Tired

As part of a new regime, I'm forcing myself to do some writing everyday. I have to apologise for the posts below, as they are very much the result of the new rule. I'm tired today, so not up for much. The two pieces below are more for fun than anything else (although I'm sure they probably won't read that way, they are intended to be satirical... hmmm)

"I think I'll hit the showers, and get back to the Chekhov, coach!" looking upward, hope for encouragement painted all over the face.


"I think that's best, Billy" looking down, stern.

Road Rage: II

"Well, well, well
Hello, hello, hello"

I greet the boys in blue, between my red hands and the grey sky
Weather's all around us like a scene from Flann O'Brien
Misery and absurd humour
Like "Keep still, you little fucker!" they say
While they push me
Here and there, grabbing my arms and twisting my wrists
And if that weren't enough,
I'm hardly mid coitus here
So there's no need for them to call me "fucker"
And, though I'm loath to admit,
I'm almost the size of a bullbar-fronted housewife's lover machine.
Innacurate description of the suspect can
In some cases
Lead to false imprisonment

"Take me away," I say
"Take me, take me now!"
Unwell, I'm done in my mind
And I don't think I'll drive again.

Road Rage: I

It wasn't so much
The Traffic
Standstill, while I waited in an overheating car in an overlong tailback on an under-resourced road
Starting
Forward
Slow
ly
and
Jer-
kill
y
then
Stop
It wasn't the others
Who I had sympathy for - we were all in it together
Until a few filthy fuckers
Started playing sillybuggers
Cutting the rest of us up, cutting the rest of us out
Pushing themselves ahead and fucking the rest of us out of it
Fucking the rest of us off.
Nor was it
The politician on the radio
Who tried to grin it all away by going
"Isn't it wonderful now we're rich enough to have traffic problems?"
No, it's actually
The presenter and their stupid questions and
banter that means
Not a thing to anyone
least of all
me
It was the presenter
The fucking presenter
That made me take to those people with my car jack.

Performancing

Performancing is a very cool blogging tool for Firefox 2.0. Blog from any site (like clicking the "Blog this" link, except it's an option within Firefox. A small text editor appears, and you write away (as I am now). On the right, a list of your blogs (which are simple as hell to configure for username/password). Whe you're done writing, you select the blog to post it to, and you're done. It's a gimick, but I bet for professional bloggers, and those who keep and eye on the web, it's bizarre offerings and real benefits, this could be a compelling and (frankly) pretty cool way to blog!

powered by performancing firefox

My doppelganger is a killer.

How about that. See his photo on this page:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/tees/5412264.stm

He's the image of me. So, if you're out and about and see a convicted killer, don't worry. It's probably just me.

Rgds

Dinosaurs Extinction

Just reading this (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/5403570.stm)

This freight train of consideration courses through my mind:

1. No one really knows why the dinosaurs went extinct.
2. We do know dinosaurs were HUGE
   
3. Like all animals, they must have farted, particularly given all the vegetation and vegeation-eating-animals they ate
4. a Scientists reckon cows farts (methane gas) could be contributing to greenhouse gasses, and global warming.
   b ALSO, For some unknown reason, beasts with a high ecological impact on the world inevitably destroy themselves (cf. humans).
5. Now imagine a world populated by animals that would fart a cow out of existence, living happily and without care for millions of years.

Conclusion:
Disonsaurs made themselves extinct through flatulence.

Not just through the destruction of the environment, but also through issues such as social isolation, lonliness, and self-hatred. All well known symptoms of serial farters.

Think about it. I do.

The Boy With The Dog

NOTE: I don't know if anyone remembers this story, but a few changes has really made a difference. I quite like it now. Moreso than I did before. END OF NOTE:

The passengers on the busses passing stare at him, staring at them. In the dark blue of the morning, the city is belching and farting into life. Cars let out gasses, more so as they start moving three feet before stopping, their break lights bliking at the sudden wakening. People, people, people, all of the different kinds walk this way and that, nearly bumping into and nearly missing each other.

Coffee, cigarettes, breakfast rolls and newspapers all bob just above his head. He is standing stock still. He is in fine silks with combed hair but no shoes, a long way from wherever he belongs. Or at least, definitely not from here. Some people wonder what his deal is - has he parents, what's he doing there; but to avoid a scene they keep on going. They have somewhere to be anyway.

An employee trips in front of him, dropping a Styrofoam cup of tea and a scone. The employee gets himself up with his arms, moves on the way (he hopes) no one will look at him; notice him falling like a fool into the gutter. The boy, unnoticed, leans down and picks up the scone.

The first to approach him is a Gard. “Well, son. What are you up to then?” Now some passers by stop passing by. They peer at the Gard (now on one knee to look the boy in the eye) and the boy with the dog. Some say, “What’s going on?”; others say “Look at that mangy mutt”; still more say “Where’s his parents?” (as if knowing this would change anything).

One comes over to the Gard. “What’s the problem Gard?”, shows the Gard a card, and the Gard nods. The Gard says “I’m just trying to find out if this young fella’s alright.” Someone from the crowd shouts “Lock him up Gard! Can’t you tell he’s up to no good!” Someone else replies “Shhh, he might be mad or something”, and smiles patronisingly back at the boy. “If he’s mad, he still needs to be locked up before he can cause any more trouble!” Dawson, the one beside the Gard says “I doubt he’s mad. Do you think maybe he’s foreign? Maybe he doesn’t understand English…” The Gard and Dawson now stand, side by side, staring down at the boy as if they were about to scratch their heads. “A foreigner! Get rid of him. Put him back on the fucking plane, will you!” The Gard turns and sees them all. Nearly ten now, standing in a wide semicircle, like Friday nighters waiting for the fight. “No, look. Move back now. Go on your way,” says the Gard with an ineffectual wave of his arm. Another one comes forward, and gets down on haunches, looks the boy in the eye. Close to the boy's face, holding his hands, shouting slowly “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Dawson says, “If he doesn’t understand English, shouting won’t help.” The newcomer glares, looks the figure up and down, gives Dawson a look and steps back into the crowd.

The Gard asks a garda radio for someone from Youth Services to come. He makes another appeal to the crowd to move on, but it's too late. The crown has swollen. They're closer now, and freer with their advice. A murmur in the crowd turns into a buzz as newcomers ask “What’s going on?” and those who know explain in seven minutes what has been happening in the past five. The boy stands there with his dog and his piece of scone.

The Gard is frustrated with the crowd, and his attempts to hide it highlight it, which, it is obvious, frustrates him more. Whatever about Youth Services for the boy, he needs backup for the crowd. He turns to them, humans every one, he assures himself, “Please,” he says, putting on an air of calmness “you've all got jobs to go to. Please go to your jobs and let me get on with mine.” “Lookit, how can we go anywhere while that boy is there with his dog?” cries one. Another: “Can’t you at least arrest him for animal cruelty? Look at the state of that dog! And it’s not on a leash – it’s the law that it has to be on a leash!” Voices are raising all the time. The history of events being described, advice to the Gard, threats to the boy, threats to Dawson (who still stood beside the Gard). They all assured each other they had rights, and this was against them, which meant this was wrong.

One old one ran forward from the crowd to the boy. Grabbing the boy's shoulders, this one shouts “What are you doing here?!” The dog growls; the boy calmed it by placing his hand on the dog’s head. Still, he doesn't speak. The Gard drags the old one back from the boy saying “Look, there’s no need to upset the lad…” The old one shouts over the Gard's shoulder “Look at what you’re doing! Why don’t you move on? Go home? Go anywhere! Just leave us alone! WE HAVE OUR RIGHTS, YOU KNOW”

So the boy still stands alone, one hand on the dog’s head, the other holding the scone, lips curled down. The Garda issue is now the crowd. Business news and the sounds of flushing toilets and pop bands are interrupted to advise people to avoid the area, on the recommendation of the Gards. But the people come in droves to see what's going on.

Nothing to Say

Nothing to Say

Saying Nothing

Writers Block, You See

Nothing to Say

Saying Nothing

Nothing says anything

But then Everything, Right Now, Says Nothing

It won't talk to me the way it usually does

Maybe it's something I've said

Maybe It's something I haven't done

Maybe maybe maybe maybe

Saying Nothing by Having Nothing to Say.

20 minute story

Drinking at the Waters Edge

They were drinking at the water's edge from the middle of the day. Jumping in and out of the water all day, now tired; they looked out at the lights peeking over from the other side. Moonlight and manlight streaked accross the solid ripples.
The boy held a can up to his mouth, and beer dribbled down his chin onto his shirt. "Shit", he said. "How about that." The rest laughed, and he looked at the girl. His girl; or so he liked to think. She was looking away out at the water. So he looked away over the water and stopped larking.
"Tea," said one of the other girls. "I think I need a cup of tea. I'm fucked from all this drinking." The rest made nyaah noises, and raised their various glasses, cans, bottles. She got up anyway and went back to the house.
When she came back, they'd all paired off except the boy who spilled his beer and the girl; both looked out to the sea. The boy looked over every so often, but then looked back out.
"Well lads, what's up with ye?" she asked. The boy looked over at his girl; she looked at the girl with the tea and said "Nothing. Just... thinking." The girls nodded, and the boy tried to think of something to think of. He looked down at his hands, clasping and unclasping each other. It helped him concentrate on not talking or showing off.
From over a rock covered in darkness came a laugh, followed by a bikini top. "You bastard" said a young one over there. Who was she with? The boy wondered. He thought she had a great sense of humour. Would his girl have... no. No, it couldn't be like that, he thought. Not us. We're more serious, you see, he said to himself. He looked at the girls beside him, who were grinning to each other, but looked sternly at him. No, he thought. Definitely not.
"Sham" came a voice from the other direction, "Sham!" again, louder, "Sham! Come here!" He looked at the girls, and they looked at him. At first he did not move, but then they looked at each other. So he got up and followed the voice. "What is it?"
"Look at this..." said Jimmy's distracted voice. Sham stopped dead and said "What're you up to?" He looked back at the girls, but they were now immersed in conversation. "Have you beer with you?"
"Yes. Just come over here. C'mon!"
"Ok, Ok, I'm coming"
It was a dead sheep, lying on its side, neck broken so you could see the twinkles from both open eyes. "Well, he didn't see that coming" said Sham, and the three boys already there laughed. That's what they wanted me for, thought Sham.
"Too sheepish to swim" another said, starting in a whisper, ending in a scream; it flopped. They looked at the sheep, its seaweed tethers, the blue stain on the back.
"Here, Sham" said Jimmy, "here." Sham went over to him and put his foot under it at the arse. Jimmy had the head. "Ready... one... two... three!" Sham went to kick it over sideways, but Jimmy kicked it upways. Sham jumped back and screamed. The boys laughed at that one. One of them gave him a beer. The girls looked over and said "What's going on?" Oh Jesus no, thought Sham. Now she'll know. It was the girl with the tea who saw them, but she screamed, so Sham's girl came over too.
"Aw Jesus Christ, what's wrong with ye? Jesus Christ. Can't you see it's dead?" Sham tried to get mature, but couldn't help himself. He giggled along with the other boys. They looked at the dead thing, and looked at the girls, and couldn't believe they didn't get it. The girls looked at the dead creature, then at the boys giggling, and couldn't believe they didn't get it.
"Sham..." his girl said,
"What?" he tried to say it softly, hoping she'd ask him away with her for a minute; but in his rush to reach out, it sounded like he was too busy to answer. She went back to the house with the girl with the tea.

kind of faux-poor man's-bad beckett...

She hands over the paper. Both of us look at our hands, exchanging. Both soft. "Not a day's work..." Still makes me angry, but not at her, not anymore. The grey walls meet the grey sky above us, and neither of us look, as it's nothing spectacular. Everything feels like a definite unknown; truly false; clearly confused.
They dressed me and disabused me, and left me out to fend for myself. I had to dress myself now. Fucking hell. Would've been easier if they had me do that from the start. But that was the problem, they said: that I always needed someone to have me do something. I should do something for myself, they said. After the years of telling me to not be selfish and do something for someone else for a change! Hypocrites, all of them.
Now, she is telling me I must do something. I wish I knew what, but she won't tell me. She says she doesn't konw either. If she doesn't know, how can she know there's something I need to do? This is why I'm confused. They told me to think before acting in future. That was after my brother's funeral. So after that time, I always thought before acting. But now they say I think to much. It might be the thought that counts, they say wrily, but it's the action that matters. How does that help me?
I have the paper now anyway. Blacking fingers run past the peadophiles, terrorists, politicians and other scourges of decent society to get to the jobs. I need a job, I'm told. I don't feel it myself, but here I am with black fingers and an intent look; copied from the other boys on the bench, waiting to be called so they could excuse themselves from work for another week. Every ritual humiliation holds the same moment. When you're sitting doing nothing, and it passes your mind that this week, they might just understand. Not at all, they do not. "Look" they say "I understand" they say "I'm like you" they continue "and if I could get a job, so can you" they cheer. "Well", you feel like replying "If I do get a job" confirming their request "Then you're good at your job" flattery gets you everywhere, you have to put it in, "But then you might lose your job" you sympathise "because the benches over there would be empty" you postulate "With everyone working" you explicate "Then where would we be?" asking rhetorically "Eternally swapping places" you answer for him "Because my job would be understanding you" you explain "And empathising that if I could get a job" you condition "then so could you" you reason. That kind of investigation deserves a pint. I decide to come back later.

very burroughs, I think...

They line up and fill out the bars. They are repositories of true genius. If a man could crack open them heads and spill out that knowledge, Jesus, a fortune he'd uncover. A fuckin' fortune. They're tuned to the ether, these boys and girls. Don't bother flashing your Gold or Platinum card if there's no credit or cash shoring it up. They know. They smell money. That, or they use photographic memory and telepathy to run a quick credit check before coming over to you with rock hard abs or super tits and you only get one chance. If you blow it, that's it for you in this establishment. They leave a watermark on you: Useless. And anyone with that kind of money needs something that isn't money to make them feel good. These boys and girls are it. They're running the show. Why was your boss such a cunt this morning? He was branded as useless last thursday in the bar. Sure, he's got a wife and kids; big house; bigger car: but all of it means shite. He needs to feel human, and for him, this is as close as it gets. And he fucked it up. So you pay the price.

This is a place to put up short stories, observations and other short pieces. I keep going to brenswestern to do this, and it'll only get cluttered to shit if I continue. Consequentally, this will probably be the more updated blog, as it'll be a fairly simple in-out job on most entries. Except the short stories, which will probably be posted and re edited until they look nothing like they did originally. But, like I always say, if God wanted us to engage in fidelity, he wouldn't have made us such damned good liars.