17 December, 2010

Pumpkin and spinach gnocci

So the pasta looked good in the glass. I deined to part with some of my hard earned cash to try a medium sized container. $6.50 . Was it worth it? Did the university cafe live up to its low standards?

I tried the creamy light yellow-orange sauce first... it was reasonable. I could have done with a little more cheese, but on first taste, it was the standard pasta taste one would expect from most standard cafes.

Then I tried one of the orange coloured gnocci. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. Perhaps chance had given me a not so good piece. I tried one of the green ones. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. So did the white ones. No. It couldn't be. Gnocci is meant to be mushy? Is gnocci really supposed to stick to the roof of your mouth? Are the different colours all meant to taste exactly the same?

(Here dear reader, I must pause and let you know that this is only the second time I have ever eaten gnocci in my life. The first time was only an old left over piece from my sister's lunch two months ago and it was not mushy.)

So. What makes a good gnocci? I have absolutely no idea.

In this interstingly sad pasta where I craved more cheese to break up the monotony of the sauce, I then found an orange finger. A piece of pumpkin! It was like finding treasure in a game I was quickly tiring of. I dove to find another piece and was rewarded with a piece a little smaller than the tip of my finger.

There was no more.

I could have cried.

In the end, I left 5 pieces of gnocci. My tongue was sore from the constant cleaning it had to perform on the roof of my mouth. Two orange, two green and one white.

Granted, there were rare finds of pumpkin. Granted the gnocci came in three different colours. But where was the wholesome taste of the pumpkin or the furriness of the spinach in the sauce? Note to self. Next time I want to try pasta, try an actual Italian pasta restaurant type eatery. Not a low-grade university cafe. Even if it looks good through the glass. Even if it smells nice and the sauce was reasonable. The attempt will give your mouth a work out and more likely than not exhaust you.

The pieces of pumpkin and my little cup of hot chocolate were the only things that saved my meal. So. What makes a good gnocci? Somebody tell this ignoramus, please. And please don't tell me it is meant to stick to the roof of my mouth.

06 December, 2010

I'm bored

So, the towerness is fading to a rubble of stony vile. Here's something nice and short, while neutropenia is still the subject and meningitis complicates the style.

Nifedipine and mickey buttons have nothing to do with travel coupons.

Writing a story is like picking up every single pebble on the driveway and revising like picking up every grain of sand upon the path.

01 December, 2010

in the tower 4

Just as they were entering the umpteenth door identical to the one that the teachers had ushered them through, they heard a noise. It was only small. A whirr-whump. Then footsteps.

They ducked down out of sight of the windows and peered through the crack in the door hinge.

A dark figure bent over so that the soft orange glow from his belt would not give him away. He crept along the corridor toward them. A board creaked.

"Who dares creep around at this time of the night?" a voice boomed as the lights flickered on in the corridor. A bulky figure in a dressing gown stood with his hands on his hips in a doorway further down and the two children could see his hairy legs via one of the mirrors in the hallway. The mysterious figure crouched low. "Who-"

The question was cut short by a gurgle and the sound of spurting liquid hitting wood. Jacky gasped without realising it and Luke clapped his hand over her mouth. Too late, they saw the figure suddenly look in their direction. He crept toward the door and it rattled a little on its sliding groove when another voice snapped out.

"Paulos, what are you - " a scream followed.

Right before their door, Jacky and Luke saw the soft orange glow envelope the masked man and with an electronic whine, vanish. The two stared at each other, eyes wide, still too afraid to move.

Doors slammed and feet came running. Soon there was a crowd and the noise of screaming, crying, fainting and hysterics filled the formerly quiet night air. In the cacophanous confusion, Jacky and Luke hightailed it back to their room where they flopped on the floor, gasping as if they were fish out of the water.

"He didn't see us," Jacky breathed over and over. "He didn't see us."
"We hope."

30 November, 2010

in the tower 3

Arms laden with books, stationery, clothes and bedding, Mistress Rilleese led the two into an empty two room bed with a curtain separating the room in half.

"Unfortunately, we have no other rooms with spare beds available, but the two of you being brother and sister, we have decided to allow you to share a room. Normally this is not allowed, so this is a special circumstance. Be sure to be ready for breakfast by 0745 in the morning. Someone will come to escort you to the dining room and after that we will see which teachers are able to take you under their wings. Good night, children."

"But we're not - " Jacky began, but Rilleese had gone, "- brother and sister."

Luke shrugged.

"At least they haven't separated us."

"Come on, let's get out of here. Nat will be getting worried about us."

"Do you remember the way back, because I don't. I lost track of which direction we were going after the second turn."

"Oh, come on. I thought boys kept maps in their heads."

"Are you sure you know the way back?"


"Well then."

"We can at least explore. The sooner we know our way around, the sooner we get home."

"Fine," Luke dumped his stuff in a corner of the room. "Let's just not get caught."

The lights went out.

"I presume," said Jacky, "that was lights out?"

"Guess so," Luke said. "Let's go."

29 November, 2010

in the tower 2

"We finish school for vacation and what's the first thing we do? Go back to school!" Jacky rolled her eyes at Luke. "This is all your fault."

"Hey, I didn't know it was a school. Don't blame me."

"I'm not," said Jacky. "It was a joke. Can't you tell when someone's being sarcastic?"

"Apparently not," Luke muttered.

"Vacation? What vacation? School never stops. There is no such thing as vacation," the teacher said sharply, looking between the two children. "Who ever told you such rubbish?"

"Clarke, I haven't seen these two children before. Have you?" the teacher with a woolen scarf said.

The teacher scratched his thin hair and straightened his already straight collar.

"Come to think of it, no. They must be new. Are you children new?"

Exchanging glances, knowing there was no escape, Jacky and Luke both shrugged.
"Yeah, we're new," Jacky said.

"New or not," said Clarke, "shrugging is an ugly habit and you should know better than to shrug at a teacher. Also the word is 'yes' not 'yeah'."

Both children shrugged again.

At Clarke's fierce frown, Luke said, "Sorry, we forgot. We'll try not to do it again."

"I should hope not," Clarke fussed.

"We do it all the time at home," said Jacky, annoyed at being told what to do. Teachers!

"And where, pray, is home?"

The children shrugged again.

"Outside?" Jacky pointed.

Clarke sighed, exasperated.
"Outside? Nobody lives outside, save those slave to the Queen."

Luke almost shrugged again, but caught himself in time.
"Well, we came from outside. Sorry our manners aren't as polished as you'd like."

Jacky grinned at him, whispering, "Nice sarcasm, Luke and here I thought you didn't have a sarcastic bone in your body."

"I'm not being sarcastic," Luke whispered back.

"You are aware, I hope, in the outside, that whispering is rude?" Clarke harrumphed. "No wonder your manners are so atrocious. Listen to all those contractions!"

"What, pray, are contractions, sir?" asked Jacky, ignoring Luke's elbow jabbing into her side.

"I see, that we are going to have to start from the beginning with you two."

"Clarke," said the other teacher, "perhaps we'd best take them out of that horrible room to start with and find them beds and stationary."

"An excellent idea, Rillese. Come children. You may call me Master Clarke."

"And I, Mistress Rillese," said the lady, rewinding her scarf. "Come along now and tell us your names and ages. How did you end up in that room?"

"We just wandered there, I suppose," said Luke. "It was an accident. My name's Luke. I'm 14. So's Jacky."

Clarke shuddered.
"Well Luke and Jacky. We are going to break you of the use of contractions - that is after we have taught you the meaning of the word. Now, come along and don't dawdle."

28 November, 2010

in the tower

They hauled themselves into the open window, scratching their fingers on the cold stone. Once in, they brushed off the crisp snow from their clothes and looked down the length of tower they had climbed. Jacky caught a hold of the wide window sill as the height took away her breath for a moment. The spikes in the icy snow covered stones made a zigzag shape down the side of the tower. They looked so fragile and easy to break. Luke made a face and pulled her away so that they could explore.

The sky was overcast and so the light within the room should have been quite dim. Instead, overhead were bright strings of light. The other windows in the room, also gave off reflections. Did only this window have no glass? Looking back at the window they had entered, no fresh air entered in and there too, was a reflection. Jacky and Luke touched the window, but there was no glass. They tried the other windows and punched glass. Odd. Was it magic or some sort of forcefield?

This room was sparsely furnished. Old and disused. Old clothes racks on wheels, old standing curtains, dusty desks and crooked chairs.

Voices came from outside the door, where silhouettes of people walked by. One of the figures glanced at the grimy door-window and paused.

"What the-?" The door - much like a classroom door slid open. "What are you children doing here? You know this room is out of bounds. Everyone knows this room is dangerous. I'll have to report you to your teachers. Tell me, name and class." The teacher snapped open a notepad and held pencil poised. Waiting.

Jacky and Luke exchanged glances. They were in a school? They had to be kidding.

23 November, 2010


I take it that you will appreciate my title. Not. Nevermind.

Not much to say. I try to be regular, but the computer is not always readily available every day. I be apologetically sorry regarding that. I try, but somedays summer grabs you by surprise and you come home in sweatsoaked clothes that after wringing out provide sufficient sweat to fill a rice bowl. That didn't have anything to do with it, but I had to say it. The imaagery was too good to pass up.

So when you think there's a lot on your plate. Think again. Because the Problem Miniaturiser is now freely available to all inhabitants of the world. Please consult your nearest Heaven-Earth direct outlet. Oh and beware the fire columns. Those are private offices. There are probably people busy in there. If you are unable to find any available workers, please make your way to the throneroom where the CEO will see you and provide you with a Problem Miniaturiser himself. He's never too busy.

19 November, 2010

when the moss grows

When the moss grows, the ground is wet, the plan is set.
When the rose dies, the hip will swell, no time to dwell.
When the stone stands, the thrush will sun, the deed is done.
When the beam falls, the grass will fade, through waters wade.
When the willow weeps, the rain will fall, then dance the ball.
When the moss grows, the gel will set, and we be met.

Thereafter change your clothes
by garden's hose
and enter in
the Speckled Tin
where further instruction
shall be by luncheon.

18 November, 2010


There was something to say, but again, I have forgotten it... and so on to something else more utterly random than a mango mousse pudding with dancing sago and sticky rice cakes.

One side cooked.
One side still raw.
Both sides about to burn.
What can you do?
Tell it to dance a jig?
Both sides are part of the same tin.

Insufficient sugar.
It tastes very plain.
Pretend it's an odd scone.
Pretend it is a soft bread loaf.
Cake, why will you not agree
With the picture in my mind?

17 November, 2010


A boy with shaggy hair and an oversized mouth spun in a sswivel chair, tapping his fingers in time to the inaudible music in the room.

"Look after your ears, Markus! Take off those earphones!"

"Aww, Mum!But you don't even like listening to my music."

"Then turn it off."

"I knew you'd say that," he muttered.

"Don't you know," said his grandmother from where she was knitting cooked spaghetti noodles into a plattter for the left over sauce, "that those ear things are sometimes actually bugs waiting to crawl into you head and take over your body?"

"Mother, don't talk such rubbish," called Markus's mother from where she stirred the steaming pot on the stove.

"It's true, Mayleen. Some of them pretend and then take over people, make them like zombies."

"You've been watching too much tv."

"Mum, you know Granma don't like watching tv," Markus swivelled on the chair to face his grandmother. "Anyway, Granma, don't you mean earbugs, in that case?"

"Ex-actly," she said as if that was what she had meant all along.

"Did you know that earbugs are..."

"Yes, yes, I know that," she said impatiently, waving one needle in the air before resuming the steady 'click, click' of her spaghetti knitting.

"Then if my earphones were real bugs, then why wouldn't they have already taken over my brain, huh?"

"Because they were asleep. Not hungry. Already eaten a full meal. You leant them things to your friend last week, didn't you? They were new then, right? You'd never worn them before."

"Ye-es, but..."

"Notice anything different about him lately?"

"No-o, well, he does have a new pimple."

"That's right. What's his behaviour like? Is he more interested in something he's always hated? Does he say odd words he'd never actually say? Have a haircut he'd never normally have?"

"Ye-ah. Right. Whatever."

"Has he?" Granma pressed, grabbing another strand of spaghetti.

"We-ell, he eats macaroni and cheese everyday now, but he's always hated cheese. He says 'cool mate' whenever he sees me and has these extra long sideburn bits after the haircut over the weekend. But that doesn't mean anything, Gran. His cousin's come to stay with him a while."

"And does his 'cousin'," Granma made quotation marks in the air with her fingers as she continued to knit at breakneck speed, "often wear earbugs too?"

"You mean ear phones? Yeah. Everyone does these days."

"Ahhhh," she sighed shaking her head.


"Soon you'll find he's not interested in playing or talking with you or he'll always be giving you some new thing to listen to on you ipod so that you have to wear your earslugs more often."

"You mean earplugs and then it should be earphones."

"But do those little black things actually have a telephone in there? No, right? So it's not ear phones, my boy. Earslugs or earbugs. Mark my words. I'd throw those dangerous things away if I were you. Smash them. You'd see that they're not made of bits of metal and plastic."

"Mother! Stop it! Markus, go to your room and finish your homework before dinner. I'll be checking to see how much you've done after."

"Yes, Mum."

Slouching up the stairs, ear phones in one hand, ipod in the other, Markus shrugged off Granma's impossible story. Huh. People becoming zombies after wearing ear phones. Stories to scare little kids and he wasn't a little kid anymore... although, Fraser had been acting strangely lately.

Sliding into his desk chair, Markus sat to do his homework.

The next day at school, Fraser was waiting for him. First, he asked to borrow, Markus's ear phones, when Markus knew he had just gotten new ones himself and then he gave Markus a whole GIG of new music to listen to. After that, he kind of ignored Markus for the rest of the day.

That night, as he lay in bed listening to the new music, Markus felt something in his ears tickle. He pulled out an ear phone to stratch in his ear, only to feel some sort of gooey substance in there. He snatched at the other side, but it refused to come out.

Panicking, he fell on the floor, tugging on the wire until it snapped. The music kept playing in his ear and he felt the slithering tickle move deeper into his ear canal. Toward his brain. Gasping with fright, he flew out of bed and down the stairs to where Granma was now making spaghetti noodles. Only...

Granma looked up as he skidded into the kitchen, eyes wide with fright, barely able to talk. One glance was all she needed and she opened her arms to him, reaching out to take the other earphone still oozing goo in his hand. Holding him close, she crooned to him and slipped the other earphone back into his ear.

"I told you, didn't I?" she whispered as he pulled frantically at her iron arms. It was then that his gaze fell upon the spaghetti she had been making. One of the strands moved and slithered on the table, a comma with an exceptionally long tail. "Oh, here comes another," she said, holding him with one arm, while reaching up to her ear with the other hand and pulling another strand out of her ear. "Out you come, baby. There, there, it's all right."

Markus's eyes glazed over.

Ok, this story's a little bit too scary for me. Especially after dreaming of people turning into monsters all night that then attacked their former friends. Recurring nightmare. Go away.

Maybe I should stop writing this type of nonsense.

13 November, 2010

the dead mystery and an apology

What would happen if you died? Everyone wonders about it sometimes. Everyone has different theories. My theory has to do with a trumpet, clouds, a city that will never see corruption and the whole of eternity to learn cool stuff.

Mostly, people don't reckon on these things... that is until they've had an Experience that often has to do with coming close to death themselves. Whether personally or somebody close to them. For some other people, it's just an intriguing mystery.

Sometimes, I ask God, 'Who made this world anyway?' after which I usually have to repent before I actually say that the whole of creation is stupid, thereby implicating that its Creator is also stupid... because whether or not you believe in God, it is awful scary if you think about it. The one being with the power to create the whole entire universe or destroy it with a word or a look or a thought... that is scary. I'm fairly sure insulting is unwise.

So, God, knowing You can probably read this post and know what I'm gonna say before I've even thought it, here is my official apology: I sincerely apologise for even thinking such a thing. You are great and awesome and have a reason for everything that has happened and that has been done. I am the one who has behaved foolishly, for even putting the blame on You. It wasn't You who decided to betray their Creator and all their friends. It wasn't You who just tried to kill my sister and I in a very close call of a car accident. It isn't You who makes my life go wrong whenever I try to do what's right... Instead, it was You who saved out lives; it was You who walks me through life so I don't fall in every single pit and trap; it is You who tries to teach me wisdom (bad student though I am); it is You who have shown me what is right and then given me the ability to get right back up everytime I get knocked back down. No backing down. Whatever happens I know it's not Your fault. If anything, it's my inability to see or understand or hear or act as You do... that and the enemy.

Of course, I must be doing something right if my enemy is trying to kill me. So. Whatever. Just keep sailing. This day we fight! Stuff close calls with death.

For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.

God can't do bad stuff. He has a law against it. Since He wrote the law and can't be a hypocrite, well... but let us, my friends, not get into any theological or religious debates regarding the reality of the truth, perception and the fallibility of the beings called human.

The best thing about this world is the anticipation. The hope. The expectancy, knowing that all I see, all I know is but a shadow of what is yeat to come. Something bigger, something greater.

All people need to live for something. Whether it be their friends, their family, their study, their life's dream, their government, their people, themselves... or something much GREATER than they are.

"Tolerance!" they say. "Tolerance!" And yet they are intolerant.
"Discrimination! Prejudice!" they cry. "Political correctness!" And yet they perform corruptions, perversions and injustices that are in truth, morally unambiguously incorrect, based upon their own wishy-washy perceptions and understandings of the laws they live upon, looking for self-gain.

What am I living for?

I live to give my utmost for the exultation of God's glory. I live to expand the Kingdom of God and speak out the Truth. Only One is the Way, the Truth and the Life... and none come to the Father, but by Him. I live to fight and stand in the gap for my generation, to stand and proclaim His Mercy and Grace. I live to fulfill the Mission given to me, my life's job, my life's dream, so that when I die, I will hear, 'Well done, my good and faithful servant,' and not see disappointment upon His face.

I live wholly and utterly for Jesus. My utmost for His glory.

What do you live for?

12 November, 2010

to be or not to be

The question is not 'to be or not to be'.
The question is 'how to be what you ought to be'.

10 November, 2010

bloody placemat

From its undersurface, it dripped.

The red gloop fell in little drops from between the cracks of the twisted grass from which the mat was made. The smell was sweet, like summer's afterthought and no sound was made by the falling red baubles.

Looking up at the glass table, from the floor, a long smear and puddle could be seen, leading up to where the placemat drooped a little over the table's edge. Nearby a plate on which there had been a half-eaten sandwich and an upturned coffe mug. The dim glass revealed a small apartment. Neat, save for the coffee table. Precise, save for the growing stains on the floor and the knife beyond the peripheral vision. Even the phone had been carefully replaced after the call had been made. Nothing else had been touched.

The silence was comforting after the short battle. On arriving home before, it had been eery. Something had been wrong. The carpet hairs at the front door had been bent in the wrong direction. Someone had been waiting, but the waiting tension had been put down to the unease that had ridden the car back along with the day's stress and the thought that perfectionism was like paranoia. There was no paranoia here because, how would they know of this place?

Quiet breathing. No need to panic.

The door creaked. A little breeze followed by a BANG from the front door. So. The front door had been left unlocked.

A cacophany of noise.
Distant wailing sirens.
Blurred faces.
Babbling noise.
White noise.
Mouths moving.
Hands pushing.
Hands pulling.
Sharp jabs of pain.
Lancing lightning.
Gasping breaths.

Should have known.
Should have guessed.
Should have been faster.
Should have been wiser.
The warnings had come.
Notes had turned up.


This is what happens when threats are ignored.

White noise.
Blurred faces coming into focus.
The smell of antiseptic.
White walls.
White bed.
Hard bed.
Rigid sheets.


09 November, 2010

The TARDIS clock

The second hand ticked in the same spot for a full five minutes before Shade took any notice. He snorted to himself, fumbling in his drawer to see if he could find any new batteries that had not been used. Trust a new clock to run out of battery a week after it had been bought. Not that he'd bought it, but Rayne had said that she'd bought it the day before his birthday.

Using an old simple circuit to see if they still had any juice left in them, he tested one battery after another.

Almost gone.
Almost gone.
Another dead one.

He needed to keep track of time or he would be late for the concert and Rayne would just about kill him if he missed her play the solo. Glancing at the handful of batteries in the bin, he frowned. Wait a moment. At least half of those batteries had been new last week. He looked at the TARDIS-shaped clock Rayne had given him for his birthday and growled. He'd better replace the battery before Rayne came over tonight... but he had to finish his report first. It was more likely he would remember to get the new battery if he put the clock on his desk, so that he would see it later. By his estimation, he still had 3 hours left.

Lifting the blue rectangular clock down, Shade noticed a little crack in the glass. Blast! How did that get there? It hadn't been there before. He rubbed the crack with his finger and reminded himself to make sure Rayne didn't take too close a look at the thing. Might as well take out the battery while he was at it.

Click and slide, Shade flipped out the old battery and laughed when he saw the space behind the battery. Rayne must have called up a favour to have his picture painted where the battery went. He ran his finger over the painting only to find... it was no painting.

The crash of broken glass went unnoticed in the empty apartment. The neigbours figured somebody had accidentally dropped a glass or something.

Shade gasped and coughed, blinking hard. What on earth? He couldn't move his hands or feet and there were wires sticking into him. Wires held his arms up above his head and wires came out of his chest, abdomen, head - there were wires all over him.

Then came a thunderous sound.


Scattered glass regrouped like clear jelly and reformed over the clock face.

Shade felt energy being drained from him. A small but constant stream. What on earth? Was this a nightmare? He couldn't even pinch himself. Through the curved glass, he could just make out a crack of light and through that crack he could see giant sized furniture. What the-?

Hours later, Rayne stormed into his flat, her face a black cloud of anger. Opening her mouth to let loose a torrent, she spotted the clock on the floor and the neat pile of paper on the table that declared Shade had finished his report. Where was Shade? Why was the clock on the floor by his desk? Leaving presents she had given him was very unlike him.

Picking up the clock, she returned it to the wall where it's comforting, 'tick, tock' could be heard clearly. Nearby, a battery rolled and she stooped down to examine the red spots that dotted the carpet. It looked like blood.

On impulse, she took down the clock and turned it over to look at the battery compartment and was surprised to find it empty. Black and empty, just as she had found it when she'd bought it. Strange.


Maybe the clock had an internal battery and Rayne shrugged. She'd have to remember to replace the battery before the clock's internal one ran out. Where was Shade?

04 November, 2010


Amidst the goldstream turning the wake of whom has the butt still burning, there can be seen another story, whittled down, but undoubtedly Quory. In the blackest night the vacuum brings, the noiseless sound as engines sing. The harmony, the triple melody, the perfect cadence and then the pause with plagal radiance. Unfurling like ghostly feathers, the wings of energised particles through all storms weather the unleashing of the angry bees, together with the revealing of the queen. Like a virus behind the screen, between panels, you can see the sheen. Their numbers rise dramatically and then smart children touch the mildren and all the bees break loose. "Stop!" the gentle queen now shouts, afraid her bees will mete their bout, for in disguise she made some friends, kindly helping for her ends. So gently sings she bees to sleep, while wings glide silent through the Trident. In hibernation the bees add more to engine's harmonies, layers four.

Definitely need revising this.

02 November, 2010


Every time I think of something to blog on, by the time I get to the computer, I've forgotten what that thing was. I walk away from the computer and (fanfare) I remember... but too late (head donk). It's very sad.

So, I have been chewing cud on theories of space travel, based on what I know. The problem with vacuums is that there is a lack of matter within the vacuum. The problem with inertia is that it will keep going unless you can justify the change in force, whether it be an increase in momentum, acceleration or a change in displacement. Scoop, release. Scoop, release.

MAGNETS! Magnets are the best other possible form of propulsion in space. Everything is made up of the forces of attraction and repulsion. From atoms, to compounds, to people and cars to planets, stars and galaxies. Magnets. Attraction, repulsion and some form of propulsion. I guess combustion is still our best chance. Fuel cells would be great, but in order to move in space, you need to lose matter. I think. Get rid of matter in order to have sufficient force to propel you, so fuel cells would only be useful for maintaining some form of homeostasis/maintenance. I just need to think of a way to get these thoughts to congeal and fit into place as puzzle pieces. This requires more thought. Peanut butter and jam (who eats jelly in a sandwich? only those weird Americans on the other side of the world who have a different name and spelling for almost everything. They resist conformation and order all others to conform to their ideas - ok, generalisation, but that is what I have noticed in general, just... don't kill me, ok?).

(Btw, I have come to the realisation that Canadians are cool. I almost got pulped to a mush the day I likened them to their southern neighbours. Nope. Not doing that again. And I don't say this because I was almost turned into a smoothie. The whole world knows it anyway, so there's no need to justify. Again, I say, Canadians are cool.)

Besides my space travel theories... I have been thinking about the similarities between the tv shows, Bones and Castle. Can you imagine Brennan and Booth meeting Castle and Beckett? I can. Booth and Beckett sizing each other up. Who's the better cop? Castle hitting on Brennan and being amused by her blunt literalness. Who's the better writer? Hilarity.

Imagine they all had to solve a case together. Beckett and Booth would probably bicker a bit, but know without asking what the other is doing. Brennan trailing behind saying that she can use a gun and both Beckett and Booth telling her to stay behind, telling Castle to make sure she stays back. Castle contemplating the possibilities of the story behind the case, impressing Brennan who when she reads the bones, impresses him in turn. I don't know. The result would probably irritate me and highlight the similarities between the two shows.

Oh well. They're all still cool and they're all pretty good actors... I liked Nathan Fillion in Firefly and Serenity. Anyone else note how Brennan and Beckett both lost their mothers in a mystery murder? Brennan's kind of solved her story, Beckett's working on hers. Still. I'm glad they haven't revealed that gem yet. Makes things more interesting. Wonder if the two couples would be blunt enough to tell the other couple that they are obviously in love even if they're not together. Doubt it.

I even dreamed about the cross over the other night. Makes me seem like I'm a fanatic. Really, I'm not. I just don't want to study for my exam tomorrow, see? Anyway, it was a bit like how in the first episode of the most recent season of Castle (see, I don't keep track of numbers), where Beckett and Castle aimed guns at each other. All I dreamed was a scenario where I was stuck in the middle with all four aiming guns over my head and their partner to get at some villain beyond. Weird. I should not think about tv shows before going to bed.

When I write about ordinary things like my opinion... my English goes bad and reverts to my family's broken bad English. We do it on purpose at home. What is the world's English coming to? The surreality of a gorilla serving frozen jelly at a bar. The improbability of an elephant knocking at my front door. Why are people butchering the English language?

For fun. Phun. Pun.

One day, I will return to this post and delete it. The blatant expression of my thoughts is embarrassing. Have I ever said I sometimes wished I was an actor, just for the joy of all those stories and the chance to pretend I existed elsewhere?

Laterally did the sunflower sway
To the croc's windswept lay
When the butterfly realised its not May
And the pugs refused to pay.
Stuff it. Leave the rest for another day.

25 September, 2010


A war zone is not a safe place, yet when the fireflies come out in the evening during the still of battle, there is a sense of peace. Momentary, but still there. Like soldiers in the forefront of battle, their lives last but a while and in a night, may be no more.

In a rough skewed movement, small things may break. The subsequent consequences may be dramatic. In retirement, one forgetful moment can lead to a fire storm. So much for 'experience comes with age'. It doesn't help when one returns to live in the past and does not realise their presence.

A forgotten pin. A lost cap. A missing manual. A dropped canteen.

Hail the replacement of the fallen! The brave who take the most dangerous of positions! Hail the reinforcements! They strengthen the weary hands; their coming opens the bleary eyes and brings hope to the failing heart. With them comes a breeze of newness, smells of fresh uniforms, the sparkle of life outside the booming dust and bloody bodies. But soon, too soon, they too become like the others on the front. Dull eyed, heavy hearted, aching, afraid and yet determined to do their duty. The lights of cigarette butts dot the coming night and the smell of smoke brings little comfort to the looming spectre of death. Mud finds its way into the itchiest of places and small insects burrow and bite. Wet, sog, must.

How is it that they say war is a glorious thing? The adventure of a life time? The dreams that follow. The memories that grow in strength and haunt every hour, waking or sleeping - for the rest of their lives. Brokenness, sadness, anger, pain. Relived over and over and over. Does it ever end?

An ant trundles stolidly, toiling though its work is futile. A mouse licks at the rainwater that has collected in a deep boot print. Behind the front, there is a plum tree in full bloom, its white petals making look like fairy floss on a stick from afar. Food that satisfies the belly, sufficient warmth for the night. A fire to cheer the lonely soul, thinking and dreaming of home.

It's the little things in life. What you do with it. Observe carefully. Look around you. All is death and yet there is life. All is broken and yet there is return.

For what purpose is revenge? Will the death of another man relieve the grief of the deceased's parents? Will it bring him back to life? Surely it will bring with it a never-ending cycle of strife; where to avenge one, another must avenge him. One dies. Another is killed. Yet another murdered and some are slaughtered. Is there a difference?

Yet there are times and there are times. Sometimes in standing firm, one person's lack of control can bring everything to chaos. Sometimes, when standing firm, one must fight. To the death. To protect what is held most dear or risk losing all.

In the end we are the fireflies. All fall, all die... but at least those still living have been given a chance at life. A gift. A present like no other present. What will you do with yours?

16 September, 2010


To whit, to whom shall the first and foremost fly?
Which lair, which share shall the last and rearguard try?

It started thus on an airtight day, during the new moon of a brisk and chirpy night. Two goggled men stood posed to fight, by the dolphin fountain in the day's half-light. On the parkbench sat she, a severe face with equally well-controlled expression. At present, it wore the mask that stated boredom.

"Well?" she called, her voice piercing the night breeze and killing it, like a butterfly pinned to a board. "What are you waiting for?"

One of the men relaxed and turned to speak, his expression shouting his reluctance and yet admission that he was royally screwed. But as he opened his mouth, the other man took the opportunity and lunged like a slavering dog. A squeak. A dull thump and a crack as the head bounced on the concrete. Once. Twice. Then rested.

"Finally," the woman rolled her eyes and flicked a finger at the victor. "Go finish the job and this time, don't mess up."

The man bowed, removing the goggles that blurred his vision and hurried away, shoulders sagging. What would his mother say when she found out what he had done to his brother? Away flew the goggles into the vacant air.

Snorting in disgust, the woman shook a droplet of silver liquid from a glass bottle onto the body. Then checking her jewelled watch by the light of a yellow streetlamp, strode in the opposite direction to which the man had gone, heels clicking out a rhythm. Fa-tal, fa-tal.

A wisp of smoke arose from where the silver liquid rested upon the flannel shirt of the deceased. A crackle. A flicker of flame. Ka-whoosh and the body burst into flames, the fire reaching up higher and higher into the sky, singeing the lower branches of the nearby plum blossom tree.

All good citizens remained indoors. The curfew was there for a reason and no man in his right mind went out or even looked out the window at this time of the night - or was it day? One could never tell exactly which it was. Only the regulated clocks told them when to rise for the 'day' and when to rest for the 'night'. As such, the barbecue went unnoticed. People just thought it was their neighbours burning dinner again.

A lizard crawled out from beneath a nearby bush to bask in the glow of the unexpected fire. Fizzles and pops of spitting fat made it scuttle back undercover. Warmth at the price of being cooked was not worth the trouble. Just as suddenly as the bonfire had started did it die down, leaving a patch of scorched concrete and greasy flakes fluttering in the breeze that had resumed its course the moment the lady had left.

"Where?" demanded the constable, irritated that he hadn't yet had the chance to down his extra strong cup of black coffee. No sugar.

"Here. Right here where the blackened ground is, sir," hunched shoulders and lank hair wished they were back under their bed covers.


"Preliminary reports state that there was a potential cremation of a body here last night."


"The locals wish to know whether you will investigate," the overgrown boy-man tried to hide deeper within the collar of his coat.

"No point. Just add the case to the pile already on the desk. We wouldn't find anything," the constable was already striding back to his car, wanting to get out from beneath the almost empty sky as soon as possible. Who knew when it would fall on his balding head? This secret fear was alleviated by earnest stretching of his legs to take up as much ground as they could with each step. He was a tough man. A busy man. Everyone knew that.

"As you wish, sir," the boy-man clicked a few more photographs of the area, knowing he'd been dismissed. Might as well process the scene properly, just in case anybody ever bothered to come back to this case. A glimmer caught his eye.

Flicking the torch light clipped to his belt, he knelt beside the rosemary for a closer look. Goggles? Using a glove, so as not to get his own fingerprints on the potential piece of evidence, he carefully shook it into an evidence bag. The boss would want to get a close look at it.


This has been sitting around as a draft for a while, so I thought I'd better finish it.

aggravate, aggravate!
listen to the swish as the rumble draws nearer.
if you look down, you will see the leafy tops of trees
looking up, find roots waving in the air.

aggravate, aggravate!
hear your neighbours leg a-shaking to a rhythm only he can hear.
the floor trembles like an earthquake
the chairs jump and skitter like 'fraidy cats
and the tables frisk like newborn lambs.

aggravate, aggravate!
listen to the hairs marching in time with the retreating trumpet.
exposed scalp shines like the lightbulb in the night
and people shake their heads sadly.

aggravate, aggravate!
listen to the wordstream rushing like the river rapids.
hard to stop
hard to pinpoint
hard to slow down
hard to replicate.

aggravate, aggravate!
listen to the scream of the inner man.
he stands at the windows, staring at the world.
he disagrees and yet agrees
and cannot fathom depth.

27 August, 2010

no time

waking in the early morning
before the birds are even calling
and the suns not made a peep
and ice crusted grass surround the sheep
i rush through the house like a mini whirlwind
making lunch and cleaning for erwin
then in the gelid morning freeze
i jump into the car and breeze
down the freeway as fast as can be
hoping policemen and speeding cameras will not see
from the carpark to the office
running all the way
my breath ices all i try to say
during the day the endless chores
from this floor to that floor
up and down
chasing lores
customer service in the morning
phones ring off the hook
and in between the transcript records
im trying to fill in the other book
no time for lunch
cant stop for brunch
empty stomach growling
but there are still people to meet
and emails to greet
just so the service will run like a well oiled machine
and because latine is sick
and becka resigned so quick
and the other 3 vacancies havent been filled
im pulling all the oars ever so fast
and truly i wonder will it all last
or will jill come tumbling after
so as i leave work past eight
because all the end of day papers were late
i zoom home in the dark with a hurry
since erwin will worry and still want to have curry
never mind what he wants to eat
dinner is slapped between bread
not wanting him to start crying
i let him watch tv while i go to bed
without anymore being said
sorry for the lack of grammar
sorry for erwins broken scanner
but i really gotta go cos now its time to wake again
and the story flows
without a rose
everyday without a break
the company doesnt notice
and if i try to take
long service
leave im denied
without a poultice

06 August, 2010


Where the wiggle has a squiggle, marching up to the bay, the miser and the lyser romp around all day.

Hush a moment, listen here. Can you hear it? Listen.

The salt on the table is called table salt, but you've never been to a salt lake, so you've never seen the salt monster.

Why should the elephant cry, leaving all the hazelnuts by? The crocodile will mash them all and then there really will be no ball. For bowling now, the squirrels use, the old jetsam coconut, not the quarrelsome cumbercue.

To what? See the pin drop on the horizon. Speak up, man.

On a day of contrary motions, the chromatics ran with glissful notion that all the scales of harmonic's pay will scare away melodic's day.

Starry night of mournful day, see how numbered people sway. In the cold wind biting, fighting for the last pot of whiting.

Chains and barbed wire wound round the pole. Red glooped and water ran down the side. This is what the punks did. Dirt blackened with liquid soaked and the smell of sweat lingered still. Glassy eyes stared unfocussed. Not far away, another coughed. Unnoticed. Immobile. Pain filled, with black bile. In the rising mist of the height, this lowly plain drew screams from the main. Scuffled dirt and crushed leaves stuffed up the nose. This was the price one must pay when they disagreed with the Metaglee.

Water flowed in wispy strides, down the battered gardenside. In flowing motion, like her scarf in the wind; in quiet grace, like her dancing by the stream.

Enigma of enigmas. This rat has a black day to fill with yellow. The maze that had been built, lost all who entered it and swallowed all who dared find their way. And yet, from the perch on the apple tree, one could see the straight road through it. Enigma of enigmas. This rat has found a new source to wallow.

Trash is what trash does. Smells of fairy floss and pee. Orange peels and rotting leftovers. The stench of carcasses swollen with maggots, the open sewer running over and filling the tip with its filth. Trash is what trash does. Loves all, takes all, embraces all and is no respecter of persons. If you stop still for hours, you'll see them that live among it. What is one man's loss, one man's junk, one man's waste, becomes another's treasure. They frighten easy and answer with surly silence.

Teacup, teacup, buttered toast on cheese. Grilled to perfection, without even a please.

Her ladyship's gown hung in the shadows. A grim foresight of things yet to come and this her happiest day. A life filled with torment and pain - to achieve this level of joy and gain... all to be lost to another's fancy whim. Just because they can.

04 August, 2010


Upon the bench must sit like so
the ornaments and Face of Bo
if they're crooked then you'll know
when the wind blows and down they go

Have you seen my study room
where even I am wary with the broom
for to knock one think out of loom
will bring upon us scary doom

The colours of this pattern here
each must leave white borders at the rear
for if it is not so, I fear
that there will be a frightful tear

Please be seated on that chair
careful, mind the cushioned camel hair
you can use that green one with the bear
but please don't touch the purple hare

Oh, already you must go so soon?
Is it because you've no teaspoon?
watch your step, don't hurt the 'coon
he's good friends with the loon

There's no hurry, we've all day
we can sit or go walk and say
all the things aside we lay
because we think it doesn't pay

If you must go, you must go
yes, of your niece you have told me so
nevermind, I'll come next show
and bring her Bo-Peep's giant bow

I'm sorry you don't have the time
and I'm sorry too about your dime
here, don't forget the extra lime
and sorry too for all the rhyme!

Heheheh. There. Good riddance.
Actually, I'm not at all sorry about the rhyme. Just glad they've gone and left me alone... and they thought they were picky. Heheheh

03 August, 2010

the bestetht

I want to wite the very bestetht for my kind weaders. But. It ith haad to wite vewy weww when one ith been wuthed (wuthed not watthed). Tho. I wiww take thith vewy thwowy tho that it wiww be good. I hope. Thowwy about the thtaating withp.

'Twas one of those nights. A lesser evening than others where nothing was happening and you just lounge by the warm fire - or heater if you had one of those instead, reading a book or watching television. The evening breeze was still somehow finding its way through chinks in the wall and beneath the closed doors, sending chill air that wrapped occasional icy fingers around me. I have a fire. Therefore, I was reading a book by its warm glow. If I had a heater, I would watch TV instead - if I had a TV. Modern tasks with modern objects, traditional tasks with more traditional objects. That's how it is.

What was I reading? Let me see... It was... it was Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Yes. That was the one. A trifling detail. Not remotely important in this story, but I am sure that there will be people out there who will ask me at some inopportune time, hence I give you this minor detail. I was nearing the end, you know, the part where Elizabeth's father tells her which of his girls' husbands he likes most; when I heard a distinct thump. From my bedroom.

Forgive my oversight. I forgot to mention that I was alone that night. Alone in my big three-story brick house and in the sitting room on the main (that is the middle) floor. Jackson had gone to have dinner with friends and it was Millie's night off, so she was out at a party. Glenda's 21st, I think.

Although startled, upon listening further, I heard no more and assumed it was the cat who had somehow gotten himself locked in my room. I couldn't think how it was possible. Certainly when I had left my room before dinner I had not seen him. Perhaps he had been hunting mice and had ironically been as quiet as a mouse. Who knows?

Grumbling to myself under my breath about stupid cats who get themselves locked into bedrooms and muttering that he had better not have dirtied my nice carpet or clean bed or he would get the wallop of his life, I stalked off to investigate and were it the cat, let him out. However, as I neared the room, I heard the muffled tapping of the clock gone wrong coming from within my bedroom. At least, that's what it sounded like. It could have been foot steps.

"Mintzy!" I had called, still disgruntled, "You had better not be playing with my clock or I will put you in a pot and boil you alive!" For I had on occasion caught my playful cat batting at the painted birds on the hands of the open faced clock in my room. Open, because the face had been missing to start with when Jackson had decided to buy it from a garage sale for me.

Flinging the door open, I gave a start. The window was open. I seldom opened the window, even in summer, because it had no fly or mosquito screen on it... and I never opened it during the winter... but it was a loose window with a broken latch that I had not yet gotten around to replacing. Thinking that the wind had somehow knocked it loose, I reached out to close it and took a pen from my table to use as a bolt. By the way, dear reader, this was performed without me turning on the light, for I knew where everything in my house lay and could walk about it in the dark as easily as if it were day; and it was a very dark night with an overcast sky and nothing but the tiniest sliver of moon lost behind the opaque clouds.

Then something brushed by me. I am not easily a-frightened, but I will tell you that that gave me a shock. Literally. A static shock and I'm sure the thing brushing by me felt it too, for there was a sudden movement. Also, it's shadow was much too large to be Mintzy. Turning back to get out of the room, I heard the door slam and the lock click. There being no key to the door, I knew that the person in the room had locked themselves in with me. I wondered how they had climbed up the wall. There was no old ivy and there was no tree. Only one rusty old... drain pipe. Who climbed drain pipes these days, anyway?

Moving swiftly, I ensconced myself within my wardrobe, but of course, my movement gave me away and I was pulled out roughly. However, while within the wardrobe, I had managed to catch hold of my old broken curtain rod that had snapped when Jackson had used it as an impromptu fishing pole, after he had lost his the previous week to a giant fish. With the rod I hit my assailant and brought it down upon his head. How dare he trespass upon my property and then lock me up in my room! He shouted and groaned, snatching at my foot to bring me crashing onto the floor. I dropped the rod. Up, I sprang after giving a sharp kick that crunched something - his nose, most likely and flicked the light switch.

Nothing happened. Before I could reach the door knob to unlock it, my vision suddenly sported stars and I stumbled, as the sound of the crack on my head came belatedly to my ears. That made me mad and though I reeled with dizziness, I gave a most awesome roar that swelled throughout the empty house and made the ceiling ring. My assailant paused and then I heard scrabbling at the window, the clean 'snap' of my pen in the latch as he pulled open the windows and a scrambling over at the drain pipe. There was a wail and a slight thump.

Good riddance, I thought to myself, making my way over the window and looking down. In the shadows, I saw the figure of a man stumbling away in the dark, holding his nose with one hand and clutching the broken curtain rod with the other. I laughed to myself, making a mental note to ensure that I got a new lock for my window the next day. Feeling that that was enough excitement for the day, I re-bolted my window with a much thicker pen this time and went to bed. As for the lights, Jackson could deal with it when he got home.

The next day, while Jackson and Millie lay a-bed, no doubt sleeping off the effects of their previous night's outings, I walked to town, wearing my usual green vest to stave off the cold. It was not as biting as it had been last night, but warm enough not to require the use of the jacket that I carried. Anyway, the brisk walk had warmed me up.

As I paid for my new window latch, Jill the shop girl asked if I knew of any bears currently residing within my home.

"None that I am aware of. Why please, Jill?"
"Mr Lambkin, you know, the sleazy one that's been sweet on you since, I don't know, forever, well, he came running into town with bruises of all sorts, a broken nose and a well cracked head, crying last night. He woke the town saying that he'd gone to visit your house and been attacked by a bear."
"Yes. He said that he'd knocked on the door and there had been no reply, so assuming that everyone was out, he made to leave when he was attacked. Fancy that!"
"I didn't know we had any bears hereabouts."
"Mr Lambkin must have had a few shots too many last night. I heard that he'd lost at cards with Jackson again."

I laughed and bid the girl farewell, stopping by the pub where the bruised man himself, covered with bandages was still regaling his story in a slurred speech.

"Excuse me, Mr Lambkin," I tapped his arm, having pushed my way through the crowd. "I just heard your story and thought that I'd stop by to express my regret that I missed you last night when you called. How any bear came to wander by last night is an astonishment, especially considering that this is Australia. I will, however, let Jackson know so that he can be sure the bear has gone for good before it tramples all my flowers into the ground again. I fancy that was the same animal that had climbed my drain pipe and invaded my bedroom last night. If I remember correctly, I gave him a good bloody nose and a good many bruises, much like yours today, so there is no need to be concerned about my safety. You see, I can look after myself fairly well. You must understand, I managed to scare him out the house, such that he fair fell out the window. Seeing as you are already acquainted with him, next time you meet him, Mr Lambkin, please do send him my regards and ask him to be so kind as to knock on the front door instead of climbing in through my bedroom window and Jackson and I will be glad to treat him to honey and bread, if he means no harm. I must also thank you, sir, for rescuing that broken curtain rod of mine; snatched from me by the bear. I'd very much like it back, if you please."

The man's face changed from a flushed red, to a sheepish yellow and then a satifying white as he glanced down at the broken rod he still held in his left hand. At this, the men roared with laughter and the constable, slapped him on the back as he led him off to the station, winking at me as he went.

Thowwy.The ending'th a bit wuthed becauthe I'm now wate and my thithta ith waiting fow me in the caah. If I had time, I would edit thith a bit mowe, but ath I have no mowe time weft at thith moment, thith wiww have to do. Hope you aah thatithfied with it. Hopefuwwy my teeth wiww not be tho thowe tomowwow, tho that I can tawk pwopewy again.

Btw, if you want a twanswathion of the withp, pweathe wet me know and I wiww twy to potht it heeaah. That ith if you can dethipher thith two thententhes ath weww.

28 July, 2010

as a rainbow

Flying around the world so high, the fly observed disturbance. After hiding beneath a leaf as raindrops pattered down, the sun came out and shone nonsense when water still battered from the sky. Then in a moment of brilliance blinding, two bows appeared minding, carving out a pathway in the blue.

In all, with all, zipping in and out, the fly set off to find how such colours came about. Chasing further in the sky, it never seemed to reach, for just as it thought it was drawing nigh, the rainbow just moved further out of reach. On and on, the fly kept doggedly, wanting coloured prize, but then in utter fatigue the fly fell and fluttered, feeling small in size. Feebly trying to steady flight, the fly stretched out its wings, but too tired was its meeting and too fast was it wheeling.

Down below, while painting hall, the man turned 'round a moment. A little splosh he did not hear while tin of paint sat in rear. Swashing up a brushful, there the poor fly stood. Evermore to grace the halls and in death, to enhance the walls.

23 July, 2010

a letter

To the wending stream to the willow
By the whistling moss-strewn pillow

Myrias of myria
Greeting of the dee
From a time gone by

Here in ancient room now bare
Where all is torn and taken
I sit at the last remaining furniture
To write you this
My last
At last.

I remember a time from long ago
When we ran beneath daisied boughs
Laughing, rolling by the stream
The two of us a team.

We had good times and many laughs
It's been an age
But no present time
Has been as great as those
No, not by half.

Remember the day we found that frog
Hidden beneath the stone?
How we built him a little house
Caught insects and fed him?
Remember how you insisted he needed a friend
And after many hours
Found one about his size?

I know you are busy
I know you don't have much time
But I wanted to tell you one more time
That while I know things have changed
And we have turned our separate ways
You the high road
I, the low road

My love for you has not dimmed
It has not paled
So while now you send me away
From this old place full of memories
I know you do what you think is best
And while my heart twists within me
To think that perhaps I've been betrayed

I remember that your heart is not so cold
That still
You are a human being
Capable of feeling
Despite our differing opinions

One day this war will be won
And we will both be judged by other men
Let our consciences be clear
Of all the deeds we have done.
I know mine is.

So as I go with your men
Willingly to my death
Please consider this
My last
Let me see your face
One last

22 July, 2010

send me

"Send me, sir. I will go," said the young boy.

Hairy caterpillars worked up and down as the man contemplated the offer.

"You realise, lad, that this will be a dangerous task?"

"Yes sir, I do. I'm quick on my feet and know the streets better than any cabby. I can hide and nobody would ever question another little boy running around."

"That is true, but do you understand the utmost importance of the responsibility you are taking? It is but one letter, but the weight of its matter could well break your back if others learn that you are the messenger."

"Yes sir. I understand. Send me. I will go. Nobody else wants to."

Wrinkles forced the hairy caterpillars to writhe in what seemed like worry.

"You cannot stop for breath, cannot misplace, cannot lose this letter. You may well be sought for and killed. Are you absolutely certain?"

"Ask the master there, sir," said the boy, pushing his peaked cap up a little higher so that he could look above the man's well groomed chin. "He knows how responsible I can be."

The master nodded thoughtfully, though his thin-pressed lips seemed troubled.

"He's a good lad. He'll do as his told without a second to waste."

"Very well then. You, my young man, will go. I only wish you weren't so young, for though you may deliver the letter, there is a good chance, you may not make it back."

"Oh, I will, sir. You wait and see. I'll be there and back in a jiffy, only you tell me where to go and who to see."

"I will that, my young man. What's your name?"

"Jeffrey Hold, sir."

"Then young Jeffrey. Here's the letter. Put it in your breast pocket and let no other see it or even know it's there. Do not lose it at any cost. It must be delivered within the week to either a lady with golden hair and a pearl ring upon her left little finger or to a tall footman with a scar across his nose like so and who stutters when he talks."

Jeffrey repeated what the man said, committing it to memory and the hairy caterpillars lifted in seeming surprise.

"The place you are to go is Castleford, across the river. There you may find either of the people I have described to you and you may be sure that if you ask them if they had found an apple penny, they will be sure to answer you with a confirmation that they had and will tell you where next, you are to go. Here, Jeffrey, I will give you a few coins to keep you on your way. Be careful."

"That I will, sir." Again, Jeffrey carefully repeated the instructions until he knew them and the hairy caterpillars nodded in time to his words. "When should I start?"

"That you'd best ask your master. When do you think would be best?"

"I believe he should have a good supper and rest well tonight. Then tomorrow morning, he should leave in the morning market rush, with a full stomach to send him on his way."

"There you go, lad. Is there anything you would like?"

"Only a spare handkerchief and a belt."

"And you shall have them." The man pulled out a extra large sized handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to the boy. "There you go. I dare say your master will see to the belt."

"That I will. Go see Cook for supper first, lad, and I'll see what I can find you."

"Thank you sir. Thank you master. I'll bid you a good night then."

And off the boy trotted, looking ridiculously much too young for such an important task as this. The men almost felt as if they were monsters, for sending such a young lad into the fray, but they were helpless to do anything else.

"God help him and watch over him," murmured the bushy caterpillars, already moist.

"Amen," said the master in a quiet tone.

20 July, 2010

irate man

He glared around the court, eyes red-rimmed and face all haggard. Unkempt hair and prickly beard gave vent to his intense frustration.

"Can the world do any more to me? Can things get any worst? You have no ears, you do not hear, even though I tell you the truth. What hope have I? What care do I have left in this world?" the man shouted irately to the sky. "What more can the world bring me?

"My brother is in another country, being tried for being a Christian. My mother is in hospital, sick and dying, while all my material goods have been seized. My sister is trapped in a bad marriage where her husband abuses her; and my children kidnapped. Held hostage, for goodness sake! My wife was murdered and my in-laws are being terrorised.

"I am a wanted fugitive in my own country, where even my closest friends will not see me - for a crime. A crime I did not commit. A crime I knew nothing about and had but the misfortune to be present at the time. After my startling arrest and during the transfer to another facility - you say I escaped. I will admit that I hoped the escape was real, but no. Do you not know that masked men held me at gun point and bid me do as I was told. What choice had I when both my life and the life of my innocent children were at risk, but to obey? They took me in a car and brought me to the city. I was told to walk down a street and if I refused or tried to run, a gunman would kill my children, one by one, and they would make sure I knew it. There, as I walked was I re-captured. I did not struggle, I made no protest, though I have been treated ill. I looked the officer in the eye and told him where the gunmen stood, before the bullets flew. Yes, there was a gunfight and I was unharmed, make no mistake of that. It was not by my doing, I assure you. I am sorry the fine officers died, more so that not all the gunmen were. Do you not understand? Can you not see that you are being forced to look at me, while away from your watchful eyes, they do their evil deeds? I do not know them. I have not seen their faces uncovered. And now you wish to condemn me to death, to have me leave my children parentless and hostage still. What do you think will become of them? Have you found them? Have you? Have you?

"What else can the world throw at me? I am already a broken man."

And he broke down and wept, while the court shifted uneasily in their seats. It is never easy to see a grown man weep, even one accused of such a heinous crime as this.

The judge cleared his throat. Either this man had been through much or he was truly the world's greatest actor, because even he, the stoic judge of impartial law, was moved by the trials the man bespoke. Yet he had to speak and deliver both verdict and hasty message passed onto him not 10 minutes ago. Poor man, what else could the world throw at him but this?

"Whether you have pleaded guilty or not guilty, the evidence has been laid bare before the court. The jury has found you guilty of the accused crimes and the sentence as such is death. Also, the message that earlier arrived, I am sorry to inform you. Your children have been found. Both dead, left in the rubbish tip. The police believe that their murder had nothing to do with this case, but rather due to the fact that the ransom note delivered your empty home was left unanswered."

Poor man. Poor poor man. He was innocent, of course.

19 July, 2010


In this I know it passing well, where whence the spigot turned its tell and now I tell you mysterious lay of shining baubles, glistening hay. Oh, aye, take note, take note, tis well that gargoyles gargle - for tis not a bell; Then take ride upon the eventide where bloodwake ripples in sunset's stride, for I have no care of seeming please to make my heart beat in with lease, just so that thou might take my place and mutter amidst thy brainless wastes. Oh, thou thoughtest I knewest not and nay, here I am, to thy face absurd. Then wait for it, wait for it, your angry SHOUT when thy truest will comes rise about. Tch. Wilt thou not speak my happy foe? Wilt thou not hear of deeds well low? How in the night, under cover of dark, thou tookest my dearest and left there your mark? Or how in westerly blowing wind thou didst set alight my only park? I tell thee, nay, I adjure thee, get thee hence. I'll not see thy face no more - no wisp, no lisp, no more masking. Hence!

What? Think you I mad? Twas not my doing, no, nor my reasoning. For thou heardest of what befell my fate and sad, you did what you had long a-wait.
Go to, go to, old friend, twice fell. I'll remember thee to eastern shores, thy name upon the weather mores. Oh, all eyes will keep, aye. All eyes will keep for sight of thee, that no more injure me my sores. And then in misty dawn you rise, wishing still to take my prize, but I know thee. Oh, I know thee, my most ancient foe and I'll not lease to thee my remaining cause.

Oh, the joys of hearing Shakespeare. That language really gets stuck in your head.

16 July, 2010


Take the pulp of an orange, the peel of a firjoa, the essence of a cumquat and the hair of a pineapple. Mix.

Grate the juice of an apricot, the shedding of a turnip, the seed of a candle, the mush of a pomegranate. Mash with the former.

Place in a pot with the cream of the cream and heat until simmering point.

Amidst the leftovers of the same, the fibres may prevail. If this is so, point and stick in a blender. This will make them harder to see. Or if you'd rather, instead, take a pinch and there you will have it, an extract.

The essence of a story, the extract of a book.
A page of a cob corny, the sage of the tale.
Cut them up in jigsaw pieces and re-align again.
In this way, things will stay fresh and you'll never be bored again.

Yesterday morning, I sat down and stayed there all day, typing. Twenty pages later, on review, it was insufficiently stuffed. Halfway there.

07 July, 2010


Hands are hard things to draw, but I reckon feet are harder. Then again, it depends on which one you spend more time drawing. I can see my hand to copy it, but it's harder to put my foot on the table and copy it (from different angles, etc).

Well has it been said that the polka dotted tinted window will melt in the sunshine. Over time, it has been known to flow against gravity and even open, especially in summer. Unfortunately, its viscosity is such that it cannot get very far before night falls and it has to return to its proper falling.

Yesterday, the tie of bottles emptied. Meaning, the lolly train has not been and must be re-altered to take a larger load. Unfortunately, the table may complain about the strain and go on strike. We'll see what we can do.

Pens, pens, everywhere, pens! It's been raining pens on this fine day with splotches of clouds. Black pens, blue pens, red pens, green, purple, orange, yellow! Pens of all colours, shapes and sizes. Could it be that someone somewhere has lost a dozen truckloads of pens? The problem with the unexpected rain is that walking on a pile of pens is inadvisable in slippered feet, as the broken ends may draw blood and you may end up with very well graffitied distal limbs. Now that I have a huge spare cache, would you like some?

06 July, 2010

i know

I know that sometimes, you have more support for something else that you do and yet... you still choose the 'road less travelled'. The frying of onions whole is a bit more difficult. Especially when you have to figure out a way to fry the whole onion so that the inside is crispy, but the outside ain't burnt. Honestly. You'd need to start with a low heat over a long period of time maybe.

Anyway, here I am. This space allows more freedom of thought. The onions are worlds within worlds within worlds. Each has to have a proper infrastructure or risk rot and becoming mush. There's just so much more air here. I can say what I want. It doesn't have to be related to anything and it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. Just wordspill.

Flagrant blagrant
Either eider
Magnificent maleficent
Tragic Cedric
Yellow bellow
Pollen whollen
Tickle sickle
Pop hop
Moat groat
Shoot loot
Boot it out the window


Amidst a freezing morning dreary
Where sluggish traffic rattles tary
And Bridgewater Jerry mistles by
And early shoppers hug their rye
Little birds huddle shivering
On the fluttered leaves quivering
While sleepy workers groan at the thought
Of another day full and frought
With little tasks and tediums
Boring casks and encyclopedians.

02 July, 2010


When winter's frosty mornings
Fail to sheet slippings
Boughs all rise
Sprightly they green
Grandly they deem
awaitened spring
no more a lonely dream
And colours will abound
And happy echoes sound
As into sky burts little songs
From little fluffballs round
Then the golden plumes
come bursting forth
in an explosion of yellow humes
Pollen counts give porth
To noses running, sneezing.

30 June, 2010


Walking, walking
Running, running
Moving, moving
Eventually we reach a Point
It is an Important Event
that we use to mark how far we have come
A Milestone

When born
A baby has reflexes
Things it does without
Then bit by bit
it learns to master its body
It raises its head
It follows movement with its eyes
It recognises its name
It brings its hands to its mouth
Then the baby starts rolling
Accidentally at first
Soon it can roll voluntarily
Soon the baby sits on its own
Not long after, stands and cruises
Crawls, bottom shuffles, bear walks
Walks independently
By the time it is three
It is learning to run
By the time it is four or five
It is learning to jump and skip

Older adult
Milestones of a human's life

And in our quiet walk
Daily with our Lord
again we put up the stones
that remember.
Water soaking
Fire drenching
Hearing, running

Thus far have we come
We look back and can see
The milestones shining
our victory
The red glowing
with the grace
that carried us over pits
traps and troubles

Until the next be laid
Set down upon the path
We walk led with the Lamp
that lights the way before our feet

27 June, 2010

and as in uffish thought...

What I was writing has accidentally been deleted. I pressed the mouse button one too many times. But perhaps it is better this way. For I spoke of nidotia and mythoti, explothrout of videmovida or ecoleurotions and wishodrams. And these things are beyond words - not for consumption until such a time as they are deemed ready. So with a hey, nonny nonny, I will just womit; wordspill upon here in the meantime. See what happens.

When will the shadows be cleansed?
By hopeless tide of wishless dread?
Who will make shudder the wind blown chime what will shake the hidden time?
Ha! Thou hast not heard!
And thou knowest not the things of which have been spoken!
Sit a while and hearken unto me, and I will tell thee of mighty deeds. Thy troubles cannot be solved by my hand, but unto thee my wisdom may I impart.

When a hero doth travel far, by and by his companion shall be meet.
A companion may not be worthy of a name, for he is hidden in the shadow of a mane.

What mane? I speak not of lions, my friend, but of other things of which there is not any word in any tongue that may describe it.
A challenge shall be given forth, that the hero must surely overcome or perish in its sight.
His companion in all likelihood shall trouble the hero's challenge and complicate his quest.
There shall be betrayal and intrigue, thwarting and scheming. Of these are there many variants.

Shall there be romance? Shall there be friendship? Unless the hero be unreal, relationships must tangle, tackle and conquer.
Patience is a virtue to many, but to wait over time, shall require thee a price. And the price may be too high to pay.

Better yet, take thy manuscript and hide it beneath thy bed or amidst the rubbish. Nay, better yet, take thee thy writing and here must thou burn it. For it is better for it to never see the light of day.
Wilt thou proclaim thy righteousness and thy power over the pen? But humble thyself and behave wisely, and a thing shall come at opportune time to steal the moonlight from the den.
Replace the cap. There, thou art. Let the sun shine forth in all its glory. Never mind, never mind.
What? Wast years of thy work? Ha! It is good.
Laugh. It is gone. Breathe the fresh air.
Now go thou forth and renew it. Create it, mould it, shape it.
Let it become. That is what thy imagination is for, is it not?
Then in the uffish stillness hear, the whispered breath of slippered year.
There. See how thou art skilled?

What? That Doctor? That raggedy man?
Nay, nay, my friend. Again, I say nay. He is fictitious; felicitous though he may seem. A dangerous notion, if ever there were any.
Blue box?
Yes, in the past. I saw it. Of course. I met him. A delightful fellow.
Because he is! My dear fellow, just because he chooses one in billions, doth not mean he shall take even the slightest notice of thee. Therefore he is fictitious, for in reality, he can never be, for he erased himself out of time and mind.
What art thou to thy fellows?
Unique? Surely. In time thou shalt see and understand.
The former is no more. The new is come.
You have seen it? Nay, thou hast not truly seen.
Come and I shall show it thee.
Now you see? Canst thou now understand my speech?

Yes, yes, bigger on the inside. Hurry on, we have places to go, things to see and an awful lot of running to do.
Yes, that was Jenny's line.
Accent? Well, I adopted it for you - thee, rather. See? Ha! I've been waiting for thee - you, all this time, so that we can get out of here.
Yes, yes, the key, the key! Honestly, you must be blind to have missed it, but then, humans on a whole are rather blind little creatures. They grope about in the dark and try to change the universe, but succeed in only making ripples. Little ripples. But one day that will change. So much potential, you lot.

Are you coming? Then hurry up and get a move on! Unless you'd rather be blown to smithereens. Come along!
Didn't I mention the hidden time before? Come on, you can't be that slow. Time machine. Yes! It's a time machine.
You are coming now, right? Good. Then let's gooooooooooo!

Imagine how God must see us. Puny little specks of dust, rolling in more dust.

20 June, 2010


misty morning
fog on boring
down the river bend
cloud on ground
paths icy bound
skitter those walking
little lights across the sight
of stretching blue snake light
snap a picture
find it shaky
out comes twirling wakey.

10 June, 2010


Merrily merrily do thy homework
Srunchily, bunchily throw it out the window

I can't be bothered. Really can't. So here I am. Avoiding otorrhea, the purulent meanings thereof and associated ear infections. Too complicated. A powerpoint presentation? What for? It's not like anyone is going to want to keep it. Just chuck it out the window.

At the same time, lively curricula of the vitae ought to be completed. I do not wish to resume writing the resume. It is rackety. Neither do I wish to be bothered learning how to write cover letters, completing forms relating to key selection criteria... and preparing for mock interviews. I mean, who does?

The necessity and imperative given to be professional leaves some things to be desired. At least it's a game whose rules are relatively well-known. To those already playing the game, anyway.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, everything is due tomorrow. Be kind to me, time and turn back that I might complete all this without being late, still have time to sleep and have fully prepared for what the next day shall bring.

It irks me, a semi-perfectionist to do work and not have done it properly. all things must be completed to the best of my ability or I become a grumpy-raging bear with red eyes and black bags beneath. However, so fed up am I that I am contemplating deliberate sabotage to my career - which would not be a good idea. It is advisable to still be able to get a job after coming out of uni. So on with the work. Let's be about it people.

Gold and treasure. Under piles of useless diamond-hard dried sludge. Get digging. You might find the good stuff in a million years and billions of digging utensils later.

07 June, 2010

Just 3 more hours

Along the back, the trays rattle-thumped, causing each and every item to jump in time to the bumps in the road. Nothing else could be heard. The smell of rust, dust, old sweat and burnt rubber filled the cabin, amidst the degrading of old burger wrappers and forgotten sandwiches. Outside, the baked road gave rise to little hallucinogenic pools of water and advertised its ability to fry an egg to a crisp.

When travelling a long road with no stops but for the rare tin outhouse that was truly a hole in the ground with no water for washing hands, one had to be prepared to rough it. Accordingly, a folding spade, just for that occasion hid beneath the seat. Waiting.

The vehicle belched, groaned and skittered to a halt at the roadside. Already, the spade had been yanked from its hidden position and the driver was running toward the thickest bush he could see. Unseen, a bruised body with well tousled hair, muttered language his grandmother would have washed his mouth out with soap for. Gritting his teeth, he tumble-fell out of the truck. He got up off the burning bitumen in a hurry. Not the best ride he'd ever picked. Taking a moment to scan the wild countryside and note where the driver was grunting to himself, the man stretched, trying to get his bearings. By his estimation, they would reach the civilised world again within 3 hours. Three more hours of torture.

Well, he could bear it, he supposed. Three more hours and he'd be back. Moe sure would be surprised to see him back again so soon.

The crackle of dry grass and twigs alerted him to the returning driver. Back to his hiding place beneath the stuffy tarp. Just 3 more hours.

Sighing and hitching his pants up more comfortably, the large truck driver smiled at a job well done. Now he could complete the run. Where was that other packet of chips?

Chips and coke now within easy reach, the driver settled himself back into his comfy, padded seat. Back to work. If he was quick, he'd get home in time for the missus to have just laid dinner on the table, still steaming hot.

With a gurgly rattle, the truck choked back to life and scrunched back off the road's edge. In the back, the man half-suffocating in the heat, continued to mutter under his breath every time they went over an especially large bump or pot-hole. Just 3 more hours. Please God, let it be quick.

05 June, 2010


(Please note, before you read this, that this is being written at a low point in my life)

Vanity of vanities, all things are vanity. They grow and die, they live and fade. All things are done in vain. From dust they come and to dust they return. Wherein then is the purpose of life? From whence can the meaning of life be found?

All were made for a reason. All were made for a mission. All perform some sort of service, provide a form of influence, shape all that occurs around us in minute ways. But. What if you cannot find your Dream? Your life's purpose? What if you have waited all your life for something to happen, something that tells you that 'this is it', but it never comes? All the while the colours are fading, the pain is growing and all you know is that the countdown has begun... and still. Still the Big Dream you were born with will not reveal itself. It will not even give you a little peek at what it has to offer and all the while the seconds tick by. Time is running out.

What is the point in studying, getting a job, going to work? Why bother? Why trouble yourself watching tv, gardening, playing sport, doing what things you love? For what reason? Is there a reason? They are purposeless, meaningless activities one performs; for the world cries, "Conform! Conform!" at the same time contradicting itself and demanding you achieve its ideal: "Be yourself. Be individual. Be unique. Be special." Yet if you do not conform, they come. They beat you and bind you, they squish you and confine you. They come and do the nameless 'thing' - what you most dread. All because you would not conform. It is not enough to just hurt you. No. They must wound you and kill you over and over and over and over again. Just because you would not conform. Because you refused to be like them, talk like them, look like them, think like them... All that you love best in this world, all that you hold dear - taken and destroyed. There is no such thing as being allowed to be an individual. You are special, but you are oppressed and the real you must stay hidden, protected at all costs. See what they have done?

A stab in the chest. Not enough. They repeat it and this time they twist the knife and push it up and down, slicing up through the rib cage to the neck; and down through the abdomen to the pelvis. OR instead and this one is more painful than the previous: they take what looks like a cross between a grapnel hook, a whisk and the blades of a blender and force it into your wound. There is a whirring and your insides - all your organs are mushed to pate. It is for this reason I hate, cannot eat or look at pate. Organ mush. How palatable. How enjoyable. Would you like some on your crackers with cheese? Pate. Hush. Hear the sound? They have found another victim.

Quickly. Quietly. Silently. Walk away. Hide yourself from the light of day. Let no man see or find you. All are enemies. None can be trusted. It may be someone that you thought was a friend will hold you down, whilst the other punches. They wear smiles on their faces and greet with with sweet innocence. Yet behind the masks they rage and speak and plot and plan and scheme. True kindness, with no motive, is so rare that one might say it is extinct.

One must be strong. One must never fall, never make a mistake. Never show a fault. To stumble is to fall and then the dog pack will get you. The dog pack love this game. They tease and play, but their aim? Their aim is to rip you to shreds. You are not like them and therefore must die. Anything that is weak (or shows weakness and is therefore weak) is fair game. Game to be hunted down. That is unless you excel in escape. Prove to them you are stronger, smarter and wiser than they. Show them your teeth, roar more loudly and fiercely than the whole pack put together. You must show them you are king. Eat or be eaten.

"Survival of the fittest," they love to say. No. It is not survival of the fittest. It is "massacre of the weakest". That is the game. How it must be played. Be strong or die. Eat or be eaten. Join the massacre or be massacred.

One alone is easily broken. You need people to help watch your back, but don't keep your back turned for long. It is not safe. I will say it again. It is not safe. Don't keep your back turned for more than a second. Oh, play their game and let them think that they have your trust, when in truth you trust nobody. Unless you are alone. The only thing, the only person you can ever ever trust is God. He is infallible and perfect. Knowing all things before they come to pass, He is the only lifeline you have in this dark world. The only one that can guide your steps, when one false move will have you fall and ripped to shreds. Trust His plan.

If you trust nobody and not even God. There is no one left to trust. Yourself? Ha! That is laughable. Yourself. Who would dare trust theirselves? Have you seen yourself and your selfish, petty little ways? Have you seen your thoughts, your bumbling and bungling, and your stupid, incomplete plans? Your tendency to cause chaos and all your silly little mistake that add up to more than you realised? Before you know it, you're in debt and drowning. How then can you trust yourself with even the smallest deed? You think that you have factored everything in, but you haven't. You think that you have accounted for every variable in the world, but you haven't, cannot. It is not possible. That is why, unless there is a God, it is better to die in whatever way seems best to you. There is no point and life is purposeless.

The darkness it creeps and poisons. Everything is tainted. The air, the sky, the ground, the birds, the trees, the grass, the creeping things, the fish, the people. All are tainted, all are cursed. Why trouble oneself with trying achieve anything upon this dying earth? If all is dying, isn't it just easier to die sooner rather than later and save yourself some suffering. Only, that's not the point. But then, what is?

Who cares about you? Your loved ones? You? Ha! And HA! again. You say you care about yourself and yet you don't. You don't do what you ought, you don't look after yourself or your beloved(s) as you ought. Sure you care about yourself, when you neglect the little things, left undone because 'there is not enough time'. You care only about your 'survival'. As long as you 'survive' everything will be all right.

How about your loved ones? Your friends? Your family? They have problems of their own. They have their own lives to live. Their own little 'worlds' to take care of. Their 'survival' to ensure. You sure they really care about you? Only to lean on you, step on you, use you when it's convenient, otherwise they just leave and forget about you or kill you if you're inconvenient. But that's life. That's what we tell ourselves. In reality, all we are doing is looking for a foothold or a handhold. Anything to hold onto and pull ourselves up the ranks, so that we can look back down and say, 'what a good boy/girl am I'. They 'care' about you, because you are a necessity, just as you 'care' and 'love' them, because you need them to 'survive'.

Look what we have come to. You. Alone in this world of billions. In the loneliest place anyone can be found. Lost amongst a crowd. You. Selfish little you. One selfish person amongst billions of equally or more ferociously selfish others. Each one vying for the title of 'king survivor'. Ha. And HA! again. Massacre of the weakest. Conform or be pulled down and trampled by the masses.

All things were made for laughter. All things were made for enjoyment. That is until they became tainted and perverted. Twisted things for twisted minds. What goes in must come out and if what comes out is tainted - how dark is the inside? Therefore laugh at everything. For laughter helps to chase fear away. Enjoy every moment of every day and want for nothing. "Eat and drink, for tomorrow we die." No. I rather say, eat and drink, but be wary and wise. You may yet avoid disaster and live to see another day.

Fear. Fear is something you must not do, for it brings the nameless things to life. If you have no fear and are not afraid, well then and good. Fear brings what was not, the little things you see out the corner of your eye, but disregard because we think they are improbable - to life. To fear them, brings the monsters out from that little unseen corner to before your very eyes... and then you're in trouble. Once you see them, all the more you fear them and the more you fear them, the more 'alive' they become. Fear gives them strength, therefore you. Must. Not. Be. Afraid. See them, by all means, but ignore them and cast them off as insignificant ramblings of an air current. You must not look directly at them. You must not scrutinise them. Above all, you must not fear them or they will come and not only destroy you, but all that you have lived, touched and breathed upon. This is what the monsters of the fearsome dark do. This is what they are. Fear finds them, brings them, feeds them. Only truth, faith, hope and the Name above all Names can dispel them. Fear not, neither be afraid, but be strong and of good courage. Perfect love - His perfect love, casts out all fear. Seek the Highest Authority and you'll know what I mean.

Do small things amuse small minds? But I tell you, nothing amuses nor interests large minds. Why? Because they are so big, they can't tell you where their brain ends and the noxious fart begins. Airheads they are and be. Therefore laugh. What is there to fear? They can only kill you and surely you've been there before.

Be amused by everything. Be thankful for everything. In everything you do, whether living or dying, waking or sleeping, working or resting, playing or stressing, NEVER LET GO. Never let go? Of what? Your life line. What else? For while there is hope, no matter how small, grab it, hold onto it and never let go. For me, it is God. He is my lifeline. My one and only hope that my existence has a meaning and has a purpose. The little dot of light at the end of the tunnel. Never let go.

So, while I have no further motivation; still, I live on. When all energy is drained and the gas tanks are empty; still, I go on. When all other hearts fail and all the lights go out; still, I hope. In peace, in love, in faith, in joy, in hope, in truth. The reason? For the hope that I have a reason and a purpose, that I will make somebody's life worth while. Time is running out and the countdown counts every second gone. Still...

Never let go.
Of Jesus.

27 May, 2010


In the softly chirping burping
The wand of white ticks timely
With the sweep of warm wraps grazing
And the elephant stomp hazing.
They build the picture solid
of another world less squalid
Where wind swept trees sing grandly
And low breezes follow gladly.
Down the hillside rivers fall
Off cliffs and mountains tall
By empty gardens of sandy rock
And mysterious forest of whispers shhhh

Down by places where children gallop
With the horses of the rallop
Waving fields of swaying grasses
Within which the small foal masters
The art of leaping, falling
Dancing to and rolling
In the wisp-soaked musical lay
For which the poorest need not pay.

From the lowly tinkle to
the loudest booming cymbal
and the timpanis build the sound
where the percussionist looks not around.
In the thunderous applause
the strings all sing in one accord
while winds they all float higher
and the brasses speak as crier.

The swelling of the tide
Ceases in the stillness
the audience stand in wonder
the orchestra not asunder
to acknowledge one who brought this about
who with patient words did not shout
his dream and vision
pictures tall
brought tonight
to sound the hall.

26 May, 2010

mix it up

Night before last or rather, morning before last, I had a dream. It was a mix of Doctor Who (with Sarah-Jane Smith), Stargate and a smidgeon of Men in Black. Very odd.

It started out with Sarah-Jane investigating the newest fad, some sort of company that had cropped up and become famous overnight and were now employing people and expanding like crazy. Why? Well, they had discovered a Stargate. Guess who came through the Stargate? Aliens of course! One alien that copied the people around it and tried to pretend it was a human. Sarah-Jane found it out of course and tried to contact the Doctor, only as usual, he was off gallivanting somewhere else and she couldn't find hide nor hair of him. This was one of those aliens that feed off almost any sort of energy and it liked the look of earth. Wanted to eat it all up.

The alien was one of those scary ones with lots of tentacles and like Men in Black, it filled the secret company base with it's tentacles, smothering people and feeding off what energy it could. It figured out who Sarah-Jane was (of course) and had almost finished smothering her to death with its masses of tentacles when the Doctor (a curious mix of David Tennant's 10th and Matt Smith's 11th with a dash of some of the older Doctors in between) turns up with his sonic screwdriver and saves the day and world - as per his usual bumbling, dashing style. Oh, and he breaks the Stargate for good measure with his handy screwdriver.

Several decades later, a stargate team (mixture of SG-1, Atlantis and Universe people) happen across the now abandoned base, coming from another stargate not too far away. They investigate and invariably get themselves stuck in a timeloop - starting with when they first arrive through the 'gate until they begin to die of a mysterious plague when the abandoned base invariably goes into lock down. That is after they fix the 'gate and something comes through the gate that they didn't see. Plus, they retain memory of what happened in every previous loop. Trial and error.

And what comes through the gate? An alien, followed by some sort of disease/parasite type thing. Kind of like how the incas and mexican began dying of small pox when the spanish invaded. The team's doctor works like crazy to try and figure out a way to cure them and make them immune to the bug - all the while, one member of the team isn't really a member of the team, he's the alien who has done something to their memories to make them think he's one of them. He then proceeds to get the doctor pregnant - without her realising it, until it grows unnaturally fast. Stuff happens.

The team genius is busy working out a way to get themselves out of the base and stop the time loop. Something to do with both stargate being activated and needing to blow this one up. The alien, starts to grow attached to these people as he comes to know them and finally comes clean - tells them the truth and that the illness is his fault. It won't bother them when if he returns to his home planet. The other problem is the doctor being pregnant.

Choice number 1. Never mind the pregnancy and baby. Abort it and go ahead with the plan where in the next loop, the alien leaves throught the Stargate immediately and the team escapes through the gate, blowing it up behind them.

Choice number 2. Let the time loop continue until the baby is born and then the alien and baby can scram, while the team go home, blowing up the gate behind them. Despite the danger of the mysterious illness killing the baby before they can leave. The alien assures them the baby will most likely be dead before he can bring it home to his planet.

Choice number 3. The alien takes the team's doctor with him through the Stargate to his home world until the baby is born, before contacting them via Stargate Command. The team in the meantime, will also escape through the 'gate, blowing it up behind them.

The team leader gives the doctor the choice. Her baby, her decision. She chooses number 3 and leave through the gate with the alien. She trusts him and will get intouch with Stargate Command somehow. The team tell her to stay safe and warns the alien that if any harm comes to her, they will hunt him down and kill him - which he says is fine with him. It's only fair. The team leave and blow the gate up behind them, effectively killing the time loop and returning to normal.

It's like a whole episode or two in itself. I don't think people would be interested in the setting, as I can tell you it's a conglomeration and collage of places from Firefly, Stargate (worlds and basements) and Dr Who.

But that dream doesn't measure up to this morning's dream... which was scary and not in an 'Aaaaaah! Gulp' way. No aliens. Just a plethora of children - actually a country run by children and over run by children and whose sole inhabitants are children aged 2 and up. The oldest people are in their 40s, but are controlled by the children because of all the gangs formed by the children. It's worst than Lord of the Flies. And this is interspersed with one of my deepest darkest fears come to life in dream form. Bad dream! Down boy!

Nothing to do with aliens at all... and nobody can help you. Oh, they're there (your family and friends and anyone who cares about you, that is) and around you, but they can't help you. They try, but they fail. You try to comfort them, but you fail. It's the world gone crazy and you knowing it's a dream, but in between the parts you know are a dream are parts that are so real to life... and you are stuck in a dilemna that may never be solved, resulting in you just... ...

Vanity of vanity
Everything is vanity
There is nothing under the sun that is but vanity.
What then is our purpose in life?
How then can we go on living?
If all is vanity, then what is the point?
To do your best
Enjoy your work and it fruits, while they still last
Give your utmost for God's glory
And trust Him for the rest.