Anagrams and Enigmas bound in the Wicked Truth

  Down in the midst of my rhythm, I felt a deep need. I needed a bullet in the head of every son of a bitch who didn’t bother to recycle his wasted opinions. Within every spoken stroke of faith I needed an equal dose of martyrdom to legitimize the risk that wasn’t there. I needed a solution to a solution. But pigs don’t fly.

  Life had winded down to a slow halt; I could see everything for what it was at that very moment. It was a Wednesday night, mid-week party night, and I wanted out. I couldn’t give a fuck for all the sluts, douche bags and phonies out there looking for a good ‘get your rocks off’ time. No, I wanted to escape this scene all together. The scene to be seen had to be done in, entropy had to reign. Strange enough, I realised, what undermines it is what made it survive this long. Drunken fervour’s entropy made it outlast itself far beyond its own grip. It was gone now. Euphoria had lost itself to itself. The spiral had begun long ago, and now I wanted it all gone.

  It’s nights like these that remind me why, exactly why, I need to screw over every smile, lie to every honest face and destroy any hope of a future. Things need ends, and I need to show no quarter.

  I found my life in a strange turn. I have reason to be happy. Everything seems to be going fine. Things could be better, and things could be worse. Overall, there is a balance. A balance in the balance. Laughing I recall the exact moment when I decided I wanted to live this out. I don’t want to die. There is no point to death, but there isn’t much to living either. So, why choose the one over the other? Simple, really. I have full control over what happens in my life; I am conscious. So, naturally, I might as well, out of interests sake, see this through to the end. See what happens, I mean, what do I have left to lose? What can I lose? Death is at the end, anyway, so go through life, see what’s it’s all about and then, when death comes, allow it its turn. Why not? Everything is an experiment. Relationships, labour, life; none of it is final and set in stone. The past is, yes, but the past doesn’t bend in the future, no matter how much we lie to ourselves.

  I have, from time to time, wicked thoughts. Evil, vile...Funny, evil and vile are anagrams. But I am serious. I think of taking selfish routes, leaving behind torn hearts, empty desires and people without dreams. I look at the world around me, and the only thing I find I can belong to is myself. I see no bond with family, friends, buildings...I want to break away, so to say. I want to be gone. I don’t take photos, and I don’t want them to exist of me. I need to possess my identity, because when I choose to disappear I don’t want people to cling onto physical proof of a memory shared. I want the memory to fade, as fragile as it is. I want people to forget me. I need them to forget me. I don’t want to be remembered. Not that I want to chew down some worms. No, never. I just feel that I need that bit of control. It makes me happy to know that I have a grip on that. Fortunately I have left so far few traces. I need to collect up all my traces and be gone.

  I see people going through life, struggling, to be happy. Sometimes it’s an uphill battle. Sometimes it’s the easiest thing in the world for them. I don’t want to be happy. Happiness is rather useless, yes, but that’s not why I don’t want to be happy. I want to see the earth curve; I want to feel the moon burn through my heart, I need to look back at the life I’ve led and see it all disappear under the waves. I need to be just another rain drop. Forgotten as soon as possible. My only request is that my actions stand on their own. The principles. I don’t want a name attached to what I have done; I don’t want my name there. If I’ve written a book, I want the book to last and flourish, without my name. If I took a photo the photo should be remembered, not for me taking it, but for its beauty. Give credit where it is due, and no, I don’t deserve any of it. In my life I’ve always been irritated by praise. It makes my stomach curl, turns my soul sick. I want to know what is wrong with what has been done or what was done right. I don’t care for a ‘good job’ or a ‘well done’. Tell me, honestly, whether it’s good or bad, what can be improved or undone.

  I realise now that this is the first time in weeks that I’ve been able to write like this, in a trance of sorts. Depression is a type of high, I guess. I don’t need drugs, alcohol or any chemical to get me where I can’t get on my own. If I can’t get there myself, then I don’t want to. I don’t need cheats. All I need is the slow rhythm of a breeze, a ticking clock or a rolling wave. I don’t need people. And they don’t need me. I feel alone, but comfortable. I am not depressed by it in the slightest, but I don’t feel liberated either. It’s a perfect harmony; balance achieved.

  I have to look ahead now, I guess. There is a girlfriend, who is fond of me. There is a mother, a father, a perfect set-piece collection, with their hopes resting on my shoulders, and their love pushing me from behind. But for some reason, I still feel, this slow, peaceful melody of melancholy and alienation playing softly in the back of my head. It’s growing stronger. I think I have to figure out what I want, yes. First yes of this text, interesting. And now a second. What I want is that which is most important to me. Red is important. Red is the rhythm, red is the grip on life, on being that I need. It’s sad to note, that red is slipping away from the world; one by one. Not even my girlfriend is red. Not my family, not my friends, red is elusive and rare. Last living thing that was red is gone, now there is only me. Black and neutral; I am above and beyond. I am one and I am all. Zen to ichi, ichi to zen. Not always a bad thing. It’s just sad, that there isn’t a red heartbeat for me to live for or look for. I miss her. Every time I think of her it makes me cry.

The Curse of Rondo the Magnificent

  I'm never truly miserable. There is always a reason why I am depressed and I can to an extend trace it down. Depression is a temporary state of being, and most people have forgotten this it seems. Pills cure diseases. Death is avoidable, to an extent, so why should feeling blue not be?
  This generation is subjugated to drugs rather quickly, I think. I'm personally terrified of the blank stares, the general lack of 'soul', if you will, in this world. The eyes are stale, stagnating and clear of thought. Words lack flavour, their intent is routine and managed by the social Zeitgeist. There is no thinking involved. It's all left-right-left-right. Going through the motions, rather than actually fully participating in them.
  There seems to be this ideology growing that it is completely undesirable to feel any pain whatsoever. Fine, yes, depressions sucks, but fuck it, at least it's a goddamn emotion. If you want a salary you have to work for it. If you want to girl you have to muster up the courage to ask her out. This is all rather pathetic. It's denial. I am not saying embrace depression and be depressed all the time; rather accept it as a part of your life and through creative means try to manage it. Management is the word here, because we fluctuate between moments of bliss, misery and in-between flights of being. The only reason why I don't croak myself is because I know it gets better after a while. Nothing lasts forever, and thank Mikhail for that.
  Recently I have been told by a close friend that I need to either see a Psychiatrist or seek anti-depressants. Now, the thing is I will do neither. I have seen Psychiatrist, and honestly it doesn't work for me. I'm better off on my own in that extend, because I do on my own what I do with Psychiatrist anyway. I have my own insights, epiphanies, and so on. I can argue, debate and converse with myself. I don't need to chuck a sum of money at someone to do that. Thanks, but no thanks.
  And the pill thing scares me, honestly. I will not deny my sadness at the cost of my happiness. Pills don't remove the problem, unless the problem is a chemical one. Bi-polar people need not worry; this is not an attack on you. Taking pills because you're a Bi-polar 'victim' is like taking painkillers because you suffer from a broken leg. Sure, there's other ways too, but pills work.
  So, why do I have such a problem with anti-depressants then? Well, first off, it's too often an early and unneeded solution. Oh, I'm sad, pop a pill. No, I will not do this. We are too trigger happy with our pills. Call it premature ejaculation, or shooting without asking questions first. It's all the same. It does not solve the problem; it does not look at the issue at hand and ask why? All it does is drown out. I have been told there is no shame in taking anti-depressants. Of course there is no shame, you had no choice. You had a gloomy day so pop up, shoot up and drop out. Fuck, that is over reacting to a response to the situation.
  Secondly, I enjoy being in-tune with the world. Drugs are to humans what autotune is to music. It creates an artificial being. And make no mistake, all these beauty products are also drugs. Fake and plastic are words often used, but I would like to replace them with my own; deceitful. When I use the word in-tune I am talking about the proper response to a situation or scenario. Now, this proper response may be called something or assumed to be a response of pure politeness, or something along those lines. You act correctly. No, I don't believe this. The proper response is the response that is uniquely your own. Our actions speak for; we show the world who we are through speech, deed and response. We need to be a part of our action. How do we respond properly when we are too drugged out and numb to even know ourselves?
  Fuck, no. I'm not taking pills to drown out myself. This is a choice between two evils. I can either accept and tolerate my misery (that only rears its ugly head every now and again) or I can choose to lose myself completely and follow the mob. I'm going with the drug free option here. I need to be myself; I need my creativity, because my creativity relies on my ability to understand the situation, to see the proper response. I need to be in-tune with myself as an agent in the world, and not as some numb, dumb, deaf and blind spiritual leper. I refuse to be an emotional cripple. I'll brace the storm and enjoy the ride. You have to. Buy the ticket, take the ride and watch the swine chase you through life. This is the curse of Rondo, but hey, it's going to be fun. We got no flag, got no home, and this is the army of none. Every man, woman and idiot for themselves.
  But as always, unto each his own

Truck-Truck-Trucking

  It was another sleepless night that led to this terrible saga of words and text. I've recently started reading Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels, and I think it best to express to you all that it is most definitely an excellent book to read.
  But this isn't what's been keeping me up. The fact is, I have no idea. I have mere speculations, which is annoying, as speculation doesn't really soothe the mind, it only leads to more troubled thoughts which increases the speculation and it snowballs from there.
  Optimism is in the air again, and this worries me greatly. My mind doesn't handle optimism well. I'm fine with pessimism, it's easy to shake off and ignore, and indifference gives me the equal playing field I need for hurling myself at my interests. Optimism, on the other hand, carries with it a fear of falling. It's the darker side to it most people ignore and when they experience it they usually swear against becoming optimistic ever again. I enjoy optimism in the same fashion as one would enjoy crucifixion. Sure, it makes a great symbol for other people, but it sucks being the one with the nails in your body.
  But I'm not ready to embrace some form of nihilism either. Rather, I'd prefer to keep an open mind as far as possible. Screw negativity along with positivity. I remain indifferent so I can embrace the negativity of a fight, or the positive light in a conversation.
  Perhaps this is what's been keeping me up all night so far. Or perhaps I've got some bug I need to sort out. All I can say is, Vamos!

Shut up Knave, let the child speak

  And so it's time for a personal revolution. No more sitting around taking punches. No more feeling a bitter sting and having salt thrown upon my wounds. This is an uprising, and you'd be best warned not to steal. To put it more simply; I'm fed up and it's war on thee if the challenge arises.
  I had an epiphany recently. A simple one really. Pisses me off that I hadn't realised it earlier, but oh well, these things come to shore as the tides and waves allow it. This is once again on the topic of being a 'nice guy'. A 'nice guy' is basically just someone who offers help when asked, but is not inclined to accept taking advantage of someone. Now, there is a distinction between taking advantage of someone and accepting their help. Extortion, for personal gain, that will lead to some negative effects on the other person, is taking advantage of someone. Nice people aren't inclined to do so because they themselves are used to this type of behaviour. Think of it this way, a nice guy is always the friend you can trust to put him/herself last and you first. Your concerns come first and they will help you to realise those concerns even at their own cost. Of course, this is an extreme version of it.
  Now, what I have noticed is that I am also a nice guy to an extend. When asked to do something for someone I usually oblige. Of course I haven't been thoroughly tested in this. No stranger has ever come up to me and asked me to help him or her with something grave, like burying a dead body or changing a wheel. No, I can only use my relationships with my friends and family as an example and a realm for my 'niceness' to roll around in.
  So, here is what I proclaim; I am done being overtly nice to people just because I know them a little bit. I'm going to learn how to say 'no', a lot more properly than I used to. I am only going to be pleasant and helpful to those who deserve it and are equally selfless. Maybe then things will go right. I don't know. All I know is that I am tired of being a carpet to an extend. Fuck, this was a childish piece of writing, don't you think.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Pen and Paper Ramblings

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Pen and Paper Ramblings: "Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully. – Samuel Johnson A blank p..."

Pen and Paper Ramblings

Depend upon it, Sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully. – Samuel Johnson

  A blank piece of paper transformed from its stark blank stare into a doodle, a sketch or a painting has more pleasant epiphanies for me than most conversations. You learn to appreciate curves with a better understanding. Shadows are not of the devil, but are needed to show you where the light has cracked in. Smiles are as beautiful as flowing hair, grins as striking as a solar eclipse and every iris a blooming flower.

  Art is a reflection at times. It’s a combination of the outer and the inner. I sketch something, a flower, a mountain, a dog, a woman, because I’ve reacted to it internally. I see a glimmer of soul in a mountain range that resonates with an inner working of mine, it compliments a certain outlook, whether through contradiction, absurdity or conformity.

  I found myself in the strange position tonight of returning to a situation I had left abandoned for years now. I sat down and I sketched. I drew cartoonish creations of my friends, I experimented with a self-portrait of myself in shadow and coal, and I sketched a beauty that makes me anxious, hopeful, and self-doubtful and a nervous, smiling wreck. I appreciated all these more with every stroke, trail and scratch of the pencil and pen.

  Now I face an internal dilemma. I sketched something, or rather someone, beautiful to me. The problem arises that what I know of her seems at times beautiful, and other small, minor bits I might detest. My problem is that I know too little to really experience her as beautiful. Skin, flesh and collected bodily adornments have no part to play in my criteria of beauty. The body is not a standard of beauty, nor is it a candle that shines in the dark.

  Beauty is knowing, understanding and feeling the rhythm of a person. This is a beauty that grows with time, that stretches and expands itself through experience if the person, or thing, enhances his, her or its better aspects. It can also recede, obviously. Where there is growth there is the obvious chance for both death and recession to get their crooked, but well meaning, feet in the door.

  This all seems very clichéd to me at times, especially it seems more so hearing it spewing forth from my tongue. But the words jump off without little effort, and there is hardly a hold or watch on my tongue to ensure that I do not embarrass myself. My words are true. I mean every letter’s curve and trail of it.

  Now another problem arises, just as one is considered another raises its head to jest, stab and in plain Saxon; irritate the fuck out of me. I do not trust others enough to believe that they would agree with my viewpoint on this matter. I have found myself agonizing over a girl. A lovely grace, I think, and one who has quite an influence on me. She fills my thoughts, and it is a sweet, melancholy torture for me at times, because right now, and for the past few weeks I’ve been unable to act upon my intentions. Now, now; I’ve not cut my head off and thrown myself at the mercy of a woman just yet. I know too little of her to fully embrace the thought of an eternal love scenario. No, rather, I’m open to a risk. This risk is what I’ll call a leap of faith. Maybe in the religious sense of it, but also in that ‘fuck it all’ sense. Yes, I’ll risk throwing myself off a cliff very soon, but I’m planning on falling into an ocean, so if I hit the waves at the very least I’ll feel a sudden cold and experience the battering coastal rocks, but I’ll survive.

  There does exist that paranoia that I might just be embarrassing myself miserably. But that is the risk. What this infatuation has caused is a growth within my own sense of self. A deeper understanding. On one hand, I’ve realised that I am indeed a spectacular catch; I’ve got a sense of humour, I’m dashing and charming to an extent and highly likable if I desire to act so. Sadly, on the other hand, I’m also strikingly weird, isolated at times, silent and indifferent. I’ve found myself wanting more, but not acting because I feel myself a burden unto others. It’s that whole ‘treat others as you want to be treated’ guilt trip. I wish not to be burdened by other people, so I feel I should not burden them. The problem is people are on a whole to nice, quiet and secretive to tell me whether I am being a little shit, and so I’m left to speculate and speculation has hardly ever yielded a positive result for me.

  But here is my creed; I’m willing to carry a burden, any burden, for this girl and for some of my close friends. Fuck, I’ll even hang on to their troubles and help after they’ve decided to unburden me. I’m willing to take the punishment they have to endure. Simply reason why; they’d do the same for me. We’re not always aware when we’ve let go of a person in our lives, and often when we have it’s damn difficult to rebuild the bridge between us. Someone has to keep holding on, as idiotic as that sounds. I’ve lost great friends in my life for simplistically stupid reasons and some of it I regret. Now, I’m going to hold on and I’m going to risk some of my false dignity.

  In the end, there can only be one thought you die with, and I’d like mine to be of something red; a crimson beauty. For red is the colour of life, of a roaring existence. Write my name in the red book and mark it with black ink.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Someone's in the Wolf; What a Killer Scene You've ...

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Someone's in the Wolf; What a Killer Scene You've ...: "'Yes, man is mortal, but that would be only half the trouble. The worst of it is that he's sometimes unexpectedly mortal - there's the trick..."

Someone's in the Wolf; What a Killer Scene You've got here man

'Yes, man is mortal, but that would be only half the trouble. The worst of it is that he's sometimes unexpectedly mortal - there's the trick!' Mikhail Bulgakov


  During the brightest hours of my years I've been at my most cynical. Perhaps the currents are pulling me in a post-modernist position. At least I've noticed that my cynicism also prevails during the stretches of darkness, whether it be labour, study or the odd personal relationship. I cannot go further without admitting that I hate that term; personal relationship. Call it what you will, a human bond, an integral part of the human condition or simply girl trouble. But I've squandered my point and wasted into dwelling away from what I was ranting on again. Damn. Focus, focus you bastard.
  Now, I'm not a manic depressive, nor am I bipolar. I have rides. Up and down, criss-cross and the odd strange bend. I've bought the ticket and I'm willing to take it wherever it goes, no-matter if the destination is a crash and burn or a lazy, slow drive through a boring country side. 
  But what am I saying here? Fuck knows. I'm usually lost in this myself. Let the words flow. Each letter has to form a word according to the beat, and each word must flow into the next with the rhythm of a rosenrot hum.
  I guess it's time for a metaphor or an analogy. I am the wolf. Now, hold on. Wolves are not solitary animals. They are social, pack animals. A lone wolf is either one looking for a pack or scouting, but other than that it is wrong to consider wolves to be anti-social creatures. I am not anti-social. I may be introverted, but I enjoy it greatly to mingle and learn from other people. Yes, that's my only reason for communicating with the other proteins of our species. I enjoy learning from them. Expanding horizons, if you will, but there is something else to it. It's not a search for knowledge; this is not an inquisition into what makes the world tick tick tick tick until it finally breaks. No, I am motivated by interests and my own self-satisfaction when it comes to fulfilling that interest.
  I am solidly interested in languages, opinions, cultures, music and various lists and twists of topics. Something doesn't have to be useful for me to want to know it. I merely need to know something about it. Knowledge is not power, knowledge is a set of colours that flows and paints and strides and bleeds and curves and smiles and and and and and. I can go on, all the way down, turtle upon turtle.
  So, what am I getting at here? I am the wolf, once more. I am not interested in the little rave scenes you've got going. They're cute, okay. They think they're smart. It's okay; they are. I'm not interested in the daily demise of your hours unless you've got that spark in your smile, that crooked glimmer of hope and despair or the twisted carnage with which you enjoy your routines. I am not interested in those mortals, living, who take strides like they are immortals. They speak, but lack the will to forge their words into possessing any form of meaning. I am interested in those who are fully aware of their mortality, their own fragile shell, and despite this take strides to challenge themselves. Whether it be their brittle lives, their language, their understanding or their beliefs, people who seek to grow in face of great adversity are the ones with the most fascinating aspects to their lives. The trick is to escape life, not with death, but with a cracked smile on your face and walk through hell like you own the goddamn place.
  Now, what have I gotten at. I'm still not sure. I'm not coherent enough to make it work. What I am though, is a barghest, and here I sit, smiling at you all, with a cracked grin on my face, asking you;
  Can you survive irony's vicious temperament? 

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Bite thy Tongue; You Drivel and Rant too much and ...

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Bite thy Tongue; You Drivel and Rant too much and ...: " Here we are again. Some how I believe someone had already written that, and could have possibly even started with that sentence. But fuck ..."

Bite thy Tongue; You Drivel and Rant too much and say nothing!

  Here we are again. Some how I believe someone had already written that, and could have possibly even started with that sentence. But fuck it, right now I'm not aiming for originality.
  I'm tired of being a nice guy. Nice here meaning of course the type of person who gets taken advantage of. Nice people are generally equipped with a high level of tolerance. We're the ones who get up at five in the morning to pick you up in another town and bring you home 'cause you got pissed and found yourself far away from any friendly zones. We're the ones who feel sorry, try and help and above all else, put up with your bullshit.
  For all it means to be nice, it rather sucks. It's painful at times actually. Some easy and often clichéd examples are the over used situation of the nice guys never getting the girls. Girls dig jerks, apparently, but that is a lie. We only notice what we want to notice. That is the other problem with being a nice guy; never someone else's fault, always yours. Nice people tend to take unnecessary burdens for no reason. It's stupid.
  Now, my issue with being nice is that I am too nice too often. I've been described as a nice guy, amongst other things, but great kid or great person usually just means the same as nice. For all that it is worth being nice there isn't a lot to show for it. My life has largely been lacking in some content. That some of it's my fault I won't deny. A lack of action, courage and a tendency to just do things have hampered and stunted some of my intentions.
  The problem with being nice is a contradiction between action and effect. Not always, it should be clear, but where the nice person usually is concerned things go awry. Or at least on my part. I'm not the most optimistic person in the world, in fact, I'm rather indifferent. And yet still I'm a nice person. I'd help someone change a tyre, be polite, help someone with homework at my expense. But at the same time I'm rather vicious in social circles in that I can cause unwelcome confrontation. So maybe that's it, eh? I'm a nice guy to keep myself in equilibrium. I don't want to be utterly despised, so I try and counter my viciousness and malice with gestures of friendship and 'sweetness'. Sweetness is a word I rather hate. The word sweet itself is rather despicable. Dublin. Now there is a beautiful word.
  I honestly don't know why I'm writing this. Guess I'm just feeling like ranting a bit. Not really too interested in other people, just a few.
  My biggest issue right now is the one keeping me awake and working hard. But I'll leave it at that. All I can say it, that person makes me want to be a better person. Guess I've found to many faults with myself too often. Perhaps that's why I'm trying to learn a couple of languages, write and study; I view myself as not worthy of being anyone's, not even a friend. Mainly because I can't see what there is to value in myself. But let me make this clear; I not only like who I am I would have it no other way. Part of who I am is to constantly try and improve myself. Rather not improve myself, no, indeed not. Wrong word; I'm trying to broaden my interest and explore them. It's not improvement, it's self-satisfaction.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Resolution to Revolution

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Resolution to Revolution: " I've got a slight problem. It rams itself into me every now and again. Luckily it's not life threatening or vicious. Rather, it has a hold..."

Resolution to Revolution

  I've got a slight problem. It rams itself into me every now and again. Luckily it's not life threatening or vicious. Rather, it has a hold on me for a period of time and it struggles to keep that hold. From time to time, like all humans, I become depressed. Some times it simply comes from telling myself that I am depressed, that I can't get what I want and all that negative, self-undermining bullshit.
  There is comfort in knowing that, most likely, by the next day it will all be gone. Not always, but most of the time it'll fade. The problem with that is though that I need to actually fall asleep. Depression wrestles and writhes against it quite fiercely and the nod remains allusive for hours. This extents the time I'm left alone with my thoughts, and they become drenched with misery, uncertainty and self-doubt and they weigh down heavy on my mind.
  Now, I will never commit suicide. I'd almost say I don't believe in it, it doesn't work for me. It removes you from the problem, not the problem from you. It's a cowardly escape; you move more to its will than your own. You are driven to suicide.
  The key to escaping its grip, depression's hold on our fragile threshold, is to counter it. If something strike you can strike back. Why not? Don't just lie there and take it. The way I see it, there is quick, euphoric releases; drugs work well in this department as does sex, I guess. These are our quick fixes. But you fall soon and you'll need to find it all again.
  I'm putting my bets on eudaphoria.  Hope I've spelled that right. No, I don't think that is a word, either way. Screw it, but I'll leave it there. What I'm going to argue for here is the slow type of euphoria, that building happiness. It comes as a surprise when you realize you're actually happy. Most of the time you're just lingering, apparently appearing, as if you're in a between state. Never too happy, never too sad. Of course there are always ups and downs, but they're no where near intense as the short burst mode counterpart. Rather, you realize you're happy one day, and it lingers for weeks, months. You build on it. You work hard, study, exercise and toil for this type.
  I very much prefer to balance the two. Right now, I'm not really fulfilling either. I can satisfy both needs easily, but this is not the location for it. I enjoy studying as much as I enjoy spending time with friends, reading books and writing as much as I do watching football.
  One of the things that makes me happy in an instant and in the longer run is studying languages, and at this moment Mandarin in particular. I still have wishes and a great desire to learn Japanese, but I have to save that for my later years, as right now there is hardly anyone to teach me.
  Mandarin isn't too pleasant on the ear, and its structure is ridiculously easy for me to understand (no conjugations). I enjoy it very much, but I enjoy learning it and broadening my understanding of it. The way it is constructed, the written script and the rhythm. Yes, people, Mandarin has rhythm in it.
  One more language I'm seriously considering is German. Nay, I'm not considering; I am going to learn German starting this year. I absolutely have to. It is important for me to get a head start with it as next year I want to do full German language studies at my varsity and in order for me to make the load lighter I want a head start. The more I can come to grip with it now the better.
  And of course, there is the question, why German? German has its own aesthetics I enjoy. But that is all I can say right now, because I do not actually know the language as well as I'd like. I want to study German and gain a basic understanding of it so that I can have a deeper gauge of it; I want to find the beauty in it as I have with Mandarin and to some extent Japanese.
  So, for the next six months this is my plan; learn German, better my Mandarin, get great grades for my philosophy modules and be a little more social. I'm tired of doubting myself, and I need this challenge to give me a hint of a strength. It's in the toughest of situations that we find ourselves and our potential, as clinched as that sounds.
  Well, that's it from me for tonight. A bit more personal than usual, but hey, it's a blog, it's virtually an open diary,.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: To Drink a Pint of Guinness is like walking over t...

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: To Drink a Pint of Guinness is like walking over t...: " Today has been one of those days where music has been a better partner for understanding and describing the situation than any other form ..."

To Drink a Pint of Guinness is like walking over the British Crown

  Today has been one of those days where music has been a better partner for understanding and describing the situation than any other form of expression. I've in recent days started losing the ability to, or rather the need to, converse with people on a daily basis. My tongue doesn't lap about. I find there is very little I wish to say. And when I do speak I only mention small things, never enough to encourage a full conversation.
  But what I'm left with has been my thoughts. Always my thoughts return to my thoughts about my thoughts when all else has failed. This has always been a dangerous situation for me. Once I reach that point, where my mind becomes consciously aware of itself sleep becomes rare, actual thoughts of other things scarce and I turn into a depressive, introverted, ghostly form of myself.
  Often I have to find things for me to focus on. Stare the fuckers down; whether it be confrontation, obsession, passion or a mix and combination of all three. I need both function and a sense of falling apart. A striving forward with a weight at the back pulling me, not back, but to the right or the left, or even up for that matter.
  I find my shortcomings rather more an annoyance than anything else. Apparently I've got talents, but talents don't need me to carry them. I've got an obsession with adding to myself as many attributes, tastes and essences as possible. I want to learn Japanese, German, Mandarin, Russian, Spanish, and yes, perhaps even French despite past problems with that language. I want to read libraries worth of books, but excellently written books, each written with care, pride and grace. I've noticed I love writing things in threes and twos. Care, pride and grace. This is something I should look into, might be a stylistic manner I've picked up somewhere, but where?
  I haven't written much here, but I have written something. Words fail me tonight. Do yourself a favour, have a pint of Guinness and listen to some Rolling Stones. I sure enjoyed it.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Irony holds a wicked grudge against Knavegirls and...

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: Irony holds a wicked grudge against Knavegirls and...: " It was another unwelcome return to madness and bad form. The walls that surrounded me this morning were absolutely normal. No melting or f..."

Irony holds a wicked grudge against Knavegirls and Gaygirls

  It was another unwelcome return to madness and bad form. The walls that surrounded me this morning were absolutely normal. No melting or facial expressions to be found on them. No, this morning was normal in every sense of the word.

  But goddamn it, this can't go on. It's unpleasant to say the least, but that's not the point. It's the moral back bone, the principle - It's all about the fucking principles goddamn it! Listen to me! Dear reader the mind is a fragile device. Device is a word too inhumane to use in regard to the sapiens' mind. No, rather, the mind is a fragile system of relationships. Yes, relationships. Its relationship to itself, its dualisms of potential destruction, its own and those of others. It is influenced and affected by internal and external sources and phenomenon. Goddamn it, pay attention! This is important; we're here looking for one thing and one thing only - Enlightenment! 

  But does that even matter? In the end we all eat shit and die, no amount of fame worth its weight in gold and vanity can or ever will halt the process of systematic human removal. Every individual is nothing but the sum of his experiences. All this accumulation is self-undermining, as in the end we cancel ourselves out. Our lives are everything to us, as we are the one person we cannot live without, the one body and mind we cannot under any circumstances ever be parted with. Our very experience and the ability it grants is what signal our end.

  Enlightenment! I wrote above. Do I mean it though? Am I truly after enlightenment? Many have tried, often with illegal narcotics or euphoric drugs. Can happiness then be a form of enlightenment? Perhaps, or rather, happiness is the enlightened understanding of an emotion in a specific situation, but then the same goes for sadness, madness and all other emotional gibberish. Madness, yes, is the appropriate reaction, the attuned response, to the world when the mind has become fully aware of it and rejected it as such in the wake of this event. A mind can never be aware of itself; just like a junkie it cannot become aware of its own habit. The conscious mind is an egotistical creature; it holds the belief that its shit is really thunder and gold and everything it extends its neuron threads to will transform and bend according to its will. It will, however, completely implode on itself as soon as it gets a good look at itself. 

  So, what am I getting at? I myself do not know for sure. This morning I awoke rather unpleasantly. I had a late night, fell asleep after 2am and woke up just shy of 7am. Less than 5 hours of sleep after a busy day and work. I was indeed feeling groggy as can be. But what had woken me at that hour? And what was keeping me from falling asleep once more and continue on with my slumber?

  Dreams are vicious things. They are on par with masturbation, self-mutilation and self deception, but I repeat myself. This past night I dreamt, in the early hours, a rather malicious and sinister dream. I did this only to myself, and for this I curse my mind for not behaving as it should.

  The details of this dream is not necessary for you at all dear reader, as I am sure many of you have had similar situations were a sleeping thoughts turn into painful reminders of just how quickly the mind can be crushed under its own weight.

  It left me feeling crumbled; torn a bit. Doubt is always present in my life, as doubt is my mechanism to maintain humility. If I cannot know for sure, then I keep my opinions and preferences to myself until someone dares ask of me what I think. I'm not even sure of myself. In fact, I am very much against the idea of myself. What a cunt I am, eh? Maybe not, but doubting that I am a good, decent and perfectly likeable person allows me to attempt and try to be such a thing. But the same can also be said of me being an evil person. I'm just keeping my options and alternatives open; I can be both and neither of them at the exact same time. I am a dualism to the end. Okay, that did not sound humble at all; very well - I doubt that I am a dualism and now I shall strive to become a dualism. A dualism of something, but that is to be found and uncovered at a later time.

  So, is this the end of this piece? Did I say anything concrete? You decide dear reader. And as always, damn that smile, it ruined my sleep this time round.

For Whom the Clock Recurs

  So, a return after major inactivity. Yes, indeed. This time, I'm going to try and practice the Art of Hemingway. Sharp, short, tough sentences. Why not? Questions are not tough. Remove them completely. But that would mean removing the last three sentences. Fuck that. No, questions are tough. Doubt is a strength that bodes well for modesty. Should remember that line, and I'll take your head if you steal it from me. Yes, indeed.
  All right now, serious writing. Though. Sharp. Short. Sentences. Maybe that should have been a sentence. Hmmm, pondering. Is pondering tough? Sharp? Pondering is most likely not short. All right all right, down to business. What did I want to write about again? Yes, conflict and dualisms.
  The dualism of power and resistance. Very much a Foucault dualism. Every power generates or creates its own form of resistance. Very much like that idea. Rather than power versus weakness, it is power versus its own form of resistance, after all weakness does not challenge, confront or oppose it. Isn't that a true contradiction? Something that works against its polar opposite.
  Conflict with various aspects in my life has slowly driven me mad, I suppose. Am I really mad? It's much more likely that the idea of me going mad is what appeals to me. After all, lunatics don't work with a broken beat.
  But conflict is an interesting notion, isn't it? Antagonistic conflict and 'friendly' conflict. Different tones to it all the time. Am I making much sense? No, think not. Damn.
  Perhaps this is all a stream of useless thoughts. You need those, you know. Useless thoughts are just as important as useful thoughts, as they operate much in the same fashion as power versus resistance. We are always working against ourselves. It's obvious; even when we can clearly see a certain action as healthy, good and beneficial for us, we often take the alternative route. Personal choice, I guess. Some of our comrades have taken the romanticism of the rebel, the nihilist and the straight up asshole way too far. But a lot of personal choice rests upon what our actions mean not only to ourselves but also to others. Relying too much on the others will create a dependent identity. We each need an independent identity; a soul to call each our own.
  I must be rambling again. Yes, I am. It's late. My mind is slow. Broken down. End it with short, sharp and tough sentences. Spent most of the weekend thinking about one smile. That's what's robbing my sanity. I'll be a lunatic if this damage goes on. Keep the mind straight. Force it to work. Stare the fucker down.

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: The Scene to be Seen is inherently Depraved and De...

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: The Scene to be Seen is inherently Depraved and De...: "Above everything else, for the love of my breaking heart - don't leave me alone with these carnivores . There's not much you can do with s..."

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: So, here I sit. Listening to Pink Floyd's Dark S...

The Scene to be Seen is Inherently Depraved: So, here I sit. Listening to Pink Floyd's Dark S...: " So, here I sit. Listening to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. (Why would I write that down? Really, what is the point of mentioning tha..."

  So, here I sit. Listening to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. (Why would I write that down? Really, what is the point of mentioning that? What's the point of mentioning this?)
  I've got several choices of entertainment to choose from tonight. Reading. Watching a film, or a television series. Studying (despite being on holiday/vacation). Mindlessly procrastinating. Those are my options.
  I can choose to read Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita (Which I haven't finished, so gob to you who will spoil it for me). It's an extremely entertaining book to read. The madness that ensues after Satan rises up from hell into Moscow is dealt with an extraordinary sense of rhythm and prose by Bulgakov. A real treat. And I really need to finish it, since the book I've got lined-up after Master is none other than Ernest Hemingway's For Whom The Bell Tolls. From Hell we go to War.
  I've got a selection of films to entertain me on this cold evening. I can choose between films I have seen, and enjoyed, or films I still have to peer at. I can re-watch sections of Guy Ritchie's Rock-N-Rolla, Snatch or I can watch Revolver for the first time. I can do the same to Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds and Reservoir Dogs (great title, I think). Or I can ignore all these options and watch films I have yet to experience. 13 Assassins, Requiem for a Dream. There is still a lot to watch. But perhaps I shall settle for my current favourite; In Bruges. It's one of those movies that just becomes better the more you watch it, at least, every time you catch a glimpse of something you missed earlier. But maybe I'm just over analysing it all.
  As far as television series goes........Not really in the mood for it now. Been watching Weeds, but it feels rather formulated to me. An equation is involved, I'm sure of it. There is also Green Wing, but not tonight. Not in the mood for that madness.
  I can study further, work on my mandarin, improve that as much as I can. Already did some today though, so maybe that's enough. Maybe not.
  Maybe, what I should be doing is working on some stories and plot lines. I've been working on a "book" idea. Rather still unfinished, but the later and key points are being fleshed out. I really should work on that, yeah. I don't need to write a book and have it published. Rather, and this is of utmost importance, it is my attempt to see if I have the creative stamina to finish a +200 page work of attempted/possible literature.
  Yeah, I should be doing that. But later. First a walk, to air my head out, and then some writing, a bit of a film, and then reading, with the dog sleeping on the bed covers and me under them.
  Until later then, you lunatics

Mo Ghile Mear

  There wasn't much going on. There almost never is or was, for that fact, anything going on. My current location is just one of those sites on this earth that he dread returning to. Escape is a luxury.
  And so here I sit, craving a hot cup of tea, the dog sleeping in my bed and reading up on some random Japanese Sengoku Period Daimyō for some strange reason. The mind makes strange leaps, yes it does. Oh yes, I cannot forget to mention, listening to Irish music as well. Lovely stuff.
  So, what is the reason for this piece of text? What has been the inspiration for this body of writing? Can't really say. In fact, I'm not quite sure of whom I'm writing about. Guess I'm writing this all about a smile. Damn that smile. I know very little of what goes on behind it though, and therein lies the problem. But that is the nature of crushes, ain't it? Nein, nein, nein! That is the nature of all relationships. You can look at your friends as your mirror images; perfectly reflecting you and you reflecting them. It's a vicious cycle, and you then think you know each other quite well. But people are always surprised by the amount of people who they trust that end up stabbing them several times in the back.
  Relationships, by their nature, relies on trust, and more importantly, on an active involvement from both parties, whether friends, or intimate partners. Someone pushes, you get pushed; simple really. But it is in that simplicity that allows space for things to become, well, complicated and unpredictable. Friendship is a rather fragile and resilient thing. It is both of those things, a dualism. And that's what's so complicated, the dualisms. By being in a relationship, you create the environment to strengthen it and ruin it at the same time. For example, you can only cheat on your partner if you have a partner, but when you're single that cannot occur. For every decision we make, we must sacrifice and accept its consequences and responsibilities and alternatives.
  So, what am I really writing about here? A girl I assume. Honestly, some things about myself I've actually hidden away from myself. But, as always, damn that smile.

The Scene to be Seen is inherently Depraved and Derived

Above everything else, for the love of my breaking heart - don't leave me alone with these carnivores.

 There's not much you can do with synaesthesia. It hits like a hammer when the situation doesn't demand it, and hides amongst the rats when you actually do need it's uppers and downers. But most of the time, it's a steady pulse. Colouring the world, giving sounds a swirling taste and letting you know before hand the vibes of a club on the inside, by just listening to the outside streaming in. Like any good drug, the people who need it, don't have it. The people, who do have it, suffer the sling shot surprises it holds for you.

  I was somewhere near the centre of the universe, close to the edge the desert, when a particularly bad spell hit me like Thor nailed Jesus to the cross. It was the computer lab of my University. Not that it was anything special. In fact, it was a boring sodden place. It was lonely when it was full, and pleasant in the wee hours of the morning. But all in all, it was just another place to be in space and time. I might as well have been standing on a corner, pretending I was selling some sweet ass.

  This time round, there were a lot of people in the room. Swooping like bats in and out. Colliding like oncoming trains, and risky serious social injury with smiles, glares and the occasional pleasantries. This much I could tolerate. Like all things in life, you get used to it. You begin to, not exactly develop a tolerance for it, but rather a subconscious resistance. The brain rejects the morbidly obese fucker sitting on the same chair for the last two days you see. It cannot handle it. It would crash and burn and would turn in on itself and disappear completely. We all know people with a head like that. They're not junkies. No, junkies might not deal with reality, but they have found a way to fucking not deal with the shit reality throws at us. No, the people who couldn't handle what they saw were those unlucky ones. We seem them everyday. They have that walk; that struts screaming with every step. They don't feel pain. They don't recognize pleasure.

  Junkies, at the very least, feel pain. And they recognize that pleasure can remove that pain. But these poor ghosts, on the other hand, well, they struggle with neither. They lost the rope, so there can be no tug of war.

  The only way for the human mind to survive the scene of two people necking at each other, slurping and sucking and kissing and toiling in public is to ultimately reject it. It's not rejecting the world, it's rejecting their experience. Have your own for Jesus Hubert's sake.

  But there is of course the chance that this is just me. The fact that you might be out to get yourself, although a paranoidish absurdity, is highly possible. Especially if you don't have the right drugs to kill the damn beast.

  And so I was writing. I was writing this thing, goddamn it. Ye, fucking gods. It was a rather sordid scene in the computer lab. Some were jolly and laughing, others were punching in and punching out from essays and social networking. Me, personally? I was procrastinating. I got ahead with an essay, so I decided, rather than finish it today, I would do so t'morrow. Rest a bit. Write a note. Write a bit of prose. Give the mind some creative stimulation and let it have a trip on itself.

  I don't pay any attention to the voices around me. I allow the syllables and consonants to float through the air, and become gibberish and mere sound to my ears. Their faces are faces. Their lips are mere curves on their globs. Turn your head, drop out and tune into your own style.

  Every now and again I would see something that catches my eye. A stir, a familiar face, or just some really ugly looking motherfucker. Not even a mother could love that face; that pignosed, red son of a bitch deserves to work only in radio. And only the late shift. We need to hide this freaks from our vision, especially peripheral vision. Our minds can't handle it. We'd have a mental break down and we'd do something terrifying. Something completely unexpected, even to ourselves. Like whimper. In the middle of a busy freeway. Something insane and unimaginable like that. Or maybe suicide. Suicide, despite what people might tell you, is always an option. Not a great one, but hey, at least it beats wearing pink golf shirts.

  I got my real jolt when I saw the Morbidly Obese Guy sleeping. Oh, sure, using his double chin as a pillow wasn't really a sight for sore eyes. No, what fucked me over big time was that he was chewing. The human mind cannot, under any normal circumstances, tolerate or reject this. It was a simple case of; you should not be looking, but it's there, happening before your eyes. And you stare the bastard down. Surreal, life threatening moments like these reaffirm your existence, and your preconceptions of people. No wonder people can be racist and prejudiced; crazy fuckers like these actually exist.

  These are the freaks who walk into gas station stores, who then proceed to steal all the canned tuna and crackers. They shoot people like John Lennon. They turn into Richard Nixon. They walk into your room and try and stroke the wall, just because the paint looks like it needs a cuddle. Fuck, of all things, I need to keep my distance from these people, before they shoot me just because they couldn't work through their shit any other way.

  And so, I bid thee farewell. At least for tonight. It was a nice experiment, but now, I've got to get out of here. My head can't take anymore. Sensory overload. Mediocre faces. Average pulses. I need an empty street, a dark shadow here and there, and a good book to read. Later all, and stay of the rabbit meat, it takes a strange turn on you.