What rhymes with disappointment? Calligraphy? Chocolate? I couldn’t find anything, while showering, that I could rhyme disappointment with.
Not that I am much of a rhymer, which is why I love haikus so much. They are so fucking simple.
Maybe I don’t get haikus, maybe I am missing the fine, delicateness that is a haiku.
But seriously, it just seems like another, rigid, incredibly formal and unchangeable art form from Japan. “This is how you write a poem. No other way!” It seems strangling, at best.
But it is so easy to do. So fucking easy. I am not a poet, except in the way I come up with new and wonderfully inventive ways to insult people. That is my calling, my art… but enough of that.
Five beats, the first line
And then seven in the next,
Repeat: five again.
Flor those aficionados out there thinking or blogging “that’s a shit haiku, you are missing the subtle art…” Shut up! Fuck off. I’m not a moron, I get there is a wonderful skill to write a haiku, but I think it’s restriction is it's downfall. You need to confine yourself so much, limit yourself to one standard size canvas, one woman (ha!). But then, sure you master it and it’s a wonderful (that word again, twice in two sentences) poem, but how dull.
And how fucking pretentious, writing a shit haiku to prove a point about how shit haikus are!!!!?
A whole movement of 5, 7, 5!!? Imagine if every band influenced by The Ramones played songs that were one minute and forty-seven seconds long and started off every, single, fucking song with “1,2,3,4” and all wore leather jackets and sunglasses? Imagine if a movement of music influenced by The Ramones was called “The Ramones’ Punk Movement” and that was shortened down to “Ramones’ Punk” which then became “Ramoning”? How awful would that have been? “Yeah, we’ve been Ramoning for years. Infact, our major influence was the The Ramones. Yeah, most people think it was the first female Ramoners band, The Simones, but no, it was the Ramones.” Imagine listening to that in an interview? I’d rather listen to Ginsberg arguing for paedophilia, or Ozzy arguing agianst the dilution of media by sub-cultural, segregated, Norse-horse-ranchers in a fictional, alternative universe, much like, lykke, Earth 38 in Infinite Earths? “Um, er Um, like, shit, like, I AM IRON MAN shit, um, yeah, um.” Yeah, I would much rather hear that. Imagine 50 Ramoners (including giants The Simones, The Pomades and Death Monkey Apokalsype) Ramoning Ramones covers in one gig? 50 bands, 3000 songs. All in 6 minutes. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4. Oh Oh Oh Lucy is a punk I’m mean Judy Oh Oh 1,2,3,4 the KKK oh oh 1,2,3,4some obscure Ramones song oh oh to show I am hardcore oh oh!
You would lose your fucking minds.
So I wrote this girl 4 haikus for her birthday. In one of them, I pondered her age, ‘cos I don’t know it.
Twenty-three? Sixteen?
Or forty seven? Eleven?
Nah, it’s twenty-four.
How fucking stupid is that? I should start my own Ramoners, and we could Ramone around the country side, yelling haikus to wondering horse ranchers, while Ramoning each other in the Ramone. Have you ever Ramoned a Simone? Wink wink, nudge nudge. No? well, form fists from both hands and … Scorchio? Jen Cur-cio? Or is it Sur-kio? Wink wink. Or maybe haiku a Ramoner? Is that possible? Would the purist Ramoners allow this breach of basic, Ramoning ideology?
Fuck, I don’t think so.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Chapter 13 – I don’t know if I like Drone Doom as much as Thrash Metal or It’s been a long time between drinks
I cannot remember when my head hurt so much. I even took some Nurofen at some point in the morning, but you got to take it before you sleep. Idiot! I was under my doona at least, but my shoes, my muddy!!! shoes were still on fuck! My eyes were so fucking heavy, so heavy and then my phone went off.
A message. Too blurry to read. I closed my eyes again.
And a few hours later, my eyes weren’t so blurry, and another message on my mobile (or cell for those reading this in the northern hemisphere, in a land who just inaugurated a non-retarded president WOOP WOOP!!). My body was sore, oh so sore, like it had been pulverised by giant, metal hammers, the kind you use on meat, whatever they are called. I checked my phone, and was able to read the message.
Hey Rudy, Its ****. Awesome sht lst nite, should drink again!
‘”Awesome shit first night”?’ What the fuck is this guy…ooh,’ I creaked. Oh oh oh. The second text was from him as well, shit he was eager.
* * * *
So I haven’t seen Sophie in a fair while, it feels like months actually. We were meant to have dinner together, but I had to cancel one time (due to work, seriously, that was the reason) and she cancelled another time. Plans were tentatively made; we were going to have dinner at a sweet little restaurant I love to frequent. She was going to call me.
Now, Sophie, as you all know, is my cousin. The normal rules or games applied/played when dealing with women do not mean anything here. They do not count. But it has been a long time since we even spoke. I happened to be walking past her old place recently and sent her a text message saying so. Nothing complicated or anything, a simple Hey, just happened to wander past your old place, remember that joint (you haven’t called me in a while) and was just remembering the good times there, the parties ( I actually feel neglected), the conversations, everything.
I didn’t write all of that, but my short message was meant to indicate all of those feelings, those sentiments, and basically let her know that I missed her.
I didn’t get a respons, and she recently… BORING. I will move on to the good part.
I did have a dream about her recently. I dreamed I was out with some friends, looking for places to eat. I was drunk, and we went to a wine bar, and the head waiter was a friend. He started giving us free red, on the house, and I noticed, while checking out the other constituents, that Sophie was there with her new boyfriend, Josie (remember her?) and some other randoms. I said hello to everyone, kissed everyone on the cheek, was most polite, and then returned to my friends.
A few minutes later, Sophie, in my dream, walks up to me, and in very formal and a little incorrect French, starts to congratulate me.
I really respect what you did there. You were incredibly polite, especially to Josie. Excellent.
I was of coursed shocked, but I also knew I was dreaming, so anything could happen.
I want to offer my apology, I have been remiss of late, what with work. I have
also started teaching refugee children English.
Her sentence was like that, words not necessarily in the right order.
She finished up and walked away. I remember her wearing a grey power suit,
with a white blouse, and looked great but very odd. Her apology as well, even in my dream, was fucked. Even in my dream I thought it was a pile of sticking shit. And then I woke up. I miss her.
I had a dream later on, the same night. I don’t know how it happened, but I was suddenly without legs. I was in hospital and my friends and family were visiting me, but all I could think about was not living without my legs. I thought about home. I thought about places I like to frequent. None of them accessible by wheel chair. I dreamed of buying a fuck load of heroin and OD-ing, but I don’t have the capacity to do that. I thought about blowing my brains out and leaving a note saying Well, I ain’t gonna live like this, fuck that! I don’t think my mums would like that.
* * * *
My friend Ioju, invited me out for drink a couple days later (later then what, I don’t know) and who should be amongst those invited? Alanna. Hot dog.
‘Hey Rudy, how are you doing?’ she smiled.
‘Fine, I didn’t think I would see you here?’ I was surprised, and hid it incredibly unwell.
‘Well, here I am.’
This kinda hung in the air.
‘Oh shit, how are you doing?’ I blurted out. Alanna laughed, and I cursed myself inwardly for my idiocy. Someone called out her name, ‘Alanna.’
‘Rudy, I’ll be back.’ She spun on her heels and headed towards the voice, someone else at the party. I got myself a drink, and Ioju floated back, and we started talking about something. I cannot remember. I was looking away, towards Alanna and just admiring her.
Staring if you like. I prefer admiring. Her skin was light, but not white. It looked soft and so inviting. Her lips were just right, full, not too full, but inviting, so inviting. I kept staring at her lips, admiring. My eyes were focused, but moving slowly upwards. Her nose, well, her nose was kinda boring, nothing really going on there, but the a smile suddenly illuminated her face. Her nose looked much cuter that way. Ioju tapped me on the shoulder.
‘You listening to me, New Zealand was crazy man?’
I looked at him, his big smile and glasses -such a warm face -nodded, and looked back at Alanna, to continue my focusing. I moved away from her nose, she was no longer smiling and realised why. She was looking straight at me. She gave me an inquisitive look, a raised eyebrow quite possibly.
I started gesturing wildly, but statically. Like doing the Robot while trying to communicate to someone on the other side of the bar.
I must have looked stupid, but Herbie H would have been down with it.
‘Rudy, what are you doing?’
‘Huh, oh, ah nothing. I was listening to you, and, um, looking over there, and then Alanna was like, “Hey” (I then demonstrated a wave, so he knew what a greeting looked like) and I was like, “Hey, I am busy talking to Ioju yo” (made a face that kinda said, “Women, gosh darn it, they really want me you know? Gosh I am awesome”)). Chicks man?’ I shrugged my shoulders and sipped my beer.
Ioju, however, was not an idiot, like me.
‘Right, sure man.’
A message. Too blurry to read. I closed my eyes again.
And a few hours later, my eyes weren’t so blurry, and another message on my mobile (or cell for those reading this in the northern hemisphere, in a land who just inaugurated a non-retarded president WOOP WOOP!!). My body was sore, oh so sore, like it had been pulverised by giant, metal hammers, the kind you use on meat, whatever they are called. I checked my phone, and was able to read the message.
Hey Rudy, Its ****. Awesome sht lst nite, should drink again!
‘”Awesome shit first night”?’ What the fuck is this guy…ooh,’ I creaked. Oh oh oh. The second text was from him as well, shit he was eager.
* * * *
So I haven’t seen Sophie in a fair while, it feels like months actually. We were meant to have dinner together, but I had to cancel one time (due to work, seriously, that was the reason) and she cancelled another time. Plans were tentatively made; we were going to have dinner at a sweet little restaurant I love to frequent. She was going to call me.
Now, Sophie, as you all know, is my cousin. The normal rules or games applied/played when dealing with women do not mean anything here. They do not count. But it has been a long time since we even spoke. I happened to be walking past her old place recently and sent her a text message saying so. Nothing complicated or anything, a simple Hey, just happened to wander past your old place, remember that joint (you haven’t called me in a while) and was just remembering the good times there, the parties ( I actually feel neglected), the conversations, everything.
I didn’t write all of that, but my short message was meant to indicate all of those feelings, those sentiments, and basically let her know that I missed her.
I didn’t get a respons, and she recently… BORING. I will move on to the good part.
I did have a dream about her recently. I dreamed I was out with some friends, looking for places to eat. I was drunk, and we went to a wine bar, and the head waiter was a friend. He started giving us free red, on the house, and I noticed, while checking out the other constituents, that Sophie was there with her new boyfriend, Josie (remember her?) and some other randoms. I said hello to everyone, kissed everyone on the cheek, was most polite, and then returned to my friends.
A few minutes later, Sophie, in my dream, walks up to me, and in very formal and a little incorrect French, starts to congratulate me.
I really respect what you did there. You were incredibly polite, especially to Josie. Excellent.
I was of coursed shocked, but I also knew I was dreaming, so anything could happen.
I want to offer my apology, I have been remiss of late, what with work. I have
also started teaching refugee children English.
Her sentence was like that, words not necessarily in the right order.
She finished up and walked away. I remember her wearing a grey power suit,
with a white blouse, and looked great but very odd. Her apology as well, even in my dream, was fucked. Even in my dream I thought it was a pile of sticking shit. And then I woke up. I miss her.
I had a dream later on, the same night. I don’t know how it happened, but I was suddenly without legs. I was in hospital and my friends and family were visiting me, but all I could think about was not living without my legs. I thought about home. I thought about places I like to frequent. None of them accessible by wheel chair. I dreamed of buying a fuck load of heroin and OD-ing, but I don’t have the capacity to do that. I thought about blowing my brains out and leaving a note saying Well, I ain’t gonna live like this, fuck that! I don’t think my mums would like that.
* * * *
My friend Ioju, invited me out for drink a couple days later (later then what, I don’t know) and who should be amongst those invited? Alanna. Hot dog.
‘Hey Rudy, how are you doing?’ she smiled.
‘Fine, I didn’t think I would see you here?’ I was surprised, and hid it incredibly unwell.
‘Well, here I am.’
This kinda hung in the air.
‘Oh shit, how are you doing?’ I blurted out. Alanna laughed, and I cursed myself inwardly for my idiocy. Someone called out her name, ‘Alanna.’
‘Rudy, I’ll be back.’ She spun on her heels and headed towards the voice, someone else at the party. I got myself a drink, and Ioju floated back, and we started talking about something. I cannot remember. I was looking away, towards Alanna and just admiring her.
Staring if you like. I prefer admiring. Her skin was light, but not white. It looked soft and so inviting. Her lips were just right, full, not too full, but inviting, so inviting. I kept staring at her lips, admiring. My eyes were focused, but moving slowly upwards. Her nose, well, her nose was kinda boring, nothing really going on there, but the a smile suddenly illuminated her face. Her nose looked much cuter that way. Ioju tapped me on the shoulder.
‘You listening to me, New Zealand was crazy man?’
I looked at him, his big smile and glasses -such a warm face -nodded, and looked back at Alanna, to continue my focusing. I moved away from her nose, she was no longer smiling and realised why. She was looking straight at me. She gave me an inquisitive look, a raised eyebrow quite possibly.
I started gesturing wildly, but statically. Like doing the Robot while trying to communicate to someone on the other side of the bar.
I must have looked stupid, but Herbie H would have been down with it.
‘Rudy, what are you doing?’
‘Huh, oh, ah nothing. I was listening to you, and, um, looking over there, and then Alanna was like, “Hey” (I then demonstrated a wave, so he knew what a greeting looked like) and I was like, “Hey, I am busy talking to Ioju yo” (made a face that kinda said, “Women, gosh darn it, they really want me you know? Gosh I am awesome”)). Chicks man?’ I shrugged my shoulders and sipped my beer.
Ioju, however, was not an idiot, like me.
‘Right, sure man.’
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Chapter 12 – Too Sloppy to get undressed, too sloppy to take my clothes off
Hoop-la and ban-pa. Ring dings and fast cars. IN and out, left and out, back and forth the beat swayed back and forth and JUMPED up it did, the beat did.
Another job interview, another lousy effort. I have skills. I have qualities some employer would like, I have worked before for fuck’s sake! Maybe I need to just relax, chill the fuck out.
‘Christ Rudy, why don’t you just relax a little, here have a coffee,’ Marty says sliding one over to me. ‘You look really unhappy man.’
Marty invited me out for drinks, at the Berwick Inn with some of his friends, and even though it was a Wednesday night, they were still planning on a big one. Thongs, sun glasses in their hair and fluoro, lost of fluoro. I felt out of sorts.
No fluoro.
‘So, its funny you are wearing that colour, fluoro, hang on, is fluoro a colour? I don’t think it is, but anyway, that colour is funny cos, its funny… funny …yeah, cos there is a soccer player in Italy called Floro Florres.’ I was pretty drunk already. But she was polite.
‘Wow Rudy, that is amazing, really. Marty said you were a bit odd, and by the way, I am not wearing fluoro. Or Floro for that matter.’ She laughed at this, and I smiled a little.
‘I think its spelt with ONE “R”.’ I yelled the “ONE” out. ‘Just onnnnnne “R”… I can see you’re not on Floro, but I have forgotten your name already?’ I smiled that stupid smile when you realise you are an idiot. I waited, and she looked at me, like I was joking, and then shook her head and walked away.
‘So, poetry, is such a wonderful impression, an impression of your soul, you know. The passion is like condensed you know? Smaller than a book ‘cos they have to be. I mean, I don’t normally like poetry ‘cos its hard sometimes, but, when I get it, I get it don’t I? My friend Guido, his an Inter fan, lent me his copy of Bu-kow-ski, you know Factotum by Bu-kow-ski right?’
‘Yeah, I have heard of him. Didn’t he write that film Matt Dillion was in or something?’ I don’t even remember who this person was, but I wanted to punch in their stupid fucking face.
‘No, he didn’t write it friend, he wrote the book the film is based on. Bu-kow-ski… Really depressing. Whenever you think things are working out well, or he has a chance to make it, he fucks it up, he fucks it up! And the writing, it’s like so fucking personal. Bu-kow-ski doesn’t even to pretend HE isn’t the protagonist.’
‘I don’t think I liked it much. I saw it and then saw X-Men 3 the next day. That was way better.’
I forced a laugh, forced a hearty laugh which drew stares. Fuck this dude was a dick, or maybe I am What was his name?
‘Beautiful poetry man, beautiful,’ I said. I don’t know who kept buying me drinks, but oh how they flowed, towards my thirsty lips. And then, she was back.
‘Hey there Rudy. How is your night progressing,’ said the nameless beauty. I was in that particular state when all things look good at night, even Sebby: very drunk. I don’t know how late it was, or early either.
I raised my glass, ‘Fine, fine indeed. I AM fucking drunk, I spoke with an idiot about Bu-kow-ski and I am pretty sure the song that just finished was by Earth, Wind & Fire. How are you?’ I drooled.
‘Not as drunk as you I think. Who was the idiot?’ I pointed him out, and she rolled her eyes as she looked back at me, ‘Yeah, I should have warned you about him. Sorry.’
I leaned back and made my face frown, not scowl, I did not want to be scowling. ‘You are sorry? I don’t believe you did anything wrong. Oh, and about the name thing, I don’t think it is that bizarre or odd and certainly not rude, that I forgot your name, these things just happen. The manner in which I made you aware of my inability to recall your name was however, rude and rather silly. I apologise.’ The frown/not scowl went away and was replaced with a smile.
Alana mirrored the smile, ‘Do you always talk like that, or does it require a certain level of intoxication to force such eloquent words from your lips?’ Smirk.
‘Well, I think a certain level of inebriation certainly facilities certain aspects of my conversational technique, but I can wank on like this at most times I think.’ We both laughed. ‘Now, here is the crux, would you like to join me as I venture outside and light up a fag.’ Alana laughed again, ‘Is that a Harry Potter Crux some crazy, incantation of ‘rub’? Get it, now here’s the rub?’
‘Is that King Lear?’
‘I think so. Let’s go outside.
It was dark of course, and a little chilly, but the smoking warmed us. We chatted about a few things, none of which are worth repeating, but then we stumbled upon a topic I had wrangled with on many an occasion, and never sufficiently concluded.
‘So,’ I said, ‘They need blood to survive, sure. Blood is their food. But the act of feeding is also their sexual intercourse, and when they are done feeding, they are full of blood, that is their orgasm isn’t it. More traditional renderings of vampires have always depicted the act of feeding essentially as intercourse, and once they have fed, they are in a state of short lived euphoria you know? I am still waiting to see the image of a vampire smoking a cigarette immediately after they have fed. Bram Stoker, may his soul burn in hell and all his children’s children be shot dead, was fixated on this sexual/feeding act. ‘
‘Of course he was, but he was obsessed with sex, and by all accounts a real fucking prude. Some of his essays about morality and women are terrible. He was fucking repressed.’
‘Yes, so he creates Dracula as his alter-ego, the coooool version of himself, and has his way with the world. Pleasure, lust, ecstasy, orgasm. Everything his Protestant, English stiff colour bullshit Calvinistic world view won’t let him experience.’
‘Funny, but I don’t think he was a “Calvinist”? So, what you are saying is the intake of blood, the feeding should just be that, feeding. They eat. Once they are full or satisfied, they stop. And then they can have sex if they want? Kinda like in Blade I think.’
‘Yes, make them more like us. Hmmm. I have had many a delicious meal, and eaten well and all that, but I have never orgasm-ed after a great fucking lasagna.’
We laughed, ‘I can’t recall the last time food made me come either Rudy. Fuck, you are a strange guy.’
‘Thanks’.
‘So you want vampires to be just like us, to fuck and eat and not have them e one and the same? Not very interesting or romantic is it?’
‘Alana yo, they still cannot go out during the day. The still drink people’s blood. And they live forever. I think that makes them still interesting. I just hate Bram Stoker so much, I really do.’
It got cold at some point… just remmembered suddenly feeling cold, feeling much cooler than beforeCool. Yeah, cooool. It wasn’t Earth Wind & Fire in my head now, it was something else but somehtin else....
I decided to walk home, one leg infront, two words, of the other, drunk, eyeys closed, drawling my feet through thae grass, leaning against walls that weren’t built or made you know but Alanna, toooooooooo many N’s gave me a lift. I snored maybe, I slept kinda, I don’t know how she knew where I lived, bt she wasn’t far off either b. It is cold, ice cold.
I think I got her deets, I think, not much able to process, just wated to slee[. Cant type, cant get online, too fukked even for a wank ha! I can still ha! HA!, I think I threw up at some point OF COURSE or several points, stumbled around, woke the fucking dog and landed a heap on my bed. Too slo[py to get undresde, to tired to take me clothes off
Another job interview, another lousy effort. I have skills. I have qualities some employer would like, I have worked before for fuck’s sake! Maybe I need to just relax, chill the fuck out.
‘Christ Rudy, why don’t you just relax a little, here have a coffee,’ Marty says sliding one over to me. ‘You look really unhappy man.’
Marty invited me out for drinks, at the Berwick Inn with some of his friends, and even though it was a Wednesday night, they were still planning on a big one. Thongs, sun glasses in their hair and fluoro, lost of fluoro. I felt out of sorts.
No fluoro.
‘So, its funny you are wearing that colour, fluoro, hang on, is fluoro a colour? I don’t think it is, but anyway, that colour is funny cos, its funny… funny …yeah, cos there is a soccer player in Italy called Floro Florres.’ I was pretty drunk already. But she was polite.
‘Wow Rudy, that is amazing, really. Marty said you were a bit odd, and by the way, I am not wearing fluoro. Or Floro for that matter.’ She laughed at this, and I smiled a little.
‘I think its spelt with ONE “R”.’ I yelled the “ONE” out. ‘Just onnnnnne “R”… I can see you’re not on Floro, but I have forgotten your name already?’ I smiled that stupid smile when you realise you are an idiot. I waited, and she looked at me, like I was joking, and then shook her head and walked away.
‘So, poetry, is such a wonderful impression, an impression of your soul, you know. The passion is like condensed you know? Smaller than a book ‘cos they have to be. I mean, I don’t normally like poetry ‘cos its hard sometimes, but, when I get it, I get it don’t I? My friend Guido, his an Inter fan, lent me his copy of Bu-kow-ski, you know Factotum by Bu-kow-ski right?’
‘Yeah, I have heard of him. Didn’t he write that film Matt Dillion was in or something?’ I don’t even remember who this person was, but I wanted to punch in their stupid fucking face.
‘No, he didn’t write it friend, he wrote the book the film is based on. Bu-kow-ski… Really depressing. Whenever you think things are working out well, or he has a chance to make it, he fucks it up, he fucks it up! And the writing, it’s like so fucking personal. Bu-kow-ski doesn’t even to pretend HE isn’t the protagonist.’
‘I don’t think I liked it much. I saw it and then saw X-Men 3 the next day. That was way better.’
I forced a laugh, forced a hearty laugh which drew stares. Fuck this dude was a dick, or maybe I am What was his name?
‘Beautiful poetry man, beautiful,’ I said. I don’t know who kept buying me drinks, but oh how they flowed, towards my thirsty lips. And then, she was back.
‘Hey there Rudy. How is your night progressing,’ said the nameless beauty. I was in that particular state when all things look good at night, even Sebby: very drunk. I don’t know how late it was, or early either.
I raised my glass, ‘Fine, fine indeed. I AM fucking drunk, I spoke with an idiot about Bu-kow-ski and I am pretty sure the song that just finished was by Earth, Wind & Fire. How are you?’ I drooled.
‘Not as drunk as you I think. Who was the idiot?’ I pointed him out, and she rolled her eyes as she looked back at me, ‘Yeah, I should have warned you about him. Sorry.’
I leaned back and made my face frown, not scowl, I did not want to be scowling. ‘You are sorry? I don’t believe you did anything wrong. Oh, and about the name thing, I don’t think it is that bizarre or odd and certainly not rude, that I forgot your name, these things just happen. The manner in which I made you aware of my inability to recall your name was however, rude and rather silly. I apologise.’ The frown/not scowl went away and was replaced with a smile.
Alana mirrored the smile, ‘Do you always talk like that, or does it require a certain level of intoxication to force such eloquent words from your lips?’ Smirk.
‘Well, I think a certain level of inebriation certainly facilities certain aspects of my conversational technique, but I can wank on like this at most times I think.’ We both laughed. ‘Now, here is the crux, would you like to join me as I venture outside and light up a fag.’ Alana laughed again, ‘Is that a Harry Potter Crux some crazy, incantation of ‘rub’? Get it, now here’s the rub?’
‘Is that King Lear?’
‘I think so. Let’s go outside.
It was dark of course, and a little chilly, but the smoking warmed us. We chatted about a few things, none of which are worth repeating, but then we stumbled upon a topic I had wrangled with on many an occasion, and never sufficiently concluded.
‘So,’ I said, ‘They need blood to survive, sure. Blood is their food. But the act of feeding is also their sexual intercourse, and when they are done feeding, they are full of blood, that is their orgasm isn’t it. More traditional renderings of vampires have always depicted the act of feeding essentially as intercourse, and once they have fed, they are in a state of short lived euphoria you know? I am still waiting to see the image of a vampire smoking a cigarette immediately after they have fed. Bram Stoker, may his soul burn in hell and all his children’s children be shot dead, was fixated on this sexual/feeding act. ‘
‘Of course he was, but he was obsessed with sex, and by all accounts a real fucking prude. Some of his essays about morality and women are terrible. He was fucking repressed.’
‘Yes, so he creates Dracula as his alter-ego, the coooool version of himself, and has his way with the world. Pleasure, lust, ecstasy, orgasm. Everything his Protestant, English stiff colour bullshit Calvinistic world view won’t let him experience.’
‘Funny, but I don’t think he was a “Calvinist”? So, what you are saying is the intake of blood, the feeding should just be that, feeding. They eat. Once they are full or satisfied, they stop. And then they can have sex if they want? Kinda like in Blade I think.’
‘Yes, make them more like us. Hmmm. I have had many a delicious meal, and eaten well and all that, but I have never orgasm-ed after a great fucking lasagna.’
We laughed, ‘I can’t recall the last time food made me come either Rudy. Fuck, you are a strange guy.’
‘Thanks’.
‘So you want vampires to be just like us, to fuck and eat and not have them e one and the same? Not very interesting or romantic is it?’
‘Alana yo, they still cannot go out during the day. The still drink people’s blood. And they live forever. I think that makes them still interesting. I just hate Bram Stoker so much, I really do.’
It got cold at some point… just remmembered suddenly feeling cold, feeling much cooler than beforeCool. Yeah, cooool. It wasn’t Earth Wind & Fire in my head now, it was something else but somehtin else....
I decided to walk home, one leg infront, two words, of the other, drunk, eyeys closed, drawling my feet through thae grass, leaning against walls that weren’t built or made you know but Alanna, toooooooooo many N’s gave me a lift. I snored maybe, I slept kinda, I don’t know how she knew where I lived, bt she wasn’t far off either b. It is cold, ice cold.
I think I got her deets, I think, not much able to process, just wated to slee[. Cant type, cant get online, too fukked even for a wank ha! I can still ha! HA!, I think I threw up at some point OF COURSE or several points, stumbled around, woke the fucking dog and landed a heap on my bed. Too slo[py to get undresde, to tired to take me clothes off
Monday, September 29, 2008
Chapter 11 – Melbourne day 16: a little cloudy, but warm/ You just can’t find a good man in this city!
Constant surprises are one of the few things I get in life. Recently, I have been noticing all of this great architecture in the city and surrounding towns. All popping up out of nowhere.
One morning, it was a little cloudy, but warm. I jumped off the number 3 tram and saw a 30's style building staring at me, inviting me to gaze upon its old visage and admire it. It wasn't the most wonderful or beautiful thing I’ve seen, but enough to make me smile. I walk, ride or catch a tram up this street everyday, and have never seen it before.
Angles, levels and light. That's what it is.
At my interview last week, I looked across the roof tops of the surrounding buildings and was amazed. Gyms, play areas, gardens, exotic roof top tents made of shiny green glass. I think I even saw a house on top of one, a proper house.
Or maybe I imagined that. A two storey, gorgeous house on top of a skyscraper.
Rainy days, sunny days, cloudy, windy or just warm days. All these weather conditions. You can then mix them up, it can be rainy and windy, or warm but windy too right? So many combinations.
I raise this point because while we have so many contrasting and unique weather conditions in this city, there seems to be only two types of men.
Fuckheads/arseholes or nice guys girls don't like.
Not much choice there? What is a girl to do? What is a girl to do? I actually feel sorry for them, I really do. I have met my fair share of arseholes, the kind that pick the drunkest or most fucked up girl at the bar or party and using their fuckhead abilities (touching, more drinking, taking the girls hand and leading them away, away from everyone else) they usually end up banging this poor, helpless girl. I see this and shake me head, this is not how Rudy rolls, no thank you.
You see guys talking about the bitch they fucked last night. Gym junkies with huge pecs (sick cunts!) acting like absolute cocks. Sportsmen, arrogant as all hell, knowing their fame will get them laid. Those strut-ty, good looking rich types who treat their girlfriends like shit, but the always have a girl on their arm. Just a few examples of the arseholes (and guys I don’t like, in case you missed that!). However, these fuckheads are everywhere, and they don't all look the same, or talk the same. They come in so many guises: art ones, hot ones, grunge and emo ones. They are deceptively hard to track down.
Deceptively hard I say.
And then you have the nice guys. The non schemers, the ones who don't talk about the bitch they fucked last night (although most didn't sleep with anyone the night before mind you). They are sweet and funny guys, sometimes Rudy is one of these guys, sometimes. These guys are harder to spot, since the arsholes blend so well these days. They are just guys who don't know how, or don't feel comfortable taking advantage of a drunk chick. These are the guys that put those girls into cabs and make sure they get home safely.
Some people call them pussies, others might say they actually have respect for people, and like to treat people the way they would like to be treated.
These men, they actually do exist ladies. They really do. But let's not pretend these nice guys don't think about sex all the time as well: they do. They think about it all the time, and probably because they are not schtuping at this very moment. Why? Cause they are too nice it seems. Not much of an excuse is it? Being nice don't get you much on the mean streets. It gets you points with the olds, with their family, and they probably think you are really sweet, but they still go for the fuckheads every time.
Now Guido, Rudy is not complaining, or even whingeing - he is just confused. Yes, confused. I can't find a nice guy in this city. They are all pricks. Comments like this confuse me. I know many nice guys, I really do. All guys are just arseholes, she says the next day. I ask her, So, do you want to see him again?
Not really Rudy, he's a prick, so full of himself.
Was he so full of himself before this? Before the intercourse? I hasten to judge, but I think he was indeed.
Most indeed. I also fail to understand how attractive girls with wonderful brains love to go for the guys they consider to be fuckheads. Hang on, let me start again. How intelligent, great girls always go for the arseholes? How they bemoan this fuckhead or that arsehole, but hook up with the next one each time. They complain so much; but it seems they are getting what they want out of it. The fuckhead is usually hot right? He wouldn't be an arsehole if he was fat or ugly now would he? So, the hot fuckhead gets your blood flowing and your motor running right, then what has he done wrong or how has he acted in a way to cause such offence the next day or the next week?
How can they be so displeased by the arsehole, when, by all indications, they are getting exactly what they want from him?
Precious bodily fluids. That's what the fuckhead is about right? Does this make the girl a bitch or slut or skank or whore? Because she wants to share in those fluids, because she has a twitch that needs strumming? Is she as much an arsehole as him? Is she the fuckhead?
There are no nice guys in this city. All the hot ones are pricks, and all the nice ones I don't like.
And imagine if I had the inclination to reverse this? To talk about the lack of women in Melbourne, the lack of nice women. What would I say? Would I write about the girls that only go for the hot guys, and then complain the next day? Enough of these one-night-girls, where are the nice ones? Where are all the smart ones?
Oh yeah, I remember now.
Probably with their boyfriends; the great guys. That's where all those wonderful girls are. And that's where you’ll find the wonderful men ladies, with their girlfriends, partners, lovers or wives.
One morning, it was a little cloudy, but warm. I jumped off the number 3 tram and saw a 30's style building staring at me, inviting me to gaze upon its old visage and admire it. It wasn't the most wonderful or beautiful thing I’ve seen, but enough to make me smile. I walk, ride or catch a tram up this street everyday, and have never seen it before.
Angles, levels and light. That's what it is.
At my interview last week, I looked across the roof tops of the surrounding buildings and was amazed. Gyms, play areas, gardens, exotic roof top tents made of shiny green glass. I think I even saw a house on top of one, a proper house.
Or maybe I imagined that. A two storey, gorgeous house on top of a skyscraper.
Rainy days, sunny days, cloudy, windy or just warm days. All these weather conditions. You can then mix them up, it can be rainy and windy, or warm but windy too right? So many combinations.
I raise this point because while we have so many contrasting and unique weather conditions in this city, there seems to be only two types of men.
Fuckheads/arseholes or nice guys girls don't like.
Not much choice there? What is a girl to do? What is a girl to do? I actually feel sorry for them, I really do. I have met my fair share of arseholes, the kind that pick the drunkest or most fucked up girl at the bar or party and using their fuckhead abilities (touching, more drinking, taking the girls hand and leading them away, away from everyone else) they usually end up banging this poor, helpless girl. I see this and shake me head, this is not how Rudy rolls, no thank you.
You see guys talking about the bitch they fucked last night. Gym junkies with huge pecs (sick cunts!) acting like absolute cocks. Sportsmen, arrogant as all hell, knowing their fame will get them laid. Those strut-ty, good looking rich types who treat their girlfriends like shit, but the always have a girl on their arm. Just a few examples of the arseholes (and guys I don’t like, in case you missed that!). However, these fuckheads are everywhere, and they don't all look the same, or talk the same. They come in so many guises: art ones, hot ones, grunge and emo ones. They are deceptively hard to track down.
Deceptively hard I say.
And then you have the nice guys. The non schemers, the ones who don't talk about the bitch they fucked last night (although most didn't sleep with anyone the night before mind you). They are sweet and funny guys, sometimes Rudy is one of these guys, sometimes. These guys are harder to spot, since the arsholes blend so well these days. They are just guys who don't know how, or don't feel comfortable taking advantage of a drunk chick. These are the guys that put those girls into cabs and make sure they get home safely.
Some people call them pussies, others might say they actually have respect for people, and like to treat people the way they would like to be treated.
These men, they actually do exist ladies. They really do. But let's not pretend these nice guys don't think about sex all the time as well: they do. They think about it all the time, and probably because they are not schtuping at this very moment. Why? Cause they are too nice it seems. Not much of an excuse is it? Being nice don't get you much on the mean streets. It gets you points with the olds, with their family, and they probably think you are really sweet, but they still go for the fuckheads every time.
Now Guido, Rudy is not complaining, or even whingeing - he is just confused. Yes, confused. I can't find a nice guy in this city. They are all pricks. Comments like this confuse me. I know many nice guys, I really do. All guys are just arseholes, she says the next day. I ask her, So, do you want to see him again?
Not really Rudy, he's a prick, so full of himself.
Was he so full of himself before this? Before the intercourse? I hasten to judge, but I think he was indeed.
Most indeed. I also fail to understand how attractive girls with wonderful brains love to go for the guys they consider to be fuckheads. Hang on, let me start again. How intelligent, great girls always go for the arseholes? How they bemoan this fuckhead or that arsehole, but hook up with the next one each time. They complain so much; but it seems they are getting what they want out of it. The fuckhead is usually hot right? He wouldn't be an arsehole if he was fat or ugly now would he? So, the hot fuckhead gets your blood flowing and your motor running right, then what has he done wrong or how has he acted in a way to cause such offence the next day or the next week?
How can they be so displeased by the arsehole, when, by all indications, they are getting exactly what they want from him?
Precious bodily fluids. That's what the fuckhead is about right? Does this make the girl a bitch or slut or skank or whore? Because she wants to share in those fluids, because she has a twitch that needs strumming? Is she as much an arsehole as him? Is she the fuckhead?
There are no nice guys in this city. All the hot ones are pricks, and all the nice ones I don't like.
And imagine if I had the inclination to reverse this? To talk about the lack of women in Melbourne, the lack of nice women. What would I say? Would I write about the girls that only go for the hot guys, and then complain the next day? Enough of these one-night-girls, where are the nice ones? Where are all the smart ones?
Oh yeah, I remember now.
Probably with their boyfriends; the great guys. That's where all those wonderful girls are. And that's where you’ll find the wonderful men ladies, with their girlfriends, partners, lovers or wives.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Chapter 10 - I hate old women
My recent interaction with a friend was awkward, and I should have apologised to her, but I really didn’t feel sorry at all, not one bit. I had no problem with my behaviour and felt it was satisfactory. Yes, satisfactory. I had a similar run in with and old flame. I didn’t feel the least bit ashamed about how I behaved nor my arrogant response to her response to my behaviour. In fact, I still laugh about it, and often to her face. But she doesn’t walk away, or tell me to get fucked. She stays around; she seeks my attention more and more. Rudy is a great guy, but not that great.
Josie was like that, even though she was incredibly selfish, unbelievably so, she also didn’t want to miss out on anything. Please keep in touch, write to me, call me, try and see me.
She really wanted to remain friends. We just must be friends, I think you are lovely.
I made a real effort to keep in touch, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. But she asked me too.
She asked me too and and of course I succumbed, like the idiot man I am.
I was so annoyed yesterday after we spoke. I was sitting on the train, travelling in town for a job interview, and decided to see if we could hang out. Roll your eyes patient readers, because I should have.
‘Hey Rudy, I missed you.’
‘Ah, that’s sweet. How you been?’ I was sweating a little at this point.
‘Great, great. Tom is just great…’ She continued like this for another 25 to 35 words, oblivious to how it would make me feel. Then again, I called her, so I deserved it.
‘Yeah, so I’m just on my way into the city,’ I threw in when she paused to breath, ‘and wondered if you wanted to get a drink or coffee later this afternoon?’
She responded right away: ‘I can’t. This week is bad, and so is next week. Maybe after that…’
She returned to talking about how happy her and Tom were like I GAVE A FUCKING SHIT and how FUCKING busy she was.
I am sick to fucking death of busy fucking people.
The interview went badly, very badly. The office was white and bleak, and the lack of anything really put me off my game. My anger and shame and hurt and pain had not subsided from the phone call, and the guy who interviewed me just plain didn’t like me from the moment he laid eyes on me.
Do I really want to work for a major corporation? Did I want to get further into a system I don’t understand nor want to understand?
The answer was yes, why? The fiscal benefits far outweigh my concerns about my soul? Money is money, and the more you have the better right?
So, the interview was bust, I headed to a dive to find a drink and saw a women who reminded me instantly of my mother. Relative height and build and age. And I was instantly saddened.
Whenever I see someone who is alone, poor, old, hungry, tired, thin – I am reminded of my mums and I feel sad. If it looks like the world is against them, or they have given up, if they look far from happy. If they plain don’t look happy. If they are gaunt, if their hair is dark and curly, I think of my mum. I think I should call her and spend more time with her. Seeing them makes me realise how much of a disappointment I must be to her.
Josie was like that, even though she was incredibly selfish, unbelievably so, she also didn’t want to miss out on anything. Please keep in touch, write to me, call me, try and see me.
She really wanted to remain friends. We just must be friends, I think you are lovely.
I made a real effort to keep in touch, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. But she asked me too.
She asked me too and and of course I succumbed, like the idiot man I am.
I was so annoyed yesterday after we spoke. I was sitting on the train, travelling in town for a job interview, and decided to see if we could hang out. Roll your eyes patient readers, because I should have.
‘Hey Rudy, I missed you.’
‘Ah, that’s sweet. How you been?’ I was sweating a little at this point.
‘Great, great. Tom is just great…’ She continued like this for another 25 to 35 words, oblivious to how it would make me feel. Then again, I called her, so I deserved it.
‘Yeah, so I’m just on my way into the city,’ I threw in when she paused to breath, ‘and wondered if you wanted to get a drink or coffee later this afternoon?’
She responded right away: ‘I can’t. This week is bad, and so is next week. Maybe after that…’
She returned to talking about how happy her and Tom were like I GAVE A FUCKING SHIT and how FUCKING busy she was.
I am sick to fucking death of busy fucking people.
The interview went badly, very badly. The office was white and bleak, and the lack of anything really put me off my game. My anger and shame and hurt and pain had not subsided from the phone call, and the guy who interviewed me just plain didn’t like me from the moment he laid eyes on me.
Do I really want to work for a major corporation? Did I want to get further into a system I don’t understand nor want to understand?
The answer was yes, why? The fiscal benefits far outweigh my concerns about my soul? Money is money, and the more you have the better right?
So, the interview was bust, I headed to a dive to find a drink and saw a women who reminded me instantly of my mother. Relative height and build and age. And I was instantly saddened.
Whenever I see someone who is alone, poor, old, hungry, tired, thin – I am reminded of my mums and I feel sad. If it looks like the world is against them, or they have given up, if they look far from happy. If they plain don’t look happy. If they are gaunt, if their hair is dark and curly, I think of my mum. I think I should call her and spend more time with her. Seeing them makes me realise how much of a disappointment I must be to her.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Chapter 9 – le mie scuse (my apologies)
But what of apologies? My auntie used to say it didn’t mean anything to say it. She didn’t want to hear the word ‘sorry’, she just wanted people to feel ‘sorry’ and then act in such a way that reflected their understanding of the action that caused them to be ‘sorry.’ We all say sorry, but then do the same wrong/shit/mean/selfish things again and again.
I am sorry, for this and that. I am sorry even though I don’t know why I am saying sorry.
I treat people badly, I do. And I am sorry about it, but I continue to treat those people in the same fashion come the following week or month or year. I am sorry for this, genuinely so, but I don’t stop doing it.
I am sorry, for this and that. I am sorry even though I don’t know why I am saying sorry.
I treat people badly, I do. And I am sorry about it, but I continue to treat those people in the same fashion come the following week or month or year. I am sorry for this, genuinely so, but I don’t stop doing it.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Chapter 8 - Melbourne Day 54: Sunny day
I sat on the tram, and had an idea for something. I had my notebook, my moleskin, with me on that sunny day on the tram. I cannot remember – the idea that is- if it was story, an addition to a story, a character note, an idea for a compilation or an addition to a previously commenced compilation. I do not remember if it was a note about a spontaneous idea I had, or something interesting I had observed, a tid-bit about a thing the night before, or a reminder note. A shopping list, a movies-to-see list. Was it something I read, something that made me especially sad, or made me chuckle out loud? A lyric in a song, a cool sound in the back of the percussion solo, a song I had never heard before on my Ipod.
So, I had my moleskin and I wrote something in it, and then placed it on the seat next to me. I do not like catching the tram to work, especially on sunny days, because I could be riding to work: getting fresh air, a tan, oogling girls. In a tram - especially the new ones that lurch and creech so horribly - I have to try and stop myself from throwing up. I can read, but not for long anymore. I cannot look out the windows of the new ones due to the excessive advertising covering the windows. I usually read a little, and then listen to some music, and let my mind wander.
But I read for long enough that day, because when I jumped out of the tram, I did not take my moleskin with me. Of course I did not notice right away. Of course it took me hours to notice. Of course I did not panic. I did the smart thing and went online and wrote to the Tram People (capitalised because they are special) and asked them to return it please. They gave me the number to the lost and found section of the Tram People's head quarters.
I rang the number, I rang the number. Nobody ever answered, not even an answering machine. I lost my moleskin, again. The second time in two years. In fact, the second one in two years. I hate losing my moleskin.
I was incredibly frustrated by the tram people's inability to answer their damn phone and send me back my moleskin.
Who knows what magic I had written in there that day? Or previous days? Hateful rants, funny diatribes, sorrow filled perorates about the day, my job, the weather or girls. Things I wanted to do, places to go. Old souvenirs that came floating back from the past. Pieces of uncomfortable incidents. Sources of pride. Someone's phone number.
So many little things, little things I do not remember. Who knows what truths and lies were scribbled down in blue and black ink in my moleskin? Who knows what magic I had written in there that day?
So, I had my moleskin and I wrote something in it, and then placed it on the seat next to me. I do not like catching the tram to work, especially on sunny days, because I could be riding to work: getting fresh air, a tan, oogling girls. In a tram - especially the new ones that lurch and creech so horribly - I have to try and stop myself from throwing up. I can read, but not for long anymore. I cannot look out the windows of the new ones due to the excessive advertising covering the windows. I usually read a little, and then listen to some music, and let my mind wander.
But I read for long enough that day, because when I jumped out of the tram, I did not take my moleskin with me. Of course I did not notice right away. Of course it took me hours to notice. Of course I did not panic. I did the smart thing and went online and wrote to the Tram People (capitalised because they are special) and asked them to return it please. They gave me the number to the lost and found section of the Tram People's head quarters.
I rang the number, I rang the number. Nobody ever answered, not even an answering machine. I lost my moleskin, again. The second time in two years. In fact, the second one in two years. I hate losing my moleskin.
I was incredibly frustrated by the tram people's inability to answer their damn phone and send me back my moleskin.
Who knows what magic I had written in there that day? Or previous days? Hateful rants, funny diatribes, sorrow filled perorates about the day, my job, the weather or girls. Things I wanted to do, places to go. Old souvenirs that came floating back from the past. Pieces of uncomfortable incidents. Sources of pride. Someone's phone number.
So many little things, little things I do not remember. Who knows what truths and lies were scribbled down in blue and black ink in my moleskin? Who knows what magic I had written in there that day?
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