It's amazing what you can do with photoshop. This was a blurry, wonky snap before.
20081231
20081227
20081225
How proud i am of the coarse pads on my left hand finger tips. I'm learning guitar - much to my sisters annoyance, because i'm using her electric. Well, it's not like she's played it in 5 years. I've taught myself 'That's Amore' and 'Sweet Home California'. Tis fun fun. I'm not really progressing...it's so annoying...no matter how many times i play the tunes, i always seem to make the same mistakes.
Guitar sounds so good with drums though...listening to 'stairway to heaven' at the moment.
oh yeah. Merry Christmas. Forgot.
Nanna and Gramps have spent the day with us. Haven't really done much...sat and talked about the good old days, how fast technology progresses and the oppression of women in the Middle East. An assortment of matter, if anything. Took a refreshing walk to the lake nearby, then came home for the Christmas turkey.
haha, it was so funny...we downloaded the photos from their camera on this computer. During the walk, they had lended it to me, so i could take some shots of my own. We were flicking through them, and when we reached one of mine Nanna exclaimed
'good grief, i don't know what i was trying to get there'.
hilarious.
is it really that bad?
yeah...yeah i guess it is.
HAHAHAAaaaa....I'm watching this clip 'sweet child o mine' by Guns and Roses on youtube.com. Song's alright, but the singer's dancing style is only marginally better than my own.
Guitar sounds so good with drums though...listening to 'stairway to heaven' at the moment.
oh yeah. Merry Christmas. Forgot.
Nanna and Gramps have spent the day with us. Haven't really done much...sat and talked about the good old days, how fast technology progresses and the oppression of women in the Middle East. An assortment of matter, if anything. Took a refreshing walk to the lake nearby, then came home for the Christmas turkey.
haha, it was so funny...we downloaded the photos from their camera on this computer. During the walk, they had lended it to me, so i could take some shots of my own. We were flicking through them, and when we reached one of mine Nanna exclaimed
'good grief, i don't know what i was trying to get there'.
hilarious.
is it really that bad?yeah...yeah i guess it is.
HAHAHAAaaaa....I'm watching this clip 'sweet child o mine' by Guns and Roses on youtube.com. Song's alright, but the singer's dancing style is only marginally better than my own.
I wish there were some way to get drunk without all the nasty side effects.
i.e. Minus the
1. hangover the next morning
2. the embarrassing antics and confessions
3. the loss of brain cells and deterioration of the liver
4. the lack of co-ordination, reflexes
5. the slurred speech and the odourous breath
6. potential of death
Cause i think i'd like the sensation. Same with drugs. Which is why i never intend to either drink or take drugs. Hah, when it all boils down to it, perhaps the crux of my abstinence decision lies in the fact i simply would not trust myself with either. You know, you sip some wine from your pater's glass one night, and the next night you're singing 'row row row your boat' down in the gutter, slogging down another Guinness, getting totally wasted together with the midget from the circus who was fired because he wasn't freakish enough, while passers by purse their lips and drag their curious children to the other side of the road.
Snicker.
i.e. Minus the
1. hangover the next morning
2. the embarrassing antics and confessions
3. the loss of brain cells and deterioration of the liver
4. the lack of co-ordination, reflexes
5. the slurred speech and the odourous breath
6. potential of death
Cause i think i'd like the sensation. Same with drugs. Which is why i never intend to either drink or take drugs. Hah, when it all boils down to it, perhaps the crux of my abstinence decision lies in the fact i simply would not trust myself with either. You know, you sip some wine from your pater's glass one night, and the next night you're singing 'row row row your boat' down in the gutter, slogging down another Guinness, getting totally wasted together with the midget from the circus who was fired because he wasn't freakish enough, while passers by purse their lips and drag their curious children to the other side of the road.
Snicker.
20081224
Following a strange European tradition, my family open their presents on the evening of Christmas Eve. Weird huh?
We've just completed the unwrapping, the many gasps of delight- feigned or otherwise - it's sometimes hard to tell. The occasion was made rather uncomfortable however, as we had two alien onlookers. Haha. Alien. Not really. They are kin, after all. My grandparents that is. Haven't seen them in 15 years or so (gosh, i keep saying that to everyone. It bugs me that i have to keep repeating myself- i'm not annoyed at others for asking, but just humiliated that, to those that have heard it before, it seems as though i'm intentionally painting myself out to be some poor neglected child. Scrounging some grey fame, some cheap pity). What can I say? One can't expect our hearts to beat the same tune when the imagined becomes the eye to eye physical. I certainly did not expect that, i can tell you. They're all right, i suppose. Gramps is sweet, with his strong lower london accent. Strands of white hair are combed over his forehead. WHen he laughs, his squashed face creases with merriment, and turns an alarming red. He makes me smile. Nanna is a very sharp lady; remarking on the cleanliness of every room (at least it had a jocund seasoning), and going into detail when recounting her travels. She's an apt conversationalist, with a broad knowledge of the particular, and a surprisingly modern sense of humour. I have no idea what to say to them though, or whether i'm expected to be a full time entertainer. Obviously, if that expectation exists, i am flouting presently. I can hear their voices seeping through the crack in the door.
However, it seems that i am not alone in my social uneasiness. There are sometimes times when conversation dries up, and we cast our eyes with sudden interest upon various items of furniture, and give that sigh that intends to say 'well, isn't this nice', but really means 'good grief, am i really resorting to this noisy expiration of breath just to fill a gap?'
Well, thank god for Missy i suppose. When the party experiences such a hiatus in entertaining exchange, we resort to observing the pooch. It's so strange- i don't pay her that much attention usually (what a cruel owner i know); but when other people are around, she suddenly becomes an object brimmed with interest. Nanna herself admits she is no animal lover, but for minutes at the time we have examined her foolish antics, with persiflage to heighten the illusion of ease.
pah says i.
Anyhoo, let us, dear reader, redirect this train of thought to station one. Opening the presents. Since nana and gramps are poms, they open their prezzies tomorrow. Thus, for perhaps half an hour, they watched with stretched smiles (mouth parted slightly) as we opened present after present. I felt so damn spoilt and selfish- particularly because Amy bought the family so many. I couldn't help myself fabricating some future scene of the two back in England, with Nanna exclaiming on the event sipping English Breakfast tea, with puckered lips and eyebrows struggling to reach heaven.
Well, i did tell you i was a grinch didn't i? I do love the gifts received though. My own sushi making kit, a new watch, books, a lavendar top, a watercolour book...
I wish they wouldn't spend so much on me. You know, i would gladly forgo my birthday. I don't like having a day to myself. I don't like the attention. eep.
I used to expect so much from such momentous days when i was little. You know, i'd wake up, invigorated from the promised magic of the day. I believed that there was something that set those days apart- everything was different then; i was invincible to all the trials and sufferings of the other days of the year. I recognise now that, well, frankly, there is no difference. It's just another day really. Sure, people make an effort to be more amiable, and your material status is heighted...but...i can't seem to get excited anymore. In fact, i think part of me attempts to stifle any thrill that may rise up from the depths, just to allay disappointment. That was the one bruising downside to my childhood optimism and amazing capacity for hope, my imaginitive readiness (yes, my dears, the great gatsby tweaked). If something went wrong...not according to the opal plan...i'd be so crushed. I remember on one of my parties, when i was about 6, and no one wanted to play with me at the Fun Factory. Amidst the rainbow plastic balls, the mini-punch bags and the sweaty foam, i snivelled like a hedgehog with a fly up it's nose.
We've just completed the unwrapping, the many gasps of delight- feigned or otherwise - it's sometimes hard to tell. The occasion was made rather uncomfortable however, as we had two alien onlookers. Haha. Alien. Not really. They are kin, after all. My grandparents that is. Haven't seen them in 15 years or so (gosh, i keep saying that to everyone. It bugs me that i have to keep repeating myself- i'm not annoyed at others for asking, but just humiliated that, to those that have heard it before, it seems as though i'm intentionally painting myself out to be some poor neglected child. Scrounging some grey fame, some cheap pity). What can I say? One can't expect our hearts to beat the same tune when the imagined becomes the eye to eye physical. I certainly did not expect that, i can tell you. They're all right, i suppose. Gramps is sweet, with his strong lower london accent. Strands of white hair are combed over his forehead. WHen he laughs, his squashed face creases with merriment, and turns an alarming red. He makes me smile. Nanna is a very sharp lady; remarking on the cleanliness of every room (at least it had a jocund seasoning), and going into detail when recounting her travels. She's an apt conversationalist, with a broad knowledge of the particular, and a surprisingly modern sense of humour. I have no idea what to say to them though, or whether i'm expected to be a full time entertainer. Obviously, if that expectation exists, i am flouting presently. I can hear their voices seeping through the crack in the door.
However, it seems that i am not alone in my social uneasiness. There are sometimes times when conversation dries up, and we cast our eyes with sudden interest upon various items of furniture, and give that sigh that intends to say 'well, isn't this nice', but really means 'good grief, am i really resorting to this noisy expiration of breath just to fill a gap?'
Well, thank god for Missy i suppose. When the party experiences such a hiatus in entertaining exchange, we resort to observing the pooch. It's so strange- i don't pay her that much attention usually (what a cruel owner i know); but when other people are around, she suddenly becomes an object brimmed with interest. Nanna herself admits she is no animal lover, but for minutes at the time we have examined her foolish antics, with persiflage to heighten the illusion of ease.
pah says i.
Anyhoo, let us, dear reader, redirect this train of thought to station one. Opening the presents. Since nana and gramps are poms, they open their prezzies tomorrow. Thus, for perhaps half an hour, they watched with stretched smiles (mouth parted slightly) as we opened present after present. I felt so damn spoilt and selfish- particularly because Amy bought the family so many. I couldn't help myself fabricating some future scene of the two back in England, with Nanna exclaiming on the event sipping English Breakfast tea, with puckered lips and eyebrows struggling to reach heaven.
Well, i did tell you i was a grinch didn't i? I do love the gifts received though. My own sushi making kit, a new watch, books, a lavendar top, a watercolour book...
I wish they wouldn't spend so much on me. You know, i would gladly forgo my birthday. I don't like having a day to myself. I don't like the attention. eep.
I used to expect so much from such momentous days when i was little. You know, i'd wake up, invigorated from the promised magic of the day. I believed that there was something that set those days apart- everything was different then; i was invincible to all the trials and sufferings of the other days of the year. I recognise now that, well, frankly, there is no difference. It's just another day really. Sure, people make an effort to be more amiable, and your material status is heighted...but...i can't seem to get excited anymore. In fact, i think part of me attempts to stifle any thrill that may rise up from the depths, just to allay disappointment. That was the one bruising downside to my childhood optimism and amazing capacity for hope, my imaginitive readiness (yes, my dears, the great gatsby tweaked). If something went wrong...not according to the opal plan...i'd be so crushed. I remember on one of my parties, when i was about 6, and no one wanted to play with me at the Fun Factory. Amidst the rainbow plastic balls, the mini-punch bags and the sweaty foam, i snivelled like a hedgehog with a fly up it's nose.
20081223
Thinking about thinking about thinking can make your brain feel as though it were a small peanut that somehow lodged itself between Goliath's toes. In fact, the strain of attempting to eke an answer out of infinity ultimately makes one give up on cogitating altogether, and instead usher themselves gently to the plush mind sofa of oblivion. Perhaps the subconscious may stir so much as to recollect a dim old ditty and work its rusty tune by contraction and manipulation of the erstwhile philosopher's vocal chords, but mostly, fixing vacant eyes upon a spot of grime on the window pane will is the only symptom of such a state.
So. Christmas is coming. Haha, jolly, jolly, merry, hee hee, look out there's a fatal missile of christmas pudding at 2 o'clock, happy birthday jesus, we three kings, stuff a musty sock in that dastardly carollers mouth would you and here's a broom to sweep them off the porch, and here's a banana if things get nasty, ho ho, jolly, merry...merry.....
Nope. It's impossible. I can't get into the Christmas spirit. It kind of rebounds off me. The intensity of the exposure or even the length to that gay atmosphere has little effect.
Little did Kate know that it was not her own oppressive and saturnine demeanour that was the root of this perverse attitude towards the momentous annual event. Little did she know what she inherited with the house migration; the creatures unseen and unfelt that lurked in the recessions of her room, their long fingers groping out in the deep of night, searching, searching to satisfy their selfish hearts. Not many people in this world know of whom or what i speak of. In this commercialised world, Christmas connotations must, for the sake of the bliss of the public and the expensive cars of the media men, be saccharine and mirthful. The legends of Santa Claus and his reindeer are thus propagated, the innocent traditions held, the pleasing symbols of candy canes and large golden bells, of holly and mistletoe, strewn about most the western world. Strewn like a chicken farmer would scatter pellets to his poultry, whilst hiding the silver knife that would in a day, a month, a year, rest on their scrawny throats and deprive them of the happiness and pain life has to offer. Perhaps it is a good thing that so many are nescient of those-which-have-yet-to-be-named. If awareness of their presence spread, the few informed scientists (who spend their nights in a cardboard box with a lighter and a potplant for company) have predicted that which can only be termed an apocalypse of spirit. No more taking snaps of little Johnny's eyes expanding to the size of crop circles as he tears open his new train set. No more warm smiles floating about in warm candlelight, which set the scene to a rosy blush. No more Christmas trees toppling over with the hundreds of tacky ornaments the children worked so hard and stickily at. Instead, families would spent the December month huddled up in a cardboard box with only a lighter and a potplant for company, breathing harshly, and gaping with unveileved terror at the very thought of those fingers...
They are called Scrooges minions.
It is of great misfortune to me that i am well-read in this area. That i had not gone to that library in Nabu, or eaten that chocolate eclair, so that i would not have to stoop to pick up the wrapper that had fallen from my hand; and thus discovered the trapdoor beneath the persian rug. That i had taken heed of the words
'IF YOU OPEN THIS TRAPDOOR, YOU WILL BE HOMELESS, FRIENDLESS, SPIRITLESS, ANEMIC, ALLERGIC TO SHELLFISH AND GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.'
That i had not seen that shelf, fondled that book, let that spine open, and turn that page. That i had not read those words. And many 'that i had not's besides', i would have been a lucky man; boring perhaps, but still lucky. Instead, it is now my duty to research these fiends, night and day, until my eyelids are cracked, my bones are weary and my half-trained cannibal, Cornish Pasty, is starting to throw worrying side glances in my direction.
But now, my research is over, my findings are complete, and i can finally rest in the bosom of normal life. Here is my lifes research, and doom:
SCROOGES MINIONS:
scientific name: joyus diminishus
Size: Up to your knee
Weight: Varies upon distribution and abundance of humans
Location: Inhabits every country on the planet earth. Resides within bed chambers, in the cavities and corners and nooks and crannies of the room.
Appearance in Sunlight: none
Appearance at night: Humanoid in appearance. Their skin is deathly grey, as though bruised from a thousands wollops. Their heads are tiny, as they have no eyes at all. Two slit like nostrils occupy the region where the eyebrows should be, and below is the stuff of nightmares; a mouth, stretched eternally wide the lips sliding inwards over gums like a crude immitation of an old man without his false teeth. And long, long, fingers.
Occupation: They come at night. They come silently. They caress your throat, your hair, your closed eyelids. And drain the Christmas spirit out of you.
Beware, my friends, beware. And for pity's sake, do not let their vile hands grope towards that thrum of life at Christmas!
So. Christmas is coming. Haha, jolly, jolly, merry, hee hee, look out there's a fatal missile of christmas pudding at 2 o'clock, happy birthday jesus, we three kings, stuff a musty sock in that dastardly carollers mouth would you and here's a broom to sweep them off the porch, and here's a banana if things get nasty, ho ho, jolly, merry...merry.....
Nope. It's impossible. I can't get into the Christmas spirit. It kind of rebounds off me. The intensity of the exposure or even the length to that gay atmosphere has little effect.
Little did Kate know that it was not her own oppressive and saturnine demeanour that was the root of this perverse attitude towards the momentous annual event. Little did she know what she inherited with the house migration; the creatures unseen and unfelt that lurked in the recessions of her room, their long fingers groping out in the deep of night, searching, searching to satisfy their selfish hearts. Not many people in this world know of whom or what i speak of. In this commercialised world, Christmas connotations must, for the sake of the bliss of the public and the expensive cars of the media men, be saccharine and mirthful. The legends of Santa Claus and his reindeer are thus propagated, the innocent traditions held, the pleasing symbols of candy canes and large golden bells, of holly and mistletoe, strewn about most the western world. Strewn like a chicken farmer would scatter pellets to his poultry, whilst hiding the silver knife that would in a day, a month, a year, rest on their scrawny throats and deprive them of the happiness and pain life has to offer. Perhaps it is a good thing that so many are nescient of those-which-have-yet-to-be-named. If awareness of their presence spread, the few informed scientists (who spend their nights in a cardboard box with a lighter and a potplant for company) have predicted that which can only be termed an apocalypse of spirit. No more taking snaps of little Johnny's eyes expanding to the size of crop circles as he tears open his new train set. No more warm smiles floating about in warm candlelight, which set the scene to a rosy blush. No more Christmas trees toppling over with the hundreds of tacky ornaments the children worked so hard and stickily at. Instead, families would spent the December month huddled up in a cardboard box with only a lighter and a potplant for company, breathing harshly, and gaping with unveileved terror at the very thought of those fingers...
They are called Scrooges minions.
It is of great misfortune to me that i am well-read in this area. That i had not gone to that library in Nabu, or eaten that chocolate eclair, so that i would not have to stoop to pick up the wrapper that had fallen from my hand; and thus discovered the trapdoor beneath the persian rug. That i had taken heed of the words
'IF YOU OPEN THIS TRAPDOOR, YOU WILL BE HOMELESS, FRIENDLESS, SPIRITLESS, ANEMIC, ALLERGIC TO SHELLFISH AND GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.'
That i had not seen that shelf, fondled that book, let that spine open, and turn that page. That i had not read those words. And many 'that i had not's besides', i would have been a lucky man; boring perhaps, but still lucky. Instead, it is now my duty to research these fiends, night and day, until my eyelids are cracked, my bones are weary and my half-trained cannibal, Cornish Pasty, is starting to throw worrying side glances in my direction.
But now, my research is over, my findings are complete, and i can finally rest in the bosom of normal life. Here is my lifes research, and doom:
SCROOGES MINIONS:
scientific name: joyus diminishus
Size: Up to your knee
Weight: Varies upon distribution and abundance of humans
Location: Inhabits every country on the planet earth. Resides within bed chambers, in the cavities and corners and nooks and crannies of the room.
Appearance in Sunlight: none
Appearance at night: Humanoid in appearance. Their skin is deathly grey, as though bruised from a thousands wollops. Their heads are tiny, as they have no eyes at all. Two slit like nostrils occupy the region where the eyebrows should be, and below is the stuff of nightmares; a mouth, stretched eternally wide the lips sliding inwards over gums like a crude immitation of an old man without his false teeth. And long, long, fingers.
Occupation: They come at night. They come silently. They caress your throat, your hair, your closed eyelids. And drain the Christmas spirit out of you.
Beware, my friends, beware. And for pity's sake, do not let their vile hands grope towards that thrum of life at Christmas!
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