Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Oh brother, where art thou?

I had another strange dream last night. In it I found myself living with my estranged brother and his wife. I haven’t exchanged a word with my brother in a very long time, and the dream seemed to be a personification of all the reasons for this. My dream revealed a brother who was continually telling me what to do and trying to set limitations on my activities; basically he was being the same old tight-arse that has always made him repulsive to me in waking life.

Thoughts, or in this case dreams, about my brother always stir up mixed emotions in me. I should qualify by saying that he is actually my half-brother from my dad’s previous marriage. Pondering my brother, I find myself hoping that I’ll never end up as repressed as he is and sad that I’ll never have a real sibling.

I have a half-sister, too, that engenders almost exactly the same feelings in me. She is a missionary in Borneo, converting the last known tribes to Christianity. I have exactly zero things in common with my missionary sister and secret agent brother. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention my brother is some sort of intelligence operative. I’d elaborate more on what he does, but I only hear second hand stuff from my dad, and I suppose he wouldn’t be much of an intelligence officer if outsiders knew his activities.

What would my life be like if I had grown up with a brother or sister? Maybe I’d be a more confident person. They say that only-children either end up highly successful or pitifully hopeless. Apparently the competition and social engagement that a sibling brings about enhances the lives of those lucky enough to have one. Looking around at friends that have close siblings I think that might be true. It would be nice to have someone to share a blood bond with, someone that is not a lover and yet cares about me deeply. It would be nice to have someone to feel protective over.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Armageddon down under

I woke up in a sweat from the most intense dream on Sunday morning. The fear and anxiety that it provoked was so strong that I felt weak from exertion.

Some sort of apocalyptic event had occurred. As often happens with dreams, I quickly forgot a lot of the more general details upon waking, so I’m not sure whether earthquake, explosion or some other calamity had brought about the mass destruction I observed. I found myself trapped in the ruins of a burning city with no way of escape. The city in this dream did not seem to be my home city, Melbourne, rather it was a massive, never-ending sprawl of broken and crumbling buildings that did not seem to hold any recognizable features.

As if the mass destruction, loss of power, amenities and communications were not enough to have me worried, terrible acts of violence - riots, upheavals, loot and slaughter - appeared to be occurring in every direction that I looked. At one stage a massive flood of screaming people ran past me, pursued by machete wielding brigands intent upon murdering them all.

Not long after that, I somehow found the company of two friends, Glenn & Timmy, which provided some consolation. We had but one focus: to get the hell out of the city and into the rural areas; which would hopefully find us in safer surrounds and allow us to figure out what had happened. Unfortunately our efforts to leave the city were thwarted when we discovered that individual races had segregated and formed their own militias, which were patrolling the city and shooting anyone that was not of their race on sight. I remember distinctly a bunch of oversized, Neo-Nazi skinheads glaring at us menacingly.

By this time people were no longer baring such crude weapons as machetes and bats for they had somehow acquired machine guns en-masse, and the chilling stutter of shots progressively became a regular backdrop to our horrifying environment. Bodies were piled up on the streets, rubbish was strewn about everywhere, and every alley we tried finished with a dead end of broken concrete.

We had to get out!

Abruptly, and in a bizarre twist that can only occur in the unreal landscape of dreams, Timmy decided that becoming a busker would help him out of this crisis. Glenn concurred, and they both made the decision to leave me wandering the city alone while they departed to undertake this new venture. I remember feeling very vulnerable; so vulnerable in fact that I climbed into the ventilation duct of a nearby building. The rest of the dream is a blur, however I do remember that towards the end I spotted a friend, Alicia, in a shop front window. I ran over to the window and banged on the glass for her to let me in - but she was having none of it. She refused me entry and even ‘shooed’ me away.

Not long after this I awoke from my dream, panting like a racehorse having just run the Melbourne cup, with brow beaded in sweat and shivering. I wonder what it all means? Some sort of insecurities? A latent distrust of my friends? Some sort of clairvoyant insight into the happenings of the future?


I'm back at work after three glorious weeks off. I find it hellish having to wake up at 6.30am when I've spent the past week emerging from my bed at 11.00am. My circadian rythms, never likely to beat out a nice even drum solo at the best of times, are hammering an erratic tune at present.


Why does man have to work?

Why, why, WHY???

Why did Eve have to take a bite of that damn apple?

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Step up to that box containing soap

If we set maximum road limits why then do we allow the production, purchase and utilization of cars that far surpass these restrictions? I think that all civilian vehicles should be constructed with a built in speed limiter that prevents owners from surpassing the maximum prescribed speed (in Victoria’s case - 100 kms per-hour).

Why do you need a car that goes past this speed?

The pros and cons of taking such a step, as I see it, are as follows:


- A significantly reduced road-toll

- A reduced demand for petrol/gas

- At an individual level, less money being pointlessly injected into the police coffers (through speeding fines)

- The life span of motorists cars will be improved


- A significant devotion of political capital would be required

- A significant amount of money would need to be spent revolutionizing our car manufacturing industry

- The way in which we trade with other countries would have to be rethought. This would require some very sensitive negotiations

- Stupid men would protest viciously.

And on the subject of cars, why is it necessary to build the V8, gas guzzling monsters that I still see on the roads every day? They are noisy, they pollute, and they provide the clearest of incentives to drive recklessly.

Why do we need them?

Now I’m sure that fans of the big broom brooms will label me a ‘tree hugger’ for suggesting that these petroleum whores on wheels are devastating for the environment - so be it. I have no doubt that the cry ‘it’s my right to drive whatever I want’ will come out in full effect. To that I say - it is not a persons right to tip pollutants directly into the sea, and it certainly isn’t an individuals right to defecate in a public space. Why are those rights stripped from the citizenry? Because our oceans and our public spaces are communal areas that are shared by one and all. A newsflash: the air that we breath is also a communal resource shared by all humanity - so when you pump your foot on the pedal of your outrageously anti-economical, smoke blower, you are blowing smoke into a sky that will look down on, not just the rest of us, but future generations as well.

Do we need these cars?

The only thing I can think of to make a case for keeping them is that those aforementioned stupid men would suddenly find themselves searching for an alternative to what is an obvious vehicular fa├žade for their phallic inadequacies.

Every which way but loose

It is confirmed, we are nothing but monkeys after all.

The link came courtesy of Americablog.

My cyborg name

Journeying Artificial Sabotage and Observation Neohuman

Eating the universe

I have an ego like a massive ape, reaching out for the stars, the planets, parallel universes; massive hairy arms reaching out in an attempt to envelop everything. But in reality, I’m a child stranded on a lost island, and those stars are grains of sand that I’m forming in the poor shape of a castle - a distress signal, in the hope of a search plane finding my lonely sign.

Ever flush the toilet only to find that it is blocked? Take a misfortunate look back at the contents - you’ll find me lying there.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Friday Fuckhead

I left the club, burnt out and ready for sleep. I left the club and all I wanted was the blissful, docile embrace of darkness. Before that darkness I wanted some money, just a little bit, in order to buy myself a bottle of water. I wasn’t able to purchase that much needed sustenance because a cursory inspection of my pockets revealed an essential loss - my wallet was not there.

I drove the 45 minutes back to the club in the hope of searching the spot in which I had sat. I had hoped that my wallet might have fallen down a crack between the couches. I had hoped that a good-Samaritan had handed it in to the lady at the cash counter. With this hope in mind I took that long road back to the club in the belief that the bouncer would let me back in, just long enough to look for it.

I should have realized that the arsehole security wouldn’t let me in. Too much speed, combined with a small brain and lack of empathy makes for an unpleasant soul.

For not letting me back in to search for my wallet, you the doorman at Revolver, you are my Friday fuckhead.


Thursday, August 25, 2005


It suddenly occurred to me this afternoon that on that fateful day all I had to do was utter three simple words and everything would have been made perfect. Instead, a couple of heartbeats saw me destroy something with the ease of two moist fingertips pressed together on the lit wick of a candle. Something beautiful was snuffed out that day that can never be rekindled.

The clock is ticking, fool

10 things that I must do before I die

1) Stand atop the misty peak of Machu Picchu

2) Find a girl that rocks my socks - and one to which I do the same

3) Write a book

4) Let my parents know that I love them

5) Find inner peace

6) 'Walk like an Egyptian' amidst the pyramids (walking like an Egyptian is very important)

7) Become fluent in a language other than English

8) Unlock the mystery of the universe

9) Visit Russia - lecture Lenin's corpse on the failings of his doctrine

10) Complete a degree (which discipline is still to be decided)

Love letters #3,4,5,6,7,8 from Kath, circa 2000

These are letters (not all of them are love letters - some are breakup and post breakup) from Kath, received in the year 2000. As I copy these letters from paper the urge becomes stronger and stronger to play the role of editor - I feel like I need to explain the embarrasing content or change the words so they don't seem so cheesy - and to amend any spelling or grammatical errors, however it is important that I don't do this because when I read back on them in 20 years I want to remember the people exactly as they came across in their letters.

Dear ----,
Sorry I didn't say goodbye, but you looked so peaceful that I didn't want to wake you. Thanks for last night, the last night I will ever have you touch me the way I allowed you to completely. I will miss that. I understand how you feel and given enough time I guess I will feel the same. I want you as a friend, to lose that would hurt me deeply.


I hope you have a good day in bed. I finish work at 4pm, you can give me a call and we can catch up if you want.
Miss you already.
Sweet dreams,

Dear ----,
Sorry I was late. Things came up unexpectedly. I got here at 2:30pm but you were obviously out having fun. Call me when you get in,
Ps - I need to talk to you.

Dearest --- _---
I hope you had a great day. Sorry for acting funny earlier, I'm not sure what's getting to me. I don't meat to take it out on you, you don't deserve it at all, and for that I'm sorry. So here, I'll give you back your flower to say sorry to you. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Until then stay cool and keep smiling.
Lots of luv and heaps of hugs,

Hey, oh sexy one,
Your little sex goddess has done all that you asked of her and is always willing to do much, much more. Although I am unable to await your home coming, I am thinking about you constantly. Until we meet again I can only but dream of running my long slender fingers through your thick black hair, grabbing a firm hold of your well formed ass, all the while having our lips meet totally by chance and out tongues feeling nothing but pleasure.
Yours faithfully, lying (naked) in a bath full of rose petals.
Mysterious Mistress

Dear ---_---
I am writing to you to once again say sorry. Partly for the outcome, although I truly belive it was for the sbest for both of us, but mostly sorry about hurting you and losing someone whom I genuinely did and still do care about. I felt so upset after what I did that I wasn't sure what to do with myself. After work I found myself driving to your house. I'm not sure why, but I did. I just sat there and cried because I wanted to see you and hug you but I couldn't. I just want you to understand that for me it was a loss too. You made me happier when you rang me on Sunday night and told me you wanted to be friends. I do realize how hard that will be for you and that I probably don't deserve it. I will be even happier if it works. I have been thinking about you a lot. I always want to come home and ring you to ask you about your day or tell you about mine, like we used to. But I don't, I realize things have to change. I don't know how its going to happen. I don't know what you need from me or how you want this friendship to work. All I do know is that I want it to work. A part of me thinks I will make a far better friend than I ever did a girlfriend to you.
Lots of luv
Heaps of hugs

Dear ----,
Hi, how are you? How's work been treating you? You may ask why I'm writing to you, well its because you once told me you liked to redcieve a letter in the mail. So here it is. I have just written a long letter to Amy in London, and Leanne's sister in Brisbane, and I thought now that I'm on a roll who else could I write to. Then something directed me to you. Although it's kind of more of a challenge to write to you and think of interesting things to say because we see each other so much, but I will try and make it a decent lenght. Well Maverick (my fish) is officially DEAD. After I finish this letter I am going to take him out of the tank, I just can't bring myself to do it, but no one else is here to do it for me, so it's me. I'm thinking of adopting my other fish (goose) out or buying him another play mate. What do you think? I actually think I've decided, in fact I'm pretty sure I have decided that having fish confined to such a small space to roam is just wrong. It's like having birds in cages but not as bad. I feel mean when I look at them. I need advise on the topic, do you have any encouraging words for me and goose? So have you got your book from the University yet? If so have you had a chance to check anything out: are you still keen to do it at the end of the year after next? Or have you come up with something else you would like to do? I do hope you find something else you would like to do. I do hope you find something that you really enjoy. So have you found out, or should I say has your mum found out about those plays that are on some Sundays? Don't forget to tell me, I really do want to go. And you have to tell me when you have your next Wednesday off so we can to to Revolver on a Tuesday night, if you still want to go... I am still keen to see puppets. I know I asked you at the start of my letter, but it was kind of just something people always write, but I want you to know that I am genuinely interested in how you are. Like I mean your health (your back and how the exercises are going: Are you doing them as much as you should?) your emotional state (are you happy, sad or no different since I saw you last?). Please let me know. If you need me to talk to, I am still here for you; when you need me. Well I should be going now. Sorry this letter wasn't very long, but it was quite difficult, as I said before, to think of what to write. I must go and flush my fish down the toilet now. What a job! I will talk to you soon. Until then be good to your mother.
Lots of love

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Something 'bout those little pills

Ugh! I consumed a virtual pharmacy worth of illicit substances over the weekend. I ran around in the cold with nothing but a t-shirt on and, as a result, I’m sick as hell. This isn’t the way that I had planned to spend my three weeks off. Damn! What happened to my period of sobriety?

I had a very strange dream last night, in it I had taken a trip to a run down mansion out in the forest. Nearly everyone that I have ever known - school friends; family; work mates; acquaintances - were all there. As the dream progressed some very disturbing things began to happen: some sort of creature was coming up from under the house and killing random people. Also, some of my friends had turned psychopathic, and they too were killing each other. What made things worse was that if you tried to leave the house sinister death awaited in the darkness of the woods.

I guess when you take drugs on the weekend, and then you watch Amityville Horror before bedtime, you are likely to have strange dreams.

Monday, August 22, 2005

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

This is (and probably will continue to be) my favourite poem. From the very first time that I read it I fell in love with it. The problem for me is that as I get older it hits painfully close to home.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T.S Eliot

S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
a persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
questa fiamma staria senza pi scosse.
Ma per ci che giammai di questo fondo
non torn vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question.
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate,
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas...

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet-and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?
Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Friday, August 19, 2005


When doing a google search on my blog site name I came across this link. Someone, somewhere, rates my blog as being worth $1,000.00. It is also stated on this site that my blog is available for trade. What the hell? How in the name of all the gods that I don't believe in does that come about?

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Love letter #2, from Bridget, circa 2003

This letter is a small one from a former lover, turned nemesis, Bridget. A whole other post is required to explain the disaster that was the Bridget incident.

Thankyou for dinner last night, thankyou for allowing me to stay the night & special thanks for a good weekend. Hope your day wasn't too tiresome, sweet dreams tonight & Ill speak to you soond.
Love B xx

Wednesday, August 17, 2005


I just received two religious publications, 'Awake!' and 'The Watchtower', courtesy of some Jehova's witnesses at my front door.

On the front cover of 'Awake!' is the title 'Shoplifting, the price we all pay'. Oh god, I've just turned the pages and it's as I feared: there is a good five pages devoted to the evil blight of shoplifting, replete with an explanation of how scripture can help us avoid the devilish temptation of the old 'five finger discount'.

Fear not though, for Jehovah tells us that "Shoplifting, like all other crimes, will soon be a thing of the past. When God's Kingdom takes full control of the earth as promised in the Bible, humans will treat one another with integrity and honesty. This means relief from the high price of shoplifting. - Proverbs 2:21,22; Micah 4:4.

But doesn't it also say in Jehovah doctrine that only so many people will get the chance to walk through the pearly gates? It is very nice of God to bring integrity and honesty to the world, but if only 2000 people are going to experience it it really isn't the greatest feat, wouldn't you say?

I've really got to finish that piece I've been writing about what I think 'God' really is.

And I've also got to finish my damn film festival review.

Love letter #1, from Melissa, circa 1997

Note to self: I’ve typed this letter out verbatim, so any spelling, grammatical or other errors are as found in the letter. This letter was received from Melissa, before she went back to Canada, circa 1997. It has a little pin of the Canadian flag still attached, and it still smells of the patchouli oil that she scented the accompanying gift with (which was a white silk scarf that she often wore).

As a little aside; we did not grow wings and fly together: I never saw Melissa again.

Dear J - - - -,

There is no possible way that words can express I’m feeling. Over this past week so much has happened. We’ve gotten so close to each other mentally and physically. We’ve explored the depths of each other in a way that’s so unique and special. You have given me wings and helped me fly, and whether you believe it or not we will fly together and explore things and have experiences that you can’t even imagine. We will be an inspiration to each other over these next few months, and when we meet again we will embark on a journey that will change and complete us forever. I promise you that (no pressure)

Until then, my heart whispers to yours and I’ll be continuously loving you.



Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Blubbering like a Million dollar baby

I watched Million Dollar Baby today and, call me a wimp, call me soft, but I blubbered like a baby. I thought that it was a splendid film, surprising, in light of the fact that it came out of the Hollywood school of cinematic fairy floss. The handling of the characters was realistic, the dialogue was believable, and it didn't back down from some very important issues - issues from which most American commercial directors give a wide birth.

The most impressive feature of the film was Hilary Swank and the treatment of her female character. There was no molly-coddling, no tokenism and no sense of the sensational. When she was throwing punches I was ducking and weaving with her. It was one of the few female characters that I've watched in recent times that has really inspired me: no shirking, no pretending, no glitter. I just hope that Hollywood sees fit to portray female leads of this caliber (ergo, not token supports) in the future. To cap that off, Swank's acting was fantastic - she didn't turn her character into an unbelievable feminist super-hero - she simply portrayed a woman wanting, or rather expecting, a shot at something she knew she had a talent for.

So that is two Clint Eastwood directed films that I've found most enjoyable; and two stellar acting performances courtesy of Hilary Swank: two thumbs up for both of them.

Well, I would actually need four thumbs for that, but it's a metaphor...…

Friday, August 12, 2005

Friday Fuckhead

John Howard

John Howard, Australia's prime minister, is today's Friday Fuckhead. This nasty piece of political fungi has engaged in the following evil activities:

- Sycophantically spreading his cheeks for George Bush Jnr

- Sending troops to Iraq in order to continue our all-USA head-job

- Locking up poor asylum seekers in concentration style detention

- Beginning an industrial relations campaign set to destroy the rights of workers

- Planning to ban the right of homosexual couples to marry

- Refusing to say sorry to our beleaguered indigenous peoples for two hundred years of slavery

- Attempting to de-unionize Australia's universities

- And last, but not least, for taking on the appearance of a human toad

For these crimes and many more that I haven't bothered to add, John Howard, I salute you as today's Friday Fuckhead.

Thursday, August 11, 2005


I've decided that in order to continue the process of recording my life in forensic detail I'm going to commit to type all the old love letters that I've received over the years (yes, I've kept some of them!), from highschool onwards. I like the idea of recording them because the paper that they are written on is getting increasingly frail and I fear they will not see out many more years.

I'm also going to identify what I like to refer to as a 'Friday Fuckhead'. This will entail me singling out one pathetic example of human detritus every Friday. *Coughs, and mutters George Dubblya* Some will be well known, some will be topical, and others will be those containing a healthy quota of 'fuckheadedness' that I encounter in my day to day dealings.

In other news, my three weeks of holiday leave is going fantastically. I'm reading the paper from front to back every day; listening to music; reading up on the Gulag; and generally relaxing. I've decided not to answer the phone for a couple of days to give myself a break from the evils and temptations that are constantly on offer. My toe is still sore and I seem to have woken up with a pulled hamstring. How one pulls a hamstring in the middle of the night god only knows. But even with these minor irritants subtracted from my general level of happiness I'm still feeling chipper.

Last thought for the evening: I must learn how to place links in my blog text, so that when I type 'my toe is still sore' it comes up with a link to the earlier entry that I wrote about my wounded soldier. I also want to be able to link up to cool sites and interesting news articles.

I'm sure some instructions came with this blog.


Wednesday, August 10, 2005

The world is an amazing place

New Delhi's high court is currently offering a 200 rupee bounty to any residents that can catch a cow. It seems that the city has a massive problem with cattle roaming the streets. Picture, if you will, these massive beasts wandering city streets, reveling in their bovine freedom. The problem is so large, in fact, that an estimated 35,000 head of cattle are milling about, with at least four people having been trampled or gored to death so far this year.

I can only suggest that this is the beginnings of a bovine revolution, sparked off by years of slaughter at the hands of the evil dictatorship known as McDonald's.

Monday, August 08, 2005

The hammer and sickle

Why is it, I was wondering the other day, that the Soviet/communist symbols of the Stalinist repressive period are given some sort of cultish reverence, whilst any such symbols of Nazi propaganda are taboo? The records clearly show that of the two regimes the Soviet one can lay claim to the dubious distinction of having claimed the most lives (and by a significant margin), and yet when we look back in history we generally think of the holocaust as the darkest hour of mankind.

There are clubs in Melbourne, Republicka is one example, that are adorned with pictures of Stalin and Lenin and other such trappings of Soviet days gone by. I see people wearing t-shirts sporting the hammer and sickle and, apparently, all sorts of Stalinist era knickknacks can be purchased in states of the former Soviet Union. If a club suddenly opened tomorrow naming itself 'The third Reich' I'm fairly certain there would be outrage; additionally, we have seen the disgust and revulsion evoked when Prince Harry recently dressed in SS gear and went to a party. There seems to be a double standard here.

So why?

I don't think that it is due to a lack of awareness on the part of the general population. Most people have at least a vague inkling that some very funky shit went down in that land where people wear funny hats and drink lots of vodka.

My theory is that it comes down to WW2, a defeated Germany, and a victorious Russia. Once the tide of the war with Germany turned and the allies flooded into the country, freeing the occupants of the concentration camps as they went, all the messed up things that went on there were exposed, sometimes in excruciating detail, for the world to see. Germany would be forced to confront the horror that it had perpertrated upon so many, and as such, it is forced to forever bear the stain of those evil deeds.

In Germany there were trials, there were executions, war criminals were named and denounced. Even now SS officers and camp officials are being hunted down and brought to justice.

To this day not one member of the Soviet apparatus has heard the firm knock of justice at their door. Not a single question has been answered nor confession made.

No such unveiling of Russian evils occurred: nobody invaded her and forced the facts of her evil deeds into the light of day. For years the soviet propaganda machine was able to shield its citizens from the darker realities of what it was doing to its own people. Because there was no erosion of its power, as was the case with Germany through its loss of the war, an unfettered look at its camps through the objective view of an outsiders gaze was impossible. Whenever an international body descended upon Russian camps with the intention of sighting possible breaches of human rights, all signs of such breaches were erased: healthy looking prisoners were installed in the camps, levels of sanitation were improved and bodies were hidden.

Now I'm not saying that what happened during the holocaust was not the manifestation of the purest, blackest evil. I'm not trying to belittle what transpired when Hitler attempted to make the world his bitch at the expense of millions of lives. All I'm saying is that next time you're watching Schindler's List and weeping for the six million lives snuffed out at the caprice of that mad little man, spare a thought for the Russians that were dying in camps at the very same time. Yes, when you mourn for those six million, mourn also for the 30 million(+) that died without reckoning in Solzhenitsyn's metaphorical islands of the Gulag.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

Note to self...

...Do not post whilst heavily inebriated. I just read my last entry and it looks dark! It wasn't meant to come across that way; it was meant to be a musing on the closeness of oblivion. You see much of my time is spent contemplating the afterlife (or lack of it), and often I find myself thinking that one could quite easily access it, if one so chose.

Nope, as long as I can flip on an Interpol album, and as long as the chant "Rosemary, heaven restores you in life" still brings a chill to my spine, the world will still be blessed/cursed with my presence. If a girls smile still causes my heart to audition for a supporting role in Lord of the dance, then my feet are firmly planted in this world. And if this morning I watched a documentary, and if in that documentary a Nepalese man patted his donkey tenderly as it died - resulting in the free flow of tears from this bloggers brown eyes - then I know that this world still holds me.

Play the violin

All it would take is a hose, a funnel, some masking tape, my car, the car-keys, and the will to turn them in the ignition. Then I could fly. Then I would be free.

Monday, August 01, 2005

The vacuum that is my soul

I've got a great big gaping hole right through the center of me, and I can never drink enough, nor take enough drugs to ever fill it.

If you find yourself smoking ice and drinking vodka with friends at 11am on a Sunday morning you deserve the hellish feeling that ensues whilst sitting at work at 11am on Monday morning.

It is pure physics: "for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."

Actually, it is pure chemistry - but then I wouldn't be able to fit a nice quote in.

At least I still have a sense of humor.

American Psycho

"There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable... I simply am not there. "