationalism with referring to ‘our’ country or ‘we the people’ the mass media daily bring the flags home to its citizenry, the media offers ways to communicate to the masses, enabling a streamlined approach to spread the nationalist ideal in a more covert way. From TV to newspapers we are daily flooded with rhetoric, with ideals of nationhood that we ignore or are not even aware exist. Not only does the media play a large role in forming opinions in the subconscious but the citizenry of a nation also help to spread the ideas of ‘nation’ by discourse and word of mouth daily. It is not overnight that ideas are formed that ideologies are built; it is through a slow, churning - a subconscious partaking.

Billig realises that if banal nationalism was only to be found in the words of politicians then it would be highly surprising if it was embedded in the ordinary lives of millions of people. Citizens can remain sceptical when it comes to politicians, they are aware of certain political rhetoric and distain such discourse. He looks at newspapers in particular examining the discourse and banal nationalism which is event in the media. A few examples of banal nationalism were noted in a British newspaper analysis, taken in 1993. In the Guardian, the prime minister in his campaign cited “the Kiwi spirit” claiming that “there’s a new mood, new optimism and New Zealanders are confident of their ability and their country’s future” (Billig 1995). This is an example of national clichés that politicians use to covertly spread a sense of pride and nationalism.

There are various ways that banal nationalism can be used within the media as discussed in brief previously. Billig remarks (1995) that politicians go to great lengths to touch on our nationalist pride, by addressing our past history and relating it to the present but citizens have become more aware of this sort of banal nationalism and for a large part ignore such rhetoric. Therefore for these daily ‘flaggings’ of nationalism to effectively inhabit the lives of the nation’s citizenry it must operate on different levels and dimensions. Billig notes (1995) that to get an idea of these daily flaggings one must look at ordinary days, days which are not cause for national celebration. He looks at flagging in the daily British press on 28 June 1993. The papers viewed were divided into three groups: the ‘sensational tabloids’, ‘respectable tabloids’ and the ‘broadsheets’. The main news story of the day was presented as an unforeseen event. A few papers had the bombing of Baghdad as a story, this flagged national pride in a direct manner. At first glance some of the papers indicated a quarrel between both Clinton and Hussein. The Times read: “Clinton warns Saddam: don’t try to hit us back”. The Star similarly ran with: “Fight back and we smash you, warns Clinton”. It went on: “President Clinton last night threatened to ‘finish off’ evil Saddam Hussein”. It is interesting to note the banal rhetoric evident in these passages, the reference to ‘we’ ‘us’ and the fight between good and evil. Here Clinton is not only representing himself, but he represents the people of America, he is the spokesman for everything virtuous. America and Iraq may have been the focus nations involved in certain articles, but other papers ran with other nations rallying around the side of ‘justice’. “Britain, Russia and other American Allies expressed firm support”, stated the Times. Not only was Clinton representing the American people who were referred to as ‘we’ and ‘us’, nations that also supported America’s actions also became a part of the ‘us’. Not only is nationhood framed in that particular manner but other stories outwardly, as Billig notes (1995:113), flagged Britishness. “Britain basked in 79 degree temperatures yesterday” (Sun); “Britain’s highest bungee jump” (Star); “Britain’s latest cult heroes” (Today). Media cleverly uses patriotic themes to increase sells, by banking in on national themes and rhetoric they attract the subconscious of the consumers.

Other such stories related to heritage such as the Mirror on a Monday published a 16 page supplement titled, The Great British Pub. The title suggested that not only were pubs being displayed on the pages, but essentially they were presented as symbols of the British nation. Not only was it displayed British Pubs but ‘great’ British pubs, this word conjures images of pride, of heritage and nationhood. However, such nationalist rhetoric would have most certainly been lost in the nation’s “collective forgetfulness” (Billig 1995:114).

Billig refers (1995) to the Deictics of Homeland-Making, which is employed by the media. This is a complex deixis of ‘here’ and ‘now’. The ‘now’ relates to up-to-date news, whereas the ‘here’ is what is viewed on the page. From this the media plays a role in helping to speak for and to the nation, evoking a “national ‘we’ as well as a universal ‘we’” (Billig 1995:15). The Sun, in its editorial, complained that the European community had taken “our money”. The ‘our’ was in reference to the nation, to the collective ‘our’ that was somehow affecting everyone. This form of writing is not just reserved to tabloids; broadsheets also employ similar techniques representing a collective view of who we are. The Daily Telegraph in its Business News headlined an article: “Why our taxes need never to rise again”. The writer in this article suggested that “if our huge borrowing requirement can spawn even the slightest move in this direction, we will have cause to bless £1 billion a week spewing into the financial markets” (Billig 1995:15). Media helps us to form our sense of place as if our nation was the most important nation –the centre of the universe.

To be able to fully understand homeland-making deixis (Billig 1995) three examples were given to help one fully understand the role that media plays in daily flagging the lives of its citizens. When Billig researched the daily papers he noted the rhetoric of the newspapers that referred to the British ‘the nation’. The Mail wrote about “one of the nation’s most wanted men”, whilst in the Guardian a politician referred to “the nation’s interest and love of music”. Foreign news is specified, countries are addressed. A story headline reading: “Three American teenagers killed in shootout” published in Ireland would put the nation’s citizens at ease that the story is in the ‘here’ and not in the ‘now’. Weather reports in particular in many newspapers contain firstly the country of the nation where the report is televised and then perhaps the rest of the world’s weather. This subconsciously plays on the mind of the nation that their country is of importance all the other nations follow. In The Telegraph, Guardian, Independent, and The Times maps of the British Isles are all positioned centrally. This helps ingrain into the subconscious minds of the nation’s citizenry that the weather that exists within the boundaries of the nation and the geographical positioning of the nation in the news is all apart of the ‘we’ (Billig 1995). Home news is not all about ‘us’ or ‘we’ other words are used to convey a sense of nationalism though at times it is difficult to decode certain connotations. Billig notes (1995) that one might expect imbalances between domestic and foreign news in the press with more ‘flaggings’ on a national name and recognises that a more controlled study would have to be done to determine how many times a national name was mentioned in the press. When natural disasters or emergencies happen normally a nation would give prevalence to its citizenry, reporting on their whereabouts, how many nationals deceased, and any heroics or acts of bravery on the part of the nation’s citizens. Martin Kettle in The Guardian criticised such bias and interest in ‘ourselves’ writing about the “Fleet Street slide rule for the news of death and disaster stories – six Brits, 60 Frogs, 600 remote aliens” (Billig 1995:118). The structuring of news media also gives prevalence to home news, opting to discuss foreign news on a separate page; signposts are clearly laid out so as to avoid any ambiguity as to where the news is located. Subconsciously we are being guided to what news is of importance and in so doing are shown what is of consequence. Small segments of foreign news contrasted with large national spreads only reiterate the importance of ‘our’ nation.

Nationalist pride can be reflected on its citizens through sport. In news print as well as news on television large segments and sections are given to sport. “Sport is merely not sport, as C.L.R. James stressed, it goes beyond the player and the spectator” (Billig 1995:120). The sport in the media allows for a repeat of the nation’s stereotypes “place and race as well as masculinity” (O’Donnell, 1994). Billig notes (1995) that sport is celebrating the nation’s achievements, allowing for the readers of the text to share in ‘our’ victories and to salute ‘our’ heroes. The feeling of pride that is felt and shared by all lifts the nation and celebration in relation to a win helps encourage a sense of national unity. Reference to masculinity and war is touched on in sport media, honour is at stake, the national side is battling a foreign team. Instead of partaking in real warfare western countries are now battling it out on the pitch for the gratification of the nation and the media builds on this pleasure. Bilig refers (1995) to sport as being “texts of pleasure” which is a phrase coined by Barthes (1975). Here pleasures echo past struggles and conflict of nationhood, such rhetoric has been instilled in our mind.

Banal nationalism is relevant to Ireland and the Irish media and can be seen working covertly on a daily basis while western nations such as America may display more obvious forms of banal nationalism it is still prevalent in Ireland today. Ireland is a relatively young country gaining independence in 1921 though it wasn’t until 1937 when the Irish Constitution came into force. The national ideal and what it meant to be a citizen of Ireland had to grow - it had to build its idea of what it meant to be ‘Irish’. A national identity had to be born; media outlets were formed such as Radio Éireann, which allowed for the idea of what it meant to be Irish to enter the homes of its citizens.

In Ireland the media helps us form our own identity as well as gives ‘others’ a medium in which they can better understand who ‘we’ are. Though subconsciously we may not be aware of the nationalist rhetoric behind such messages we are still subjected to banal nationalism, which ingrains within us a sense of what it means to be Irish. Sport is a perfect example of banal nationalism. It’s an activity that the nation takes part in, where flags are raised, and pride in the country’s jersey is displayed in newspaper columns and television. This is evident with soccer and rugby as these are two major sports that receive much national and international attention in the media, not only are they followed by sports fans for the sheer love of the game but subconsciously they are supporting the ideal of what it means to be ‘Irish’. Getting behind the national team, the waving of the flag, the unity of singing the national anthem all play on the subconscious - the ‘we’. By backing the team, the national side, it is in a sense backing the country, supporting the ‘we’, wearing ‘our’ country on ‘our’ sleeve. This national pride, seeps into ‘our’ ethos, into what it means to belong, into history and language. ‘Our’ team, ‘our’ boys, ‘the green army’ all instil a sense of nationalism without the violent overly nationalistic extremism that is associated with figures such as Le Penn. The sense that all citizens can partake of their national team within their own homes means that people are subconsciously giving into the language and historical context of the ‘team’ and of ‘us’. This means that the experience of supporting the national team is not just available to those at the match but available to all citizens and can be talked about discursively on all levels.

GAA is another extremely popular sport that is viewed and discussed in everyday life, while it is not considered an international sport there is a certain pride in the continued survival of such a national sport. GAA is a testament to ‘us’ and the world of Ireland’s national heritage. There is a sense of ‘Irishness’ involved in supporting and watching such events, that these games are ‘our’ games, and with flags waved and anthem sung ‘we’ are subconsciously aware of our national heritage, of the past, of our inner psyche, of what it means to be Irish. The media helps to compound this sense of nationalism, though such thoughts may not be contemplated when watching the match behind a large screen or when read about in the paper it is somewhere there, showing us what it is to be Irish, instilling within ‘us’ the need to pass this love of the game onto ‘our’ future generations.

Banal nationalism instils within us ‘our’ characteristics though we may be unaware as to the issues represented and not concerned with the national connotations. We may view the news and see Concern workers assisting flood victims in other nations or we may see Bono speaking on behalf of third world nations to wipe out their debt. All these images may subconsciously work its way back to our sense of who ‘we’ are. We see humanitarian efforts or malevolent gestures as characteristics that ‘we’ portray. That ‘we’ are a generous nation, that ‘we’ are concerned about the state of the world, and that ‘we’ are ambassadors, though we may never step foot on the country in question ‘we’ see it. Use of rhetoric is evident, reference to Ireland being the forerunner, leading the way internationally, the ‘Irish people’ giving millions to a war torn nation are all apart of daily flagging that the media uses to appeal to the nation.

The way ‘we’ see ourselves internationally is also another form of banal nationalism. The way in which the media represents and promotes the nation of Ireland helps to construct our identity and to build an image of ‘us’ to the world’. While ‘we’ may not be aware of the impact the representation carries and are weighed down with rhetoric messages we feel they are apart of ‘us’. An example of this can be seen in relation to the ban of traditional light bulbs where Ireland became the first country in the world to ban the traditional light bulb. Eoin Dabsky, Greenpeace campaigner said: “Today Ireland has taken a lead in banning energy-wasting light bulbs by as early as Jan 09, Greenpeace hopes that Ireland’s decision will light the way for the EU and the rest of the world” (Greenpeace.org, 2007). Here rhetoric is evident, the word ‘light’ and Ireland’s decision to be forerunners in such a venture - in a sense is a light to the EU and the world and plays on ones sense of nationhood. However, subliminal it still engages the subconscious.

The advertising world also uses rhetoric and banal nationalism to appeal subconsciously to the nation by using imagery and language to appeal to the Irish masses. By covertly suggesting through language of what it is to be Irish, national pride may come into question. Irish goods and products such as Perlico, a broadband service, offers a 100% Irish product. Images of ‘Irishness’ such as the shamrock, the Guinness logo or even the colour green that convey national pride are all examples of subconsciously tapping into the nation’s idea of identity.

Overall nationalism has received negative connotations, reflections of activism and violence echo throughout history. However, nationalism is still active in modern society on a ‘hidden’ subconscious level that relies largely on the media to banally convey to nations what it means to be ‘us’, what ‘our’ nation is and how the world views us. Irish media certainly operates covertly daily flagging a sense of a collective identity to the nation. Billig states (1995), in relation to sport, that such pleasures and inter-textual echoes of warfare cannot be innocent and that the do-or-die enthusiasm in sport may be translated into obligations to defend country and the idea of nationhood. So nationalism though clandestinely operating within banal nationalism may be less innocent than it purports to be and while many media ‘flaggings’ are ignored one might wonder what affect such rhetoric has on a nation.

Bibliography:

Billig, M., 1995 Banal Nationalism, London: Sage Publications.

Barthes, R., 1975, The Pleasure of the Text, Hill and Wang ; Reissue edition (January 1, 1975)

Giddens, A. (1992). The transformation of intimacy. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.

Shotter, J. and Gergen, K. 1989, Texts of Identity, London: Sage Publications

Langer, E. 1989, Mindfulness. Reading MA: Addison Wesley.

O’Donnell, 1994, Mapping the Mythical: A geopolitics of national sporting stereotypes. Discourse and Society. 5: 345-80

‘Ireland to ban energy-wasting lightbulbs in early 2009’ http://www.greenpeace.org/usa/press-center/releases2/ireland-to-ban-energy-wasting (accessed 6/10/07)

“The Great British Pub”, The Mirror 28 June 1993, p 1.

The Spirit Dreams to Gleam

2007-12-19T04:32:00.000-08:00

Sleep encroaches 'round me,
and disparately, I touch tiled land-
a dying bit of brush and tree.
Here the soul lies undigested
the air is cold and wintered.
All remains weighted,
the spirit dreams to gleam.

And I wish the mind could magic,
over the rooftops, over pines
of soldier green, into the eyes of night,
where sound dissolves,
into tiny little particles of light.

Season Dream

2007-12-18T18:52:00.000-08:00

There is a dream of a sun seeped light,
a green-land of summer dye
where the sky bluebirds in the eye.

And I stand at window and watch,
a cloud hover here and there,
as the land turns grey with winter air.

Traffic Lights Direct Traffic Police

2007-12-17T08:15:00.000-08:00

So I have been anal by leaving this blog to survive on its own, which isn't really working. Work and study pretty much one after the other with hardly any sleep doesn't help. With hardly anything to write about anymore, except running someones head into a wall.

So Atomic Blog is in imminent meltdown, though don't worry with a little bit of sleep and a bit of turkey and ham I think my nerves will be put at ease. Oh, and I'm working New Years Eve! Yipeee! And I don't have to wear a black shirt! Yippeee again!

An interesting happened yesterday as i was walking home, I saw a female guard (policewoman) standing in the middle of a T-Junction directing traffic well sort of. Every so often she would lift her arm and signal to the drivers to continue on and then she would drop her arm again. So a great effort on her part to direct traffic. As I waited to cross the road, me being the pedestrain, I was puzzled that there was no sign of any other police, a car, or even a platform or something to show that she was directing. I was even more puzzled when i realised the traffic lights were perfectly fine. When the lights turned red, she belatedly raised her arm to the oncoming traffic signally them to stop. Though they had already stopped because the lights had turned red. I crossed the road as the little green man flashed, I thought for a bit, actually i thought about it the whole way home. What the hell was she doing in the middle of the road? The more I thought the more perplexed I became. Now i could be wrong but shouldn't traffic lights be enough, what is the point of putting a traffic cop in the middle of the road to relay what the traffic lights are already doing? I think I found out what was going on, perhaps I live in a country where its citizens need to be assured that if one system goes another friendly system will rise to the opportunity because the back up system is in place. Or maybe that's how they direct traffic here one eye on the road and the other eye getting it's cue from the traffic lights.

Hmmmm, I want to be a traffic police when i grow up.

The Painter

2007-12-11T18:54:00.000-08:00

She paints a red horizon,
on my wrist and says, "Do not worry
the yolked sun will softly shine again."

And my eyes full-moon,
over the blue-sheet-lake,
where swans shine out to stars.

She paints a thorn in my crown,
as the sunset showers, setting in skin,
purging all my sins.

I worry.

Worry why the painting Picasso,
burdens me, twists and contorts
the flesh of face, the pigment of my pride,
While all the while I shine -
a white, perfect primrose in the sky.

Steps of Extinction

2007-11-22T03:34:00.000-08:00

In cold air, under concrete,
grey shadows point of blackness,
some bits of steel shelter sheets of glass,
a walled fortress warps in the frost-filtered gloom.

In the sweaty sky, blueness is a toxicity,
saffron and cumin dance in fluids
ash and smog paint muted murals.

There is a sound of shoes, feet and all,
long, short, steps of extinction,
shadowy futures flicker in the sun,
a dark night beckons.

We are the Light

2007-11-09T18:32:00.000-08:00

We seek to sit on stars
and watch sunrise over moon,
We fondly wish to float in space
and climb a Martian dune.

What are we but particles,
little suns of night,
the universe looks down on us -
we are the light.

The Novel? What?

2007-11-02T00:28:00.000-07:00

I am trying to continue on with my Aliens, SHEEP and other things, check it out, if you even remember what i am trying to do.

Purple NASA

2007-11-02T00:19:00.001-07:00

The sun is shining,

and I am but a pawn,

red eyes are my sky,

drugs are my saviour,

as I tread through the blue dying moon.

What am I?

Why can't I see myself?

In the brush of purple fields,

I slash my wrists so the sun will shine one last time,

and the sky will spill deep in the horizon.

Botox Suffering

2007-11-02T00:17:00.001-07:00

I eat myself,
when the landscape is green,
and the hilly clouds undulate with blue.

Yellow sun, the roses are my hue,
the daffodils are my flowers,
the snowdrops my dew.

And I am but a madman,
developing in pain,
Devised by my Saturn,
destitute in rain.

"I want Something To Eat"

2007-11-01T23:45:00.000-07:00

We eat so we can survive. But why must we eat, why must we drink water? Why? It is life I guess, we must not question, we must live to survive.

"Hello, what do you want to order?"

"I'll have a Big Mac and chips!"

"Do you want a drink with that?"

"No thank you."

"Do you want a large chip."

"No thanks."

"Do you want it here or take away?"

"Take away."

"Do you want a salad with that?"

"No, just what I ordered."

"Do you want a dessert or a water?"

"No, no, no thank you. What I ordered is just fine."

"Do you want someone to supervise your kids."

"No, I am okay thanks, I have no kids and brought none with me."

"Do you want a happy meal with that?"

"No, no thank you, JUST GIVE ME MY ORDER!"

"Now, now there is no need to get upset!"

I itch my chin, getting a little annoyed, all i wanted was a "plastic" burger and chips. Click was an awful film made me want to kill myself, though that has no relevance to the present situation.
"JUST GIVE ME MY FOOD!" I shout.

After 3minutes and 21 seconds I get my food, pick my straw and sit down. After stuffing a few chips and a mouthful of burger into my gob a car that is looking for a Happy Meal misses the drive-through and plows into the entrance, spilling my burger out of my hands and a little bit of ketchup out of my mouth. I choke on my burger and die.

Fast Food kills. Make hay not war.

Capitalist Culture

2007-10-31T05:50:00.000-07:00

She typed the password into the computer - $5oisl: and after sending a few emails she threw her black jacket over her shoulders and left the office to get a hot cup of mocha. Mochas helped her concentrate, helped her screw her brain into her head, helped her suck up to her boss, and say, "I know what I am talking about."

As the day wore on she started to get drowsy, wrinkled and all, a worried face for an advertisement. 6:00pm arrived, outside the sun was setting into the purple sky as the hub-bub continued below.

She being, Ai yi Wang, fastened the button on her coat, snapped her black leather briefcase closed, and walked into the elevator going forever down.

After flagging a red taxi down she walked up the lonely flight of her apartment stairs and opened her door to a one bedroom apartment, which was still full of brown boxes since her time of moving in.

She put up her feet, wiggled her toes, and thought of her day, uneventful and all, bai cai and a thousand other vegetables for her dinner, and thoughts of what was in the fridge began to haunt her, as she closed her tired eyes and went off to sleep.

She was sweet, not hot, cute, or beautiful just sweet, which for some meant she could have a naughty side. She dreamt of Shanghi in the Summer with the blue and red dragonflies helicoptering amongst the busy street sellers, the burning sun glimmering on the tall reaching buildings.

She opened her eyes realising that she was still in her apartment, her eyes wandering to the front door assuring her that it was locked. And she wondered who she was. though she spied her black silky hair, and her brown eyes peering out at her on the mantelpiece -alone.

She knew she worked in Motorola, in customer and service but she never quite figured out what she was, who she was, sometimes she imagined that she was a myth a golden fire breathing dragon floating in the setting sky. Sometimes she hated her parents that scolded her, telling her, "Daughters are supposed to take care of their parents, what will we do without you?"

Such was the dilemma with a daughter, they were the nurses of modern Chinese society designed to take care of their aging parents, girls were no longer discarded as in thrown out in the rubbish for wild dogs to eat or buried in a pit. Such was life and now Wang was a career woman, what would Mao think of the new China.

There was too much running through her head, she jumped up and made it to her double bed that would rap her body in silk sheets.

She awoke the next day at 10am, with the sun streaming in through the windows she realised that it was Sunday and she did not have to work on a Sunday. She thought of the Gondolas on the emerald-blue lake, the little pedal boats, the shriek of swans the gandering geese, the whoosh of the wind, and the gentle cry of a raging child strapped to its buggy.

When she got to the park the sky was ashen and empty, she thought of the password over and over in her mind as she climbed the steps to the dragon pagoda that overlooked the lake. A little bit of green shrubs lay here and there as she climbed one step at a time. Stepping, one step at a time, she thought of the password in her mind as it replayed over and over. She would tell no one, she promised this when she started her job, promised that she would never speak the words, she vowed she would drown before she gave up such a password. The passwords were not important, why didn't someone tell her such.

What did drowning feel like? What did dying feel like, what did lying in a pit and being covered inch by inch in clay feel like. Suffocation, what a word, what did it feel like, one might never know. She would run around her apartment naked, her breasts bobbing along as she prepared green peppers for dinner.

She was bored and she hated her mundane life, the nearby park was her only solace. She typed passwords and all, everyday, and she wanted something more.

Another week of work, which was followed by another she went to the park, and not bothering to take a gondola she submerged herself face and all, deep into the lake, the colours were that of the sun, the greying moon sang a sad soliloquy as the floating tide lapped and licked her tears. No more passwords or typing, China's daughter succumbed to the dark hole of Chinese captialism, the daughter of Mao - the murderer of millions.

When she sank deep down she imagined the thousands of baby girls that were buried in pits without the skills of the computer literate, without the know-how of a techie. She cried as she sank deep down into watery ground and prayed that her ancestors would not be watching her, would not be eying her, and judging her forever.

Who knew what could be prevented, only Wang knew.

Sinking Sun

2007-10-25T07:22:00.000-07:00

When the yellow sun sank low,
and the sky danced in its colour,
we sat and whispered in little spoonfuls.
A little splash of mouth-to-mouth,
a burst of love, spirited one to float on clouds.

Now the sun still sinks low,
dipping into nothingness,
but only one person stands,
no little kiss to splash, no warm
embrace to light the touch.

Only One Bullet

2007-10-22T03:46:00.000-07:00

The landscape was filled with flat expansive fields as far as the eye could see. When the sun set slowly into the horizon it splashed buckets of purples and reds, oranges and burgundy all over the sky. The farm was small; it had ten acres, a house and a barn. The barn was old, the timber for the roof was coming loose and the barn door was depending on one rusty hinge that squeaked angrily open every time a breeze blew past.
My boyish blue eyes stretched out into the hills that were peppered with snow. I had tasted snow before, white, crunchy angel food that numbed my gums and slid down my throat freezing me belly. There was never enough snow to make a snowman but just the taste whetted my appetite for more.
The barn door hung loosely on its hinges as I spotted a flock of geese following their migratory path.
“Son, son…!” A roar exploded from the building as I ran into the timber barn that was strewn with straw and old neglected tools. I saw father bending over something. He was wearing a pair of dark black boots that would have swung at me if he was in any way angry with my antics. Jeans and a faded brown flannel shirt covered his skin. I approached him afraid that he was angry with me for doing something.
“Boy!” He rattled.
“Yes?” I squeaked. He mustn’t have heard me.
He stood up, his hands covered in something red. I saw him now lying on the floor cover in blood and torn flesh.
“Bullet?” I questioned. His neck was ripped open as the blood continued to ooze out. Bullet was my collie, a lovely black and white dog that I loved.
He turned his head and looked at me, his eyes questioning, as if saying “What happens now?”
I dropped to my knees and held him close, the blood clinging to my clothes. The whining started as I continued to hold him.
It was terrible!
Dad decided it was time so he handed me his hunting rifle. I looked at the polished wooden gun and then back at Bullet. “Son, it has to be done!”
“What?” I asked cocking my head. Bullet raised his ears.
“You have to put him out of his misery. He’s in too much pain.”
“Kill him?”
Are you out of your mind?
“Yes, look at him he needs to be put down.”
How did it happen anyway, was it from the wire fencing that was erected to stop the wolves and wild dogs from entering our land? I shook my head.
“No!” I said defiantly. “I’m not killing…”
He looked at me with those big sad eyes of his and said, “Son you have to.”
I knew it then and there that this was a test to see if the Johnson boy was man enough. This would be the defining moment of a boy’s life. If I failed I would be doomed.
I was no girl.
I grabbed the gun from his large hands, wearily cocked the gun and aimed it towards my dog's eye. He gulped realising his time was up. He stopped whimpering. My heart stopped too. I started to shake as I steadied my arm. I had done this before, shooting was fun. I had shot game and poultry, but now staring at me with those sad brown eyes was the scariest moment I had ever come face to face with. I wiped my brow and with all my concentration I tried to relax and calm myself down. I was doing it for his sake, to put him out of his misery but I was going through hell.
I had enough. I threw the gun down and ran out of the barn. My legs carried me as far as I could go as I fell under the tall oak tree that was born for a swing. I started sobbing; all the clouds in the sky couldn’t rain as much as my eyes were raining.
Bang!
The shot jolted me from the ground, it had come from the barn. Bullet’s brains had been blown out by my dad.
I was doomed to a life of a weakling; my dad would remind me of it.
I ran into the house, upstairs and under the covers. I would never have another dog.

Nowadays you pick up the phone and call the vet he comes over and in the most respectable way gives your pet an injection that puts it to sleep. Back then it was only a hunting rifle.

Sky Daffodilling

2007-10-17T04:59:00.000-07:00

Down by rocky crags
the sun slips past horizon.

Watching the sky daffodil-ing,
we primrose,
a splattering of hillside heather
blankets the eye.

Wishing to suffocate,
we drink in the air, cold and wintered,
and get lost in the green-white sea.

Star Diving

2007-10-16T01:56:00.000-07:00

“Hello!” The voice is pronounced, high pitched – feminine.

There is no way to tell who the voice belonged to; there was just a voice, a little shuffle of feet. By the clip and the clop it is determined that they are high heels of sorts though the colour and the make cannot be determined.

“How long have you been here?” The voice talks again it’s long drawn out and emphasised to the hilt.

“Where is here?” You reply in little puffs of air.

Here is where, where is here? What is here? Who is here? Here?

Here is the place at which one is located, wherever that happens to be. How broad "place" is to be taken depends on context, and likewise so does "there". By generalising one could refer the ‘here’ to earth which we all inhabit unless you happen to be floating in space which means you are there or perhaps neither here or there.

“You are here!” The reply comes, curtly.

Here???

Why?

You cannot see. All that your eyes can take in is the darkness.

You try to picture the voice, give a body to the sound, to the shuffle, to the heat that you feel encroaching in on you. You remember the dark, in a closet - you were a child – frightened – afraid of the noises outside, the muttering of deep voices, the chattering of children, the noise of a passing car. You were afraid of the black inside, the silence inside, the fear inside your heart that told you, you would be caught and punished for your sins – you evil little child, what have you done this time?

Blue clouds, the world under your feet - tricycle child, sunshine child, mother loves you dearly.

Conflict.

Suddenly you are at war with yourself when you become older; girls are images of desire, your old man a barrier in your way.

And then the snap of the voice, the pop and bark of the female voice. “How long have you been here, answer me God damn it!”

A week or two perhaps, a month. You do not know, nor do you pretend to know, your legs buckle, you try to remain standing, you start to feel very heavy.

“Answer!”

You shake your head and say, “I do not know.”

Silence, not a word is uttered back, all you can see is midnight and the stars that are supposed to guide the wayward traveller home but they do nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“You know what you did?”

You can’t remember, you shake your head, perhaps a brain exercise might help or a trip down memory lane could do you a world of good.

What is the mind? Why can’t it remember, why does it just switch off? It does in your case, switches off like a light, or a plug.

“You…”

“Yes,” you reply.

“Who are you?”

“I do not remember all I remember is hiding in a closet when I was young. Who are you?”

Smack!

A heavy strike hits your open eyes; the nose bears the brunt of it.

“You are under interrogation here, not me; you should have learnt that by now!”

You try to rub your face to take away the itch and sting, but you can’t, your arms are bound, tied to something.

You can’t remember your name for the life of you, Sandra, Michael, Fiona, Jesse, Sean, Gary? You try to feel sensation in your crouch to see if you’ll swell up like a man, you try to move your chest to see if you have breasts. No feeling. What do your emotions tell you; do you feel more inclined to the masculine or the feminine? You do not know.

Did you start a family? Were you head of a business consortium? Were you a deep sea diver? Were you a Spanish fisherman that was affected by the sinking of the Prestige? Were you a contortionist in your spare time? What is one plus one, or the square root of forty-five minus the square root of one hundred and eight? Why are plants green? You remember what your biology teacher told you suddenly, the reason for plants being green is due to a substance called chlorophyll. But could they not be pink or yellow. You ask yourself where a flamingo’s pink or reddish feather colour comes from you realise it’s its diet, which is high in alpha and beta-carotene. You realise that people eat beta-carotene when they eat carrots. You ask yourself why aren’t people pink or orange? Somehow you know that human’s diets are more balanced, they do not eat one certain thing, you remember someone telling you this, though you don’t know who. Then you realise you don’t know anything, don’t know where you came up with such nonsense don’t know if such facts are true, don’t know if you aren’t some giant flamingo or perhaps a massive humming bird.

Flutter-flutter. You try to fly.

What does yellow look like you wonder? You have heard the word before but you cannot connect you do not know, and neither can you remember what a dog looks like or a helicopter for that matter.

“Damn it I need answers!!” The voice raises, screams, tears at your heart, eats into you, takes lovely little chunks out of your flesh.

You have no answers.

You don’t know what answers are.

You assume at once that if you can think somewhat logically you must be a human though you don’t know. Perhaps you are a gorilla, though you don’t know and question yourself as to what a gorilla is. Perhaps it is small and runs around with a tail, perhaps it is large and wide and eats green leaves, though you do not remember what green leaves are or what eating is like.

Marble stairs, cold, heat, white, marzipan…you can’t remember what those things are, but they filter through your brain, pound inside your head, scoop out the little bit of white, that little bit of brain food.

Sex.

The word pops into your head.

The voice says sensually, “I’ll do whatever you want if you give us the answers!”

You feel heat, sensual heat, though you are confused as to what warmth is you know it is what it is immediately.

Sex pops into your head.

Again.

You don’t remember but you know it is good, you know you want it.

You feel a sensation in your toes, they start to tingle, to twist and squirm, then something shoots up your leg – it must be pain the pain that constricts and cuts a little here and there, makes ones teeth grit and snap down hard.

“Don’t you do it, don’t you do it!” The voice starts to panic, flutter about the place, bouncing all around.

The pain is biting now, though you don’t know how it is happening or how such a matter can be resolved – you know that someone is screaming next to you.

“Open up the door! Open up the fucking door!” The voice sounds desperate, panic stricken, she sounds like she is fighting for her life. The sensation creeps up your legs, over your waist then chest and arms engulfing your face. The screams become more incessant, high pitched wails and moans. You hear a pop and crackle, a gentle little snap from behind. The arms are free. The moaning gets worse, the door is pounded, the woman cries like a dying cat. You do not know what a cat sounds like but you assume that that is what one would sound like.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The scream grabs you nearly knocks your over but you manage to stay upright.

Blood. Curdle. Scream.

Then there is silence, the voice that has been questioning you has gone, a strange smell hits your nostrils, you bring your hands to your face and take off the blindfold that has subjected you to such blindness. You are still engulfed in black though you are not surrounded in blackness just black; the walls are crispy black, a mound of something burning lies next to the door.

“Dr. Gold?” The name pops into your head.

You shutter, think about it for a time, wonder what to make of it all, what just happened, what have you done? You don’t know what just happened or what you did. You stand transfixed, nothing can move you, your mouth stands agape, and you are motionless.

♦♦♦♦

“Fuck this!” He was at it again, little Billy Martin, cursing his head off, throwing things around the room, basically being his usual bollocks of a boy.

He was rude, tepid, big headed, and could hardly fit through the door. He had eyes like a lagoon, deep, dark and green, and his hair was a dark brown. No one could understand him, his mood swings, his appetite to kick up a storm, to charge fearlessly into a fight not taking into account the consequences. He was cruel, was known to kill animals -especially cats. Once in the middle of winter he threw a cat into the icy water, he laughed as its little head bobbed up on the surface, a long stick helped to keep it submerged. When he was fourteen he was sent home after beating a girl to near death. That was the end of school. His mother died a few months later, some say the kid did it, but that was just speculation. His grandparents tried to raise him, but after a few months he was sent to an institution for delinquent teenagers.

♦♦♦♦

You’re still standing in the same spot you do not know what to do.

What is doing? What is being? What is a verb? A verb is an action word, a doing word. You realise that you are doing, you are partaking in an action though no word was said.

V-E-R-B

You spell it very slowly, each letter trawled over.

Viral, vision, volume, vicarious, vital

Easy, enrichment, early, enlightenment, Ethernet…

Remember…remember…remember…

Bad boy…bad boy…bad boy…

You shake your head. Something isn’t right something is trying to get into your head, some bit of information some…you can’t be programmed because that is so clique. You hear shouts somewhere in the distance, a loud whirring, chopping sound that fills your head, spins you around like you are on a roundabout being twisted around and you yell, “Stop!” but nothing will make it stop.

You do not know what to do, you close your eyes and fall, spiralling, sinking, and dropping down towards endless ground.

♦♦♦♦

You wake up on some bed surrounded in white, white sheets, walls and women in gowns. You do not know where you are, you can’t move your arms or legs you quickly discover you can only move your head, nothing else.

You try to use your mind to figure things out.

Figure things out?

You start thinking about variables, about independent and dependant clauses such as A causes B. Drinking too much wine results in a hangover. But how much is too much, and who is to say when a headache is a hangover, what if one is resistant to the affects of alcohol in wine or if they popped a pill to reduce the affect a hangover might have on a person.

The questions come flooding in as if they were spilling out through the cracks in the ceiling, through the wooden flooring where the heels of nurses went clippty-clop.

Clippty-clop, clippty-clop.

“Hello,” A big head peers into your eyes, she has narrow-trimmed, light brown eye brows, blue eyes with a splash of grey, red pouting lips and finely accentuated cheek bones.

“You need anything?” She asks, sitting down on the chair next to your bed. You take in her uniform - one piece –white except for little lines of blue on the collar; the end of the short sleeves, the end of her skirt. Her arms are slender, slightly tanned perhaps from the barbeque she had with her friends on Sunday but you don’t know that. Your eyes lead you down her legs to the white socks and plimsolls. Everything has to be white. She throws her blonde hair back behind her long slender neck, it reminds you of some ad with a spotlight lamp accentuating some models perfect hair, no split ends, and so good you could almost eat a handful of hair.

“So,” she says. “Do you know why you are here?”

Here?

“Where is here?”

“Hospital.” She smiles.

You look down at your arms that are bound to the bed; you question her with your eyes. Do they strap people to beds in hospitals? Crazy people?

Who is to say what qualifies someone to crazy status? A friend could blurt out, “You’re crazy man!” You realise crazy may refer to a state of general mental disorder or insanity, though friends frivolously say you’re ‘crazy’ not questioning your state of mind. When you set out to prepare for the International Federation of Competitive Eating’s Annual Hamburger Championship, your friend may affectionately exclaim, “You’re insane!” It doesn’t mean you’ll be locked up for taking part in such an event or that your friend is even questioning your sanity.

You realise the English language is confusing you, you realise this as the nurse sticks needles into your arm. Your eyes glance down at your arms.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “It’ll calm you down, and we’ll take you out of your restraints soon, don’t worry.”

You try not to worry as your thoughts flutter around the room, a prick of a needle momentarily disturbs such thoughts.

She taps your arm affectionately, assuring you that you need your rest and that everything will be fine.

“Get some rest,” She says as your eyes roll around your head, the line of her breast stares out to you, calling you to nestle in, to be her bosom buddy.

Your eyes close, you drift off.

Sleep.

♦♦♦♦

Boys will be boys they say and the violence portrayed in the media had an affect on adolescents divulging their mind to fantasise about acts of depravity.

It wasn’t only boys; girls too gravitated towards violent behaviour.

Images of violence were analysed, children watched hours of TV whilst analysts and researchers came to the conclusion that TV was damaging children, though the correlation between other behavioural problems was not researched.

Neil Perry had the answers; he proposed an extensive programme to be put in place for all National schools that would limit the amount of violence the child carried out even if large amounts of violent acts were seen through the child’s eyes on a regular basis.

Through psychosis the mind could limit certain behavioural traits the child may have. The programme was implemented. Nationally it was an immediate success. Adolescent crime was at an all time low, and there was talk about introducing it to other institutes such as prisons and state funded childcare centres.

The programme had its complications, these were kept quiet.

♦♦♦♦

You are propped up in your bed now though your arms are still restrained by your side. You are groggy, your mouth is dry. You think about Dry mouth, a terrible condition, though you don’t know why such a topic is reflected on. You think to yourself because there is no one else to think to. Though you realise that such a thing is absurd and one can only think to oneself as thinking recurs in the mind at least that is what you remember.

If you could move your arms you would bring them to your ears and scream, bringing the scream all the way from the soles of your feet through the body and out the mouth. Thinking is driving you crazy; not being able to focus and think about what one wants to think about makes you want to jump, drown, bash your head against a rock and slowly melt into the air, into the green dark ground, into the starry filled sky.

“Twinkle, twinkle little star…”

You wonder who you are, and who are they -the white ones, the smiley ones, the chattering ones, the running ones with needles in their hands.

We regret what we have done; we regret what we have not. What regrets? You wonder, shake the head, the little marbles that have been thrown about rattle.

“Hello,” the nurse says, she has comes to see you. She is wearing green eye shadow, and a touch of rosy blush on her checks. You wish you could touch another human feel their warmth. She smiles, you smile back.

The smile fades she says, “Do you know why you are here?”

You shake your head.

“Do you know your name?”

Another shake of the head.

“You will realise soon enough. You are to stay here indefinitely; you are currently undergoing tests so we can properly diagnose you and your condition.”

“Condition…?”

“Yes, you didn’t think you were here on holiday did you?” Her head snaps sharply back, the tone is one of harshness, a quick bite at the heel.

“No,” you reply closing your eyes – time to get some rest.

You remember diving in the night – Night diving – it’s like swimming in stars, the strobe light illuminating the reef below in little patches. The reds and yellows highlighted in the diver’s lamp, the darkness that lays ahead, the unknown mass of water that surrounds you as you hear the sound of the deep, echo, call and screech. The sea is alive.

Sometimes people would like to see themselves from the outside in, to be an outsider, to glance into themselves rather than glancing out. You ponder such thoughts, realise that you could be someone great, but then you realise that you don’t really know who you are and cannot assume certain assumptions. You are confused, you need the answers.

♦♦♦♦

Neil Perry had locked himself up again in the little cell that had no windows to let in light. He locked himself up. People are normally locked up by others not by ones self.

He was experimenting again; his methods had been deemed too risky by a statutory body and was discontinued. He decided that he would continue his research but on himself he only trusted two people Dr Helen Gold and Dr Vince Adams, he enlisted the help of these people for his research.

There were certain ways of conducting ones self when it came to treating Neil Perry.

One cannot end the experimental phase; all treatments are to go ahead even if problems arise. The project is not to be abandoned.
Secrecy is paramount.
A rigorous analysis of the patient, Neil Perry is to be carried out weekly in cell D.

It wasn’t long before the tests started going wrong and Neil Perry started showing large levels of toxins in his body. Both doctors tried to establish the cause, perhaps he picked up these toxins from the paint in his cell.

Then he started to get violent, irrational, and paranoid.

Level two of interaction with the patient was to be administered. This meant increasing the psychotropic drug dosage and using any means necessary to control or subdue the patient. This called for shock treatment, torture methods and anything that would help.

Then he started to forget, this started slowly then he rapidly declined into a state of the ‘unknown’. Who was he? What had he done?

♦♦♦♦

Billy Martin, the name comes to you, makes you shiver a little, though you realise a large window is open letting in a cool breeze draft in throughout the room.

It is cold.

You wish you could lift your arms to your chest for that extra bit of warmth, for that reassurance that you can touch and feel loved, even if it is carried out by your own self.

The nurse is at your side again.

You smile; you think you figured it out. You think you have the answer.

She looks tired, no eye liner today, no lipstick. Probably a long day.

“My name is Billy Martin!” You ecstatically exclaim.

She shrugs her shoulders, not really interested in such a discovery.

“And who are your parents?” She knows your condition is unstable, she knows you could have come up with that name by some random gestation of the brain.

“Mary and Wilson?”

She hastily gets off her seat fixes her creased outfit and leaves you alone with your thoughts.

You contemplate for a moment. You try to think about thinking but you give up on the idea as the mind doesn’t want to assist you to find out who you are and what you are doing in such a place and in such a state.

Sleep.

You drift off; the sky is your ocean as you float amongst the stars in the dark. The brightness sparkles, undulates with a whoosh and a swoosh as a fiery tail of light arches by. You gaze at the full round moon, ripe and tasty looking as if it could feed the world. Billy Martin comes to you, the name is held together as if on a string, you imagine life as Billy Martin. The stars disappear and you are standing in the dark with your hands to your head, sobbing, whimpering like a dog cruelly attacked by drunken angry teenagers. You wail, try to conceal the tears, though you can’t put them back into your eyes. Nothing can stop your tears.

What are tears?

You realise that tears are a liquid produced by the body's process of lacrimation to clean and lubricate the eyes. Sorrow or sadness may lead to crying. You could have tears of joy. But these are not tears of joy; they are painful tears as you mix them with low guttural sounds of anguish.

Who did this to you?

You shake your head, you don’t know.

The light streams in from the windows waking you up. You see the nurse sitting next to you, startled you jolt back.

There is nothing to be afraid about.

She is holding papers in her hand, “Billy if that is your name, I have records here of you and your life. To be honest with you it doesn’t make for pleasant reading, I had to look over them to be sure that the information in there won’t hinder your progress and you know you’ve been making good progress.”

You nod, you start to get excited- not in your pants excited but excited with the prospect of finding out who you are.

“Billy Martin born 1968 to Mary and Wilson Martin, grew up in Heston 23 Governor Road, went to St John’s Secondary school that was an advocate of Neil Perry’s programme of socially acceptable behaviour.” She skimmed through. “Disciplinary problems – trouble with the police – violent and socially unacceptable behaviour. Intense psychoanalysis –an induction into Neil Perry’s Level 2 programme only made matters worse. Mother died, father’s whereabouts unknown, death of mother could have been linked to Billy…though this was never determined. In 1975 he was taken to a boys School were rigorous tests were conducted by Neil Perry. Inhumane methods were used, number of deaths increased, behavioural attitudes steadily got worse. Boys developed strange attributes, some boys forgot who they were and went mad. When this mad state was achieved, the boy’s abilities increased. 1982 A fire burnt the building to the ground all the boys bodies were accounted for accept Bill Martins the medical staff had disappeared as well.”

She threw the papers on the ground. You realise that it was a condensed version, there were nasty facts that she left out, she gave you the friendly reader version.

You start to remember things, the boy’s school, arms and legs flying, teeth and blood in the air. You can hear the noise of boys, see the frantic wide eyes, and feel the fear of the staff. You remember the hole in the ground reserved for the dead. You shiver, wonder why you are restrained.

You are restrained because you are dangerous, you tell yourself, you realise you burnt the school to the ground, it was you.

Murderer.

“We restrained you for your own good, we managed to get your toxin levels down, and they were at a frightening level. Other than that we don’t know anything, why you are here or who you are. Perhaps you are Billy Martin, who knows.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t know what to think, my sister was in a coma no one believed she would recover, she didn’t,” She said too much, she was supposed to be a professional, she had broken the rules of conduct.

You shake your head not knowing what to say. There’s nothing that can be said. You ask yourself what her sister’s death has to do with anything. She leaves you to your thoughts, you try to remember names, faces, places you once visited, but you can’t, you struggle to remember. You need answers.

♦♦♦♦

The day came when boy number 125 was added to the hole, he limply rolled into the dirt, bruises and blood covered his body. There was no ceremony to mark the solemn occasion, no rear guard of boys, no crying faces, no song to bid farewell.

Then came the awful fire in the library that resembled a mausoleum, Billy was there, face bruised, arms filled with needle marks, trying to read a book entitled A How to On Tying Knots. When he started to heat up inside, it started from his toes and rushed up his body, until he became a fireball bursting into flames, smoke engulfed the room spread through the upper shelves, ripping through the volumes of books.

The fire spread so fast that in no time at all, all the adjoining buildings had caught fire. The fire services arrived too late.

The next day the event made national news, throwing the government into panic, the very programme they had advocated had ended in a nightmare. Neil Perry had disappeared – the government tried to shake its hand of the affair.

♦♦♦♦

You wake up. Wide eyed and bright, you feel good, feel like having a walk about and soaking up some sun. You think about who you are: Billy Martin you assume, though you have no recollection who you really are. What did you do to deserve the treatment that was carried out on you? What did your parents look like? Did anyone even care as to who you were?

You didn’t notice the nurse sitting there, taking in the silence. She smiles, stands up and nears you.

“Don’t worry Billy we are trying everything we can do to help you.” She puts her hand on your shoulder her left hand strokes your cheek. You realise that she is breaking some rule by getting this close to you. You tremble; she lowers her face to yours, her lips planting a wet warm kiss on your mouth. She shakes her head realising what she is doing, jolts upright and leaves the room, leaving you alone with the kiss still vivid. You close your eyes imagining the furthering of such an action, the intimacy, the arousal, the warm still air.

♦♦♦♦

Billy the bad boy is running, falling down a dirt hill, he can hear noises behind him, shouting screaming, he can’t let them catch up, he as to keep on running.

He hears them mocking him again, and again, “Bad boy Billy!! Do you know what we do with bad boys?”

What makes a boy bad or anyone bad for that matter? Is it when he uses unethical behaviour to commit an undesirable act? Did Billy really commit unethical behaviour, what were the variables involved was it his fault that he had spiralled out of control?

He could hear the voices, the sound echoing all around, as he tumbled down the steep embankment, he could not give up.

♦♦♦♦

The nurse is sitting in front of you, Billy. It is dark but you can just about make out her face in the night. Her face is pale; her blush is running down her cheeks, her eyes are red and bloodshot. She grips a needle in her hand, you realise you should be frightened. She nears you, her eyes sharp and focused. “Do you know what you have done?” She spits, something isn’t right.

“But I’m Billy I didn’t know what I was doing, please!”

“Hahaha!” She laughs, the sound splashing against the walls, sounding like a thousand voices. “I went into the restricted area where they keep all the patients files; they were keeping you a secret from us, now I really know what you have done”

You try to think, try to analyse the situation, to put everything into context but you can’t.

Can’t.

Can not.

Will not.

You feel something now whelming up within you. It’s starting to hurt; something inside you is causing such a terrible pain. You struggle try to get out of the restraints, but you can’t.

You feel like death.

“I killed you in your sleep,” She smiles, “there’s no need to resist. There’s nothing that you can do.”

“What…?” you whisper. You are confused.

“You killed my sister, it was you she was the girl that you kicked so badly when you were fourteen…she was in hospital for months…in a coma…and then she died! How could you kill her?” She is at your throat digging her nails into your neck, she hates you Billy, really truthfully hates you.

You start thinking as you try to wriggle out of her grip, if she killed you when you were asleep by administering some drug why was she trying to strangle you? It didn’t make any sense. Something snaps you feel energy rushing into your body, it feels good. Memories start to flood back. You remember dark-haired Dr Gold, the experiments, her death by your hands - burnt to the crisp. You remember the fire, the burning, and the screams of children.

The nurse’s hands tighten around your burning neck. There’s a tingle in your toes and slowly it travels through your body rushing to your head. You feel the restraints buckling, your arms and legs being freed. With all the strength you can muster you grab her arms and throw her violently to the floor.

She shrieks as she crashes to the floor. You watch a little flicker of a flame on the white sheets lighten up the room. KABOOM! The entire bed is bathed in flames as you scream above the red and orange flames. Where’s a fireman when one needs one? You think as you watch the flames lick and flick over the room, smoke fills and chokes the lungs.

Who are you really? Billy? You shake your head as you think on your name, “Neil Perry,” you whisper, “my name is Neil Perry.” You realise who you are immediately images of your inhumane acts flood your mind as you plead for some reversal of fortune, you know no forgiveness could heal you or cleanse your actions. You shiver, even though it is hot you are cold, all your experiments produced monsters and in striving to put into a affect your ideas you perfected a sorry mess. You think of the nurse and the death of her sister, the creation of Billy and others like him. Billy would never be heard from again you made sure of this.

You do not know what to think anymore as you start to shake, and then you close your eyes taking in your last look at life. You are sorry though no words can express your remorse as you slip into a dark night sky to dive forever in an ocean of endless stars.

Looking all Smug

2007-09-28T08:05:00.000-07:00

So this is me looking all smug and pensive, don't ask what was going through my mind at the time. No one will ever know.

Icecream Thoughts

2007-09-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

I lie awake
and gaze at stars
so far away yet they wink at me
splash a little twinkle in my eye,

what sunshine stars contain,
the moon shines silver full and bright,
the hills of spring daffodil

And I dream, ice cream thoughts
as the weather winters and dark doomsday clouds
blanket me, frosting my dreams, sending me
deep down into hibernation.

So Much For Armstrong

2007-09-27T20:43:00.000-07:00

Sunshine, one old man, used
to talk about the day
when he had sex with a virgin.

Now I am old and the talk of such things
makes me shiver and wonder why
man wanted to go to the moon,
when he could have slept with a thousand women or more.

Forsake Me not- Sacrifice Me You Sexy Body

2007-09-27T20:10:00.001-07:00

Son, what am I but a bastard?
Plain and wrinkled, a slave of
man that is is dying,
when I am dead I will live again and again.

I want to make sexy time, but i cannot,
not tonight, I am slave to my soul,

No more nonsense i am accused again and again
son of a Bush i am your satan,
I love to love forever
when i am king i will rape
so bare with me you son of sam.

O, please do not harm me i am a hen
, a god of equilibrium,
satisfy me, you naked girl.

Purpose - Satin, Pirate Sex

2007-09-27T20:10:00.000-07:00

Crucify me, sweet and slow,
nail me to a cross,
and spear me you roman.

I am but an artifice,
I but a robe
red rose and crimson,
love make me a prose.

And I am raw,
A giant opening,
a flame shooting in the night
an erection in the dark.

I am but a moon,
sparkling all and white,
googling the distant stars.

Come make me, come love me,
come love make me,
again and again.

Life is My Window

2007-09-11T02:02:00.000-07:00

Perfume pool,
life is my window sex,
porcelain girl of sky
old soft man of ghost.

Open to needle
red rhythm rot
eat bone
wear moist kiss,
celebrate the cut of candy;
almost free
but never -
fat eternity.

Imagination

2007-09-11T01:46:00.000-07:00

Latex woman,
would you draw my imagination,
sing a harmony,
sculpt a silhouette,
paint passion?

Masterpiece.

A Flamingo's Colour

2007-09-10T05:06:00.000-07:00

Where does a flamingo’s pink or reddish feather colour come from? It's its diet, which is high in alpha and beta-carotene.

People eat beta-carotene when they eat carrots. Why aren’t people pink or orange?

It will be Quieter Here for a While

2007-08-31T01:10:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd tell you that I won't be posting on here for a while, perhaps the odd post here or there. I'm in the middle of moving so that'll be the reason for not showing my face on here. That won't stop me from writing though, a pen paper never goes astray. See you soon!

Not Another Random Thought!

2007-08-25T06:14:00.000-07:00

This randomness is wearing thin, V for Vendetta foretold the London bombings. I am but a shadow here lies Uncle Sin.

Pass me the salt, you are a slug I am a pest.

Suffer the weary, all saints please rise, give ear to my pleadings, and open up your eyes.

Push the button, the red one, the death one, the blood one, the cold one, the evil one.

One day war will come, blog that! Bunker down and brace yourself for some wicked blogging. This night I will write the worlds greatest blog, oh you hell-hounds, you dogs of war, you killers of the innocent.

Passion fruit? Why the name? Is it really that passionate? Why can't an apple be a passion fruit, I saw my friend nearly making love to one last night.

And I am but a man, build me bigger barns, rust is not my friend. Perhaps barns or sheds are not the best methods for storing, I guess barns are like warehouses. Why not build a statue? You can live forever in some bronze.

I, me. Only I. Not you or they, not even we. Why paint the kettle black when we can have some tea.

Another Random bit of Thinking - A little too Random Perhaps

2007-08-25T05:56:00.000-07:00

White noise, sometimes I wish the world would swallow me up, consume me you black hole. We are going nowhere to get somewhere, somehow i know this. I am a turtle swimming forever in the ocean of your heart.

What is this, this life of mine? I am the peony you are the tree. Save me a place in your heart, room under your covers, a space to lie close to you.

Sun.

What does it mean? Son? Heat? Light? Tan? Life? Energy? An object instrumental for time? Sun Microsystems?

I do not know. All I know is that I see it, at times, sometimes it is wrapped up by the clouds, but the light is there. Pondering the meaning of life is but a pain in the head at times, wreaking the brain.

Sea-shore the world is my ocean, the light is my life, the stars are my reason, the sun is my wife.

Carrots - strengthen your eyes - help you to see in the dark. What do tomatoes do?

Let me lie next to you girl, consume me, I am yours.

Random Thoughts Number What?

2007-08-24T22:39:00.000-07:00

Man child, I am the hunter, what makes war with me, the son of man is my enemy. The source of love is my friend though i hate hope, I love the frightening sound of helicopters.

This is my curse, the world is my friend, the death of self is a friend, the love of self is a BASTARD. Contend not you son of Sam, I am the devil, the love of many does grow cold, try the Arctic Circle, don't sink into the ice.

Mercy, help, love, men, join, gone, hunt, death, light, young, better, death...and I wish to beat myself until the blood runs, and i am dead.

Feel the curse you evil man, Seth has born a wicked child, Cain is a symbol full of death.

This Eve is my garden, the garden is my death, suffer not the apple to be plucked, for i am but a prune.

Make love not war, Mr. Bush, find a bush and fuck it good until it moans and utters groans.

Hope Floats

2007-08-24T05:58:00.000-07:00

Drain this blood,
let the rain float down
and wash away all disease
the sun colours my hope
the night blossoms the sky.

Torment

2007-08-23T19:21:00.000-07:00

We bare the brunt of it,
torso and all, the upper body
and the neck-
the twisted arms,
like branches silhouetted in snow.
We breathe, wrinkled in our drapery
plastic, fake and all,
faces buried, reaching out for redemption
needlessly we fall.

Cascading blood, the lines of fathers
etched deep, scraped within
the thoughts of all as we curl up,
crouch and cry - life has no soul.
Lily like and white, frost falls,
the light of window offers hope,
a little ray of sun-shine
deported mess, destitute,
whale face, pouring death.

Grey sky-sadness, music man, suffer no one.
Line upon line, the shadows of bodies
twist and pain, the stars give eyes to wanderers,
the night gives light to sky.

Tri-cycle

2007-08-23T06:36:00.000-07:00

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.

2007-08-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

A 37 year old Toru Watanabe has just arrived in Hamburg, Germany. When he hears an orchestral cover of the Beatles' song "Norwegian Wood", he is suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of loss and nostalgia. He thinks back to 1960s, when so much happened that touched his life...

Toru, his classmate Kizuki, and Kizuki's girlfriend Naoko are the best of friends. Kizuki and Naoko are particularly close and feel as if they are soulmates; and Toru seems more than happy to be their enforcer. This idyllic existence is interrupted by the unexpected suicide of Kizuki on his 17th birthday. Kizuki's death deeply touches both surviving friends; Toru feels the influence of death everywhere, while Naoko feels as if some integral part of her has been permanently lost. The two of them spend more and more time together, trying to console one another, and they eventually fall in love. On the night of Naoko's 20th birthday, she feels especially vulnerable, and they consummate their love. Afterwards, Naoko leaves Toru a letter saying that she needs some time apart and that she is quitting college to go to a sanatorium.

The blossoming of their love is set against a backdrop of civil unrest. The students at Toru's college go on strike and call for a revolution. Inexplicably, the students end their strike and act as if nothing had happened, which enrages Toru as a sign of hypocrisy.

Toru befriends a fellow Drama classmate, Midori Kobayashi. She is everything that Naoko is not — outgoing, vivacious, supremely self-confident. Despite his love for Naoko, Toru finds himself attracted to Midori as well. Midori is attracted to him also, and their friendship grows during Naoko's absence.

Toru visits Naoko at her secluded mountain sanatorium near Kyoto. There he meets Reiko Ishida, another patient there who has become Naoko's confidante. During this and subsequent visits, Reiko and Naoko reveal more about their past: Reiko talks about her search for sexual identity, and Naoko talks about the unexpected suicide of her older sister several years ago.

Toru, now back in Tokyo, unintentionally alienates Midori through both his lack of consideration of her wants and needs, and his continuing thoughts about Naoko. He writes a letter to Reiko, asking for her advice about his conflicted affections for both Naoko and Midori. He doesn't want to hurt Naoko, but he doesn't want to lose Midori either. Reiko counsels him to seize this chance for happiness and see how his relationship with Midori turns out.

A later letter informs Toru that Naoko has taken her own life. Toru, grieving and in a daze, wanders aimlessly around Japan, while Midori — who hasn't kept in touch with him — wonders what has happened to him. After about a month of fugue, he returns to the Tokyo area, where Reiko is visiting. With her support, he comes to the conclusion that Midori is the most important person in his life. Toru calls Midori out of the blue to declare his love for her. What happens following this is never revealed - Midori's response is characteristically (by this point) cold, yet the fact that she does not explicitly cut Toru off at that point (like she did before) leaves things open.

Quotes:
"You'll die with me?" Midori asked with shining eyes.

"Hell, no," I said. "I'll run if it gets dangerous. If you want to die, you can do it alone."
"Cold-hearted bastard!"
"I'm not going to die with you just because you made lunch for me. Of course, if it had been dinner..."

Next door was a shop where a middle-aged, sleepy-eyed guy sold "adult toys." I couldn't imagine why anyone would want the kind of sex paraphemalia he had there, but he seemed to do a lot of buisness. In the alley diagonally across the from the record store I saw a drunken student vomiting. In the games center across from us at another angle, the cook from a local eatery was killing his break time with a game of bingo that took cash bets. Beneath the eaves of a shop that had closed for the night, a dark-faced homeless guy was crouching, motionless. [....] Every fifteen minutes or so I would hear the siren of an ambulance or cop car. Three drunken company employees in suits and ties came by, laughing at the tops of their voices every time they yelled "Piece of ass!" at a pretty, long-haired girl in a telephone booth.

I would stare at the grains of light suspended in that silent space, struggling to see into my own heart. What did I want? And what did others want from me? But I could never find the answers. Sometimes I would reach out and try to grasp the grains of light, but my fingers touched nothing.

How many Sundays - how many hundreds of Sundays like this - lay ahead of me? "Quiet, peaceful, and lonely," I said aloud to myself.

"That's the kind of death that frightens me. The shadow of death slowly, slowly eats away at the region of life, and before you know it everything's dark and you can't see, and the people around you think of you as more dead than alive. I hate that, I couldn't stand it."

Passignition

2007-08-14T00:44:00.000-07:00

Scoop me out, flesh on flesh
merge with me, body mesh,
Enclose me in, silver moon
Hold me long, dying groom.

Contort with me, searing white.
Embalm within, a soothing light,
Perform in me, a crushing blow,
Love me long, never slow.

And it is here, beneath the sheets
that two bodies meet,
where passions flow
and bloodlines grow,
across white fields of heat.

Ghost Woman

2007-08-14T00:37:00.000-07:00

I picture your soft sun smile

amongst the pink cherry trees,
time stands looking on,
as I await your voice in
a little whisper of wind.

Why worry?

Perfume lingers in nectar flowers,
love moves mountains with her eyes,
the night does not last forever,
the sun one day will fill the sky.

Sheeted Memories

2007-08-09T13:12:00.002-07:00

Love floods, clouds the soul
washes out deep dark blackness.
What rests here
are large grey rocks
covered with stretchmarks of land and sea.

The heart creaks and wails
like a door moving on one hinge
it moans over silver waves and starry sky.
Our memories are mirrored then sheeted,
billowed up in the cool spring air,
as whiteness envades,
covering each drop of red,
turning each dream into time.

Currently Reading

2007-08-09T01:15:00.000-07:00

Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman is a collection of short stories by Japanese author Haruki Murakami.

The stories contained in the book were written between 1981 and 2005 and this collection was first published in English in 2006. Around half the stories were translated by Philip Gabriel with the other half being translated by Jay Rubin. In this collection, the stories alternate between the two translators for the most part.

Murakami considers this to be his first real collection of short stories since The Elephant Vanishes (1991) and considers after the quake (2002) to be more akin to a concept album, as its stories were designed to produce a cumulative effect.^[1]

In the introductory notes to the English language edition of Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, Murakami declares, ‘I find writing novels a challenge, writing stories a joy. If writing novels is like planting a forest, then writing short stories is more like planting a garden.’ This elegant analogy serves to give the reader some idea of what awaits.

The stories in the collection are replete with the sort of epiphanies and moments of clarity that Murakami thrives on – if there is a ‘theme’ or unifying thread it is one of momentary revelation.

Prognosis

2007-08-06T08:40:00.000-07:00

i know what lies at the bottom,
though i fear the darkness,
Love is a shadow.

I feel burns of redness,
it throbs the heart,
and reaches into the pinnacles of flesh.

I must wail, pull out the temples
of the living, succumb to death,
and look with eyes that have seen such splendors
watching the blue waves of sea, the green dancing
trees of cedar, that call me, haunt me from my sleep and say,
"It's here we want to touch you, all leafy and green."

Over a Year Now

2007-08-05T13:51:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to say thanks to all those that viewed and commented on my blog. Also those of you who link to my blog. Met some good people through this blog, hope my content has been entertaining, enlightening and thought provoking. Thanks!

Ater Dark by Haruki Murakami

2007-08-05T13:14:00.000-07:00

A novel i just finished reading.

Alienation, a returning motif in the works of Murakami, is the central theme in this novel set in a major Japanese city over the course of one night. Main characters include Mari, a 19-year-old woman, who is spending the night reading in a Denny's. There she meets Takahashi, a trombone-playing student, who also knows Mari's sister Eri and insists that the group of them have hung out before. Meanwhile, Eri is being watched in her sleep by someone sinister. Eri also suffers from social withdrawal, a condition often referred to as hikikomori.

Mari crosses ways with a fighting champion, now working as a manager in a love hotel (whom Takahashi knows and referred to Mari), a Chinese prostitute who has been beaten and stripped of everything in this same love hotel, and a sadistic computer expert. The story takes place in a world between reality and dreams.

The story is broken down in small chapters of varying length. An added element of interest—and perhaps a post-modern reference—is the fact that the book has a 'real-time' timeline, beginning at the early hours of the night.

Aliens, Sheep and Other Things

2007-08-05T10:16:00.000-07:00

There are a few updates on Aliens, Sheep and Other Things if you're interested I have gotten back into the swing of things hopefully now I'll be able to finish it off and not disappoint.

The Waiting Room -Part3

2007-07-29T18:24:00.000-07:00

Mary and the infant were gone, for how long I couldn’t say, but I imagined it had been a while. I tried to listen for any bit of life outside. I could hear nothing but the deep slow sound of snoring. I took a deep breath of air and was horrified to find my mouth fill up with a rancid taste. It was unforgettable. Yellow pools of urine appeared on the white sterile floor no longer a model for cleanliness. A little boy with red tuberous eyes opened his mouth and wailed like a dying dolphin in the deep. With each noise he became weaker as he continued to sit stewing in his excrement. I could feel my bowels slowing filling up as the child withered like a flower tasting winter for its first time. He would never see spring.

They made it clear to me that my government were to blame for the atrocity that was carried out in the forest beyond the town where the occupants carried on with their daily routine even after they were buried deep in the ground. Someone had forgotten to tell them they were dead and that there was no point trying to rebuild a life they didn’t have. No one wanted to near the corpses so a small memorial was erected and yellow seeds were planted on top of them. The bodies encouraged the soil to grow the bones that contained the calcium and marrow was important for the survival of another generation.

No one learnt from the incident. Incident is too formal a word, it was nothing but an incident, it was a savage act of brutality. Killing mothers with babies inside their womb, sprouting hands and legs as the executioner raised the gun to the mother’s frightened head. The bullet flew through her head as the baby swam for the last time inside her protective layer.

Whose fault was it? I had always been confused with the detail. Falling down the slope and hearing a familiar voice, the voice of my officer who should have been protecting the town from the invading army. And then I signed the paper, everyone started blaming each other for carrying out such an inhumane act. High file rank were demoted and held responsible for such a tragedy and I was stuck somewhere in the middle like the boy surrounded by the swan-haters as they eagerly lined up to strike a blow.

I opened my eyes. The screaming child had vanished and so had the smell. I felt my chest that was shaking violently and that is when I looked up and saw Helen.

She was staring back at me with those insane eyes of hers that said if you move I’ll kill you.” I spied her hand that was grey and pale without the dreaded cigarette.
“I hate you!” I wanted to roar. I imagined the smoke filling her mouth and then come bursting out of her enlarged nostrils.
Her hair was still the blonde burning yellow but she wasn’t the tough strong woman that she had introduced me to. She was slumped over with a blanket draped for warmth over her shoulders. I saw her naked arm with the bones nearly sticking out of her skin.
“Hi,” She said, shaking at the thought of what I would do to her now that she was in the room.
I sent back no reply. I could still feel the ash and the biting sting of the cigarette melting my skin. I turned my head away from her and left her alone.

It’s funny the imagining that you do. You imagine the countries you’ve never travelled to and make up the culture, the people and the landscape. Africa is a jungle full of green leathery leaves and monkeys that scream across the sky as they throw themselves off the trees like a suicidal teenager not thinking of the consequences only carrying out the now and forgetting about the past and the future.
Lions hunt wild gazelles as tall thin dark hunters watch with spears in hand ready to bring down both creatures while the white headed vulture waits its next meal, whether it be victim or prey.
Paris is lovely at this time of year, I’ve never been there but I have been told, so I am sure. The tall metal Eiffel tower reaches upwards as women rush around behind their designer fur coats attracted to any label that will say: “Look at me I am unique I am a separate entity from others. Another crocodile handbag never satisfies as the cocaine is sniffed up the nose. I don’t know this; it was only what I was told.

She was still staring at me with those eyes of hers that never left me. I only opened my mouth because I wanted to get rid of her frightening stares.
“What do you want?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Nothing…! What do you want?”
It took me a while to put such a simple sentence together, “What do I want?”
“Yes,” she replied, the hoarse frightening voice had disappeared.
“I want you to go, leave, get lost.” I could have thought of numerous profanities but I kept quiet.
“I understand,” She lowered her head right where the puddle of sun yellow urine had been. “You’re upset. I’m sorry.”
The words leapt out of her mouth and then it fragmented into my eyes as I saw every cruel thing she had done to me. I could smell the burning and feel the torture travel up my spine. Even the tigers in the zoo were treated with more respect then I was.
I waited as my mouth filled up with thick sticky saliva and then I spat my missile of spit towards her. It missed and landed on a head that was sleeping on the floor.
Why should I forgive? What did the word forgive mean? I shook my head it meant nothing, nothing to me anyway. But it I had forgiven before. That was different, totally different.
And then it dawned on me suddenly like a pulse had gone off somewhere inside of me. I had to get out. I put my arms out in front of me and steadied my feet ready for the giant push to stand.
One, two, three... I threw all the energy I had into my thrust. The balls of my feet stood routed to the floor, my arms did nothing to aid me.
What the hell!
I slumped back into my chair and resigned myself to the inevitable; if help didn’t come I would be left to die, the blood slowly dripping out my nose and the brain haemorrhaging inside.

I closed my eyes. I would ignore Helen or whatever her name was. God was silent.

The white coat was standing in front of me again with the same silver clipboard. Only this time the white was mixed with what I could only assume was blood. It was my turn again. I could see it in his eyes as he stood over me.
“Mr Slav,” he said slowly as if I had just learnt the language the previous day.
“Yes?” I replied, my voice lifting in optimism.
“You can come this way.”
He reached his hand out towards my arm. Helen was eying me with her puffy eyes. She was nearly touching the floor now. A few drops of blood were positioned under her nose. I watched her like an artist, studying the movement of the model, the tone, the contrast and ripple in her contour. The red liquid that she had lived in for so long dripped out of her nose. This time I watched it slip out of her nostril, it dripped, splattering on the floor like rain bouncing off a pool of water. Her hair was tangling up in the mess.
I hated her, the woman that beat me and I hated the smell of cigarettes that clung to her like a leech.
“I hate you!” I roared as the doctor reached out oblivious to my shouts.
She continued to lower herself into the blood and the floor that she was dying to die on.

God spoke suddenly, “You have to help!”
“Are you insane?” I flung my arms in the air, the doctor jumped back afraid of what I might do.
“Mr. Slav don’t panic I’m only here to help.”
“My God,” I said. “I see where you’re going, trying to get me all compassionate. What about me?”
“She needs your help, regardless of what she did to you.”
God has a funny way of working things out he tries to get you to feel sorry for others just to get you to perform his ultimate end. That’s what I thought.
I looked back; her face was swimming in her own blood.
I couldn’t give in to her. I would fight it out.
“Doctor, can you help me?”
He looked at me nervously not wanting another outburst.

Dogs grovel the way she was grovelling with her arms squashed against the floor and her legs pressed against her thighs. I heard the heaving and watched her twist in pain. I couldn’t bear the heavy breathing and the echoing moans that spilled out of her mouth onto the bloody floor and splatter against the walls.

No
I can’t!
I Imagined sitting on the wooden chair in the dark with the smell of cigarettes and the ash gently falling down on me.
No!
I wouldn’t
It’s time she suffers.
But there she was in pain and agony and I knew what I had to do.
“D…d…d…doctor,” I stammered. “Take her.” I pointed at the woman lying flat on the ground spread eagled and looking every bit dead.
He glanced at me surprised, though he didn’t argue; all he did was grunt something low and deep. He walked up to her, cautiously lifting her. She was standing up leaning with her full weight on the doctor. Her face was bloody and peeling.
“Sorry,” she muttered, as she struggled for air. “It was our fault we staged the whole thing with the help of those who were sympathetic to our cause. I’m sorry!”
I could see it in her eyes her frail body that was no longer blanketed. Her clothes were stuck to her body as her red raw flesh peeked out of what was visible of her clothes.

When she left I tried to visualise the situation. It was a con, I was only used as a messenger to tell the world what really happened and I was roped into blindly. I would have hurdled my head into the wall but I was too weak for that, at least I could think about my body smashing into the hard flat white wall hitting hard on impact. I felt the pain again as it struggled to get out. Turkey man was gone, although the clucking continued on without him.

And then I felt stupid as I felt the blood draining out of me. I saw the little boy with his brown tweed cap over his head and his chewed up face smiling as the carriage jolted along the tracks. My heart and lungs screamed as my kidneys tried desperately to stay alive. I didn’t know how he could be so happy.

I was still waiting to be seen to. No one was there to talk to. I needed someone to help me survive to talk and say I could make it you can live just hang in there. My head started to fall the same way Helen’s head was magnetised to the floor. My bent back slid down the sliding chair and I knew that death was coming. It wasn’t frightening. God was silent; I would be left alone with my own thoughts cooking in my fragmented ideas. But then again I had invented God to entertain me, just as I had introduced Mary and her infant child, the clucking turkey and possibly Helen. I closed my eyes.
War had been invented long ago, the atomic bomb had been upgraded a thousand times as surface to air missiles were the rage then the red melting heat was dropped on the innocent, on the land of my forefathers, on my land. And that was when I felt my blood dropping and all hope flew out the window. No one knew yet who dropped it, although it wouldn’t have surprised me if it was my own government, nothing was beyond them anymore. To ensure the survival of the opportunist’s anything was possible. And so I sat with the bodies blanketed for warmth, the heater long gone and the cold coming underneath the cracks of the doors and through the plastered walls. I was desperate to find out what was going on in the outside world. Was there any explanation or even a hint as to what was going on outside? It didn’t matter. The little boy who was now a man would die. I got ready for the act, trying to make myself as comfortable as possible and closed my eyes.

The trees played music as I stood on the street and watched high on a porch a man with glasses and a balding head caressing the piano with his long slender fingers like he was a great composer whose music would be learnt for a thousand generations. The strays came to listen as the white and black keys were beautifully struck. One key was the sound of the rushing tide and when he pressed his gentle fingers against the smooth surface of the keys, the auburn sky sang as the sun sank into the horizon. I listened like I always listened, intent to replay each key in my head forever. God was in the moment as the birds sang with the angels that were welcoming me home.

I opened my eyes. I was still in the room. No one was around, it was only me. The stained wall was still covered in spots, the large stain sat in the corner that had been cleverly named God. The white coat was standing in front of me again. I looked up. He looked different.
“I don’t know if you are ignoring me or what, but it’s time.” I looked up at him asking him to help him with my eyes.
“Can’t you get up on your own?”
The cheek of him, what was he thinking?
Idiot!
Try!
I lifted my arms and then pushed my legs up.
Surprise!
I flew up, standing upright.
I felt my chest, I felt well.
I felt good.
I opened my mouth and let my laughter play amongst itself. It was a happy moment.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked as he motioned to me follow him.
“Home,” he smiled.
I looked at his name tag in big bold letterings, the name GOD was written.
I followed too puzzled to work it out, possibly tricked by my imagination but I wasn’t going to be staying around any longer, the wait was long enough.

Watch the swaying trees
Drink by the silver lake
Here swans swim
While a girl wearing
a white frilly dress plays her violin
as a crowd gathers to dance.

This is my idea of peace
The smiles and laughter
Fill the yellow fields
As I lift my arms to fly.

Heaven is my home.

The Waiting Room - Part2

2007-07-29T18:20:00.000-07:00

“Now you tell me what you did!”
“I did nothing!” I shouted.
“The Geneva Convention would love to hear of your little act of genocide. When they are finished with you it will make me seem as a lamb.”
“I did nothing!” I repeated. “Nothing…!”
She raised her arm, violently slapping me with the back of her hand. The chair rocketed sideways by the force as I watched the floor nearing, helplessly. The blood was beginning to stream out of my nose and onto the floor. My gums were sore and bleeding as blood swirled around my mouth. I used my tongue to survey the damage counting each tooth with slow precession.
One, two…
I swallowed a piece of my chipped tooth and felt it slide painfully down my throat. I coughed violently as a pool of blood formed around my head.
“Will you co-operate now?” She roughly pulled the back of the chair up. I was propped up again, staring into her face.
“Do you want me to confess?” I questioned as a drizzle of blood slipped onto my mouth and then slid down my chin.
“Yes, confess…”
“And if I confess?”
“Our government will have leniency on you. They have political prisoners of ours, we will enter into an exchange.”
I took a deep sharp gulp of blood and teeth. Survival was the main thing who cared about the details if what she wanted to hear was that I was some serial killer or murderer then I would feed her fascination if only it would stop the torture.

“I’ve killed before…” I inhaled the cold air and left my half finished sentence linger. She stood there waiting for an answer, watching me in my nakedness. She didn’t have to say anything her wrinkled nose and scrunched brow cajoled me into continuing.
“I used to hunt rabbits in the mountains when I was a child.”
I closed my eyes and imagined a brown ball of fur bounding over a stretch of white while I aimed my shotgun and took aim. Bang! Right between the eyes!
She pursed her lips realising it was going somewhere. “Please continue,” She said folding her arms across her chest and sitting her round full ass on the table.
FLOOR, FLOOR, FLOOR!
“We cooked it in a good warming stew…”
I watched the blood roll down my chin and form a pool in my bellybutton.
“How did you get in the army?” She lit another cigarette.
“Haven’t you heard it’s your duty to serve? It’s mandatory.” I shook with fear and from the cold. My voice that been raised, and the sarcasm had not been masked.
“Yes, I am well aware of that,” She blew smoke in my face.

“I am also aware you are a Christian,”
“Well if you say so…” I rolled my eyes.
She veered at me, her eyes shooting out of her sockets and her mouth erupting in a volcano of curses.
“Do you know what I can do to you?”
She leapt off the table with the cigarette raised in the air.
“Please for God sake, no!” I screeched.
She stopped in mid motion.
“You will tell me everything and truthfully this time.”
“Truthfully…?” I muttered.
She threw me a disapproving look.
“Ok,” so I started again.
“The village, we were told was to be protected at all cost…”
She interrupted with her deep throaty voice. “Did you know the village was predominately Muslim?”
“No,” I shook my head. “It didn’t matter. What mattered was that we had been given orders to protect it.”
“So Muslims mean nothing to you?”
“No, I never said that. Muslims are human beings just like me,” I paused. “And you.”
She didn’t seem convinced that I meant it. I never meant it; I only thought that I could soften her enough to get her to let me go.
“She would say, “Mr Slav means no harm. Yes he is our enemy and a threat to our cause but he doesn’t deserve to suffer in this way. Send him home.’
No she would have me flogged to death first and then she would send me home.

My resistance had surprised her, although it surprised me even more that I would put up with such torture just for the sake of withholding any bit of information from her. I had been put into a cell. It was difficult to tell if it was the same one I was in before. I couldn’t stand up the ceiling had been made for a midget. I could only sit and stretch my legs.
“Mr Slav you are a War Criminal!”
“Murderer…!”
“….Muslim hater!”
“Wife killer…!”
“You put a bullet to a little boy’s head!”
“You ordered the executions!”
“You killed your own people!”
“Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha-ha!”
“Shut up!” I screamed. A bright neon light lit up my cage and covered me in a blinding hallucinogenic pool of light.
“Murder…!”
Boom!
Boom!
Bang!
Twang!
Crash!
Some mad conductor was above my head conducting a violent symphony. The cymbals collided with the trumpets; the violinist tore the bow across the strings. I covered my ears. The light lit me up again.
“You killed the villagers like rabbits. You shot them right between the eyes!”
“Murder…!”
“You enjoyed killing every one of them.”
“It had been your life long fantasy. You were just waiting for the moment.”
“God told you to kill innocent people, didn’t he?”
Then I asked the question that I had never been brave enough to ask.
“Why does this concern you? They are not your people you were destroying their land and killing them. You should be patting me on the back if I did carry out such an act.”
The shouting stopped. The music died down and the light never shined on me again that night.

It was the question I wanted answered, “Why are you concerned?” But I was frightened too death, propped up once again on the wooden chair with my hands handcuffed. They had the decency to clothe me, although my feet were shoeless.
What do you want with me? What do you want with me? What do you want with me?
“Mr Slav,” She was staring at me again, standing in the dim light.
“Yes?” I replied, slowly lifting up my head.
“Today you will tell us what you were doing in the forest.”
“Forest…?”
“Yes, you were in the forest weren’t you?”
She lifted her boot to show she could have sent it crashing into my skull.
I sighed, a big disheartened breath.
“We were protecting the village from you…I got lost in the forest…stumbled across…a burial site…”
“Burial site…?”
She stomped wilding around the chair each footstep thudding into my heart.
“Yes, you know where dead people are buried.”
I shouldn’t have. I saw the hand raised high in the air smacking down hard into my face. The nose took the brunt of it as the waterfall of blood flowed into my mouth.
“Any more of that,” she roared, the pitch of her voice echoed off the roof. “And I won’t show you any mercy.”
So you’ve been having mercy on me?
I shook my head as I tried plugging my nose with my fingers. It didn’t seem like it.
“What happened?”
“It was dark, I think I heard the sound of gunfire and then I started to fall.”
I closed my eyes and tried to get away from the cold dark room. The woman was circling me as if she was spinning a magic web and then she would strangle me and swallow me whole. The heels were sharp and hard, smacking off the concrete floor.

The sound of marching, gunfire, an explosion of shells, screams and then silence. Eyes were staring at me from out of the dirt, trained on my every movement.
“One, two, three,”
“Come in its dinner time.”
“Once I caught a fish this big.” A child’s arms stretched into the sky.
“A, B, C, D, E, F, G”
A small faint voice was singing, “Happy Birthday…!”
“I’ll race you home!”
“Sweet Sixteen and never been kissed!”
“It’s a girl!”

Laughter
The sound of running feet
An explosion of sound
Smiles on a young freckled face
Joy.

Sorrow,
The clattering of a machine
the roar of a bomber
death.

“Murderer…!”
“You killed my child!”
“You’ll die for this! God will have his judgement on you!”
“You’re a son of Satan!”
“Lucifer has his grip on you!”

Downstairs the father was dancing; upstairs the child was stretching the bow across the varnished violin. She could make the sun rise with each melting note. The girl dressed in white skipped to her wedding as her life’s symphony swirled around her. Flowers played the game of romance. The stars shot across the walls, her future a melting pot of notes and concerts.
The notes were weeping, and I was weeping sitting in my chair, my body inside a coarse harsh shirt, the pants itched my legs like a red hot sunburn. The blood continued to pour.

I killed the father and the child, breaking her fingers that could never again hold onto the violin.
Snap!
One finger gone!
Snap!
Another one broken!
Snap!
She wore white, the little girl, and it was speckled with red. Her soft young feet bounced off the floor.
Her small rose mouth opened and she cried, “Look daddy! Look at me!”
She stretched out her hands as a shower of blood rained down on her.
I started to shout. The rain seemed to be melting her and I was fading into my thoughts. The voice!
“Tell me about the grave!” A high pitched squeal broke through my thoughts. A cigarette butt raised in the air as my eyes pleaded, fought, and screamed all at once. I smelt the burnt horrid smell as it gnawed at my leg.

She bent her head as far to the grey ground as possible. She held the baby in her arms as close as she could without suffocating it. When the baby came out of its mother’s womb the first thing it saw was light—bright glorious light! Inside the blackness was closing up, the womb was sliding shut. His eyes were the first thing that opened, but his mouth was the first to respond. The glass cabinets shook and the sound reverberated off the wall as the new adorable baby roared over the passing jumbo jet.
I was a baby once, bright blue eyed, fair haired, not a wrinkled spot or blemish. I was proud of my mother. She was everything I ever wanted, a perfect parent who pampered me with her love. I was what she ordered, although she never let on if she was unhappy with me. I was a loud baby always crying, it was a way of telling my mother where I was.
I saw his head peering out from his mother’s blanket. His tiny red eyes christened with his face. His hair was covered. He was maybe a few months old. I couldn’t tell anymore. His lips were puckered and he looked like he had been near beetroot. His small pale white arm reached out for life, for air.
Mary lifted her dropping head and looked into my eyes, piercing me.
“Please help!” She moaned as the baby in her arm spasmed. “My baby is dying!”
I looked at the child with its weeping eyes, oozing leftover sleep. It was scrunching up his face fearful, afraid, and dying for the first time.
“If the infant child was here you would help, would you not?” It was, God his voice a mere whisper that collided with my heart.
I shook my head; I didn’t know what to say. I could feel the ground moving from under my feet as the room sped past me. Light warm red heat. Trees dotted the green grass as shooting sprouts competed for the first time for life. I could hear the birds chattering away to each other, each note blossomed like a budding rose or a blossoming chrysanthemum. A wave crashed over me as I fell deep into the soft grass and slept.

The noise was unbearable as I fought to stay asleep. I would do anything to fall into a deep sleep and forget everything. I dreaded reliving the harsh angry slap that seemed to be embedded on my left cheek like a death sentence. I could still feel the time I was pushed by an oversized child onto a frozen lake. I could hear the ice twisting and splitting like the logs in the fireplace crackling under the heat. Then the ground exploded like a gunshot as I slipped into the hole of ice. My booted feet went first then the legs, chest and all. My face submerged as I kicked and fought for life and air. The water was heavy, I tried to find an opening, any opening would have done. Maybe if I swam down I could somehow reach the surface.
My mind went blank; I stopped kicking and opened my eyes under the stinging cold. White-bluish ice swam past me as I was lost in the moment, surrounded by the eerie sound of winter. Above I could hear the wind howling, the sheet of ice that covered me creaked like a whining whale. Then two arms reached in and pulled me out— my saviour.

I never saw him enter. I opened my eyes and saw him standing next to me with his large white spotless coat. He held a clipboard, his chewed back nails were brought to my attention. He was tall, a lanky sort of fellow that seemed to be sweating uncontrollably. I watched the droplets form on his brow; slowly it dripped down his long elevated nose over the tip and then ran down his mouth sliding down his chin. It was amazing to watch. He stood there with his black pasted back hair and his brown tired eyes. I glanced down at his legs that were unsteady and shaky.
“Mr Slav,” He called out with a slow monotonous voice. “We are ready to see you.”
I shook as I thought of all the medical procedures that were possible. A saw would lay on the operating table and a drill. I would be hooked up to every tube and surround by every wire and machine that was humanely possible.
He sounded again, “Mr Slav, We’re ready to see you.”
I leaned over and tried to spring myself up.
One, two, three,
It was no use, I was going nowhere.
I looked at the woman with her child in the corner she lifted her hand in the air and gently slapped her baby’s back.
Slap!
I felt her hand smack off my face.
Thwack!
Another one for good measure.
I looked up at the doctor his hand reaching out to help me out of my predicament.

The letters appeared on the wall.
C-o-m-p-a-s-s-i-o-n.
The baby started to cry and jerk uncontrollably as if it ran right into an electric fence.
I could feel God trying to get through. I reached out my hand towards the doctor, his soft sweaty palm felt good. I could feel him tugging on my tired arm as my entire body resisted. The baby had turned into a fire engine, the wails and moans frightened the life out me as I watched him turn red.
“God,” I drew my hand out of the doctor’s grasp. “What will I do?”
“Compassion,” came back the reply.
I shook my head. I knew what I had been asked yet I didn’t have the strength for it.
I turned my head towards Mary and the infant. I felt like screaming above the wail and shouting at them.
“You are trying to make me feel bad!” I would have roared at them.
“Compassion…!”
“Mercy…!”
“Forgiveness…!”
I understood compassion I understood mercy, but why the word forgiveness? It flashed in front of my eyes.
Forgive. Forgive. Forgive.
“Forgive her? But what has she done to me?”
“She reminds you of someone.”
I closed my eyes. She reminded me of Mary, sweet and innocent Mary, with her long black hair and sweet choral voice. I watched her skipping through the school yard in her sky blue dress, the summer always following her. If Mary would have lived she would have looked like the woman I had christened her namesake, tall, defiant, astute and brave. A kidney was all she required but her family never had the courage to offer her one and so she died. I had plans to marry her but it was useless. I hated her for having such a horrible family.
She never needed to be forgiven it was me.
“Ask for forgiveness?”
“Yes!”
I struggled to open my mouth as the tears leapt out of my eyes. Mary was dying, her infant child had no real chance with life.
“Forgive me Mary,” I pleaded holding out my hands. She looked at me with her widening eyes and gaping mouth, surprised and shocked.
“Forgive me Mary!” I raised my voice; she sprung back afraid I would hurt her. She pressed the baby up against her chest.
I looked at the spot on the wall and then back at Mary. She was smiling the rosiest smile I had ever seen that stretched like a boat on open water. The sails blowing in the breeze as a mob of chattering white seagulls swarmed around the sailing vessel.
“Thank you!” She whispered.
I had made up my mind the white angel of light ushered her and the baby away as I continued to sit in the yellow chair alone with my thoughts and God.
I could tell he was happy, the spot on the wall. I could feel sympathy and joy, perhaps a tear or two as well.

I stumbled across the bodies like a little child seeing his parents at it for the first time. I was afraid and coming close to experiencing death.

Tick Tock.

The little boy should have been in bed, away from the commotion, away from the act but he was inquisitive and too bloody nosy to make any sense of it. I cringed when I saw the naked bodies’ fixated lying in the dirt, pale and starting to decay. They were not my parents they were someone else’s, but they had been just as real and animated. Something was wrong when I slid into the dirt and then a leather boot kicked me roughly on the jaw. But the voice was familiar, gruff and curt. A deep raspy voice that would scare anyone to death.
She was asking me questions again.
“Who was he?”
“What was he doing there?”
She kept on assuring me that there were only soldiers loyal to my government situated there. The rebels were situated one hundred miles south. I shook my head I couldn’t believe her, I couldn’t.

Foxes are red they are sly conniving creatures that tour the streets in the dark looking for scraps of meat in knocked over rubbish bins. Twelve o’clock a lone fox is spotted prancing around a freshly cut lawn when one o’clock hits the entire community of foxes descended on the town. I hated foxes.
I had watched him every night come dancing into town on all fours, drooling at the mouth in search for food. He never saw me, never knew what hit him as I drew my gun and shot him. Shooting was always in me, killing a man wouldn’t be much different.

I opened my eyes the woman that was standing over me was large and excited. Her steel cold glare bit me in the neck and made me shake violently. She was holding a piece of paper in the air shouting, “Sign! Sign! Sign…!”
I saw the sliver pen lying on the desk waiting to be picked up. I looked at my pant’s legs that were burned; I could see my legs red and raw from all the cigarette burns. I could feel the burn biting into my stomach, the very pit was burning.
I knew where it was leading. I was to take the blame for the massacre and then they would let me go and the voices would leave me alone. I could go back to my normal life.

What is normal? People say: “Look there’s George isn’t he a normal sort of guy? He’s go a dog and a wife and two kids.” The dog is always mentioned first, strangely.
Does normal mean average or does it mean the same as everyone else?
Normal?
What is normal?
Rain falls down in large teary drops out of the sky—is that normal?
The storm clouds break and the sky is blanketed in blue—is that normal?
A skylark fights to live in the midst of angry mortar shells while a solider stares at his own blood thinking back on his life. The clouds shed a tear as a little boy drags his wooden dog with wheels for legs. His hair is a tangled mess, blonde dirty curls. His face stained with the dirt of the earth. I was the little boy oblivious of the complexity of life, the little things that would explode in front of my eyes. If I thought about it then and there I would have treasured each tiny moment, fishing by the babbling brook with my wooden makeshift rod that never caught more than a sliver stickleback. My eyes should have appreciated the green fields that a six year old could get lost in the. The small chubby arms groping in the dark as giggles were heard bouncing through the countryside. My eyes were big and bright, caught up with everything but as soon as I reached maturity those simple little things meant nothing.

Teddy bears.
Nightmares.
A circus full of fun.
A sweet sticky bun
Hair in the eyes
Blue endless skies

And then it was dark. The light flickering in the distant as a low flutter of wings sounded like helicopters booming through the sky. Wings bring back memories. A bright red butterfly perched high on a perfect pink flower, sucking the nectar dry as an Admiral flies by, a ship sailing in the sky. White spots against the walls, stars sitting happily on the ceiling glued to the blackness. Voices are all I can hear amongst the blurring, the whispers, a short curt bark, and then whispers again.
“What is your name?”
“Who are you?”
“What are you doing here?”
“How many were there?”
“You can’t be serious?”
Voices began to communicate in deep babbling tones. Baby talk or just a language I was unfamiliar with?
I’ll sign. I’ll sign anything.
The pen is in my hand. With one painstaking stroke I sign. It could have been my life I was signing away; I didn’t care at that point.

The swans were flying again over the still glassy lake. The white feathers blanketed the landscape below like snow covering the earth on a cold December day. The swans were easily angered when they were approached. But high in the air away from the pestering crowds that forced them to eat the stale greening bread they were on their own. Up in the sky they were majestic; they were conquerors, they could fly. What could I do to match such a feat? I had no wings like them, no duffle feathers to catch the breeze and soar.
Some of the local village boys got it in their head that they were pests like the foxes. I was sitting next to the lake with my wooden fishing rod knowing that I would never catch a slippery fish. I watched a swan skiing on the lake with his large webbed feet creating white spray.
Bang!
The sound jolted me like it had been aimed at my heart. I saw the swan flop into his watery grave, no warning, no explanation. And the feathers scattered into the sky the bird no more. I was furious, the anger rose to my cheeks as I threw my rod down. Forget the fish!
There would be no fishing today. And I hated the shooter, I hated him for killing the very thing I loved to sit and watch as I pretended to fish.
I saw the heads bobbing along the shoreline giggles were coming from them. I ran into the crowd. The boy with yellow hair that held the rifle was my first target as I threw a punch high above his head and then smashed it down into his young fresh face. The face exploded in red, the nose pulsing and dripping in blood, his white face red, much like the feathers of the swan that was now soaking in his blood. I felt it suddenly, a boot against my ankles and then a clenched fist into my ribs. Then a torrid of activity as the gun dropped and I was invited into the middle of the circle where the most of the action was taken by me.
Was it worth it for the swan?
A bloody nose, a bruised ankle, a head that had a thousand pulses twitching all at once? When it was all over we vowed to keep it silent and went back to our parents making up any story that would take the pain away. But they knew what happened as they sat and watched me eat in silence. I sat on the wooden chair; father looked at me with his blue eyes that had seen everything at least that’s what it looked like as he sat upright, his posture positively good for a man of his age. His hair was greying and his moustache was in need of a trim. I sat there toying with the hot boiled potatoes and the red meat that could have been the swan that was so terribly killed. I lifted the fork to my mouth trying desperately not to cry or show that all the bruises that I was carrying was taking me to hell. Mother reached for a damp white cloth and swabbed my face. She was quiet father’s constant chewing on the meat and mother’s monotonous tone of her feet shuffling across the stone floor drove me to guilt. Father would have known that falling on the ground would not result in a perfectly round black eye. They knew but they kept quiet; silence crept up the sides of the table.

Only God knows the situation, I whispered to myself.
“God what are you going to do with me?” I was sliding endlessly down the plastic chair that was designed to increase back strain.
He was slow to respond but he finally said, “It’s up to you. What do you want me to do?”
“You’re God you tell me,” I interjected, looking down at my hands, they were turning red. Sunsets are red, so are apples, and love. But this was different, the pain was intensifying. I could feel a war going on inside my body. Little men dressed in fatigues were fighting it out. It seemed like the artillery were missing their targets and instead firing cruelly at me.

The Waiting Room -Part 1

2007-07-29T08:46:00.000-07:00

The Waiting Room
Everyone huddled around the gas heater. The sound lulled me to sleep, it sounded like the gentle buzzing of a fly as the red heat glowed. I had only managed to find the room after the others so I propped myself up on the yellow plastic chair that was screwed to the floor. The room was small, four white walls with no window to see out. A door the only entrance and exit point. No paintings, only walls that were endlessly white. A picture would have kept my attention, one of a yellow field on a calm summer’s day or a beach with the white warm sand, a blue expansive ocean and bystanders. Then I could satisfy my boredom and imagine— transportation wouldn’t be problem as my mind would take me there.

A few small groups, covered in itchy thin grey blankets, huddled together for warmth. Eyes peered out from under their blankets, their faces rebuked my stare. I had to occupy my mind. The gentle sound of a tongue flicking down in the mouth grabbed my attention. The turkey sounds came from a small greying man who was sitting with his legs to his chest; he was rocking himself to sleep. He had no blanket only a tattered brown jacket, the collar reaching over his neck. His face was full of wrinkles, each telling an individual story. His life was clearly etched on his face and he needed a shave. His isolation told me he was a reject, his family had left him and he had resigned himself to being alone. I glanced around at those huddled for heat and realised I was a reject too. All I could do was wait I did not know what for. Wait for the long sleep.

I saw her covered from head to toe in blankets, something nestling to her chest. Her eyes were deep blue, packed with red. She looked at me with those tired eyes; she was running out of life. Her pale white breast peaked out of its concealment, the round full tit an object of desire. I turned my head and stared into the white wall, nothing there to fill my head—nothing. I heard the gentle crying of a child, like the sound of a train slowly approaching its destination. I slowly turned my head back towards the woman with the breast, hoping she would reveal more of her flesh.

The breast was in someone’s mouth now; the leathery nipple was being sucked on. He was small with no hair, his dirty, tiny hands clawed on her breast. I watched the marks appear in long thin red lines giving rise to insinuations of intimacy. She looked up into me and gave me a disapproving glance. It was back to the white walls for me. After going over numerous useless thoughts in my head I turned my attention back to the mother and child. She had covered him under the blanket; her breast lost under the concealment. I sat and watched the hidden baby drain her life. I could see it in her eyes. She was being shelled out, sucked dry by her child. She continued to give; the child was of more importance.

I turned away as the hours slowly passed and with it my strength. I was a strong well kept man in my time, but now that had all changed. I was physically and mentally different. I wasn’t my usual self something had happened to me that made me feel ill whenever I tried to do anything menial.
The flickering light in the room brought me back. I looked around; an elderly woman with a toothless mouth was sitting fixated. She held a white starchy newspaper that contained a collection of black inked words. Apocalypse was the only word I could make out as its size filled half the page. No pictures only words, endless meaningless words. The letters were in bold, easily discernible type that would get anyone’s attention.
A-p-o-c-a-l-y-p-s-e, I spelt the word out painstakingly slow just to get the point across. The point was reached. The paper started to drop slowly from her purple hands. The thick stubby fingers tried to hold on and refuse the passing away but the paper tore away and fell to the ground where a lump of a person lay concealed in a blanket.
My eyes closed as my body tried to slip into a sleep. Any sleep would help.
Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

When I opened my eyes the old woman that had clutched the paper for what seemed a century was gone, probably taken away towards the Great Judgement seat of God. I pondered on the thought as I stared at the wall, noticing a few speckles of yellow and brown. Someone had been careless, spilling tea and coffee no doubt. It’s amazing what the mind can do if it really wants. I picked out a prominent spot, the largest darkest stain I could find and named him God.

It took me a while to find another dot that was small and insignificant enough to represent me. I found it in the corner of the room away from all the dots, away from it all. Both dots were too far away to engage in any congenial conversation so with my mind I moved the two together. The red light of the heater suddenly died down as the room was left without heat. A murmur of mutters erupted but they were too weak to do anything. Turkey man drew his collar tighter around his neck while I wrapped the blanket around my head.
“So,” God replied. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine,” I replied, “I can’t complain. I could be worse.”
“Well,” he boomed back. “Let’s drop all the formalities and pretenses we both know who each other is we can be forthright I hope.”
“Yes,” I gulped.
“So let’s start over again.”
“Mr, Slav how are you really doing?”
God wasn’t that informal, he would have had been more eloquent. Each individual sentence would have been a masterpiece.
“Terrible…Miserable…Dying…”
There was no response only the gentle crying of a baby. A few figures draped in blankets were muttering to themselves.
I continued, “I never thought life could be so harsh, so infinitesimally cruel. Children who used to run down my street testing the patience of the cobble stones are now lifeless, inanimate corpses.”
“Go on,”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Are you just playing games with us, getting us to think that we’re in control then you shake the leaves and make us realise we are powerless? Did you have a hand in this suffering?”
The silence was annoying. I had asked a question but the response never came. I waited.
“Impoliteness,” I muttered.
“No, no it was man’s doing. The suffering was brought upon by man; it is his inability to treat each other with respect and honesty that is causing his downfall. Treat each other the way you wish to be treated.”
I laughed deep down inside my belly. “The idea of treating others the way you wish to be treated is overly simplistic; such an idea has never really worked.” I shook my head and said. “God I’m an atheist.”
I thought I had him tricked and I had him cornered but he replied. “Then why are you talking to me?”
“Ok, so I am talking to you what is the big deal? You could just be an idea that has been ingrained so strongly into my head that I just make you up.”
“Ha-ha!” It was his turn to laugh.
“I’m glad you are amused but that brings me to my next question. Why suffering?”
I asked, “Why?”
“The age old question… Why suffering?”
“Yes, why…?”
“If there was no suffering everything positive wouldn’t look good in your eyes.”
“Uh-huh! And…?”
“Take for example a farmer who experienced plenty all his life, he would take it for granted, right? Then take a farmer stricken with poverty yet he treasures his life more because he knows heartache.”
I understood, but I needed to see it.
“You’ll be the farmer,” I said to God “And I’ll be You…”
“Very well...”
I put on my deep narrator voice, “It was late, and the setting sun stretched the land as far as the eye could see.”
“Look at my land!” said the farmer stretching out his hands. “All this is mine!”
“As the years passed the farmer enjoyed good fortune, doubling his annual profits never having a bad crop. The bugs never ate at his stalks.”
“I am blessed.” The farmer beamed. “I never had a poor crop, my wife is young and beautiful, and I don’t know what it’s like to be ill. I am blessed.”
“But the years passed and the farmer grew tired of his plenteous life, never having tasted suffering. God looked down.”
“Why are you displeased?”
“I have everything yet I do not know what it’s like live without. No illness has befallen me, I am thankful for that, but this perfect life is getting to me.”
“Another farmer not too far away knew what it was to suffer.”
“Enough of that,” I said. “I get what you’re saying. Suffering is needed, without it we wouldn’t be able to appreciate life.”

I thought of the radioactive waste, the fear and the terror of radiation. Who would have guessed it was nuclear fallout. Who was responsible for such an act? I imagined outside, the snow was falling, casting an outline on the grey buildings. A lamp post covered in soft white snowflakes as the sky continued to spit down the ashen white particles. Was it really snow? What were they up to in their knees? God only knew.

We had been shipped out of my village in carriages that conveyed the horror of the aftermath—bodies covered in red festering wounds. A little boy sat next to me on the wooden bench that offered no respite for the pain. The wood dug into my aching back. The boy was alone; I concluded he had lost his parents. His face was so burnt that every time I looked at him I nearly vomited. The train was old, jolting our organs all over the place. The boy dressed in a little black suit made him look the perfect man. He sat contently on the wooden bench humming some little tune that stuck inside his head. I couldn’t get it out either. Dum-Dum, de, de, hum-hum, I forget now how it went but I remember the little brown polished shoes tapping insistently on the floor. I took a glance into his eyes once; they were the only perfect thing. He smiled back the summer. When the train pulled into the station I opened my eyes surprised that I had slept through the rattling car. The boy was slumped next to the window like he was looking out into a world he still hadn’t fully explored. The arrival at the station signalled his death.
I died too.

The pain was unbearable, the stinging sensation sought to drive me into the frozen ground and double me over. I struggled to stand. Whining buses pulled into the station as screams and shouts were heard as we were herded like cattle into buses heading to the hospital. When I arrived in the white frantic halls no one knew what was happening or where to go. All I saw were eyes begging, pleading, and crying. I found a seat in a room and sat for hours, trying to hold on.
I imagined the words of a doctor, “Good news, it is treatable. With enough medication you will live.”
“Live for what?”
“Live for others,” the big spot on the wall replied.
“Live for others? How insane is that? This just proves that every man has to look out for himself. The government failed us, even our own people have proved useless, and they are only concerned about looking out for themselves.”
“No,” I shook my head. “I have lived for other’s long enough.”
I closed my eyes and tried to get some sleep.

I had been a cobbler’s son so it was only common sense to take over my father’s business. Repairing shoes and watching the hot glue melt underneath the sole was a joy for any boy, but not for me. I needed something more fascinating in life. My uncle who never wanted for anything paid for my education, which enabled me to become a, well I can’t remember really. I think it was a teacher, although my memory fails me.

The breast was out again only this time it wasn’t as full. It was sagging now as a set of gums bit down hard into the nipple. She lifted her head and met my gaze. Her eyes were like two red brake lights; her black raven hair was falling out in clumps all over the floor.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Mary,” she replied, although she never said anything her mouth was frowning now. I just imagined her, she was a typical Mary. Besides it was an apt name for her due to the child. My stomach rumbled as I licked my lips hoping for a taste.
“Hey, would you pass that nipple around? The baby has had its share now it’s my turn.”
It was rude of me to be so pertinent to ask for something that was so intimately hers, but I needed to wet my drying lips, my belly needed to be satisfied.
“Mary,” she repeated as if for the hundredth time. “And your name is Slav, I heard you talking to God.”
“Yes, yes, you would have some sort of connection with God wouldn’t you, a bit of him resides in you.”
She smiled as the milk dribbled down the babies chin. “I guess you could say that seeing I gave birth to our Saviour.”
I chuckled to myself. “So why are you here?”
“The same reason we are all here I suppose, looking to be healed, to be saved.”
Her voice was calming as I rocked back and forth with her rolling voice.
She opened her mouth and started to sing.

“Cry for me when I am weary
Shed a tear when I am old
But do not cry when I go
To my home of gold.”

A religious hymn no doubt stamped into a naïve mind. No, I shook my head there was no such thing as a heaven, it was only a myth like the Minotaur or Hercules. I was unbelieving. Yet I put the words in her mouth, I made up her speech, her tone, her soft slow voice that struck a cord in my heart. I had made her up just like I had made up the spot on the wall.

I must have been delirious because I started to see in faint outlines the shapes of brown white speckled branches with thick heavy green leaves reaching for the sky. The ivory keys of a piano that I had heard streaming from an open window started to come to me; it was music to the ears. The piano blended into the moonlight as the trees blew in the breeze, the notes danced down the empty foyer and outside to an unsuspecting audience. Me, a little fair-haired boy crouched next to the paraffin light that was waltzing with the symphony. The yellow light danced and spun. I imagined my father slowly lifting his hammer and drilling the small nails into the shoe.
Bang!
Bang!
The trees rustled as the keys climaxed under the pianists old worn hands that unlocked a secret of his past every time he lightly pressed down on white and black.

A few stray dogs, skinny and bony, sat on the cobbled road cocking their ears intently feeding on every key. A car roared by abruptly ending the melody. A few minutes more cars with their tinted windows flew towards me, this time they stopped in front of the house. A couple of men, the exact amount was difficult to tell, flew out of the cars dressed in identical brown uniforms hurrying up the granite steps. Their heavy boots began pounding, pounding, pounding. And I listened like the dogs with my head to one side allowing for the notes and tones to reach my ears.
“You are under arrest!”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“…Come with me…”
“But…please…you can’t take me…my wife and…”
“You should have thought about that before you started your subversive activity.”
“No…” I heard a short burst of footsteps that sounded like the rattle of a machine gun.
“…you…hey…stop him!”
Then I heard it like the clanging of the piano keys that are hit at once.
Twang!
Moments later two men on either side dragged him by the arms, a large red hole embedded in his skull. No more music for him.

“Mr,” I looked up, it was Mary again whispering from the other side of the room. Her eyes were filled with fear. She was talking on her own this time without any manipulation of my mind. I looked at her large uncovered hands that were squeezing her child to her chest.
“Yes?” I questioned, noticing her grief. Something was wrong with the child.
“You’ve got to help me, I think, I think…”
A few voices muttered their descent to the sudden rise in pitch. A crowd of eyes peered out of blankets and then they closed again. No one wanted to help.
I watched the little head fill up with blood like a sand timer collecting a bit of his will to live.
I wanted to whisper back to her and say, “Leave the child die, isn’t that we all want, to die?”
She shook her head as I turned her into Mary again. “No, Mr Slav no one wants to die even though we have gone through the tomb of suffering we all want life, we all want eternal, everlasting life.”
A physiological debate, I thought.
“No, I said. “I would rather be dead and buried. Stick me in a coffin any day, I have tasted life and I have had enough. There is no point going through the anguish of having to live another life, especially for all eternity. Who’s to know what that life will be like what if it is hell for all eternity? No, I’d rather die and that would be the end of me.”
I looked away from the mother who was staring into me, looking for a tidbit of information about me that would unlock my refusal to help. I turned to the wall and stared into it imagining if I was a brick layer or a stone mason I could have guessed the structure of the wall with one wrap of my frozen knuckles.
Then God spoke, “Turn not away from the mother and child!”
I lowered my head and slid down the back of the slippery plastic chair. That was not God that was my own head playing tricks again, probably some passage that I had just added with my black ink pen in, The Bible according to Mr. Slav. I shook my head. Torn between the two, myself and others, what benefit would I get out of helping her, what would it achieve? I wasn’t too sold on life, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to help someone else.

Light is a source for reading. It is needed for a child’s homework, the great minds study under it. A farmer tills the land under the sun, he plants and waters as the light encourages growth. This light was different. It came in a great blinding wave, at first it was beautiful the magnificent giant that loomed overhead with plumes of black and red like the cloud of a dust storm coming from a stampede of magnificent stallions. The clouds of billowing smoke woke me up out of my appreciation for the work of art that even Michelangelo could not conceive, although he had masterminded the Sistine Chapel; then the long train ride and the waiting.

I had been there once; the quiet interior decorated with colours I never imagined existed. If God lived inside any building it was that one. I had taken numerous pictures most of them were inside my brain stored for my pleasure and individual viewing. They had been catalogued, all alphabetically in steel cabinets. I scanned the letters printed neatly on the drawers and came to the letter W.
“W is for war,” I said, slowly opening up the heavy sliding drawer.

They were marching again the long line of soldiers with their tin metal helmets a testament to the people that they would protect the homeland.
“We will not lose this war!”
Churchill, the bulldog that was within him, had always been defiant shouting, “We will never surrender.” Now the government had taken over the defiant stance saying surrender was an act of cowardice and acceptance of defeat. In my mind I argued that surrender had been necessary throughout history to ensure the survival of a nation, but no one listened.

In the thicket and over the hilly green woods soldiers sent to protect the people were positioned waiting for the inevitable.

It was quiet as I crept on my belly towards a knotted hill, twisted by some mortar attack.
I could hear the sweet chorus of choir birds belting out a rendition of Handel’s Messiah. “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah …and he shall rein forever and ever.”
It was wonderful as the dark enclosed forest sparkled with light, the sun breaking through the green pine leaves. The heat hit the damp forest floor and the brown rotting bark mixed with a decaying stench. I plugged my nose as the smell shot down my nostrils and slid down my throat. The sound of sporadic gun firing stopped, the singing silenced and I felt alone. With my sweaty hands stuck to my rifle I clamoured to the top of the mangled hill. Bits of shrapnel no longer hot nestled in the brown rich dirt. I peered over; my helmeted head spied the ground ahead that gave rise to a steep dirt embankment. It was loose; a thin layer of carpet moss fed on the ground below. I pointed the rifle out in front of me, capable of firing my cartridge in seconds.
Bang!
I spun around thinking the shot had become from behind but no one was their except for a body dressed in green lying with his waist deep in mud. He held out his arm, reaching for something. His black fingers had been unevenly bitten off. Buzzing flies surrounded him.
Then it happened, the great deluge as my feet gave way under the sliding dirt, the great mound slipped down. I wanted to shout when I was thrown onto my back with a thud and the wind knocked out of me, but I couldn’t get any air out. I slipped like a child going down a slide for the first time, wondering if he should panic or let the rush of the moment take over. I panicked as the dirt seeped into the cuffs of my greyish-green jacket and through the high neck collar. I could feel the gritty sand swimming around my dirty stinking flesh. The dirt began to rise as I sunk up to my knees. I was thrown into the air and swept back down into a wave of suffocating dirt. I was riding the wave to my death. I started kicking and spraying my arms around me and tried to keep my eyes and mouth shut, but in my panic I had gulped large mouthfuls of dark coffee rich dirt. It was gritty, horrible earth. I hit the ground with a thud. My leg caught under my rear and then twisted painfully back with a snap! I lay still for a while trying to think what had just happened but it didn’t last.

A big pair of black boots pointed out directly in front of my eyes. From the boots I could tell immediately that he was an officer or that he shared a high rank. I started spewing out the dirt that was trapped in my mouth as I search desperately for my rifle. It was gone, lost somewhere in the mudslide. My fingers shook like an old man’s as I reached for the pistol in the holster and pointed it high in the air above the towering boots.
“Solider,” the shout reached me on the ground. “Drop your weapon!”
I strained my dirt filled eyes to make sense of the figure behind the voice but the sky was too white to make out any detail. I kept the gun raised.
“Private, what division are you with?”
I searched the list of men that I served with. Demtri Pavlov, George Hoff, Peter Constance and on the list went. I couldn’t remember the name of the division.
“We were beyond the forest?” I pointed back in the direction I had come. “We were ordered to protect the town beyond the forest.”
“So what are you doing out here?”
“Just yesterday fighting broke out and we were assigned to check out the area for trouble. I lost my company yesterday.”
“Yes, well I see it all sounds provable. Reports have been coming in that that village has been taken.”
I never took my eye off the trigger; the gun was still in the air as I heard the heavy boots scrapping against the dirt inching towards my face.
Bang!
The boot slammed against my face as I heard my jaw snap inside my head. I pulled the trigger and fired twice.
Pop!
Pop!
The sound ushered in the darkness.

I strained my eyes to see where I was but it was too dark to make anything out. Even shadows were impossible to see. I was lying on the cold stone floor breathing in the damp heavy air. No sound to paint a picture only silence.
I could see things I never wanted to see. I saw the arms and legs of people frozen in their last living moment crying out for mercy as a bullet penetrated their skull. The brain would shut down and the signals to the body would end. A little boy with foggy bulging eyes was lying with his snapped arms and broken legs. He should have been running with his hands in the air as he celebrated a goal, scored on the open green field. His mother cheered from the sidelines, draped with a purple and orange scarf, the colours of the local team while his father applauded the move. Now his mother was face down in the dirt as big black bulging bugs ran up and down his father’s once strong hairy arms looking for a way in. The face was the entrance to greater things, inside numerous bugs had already started darting up the nostrils and drilling into the eye sockets. The mouth was a breeding ground for decay.
Footsteps followed by loud angry voices, the loud clanging of metal keys flicking off the solid steel door. After the key jangled in the key hole for minutes I heard the lock clicking open. Still no light. I felt a strong hand grip me in the pit of the arm. The sharp nails pinched my flesh as another arm grabbed me. My legs were sliding behind as they dragged me down a long straight corridor. I couldn’t see, yet I tried to desperately see with my ears. As we passed a door I heard the sound of keys being roughly banged, the rhythm sounded like an archaic typewriter followed by a bell then more angry stomping feet. I listened to the soft rumble of voices feeling my legs getting burned over the rough carpeted surface.

The dim light in the room blinded me as soon as the blindfold had been taken off. The light was coming from a table lamp that was situated on the corner of the teak desk. A wooden chair with a strong supportive back sat neatly in the centre behind the table. I had been seated with my hands behind the chair, handcuffed into a submissive position. The light spilled over my white dirty body alerting me to my nakedness. Ashamed and afraid I pulled on the cuffs. I needed to hide my nakedness! I struggled as the pain chewed at my wrists. I pulled frantically. I gave up. I had to give in to my humiliation.
Suddenly it dawned on me that I had been captured and I was in the interrogation room where they would break me into submission.
But nothing would prepare me for the horror that unfolded. She came in, how she entered was of little consequence. Her blonde hair was dimly lit as she paced back and forth in front of the table.
Silence.
Only the sound of her heels clicking against the grey bare floor.
“Private Slav!” She roared, there was no need for her to raise her voice I was only in front of her.
“Yes!” I replied as my entire body shook. I had never been trained for this only Special Forces had been given the honour of physically and mentally being able to resist. Even the toughest men crack.
“Private Slav I need your full attention,”
“Yes,” I mumbled.
She didn’t reply.

Her standard grey army uniform had the top three buttons undone. Her breast line stopped short of revealing the outline of her breast. I was embarrassed to even think such thoughts, afraid I would get an erection in the dim halogen light.
“What do you want?” I questioned struggling to keep my thoughts off her.
I looked at the floor.
Floor, Floor, Floor I thought to myself. It was working.
FLOOR, FLOOR, FLOOR!
Desperation!
A picture flashed in my mind. She was on the floor as I strode on top of her naked. It felt good, the driving force of man and woman acting like wild insane animals.
I felt a shower of spit fly in my eyes and then the blue piercing eyes that screamed, “Damn it I want your full attention!”
She was no longer the object of desire as she lifted her shoe over my leg and drove her heel into my thigh. I screamed.
“We want to know where you were!” She dug her sharp long nails into my scalp and then pulled every root and strand of hair that was connecting to my head. I screamed, my teeth biting down into my lips, which started the bleeding. She brushed the ball of hair off her hand and fingers as if her act was nothing. She glanced at her white nails that were now stained with blood. The torture was yet to start.
She pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her breast pocket. I assumed it was a pack of twenty four. They were unfiltered. A silver Zippo with the emblem of an eagle braced the front and I watched her flip the lighter as a flame leapt out. She held the cigarette balanced in her mouth. She must have realised I was taking special interest to the moment as she said, “You talk and you get one of these!”
“Talk?” I said as she took an enormous drag inhaling every bit of nicotine then with a puff a cloud of smoke trailed out her mouth and nostrils hitting me in the face. I didn’t know much, perhaps I would be better off if I told her everything I knew. I thought of the town that we had held. Sporadic fighting had erupted in the outskirts near the cedar trees where a wooden bench had been carved to death with lover’s names, hearts and x’s. It was a well loved spot; a group of wild monkey boys had rehearsed every move on the old greying branches. Everything changed, the burst of gunshots fired where once school children’s voices exploded with glee. I remembered a silly little song.

“I am a fisher man fishing on a boat
but all I’ve caught is a stupid old coat.”

More gunfire.

“Villagers started fleeing, said they would be safer away from the senseless fighting, they never asked for it, it only came. The officer that was in charge argued, that’s all he ever did was argue. We were to hold the village, people or no people.”
“Why did you leave the village?” She took the cigarette out of her mouth as she held it with two fingers. I watched the ash fall slowly to the floor like a winter snowfall.
“I…I…I…”
She drew the red glowing cigarette to my leg making a threatening gesture.
“Mr Slav!”
“Ok, ok,” I started to squirm. “A few of us were ordered to scout out the forest.”
“How many…?”
“Ten from what I can recall.”
“And…?”
“We were fired on…”
“Come on I need answers…”
“And then I found myself alone.”
“Why did you stay in the forest, you knew Bratislava was safe?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I didn’t know, I wasn’t sure I didn’t want to take any chances.”
“So you stayed in the forest for over a day?”
“Yes, yes, yes! I’m telling the truth for God’s sake.”
“Don’t be so overly dramatic dear,” she said stretching out her hand to comb my hair again with her long nails. I bent my head away from her.
“So you’re afraid of me?” she cackled, taking another puff of her cigarette.
I didn’t reply, I didn’t want to encourage her.
“So you enticed the people out of the village and then you slaughtered them?”
“If you are insinuating that I was responsible for such a barbaric act you are utterly and totally insane.”
“The people were a problem you didn’t want to be, should I say, burdened with them?”
“No, no we were there to protect them from you.”
I spat a thick yellow spit. It hit her freshly polished boots.
Wrong move!
Her arm that held up the cigarette flew towards my leg as she pressed the burning cigarette into my flesh!
Jesus Christ!
I jolted up as the pain shot through my leg then up my spine. She pressed the fag butt deep into me. When she lifted it up the pain was worse, a bright reddish-black ring had already formed and my leg was swelling.
I cursed out loud, every possible curse I was screaming in her ear making it known that I hated her and her kind. I hated everything she wanted to be and anyone she had come in contact with. Hate.

Hate doesn’t come nicely wrapped down some supermarket aisle. It doesn’t come with freebies or a buy one get one free scheme when it hits you it hits you hard. I heard that a snake’s venom could make you swell up and you die within a few days. You lie on the hospital table waiting for treatment but it never comes you hope the doctor will rip you open and extract the poison but it never happens. If it was caught in time you would only lose a limb. It’s the waiting before the dying that is the worst.

Mary Harney Must Die

2007-07-29T07:30:00.000-07:00

Here's the visuals my brother made for the band he's in: Mary Harney Must Die! Enjoy.

Floods of Rain

2007-07-27T03:15:00.001-07:00

rain soaks

floods over me

dampens my heart

shivers my shoulders

draws me

to hide under covers

to dream of a hundred

years of sun.