Sounds scary. Shame I think shes trying to nudge me to put (something) on this blog. So I’ll say thankyou

Ok, so the rules are:

* Post at least five current addictions and why you’re addicted to them
* Link to the creator of the meme (Being Brazen) and to the person who tagged you
* Head your post with “Current addictions”
* Tag at least two people and pass on the above rules.

1. Writing on paper with black fineliners. Ok, I’m going to clump a fineliner addiction with this one. Ive bought 5 in a week. So back to the writing - in a spell of about 3 weeks I’ve been drunk with writing creativity. But whatever writing boogie I feel evaporates if I’m not writing on paper. I think the radio-waves from the computer screen shrink my juice. Awesome thing is, that almost unknown to me and automatically without any struggle, I have managed to come up with a very rough outline for an actual book. And if I write the thing in a year, or in 10 years, I WILL write it. My promise. Swear to blog.

1. I’m addicted to constantly checking my eyebrows in the mirror. On a whim I decided to dye my hair dark recently. Only thing is, I have very light eyebrows. So naturally, I dyed them too. The box said brown, not “Black like Me”! They are so dark, I look like a travelling Cuban sideshow clown. I never realized how caterpillar-like my eyebrows really were because they they’re so light. Now I know. I move them up and down and pull unthought of before facial expressions in the mirror accompanied by various South American accents. It’s definitely an addiction. I’m not sure if a support group exists though.

1. Jeans. I have about 12 pairs.

1. When I’m driving alone in my car, cranking up the music till it bleeds my ears, and screaming at the top of my lungs at the chorus. Accompanied by slightly too fast driving…

1. The folder 2008_03_02

I know I’m supposed to tag 2 people, but - seriously, have you seen my blogroll…

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Oh man, I just want to say sorry for three things.

Firstly, its for the picture. I wanted a picture for the post, so I arbitrarily picked this -  you can go wrong with a drawing of two fat (one hairy) man beasts getting it on. Its possible.  Next, for the intensely crap content on this blog of late. And lastly, for not really adding new posts for ages. To my 5 readers - apologies…

The only time I get to work on this is at night after a long drive and a serious working day inspired computer allergy.

But!

Although I haven’t been writing on this blog, I am very happy to announce that I have been writing at night. By hand with a black fineliner. Old school baby! I have a black fineliner fetish.  Even people who know me well dont really know the ticking in me to create shit. I used to draw and paint thought the night, completely fill an A4 hardcover book in one sitting with writing writing writing and scribbles and diagrams and drawings…

I haven’t created in a long time. And its knocking the door down. I’m trying lots of new cool things with my writing - short stories, crazy short prose, character scetches, scenarios, ideas - anything goes. And I’m stoked at whats coming out. You wouldn’t recognise the writing from this blog. Its playful. I’m slowly getting the idea of how I should write. I’m excited.

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My beautiful and loving sister who has been married for 8 months has found out that she has been betrayed. And I seriously want to rip his fucking throat out.

I believe in people, I really do. But my faith is being tested by constant testimonies to selfish assholes. This is worse than murder - its a death of spirit and a person’s sense of worth. Do people have no strength of character, no backbone, no loyalty, no compassion, no love?

I seriously want to fucking kill him for doing this to her.

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Jeff Buckley

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Is the road hes walking on a man or a woman? The straight looks simple, archaic. Maybe its a man? But if he float upwards the curves will be revealed. Its a woman clearly. Magical. Genius is in simplicity and complexity he thought. The basic structure hides the seductress, the mercurial beauty, the unseen. The captivating charm is in the unknown, the mystery behind the possibilities. When the hard sun cascades up from the gravel upon sunset and makes him squint, she might be punishing him for staring at her winding curves too longingly, for thinking of her as he walks head down. She might be smiling at him, she might be laughing at his manly stupidity, she might be looking kindly. She will make him second guess his direction as she changes form like vapours. Roadsigns invert at every look. Solitary confinement thoughts cannabilizing themselves - playing games with his isolated road walking sensibilities. He falls in love with her. That’s the most natural thing. His steps echo like a hypnotising trance spell around his heart. It will resonate. Forever. The cold wind aches his knuckles. He enjoys it. Its intense feeling. Alive. Out of mind. And for a moment he understands why people self inflict cuts in thin chapters for pleasure and the ecstasy of unworthiness. His imagination might betray him. Perfectly formed hills will look like tender breasts in the distance. Everything looks like a woman now. Everything may seem out of reach. Antennas on top looking like tophat nipples teasing heaven above. Pervert.

Kicking a stone. Back to the name. It really sucks, but its all hes got. It wont leave him. He realizes that If someone pauses too long between Johnny and be Cool, it’ll sound like they’re telling you to be cool, to relax, instead of emphasising the unity of Johnny and Cool. Totally undercutting the intention. Badass becomes Softass. That’s the illusion anyway. Names, roads, woman, men, intention. Its all in the space, and its not there at all.

There is no illusion. There is no imagination. Its just the climate of the road. Its what it is until you make it what it isn’t. Its all simple, all beautiful, all genius. He reluctantly sticks to his old name - Gertrude. And if you snicker he will come out punching baby.

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Friends were everywhere. I was always the sports day mascot because i looked like a Buddha baby. Fat cheeks with dimples i couldn’t hide, girls used to always want to carry my Mr Men school-case because it was half my size, and i mustve looked like like it was attacking my lobsided hip as a waddled around with it.

In my flashback I saw I was in my own universe. Content. Kids wanting to be close to me, mommies wanting to steal me and put me in their cubbyholes as they were waiting for their giant kids after school. But i didn’t see them. I liked being on my own - kicking a stone alone around the sports field at break time. I think i looked sad to everyone. A sad, cute, dimple smiling, gentle little boy. I wasn’t sad - I loved my own universe. My best times were when it had been raining and puddles of water were scattered around the outside of the school. I always had to wait for my mom to pick me up. She was always late, but i didn’t mind.

I looked at this boy smiling to himself - hunched over and breaking up twigs and laying stones delicately and thoughtfully in the puddles - creating a little paradise with imagination unbounded in puddles. I was always creating. 3 paint colours, a piece of paper and i was in heaven.

Its a gentle reminder to me - its OK if my view isn’t understood. I didn’t care what other kids thought of my paradises in puddles - I thought they were amazing. I used to wave goodbye to them as i sat with my face to the back car window - hoping they would survive the night. Ive been swamped with the need to be appreciated lately, maybe somehow validated for my outlook. Doubting myself for the first time ever. But seeing that little happy ball of love all by himself was amazing. I have grown the strongest desire to share myself. That’s a good thing I think, but its not the only thing. Things exist on their own, they exist with you being there to witness them, they are best when shared, but they are all equally important.

Back to creating. Its what i was born to do. I am never alone. Thank you for showing me that Bem Bem. You cute little zen fucker.

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Like the first day of school holidays when it seemed like it was summer for the first time. Excitement, spontaneity, and all possibilities in the air. Blue Peter skirts and the smell of perfume and freshly blowdryed hair, glimpses of leg and grins. “Why do you keep looking out of the window?” at the tree. “I don’t know”. Meaning I’m afraid. Inexperienced in these moments. Excited to a standstill. In awe of the energy. Afraid of it. Sea air at night time. I can smell it. The way the moon hit the sea that night was something I will never be able to forget. Beautiful, beautiful, so beautiful. The moon stood no chance. It never will. Take a walk with me. I look different in the moonlight. I look different under this tree. Chasing the memory and imagination, I will always believe in the possibility. Fool maybe, most probably. Always the fool. My stories are old now and listening to them may not sound like they do on the beach or under the tree. But they are the same, they are the same they were back then. Its the same eyes behind this smile. Its the same warmth to my skin. Whatever beauty that made you grin is here. Its the same heartbeat you would do anything to get close to. No plea in any way. That’s not me. Desperate to treasure the good and not cling to the dying. I just cant believe in the death as I sat under the tree. I will trot along in my funny hat towards the treeless future if that’s what it holds.  My disclaimer is that i know I’m the fool. I would just rather be this fool than any thing else. I will take moonlight and oceans over any kind of nuts and bolts. Maybe that is the sign of a true fool. Dying needs, routine - moonlight replaced with tv, I still always watched an angel sleeping with absolute love and a rainbow smile.

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