free-to-air, open networked radio waves.
now they need recording
3.5mm headphone jack - input device. tape/hard drive.
RCA to wire connections perhaps
¶ 5:05 pm 0 Comments
the fan turns into overdrive, blowing a fresh gust of icy air into the cabin. the meter ticks over. five dollars, forty-five cents. waiting in the cool comfort; outside the road becomes a river. some blame the pollutants of the industrial age, others say it is going to be a hot one. the necessity people feel to explore and express the blatantly obvious.
a noise like a small yapping dog. persistant, directed. wind down the window. a voice, shouting.
'come up the fucking driveway!'
absent minded disbelief.
'i'm sorry?'
'drive up here! what's wrong with you?'
it must be the heat. tethers are shortened in the heat. a new world order of illogical thought takes grip in the human mind when the heat is on.
'i won't drive up there. it's private property.'
'you bloody will drive up here. my mother is not going to walk down that incline in this heat.'
it is hot. it is a steep driveway; another reason not to drive up. the not-so-young-but-not-so-old mother has walked this incline many times previous.
'what's the problem? just drive the car up here, and save my mother the walk!'
it is hot. it is a steep driveway. there are people waiting. people shall walk into cars. people who are waiting in the heat. and it is hot.
'we haven't got all day you know!'
slowly back this up the driveway. just creep on it. it is a narrow driveway. it is steep. these damned automatics. they don't have the holding power of the manual. just a little on the accelerator.
over the crest and the car slips, the reverse gear re-engages.
the tyre slips over the lip of the driveway. steering, for an instant, is lost.
slightly oversteered. foot placed on the breaks.
the car rests on the mailbox.
'what in hell's name are you doing?'
into drive; off the mailbox. another piece of council housing trashed.
'are you going to pay for that mailbox? why did you come up so quickly for?'
crawl down the driveway.
'hey, where are you going? my mother needs to go to the plaza! i need your licence details! where are you going?'
another job blares into the radio. turn the volume down.
'i don't need your fare. off to another job.'
window rolls up. fan blasts again. meter resets to zero.
angry, red-faced woman, scrunches-up her fand to resemble her face.
that dog is barking again.
And then there were the people who made it work
Those people out there. The technicians - the doctors - physicians - voodoo lords - and of course the big kahuna itself. But most of all it was me. DH. Who struggled on against the odds.
So on this day, Wednesday 21st of December 2005, i mark the occasion of the 100th entry into the ether. A year has passed since this portal into my inner most sanctum has been opened and in the 371 days that have passed since Thursday 16th December 2004 over 100 hundred thoughts have been recorded for all time - for anyone to see (decrypt). It is a fair average.
100/371
Will i be able to better it in the year to come? Who knows. I guess the aforementioned peoples will have their say. And the bookies will have their odds. Money will be gambled, won and lost, but in the end the score settles with me.
Signed_____DH
I will pay a small gratuity to those people who visit this internet address regularly - thanks for keeping me cool - to all my fans!
¶ 3:39 pm 1 Comments
Protuding eyes
setting in the sun.
Body bloated.
Tense, tight, twisted
into a final
deathly shape.
Mouth gaping,
spine poised to spike
protusive.
Fly buzz
Drifting on a glass ripple.
Persisting scales
protecting the flesh.
Stomache floated.
Tense, tight, twisted
in my gullet.
Fins stilled,
Snout fiery, air non
conducive.
Fly buzz.
Drifting on a glass ripple. ¶ 1:35 pm 0 Comments
that's when everything collapses in my lap.
that's when the words begin to rhyme
when the songs start to play in time
when the stars begin to sing
that's when everything collapses.
that's when the sky begins to fall
when i've heard it all before ¶ 3:48 pm 0 Comments
...
Don't forget to turn off your computer.
Get some rest. You look like you need it.
Tomorrow will be a big day. ¶ 3:46 pm 0 Comments
The general consensus was that the situation could have a certain spillover affect. It was clear that at no point should we agree on going to war, or even enter into combative strategies. There was nothing here, in this land, or power, that either the creatures of the underworld or the overworld desired. Merely the grounds for battle were likely to spill into the middleworld of the people. And yet this solid ground, held nothing of the powers or the abilities that the other ethereal, elemental, lands contained. The elements of the wind and fire had ravished the land, springing from the air, while water and earth rose from the depths. The pilgrims were never invited to partake in this war of power, and they were never considering to do anything but watch from their precarious outpost. A formal lifestyle of the most basic knowledge in the physics, primordial magiks, and philosophy, gained the pilgrims no advantage in battle and posed no threat to those who seeked eternal such advantage. This age however spelt the permanent destruction of the pilgrims, and so they sought counsel
In a most unfortunate series of events in the lead up to the last great rite of the overworld a free spirit was banished to the land of the pilgrims. Wings clipped, and sent to an unpowerful land, a battle spirit with a chosen path of peace had been struck with an immortal life amongst the pilgrims. this being, your dear narrator, and editor, was sought by the pilgrims to assist in their counsel. The plight was sincere, not to war, for battle was feutile, but merely a survival of the species. A survival of intelligence; a struggle that i knew would be long and eventually unfruitful.
'It shall not be this way...' the pilgrims insisted. Although the more i explained the weaker their conviction. The possibility of the total destruction, the coming of a non-existent period, for the world that the pilgrims used as a platform for their lives was indeed nothing short of a certainty. The world that separated the high and the low was a bride that was indeed expendable. the separation kept the great powers apart and therefore sublimated. knowledge, in its completion, becomes the absolute power and this is what the high and the low sought. the aims of this coming war were clear. to destroy the gap between the high and the low and to become the defining force of the unity. to rule the completeness that set contrast to the void. to own and live in the whole that was set apart from the nothing that surrounded existence. The pilgrims were worried. They had every right to be worried. Not only did their livelihoods come under the threat of extinction, but the entire history of the world - of the universe they contrived to live within was facing a complete reversal. An undoing, an unmaking.
In the hopelessness of the situation no one counsel member would come to terms with these facts that were stated before them. Their great academics taught them otherwise. While their mathematicians told counsellors that these things i described were possible, in the reality of the world, the presence of spirits can be whittled into another equation. Their philosophies would not deny the existence of others, but focused on their very own existence. In a certain coherence their lives could be taken, this they were in agreeance, but history itself could not, and would not be unwound. I knew otherwise.
At this point the city came under attack. Ancient machinary of the pilgrimage thundered overhead in the sky, and great wheeled monstrosities sped across the land. This antiquated battle had long dissapeared from the pilgrims now peaceful life; without enemies amongst them, the time for crusades had passed. This unseen machinary passed throughout the pilgrims cities and destroyed nothing but automated machinery that walked and talked. Panic would of course strike the pilgrims and screams ring out across the land. Yet nothing was heard. The machinery made not a sound, cities fell silent; people had seemingly fallen asleep and remembered to turn off their computers. This sublimation of silence befell the surrounds drawing forever nearer to the counsel. All eyes turned to me. This i knew, was a time when i should act.
Outside the chambers, in the streets, silence and emptiness. Movement; a fragile young girl came skipping up the promenade toward the great counsels hall. Fine blonde hair whispered in the breeze, layed gently on her white shirt and eventually falling to skirt, a matching pastel blue combination with her eyes. In an instant her feet were upon me and a single hand reached out and took mine. An end, my final end, to an immortal. A girl had given flesh form to a spirit; the senses overwhelmed the being and gave it its end. A kaleidescope, a kaleidescope of blonde girls smiling and overwhelming filled my mind. This should have been the end. ¶ 9:52 am 0 Comments
The four piece are touring their new album 'El Momento Descuidado'. The tour is wholly acoustic and it is fantastic to here the great songs - Unguarded Moment, Under The Milky Way, Numbers (just to name a few) - in a classic acoustic setup with cello and violin.
The highlight of the night was of course going backstage, meeting up with the band haing small chats with them, hangers-on, and all the techies. I asked Steve if he ever thought of using an acoustic bass to polish off the acoustic line-up. He was amused by my angle, and then said, "Yes, it sounds shit." Then turned away and continued a much better conversation with someone he probably knew a lot better than me.
The reason behind all this, and the explanation for the photo is Neg. Neg is in the bed. Neg is the daughter Peter in The Church. At the moment Timmy and Neg are an item so i get friends' benefits. Timmy is going to love finding out about this post. So everyone...it is all hush hush.
Visit The Church Official Website!
¶ 6:05 pm 0 Comments
n.
1. A fictional prose narrative of considerable length, typically having a plot that is unfolded by the actions, speech, and thoughts of the characters.
2. The literary genre represented by novels.
[Ultimately from Italian novella, from Old Italian, piece of news, chit-chat, tale, from Vulgar Latin *novella, from neuter pl. of Latin novellus, diminutive of novus, new.]
no·vel·la (nō-vĕl')
n., pl. -vel·las or -vel·le (-vĕl'ē, -vĕl'ā).
1. A short prose tale often characterized by moral teaching or satire.
2. A short novel.
[Italian. See novel1.]
nov·el·ette (nŏv'-lĕt')
n.
A short novel.
Other classifications of fiction based upon word count are:
* Epic: A work of 200,000 words or more.
* Novel: A work of 40,000 words or more.
* Novella: A work of at least 17,500 words but under 40,000 words.
* Novelette: A work of at least 7,500 words but under 17,500 words.
* Short story: A work of at least 1,000 words but under 7,500 words.
* Flash fiction: A work of less than 1,000 words.
+ definitions sourced from Google (r) definition search.
and the city was young. so young you could feel an unnerving exubrance about it. a shining newness that polished the streets and lacquered the pavement in some sort of expectancy. as though at any moment something was going to burst from the underground and give the city something by which to gauge time, and then the city would be able to age. to grow character and resemble something other than a place, where one slept, but rather a beast that was alive and somewhere where someone lived.
It was a time for potential. Where people gathered for the first time, not knowing what they were; without credible employment, without money, in a time of a perpetual war against an enemy that did not exist and would never be defeated. A time in which there was a reason to act a vacuum in which to create a belief.
IT was not the sixties. Not even the seventies. Too much of not enough. The world had grown much more sinister and acustomed to the alternative. The alternative was marketed, commercialised and sold back to the people with a 2oo% mark-up as a mainstream idea that everyone could be a part of. They had always wanted everyone to be a partt of it. And now they realised the only way to make them a part of it was to make them by it.
Not so much the ability of the two people to fall into each others company but rather the atmosphere that pervaded the streets, the households and the minds of evryone in the city. Red wine in coffee mugs, whisky drunk from egg cups, and any drug that could be smoked, sniffed, or inhaled was within a long grasp. The band was in one corner, attempting in vain to snare off hangers-on and attempt to take more drugs and deliver more words to friends who could respond in a drug induced intelligence. An insight that only occurred when sufficient amount of intoxicants had eventually slowed the electrobiological workings of the brain to a fraction of their regular speed that one could mentally unthread thew fabric of time in the space between their thumb and forefinger. Others were already unwrapping the inside of their minds, lying in a coma on the floor or front steps. While the toilets held evidence of the few who had even gone so far as to unwrap the fabric of their stomachs and small intestines over the lime green tiles in flouresent light.
One day an emage capturing device will be hardwired to your brain and the visions of intoxication and acid Vietnam will be reproduced on beautiful 15" by 20" lambda prints for $9.95 at your local chemist. While your there, you may even want to pick up another fabolous batch of the drugs that were responsible for the photos. Needn't ask for reprints. Just restock.
This was the time. He did not want to be entertained any more. Another last mouthful of red and the coffee mug would be place on the floor. Before it would be refilled or a joint could be passed along he must act. She talked - nay - she entertained. The effect was intoxicating. Yet also inspiring. Steve wished, willed, absolutely desired to reply, to entertain her. Despite the fact that he could not bring his mind into coherent thought, his mouth and larynx seemed to just say 'fuck it' and returned to sleep.
"I just think that something should be done you know..." Amy trailed into yet another well developed plan of social card shuffling.
Then Steve reacted. His mouth. His lips. His toungue. Awoke with a sense of fervour inspired by purpose. To entertain. To perform. The anticipation had been built, the foundation laid, it just took the last two hours for his brain to realise the oppurtunity and only a moment for his body to seize it. His mouth was interlocked with hers. Amy's tongue seemingly had a repotoire that extended beyond verbal communication.
Labels: shortstory
¶ 11:16 pm 0 Comments
Just as he had reached the second corner Bill found that he could no londer stomach the lobster that he had selfishly filled himself with. The people, the dress, the air of formality with a hint of self-righteousness had created a sense of bitterness within him. A bitterness that could not be choked by caramelised prophiteroles and light beer. They didn't even have a cake. Seriously, Bill thought to himself, for people of a religious orthodoxy, they were really trying hard to be something different. At first that alone had made him feel ill, but it would not last long. No one notices how stupid they are when they are surrounded by similar people, and everything that looks different is slighted and poked at. The scene Bill entered this windswept Autumn afternoon had been envisioned by Grimm's daughter; a happier and brighter England - Australian Autumns are a happier England. It was not jolly, it was not christmas, but it could have been a primary school paegant. It had all the characters; a wolf, a dozen princesses, a couple of pirates, a ghoul, and of course a monk. That was the irony. A monk at a Jewish wedding. Yet the funny side to it was that the boy did not realise the meaning behind his being there. While the proceedings proceeded, the band reared up in yet another Beatles' cover, Bill sipped on his glass of peach schnapps and wondered what the fuck he was doing here. Wearing a purple lounge suit with white pinstripes so faint they were unnoticable. A brown-red tie and a worn peach shirt, matched with a new pair of white sneakers outlined in yellow. His mother still bought his shoes and express posted them the thousands of kilometres over the country. His shoes would travel further than he would ever usually walk in them, he would usually wear thongs that he picked off his flatmate who worked in a rubber firm.
Noticeably, Bill walked to the bar and asked for another whiskey, and again the pimply barboy poured him another peach schnapps. The wedding continued without the slightest interest in any particulars. Why should you care about what you are drinking when you are dressed as a pumpkin that cannot sit properly on the chairs provided, forcing you to stand most of the night, in the most awkward shoes that look like vines from hell; where at the end of the night you pass out in the rain on the lawn that was, ten minutes previous, used as an altar. Bill, ostensibly shot down the peach schnapps, stood and turned to leave. Then it happened. As his feet felt the ground the unmistakable pang, the unwavering wash, of a man's need to pee was struck on him like a bolt from the heavens. Composing himself for a moment, Bill walked not to the exit, but to the amenities block. That is where Bill found his bitterness. This is where shit happens.
Amy had met Bill at a house party celebrating her boyfriends birthday, which so happened to occur six weeks previous, but that fact was ignored considering that the surrent date coincided with Amy's moving in with said boyfriend and hence a house-warming party was apparently necessary, and by default, tha birhday excuse was also piled into the one and the same day for the sake of ease, and to bring more people to the event which was the party. On this day Amy did not pay much attention to Bill. Amy was a sociable animal. She had plenty of friends who were just as sociable, loud and as fun as she was. Bill wasn't loud, at least not in her way; he wasn't very sociable, and no one had ever called him fun. Bill thought more than he spoke and was a very good listener, that is largely why Steve had befriended him. One night after Steve had been horribly trashed by a girl he had only intended to sleep with one night and then had accidentally fallen in love with after she continually turned up to his place. She hadn't been given his phone number, so she couldn;'t call and the only way to see or speak to Steve then was to sit and wait ouside his door. Which she did for three weeks - in which time Steve denied her existence while completely falling for her. By the end of the three weeks she grew tired - she never turned up again. Steve was heartbroken, and was emotionally forced to speak to Bill, he flatmate for close to a year now, to whom he had never managed anything past a "good morning", "good night", and "could you please turn that down, i am trying to sleep!". Steve to his surprise found it very easy to talk to Bill about all his inner turmoil that he never really admitted to himself, let alone anyone else. Steve believed that a new shirt or cd, and a joint could solve any emotional problem. But somehow it only seemed to displace that feeling of emptiness in Steve onto the government, who were a bunch of pricks, and his employer, who was also a prick.
Yet here was Bill, sitting on the couch, actually listening to what he said. Things that really aggravated him and made him dream uncomfortably some nights. Steve spoke to him about the girl on the steps, and how she reminded him of his mother, and the security he felt knowing that she would be there on the steps when he returned. And now that she will probably never want to see him again, and that there is every possibility that she hated him. What surprised Steve the most though was how much help Bill could be. Not only did he listen to him, which was a great help in itself, but he also said very caring and thoughtful things. Not things like; "who needs that bitch anyway", or "she was never good enough for you", but real things that were actually meaningful and should never be published in a book in case someone without thought reads them and tries to pass them off as their own.
Eventually Bill and Steve found other places to live, that were either closer to where they wanted to be, better condition, cheaper, or all of the above. (NB: the all of the above option is merely a representational fourth option - never in reality will anyone ever find a place to live that meets all three of the former qualities.) Nevertheless Steve and Bill kept in touch. Or rather Steve kept in touch with Bill. And so it came to fruition that Steve invited Bill to his birthday slash housewarming party. This is how Amy met Bill.
Bill had previosuly met Amy in every romamce novel, every love story and every dream that Bill had ever had. The fact that he had never made a physical connection was completely arbitrary.
Labels: shortstory
¶ 5:02 pm 0 Comments
To add injury to insult the flies would never stopped being served. So not only were there many intoxicated and banal amphibians floating around, but there were many intoxicated, banal sickly full amphibians floating around, ready at any moment to burst at their wastes and deposit a reverse toilet upon the Lady's latest persian import rug, which she bought for one twenty-nine at the rug and rash shop while five minutes down the road the same rug was being sold for eighteen pounds.
Needless to say the snail was never excited by the receival of yet another invite to one of the most ridiculous social occasions of the week. What was more pitiful? The depression that followed from reading an invite he could not possibly refuse for the eighth week running - there was a common law among the snails to pass the responsibility of party attendance around every eight weeks, because no one ever wanted to go but if ever they wanted respect from the toads and frogs, which of course they did, they would have to attempt to attend - or the feeling of absolute deprecation once he actually was at the event in question.
but there was no question about it. The Snail must attend. Why it was his duty to attend. No matter what the cost, there is a reputation to maintain. By Jove, those amphibians think they have it so sweet eating them flies, but i tell you we will have our day. murmur to himself. Shout now louder. Speak so that the world may hear you. They needn't know but they must. Snails are better than toads. Oh those lowly creatures, for what purpose oh?!?
And so it was to be that Franky would be at they same time as Catherine. It was not that this was a coincidence by no means. The seating was very delicately arranged. You-see; Yvonne could not sit next to Noel, but Noel had to be next to Nancy, but Earl wanted to be in speaking distance of Yvonne, yet Nancy, Yvonne's siamese sister, could not be seated in spitting distance of Earl otherwise she would spit on him. So on this one premise alone the entire seating arrangements were drawn and Franky sat next to Catherine, which is funny because on the fallout from the original seating premise Franky and Catherine were the only two people in the whole room whom seemingly didn't care who they sat next to.
It so happened that they sat next to each other. Had it been noticed, which it hadn't. The seating problem could have been solve simply by turning the siamese twin, Yvonne and Nancy, around so that Nancy would not be in sight of Earl and hence would not have spat on him. Nevertheless the people considering the tables, namely Lady Toad's serfs, who were namely serfs, had not the brain to work this arrangement out. But instead developed delicate integars that represented the guests, their relative difficult to seat and how much wine they would drink. Both Catherine and Frank were represented by a nine. Which so happened to represent, one, the number rank out of ten that they cared to be where they were seated, and eight which was exactly the number of glasses of wine that each of them had to drink before ending up in the same bed. ¶ 5:01 pm 1 Comments
Flicking through the bloodied pages of the lost secret diary jonny feels weak at the knees. He searches out the nearest coach and collapses. Lifting his head to the ceiling there it is. two feet dangling from a a suspended body above him. From-underneath a body doesn't look like a person. It looks like a piece of flesh hung up on meathooks - left out on the rack. In a queue. Cold. Unthinking. Industrial/Commercial?. The reaction was slow, but the realization came - about immediately. This was her secret...this was at the heart of it all. He just didn't know what it meant.
The air is electric. The tops of the trees shiver in anticipation catalyzed by the sporadic wind. Somewhere a dog barks. It's probably far from here but it's all going on. Shocking, toe-tapping, lazy-standing boys seem to be all the rage. Understand what is being said in the magazine articles - they use enough words that can be rearranged to say something far more profound given the right circumstances. White fluffy lines in the sky. Had enough? Take some tea and always prepare it with enough reverently enacted ritual to give it a psychosomatic weight. Go on, it purifies you. Credit card bills create a coherent narrative as well as any diary entry; government security agencies know this and flag interest to show dissident consumption, whereas our social-minded, grass-roots founded creations are always bend from a conception of norm, syntactical systems (IBM, Cray, Sun, etc) compare all to a central core set. ¶ 4:58 pm 0 Comments
what did he want with a pistol. he had never used one before. and now it seemed he needed one. everywhere he went he felt under threat, under some auspicious scrutiny that was never warranted until now. Now the geppos had the land, they were in charge now. and the geppos could not be trusted. they had no belief, no system. it wasn't random - no...because to be random would be too human. The geppos were like machines, they were indiscriminate.
all that people were ever good at were picking out and making patterns...solving problems with patterns. re-occurrences. that's what happened in life. things repeated. things repeated all the time. all the time the same thing was happening all over again...and again. it wasn't that people weren't learning. oh they were learning, they were merely forgetting it as fast as they were learning it. and then there were the great unlearners. the unhistorians. harping back to a golden age where it was so much easier to beat your slave when they hinted at a better life. but not now...now you had to go to the effort of telling your slave that they did have the good life...i guess it is more humane that way. but the geppos stopped all that. they took that veil of ignorance away from our eyes, and showed us exactly what we had done to the world. and we should have cried, but we didn't....we were too worried about our money and the geppos taking it away from us to be crying over something we never really believed existed. Something we could never imagined to be able to have. it was a pipe-dream to us...a mere chimera...but our chimera was the reality of the world. the way things were before humanity had time enough to destroy it all.
it is hard for one to understand. there we where. by happenstance we had accompanied each other to the strawberry hills. the small fact that we lived together was nothing. i knew the girl he was sleeping with and wanted to be with. i honestly did not think much of her. i mean i didn't like people and she hadn't given me the time to know her. so i hadn't bothered, i don't bother with people. she held the potential to be great. so when Jim had decided to shag her i thought not much of it. except that people will not understand each other and that the huµam race is fucked. i mean when two people meet and begin intercourse for pleasure with previous experience not counting toward a knowledge of their character then by what means has anyone to understand anyone else. or anything at that rate. i believe i fall in and out of love too quickly.
what is it about him.
___
Why would time ever let you think? It only lets you forget - a convenience in social interaction. Those poor sob stories who remember those actions of passer-bys, those lives that are worth nothing and mean even less, upset those poor sobs with memories. If they could just forget about them it wouldn't be a problem. Because time doesn't need to catch up with anyone; time is ahead of us all, and most are too tired to bother running toward it. So they run the other way. What they find on the other track is that time never cared so much about them, that it never mattered what you thought you were doing to avoid it. It sat above you like a great big cow with the ability to fly, just waiting to lay a pat on your had, and say thanks so much for waiting around, i needed to get that off my bowels. Labels: art
A flourish here, and exageration there. We cut back words as though they were weeds growing from our precious garden. Slash and slash, so that the roses would shine all the more alone and proud. Never mind the thorns that cut into the craftsman, the gardener wears gloves, but the amateur persists in ungloved nakedness. Stumbling, and fumbling through the thicket of shrub and darkness of the undergrowth.