NHW

2008-04-16T12:21:00.001-07:00

NHW...
Nanashi Has Wings

Sign Off

2008-04-14T10:42:00.000-07:00

I don't care if the eat me alive...

I've got better things to do than survive...

Sign Off

for mr. tom (thomas)

2008-03-18T06:38:00.001-07:00

little lady,

ok this is what I’ve been doing since nineteen ninety seven

moved to north perth.
lived and partied.
lots.
with paul roosendaal.
worked in bars.
half finished a degree.
left for england.
worked in bars.
moved to scotland.
worked n more bars.
stayed a year.
fucked up a relationship.
started another one with a scottish girl.
moved to queensland.
hated it.
plastic.
moved to melbourne.
scottish lady followed.
cool.
finished my degree.
while working in bars.
moved back to scotland.
to run a bar.
chasing the scottish lady.
stayed a coupe of years.
travelled around europe.
so interesting-ness
fucked up another relationship.
moved back to perth.
got bored.
went to asia.
wow.
moved back to perth.
got bored again.
moved back to melbourne to...yes...
run a bar.
bought a house.
still here.
love it.

your turn.
x

?

2007-09-04T19:43:00.000-07:00

more please...

more of the applause, ground with tears. I guess it's what we love to hear, to ears and fears.
To holding up you fort in the dark. flickering glow. And all the other things that make each hour lay heavier on your lids.
When night comes into morning... the hour or two before the the light from the hailing sun comes to your predictions.
split between waiting and procrastinating its coming.
splitting a moment down to the smallest place to live.

leering faces back at you...

It's holds a tricky fate up to your face to test. Whether you can make at that far, and for the hours of the daylight.

we live at night... work.. rest and play. breathe the skin of dark. Decide for yourself a better fate, that somehow the sun would hold any more appeal for your face underneath.
Trapped into that which has become a natural home, in the unnatural hours of your eyes to see.

death

2007-08-02T18:15:00.001-07:00

Death, death, death
comes sweeping down
filthy death, the leering clown
death on wings, death by surprise
veiling you from worthy eyes
death that's spawned as life becomes
while death and love, two kindred drums
keep the time till judgment day
an actor in a passion play
without beginning,
evermore
amen

i hate you

2007-07-18T15:36:00.000-07:00

it's mainly because in you i can see my failings... how dare you!

and i've said sorry too many time to make ti actually meaningful... how dare i.

.
.
.
.
.

blindness and rge, and drunken thoughts of how you might have been better without anyof it,, either that or a side note in the histories...
cos there were too many chance to leave it alone, and there was even a chance not to start anything....
but why why....

(the heyday of yesteryear... (how can you get away with that??!!!??) it was kinda that)

cunty mcfuck nugget

it's just a side thought.

you're just a side thought...

how dare i....................../..././///////.......///...................////................................//////

i may have just fucked everything up x

Do it or I'll kill you

2007-04-14T06:54:00.000-07:00

dark figure without legs in the harr..
split shadow buy street lights, and i'll genuflect after every passing ambulance...

Kid's stuff

2007-04-10T18:22:00.000-07:00

Rituals always flash before us, and we inject ourselves with poisons.
My lefts arm is shooting with pain, like a prolonged heart attack or a constant creeping stroke. My heart is trying to beat away from my body, looking for the place that it was supposed to be... leaving my body back to cope. Brain's throwing away from here.

Shut down all channels.

Why not just stand there and bleed.

Worried about people finding you... We held and cried, and talked about the one other time that we said we didn't belong here.

Come now little sparrow, come forward into too many tomorrows... too many to handle. Just one to hold and think that you're not ready for it.

Burnt up and fused...

some kind of sweet... back to lead and paper... To waiting outside peoples doors.

2007-04-09T05:16:00.000-07:00

He's outside.

Standing in the rain.

Singing a dirge for every drop before they splash.

Saying a goodbye to each one.

Saying he'll remember them always.

To every drop of rain.

The one that he forgot.

The rain turned to snow.

Blizzard scratching cold against his face.

Not giving him peace.

Until he can call that one drop of rain.

The night has stolen it's name.

Kim.Twin

2007-02-13T04:15:00.000-08:00

Funny little friend
flew all the way from Melbourne
came into winter

Jess.Raven

2007-02-13T03:54:00.000-08:00

Lil girl from New York
Stayed searching here for a while
I miss her presence

Bob.Uncle

2007-02-11T03:59:00.000-08:00

Charming uncle Bob
Comes in for his B&T
And always says 'eerrrggh'

Euan.Mystery

2007-02-11T03:52:00.000-08:00

He's a mystery
nobody knows who he is
but he's oh so suave

Andy.Spunky

2007-02-10T05:12:00.000-08:00

Andy, piano dude
striding in all messy hair
plays spunky for me

Jen.Creature

2007-02-10T04:54:00.000-08:00

Trudging through the snow
under those golden night lights
called by the music

Nat.Cat

2007-02-10T04:50:00.000-08:00

The eyes that can kill
set into the sweetheart nat
not scared anymore

Tom.Brother

2007-02-10T04:27:00.000-08:00

This is the gone don
and ever we will miss him
sir mister tom sir!

Mike.Pickle

2007-02-10T04:15:00.000-08:00

Ah yes, very good
Oh shut up and shag me then
kill me you bastard

Chris.Piano

2007-02-10T04:09:00.000-08:00

Chris' fingers spin
spider over keys spinning
those webs of music

Brigit.Pixie

2007-02-10T03:48:00.000-08:00

One unit of bid
climbed all the way up the hill
ran from wild hagii

Grace.Fully

2007-02-10T03:40:00.000-08:00

Sly lil smile across
happiest with martini
let us a adore her

John.Evil

2007-02-10T03:29:00.000-08:00

He sits commanding
playing the part of a king
but there's mascara

Amy.Siren

2007-02-10T03:19:00.000-08:00

Amy siren song
Graces us with that sweet voice
No escape for ears

Nat.Faerie

2007-02-10T03:00:00.000-08:00

Lil faerie dancin'
feathers falling soft as she
looks up into snow

Snow!

2007-02-07T12:18:00.000-08:00

Little dancing white flowers falling throught the gold streetlights...
i'll give you pictures i promise...

they fell and twisted and i tried to see if i could find any that were alike, then i got back to work...

Amy is singing about bluebirds, and the piano is making circles.

I think there is only so many people in the world, get that first impression from a face that you know them. It makes it even stranger if there is the same name or voice or they play the piano or sing their little hearts till they're beating on the floor. All bloodied and blue eyed staring down at it... This is love for sale, something about paradise... something about snow clinging to coats and people tearing, tearing through it.

The other day i drove through dark and mist, the glowing red eyes of wild hagii stalking their prey... If we had have got out of they car we'd be done for! fear fell over us, the kinda you can cut and mince and stuff in a stomach...

And if you kiss somebody then both of you'll get practice!
(ask our staff how to do the the perfect valentine night)
(kiss someone nice)

x

late night wonders of the world

2007-01-19T20:35:00.000-08:00

she stumbled, substituted door for chord and it was beautiful... while she sang between teeth, and tried to find the next one to fit fingers over...

we got lots of time

nobody makes us wait

taking about dreams, nothing that we can see...

these days are ours,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

one of my most beautful friends in the place that i'm from sent me a song, and i hope that she reads this so that she knows that it cam so beauitfully at a time when i felt like falling, and just the sound of her singing how she missed me came through strong, and made me feel like... "people are just people, yes people are just people like you."
and that i can do it...
love you too much sweet little thing x

it always seems to be at this time when there is a guitar singing that makes me want to put something in this 'watch this space'

happy feet give you crazy shoes banana!
no rain...

most of the time it's ok... some of the time

she signs everything with a kiss...

One last one

2007-01-04T18:29:00.000-08:00

and then it wil linger...
It's ok if you don't it was just a question, only if you were gonna find it in the first place, and then that was something familiar... melting down into the sea. Who was gonna say first about the waxy wings, and the higher notes that he tried to reach...

who's gonna sing this one then?

tripped out decked out, out of everything and looking back... just to watch in horror at the fall.
(this is all you)
the fall that the history books will say that was always gonna come... only some sort of cassandra could see it at the time.
(no this can't happen to me?)

tripple distilled in silence...

was that a note sung or just a cry of agony...
(espectialy when you look up for a second and see the faces, and not the progreesion for them to get there)

really it was no-one, i can't even believe that someone would think that there was anything that was burried in there... maybe we just read one line out of twenty, the slightly one that seemed to hint at something.... don't worry, no-one will understand this if you said... just for you...
just for anything thing that anyone would think...

that was so real...
/
/
/
/
/
/
/
/
/
//
/
/
/
//

/
//

/

/////////////

/
\

thwack!

2007-01-04T13:54:00.000-08:00

I am bored, I am at work...

Everyone is on the january come down and i carry an umbrella where ever i go.

if you need to call a taxi this is the number to call:-
01315521777

There's a DVD for the magic far away tree here... and shinny...

You sing

2007-01-02T15:22:00.001-08:00

but then there was the one that called out to the heavens and decided for nothing more that this that he saw would be real and be able to touch... never for the first time .... never as if it were the only one.... and the kinda of sense that it made in his head before it was stolen but the constraints of words... he knew it then, he could see everything in the bottom of what it was to him, to them and the truth about the difference... for a second hands weren't that cold anymore, just spiked by the wind, just removed from him slightly. there was A GLOVE on one of the pickets... looked like it could move and point you in the way that it was pointing, neither telling the truth or a lie.
and then some kinda click, a snap and a stop. kiddies dreams that we toy with, about finding glasses, smoothed by the ocean... something about her face made it seem like she should have been wearing them, like they were missing from her faced in the first place, not for the full look of black rimmed glasses or for her poetry night for her to project everyones awareness to the fact that they were there and she would never take them off in that slight quick slide to one way when she was making a point. that they would just be there.
it's just that they looked like the would make her face whole.
a little less hole.
you looked like a little chapter distinction could play a positive role in you life... a positive step to a healthier you, its the first of twelve.

there is this thing thats like fucking except you don't fuck

x

Brup Rup!

2006-12-30T13:42:00.000-08:00

Bruppy....
(The cronicles of a humble man named Mr. Tuesday)
I
'Bought a boat, right? didn't check it... had a hole in it... sank, right useless!'
Bruppy was very upset but this was a moment of great fortune.
II
After his boat sank Bruppy found himself at the bottom of the lake where he stumbled upon a magical clam named kimmy who promised to grant him three wish (after considerable rubbing of coarse) So he wished for a packet of bisto that never ran out...
Oh Bruppy what will you do next?
III
Having emerged from the lake he decided to go 'up north' and to his delight a boat came in with a man selling lobsters for £40. And they were fresh, correct?
IV
Bruppy needed a kitchen to cook these lobsters so he rubbed his magic clam and asked for a kitchen well stocked with all the stock he could ever want. He served a delicious banquet of fresh lobsters on mash witha side of brup rup and a 'nicy gravy' (dipping into his magic packet of bisto) The towns people were overjoyed and awarded his best bar food in all the land... Well done Bruppy!
V
Being a smart man, Bruppy reasoned that if the people believed that it was the best food he could serve pretty much any old brup from tesco and laugh all the way to the casino! Oh Bruppy you'll bury us all!
VI
It was at the casino that he found his first love... A team dressed in blue and white.
'Put a bet on, right three nil, right? paid off £300... lovely'
A long burning passion for Chelsea football club was born.
VII
Bruppy avoided spending his winnings on food by amazing inventiveness. The awesome power of that magical after dinner cheese:-
Hallumi!
VIII
Realising that the magical clam was only good for one more wish he decided to take her as his wife and they lived together in an enchanted hotel with an everchanging name and eternally warm baths for him to dip into whenever he pleased. Good one Bruppy!
IX
Bruppy endeared hiself to all being such a smooth operator with his flatcap, excelent pronunciation and enchanting musk aroma... Pint of miller mate!
X
And so having won the hearts of all. Bruppy again went wandering to that magical land of 'up north' returning with more fresh produce and to keep up the good report with his many friends.
XI
Thanks to his savvy Bruppy saved even more money with his revelation that the staff don't work for him. After all the chefs provide all the service. They sure do Bruppy... We'd be lost without your insight!
XII
However not everyone was happy with Bruppy's rule, seeds of rebellion were being sewn, so Bruppy made another savvy bruppy move and decided to starve the revolting peasants .. so ensuring his place on high ans the secure flow of mash and brup rup to the reptile folk and the chosen followers of Bruppy...
XIII
His attempts to crush the rebellion would backfire quickly as Gondor and Rivendell united and hatched a plan to kidnap the rubber duckie of Mordor
XIV
Having being defeated and the black gates closed, he needed a new career to survive.... The once great bruppy was now reduced to a humble life as Gus, the lovable chimney sweep.
XV
But don't worry Bruppy... There are those who still hold out hope for a return of the good days of baths, mash, bisto, Brup Rup, and those magical gems of wisdom that spill from you like so many answers to questions that nobody asked.
XVI
Bruppy strikes back! But of course how could a man with so much to say and so much talent be kept down for so long? He is after all the only good looking guy that any of us know that isn't gay, and the sheer brilliance of his wit and vocabulary nakes us all feel a little like gold fish when ever we speak to him.
How can you keep a man like that down, a man who always looks on the bright side.

Turn the ugly light off god

2006-11-23T07:50:00.000-08:00

But if you tame me, then we shall need eachother. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.

2006-10-17T06:07:00.000-07:00

A Lake Gaurded By Bears

2006-10-11T07:40:00.000-07:00

The early afternoon sun has just won out over the morning mist and chill. The green is still clinging to the trees, but the crispy orange and dirty yellow are falling think over the shadowed grass and forming dirty/mirky little island over the all too still lake. They make little boats that trade around the larger clumps that have roots down in the water. Miniture versions of the square wooden row boat that is pulled in up under a hanging branch. Floating, fixed, sits still like a secret.

Maybe?

2006-10-08T17:01:00.000-07:00

After she ran around the table half naked she threw up over the side of a chair...
didn't want water... Maybe later... all the guys are playing mum...

Everyone is pairing off

I guess they're all a little lonely.

yellow defence really wasn't ready for the tricky work by the black... complete control...
5-3
sneaky

it's a close game

queen wave, buddy system
(spelt with the Y)

can't get to it right now...

Spagetti????????

Ran out of there... as fast as we could

2006-10-07T17:30:00.000-07:00

There is one trouble in this whole arrangement... basically i don't know which key are which. every time you start to type the reflex kicks in and then yuo realise... Real-eyes.. that the "Y" and the "Z" aren't where you left them, not like you used them that much anyway.
But the memory of them is there, like the memory of whales bones on the shoreline, or the memory of picking out thatt one perfume in a sea of department store.

just talking it from what is around me basically... a little laugh, sometimes you want to ask about it, sometimes you want them to just leave...

FUCK OFF

morning boys... its not my fault....
she asked that question of everyone, it's the same people but they ask the same questions....

stuck in a room...

no release..

ATM

pretty fly for a white guy

i can't believe the scene

believe

be lie ve

lie

OK, OK

2006-10-06T11:29:00.000-07:00

Love and lust...

there is this guy sitting beside me in a hostel in Prague talking about all his sexual experiences...
"that's all hat people come here for, just like cheep beer and cheap sex... i was thinkng of gettinjg like a cheap hotel and hiring like a escort. They only charge like 80 bucks... i need to find a place that does like S&M... at least i don't want to kill them, im not that sick...
theres the girls on the street but i wouldnt do that, well i did once in berln but yeah here looks a bit dodgey... i just like slapping girls... isnt that cool, till they get that little cut lip thing and then yeah.
oh the best blow job i had was the last time i was in prague, fucking cute little girl, i was like how long have you been doing that, she was well practiced... i just need some pussy... i go a bit insane"

ahhhh.....

how do i find myself in these positions... who the fuck are these people?

setriously mate... FUCK OFF!!!

anyway that was that

The following things are going to happen to you soon

1) A black cat will walk past
2) You'll remember me predicting a future when it does
3) You're gonna wonder if what happened next I knew was gonna happen next

so there (it came to me in a dream)

bye bye

This could be it

2006-09-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

You seemed to bounce off glass walls
-TD

la da la di da da la da ti da da la da ta da da da

2006-09-23T14:57:00.000-07:00

you know, that image doesn't actually seem that disturbing... i don't know what that means, maybe good... maybe bad.... well who knows.

actually now that i think about it...

who is making you dance with feathers????

i have feather is my hat from france, do you want to borrow them?
i'll have them sent over...
well no i won't but the thought was there, right??

oh i don't know anymore... time isn't what it used to be and these skelitons of train tracks are only leading me in the wrong direction... away from home... where is home? i don't know, so i guess they're just leading me... bleeding me... i miss you...

i drink red wine and eat fish at gabrella's house... i'm not gonna eat for a week.. in napoli it seems that dinner means 6 dishes and 3 desserts, and wine wine wine... wine... wine

ahhh...

so far

2006-09-22T06:57:00.000-07:00

well i was in paris, and i was in stockholm before that...
now i'm in Napoli, and then tomorrow pompei and then roma... and then hit a bit of a wall but thats ok.. we'll see...

ummm...

stockholm... (it's just because we live in fucking Amal, if you lived in Stockholm you'd have loads of girlfriends)
partying with Jenny and stuff...

skull (cheers)
tak (thanks)
Kanarella (Mushroom) (it was mushroom season)

Paris... yeah the paris, yeah the tower thingy and the windmill thingy and that lisa thingy and that black cat thingy and yeah well hard not to love it...

Napoli... ocean!!! Stars!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(they don't have stars in edinburgh for as much as i can tell)
Pasta and Vino at Giovanni's house, terrace!!! (you know what mean, he has terrace!!!)

narrow streets and mopeds,
beautifully bitter coffee and moss growing and stones... also crosses, lots of crosses and churchs...

well that about sums it up for me

my pen leaked all over my hand, and my water bottle leaked all over my ipod... well looks like it's back to the stone age, no music and no pens... how am i gonna finish those rock paintings now????? stupid mammoth is gonna get away!

dear pickle;
ring is too heavy, you cannot carry it for me, but maybe you can carry me???
oh Sam...

dear tom;
are you still tall?

dear kape;
don't go running away till i get back

dear grape;
you're light x

dear wife;
take care of husband for me

dear Kim; (melbourne)
So like January right?

dear jepenny;
my crow is on my hat keeping me safe

dear Caitlin;
I'll never stop either x

it's hot in Napoli, gonna have to migrate to cooler climates... hmmm... moscow (yep that'd about do it)

x

Pickle And Lip

2006-09-06T18:23:00.000-07:00

Oh... Shut up and shag me and kill me you gorgeous bastard!!!

Promise you'll never leave me
Oh, right yes... I promise...
Right I'm off then

yes quite.

we'll get him to wear the gimp mask sir

oh sam...

hmmm...

sner blurr???

I don't care if they know if we're married, because...

I LOVE YOU TOO MICHELLE!!!!

oh pickle..

oh pea..

oh dear he's gone

my heart is like stone...

i must ask you to shut your mouth when you're taking to me!!

gentle sir

What?

happy birthday spikey dave.

right...

I'm off then to take my arm, travel to Corisent sir, jedi temple, kill younglings sir... yes sir, then can we save my wife sir from certain death sir, cos i know that it is not from a jedi but only through you that i can learn these powers... yes sir
right yes
yes sir
oh i am ever so sade sir and fear is leading to hate sir...
i just have to finish building this shinny gay robot sir, i hope he finds a like-minded midget robot that only talks in beeps to share his life with... and his oil

BRING ME WOOD AND OIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What?

2006-08-30T17:13:00.000-07:00

2,4,6,8
who do we appreciate?
Leigh, Leigh, Leigh
Pea, Pea, Pea Pea

sorry i can't have you cos i can't let got of the other arm...

i'm sorry but what... do you want a spray of perfume?
you stink, happy birthday!!!!

denni ken pal,

louise is teaching me irish...

what about ye?? Any craic tonigt? keep it handy and be steady!

Well?

2006-08-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

Well feeling pretty slow today, little boy called time who's in my head playing around wih my memories...

I remember being really tall last night (Tom had me on his shoulders)

I remember a girl from California (She lost her friends)

I remember holding Grace's hand and walking down the street (We we're boyfriend and girlfriend)

I remember watching a pretty girl sing beautifully on stage (Her name is Kate)

I remember the smell of wet stone (Smells like that when it rains)

I remember tea for two at 2am (We're not gonna lie)

I remember a gentle embrace (It is like poetry)

I remember His hands on the piano playing 'Spunky' (He learnt it for me)

I remember listening to a guitar and playing on a bed (Before we all went out)

I remember making breakfast in the morning (A fry-up for Aussies)

I remember bottle of a rioja till 7am (we were telling stories)

I remember finding out who we both knew (sitting in the pear tree)

I remember a panic attack (Thought might not wake up)

I remember her singing 'me and a gun' (she said she couldn't unless she was drunk or high)

I remember being tipped five american dollars (She's insane)

I remember kisses (Spin the bottle is a silly game)

I remember her burnt finger (It took away all her sense of cool)

I remember beautiful photos (I was looking through his pholio)

I remember pate and cheese in the meadows (Sunday socials)

I remember a long table of friends, food and wine (It was her birthday)

I remember sitting on a couch working out there is a problem with her liver (Reflexology)

I remember her crying and hugging me (she read a letter)

I remember the feeling five seconds ago of how the heat of hands and tears and kisses and tea, the chill of rain and windows and wine and breath evaporate in a second and mostly the only proof is a memory...

Let's play a game...

What do you remember about me?

Nummy-Numms??

2006-08-08T07:31:00.000-07:00

Sner-blurr
sir...
basket of flys sir...
reptile sir....

fresh right? blach blirr ca trac bac blirr, butter... fresh... bisto!

i'm sorry... but aghh... what??

NHW

2006-08-08T07:16:00.000-07:00

NHW

They Made Me Do It

2006-08-02T07:32:00.001-07:00

There was a pretty elf crouched by a window on the forth floor singing me Tori Amos (even though she wasn't on drugs)
They took a vote and we made superheros out of string that were completely useless in saving us or getting Alex into a cab... (Pivo)

Little baby turned one and I poured Champagne for her and the suits and cigars...

Could I trouble you....

yes sir, mr. Reptile sir....

The Perfect Cup Of Tea

2006-07-26T06:21:00.000-07:00

If you look up 'tea' in the first cookery book that comes to hand you will probably find that it is unmentioned; or at most you will find a few lines of sketchy instructions which give no ruling on several of the most important points.

This is curious, not only because tea is one of the main stays of civilization in this country, as well as in Eire, Australia and New Zealand, but because the best manner of making it is the subject of violent disputes.

When I look through my own recipe for the perfect cup of tea, I find no fewer than eleven outstanding points. On perhaps two of them there would be pretty general agreement, but at least four others are acutely controversial. Here are my own eleven rules, every one of which I regard as golden:

* First of all, one should use Indian or Ceylonese tea. China tea has virtues which are not to be despised nowadays — it is economical, and one can drink it without milk — but there is not much stimulation in it. One does not feel wiser, braver or more optimistic after drinking it. Anyone who has used that comforting phrase 'a nice cup of tea' invariably means Indian tea.

* Secondly, tea should be made in small quantities — that is, in a teapot. Tea out of an urn is always tasteless, while army tea, made in a cauldron, tastes of grease and whitewash. The teapot should be made of china or earthenware. Silver or Britanniaware teapots produce inferior tea and enamel pots are worse; though curiously enough a pewter teapot (a rarity nowadays) is not so bad.

* Thirdly, the pot should be warmed beforehand. This is better done by placing it on the hob than by the usual method of swilling it out with hot water.

* Fourthly, the tea should be strong. For a pot holding a quart, if you are going to fill it nearly to the brim, six heaped teaspoons would be about right. In a time of rationing, this is not an idea that can be realized on every day of the week, but I maintain that one strong cup of tea is better than twenty weak ones. All true tea lovers not only like their tea strong, but like it a little stronger with each year that passes — a fact which is recognized in the extra ration issued to old-age pensioners.

* Fifthly, the tea should be put straight into the pot. No strainers, muslin bags or other devices to imprison the tea. In some countries teapots are fitted with little dangling baskets under the spout to catch the stray leaves, which are supposed to be harmful. Actually one can swallow tea-leaves in considerable quantities without ill effect, and if the tea is not loose in the pot it never infuses properly.

* Sixthly, one should take the teapot to the kettle and not the other way about. The water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact, which means that one should keep it on the flame while one pours. Some people add that one should only use water that has been freshly brought to the boil, but I have never noticed that it makes any difference.

* Seventhly, after making the tea, one should stir it, or better, give the pot a good shake, afterwards allowing the leaves to settle.

* Eighthly, one should drink out of a good breakfast cup — that is, the cylindrical type of cup, not the flat, shallow type. The breakfast cup holds more, and with the other kind one's tea is always half cold before one has well started on it.

* Ninthly, one should pour the cream off the milk before using it for tea. Milk that is too creamy always gives tea a sickly taste.

* Tenthly, one should pour tea into the cup first. This is one of the most controversial points of all; indeed in every family in Britain there are probably two schools of thought on the subject. The milk-first school can bring forward some fairly strong arguments, but I maintain that my own argument is unanswerable. This is that, by putting the tea in first and stirring as one pours, one can exactly regulate the amount of milk whereas one is liable to put in too much milk if one does it the other way round.

* Lastly, tea — unless one is drinking it in the Russian style — should be drunk without sugar. I know very well that I am in a minority here. But still, how can you call yourself a true tealover if you destroy the flavour of your tea by putting sugar in it? It would be equally reasonable to put in pepper or salt. Tea is meant to be bitter, just as beer is meant to be bitter. If you sweeten it, you are no longer tasting the tea, you are merely tasting the sugar; you could make a very similar drink by dissolving sugar in plain hot water.

Some people would answer that they don't like tea in itself, that they only drink it in order to be warmed and stimulated, and they need sugar to take the taste away. To those misguided people I would say: Try drinking tea without sugar for, say, a fortnight and it is very unlikely that you will ever want to ruin your tea by sweetening it again.

These are not the only controversial points to arise in connexion with tea drinking, but they are sufficient to show how subtilized the whole business has become. There is also the mysterious social etiquette surrounding the teapot (why is it considered vulgar to drink out of your saucer, for instance?) and much might be written about the subsidiary uses of tealeaves, such as telling fortunes, predicting the arrival of visitors, feeding rabbits, healing burns and sweeping the carpet. It is worth paying attention to such details as warming the pot and using water that is really boiling, so as to make quite sure of wringing out of one's ration the twenty good, strong cups of that two ounces, properly handled, ought to represent.

-George Orwell

I'm sorry, but yeah

2006-07-25T15:44:00.000-07:00

dear all those people in melbourne...

as much as i love you and miss you all, gonna have to go with a hmmm...
not gonna be coming back in Nov as was the original plan.... thinking might just have to stay here for longer... like lots longer...
ummm...
yeah...

love love
I'll see you later

What's the diference between a chicken?

2006-07-17T10:58:00.000-07:00

One legs both the same.

Whap-miao!

2006-07-08T17:54:00.000-07:00

Dollys destiny

2006-07-05T09:36:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there were two plastic children, hemispheres separated them, Lost and alone they wandered the world looking for an equal, a like minded plasticiesed person to play with.
There search was long, trecherous and often in vein, the world is full of beautiful pollymers yet none have life, none have the special spark of emotion.
For centuries humans have loethed the plastic people, hunted them in attempt to capture the power of their senses, harness the power to percieve the world through any chosen human eyes at any one time. living Dolly's can locate and understand the thoughts of any human, yet, are blind to each other their power only resides over humans.... tbc

The Balvenie 12yr

2006-06-27T11:28:00.000-07:00

mmm... yum

What the fox said

2006-06-17T07:01:00.000-07:00

Voici mon secret Il est tres simple:
on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

She looks like tori amos...

2006-06-15T20:20:00.000-07:00

Kindred

2006-06-14T09:18:00.000-07:00

You know sleep is the hymen of our hopes
Broken at the break of dawn as the light jumps through the window and reflects
almost coming close to the light coming from you
And I didn’t want to sleep alone tonight
woke to the cold electric next to me
morning 3 volts to keep me warm
You know this isn’t a love song
it isn’t even poetry but for smoke... lungs... and that’s all
why not the bird song of happiness
and can’t you see the light invading your eyes?

So finish it, it’s almost a song
I’m just gonna think that it’s all too familiar to me
to not see the light coming from your eyes
and the sleep that seems to to be always escaping mine
so now we’ll just hear solo guitar
to keep us warm as they,
not us know about angels
but who knows?
we could see it one day
when the window doesn’t filter out too much light
and the warmth from the fire
isn’t needed cos we’ve got each other
once long ago I could see them
but you
not me
without you it isn’t here, there
or any place you can get a cup of coffee in the morning,
or cheap cask wine in the evening
I don’t know
it just keeps going
and I couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began
beginnings are always so hard to deal...
the warmth and tears in my eyes
filtering
loving
caring
lusting
hating
look and see what you want, take it,
all away from me
you could drain me all with one glance
reducing me

as i drink another bottle in loneliness
fighting off the sounds in my head
I’d rather forget
do I always look this way?
feel so tired
screaming out of something that wouldn’t be the same if I leaped into this
the hymen of our sleepy feelings
our shattered dreams inside
and the smoke that curls
the same through my lungs as in the air
as I breathe it
it
not anything anymore
than it
it’s something I’ve not felt before

Siren

2006-06-07T06:55:00.000-07:00

"Do you want another beer Duncan?"

2006-06-07T06:06:00.000-07:00

And another thing...

"Tell you what I'll do... I'm gonna go outside a nd have a cigarette, then I'm gonna walk down to that park... I'm gonna find one of those swans and punch it in the nose."

"So do you want me to pour you another one for when you get back????"
Bye Duncan

I can't sleep

2006-05-30T09:20:00.000-07:00

Drawing Rabbits:
"It's all about the ears really."
-Louise
(Said in Irish accent)
29/05/06

The Human Be-in

2006-05-23T09:25:00.000-07:00

So there's an old crazy guy who said that the one thing about Edinburgh, which is a city that prides itself on orginization, is that between the months of May and September, every monday you can't tell who is on holiday and who isn't.

So i don't think that I was supposed to understand him... But thats ok, I talk a lot of crap just to find out how the words feel in your mouth...

DAE SUM TREX PAL!!!!!!!

Hehe...

Your right Tom... You're always Tom

Alright Pal

2006-05-18T06:43:00.000-07:00

Love Story

Once upon a time...

“Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.”

The wooden box lowered, as the man in the white robes stood and watched down onto the stone. A young girl with quiet sobbing tears streaming was trying to claw out comfort in the arms of an old man with greying hair. He held her, his eyes fixed on the words that read Beloved Wife and Mother, tears were welling in them. A circle of people were all gathered one step behind the man and the young girl. Some Stood straight and tall, like nothing could touch them. Some looked at the girl with an expression of pity in their eyes, others stared firmly at the stone with a look of sadness, anger, futility or just boredom. Everyone was wearing black darker than the shadows that they cast on the perfect green. Some wore sunglasses and held crumpled tissues in their hands, like tiny flags of surrender to a larger force. There was a silence that was now cast over the people, the sound of the young girls tears were muffled as she nestled her face deeper into the coat of the older man. One or two at a time the people in the outer circle crossed the invisible line into the inner sanction. The young girl and the man broke away in their coming, each time someone approached they were hugged or held. Some put their hands on the old mans shoulder, some got down on their knees to look the young girl in the eye and hold her. Words were exchanged, and sometimes a smile would be forced onto the peoples lips. All of their eyes were starting to dry, and the invisible line that seemed to separate the people from the old man and the young girl had seemed to have disappeared. The circle was now drawn closely around them. In this time the man in the white robed had vanished from the sight. He walked away from the group up a path to where there was a red car. He pulled of his white robes and tossed them in to the back seat of the car, transforming himself. He then got into the car and drove out of the large iron gates, into the normal world. Outside the gates there was normality, a large place where you didn’t have to notice anything you didn’t want to, and time kept going. Inside the gates the people were all still gathered around, though now they started to leave. One and two at a time first, them they all turned from the stone and walked down the path to the gates. They walked in small groups that formed a long line.

She watched them leave, like a precession of black ants, burdened with their grief. She watched them leave. The black theatre, she had watched it all that day. Standing in the background, outside the invisible line that encased the young girl and the old man. Outside the circle that all the other people stood in. Today for the first time she had watched the play from afar, every other day she had simple sat and waited. She saw the look on the young girls face, and the suddenly understood the plays that people had put on for so long a time in her garden. Even now, after the people had left, she could still see the circles. The lines on the ground were now visible to her, and she replaced in her mind where everyone had been. She saw them all crossing the lines in the ground, and saw why she could not. She saw that she was an outsider, and for the first time she felt truly alone. She retreated the thoughts and all the people vanished from her mind. Taking a deep breathe in she walked over to the the grave, the lines had disappeared. She started to do what she did everyday at this time, with a shovel she took from the mound of dirt beside her and started to replace it from the hole that it came from. She made the earth swallow up the wooden coffin, planting a new seed in her garden. A seed that had grown into a cold stone tree, with the words Beloved Wife and Mother etched into it. With each shovel of earth that she poured onto the coffin she remembered every other service that she had seen in her garden. The way that the people stood so close, and held each other. The invisible lines where in they all stood together, and she stood outside alone. She realised that she had been alone all this time, even though she was surrounded by people, The ones that lie under the stone trees, she was alone. She knew them all be name, the names that were written on the stone. She used to believe that that’s who it was that was there, in her garden to tend to. But now she saw that the person that was lying there had now become all the people that stood around them. She couldn’t read the name on the stone, only the words Beloved wife and mother. This person had left with the people that she had come in with, in their memories and hearts. The only memories that she had were of people leaving her garden, and all the people that they left in the ground there were only shells. She was alone in her garden.

She walked through her garden of empty stone and marble, seeing that all her old friends were never there. The line that she walks home in the opposite direction to the gates is now a hostile negotiation with the stones and grass. She was an alien outside the gates, and that’s why she came to live here. Finding that dead peoples needs were just so much easier to manage. When people are alive they cluttered up their lives with complications and lies. Inside the gates there were simple truths and needs. She never felt lonely, finding company in the names on the stones. Now that truth had changed, and the only thing left in her garden was emptiness. She walked to her house of brick amongst all the stones. She walked in and closed the wooden door behind her, closed the lid of her coffin and laid down, empty inside. Her mind raced with thoughts about what she had witnessed that day, and she came to the decision that she was missing something in her life. She was missing real human contact, all those people had been so close together, sharing a collective mourning that made them one. All coming together over one person, and taking them away in their hearts.
People are strange.
She thought, but for the first time she realised that she wasn’t one of them. She wanted to be, and she felt envious of those that were connected in the mortal coil. It seemed that she walked between the two worlds of life and death, with nothing to keep her in either place. Ever stone that she past on the way around her garden seemed to call to her. Beckoning her to join them completely, to be swallowed deep beneath the sunlight. Her eyes closed, and the night swallowed her thoughts into dreams.

And every day...

“Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.”

She stood in the background, just out of sight of all the people. Thinking that the sight of her in dusty overalls and a shovel in hand would make them feel uneasy. The person who was going to make the earth finally claim their loved one. She had no other clothes, because her life was to fill in the graves, that was what gave her meaning. Now she had found something that gave her fleeting seconds of humanity. She couldn’t feel anything for the person buried in the ground, but she became addicted to grief. She stood and watched the funeral games and saw the way that people moved, the way death affected everybody. She saw the feelings inside every person that stood. The ones that tried to stand tall as support, being eaten up by their own pain inside. Those that let everything flood out in streams of tears. Those that stood in the inner circle, the difference between friends and families, husbands and children. The world that lived behind their eyes, even the ones shielded by glasses, she could see the tears escaping from underneath. For weeks she stood and watched, as an outsider, more and more reminded her of how far away she was. Only for a second she could escape and be one of them in the inner circles. She treasured those fleeting moments, it made her heart feel weak. Like it could explode with emotions that he had never until now felt, the feelings of death and grief were so strong. Stronger than she had ever felt before. She wanted nothing else than to be a part of the games. To feel so strongly that it could make fill every inch of her being. She began to explore every inch of her garden. Looking at the trees and that grass, the stones and the flowers. Mostly she saw the words. Beloved Wife and Mother. The words of who people are, and the names of the people that carried their soul out with them. She didn’t just maintain her garden now, she tended to it with a feeling that she could not name.

In the farthest corner of her garden found something that stole her breath for a moment. A grave that was not laden with flowers or photos. This grave have something else as a dedication. It had a sculpture that stood almost as high as she was. Made from branches that had fallen from the sounding trees. The twisting dead branches were strung together finding new life the form that they had now found. She could see the image of a woman behind the sculpture, a portrait had been painted behind the messy array of branches and twine. Every part of the portrait was alive, except for her eyes. Her eyes were cold, and stared downward at the gravestone, and her face could not be seen. She wondered about the person had made the beautiful work, alive with death. Everyday she would watch the services and go to this corner to admire the statue, trying to find meaning in it. Almost a week had past since she first discovered the dedication, and the statue was starting to wilt, life slowly escaping it. With each day she became more connected to the statue, and as it wilted pieces of her died. She saw that it would not last another day, and wanted so much to tend to it so that it would not die. It was not hers though, and so she could not touch it. The statue reminded her of herself, a being that was walking between the worlds of life and death, not belonging to either. Like something held it in the middle. That night she went to sleep with sadness for what she had seen, the slow decay of the statue, that would not be able to hold its form for another night.

That morning she awoke, walking across the foot cold floor and escaped the lid of her coffin to step outside in to her garden. She walked the line between the stones to make her way to the corner of her garden to see witness the dead of the maiden statue. She dragged her feet, sadness in her heart to think that the beautiful woman would be dead when she got there. The pieces of humanity that she had found over the past week will have died again, leaving her empty once more. She climbed the last step with her eyes tightly pressed together, afraid of the image that would reveal itself in front of her lest she opened them. She opened them...
Her heart swelled, for in front of her was a beautiful statue. The outside form had been renewed, and the woman behind it stood the still behind it. She had been kept alive by someone in the dead of last night. Though the outside sculpture was completely different, it was still the same woman behind it. She stood in the same poise, dead eyes staring down at the stone, and a face that was somehow hidden from the light. In her time free from digging she spent admiring the statue, days passing and taking little pieces of life away from it. On the sixth day she went to sleep after visiting the nearly decayed statue. Her heart was filled with hope that on this night it would renewed as it had been the week before. Her head spinning with thoughts about who or what it was that was keeping her alive. She understood that it was the soul of the woman from the grave that she stared at. Something was keeping her in this world. It was like she had not been carried out in the hearts of the people that had stood around at her service. That was why she was appearing here, so that someone could hear her? Sleep called her loudly over her thoughts, and she fell into its arms.
She scrambled up the stairs with anticipation, wanting to witness the woman's new resurrection. Her form had again been kept alive behind the new a figure. She followed her thought from last night as her eyes tracked over every inch of the figure. Her eyes were not alive as the rest of the statue, so her soul wasn’t there at all. It was someone trying to keep her alive so that they could talk to her. There was no face that could be seen on her because it could not be captured by the artist.

Months when by in this timeless place. Measured for her now only by the cycle of the woman in her garden. Her decay and rebirth. She wondered so much about the person who was the artist tethered to this woman. Every sixth night that she lay in bed thinking about hiding in the corner of her garden to watch the artist come to renew the sculpture. It made her feel more like an outside with the knowledge that she could never go and watch, for it was not her world to intrude upon. She was but a secret observer in the relationship, never able to be touched by these players. Her mind was taken over by the wondering, and she dreamed all the nights about the person that come in the dead of night to manipulate the branches to form the image of this woman without a face.

Until One Day...

He walked alone in though the gates. The large iron ones were closed because of the hour, but there was the side gate that was always open. He made his way up the path, even in the witching hour there was still enough light to the way through the stones. The soft blue moon light slid over all the stone, making them luminous and look alive. He walked past them all to the far corner of the graveyard to a place with a wilting statue of branches was lit by the moonlight.
“I’ve come to sit beside you.” He whispered, as he knelt down beside the stone. He said that to her ever week that he came here. He past his hands over the impressions of word cast into the cold stone. His fingers following the tracks of the letters that spelt the name. All the sounds of the earth seemed to disappear, the cicadas being forgotten for the sound of flesh passing over the stone. He looked at the stone, and them cast his eyes up at the wilting statue, stood and walked over to it. Delicately he started to deconstruct its form, taking the branches away, and piece by piece unravelled the form behind it. He studied the scattered branches on the ground, and his hands shared the cold touch of them. A howl of a wolf far off in the distance startled him, and for a second he remembered the howl of the beansidhe that he had heard in his dream once long ago. It was from that time on that he had ceased to feel. He looked again at the branches scattered on that ground around the stone. A feeling off hopelessness came over him, and he stood and walked to the gates, without turning back he past through them and into the outside world.

She awoke that morning, and stepped outside into the day. Her heart anticipating to see the new statue that she had gone to sleep the previous night waiting for. She climbed the stone brick steps up to the small plateau. She came to stop and felt a stab just left of the middle and her heart stopped for second. Her eyes surveyed the crash sight, all the twisted branches lying dead on the ground. She knew that it was not an act of malice that had brought it about, for each branch lay on the ground with the same attention that had been put in when they were standing. She felt every beat of her heart in her chest as a few tears escaped her eyes. There was something that she just did not understand, she wondered why the artist just ceased to care about the woman that they had taken so much care in resurrecting. She felt the pain of the artist’s heart in hers, giving up on something lost. She turned and walked back into the thick stone trees of her garden, looking back once to put a wall up in her mind around the once sacred corner. Never again did see want to feel the pain that she felt upon looking at the dead branches scattered on the ground. Only one other person could understand the significance of the scattered branches, and that was the one who had lost hope in their hands. Her life turned back into a routine crawl, standing ready in the background to fill in the soil around another seed in her garden. She watched the funeral games the mourners played, and as she watched the feelings in her heart was now coupled with the pain of one person who had lost.
My heart didn’t used to beat this way.
She thought. She could feel it inside her breathing in and out with such fragility. A heart that had not felt so much before was now weaned by the grief and death that was her home. It was now starting to touch her.

“Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.”

The words of the sermon drifted to where she caught the end. Those words had been recited by the man in the white robes three times that day for three different people. The same words heralded the end of his speech, each time for a different person. Each time after her shed his white robes and disappeared, leaving the people to cry together. It was the third and last time that he came today, retreating now to his life outside the gates. He would come again tomorrow to read the last rights for another name on a stone. The mourners played on without him and then made their way out the gates, carrying the person out with them in their hearts. She watched them leave, and cast her eyes back to the hole in the earth. One man still stood there, staring down at the grave. She walked a little closer to study his face. A quiet curiosity came over her as she had seen this man at the two other services today, and he stood now staring down at the grave with a hint of anger and futility in his eyes. He seemed disconnected from the name. Slowly she walked over to stand beside but still a little behind him. Minutes of silence passed as the two shared the space, her mind was turning over what to say, but before she found the words he broke the silence between them.
“You’ve come to fill in the earth.” He said and turned to look at her, and then turned back to the stone. She was stunned by the look he carried, a look of pain buried deep within, hidden behind numb eyes. It was the first time that she had been close enough to see the pain in a person. Her mind stuttered as she pushed the words out over her tongue.
“Yes.” She stared. “I’m... I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s OK, I didn’t actually know her. I just came because... I came to all of them today because...” His voice started to stagger, and the words stopped coming.
“I saw you here all three times today.” She implored, trying to prompt him to finish his story.
“It’s not her.” He said. “It was someone long ago. I came because it’s still inside me.”
“What do you mean?” She asked.
“I don’t know how to say it, but I can show you.” He turned to look at her again, his eyes piercing her flesh.
“Yes.” She replied, feeling strongly connected to his loss and isolation. They walked off together with her beside and half a step behind him, all the time her eyes were wandering over his neck and shoulders. He lead her across the grounds of her garden and through the stone trees. The path they marked was becoming familiar to her in the direction they were heading. When they came to the top of the stairs in the corner of the graveyard they hesitated for half a second, and then together they broke through the wall that had been put up around the sight in both of their hearts.
“I used to come every every seventh night,” He started saying. His eyes not making contact with hers, but scanning around as he, one at a time, picked up the twisted branches that laid scattered on the green grass. He stopped and looked down at the stone, loosely holding the branches in his arms beside him “She was my wife... She was taken from me by something so small that it could break her from the insides without anybody being able to see it... She died by the hands of something that I couldn’t see...” His calm voice changed to an angry tone, as his breathing became heavier and more forced. “It was still her all the time though... There was something inside her that nobody could see, and it killed her.” He started piecing the wood together, first in his mind and then his hands followed its lead. As his started weaving a living form together out of dead wood his words started again on their trail, and his voice dropped down into hopelessness. “I can fight something that I can see, and she could have too.” The figure was started to take form in front of her, but the woman could not yet be seen behind the form.
“Why do you come?” She asked in a compassionate voice.
“Because it’s still inside me.” He answered in a dull monotone. “I feel numb. I couldn’t cry when she died, and I’ve felt nothing since. I can’t even remember anything about the funeral, it’s all buried so deep inside, and I can’t seem to get it out. I can’t live without her, she took all the love that I had. So I came here.” He started to explain, his eyes tracking over the sculpture growing in front of him. His hands twisted around the branches as to weave them into one another the create the form. “I was looking for a way to fill in the missing piece of me, to be like a normal person whose tears aren’t already frozen. I thought if I could make a statue of then I could revive her memory in my heart and cry.” He paused for a minute looking over the not yet complete statue.
“Why did you stop coming?” She forced the words out. Witnessing the artist of the statues, that she had admired for so long, was making her body seize up. She could only stand, eyes locked onto him and his hands.
“I couldn’t do it.” He said, as his hands resumed their work. “I don’t know why, but I could never capture her no matter how hard I tried. I was looking for her trough the statues but he just wasn’t there.” His words were spoken softly, and she could start to see the figure of a woman emerging from out of nothing behind the branches. The figure taking shape to her. His hands were were moving over its form, and she could feel them over her own. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it could break through her chest. As the woman started to become more vivid her breathing deepened. She stood stunned unable to move behind him, watching his hands weave to last few branches into the sculpture. She felt them weaving through her, she looked at the face of the statue and saw a reflection of herself. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath was caught in her throat for a when she saw it. She exhaled and with the breath a shudder went all the way down her. He ran his hand over the completed mass of twisted branches, and she felt a tingle that followed after them. He turned and their eyes locked together. He was breathing heavily. A few seconds passed between them, before his breathing started to slow and calm so that he could form an end to the story.
“I stopped because I couldn’t find her, and I came to the services today as a futile last hope. I thought that maybe I could empathetically pick up on their mourning and that might trigger me to cry. But that didn’t seem to work either, I had to try something.” He spoke in words that hovered between a sigh and a whisper. She felt her heart wanting to leap out and hold him, but her arms didn’t follow that lead.
“Leave now.” She said. A look of confusion crossed his face, but she continued. “Go, and don’t come back for one month to the day. In one month I will see you again, and I can help you.” Not another word was spoke between them, it was through their eyes that he said he understood and they said good-bye to each other. He walked down the steps alone and down to the iron gates, pausing a moment to look back into the farthest corner of the graveyard. He turned again and walked through into the outside word. The sun was setting.

And Because Of That...

“Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.”

They all stood in their circles marked by invisible lines, and she stood in the background. Her shovel was propped up beside he as she waited for the service to end so that she could fill in the soil. Her attention was not with the scene in front of her, the games that the mourners played was not the subject of her thoughts. Her mind wandered back to the the previous day when she had met the artist, and the mystery of the sculptress had been revealed. She waited with her thoughts as the people started to leave, and she walked over to fill in the grave of the last service of the day. As she moved the soil her memories of the previous day kept going though her mind, and of the tryst that she made. She was drawn to helping him, and she had a month to prepare her gift. She walked the line home between the stone trees. The darkness in her room was broken only by a single candle that etched warm flickering shadows across the wall. Carefully she laid the silk, velvet and Vermeer across her bed, with a gentle caress smoothing out the ripples in the cloth. She studied the pure white fabrics, and in her mind started to bring form out from behind them. Seeing how they would wrap around her, holding her tight and share the touch of her skin. She laid her hand gently onto material and started to cut up in a line. First struggling with the scissors for a few inches, before they took over guiding her hand in one soft glide. She took the steel to the rest of the fabric, The sharp edges glimmering in the warm light as they made their way across the form. She looked deep into the eye of the needle that she between her fingers, and with the other hand she held so delicately the tiny white thread. She paused for a second as the thread touched the cold metal, then she pulled it through the eye. She bound her soul to the needle and thread as she first tired them together. She wove herself through the silk as the needle pierced it once and was pulled through. Every stitch in and out she held him in her heart, and every stitch was a kiss to him.

Every day she walked in the light around her garden, for filling her duty to the people who came and listened to the man in white speak. After they all filled away she moved the soil around to bury the sleeper deep beneath the sun. She filled the days with her work, then she came alive at night when she closed the door to the rising moon. She came home and placed more stitches across the patterning materials. Every night she shared the touch of the fabrics, which became the touch of his skin. Her heart swelled almost to breaking point as the dress started to take form. It had never held so much in all her life now that she was holding him. She was making the funeral gown that was missing from his memories, thinking maybe that he might be able to remember what his mind had buried so deep within him. Every night she had come home and added stitches to the dress, and on the twentieth night she tied off the final tread. The beautiful white statue of a maiden hung in front of her, tempting her to be the one that it held. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest, wanting to leap out and be held in the arms of the dress. She ran her fingers over every inch of it’s form, keeping at bay the desire to wear the thing that she had made for him to see. She slid the overalls off her shoulders and down to the ground. She stood there bare in front of the dress, before moving over to it and gliding her arms through its. Then let it fall around her, touched every inch of her skin as it glide down, the bottom hanging just above the floor. She felt his arms around her as she laid down for the night in the white dress. Her heart that was beating so loudly slowed as she closed her eyes and it softly followed her into sleep.

And So...

He walked through the gates for the first time in one month to the day. His heart had been dreaming of her of a month coupled with an emotion that he could not name. His eyes wandered over, and her saw it as her garden. He had looked over every inch of this place, but now he saw it as hers. He saw the word; love, that was used here more than any other place in the living world. He made his way up the stairs to the grave of his wife. To the place that they had made their tryst, thinking of the few moments that they had shared. His heart sunk a little when he didn’t find her there, so he waited, not knowing where else that he could find her. From here he could look over the entire garden, and his eyes tracked over the stone trees looking for her. In another small corner her saw a lone man in white standing over a grave reading from a book. He made his way back down the stairs knowing that she would be there to fill in the soil over the coffin. The man didn’t notice him as he approached, his pace slowing as he drew nearer to the open wooden box. He felt a stab in his heart when he saw without a doubt the face of the body that lay in the coffin. He saw her lying in an eternal slumber wearing a beautiful white wedding dress. There was something warm forming behind his eyes as he looked into hers, that were closed now.
“I’ve come to sit beside you.” He said. The tears like fire burnt their way down his cheeks. He stood without time in an invisible circle with her. His mind released the hold it had on his memories and his heart. He held her in his heart, she was ready to leave her garden with him. The last words came from the man in the white robes before he left the stage.

“Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.”

And They All Lived Happily Ever After...

The End.

2006-05-16T12:14:00.000-07:00

The silence is going to take his place when he runs over to the top of the stars and screams his name, there is a moment before he will slup back into himself without an answer...

there are competing picks and strums that nudge at your mind

everybody just be quiet at listen...
(It's beautiful)

He was stroking the heart that he stitched onto the inside of his sleeve...
hurry I need a word that sounds the same as bucket

yes, yes they are the same... just on a different day.

See look over there, it will be here before you know it...

Tom's just gone off to have a round of golf in the living room, I'm gonna be the caddie, It's gonna be fun, we just have to tune the guitar out of open G first though, or he does...
(It's gone fuckin' sharp again)
(How did it do that?)

watch this (enter)

Monkey

2006-05-16T09:00:00.000-07:00

My friend took this photo of my other friend... they are both pretty, and I miss them....

That was possibly the first thing that I've written on here that makes kinda sense. Can't be havin' with that now can we?

Cities are pretty with skin under red light glow... So I'm thinking that the greatest argument against intelligent design is pigeons, cos like what's the point? would you do that if you had the chance?

oh well.

Portobello

2006-05-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

One more breath means another second spent, misrible old man, doesnt speak but for the words on his so precious pages, while the children roam. Oceans aren't endless here, when there's always islands on the horizon, paled coloured and misty. They're just distant shadows as the lives that we lead are to them, we're all just msty shadows.
Children are tiny pockets of energy.
Lets build a castle to put all of our thoughts into, lets fuel them with that deathly pop and crackle of the fire, lets forever try and find our way out of the prison that is the only way for them to thrive.
Just like the mean old man who makes the sun come up, who helps the girl find her kitten. Lets tell a story with pictures that move out of our mind, out the window and fly to find someone to tell it to, someone to tell that we are trapped. And all they see is the music, the moon sings to them and does nothing more than dimly light the scratches on the wall, shinning into how deep they run, how hard we claw our way through it.
If nothing we do matters then the only thing that matters is what we do with that. You'll just know that these virtues are not your own... Come to me, I have kisses for the back of your neck where the skin is smoothest and hidden, and let them run to find their way inside to something divine. I can kiss the gate of your soul before i burry myself on the beach... the sand gets colder the deeper you go.
And the magic inventor will come and make a special machine that will let me talk you out of the spider net.
Even the crockery will scream at the end of it all, and they'll select someone to say the words till the short end of time. Till it becomes sly and stagnantly stoic.. Peeking over the start of the last night.
Find something that is so... precious that you can't bare to let it go, and tie it like a note to a pigeons leg. It won't be here, there or anyway hopeful of being delivered. Double pinned bars to the floor and the wall, maybe something was taken from him, he walks up to the wall and screams to the highest window, screams that nobody wants to laugh. The first jester just put his make-up on the wrong way, and everybody followed. He walked out of the iron gates, slowly away carrying his limp. Let me take you by the arm, by the hand and we'll see what you picked up.

The Carnival

2006-04-25T12:38:00.000-07:00

all the people are dressed in velvet and silk
as the carnival lights replace the sun
they’re tossing pennies on the eyes
of the forgotten one
his body is cold and lifeless
he was once known for his fame
they’ll bury him two feet first
by the stone that bears his name
the ferris-wheel spins eternally over
not letting anybody ride
and the gates of the exit are closed
trapping all the players inside

Christina walks the big-top grounds
ignoring the gentlemen's glares
they stand behind the curtains
peeking out when they think she’s unawares
but she keeps them in check with one eye
and the other is placed firmly down
she doesn’t see the light inside her
she thinks they stare at her gown
there was a gentleman in her life
but now he’s become a memory
he broke her heart some year ago
her life is a tragic story

you can ride the spotted pony
feels like the only freedom you can get
as you face flies through the lights
on a back that’s warm at best
but the old man with the golden tooth grins at you
because in this game he’s the host
he’s tied the chain to the pony's neck
and the other end to a post
you may smile as you ride around
but the pony's eyes are locked down
he’s destined to just ride round
mastered by you and the gold toothed man

Mary Magdeline is in an alley way
on her knees for a businessman
he uses her for what she’s known for
then throws twenty crumpled dollars in her hand
the priest dressed in black
his eyes reflect how his mind is deranged
he’s on the corner of the street
yelling that she should be ashamed
but the businessmen keep coming
and the organ drowns out his accusations
Mary wants to say how she’s dying
but no-one wants her conversations

there’s a man dressed in a suit
and he follows people around
peering into their pocket
and looks on their heads for crowns
he’s the one the clowns call messiah
but the lion-tamer fears his face
here everyone’s controlled by strings
it’s he who manipulates your fate
everyone tells him to leave their shadow
and so he creeps away
he’ll wait for the next time that you’re here
we all come back to him one day

Madonna stands with a pink apron
handing out fairy-floss to kids
they all descend upon her
then fight and squeal like pigs
her only son stands next to her
jealous of the children with a home
His Father had flown by night
leaving Mary & He alone
They were collected by the show after He left
and lived a life of service and shame
He’s thinking always of his Father
and revenge is connected to His name

everyone here are the players
ignorant of who makes the moves
they’re happy just to be entertained
by puppets and shinny grooves
throwing stones at simple bottles
and then laugh when none fall
men and women are arm in arm
and their children play around the floor
the circus gates are locked in dark
till morning strangles the moon
all the people scatter into the light
and men come to clean the room

the only people left from the night
are counting their coins and tips
the black under their eyes is pooling
it’s time to pack up their ships
heading back to their caravans and tents
to sleep while the sun reigns
Madonna and her son curl up
and the men go home with cheap dames
but Christina shares her bed with none
her eyes are the last to close
morning fails as evening comes
and the carnival will open again its shows

Storytellers

2006-04-20T10:17:00.000-07:00

One family gathering I remember my mum and brother were outside at the washing line. She was taking the dry sheets off the line and passing them to him. He would take them and put them back one the line. This went on for about half an hour, they were both drunk, not really drunk, just merry.

There was a night that I remember my mum walk out of her room and down the stairs. It was about two o’clock in the morning, she walked out in a doped up state wearing a white gown so she looked like a ghost. She went to the fridge and grabbed a beer and proceeded to pour it into an empty ice-cream bucket. The pattering rain on the roof must had waken her, she walked outside in the soft rain and started collecting snails and killing them in the bucket of beer. All the time muttering that she had to get the snails, that they would ruin the garden.

I found my nan once washing peas and straining the water away into the cutlery draw.

I was conceived during an affair in the back of an Alfa Romao. It was in the parking lot after a work function at the company were both my parents met.

Me and my best friend once found a secret little room. Way out in the field we found a door in the side of a cave. Inside there was a small ledge, and then a huge drop, it was like a giant dark box. We used to go there all the time and talk or throw bouncing balls around, the type that lit up. There was one night that we went in it was midnight and we stayed for two hours. We knew because we had watches and only two hour hours went by, but when we got out it was light, six o’clock. We lost four hours of our lives in that black hole.

The first thing that she wanted to do when she moved out is call home and exclaim; “Mum, I’m running with scissors!”

I have a fairy that follows me name mischief. It used to be my Grandfathers, he kept her in his shirt pocket, and she would go around making mischief, hiding things. When he died she went to my uncle, and he gave her to me. So she follows me around and moves or hides things from me and my friends.

She knew a kid called Jesus in kindergarten, her only memory was chasing him around the room with a pair of scissors.

Her family was completely dysfunctional, in a funny way. Every christmas gathering her brother would try something knew. Once he made a rule that no one was allowed to say anything unless it was in song. For the entire christmas people were singing everything that they said.

He woke up on new years day. Hung over to all fuck, looked in his packet of cigarettes to find one left. He went to the fridge and made a cup of coffee, using the last of the milk in the house. Walked outside and sat down on the couch. he put the cigarette in his mouth, but before he could light it, it fell out of his mouth and dropped into his coffee.

On her third birthday she looked up and said. “Is my birthday... but I don’t know why is my birthday?”

My mother died on the ides of March. Had to be poetic.

A boy in primary school had the biggest crush on a girl. He came to school exclaiming “Oh no, I forgot the forget something!” I asked what he was talking about he said that if he had of forgotten something then he could have asked the girl for it.

She was introduced to me in the kitchen as Sylvia Plaith... I opened the oven door for her and she said that she loved me.

At his last class at uni he for filled a vow that he had made three years earlier, when he started. Moonwalk outta there. It ended up not being so much of a moonwalk as as stumble backwards until he ran into his friend.

Talking about doing something stupid and romantic for her 21st birthday. Having it all planned out in my mind, to wear a beautiful suit and a single red rose... And be dripping wet from rain. Telling her that to do this romantic thing that it has to rain. “It’s not gonna rain, it’s the middle of summer.”
“Compensating saying... “Well there can be a hose.”
“No... there can’t be a hose... I’m getting my hair done.”

A girl wearing a skimpy outfit on a freezing cold night. When asked how she can dress like that she said. “I just pretend that it’s a really hot day and I’m standing in front of an air conditioner.”

“You’re hardcore... no soft centres in your chocolate assorted box.”

3rd gear... nearly at port fairy. My wet pants are waving out the back window because of that walk. And the service station didn’t have a knife isle so kim’s cutting up brie with a credit card.

A guy with manic depression. Wanted to bake a cake, and he needed to buy some flour. So he flew from melbourne to sydney to buy a bag of flour.

“Have you got a quid mate?”
“Doubt it, I’m an atheist.”

“Never turn your back on the ocean!”

There was a girl who burred her heart in a bucket of sand, and gave it to a boy. But instead of building as castle like she wanted him to do, he tipped it all over her orange hair, and then played with his trucks in the sand pit. Her first heart break. She cried and cried and cried when her mother made her wash her hair, and called her heart dirty.

“But I’m going to win her back.” He said with a cheaky grin on his face. “I’m gonna go over there and steal her away again.”
Smiles.

2006-04-18T11:59:00.000-07:00

I want to be what I was, when I wanted to be what I am now

I can't really remember the name of it

2006-04-18T07:40:00.000-07:00

found myself drinking wee drams of talisker with bob and georgie and john and kendel at a tiny pub in old town... twas was the size of a small room with everybody standing everywhere no room to move, sea of people tiding to the bar and out for a cigarette... band of four playing sitting with their backs to the wall in the corner near the door. and old worn fiddle played by a man with one cataracted eye... and beaten old guitar in the hands of a kriss kristoffison look alike, and two more hands and voices of old men playing their hands in... and the happy drunken crowd would always be screaming and songs hands clapping and the floors were beaten...

and if somebody trys to mug you in the meadows, just drunkenly run away... they're lazy.

Pull down all the stars, give them names call them whores... A few scars wont make you brave, feel like someone has just walked on your grave

Bob moved to barcelona with a girl form argentina...
nae-no
wee/tottie-little
wee dram-nip of whisky
beer-pint
twee-cute
hiya-hey
aye-yeah
mince and tatties-mince and potato stew
fesh sours-????? fish sour but you know how these things are

Sewer-side of the city

2006-04-06T14:14:00.000-07:00

There is a city that is divided into the old town and the new, by a train station and a castle on a hill. The new town is just like any other city grid. Streets, shop (where you trade your soul for clothes) and shopping malls. (see trade your soul) The old town is filled with twisting cobblestone streets that melt over the side of the great hill, on which the castle is perched. There's alleyways through buildings of olden, stained stone wherein you can find ruins of an even older city ecased. Cities have sunk here and been rebuilt over. Ghost haunt the common streets as though they were dark houses on a hill. There's a cemetary in the centre, at the base of the castle, where monuments and stones still stand aslope. The names and dates fade, only the power of the words remain. If you stay in one plce long enough in this graveyard you get goosebumps, there is a different kind of chill in the wind... It's a stale dead one. The tiny droplets of rain fall just upon you to run the ink you write with, ensuring you can only take out of there what they desire you to hold. The castle is the only thing that keeps them in check, keeps them from roaming all over the city, cold and stale. It was the reason that the graveyard exists, It looked over when the first bones were layed and now it sees to it that they stay within the gates.

Thge city is filled with people that huddle and hold their coates close around themselves. To avoid the wind chill within the cold. They trudge though their lives and make their way though the world.

The Odyssey

2006-04-01T07:27:00.000-08:00

Having conquered 81,587 thristy humans with 326,352 refreshing beverages, he decided to seek...

New adventures. Grabbing a lone chanderlier with shaker-strengthened grip, he swung & swung...

And up he went through a handy skylight...

And lo. What did he see on the horizon but a flying umbrella!..

And, clutching the umbrella with that selfsame muddling grip...

He sailed across the night to greener pastures...

Meanwhile back at the bar.

Working Working Working

2006-03-31T07:10:00.000-08:00

And that's the way that it all pans out..

That's not a real cricket

2006-03-30T07:49:00.000-08:00

This is me.. here I am all by myself
listening to too much rain fall in my head
Hoping that I don't drown

x