Sunday, May 25, 2008



Saturday, May 10, 2008

taxi cabs and other courses for escapism


Death Cab for Cutie and a tumbler of Glen Marnoch


This aftershave was a bad idea.

It's a sickly aroma that holds in its perfume, bundled tight and coarse, memories of affection as sweet and nauseating as it's actual odour. It's like the ethyl scent of decay, but more economically pricey and, morally, much, much less affordable.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

It's Getting Worse

The phrase 'the weather's getting worse' is such a weird one.

For a start, it implies that the weather is something capable of being possessive of things, or that it has some kind of anthropic quality. But surely the attributes that we see in the weather are attributed to it by us! It's in the recognition and comparison of the state of things that I can say whether an object is worse or better, and even then it is by a relative set of standards.

For another, it gives the impression that 'worse' is something possessable! It also implies that it is an absolute, in being an objective quality, as though 'worse' was something that you could find lying around in the street, or pick up from any old shop.

It could of course that worse is an objective thing, but a transient one, that all things considered worse in their standing in relation to another object or a prior state must participate in in order to be considered worse. This throws up whole mounds of subjective problems.

Perhaps it is that when we say 'the weather is getting worse' we actually refer to completley different things, as though 'worse' were more of an aphorism for 'wet' or 'blustery', and 'worse' is what could be considered a speedier turn of phrase.

Oh, there are some retarded things that I think about when I'm not paying attention to the contents of my seminar.

To reiterate, here are some things I wrote down while I wasn't paying attention:

- "A PONT!"
-"Crikey! - 'Gide' is pronounced 'jee-duh'!"
-" D= I'm in anguish! This free, non-causal existence on the ground of facticity has left me in anguish! [doodle of a man hanging himself]"
- "Jesuit - Jezzy-wezzy."
- "Oh, mon Dieu! Les temps! Zut alors!"
- "Why do I write such tripe in seminars? Perhaps this is why I'm a failure, or at least part of it. another is that I write 'rediculous' instead of 'ridiculous'"
- "Oogly-doogly"
- "Oh, to be a paper-knife! Wait, no. I'd rather not."
- "An appeal to science. OH YEAH!"

Sometimes I think to myself, 'Jesus, Im such a goddamned mess...', but I soon realise, every time, that I wouldn't have it any other way.

Saturday, October 06, 2007

on warm feet and cold necks

Welcome back, internet! As ever, 'long time no see', and, as ever, not an awful lot to chronicle, but, as ever, I feel I've been neglecting this thing and, as ever, I'm making a short lived effort to rectify this.

I'm currently sitting in the dark, my face warmed by the gentle, radioactive glow of my laptop's screen (although I'm not sure about that apostrophe: can inanimate objects be possessive of things? or is that a too philosophical a point to even consider at this time of night? or is this the perfect time to consider such lofty things? as often is the case of this time of night) and my gonads warmed by the vesuvian heat emanating from the area where I suppose the processor lives in this rather pleasant, streamlined little device.

While I sit here, with my feet out of the duvet because they are too hot, my neck frozen by the gentle, arctic breeze shuffling through the open window behind me, my future children dying of heatstroke, I am am at somewhat at a loss for what to write. More than anything, I feel quite lonely; but it's not the kind of genuinely 'down' lonely that might move me to write something prosaicly emo; now is the kind of 'desperate' lonely that would cause me to prattle and dribble any more neurotically and cause women the world over to turn their heads and cluck, 'tch, men!' (although womankind, rest assured, a little attention would not go amiss!); rather I am 'expectant', or 'pregnant', with loneliness. The kind of loneliness that shipwrecked sailors never harbor, placed, as if by the hands of a dietific player of Risk, on a remote island with little chance of rescue. They, you see, live without hope, lying to themselves just to eke out their days clinging to sanity to the point where it drives them mad. Do I know such people? have I ever been shipwrecked? have I read accounts? No, but I have seen dramatisations, and feigning knowledge is almost as good as having it in this day and age, especially if it's for the purpose of spinning a good yarn. Not that this is a good yarn. Far from it.

You see, as to why I am stocked to the brim with lonely hope, expectant sadness, is because I know that change, oh so swiftly, will be visited upon me, and ocassionally by me. Friends I haven't seen for nigh-on four months will be common faces once more; illicit rendez-vous (plural) once again a thing of habbit; once more staying up until two in the morning and drinking to the point of renal failure is something I can call a hobby. Not to mention the mountainous work that shall be piled upon me will become de rigeur. 'Mountainous' is actually fairly accurate as a descriptive: the climb to it's summit is treacherous, dangerous and, above all, painful regardless of your condition; and, of course, there is every chance that it will collapse, falling all around you in a deadly flurry of paper and dashed optimisms.

All the same, I'm making the most of it for the time being. It's a little hard, seeing as only one of my housemates is around at the moment. As much as I get on with him we both move in different circles, meaning I rarely catch a glimpse of him and, when I finally do, our tastes differ so much that it's not especially commonplace that we want to do things together. So, until tomorrow night at least, I am mostly confined to my room, living off of Shreddies, watching Samurai 7 and LURKING MOAR on facebook.

Anyway, I end this post with a promise: I WILL ENDEAVOUR TO POST MOAR, lest I fall in a ditch and am left their for several hours, drunk and complaining loudly.

Thursday, July 26, 2007


Gasp! Foul edifice, what hast befell me in such harrowing times? Forsooth, hence! I am possessed by ill humours, defiled and corrupt! Nay, not possessed by ill humour, rather possessive of a cold!

Why is it that I only feel like blogging when I am utterly run down? Do other people blog like this? Are there really people out there who think that blogging is something to be done when there are other things that could be done? If you aren't possessed by ill health or dire fatigue then seriously, get away from this machine and enjoy yourself. Come back to this machine when you're done and tell us about it.

That's another point: blogging without experience to relay and without insight to bestow is a sin.

Come on guitar, it's time to go to bed.