I was asked yesterday that if I could shag anyone in the world, who would I shag?
I pondered this question as no name jumped to mind, and in the end I had to say there was no one in the world I wanted to shag.
Don't think me weird for this comment, it's that I would like to be inlove with the person I'm shaging, and I don't love anyone, not enough to shag them. But don't let my modest morals hold you back. Who would you shag if you could?
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
A story for University. Enjoy.
I’ve always wondered if one person can exist solely for the purpose of another? When I met my wife it was like that, we exited only for each other’s pleasure. The rest of the world faded away when we were together and we were oblivious to it. Her name was Elizabeth and she was my salvation. For all the agony I may have faced in solitude, she saved me from myself.
The day appeared as any other to me, I was a young man with the world at my feet, why would I notice the majesty of the day. I was walking through the park on my way to work when I first saw her. It was as if the suns rays followed her across the park, I of course took no notice of this, and it is only in reflection I can record it so eloquently. She was beautiful even I could see that. As I approached the road she was right beside me, my mind was so focused on this beauty by my side that I failed to notice the lights change on the street and I stepped out into the oncoming traffic. She grabbed my hand and pulled me back to safety. My saviour, how could I not fall in love with her? She was still holding my hand, I couldn’t speak, and thankfully she mistook this for shock. She led me over to a nearby café and sat me down at a table. It was only then that she released her hold on me. She told me to stay there and I, like a little lost puppy obeyed. I watched her as she walked up to the counter and bought me a drink. I find that in my life beauty is contained in mystery, the more I know of something the more I loose interest, but this was not the case with Elizabeth. I never went to work that day. We talked for hours, she was trying to relax me and I was trying to attract her.
Looking back it was a beautiful day. We were married in the spring the next year, there was another beautiful day, but one I wont bore you with.
When I was a child I used to get up early on Sunday mornings, I’d walk the streets and blow a whistle. I’d watch as people ran out of their houses in their pyjamas to buy a newspaper, only to discover that no one was there. This morbid take on life stayed with me into my adulthood. Elizabeth soon became aware of my odd habit of shardenfreude; she had caught me topping off saltshakers with chilli powder. I assumed she would look down on this, hence the reason I kept it hidden from her, but she loved me even more for my bad habits. She never contributed to my nasty pranks; instead she took me to the park where we first met. We sat down under a widely branched tree and just watched people. This we did quite often and although at first I thought it boring, I soon found myself looking forward to these outings. I even let her catch me pranking from time to time in order for her to suggest them. When we sat under that tree, and it was always the same tree, Elizabeth would ask me about the people we saw. ‘Imagine you know them, everything about them. Tell me everything.’ The lives we made up for these people, originally my tales were absurd or dull, but gradually these people evolved in my head to be fascinating individuals. Elizabeth seemed to focus on the children, and I could tell she wanted one although she never brought the subject up.
Elizabeth was an artist, her paintings may never hang in any gallery, but they are worth more to me than gold. I would watch her paint for hours and even though I know my watching disturbed her immensely, she never once complained. She had two showings of her works in the time we were together; I being the loving husband attended both. At the first showing the critics were harsh, one in particular made my Elizabeth cry. Elizabeth took her paintings home and started to put her paints away. I had to stop her, save her as she had saved me. I asked her to paint me a picture, it was the only time I had ever asked her to paint me anything. The look on her face when I asked her was almost unbearable, but I was certain I was doing the right thing. I still remember the exact wording, ‘Elizabeth darling, before you pack up your paints forever would you paint me just one thing?’ She of course replied, ‘Anything.’ ‘I want you to paint me a portrait of that horrid critic. I want him to look as real and as happy as possible.’ You could have heard a pin drop after I had finished that sentence. She painted it and the thoughts going through her head about me must have been astounding, just as astounding as my actual request. While she was painting I spent much of my free time organising a new showing of her works, I picked out what paintings to display and I made sure all the same people were invited. When the painting was finished Elizabeth presented it to me, she had done a beautiful job, I asked her if I could name it and this honour she allowed me. Then I told her about the showing where I would unveil it. She was so mad at me, ‘another showing? I don’t need to be humiliated again, what were you thinking?’ The money had been paid so she went along with it. She was very good to me, even when her sense of self worth was at stake.
The night itself was just what I pictured it to be, the critic went round to each painting and attacked it verbally to every onlooker. His pompous manner and arrogance in his craft were his defining characteristics, he thrust his opinion onto his listeners and they had no choice but to concede to his opinion. The moment for the unveiling of the show centrepiece came. I took the stage and began my speech; luckily it was videotaped so I can repeat it to you verbatim. ‘My friends, I have gathered you here to behold my wife’s wonderful creative ability.’ I motioned to my wife, she stood smiling at the side of the crowd near the front, but I knew she was a bundle of nerves. ‘I chose the works displayed here and I entitled the showing, “Destruction of Creativity.” This main work I am about to unveil does not stand alone, it stands with you. You are part of the work, just as you are part of life, everything interacts and I’ll explain how after the unveiling. I was given the honour of naming this piece painted by my beautiful wife, I call it The Rotten Apple.’ I lifted the veil, the critic stood ready to pass a judgement he had already decided, but on seeing it he was speechless. I had earlier coated the paint in kerosene and now lighting a match I threw it onto the painting. The effect was spectacular, the audience gasped, one woman shrieked, and my wife stood in shock. I had positioned a fire extinguisher nearby and it was the critic that reached for it to put out ‘The Rotten Apple,’ the fire was soon out. ‘What are you doing man? You’re burning a work of art.’ I stepped back up beside the painting to address the people, ‘people, now the painting is complete. One rotten apple can spoil the opinion of an entire room, but you take that rotten apple away or heal it and you are able to think for yourselves once more.’ The show was a remarkable success, many paintings were sold, the critic wrote a great review of my wife’s bold artistic statement and he even bought the badly singed ‘Rotten Apple,’ hopefully it will remind him not to pass judgement so quickly in the future. Elizabeth glowed that night and her paints polluted our lounge room for long after that event.
It was a cold day in November one year when Elizabeth died. I’ll never forget that day, I wish I could have loved her more, I wish I had told her more what she had meant to me and I wish I could have saved her. We never saw it coming. She got out of bed like any other day and made us both some breakfast. Around midday she complained of a headache, I told her to go and lie down. Who pays any attention to a headache? They tell me she passed out. I just thought she had gone to sleep. It was not until I went to wake her that I discovered the awful truth. I called an ambulance but it was too late, she was gone. Gone. The most wonderful thing in my whole world and I never even said goodbye. The doctor said there was nothing anyone could have done even if they had known, it was a brain tuma, he started to explain it all to me, but I couldn’t listen, I was thinking about Elizabeth, my sweet Elizabeth. How would know what killed her help me? I would never see her again, never touch her skin, and never hear her soft and gentle voice. How cruel was the world that it would let me find something so magical and then take it away and expect me to go on?
I meandered round in a daze for so long, ignoring life because there was nothing in it that interested me. I slept on the couch, the smell of Elizabeth’s paints still hung in the lounge air. The more I tried to grasp her memory, the more she slipped from my mind. Months past before I could bring myself to go back into the bedroom, our bedroom. The last place I had seen my Elizabeth, even at the funeral I had insisted on a closed coffin. I wanted to remember her full of life, anything less would be an insult to her, but looking at the bed all I could see was her cold, lifeless body. I lunged at the bed and tore the covers off, ripping them to pieces with my hands. I heard something drop from between the bed sheets to the floor; I bent down and there on the floor lay a diary. I did not know Elizabeth had kept a diary, I had never seen it before. I took the book to our tree in the park, it seemed to me the perfect place, our place. As I read the diary Elizabeth returned to me, her thoughts, her pleasures, her life. In those words I found my first sense of happiness since I had lost her, I had always known that she made me happy, but now I knew that I made her happy as well, even with my foolish pranks.
The last page written on was dated the day she died, reading it my eyes filled with tears, tears that poured down my face, tears that I could not wipe away for fear that her spirit would think I was ashamed. It was as if she had known what was about to pass. Under our tree where she showed me the world, I read the last paragraph, her last words. ‘He will always amaze me. One my darling will read this, one day I will show it to him, we will both be smiling, and when we walk together we will be like one, two minds and one heart. Should he be forced to walk alone I will whisper on the wind, “Don’t just exist my Gabriel, live.” As I read the last line the wind picked up and blew the leaves around me, I was crying, but I was smiling too.
The day appeared as any other to me, I was a young man with the world at my feet, why would I notice the majesty of the day. I was walking through the park on my way to work when I first saw her. It was as if the suns rays followed her across the park, I of course took no notice of this, and it is only in reflection I can record it so eloquently. She was beautiful even I could see that. As I approached the road she was right beside me, my mind was so focused on this beauty by my side that I failed to notice the lights change on the street and I stepped out into the oncoming traffic. She grabbed my hand and pulled me back to safety. My saviour, how could I not fall in love with her? She was still holding my hand, I couldn’t speak, and thankfully she mistook this for shock. She led me over to a nearby café and sat me down at a table. It was only then that she released her hold on me. She told me to stay there and I, like a little lost puppy obeyed. I watched her as she walked up to the counter and bought me a drink. I find that in my life beauty is contained in mystery, the more I know of something the more I loose interest, but this was not the case with Elizabeth. I never went to work that day. We talked for hours, she was trying to relax me and I was trying to attract her.
Looking back it was a beautiful day. We were married in the spring the next year, there was another beautiful day, but one I wont bore you with.
When I was a child I used to get up early on Sunday mornings, I’d walk the streets and blow a whistle. I’d watch as people ran out of their houses in their pyjamas to buy a newspaper, only to discover that no one was there. This morbid take on life stayed with me into my adulthood. Elizabeth soon became aware of my odd habit of shardenfreude; she had caught me topping off saltshakers with chilli powder. I assumed she would look down on this, hence the reason I kept it hidden from her, but she loved me even more for my bad habits. She never contributed to my nasty pranks; instead she took me to the park where we first met. We sat down under a widely branched tree and just watched people. This we did quite often and although at first I thought it boring, I soon found myself looking forward to these outings. I even let her catch me pranking from time to time in order for her to suggest them. When we sat under that tree, and it was always the same tree, Elizabeth would ask me about the people we saw. ‘Imagine you know them, everything about them. Tell me everything.’ The lives we made up for these people, originally my tales were absurd or dull, but gradually these people evolved in my head to be fascinating individuals. Elizabeth seemed to focus on the children, and I could tell she wanted one although she never brought the subject up.
Elizabeth was an artist, her paintings may never hang in any gallery, but they are worth more to me than gold. I would watch her paint for hours and even though I know my watching disturbed her immensely, she never once complained. She had two showings of her works in the time we were together; I being the loving husband attended both. At the first showing the critics were harsh, one in particular made my Elizabeth cry. Elizabeth took her paintings home and started to put her paints away. I had to stop her, save her as she had saved me. I asked her to paint me a picture, it was the only time I had ever asked her to paint me anything. The look on her face when I asked her was almost unbearable, but I was certain I was doing the right thing. I still remember the exact wording, ‘Elizabeth darling, before you pack up your paints forever would you paint me just one thing?’ She of course replied, ‘Anything.’ ‘I want you to paint me a portrait of that horrid critic. I want him to look as real and as happy as possible.’ You could have heard a pin drop after I had finished that sentence. She painted it and the thoughts going through her head about me must have been astounding, just as astounding as my actual request. While she was painting I spent much of my free time organising a new showing of her works, I picked out what paintings to display and I made sure all the same people were invited. When the painting was finished Elizabeth presented it to me, she had done a beautiful job, I asked her if I could name it and this honour she allowed me. Then I told her about the showing where I would unveil it. She was so mad at me, ‘another showing? I don’t need to be humiliated again, what were you thinking?’ The money had been paid so she went along with it. She was very good to me, even when her sense of self worth was at stake.
The night itself was just what I pictured it to be, the critic went round to each painting and attacked it verbally to every onlooker. His pompous manner and arrogance in his craft were his defining characteristics, he thrust his opinion onto his listeners and they had no choice but to concede to his opinion. The moment for the unveiling of the show centrepiece came. I took the stage and began my speech; luckily it was videotaped so I can repeat it to you verbatim. ‘My friends, I have gathered you here to behold my wife’s wonderful creative ability.’ I motioned to my wife, she stood smiling at the side of the crowd near the front, but I knew she was a bundle of nerves. ‘I chose the works displayed here and I entitled the showing, “Destruction of Creativity.” This main work I am about to unveil does not stand alone, it stands with you. You are part of the work, just as you are part of life, everything interacts and I’ll explain how after the unveiling. I was given the honour of naming this piece painted by my beautiful wife, I call it The Rotten Apple.’ I lifted the veil, the critic stood ready to pass a judgement he had already decided, but on seeing it he was speechless. I had earlier coated the paint in kerosene and now lighting a match I threw it onto the painting. The effect was spectacular, the audience gasped, one woman shrieked, and my wife stood in shock. I had positioned a fire extinguisher nearby and it was the critic that reached for it to put out ‘The Rotten Apple,’ the fire was soon out. ‘What are you doing man? You’re burning a work of art.’ I stepped back up beside the painting to address the people, ‘people, now the painting is complete. One rotten apple can spoil the opinion of an entire room, but you take that rotten apple away or heal it and you are able to think for yourselves once more.’ The show was a remarkable success, many paintings were sold, the critic wrote a great review of my wife’s bold artistic statement and he even bought the badly singed ‘Rotten Apple,’ hopefully it will remind him not to pass judgement so quickly in the future. Elizabeth glowed that night and her paints polluted our lounge room for long after that event.
It was a cold day in November one year when Elizabeth died. I’ll never forget that day, I wish I could have loved her more, I wish I had told her more what she had meant to me and I wish I could have saved her. We never saw it coming. She got out of bed like any other day and made us both some breakfast. Around midday she complained of a headache, I told her to go and lie down. Who pays any attention to a headache? They tell me she passed out. I just thought she had gone to sleep. It was not until I went to wake her that I discovered the awful truth. I called an ambulance but it was too late, she was gone. Gone. The most wonderful thing in my whole world and I never even said goodbye. The doctor said there was nothing anyone could have done even if they had known, it was a brain tuma, he started to explain it all to me, but I couldn’t listen, I was thinking about Elizabeth, my sweet Elizabeth. How would know what killed her help me? I would never see her again, never touch her skin, and never hear her soft and gentle voice. How cruel was the world that it would let me find something so magical and then take it away and expect me to go on?
I meandered round in a daze for so long, ignoring life because there was nothing in it that interested me. I slept on the couch, the smell of Elizabeth’s paints still hung in the lounge air. The more I tried to grasp her memory, the more she slipped from my mind. Months past before I could bring myself to go back into the bedroom, our bedroom. The last place I had seen my Elizabeth, even at the funeral I had insisted on a closed coffin. I wanted to remember her full of life, anything less would be an insult to her, but looking at the bed all I could see was her cold, lifeless body. I lunged at the bed and tore the covers off, ripping them to pieces with my hands. I heard something drop from between the bed sheets to the floor; I bent down and there on the floor lay a diary. I did not know Elizabeth had kept a diary, I had never seen it before. I took the book to our tree in the park, it seemed to me the perfect place, our place. As I read the diary Elizabeth returned to me, her thoughts, her pleasures, her life. In those words I found my first sense of happiness since I had lost her, I had always known that she made me happy, but now I knew that I made her happy as well, even with my foolish pranks.
The last page written on was dated the day she died, reading it my eyes filled with tears, tears that poured down my face, tears that I could not wipe away for fear that her spirit would think I was ashamed. It was as if she had known what was about to pass. Under our tree where she showed me the world, I read the last paragraph, her last words. ‘He will always amaze me. One my darling will read this, one day I will show it to him, we will both be smiling, and when we walk together we will be like one, two minds and one heart. Should he be forced to walk alone I will whisper on the wind, “Don’t just exist my Gabriel, live.” As I read the last line the wind picked up and blew the leaves around me, I was crying, but I was smiling too.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Famous for nothing
I recently had the missfortune of being on tv. I did not watch of course, I amused myself with the BBC's rendition of Bleak House by Dickens. This did not however stop me from getting many phone calls to remind me of the fact, cause naturally you would never know you are on tv, that video camera they stick in your face is only there to look good. I knew I'd be on it, as Catherine says, the camera men either love us or hate us, but they certainly make sure we are not camera shy. My sister felt the need to remind me over and over that it was aired nationally, this I was also aware of, every time I pop up on that annoying box it seems to be national. Two days later at university, people were screaming out to me across the compound, 'Kelly, I saw you on tv.' Others attacked me in lecture theatres. It's amazing how easy it is to become famous for doing nothing, i used to have people stop me in the streets, thank god that doesn't happen anymore. How do you respond to someone saying they saw you, 'yes, you did,' or 'Good for you mate.' It's too annoying to comprehend.
I knew I would be on the debate, this however is not why I boycotted it, everytime channel Ten put on a debate, they put it in Criminal Intent's time slot and I must wait an extra week for a new episode... The bastards.
I knew I would be on the debate, this however is not why I boycotted it, everytime channel Ten put on a debate, they put it in Criminal Intent's time slot and I must wait an extra week for a new episode... The bastards.
Friday, July 14, 2006
Watching over the sheep
Children on a train discussing the purpose of god
Although the journey be short the debate goes on and on
All wars are fought for god, fighting to gain peace
Men dying among other men all searching for release
The more you have the more you want, that is what they claim
Possessions are material, everything's the same
'My soul I've sold to Satan,' the boy cries
'I did it to know my purpose, but I've found that Satan lies.'
Two young boys philosophize the meaning of it all
i sit baring witness and yet i feel so small.
So bright are they, so faithful, so lost among the sheep
But I was never in the flock, in silence alone I weep.
Although the journey be short the debate goes on and on
All wars are fought for god, fighting to gain peace
Men dying among other men all searching for release
The more you have the more you want, that is what they claim
Possessions are material, everything's the same
'My soul I've sold to Satan,' the boy cries
'I did it to know my purpose, but I've found that Satan lies.'
Two young boys philosophize the meaning of it all
i sit baring witness and yet i feel so small.
So bright are they, so faithful, so lost among the sheep
But I was never in the flock, in silence alone I weep.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Poem for 2nd assessment
Metaphor
Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock is ticking
As the remnants of my mind are slowly dripping
Dripping into what was once called a soul
But now nothing remains but an empty bowl
Eyes bloodstained, hands are shaking
Pain in the chest where my heart is breaking
Feet are cold, gangrene setting in
Cancer eroding what is left of my skin
Perineum severed, guts fallen out
Spleen long dislocated and hanging out of my mouth
Time is moving fast
As my brains become more like my ass
Filled with excrement which occasionally
Spews forth from my mouth
Sending more crap further south
But now you know I’m talking shit
As no doubt you realise I’m full of it
Yes this mental constipation must be
The creation of some inner motivation
To wallow in my own decapitation
Rip my head from my neck and
Stick it up my ass I’m all class
You may think this writing selfish
But really this is just a metaphor
Of internal anguish.
Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock is ticking
As the remnants of my mind are slowly dripping
Dripping into what was once called a soul
But now nothing remains but an empty bowl
Eyes bloodstained, hands are shaking
Pain in the chest where my heart is breaking
Feet are cold, gangrene setting in
Cancer eroding what is left of my skin
Perineum severed, guts fallen out
Spleen long dislocated and hanging out of my mouth
Time is moving fast
As my brains become more like my ass
Filled with excrement which occasionally
Spews forth from my mouth
Sending more crap further south
But now you know I’m talking shit
As no doubt you realise I’m full of it
Yes this mental constipation must be
The creation of some inner motivation
To wallow in my own decapitation
Rip my head from my neck and
Stick it up my ass I’m all class
You may think this writing selfish
But really this is just a metaphor
Of internal anguish.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Phosphoresce
I've always loved phosphorous, it's a wonderful little element on our periodic table and if you are being poisoned with it your vomit glows. Always a good thing to know, but then gain who examines their vomit that closely. Ferrem Sulfide glows as well but I prefer pure elements, god knows why. I just find in amusing tat things can glow.
We can all glow from time to time.... Without poison off course.
We can all glow from time to time.... Without poison off course.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
One Day
What is one day?
Sometimes it can feel as if a whole year has past in the space of a single day, and for me tomorrow is that day. We put so much emphasis on getting old, but is it really that bad. Are you happy? Does your life have purpose? Have you left a mark on the world? Will people miss you when you're gone?
All these questions are true of everyone, whether they know it or not, everyone leaves a mark the only thing that varies is the size of that mark. Everyone has been happy at least once in their life, it may have been fleeting, but it was there. Will people miss you? Even your enemies miss you, and the people that find your rotting corpse will know doubt have that visual mess embedded in their heads for life. Does your life have purpose? This is perhaps the most complicated question of them all, for what is purpose? It can't be easily defined because it varies from individual to individual. But simply put, if you really felt you had no purpose at all, you would have off'd yourself along time ago, and remember people, even friendship is a purpose.
So wish me well on my birthday tomorrow, I turn 27 and I may not be moving mountains, but I'm headed in the right direction.
Sometimes it can feel as if a whole year has past in the space of a single day, and for me tomorrow is that day. We put so much emphasis on getting old, but is it really that bad. Are you happy? Does your life have purpose? Have you left a mark on the world? Will people miss you when you're gone?
All these questions are true of everyone, whether they know it or not, everyone leaves a mark the only thing that varies is the size of that mark. Everyone has been happy at least once in their life, it may have been fleeting, but it was there. Will people miss you? Even your enemies miss you, and the people that find your rotting corpse will know doubt have that visual mess embedded in their heads for life. Does your life have purpose? This is perhaps the most complicated question of them all, for what is purpose? It can't be easily defined because it varies from individual to individual. But simply put, if you really felt you had no purpose at all, you would have off'd yourself along time ago, and remember people, even friendship is a purpose.
So wish me well on my birthday tomorrow, I turn 27 and I may not be moving mountains, but I'm headed in the right direction.
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