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.