Tess loved mirrors, anything with a reflection could capture her attention for hours. She liked her reflection in the water the most, perhaps it was the way the water made her reflection look alive, Tess didn't know what it was, but there was something there in her reflection that captivated her. Her parents put it down to vanity, but Tess knew better. It was not that she liked the way she looked, there was just something in her reflection that looked so familiar, more familiar than an image should. When she was a child she would spend countless hours talking to the mirror, playing childish games. At school the children would pick on her, even the teachers thought she was odd.
Tess grew up with no friends, not a one. She didn't mind, she had her reflection to keep her company and they did most things together. Tess grew up, she got a job as a window cleaner, all day it was just her, the wind, and her reflection. Her parents died in a car crash when she was twenty four, it devastated her. She had no one. Then one day there was a knock on her door, she opened it to reveal her reflection. Her exact double stood in front of her. Tess was a twin, she never knew she was adopted, her parents had never told her. Her sister Jess, who was also adopted out had tracked her down.
That's why Tess craved her reflection so much. Even though she couldn't remember her sister, her subconscious missed her. Tess was never alone again, she had Jess.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Friday, December 09, 2005
Dancing Shadows
When Donny was asked what he remembered of his parents he would always say they loved to dance. Every night after they'd put him to bed he would sneak out and watch them. He couldn't actually see them, they were blocked by a partition, but he could see their shadows dancing on the wall. There was never any music playing, well he never heard any, but in his head Donny always had them dancing to a song, whatever song fit their rhythm at the time. If they had looked over the partition they would have seen a six-year-old boy crawled up on the floor watching the light cast shadows on the wall. Donny loved watching the shadows dance, he couldn't tell who was who but they were always so passionate in their movements.
On the night before his seventh birthday he snuck out to watch the shadows dance as he did every night. The shadows danced beautifully that night, in the background Donny could make out a shadow of what must be his birthday present but his eyes were always drawn back to his parents, so beautiful that he fell asleep watching them. He didn't see one of the shadows fall down. When Donny awoke there were policemen everywhere and he knew his parents had discovered him sneaking out. He was bustled quickly from his home and he thought they didn't love him anymore. The police tried to talk to him, but he never heard a word, how could he, Donny was born deaf.
He saw his parents dance every night, he never heard his mothers screams, he couldn't know what was happening, how could the police tell him that his father had never danced a day in his life? There was a birthday present on the table near where his mother's body was found. The police never told him that his father had murdered his mother. They never told him that the argument that night was about Donny's birthday present. How could they possibly tell him that what he saw every night was his father beating his mother? They decided that it was better for him to remember how his parents loved to dance, and how he would watch the dancing shadows.
On the night before his seventh birthday he snuck out to watch the shadows dance as he did every night. The shadows danced beautifully that night, in the background Donny could make out a shadow of what must be his birthday present but his eyes were always drawn back to his parents, so beautiful that he fell asleep watching them. He didn't see one of the shadows fall down. When Donny awoke there were policemen everywhere and he knew his parents had discovered him sneaking out. He was bustled quickly from his home and he thought they didn't love him anymore. The police tried to talk to him, but he never heard a word, how could he, Donny was born deaf.
He saw his parents dance every night, he never heard his mothers screams, he couldn't know what was happening, how could the police tell him that his father had never danced a day in his life? There was a birthday present on the table near where his mother's body was found. The police never told him that his father had murdered his mother. They never told him that the argument that night was about Donny's birthday present. How could they possibly tell him that what he saw every night was his father beating his mother? They decided that it was better for him to remember how his parents loved to dance, and how he would watch the dancing shadows.
The Bell tolls once more
*dong*
I hear the bell toll, does it sound for me this time, Will I soon take the dreaded walk down that infernal corridor? Who knows?
She calls for me, all she ever does is call for me, I have become a slave. And still all that I do is never enough. Christmas draws nearer and every day I feel the noose tighten around my scrawny little neck. I'm caught up in a world I can't control and it scares me to death. Redemption for sins left forgotten seems impossible, how can you ask forgiveness for something you can't remember. Happiness; all I ever asked for, all I ever wanted, but never got. Perhaps I did, maybe that lies forgotten as well. Why must I know so much, why must I know that I have already failed, It stops me from trying. I miss Bucky. Why do I here voices? I don't want to be here...
*dong*
I hear the bell toll, does it sound for me this time, Will I soon take the dreaded walk down that infernal corridor? Who knows?
She calls for me, all she ever does is call for me, I have become a slave. And still all that I do is never enough. Christmas draws nearer and every day I feel the noose tighten around my scrawny little neck. I'm caught up in a world I can't control and it scares me to death. Redemption for sins left forgotten seems impossible, how can you ask forgiveness for something you can't remember. Happiness; all I ever asked for, all I ever wanted, but never got. Perhaps I did, maybe that lies forgotten as well. Why must I know so much, why must I know that I have already failed, It stops me from trying. I miss Bucky. Why do I here voices? I don't want to be here...
*dong*
Axe's Challenge
None of these are my best works, so I apologize if they are not that good or accurate.
This one I have not yet finished. I felt to do it any justice it would need to be longer, so here you will find the first half, I will have completed the yarn when I get back from my holidays, sadly I wont get back until next year, so if you wish to read a story complete, skip this one and read only the other two. However, if you like to be left in suspense waiting for an end, read on.
Take me to the time of the Saxons, invading Briton. Feature a female (Pictish) sex slave of a Saxon warlord, powerful in size and authority, ending up enslaving HIM, ultimately.
Elty screamed as Gareth dragged her from his tent by her hair. "You will learn your place," he said as he flung her to the ground. Gareth's men laughed at her, but Gareth took it as an insult to himself. He was the leader of a great army, how could he command them if he couldn't get a peasant slave girl to obey him. Gareth was a big built warrior, but it didn't lower his looks any. He was ruggardly handsome and women in every village he past would swoon over him. Whether it be his buldging bicepts, his wild untamed long blonde hair or his gilt-worked sword that shone like the sun in his hand. Sooner or later every woman wanted him. He accepted this, in fact, he had come to expect it, anything less was unacceptable. He spat on the ground and withdrew into his tent.
Elty lay disgraced in the mud, her skimply clad outfit muddied and torn barely covered her perfectly shaped slender figure. She was a pale creature, and would have probably been past over by most eyes were it not for her hair. Her long, bright red, fire-like hair. Elty was not Gareth's only slave, but she was the only one who refused him, if he hadn't wanted her so badly he would have thrown her to his men.
They were a burly lot, loyal to the last, but that was their one redeeming quality. There was no atrocity they wouldn't commit. They were fierce warriors solely because there was no low to which they wouldn't sink. The second in command was a vile brute by the name of Groll, his strength was second only to Gareth's, but he was more brute than brain. Known for his cannibalistic ways, in battle he would rip out the eyes of his enemy and eat them while his enemies heart still beat. He believed that by eating their eyes, he captured their souls. He also had quite the skull collection. They all had skulls, the camp was full of them, the warriors displayed them like trophies. Many of them had not been properly cleaned, but with their cleaning technique,that wasn't at all surprising. They would cut off the heads of their victims, mount them on a stick place the stick in the ground downwind of the campsite and let the vultures and crows pick the remains clean.
This one I have not yet finished. I felt to do it any justice it would need to be longer, so here you will find the first half, I will have completed the yarn when I get back from my holidays, sadly I wont get back until next year, so if you wish to read a story complete, skip this one and read only the other two. However, if you like to be left in suspense waiting for an end, read on.
Take me to the time of the Saxons, invading Briton. Feature a female (Pictish) sex slave of a Saxon warlord, powerful in size and authority, ending up enslaving HIM, ultimately.
Elty screamed as Gareth dragged her from his tent by her hair. "You will learn your place," he said as he flung her to the ground. Gareth's men laughed at her, but Gareth took it as an insult to himself. He was the leader of a great army, how could he command them if he couldn't get a peasant slave girl to obey him. Gareth was a big built warrior, but it didn't lower his looks any. He was ruggardly handsome and women in every village he past would swoon over him. Whether it be his buldging bicepts, his wild untamed long blonde hair or his gilt-worked sword that shone like the sun in his hand. Sooner or later every woman wanted him. He accepted this, in fact, he had come to expect it, anything less was unacceptable. He spat on the ground and withdrew into his tent.
Elty lay disgraced in the mud, her skimply clad outfit muddied and torn barely covered her perfectly shaped slender figure. She was a pale creature, and would have probably been past over by most eyes were it not for her hair. Her long, bright red, fire-like hair. Elty was not Gareth's only slave, but she was the only one who refused him, if he hadn't wanted her so badly he would have thrown her to his men.
They were a burly lot, loyal to the last, but that was their one redeeming quality. There was no atrocity they wouldn't commit. They were fierce warriors solely because there was no low to which they wouldn't sink. The second in command was a vile brute by the name of Groll, his strength was second only to Gareth's, but he was more brute than brain. Known for his cannibalistic ways, in battle he would rip out the eyes of his enemy and eat them while his enemies heart still beat. He believed that by eating their eyes, he captured their souls. He also had quite the skull collection. They all had skulls, the camp was full of them, the warriors displayed them like trophies. Many of them had not been properly cleaned, but with their cleaning technique,that wasn't at all surprising. They would cut off the heads of their victims, mount them on a stick place the stick in the ground downwind of the campsite and let the vultures and crows pick the remains clean.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Fay Hart's Challenge
None of these are my best works, so I apologize if they are not that good or accurate.
Okay. Your Great Aunt Petunia died. She has left you the bulk of her estate. She had immigrated to America
in the 1930's. To, let's say, Savannah, Georgia. You are her only surviving heir. You have to go in person to claim your inheritance. No hiring a proxy to go for you.
My name is Inops, my mother named my after our living conditions, then she rolled over and died. A fitting entry into our world. I've spent my life on the streets with not a penny to my name so you can imagine my surprise when a government official tracked me down and informed me I had inherited an estate in America. You can't begin to imagine what that meant for me, a roof, a bed, someplace I can call home. Then the official broke it to me, "You have to collect it in person."
Now how could I ever afford that, so I stood there by the docks potting a way to sneak on board a ship. The Bottom Dweller was moored in the harbor, not at all pretty, it was a cargo ship, but it was going to America, close enough to Georgia that I'd be there in no time if I could manage to stow away. I waited until it was dark, one drunkard on duty. I could probably walk straight past him without him noticing, but I couldn't risk it. I jumped into the water, it was like ice, but the filthy state of it disgusted me most of all and I'd grown up in the gutters. I pulled my saturated weight over the side, I had to hide, I opened the crates to discover that sadly, the only thing this ship was transporting was manure. I had no choice, I climbed in amongst the manure and made myself comfortable for the journey.
For two weeks we sailed across the seas, luckily I had enough food with me for the trip. It wasn't until the crate was opened that I realized I had reached my destination. When they lifted that lid, boy were they surprised, they were speechless and I can't blame them. I must have looked a sight, not to mention the stench. I spared no time, I went straight to Georgia to claim my inheritance, I tried hitching, but in my condition lifts were more than scarce so I walked the entire distance. I walked up to the claims office two days later and I walked out of there a rich man. Filthy Rich.
Okay. Your Great Aunt Petunia died. She has left you the bulk of her estate. She had immigrated to America
in the 1930's. To, let's say, Savannah, Georgia. You are her only surviving heir. You have to go in person to claim your inheritance. No hiring a proxy to go for you.
My name is Inops, my mother named my after our living conditions, then she rolled over and died. A fitting entry into our world. I've spent my life on the streets with not a penny to my name so you can imagine my surprise when a government official tracked me down and informed me I had inherited an estate in America. You can't begin to imagine what that meant for me, a roof, a bed, someplace I can call home. Then the official broke it to me, "You have to collect it in person."
Now how could I ever afford that, so I stood there by the docks potting a way to sneak on board a ship. The Bottom Dweller was moored in the harbor, not at all pretty, it was a cargo ship, but it was going to America, close enough to Georgia that I'd be there in no time if I could manage to stow away. I waited until it was dark, one drunkard on duty. I could probably walk straight past him without him noticing, but I couldn't risk it. I jumped into the water, it was like ice, but the filthy state of it disgusted me most of all and I'd grown up in the gutters. I pulled my saturated weight over the side, I had to hide, I opened the crates to discover that sadly, the only thing this ship was transporting was manure. I had no choice, I climbed in amongst the manure and made myself comfortable for the journey.
For two weeks we sailed across the seas, luckily I had enough food with me for the trip. It wasn't until the crate was opened that I realized I had reached my destination. When they lifted that lid, boy were they surprised, they were speechless and I can't blame them. I must have looked a sight, not to mention the stench. I spared no time, I went straight to Georgia to claim my inheritance, I tried hitching, but in my condition lifts were more than scarce so I walked the entire distance. I walked up to the claims office two days later and I walked out of there a rich man. Filthy Rich.
Eliza's Challenge
None of these are my best works, so I apologize if they are not that good or accurate.
Challenge:HMS Victory after Nelson's death From an ordinary seamans P.O.V
Lord Nelson was shot just after one, I was busy fighting at the time, we were in a battle you see. I wasn't worried, the admiral had been injured so many times and always pulled through. No landlubber from the Redoubtable was going to get the better of such a fine man. So it was with great sadness and even greater shock that they told us of his death at four thirty. There was not a sailor among us that did not have a look of dismay across his brow. My eyes welled up at the news. We lost fifty seven men, but no death was mourned greater than Lord Nelson's.
Vice Admiral Collingwood took control after Lord Nelson fell. Lord Nelson's orders were cast aside, we raised anchor and pulled back. I was duty cook that night, the food was cold, the maggots were awful but no one could taste them anyway. Collingwood informed us that we would return Lord Nelson's body to England. There was no singing that night, no talking, the ship sat almost silent on the sea, only the waves crashing against the hull broke the silence. The rum at breakfast couldn't lift the sorrow that had befallen my shipmates, but it didn't matter the work was waiting and I was needed. The voyage home was the worst voyage I had ever undertaken. Nothing went wrong, how could it? Had anything occurred it would have had only a minor effect after loosing the admiral. He was a great leader and attacked the enemy hard. With Lord Nelson gone, who would stop old boney now? He was England's only hope. I was at the funeral, everyone was, it was so extravagant you'd think we'd lost a king, but to many of us we had lost more than that, we had lost a god. It was January 6th, 1806, I've never seen St. Paul's so crowded and I doubt I ever will again. I cried that day, I never cried at me own wife's funeral, but I cried for Lord Nelson. I continued to sail with the Victory, but it was never the same ship again, how could it ever be anything great without Lord Nelson at the helm.
Challenge:HMS Victory after Nelson's death From an ordinary seamans P.O.V
Lord Nelson was shot just after one, I was busy fighting at the time, we were in a battle you see. I wasn't worried, the admiral had been injured so many times and always pulled through. No landlubber from the Redoubtable was going to get the better of such a fine man. So it was with great sadness and even greater shock that they told us of his death at four thirty. There was not a sailor among us that did not have a look of dismay across his brow. My eyes welled up at the news. We lost fifty seven men, but no death was mourned greater than Lord Nelson's.
Vice Admiral Collingwood took control after Lord Nelson fell. Lord Nelson's orders were cast aside, we raised anchor and pulled back. I was duty cook that night, the food was cold, the maggots were awful but no one could taste them anyway. Collingwood informed us that we would return Lord Nelson's body to England. There was no singing that night, no talking, the ship sat almost silent on the sea, only the waves crashing against the hull broke the silence. The rum at breakfast couldn't lift the sorrow that had befallen my shipmates, but it didn't matter the work was waiting and I was needed. The voyage home was the worst voyage I had ever undertaken. Nothing went wrong, how could it? Had anything occurred it would have had only a minor effect after loosing the admiral. He was a great leader and attacked the enemy hard. With Lord Nelson gone, who would stop old boney now? He was England's only hope. I was at the funeral, everyone was, it was so extravagant you'd think we'd lost a king, but to many of us we had lost more than that, we had lost a god. It was January 6th, 1806, I've never seen St. Paul's so crowded and I doubt I ever will again. I cried that day, I never cried at me own wife's funeral, but I cried for Lord Nelson. I continued to sail with the Victory, but it was never the same ship again, how could it ever be anything great without Lord Nelson at the helm.
My Canvas
The world is moving again. For the longest time I've been watching the world and things stopped moving along time ago, but as I watched the ground today, I saw it moving before me. I don't mean regular movement; that has never been of any concern to me. I mean magical movement, the kind of movement people take drugs just to witness. I used to see that movement all the time, then one day it just stopped. It's back with me today. I look up and the sky is melting. I look down and my feet have become part of the river of rocks that is running under my legs. The buildings are swaying to the music, a tree is attacking a car and I have to get out of the rocks because a 767 Quantas jet is floating downstream. Cars are flying around like mosquitoes and buses are humping trains. The people remain normal, well as normal as humanly possible. Now I know not everyone can see these things, but just because I can doesn't mean there's anything wrong with me. It does explain why I'm so scared of everything. I keep seeing a giant cockroach chasing me around with a thong. Strange I know, but you take some drugs and you'll see it too, and I guarantee you, you'll run. Some of my best artworks were based on the absurd world I see before me. I don't knock it. I find it amazing that I can see this world without any drug use. I just wonder why is went away. And why it returned today.
Swiped from livejournal
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, even if we don't speak often (or at all), please post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want, either good or bad, real or made up. I promise not to come after you with a SPOON either way. Actually, i may do so, because it's blunt, it'll hurt more.
When you're finished, you could post this little paragraph on yourLive Journal Weblog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people remember about you.
When you're finished, you could post this little paragraph on your
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
The power of words
It's amazing how two people who normally wouldn't speak to each other can be brought together by a simple word. The word was CTHULHU, Rob mentioned it, I spotted the reference and instantly we had each others attention. We were both H P Lovecraft fans, it's not a big deal in itself, well not to me, but Rob seemed ecstatic at the discovery. We talked for quite a while after that, it turns out we both have some of the same books, not all the same books, but one interest is enough to spark a conversation.
occasions like this make me wonder, what interests may I share with people I don't talk to much? Will these closed doors ever open up and a friendship blossom forth? How many things do I not know about my associates? I'm not one to remember who likes what unless I can see some advantage to that information, I am more known for my accumulation of knowledge of facts. I can find purpose in that, if only to inflate my ego. Should I be paying attention to the people instead? Will they fill that void knowledge can't? But what will we talk about if not knowledge of something?
People are fascinating but infinitely confusing, still, it's amazing what you can achieve with the power of words.
occasions like this make me wonder, what interests may I share with people I don't talk to much? Will these closed doors ever open up and a friendship blossom forth? How many things do I not know about my associates? I'm not one to remember who likes what unless I can see some advantage to that information, I am more known for my accumulation of knowledge of facts. I can find purpose in that, if only to inflate my ego. Should I be paying attention to the people instead? Will they fill that void knowledge can't? But what will we talk about if not knowledge of something?
People are fascinating but infinitely confusing, still, it's amazing what you can achieve with the power of words.
Fight the Plague
Parasites, antibodies, bacteria, germs; how I hate them. These infectious little monsters are everywhere the eye can see and many other places we do not dare to look. I cannot see them, but I know they are there, invading every orifice known to man, for those that do not know me; I spend almost every waking moment sick as hell. I can’t stand to be touched, especially by strangers, yet they come up and take my hand each day, how I long to yank it back, but I resist the urge, for they may get the wrong impression, how can I possibly tell them that I am repulsed by their very existence, who knows what vile germs are being transferred from their hands to mine, do I dare contemplate where their hands have been, I see them sneeze, and cough, and splutter all over themselves, then absentmindedly stroll up to me and hand me their cash, oblivious to all the diseases I will contract because of them. I've seen food sellers trying to combat the dreaded germ, the workers forced to wear gloves, but whilst wearing the gloves, their hands still wander to the nether regions containing bacteria, then back to the food. (How tasty) I had the miss privilege to work for a fast food franchise, wherein one of the bosses demanded that I serve the meat raw, because they were too cheap to fix their appliances and too stubborn to admit there was a problem, consequently, I left that job. Scientists work endlessly in labs, creating new viruses and plagues so that they may discover cures for them, I find it very similar to setting fire to someone, before knowing whether the fire can be contained, or even put out, sheer stupidity. I have managed to avoid the major diseases, opting for the everlasting, incurable bronchial phenomena, I will probably die from the common cold knowing my luck, and I was always hoping for consumption, oh well. I would like, just for once, that all the carriers (the bastards that don't actually catch the disease, they just carry it and give it to the poor unsuspecting bystander) to feel the pain I've faced all my life, lets see how they like it, lets follow Gilbert and Sullivan's example, let the punishment fit the crime and return all the diseases in the world to the carrier.
Pork Chop
Children, I never used to understand the beauty of children, not until I held my niece in my hand the first time. Children have always loved me, I think we're on the same mental level and they can just tell. I love the whole unconditional love thing, it will be a shame when she out grows that.
Now Pork Chop, that's what I call her, her parents are not to fond of the name, but if they had given her a better name, she wouldn't need a nickname, and she answers to it. Pork Chop loves me and she looks just like me, which is great. Her parents look nothing like her, they hate it when I am complimented for their beautiful daughter. Being three months early she is still a little short, but she is a cute kid. She was ugly when she was born and I felt the need to share this with her mother, I was told that mothers can't tell, I couldn't let her be biased, it was up to me to tell her, lets face it, no one else would. Pork Chop cries when I leave, I can't blame her, without me all she has is... Her parents. Her birthday is on boxing day, I hate buying two presents, but I couldn't just give her one. I buy her books; classics and fairy tales, but this year she is getting my old guitar as well. Her mother requested it, it's bigger than she is, but I hope it survives for her to be old enough to play it. I love her and I hope that she will keep loving me. I'll probably never have any of my own children so she does mean the world to me.
Now Pork Chop, that's what I call her, her parents are not to fond of the name, but if they had given her a better name, she wouldn't need a nickname, and she answers to it. Pork Chop loves me and she looks just like me, which is great. Her parents look nothing like her, they hate it when I am complimented for their beautiful daughter. Being three months early she is still a little short, but she is a cute kid. She was ugly when she was born and I felt the need to share this with her mother, I was told that mothers can't tell, I couldn't let her be biased, it was up to me to tell her, lets face it, no one else would. Pork Chop cries when I leave, I can't blame her, without me all she has is... Her parents. Her birthday is on boxing day, I hate buying two presents, but I couldn't just give her one. I buy her books; classics and fairy tales, but this year she is getting my old guitar as well. Her mother requested it, it's bigger than she is, but I hope it survives for her to be old enough to play it. I love her and I hope that she will keep loving me. I'll probably never have any of my own children so she does mean the world to me.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Behind the Name
KELLY
Gender: Masculine & Feminine
Usage: Irish, English
Pronounced: KEL-ee [key]
Extra Info: Popularity, Related Names, Comments
Options: Contribute Information, Add to List
It could be related to the first name CEALLACH or the surname derived from it Ó Ceallaigh. Alternatively, it might be related to a Pictish word meaning "wood" or "holly". As a surname, this name has belonged to actor and dancer Gene Kelly and actress Grace Kelly.
behind the name
Gender: Masculine & Feminine
Usage: Irish, English
Pronounced: KEL-ee [key]
Extra Info: Popularity, Related Names, Comments
Options: Contribute Information, Add to List
It could be related to the first name CEALLACH or the surname derived from it Ó Ceallaigh. Alternatively, it might be related to a Pictish word meaning "wood" or "holly". As a surname, this name has belonged to actor and dancer Gene Kelly and actress Grace Kelly.
behind the name
The Waters Angel
Floating motionless on the surface of the water, just like life she will only ever touch the surface. She hears things in the water, she hears everything, but as is the beauty of sound, only the vibrations reach her. The screams of her neighbors reach her as a gentle hum, a beautiful song which she alone can hear. She is weightless, she is not keeping herself afloat, the water has complete control she is a puppet in its hands. Her eyes are open, they are underwater, but they are open. The wonders she sees I cannot begin to describe. She feels everything, the slightest motion in the water stimulates the very core of her senses and yet she does not move a muscle. She can taste the water on her lips, the chlorine smell so strong that she smells nothing else. The wind ripples the water as it blows, she feels it all and still does not move. Her skin so pale and white you'd think she was an angel. Her breath. Her breath is absent, as absent as her blood flow.
Perhaps she is an angel now, an angel floating in heaven.
Perhaps she is an angel now, an angel floating in heaven.
The remake
The remake, how I hate the remake, very rarely does it actually improve the song, thank god the original singers are dead, yet even now, I'm sure they are rolling in their graves. Why is it these poncy little upstarts think the only way they'll achieve success is to completely slaughter someone else's songs. There is only one thing worse than the remake and that's the remix, what's the fascination with dissecting a song, ripping it apart and adding some shit computer sounds. What upsets me the most, I believe is that kids today are so mentally backward that they actually enjoy it, and not only do they enjoy it, they have the gall to call it music. You can't dance to it and NO, jumping up and down making a complete ass of yourself is not dancing, it's having a fit. I wasn't forced into ballroom dancing for five years so I could stand on a dance floor and be groped by some de-sexed lowlife whose only intent is a five-minute root and to forget my name in the morning, that's if it has bothered to find out my name in the first place, but I'm getting off the topic. I haven't always hated the remake, musicians used to try and make a bit of an effort, but now they don't even bother. Take for example, The Fugees "killing me softly" I don't think I've ever heard a song killed so painfully, with the exception of Flacco's take on Roy Orbison's "Sandman" but that pain was intentional. I would add the words "no offence" but I am offended and you should be too. Is the music world that daft that they don't think we'll recognize a remake when we hear one? If you're not deaf, you'll wish you were, and if you listen to this shit long enough, I'm sure you'll go deaf. Whatever happened to the days when songs were copyrighted and copying them came with a hefty fine? I'm not saying that older music is better, some of the performers from the eighties should be strung up and shot. I'm sure you've all heard your parents say, "it's not music, it's just noise" and I'm saying they're right, the toilets been flushed and the real music has gone down the drain.
I'm sure all of you have at least one song that you liked and has been remade into crap. Tell us the songs.
I'm sure all of you have at least one song that you liked and has been remade into crap. Tell us the songs.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Essence of Wet Dog
Wet dog. I know what the smell is in my room; it is essence of wet dog. I don't know where it came from, it just showed up one day and now I cant seem to get rid of it. I may have even grown accustomed. I barely notice it now, but late at night when the world has gone to bed and all I can hear are the crickets singing to each other, I get to thinking about that smell. I open the window, stare up at the stars and let the wind blow in my hair while I dream of the possibilities acquainted with that smell. I used to own a dog, several actually. They all died, I have had many a friend die over the years, but I don't miss them quite as much as I do my dogs. Is that bad? The last dog I had was a pup when I got her, the runt of the litter, she ran over to me and cocked her head to the side, such a beautiful little thing. We grew up together her and I, heck, I even named her. Now and then I go out to my backyard. There is no dog waiting to chew my heels, no one to forgive me all the mistakes I make, no one to love me unconditionally forever. Babies love you unconditionally, but they grow up, whereas a dogs love and loyalty is forever, even when you don't deserve it. She never once crossed me, but it was I who trained her, we never could master fetch though, her mouth was too small to pick up anything. I wasn't there when she died. She was alone. My best friend in the world died alone. She forgave me everything, and I wonder if she forgave me that as well. I hate myself for not being there, I know you're saying its just a dog, get over it, and don't take me for one of those people that treats pets like humans cause Im not. I want to get another dog, but I know it wont be the same, I'm well and truly an adult and I have little time to spare these days, but I miss those days floating around in the pool, me on one float, the dog on the other. Have the dog eat the food fresh off the Barbie then jump in the pool because the food was too bloody hot. Sitting down on a hot Sunday afternoon talking having the dog listen contently, talking to myself just isn't the same. I don't go out the back much anymore, its just too empty. When I think of these things I also think of all the horrible things I did growing up, I did not deserve her for a pet. She never got the love and loyalty she gave to me. Oh to be young again. Perhaps that is why I dont mind the smell, it brings back memories of my youth, memories I thought I had lost. I remember my other two dogs as well, they died young, one got hit by a car, I never saw it, but I'm told it was not a pretty sight, my other dog, which I'd also named died on Christmas day. I was with her. I held her paw and I said good-bye. Somehow I managed to forgive my father for poisoning her.
Now as I lay in the darkness, not a sound of civilisation can be heard, just the crickets and the wind gently blowing that breeze around my room. I close my eyes and I can see them, all three of my pups, back in their prime running and playing on my bedroom floor and looking at me with complete devotion. Perhaps thats where the smell comes from; a dream made up of a memory of innocence and youth.
Now as I lay in the darkness, not a sound of civilisation can be heard, just the crickets and the wind gently blowing that breeze around my room. I close my eyes and I can see them, all three of my pups, back in their prime running and playing on my bedroom floor and looking at me with complete devotion. Perhaps thats where the smell comes from; a dream made up of a memory of innocence and youth.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Meaningless Unmitigated Bleat.
I hate wasted days, but they have befallen me.
I am not acquiring any knowledge and I feel I am letting myself down. Traces of the sickness still remain reminding me to take it easy or pay the consequences. I don't feel like reading any casefiles, I've even avoided my serial killer novels, if I'm not in the mood I wont remember it and will no doubt have to reread it later. I find myself painting and watching worn out DVD's.
I hate being unproductive and yet I can't bring myself to do something about it. Idleness tires me, I want to be achieving some purpose, but alas there are other things to consider.
I have resorted to letting my imagination run wild with thoughts of adventure, I may be stuck here but my mind can be free.
I find myself outside, it's warm, night but still warm. I just stare at the water. What thoughts are going through my head? I'm not sure, they are part of the subconscious now.
The water is of the most beautiful blue. If I let myself I could easily fall deep into it's receding depths and be free. To float down into oblivion, I wonder what it would be like.
The longer I watch the more intoxicated I become, drunk on the beauty of nature. The colors of the water change, it rises up out of the pool like a tidal wave and it holds that position above my head as I look on in awe and amazement. Colors shoot through it, so many that half of them have not even been named yet and the whole sky is glowing from their radiance.
I step back, it's all in my head, I have a great imagination and it's trying to inspire me, nothing more. The water goes back down into the pool, the sky returns to it's original hue and it is as it was, as if nothing had ever happened. I sit back down by the water and stare. Not long after the water begins to turn red, the red of blood, then I see him. So faint at first that I swear it is surely my imagination, but he comes into focus and there he is drowning in my pool beckoning for me to help him. I want to reach out, to save him, but I know he isn't really there, he can't be. The one soul I could ever love is drowning before me and I can't tell if it's real. Do I save him and risk the chance of drowning or do I let him die and risk the possibility of loosing my one chance of happiness.
The dichotomy, like many in life there remains no easy out. They say drowning is a painless death, but for some reason I fear drowning the most, I've always feared it, I've nearly drowned so many times that it terrifies me, I know it will get me in the end. A bullet to the head would be better, would be painless. So looking at this from a logical perspective to get the one soul I desire more than life itself I would have to be willing to give up everything and face my greatest fear. I am willing, but if I gave up my life I wouldn't get him.
I guess it wouldn't matter as long as I got to save him, the one who holds the other half of my soul.
See where idleness gets me, writing meaningless unmitigated bleat.
I am not acquiring any knowledge and I feel I am letting myself down. Traces of the sickness still remain reminding me to take it easy or pay the consequences. I don't feel like reading any casefiles, I've even avoided my serial killer novels, if I'm not in the mood I wont remember it and will no doubt have to reread it later. I find myself painting and watching worn out DVD's.
I hate being unproductive and yet I can't bring myself to do something about it. Idleness tires me, I want to be achieving some purpose, but alas there are other things to consider.
I have resorted to letting my imagination run wild with thoughts of adventure, I may be stuck here but my mind can be free.
I find myself outside, it's warm, night but still warm. I just stare at the water. What thoughts are going through my head? I'm not sure, they are part of the subconscious now.
The water is of the most beautiful blue. If I let myself I could easily fall deep into it's receding depths and be free. To float down into oblivion, I wonder what it would be like.
The longer I watch the more intoxicated I become, drunk on the beauty of nature. The colors of the water change, it rises up out of the pool like a tidal wave and it holds that position above my head as I look on in awe and amazement. Colors shoot through it, so many that half of them have not even been named yet and the whole sky is glowing from their radiance.
I step back, it's all in my head, I have a great imagination and it's trying to inspire me, nothing more. The water goes back down into the pool, the sky returns to it's original hue and it is as it was, as if nothing had ever happened. I sit back down by the water and stare. Not long after the water begins to turn red, the red of blood, then I see him. So faint at first that I swear it is surely my imagination, but he comes into focus and there he is drowning in my pool beckoning for me to help him. I want to reach out, to save him, but I know he isn't really there, he can't be. The one soul I could ever love is drowning before me and I can't tell if it's real. Do I save him and risk the chance of drowning or do I let him die and risk the possibility of loosing my one chance of happiness.
The dichotomy, like many in life there remains no easy out. They say drowning is a painless death, but for some reason I fear drowning the most, I've always feared it, I've nearly drowned so many times that it terrifies me, I know it will get me in the end. A bullet to the head would be better, would be painless. So looking at this from a logical perspective to get the one soul I desire more than life itself I would have to be willing to give up everything and face my greatest fear. I am willing, but if I gave up my life I wouldn't get him.
I guess it wouldn't matter as long as I got to save him, the one who holds the other half of my soul.
See where idleness gets me, writing meaningless unmitigated bleat.
| Erotic Thriller |
 You've made your own rules in life - and sometimes that catches up with you. Winding a web of deceit comes naturally, and no one really knows the true you. Your best movie matches: Swimming Pool, Unfaithful, The Crush |
I always figured I was a lighthearted comedy, oh well.
| You are Milk Chocolate |
 A total dreamer, you spend most of your time with your head in the clouds. You often think of the future, and you are always working toward your ideal life. Also nostelgic, you rarely forget a meaningful moment... even those from long ago. |
mmm chocolate. Now I'm hungry damn it.
They Don't Make Them Like That Anymore
Today was a tragic day, as far as any day goes. For today I said goodbye to my refrigerator, they don't make them like that anymore, it has been with me for years, practically my whole life and today I had to tell it I was leaving it for a younger model. You may think me foolish, but I loved my fridge, it held for me the essentials of life, food, and I value that. I didn't want to replace it, I'm sure it would be good for another 20 years, but those who share this spacious dwelling with me insisted. I didn't go with them when they bought it, I could not betray my old faithful fridge, I could not let it see that I was conspiring against it, and housemates brought back a giant. The new fridge towered above my old little companion, it was huge, one of the cupboards had to be removed so we could fit it in the kitchen, I'll bet my old fridge felt so small and insignificant, a tiny David compared to this new Goliath. Now my old little fridge is almost bare, only my chocolate supply remains to give him purpose. The light no longer works, but I can feel my way, it was always a surprise, taking something out, you'd never know what you'd get for dinner, the seal had slightly broken, but any bugs that crawled in soon died from the cold. The tray underneath had never been emptied, I only found out about its existence yesterday. There were mice corpses stuck to back of it, most of them a little singed, but hey that was a warning for other mice. It was originally white, but over the years I'd drawn on it, spilt food and beverages on it, heck I'd even painted a frieze on it at one point. And now I stand before it, I can feel its pain; we both know what fate is waiting for it. It was with heavy head I bent and grasped my chocolate bar, making the fridge obsolete, it was clean, cleaner than it had been it a long time, or maybe just the fact that it was empty gave it that effect. I closed the door and looked at the brand of the fridge, it was a Leonard, for as long as I live I will never forget that name, the name of my fridge, although I'd always called him Leo, I'd not forget.
The new fridge is big and holds so much more, but where is the familiar, where is the comfort, I've found a good home for Leo, one where he can run for another twenty years in peace, without fear of rejection, And I'm pretty sure that long after this new fridge is busted and sent to the tip, my Leo will still be going strong, that is my comfort. No, they don't make them quite as good as Leo anymore.
The new fridge is big and holds so much more, but where is the familiar, where is the comfort, I've found a good home for Leo, one where he can run for another twenty years in peace, without fear of rejection, And I'm pretty sure that long after this new fridge is busted and sent to the tip, my Leo will still be going strong, that is my comfort. No, they don't make them quite as good as Leo anymore.
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