Guys with guitars...

Honest to God, I hate them! Guys with guitars. Ever since I was 14 and mr fucking Bobby Dylan (14-year-old spotty ultra-pretentious version there-of) told me girls with guitars look silly. Even at 14 I was a better guitar-player than he was. I guess that little episode gave birth to a irritable streak in my personality that sets the alarm bells off every time a guy with a guitar is getting a wee bit too cocky. Look, you're not Bob Dylan, deal with it! And your songs, even though fabulous monuments to your massive ego, are just not that great. Why is it that talent seems to spread equally between male and female guitarists but patronising self-admiration only pours into the male section?

In all fairness, this isn't exactly a post that promotes equal opportunities or what have you, but the next time mr fucking accoustic 2005 is trying to impress me with his latest epic on social injustice, he'll get a guitar up his plectrum.

Ghost stories...

It's full moon today. And it's Thursday. I'm not scared of many things, but I've never liked the full moon. It freaks me out. Anyhow, that's not the point. I met an acquaintance outside of work today. Well, it's her work now, she's the one who took over when I left. I'd just been there briefly today, and yeah... like I just wrote, I met her outside. This person is the butchest woman I know (which actually says a lot), she's about half as tall as I am, and twice as fat. She was talking about a scary film she'd seen yesterday and I politely told her to shut up as I was just about to walk home in the moonlight. We were talking about ghosts and how her (formerly my) workplace is most positively haunted. No wonder really. It was nice chatting to her anyway, even though she is the only person in the universe who makes me feel like a well-mannered prudish uptight goody-two-shoes.

Not very discreet spying..

The deal is this. I've got a friend. We go out for walks together. Our walks take exactly one hour. We're always walking the same route, which goes past the house where my friend was born and that her parents sold only last year. It was bought by a very young couple, who immediatly turned the lovely little 60's villa into a monument to minimalism and concrete. For what it is, in it's own particular genre, it's probably very well done. Uhm... To the rest of us it looks rather like an old garage in some industrial area somewhere. My friend always makes us go in slow-motion past this house. Which is awkward. Adding to my intense feeling of discomfort as we're spying on this young couple and their modern home is the fact that they've not got any curtains, which means that as well as making our very indiscreet spying considerably easier, it's also frustratingly easy for them to notice my friend and myself lurking outside. I've pointed this out to my friend who stubbornly ignores me.

Get a life, man...!

Right. I've discovered something that bothers me. I'm going to name this phenomenon forum hijackers. Yeah, that's right, forum hijackers! These are the people that write for forums with a sense of owning and absolute right. They're not the webmasters of the forum website, most of the time they're not even moderators or what have you. They're just ordinary posters of nonsense on a particular forum. Even so, their posts are full of self-importance. They're The Authority or so they'd like to think. Patronizing little buggers making new forum members feel as welcome as sand in Sahara. I'm desperately opposed to the habit of some people to encourage others to get a life, but if I was to say that to anyone, it would be to the forum hijackers.
Fuck sake, man, get a life!

That unpleasant feeling...

Certain things just give me such an unpleasant feeling. It's like a cross between a belly-ache and that sort of slightly elated state you're in when you're really excited about something. I absolutely hate it. It makes my hands go cold, for one thing, it makes it impossible to sit still, it makes me shake. I don't know, I can't really explain what it's doing to me. It's similar to that eerie feeling you get when you know someone's about to discover you've been lying to them. Or when you log on to the internet before you've checked all your messages (see my post from September 22 if you can be arsed). Well, I have that feeling now. And it's all due to someone sending me an e.mail. It's absolutely crazy, I've not been lying to this person, that's not it, I've not spoken to him for ages, I don't know... I really don't know why it's making me feel so utterly uneasy.

Apart from all this agony, I've decided to stop writing on my essay for the day, seeing as I've been at it since ten this morning. I'm hoping I might finish it tomorrow, but I don't know whether I'm optimistic or just plain stupid.

Proper crimbo!

When is it going to snow? Apparently in this part of the country, every other Xmas is white (thank you teletext). My plans are to finish my essay until Monday (well, I'll have to if I want to pass), and then put up all my Xmas stuff. And I'm ashamed to admit it but I've just downloaded "Don't let the bells end" by the Darkness. I HATE the Darkness, but that song just makes me think of Xmas. Proper Crimbo, like.

Seriously though, I'm going to need snow pretty soon.

Gloooooory!

Achilleus is famously given the choice to either live a long and comfortable life, marry and be remembered by his children and grandchildren before falling out of people's memory - or live a short, adventurous life and be rewarded by eternal glory and fame. Alexander the Great wasn't exactly given the choice, but still lived his ephemeral life for adventure and glory. I guess this is what separates a "good" leader from a "great" one. Napoleon could've walked in Alexander's footsteps, but he wasn't prepared to make that final sacrifice that Achilleus and Alexander did, but instead died aged 42 (...I think) from bowl cancer, stuck on an island. No glory there, mate. Still, he was the last head of state to actually lead his army into war. Something's been lost on the way; most of us aren't really prepared to die for anything, and no king or prime minister or president will ever be the first in line at a battle field.

On a more cheerful note; I'm completely addicted to aromatherapy. Got given some oil and a device for burning it by someone, and now I'm hooked. That shit is great, man.

Sorting stuff out

I've started storting stuff out. Getting rid of things I don't want to keep, putting photos into albums, making a catalogue over my wine collection, that sort of things. I'm not really sure what has triggered this obsessive sorting, although I suspect it's got something to do with not wanting to leave too much of a mess should I happen to die. I'm a morbid person, I can't help it.

Have you ever kissed a girl?

It's the same thing every year, or so I've learnt. The first year I was absolutely gobsmacked at the incredible number of either very fat or very skinny teenage boys with bad skin that all of a sudden seemed to have hijacked my local supermarket. And they were all buying loads and loads of Coca cola, Red Bull and crisps. As I expressed this curious sight to someone, this someone (who have more insight into worldy matters than I, it would appear) explained to me that this weekend is "Dream-hack" weekend. I politely said "pardon?", and got the explanation that it's an event that attracts computer geeks from all over the country and for a few blissfull days they retire from their bedrooms to join this mass gathering. Now I've learnt to recognise the phenomenon. As soon as every pizza place within a square mile is crowded by boys in what looks like very comfy but disastrously unstylish trousers, it's Dream-hack. Or as soon as a boy in early puberty looks at you going "Uuuuh, d'ye know if there's a pizza place anywhere near" and then is incapable of following your instructions to the nearest pizza place, it's Dream-hack. I hate them. They're ugly, they get in the way, they're rude and smelly, and all I want to do is to walk up to them and ask "so... you've ever kissed a girl?".

A Headache in Hell!

Right. I woke up with the headache from hell today. I was feeling absolutely shit (compared to relatively so, like what that stuff in the toilet must feel like). I was trying to go about my daily doings as well as I possibly could, but by late lunchtime I surrendered and curled up on the sofa under a blanket, ear plugs in my (*drumroll*) ears. And as I was contemplating life and the universe and everything, as you do when you're trying to ignore the pounding in your head that just has to be a brain tumour, I started thinking of hell. Something along the lines of how hell might just possibly mean curling up under a blanket on a sofa, et cetera. And then I thought, "well, if this is what hell is like, there's a chance you might actually get used to it after a while". And as if the devil was spying on me and deciding that "no way, I'll teach you what bloody hell is about, you twit", the headache got even worse. And then worse. And then suddenly slightly better. Now it's just like a normal headache again, so I decided to pick up where I left up this lunchtime.

Oh, and did I mention I'm out of aspirins?

The Wonder of You...

I fecking LOVE Elvis Presley. It's me and my grandmother. We've got two things in common. Our love of Elvis and our love of James Dean. It's something about the 50's I guess.

Anyroads... It's Friday again, which doesn't really make me feel anything in particular. It's one thing when you're working and your life is made up by different stages of depression from Monday until Thursday only to be on an unhealthy high all Friday. But if you're not working, Friday is really just another day. Although today I've got big plans. They mainly consist of various cleaning and tidying type activities but still. Adopt, adapt and improve.

Urban space man, baby.

I've been feeling oddly urban today. Can't put my finger on what it is exactly. Might be that I've been wearing that cool jacket I got in Amsterdam last year. That I fit in to the jeans I bought in Amsterdam (I buy a lot of things in Amsterdam) four years ago, shit, when I was really young and really slim. That I've been having coffee with a zillion people. Talking to people on the bus. I've also been to the library, and I found a book called "Tom Tits new tricks" amongst the kids books. It was about scientific experiments for youngsters, but it was still pretty funny.

In Idle Idleness...

I've been doing nothing today. In a relative sense, of course. In a more immediate sense I've 1)got up, 2) had a shower, 3) checked e.mails, 4) had breakfast, 5) went shopping, 6) had tea, 7) played the guitar, 8) spoke to my brother on msn, 9) updated my bands website, 10) finished "Dance on my grave" by Aidan Chambers, 11) wrote a bit on my own book, 12) watched two (2) silly sitcoms, 13) cooked dinner, 14) ate dinner, 15) had coffee, 16) sat down by the computer again. So I guess I've not been doing nothing, when in fact I've done 16 things so far. Busy day indeed.

Twist and shout.

My neighbours are having really loud sex in the middle of the night. It's a constant phenomenon with them. Not once during the days have I heard them, but when I'm going to bed by sort of midnight-1-2-ish, they're always at it. Not that I particularly mind, I mean, I do want people to enjoy themselves. I guess it's not something that really bothers me that much, it's more something that I've had to notice. One of the reasons I like the nights so much is because I like the feeling of owning the world. And with the activity going on upstairs, they're kind of brutally reminding me that I don't.

Healthcheck? A cold and chestpains.

Not quite alive, not quite dead...

Being around someone with a mental illness is like being around someone who's neither alive nor dead. You remember what the person used to be like when he/she was well, but that person doesn't exist anymore. That person is dead. But physically, someone's there, so in that aspect he/she is still very much alive. It's just frustrating though. The person that should be in there somewhere just wont come out, no matter what you do. If you cry, scream, laugh, whatever, it doesn't matter, because the person you used to know isn't there anymore to react to it. It's just a shell. An empty shell.

A day in my life.

Ok, this is a stupid idea I got of the internet. Take photos of everything you do during a day. So that's what I've been doing today. I'm actually quite looking forward to going through the photos tonight and find out what it is I actually do during the days. I'm sure it'll look a lot more boring and pointless when comprised to a few photos.

Wish you were here?

I was waiting for the train yesterday. On the other side of the tracks sat a group of drunks. They were sitting on the grass, looking like your average punk (one had a mohican) and they were pissed out of their heads. And I was standing there on the platform feeling like part of the establishment more than I've ever felt part of the establishment before. I found myself wondering how they make their living. What they do when they're not drinking. If they're really alcoholics or they'd just chosen an unconventional time to drink.

Actually, I wouldn't mind sitting down, nothing to do, having a bottle of red wine. It's just that I've not got enough time to drink right now. Only tea. Still no pyramid teabags.

Legal responsibility.

I do think about it sometimes. My legal responisibility vs. my moral responsibility. One imposed from external authority, the other a gut feeling I can't really describe the origin of. Weird.

Anyhow. I'm out of pyramid teabags. This might not seem like such a big deal, but it is. I went to my local supermarket, intent on buying Citrus pyramid teabags, but they didn't have them, so I ended up with standard teabags, "citrus fruit flavour". It's just not the same. Once you've had pyramids, you don't want to go back to standard. I've been robbed of a everyday miracle.

A moment of surrender...

I love those moments that somehow mean more than other moments. Like leaping from a trampoline and knowing there's no way back. And even if you crawl out of the pool, the disturbed surface of the water will give you away. I think this is why I love "A bigger splash" so much. Then again, your moment of surrender might just end up in someone looking at you, distracted, saying; "sorry, what, love?".

Excitement killed the cat...

I just can't deal with the internet. It's making me nervous. From the second I turn the computer on until the moment I've finally gone through all the places where people tend to leave electronic messages for me, I just feel like I need to throw up. It's really becoming a bit of a problem as a lot of what I do during my days is sorta internet-based. The result of this is considerable weight-loss and general paranoia. I might write a book about it and sell it as the revolutionary new diet scheme. Oh, but crap, I've already given away the secret. Oh well.

As for the more normal and healthy aspects of my life... I'm eagerly anticipating the release of Brokeback Mountain to cinemas here (due late October, god damn it). Someone told me about the film, so I checked out the trailer on the... internet... and the bloody music alone was enough to make me want to cry. I've never cried in a cinema before. I'm looking forward to a new experience.

Another day, another teabag...

I'm still obsessing over my pyramid teabags. Whoever invented those must be a genuis. The pyramid teabag is one of the little miracles of everyday life. I like those. Everyday miracles, sorta. The world we live in is so utterly weird that the best thing to do is just to find a really comfy sofa and observe it all from a secure distance.

Yesterday, I was observing the faulty seatbelt in my workmate's car, the amount of unwanted newpapers gathering on my kitchen table, the flowers on my balcony that insist on surviving through what must be described as divine intervention due to the extent of neglect their subject to. There's plenty of things to ponder over if one only takes the time to do it. Which I don't really, because I've got so much to do I can feel myself getting closer to a heart attac by the second.

Are you lonesome tonight?

Jesus was born at a time in history that suited his purpose a little bit too well for me to be able to believe in the divine aspects of him. This obviously presents a bit of a dilemma for me as a Christian. I was thinking about maybe going to a priest to talk about this. Or a rabbi (I've always been attracted to the Jewish faith), or an imam (Islam is fascinating). But as usual, I'll probably end up doing nothing for a few years until I forget all about it.

On a more trivial note, I've been buying these Lipton pyramid tea-bags lately. Well, once. The citrus version. What's the slogan again? Something about infusion. Anyhow, I think they're just great. And how cute! A pyramid! In my mug!

Reader to rider.

I've only been blogging for two days now and already it's given me an enormous sense of purpose. I've yet to figure out certain fundamental functions on this site, but there's no hurry. It's not like the world's going to end tomorrow, and even if it is, the stuff I don't know about blogger.com is hardly going to be the thing on my mind anyway.
I'm one of those really cheerfull people who are disturbingly preoccupied with the thought of doom. From my window I've got the most amazing view over the second largest lake in this country, and whenever I happen to look out, for my inner eye, what I see is the four riders of the apocalypse riding through the skies above this lake. Nice.

Pomo blogging

I absolutely DETEST blogs. Let's face it, ya'll; No one is that interesting that people will be wanting to read about them. Unless they read to be read in return. There's no such thing as a free lunch. So it's with the greatest irony that I created this blog.
Well, I've also got existential motives. People today seem to think that you don't exist unless your name is somewhere on the internet. Well, I typed my name into Google's seach engine, and all I got was a load of American family tree hippy crap and a page about sailing. Well, I'm neither American nor a sailor, so I can only conclude that a sailor or an 18th century American has hi-jacked my identity and I need to blog in order to get it back. So there.