I have a heart, the heart of a woollen fish but the head of granite. A lion's head, stubborn in habits and brave on paper. On paper. The sharp edges of reality are often sharp and cold to touch. But isn't it the way? As I am wheeled in on a portable electric chair, yelling all things DEATH that I should shirk with fever and cower should the unimaginable become REAL.
Many if not all are true of this and with the advent of the internet it has become even more evident. We can rage and seethe, whine and yell our bravado all we like to our faceless audience but it is all a sham. A logo-less flag flapping in a empty gale.
This is essentially the face of the internet. Blank hooligans rattling at cyber bars while trees grow stronger outside. And taller. We have discovered a wonderful tool but need to grip the power to its full extent. We will too in time just as we learned to control fire but in the meantime we shall have to put up with the SCREAMERS pouring their self-loving superiority into the webs endless vaults. I just wish they'd add some humour to the pomp. People always take others that bit more seriously if their SPOUTING contains a dash of comedy because it makes you feel more down to earth. And of course not so hostile. Nobody who is true to themselves (and beliefs) want that.
Wednesday 30 June 2010
Friday 25 June 2010
Child Zombie Chills
I was a cruel child. Not regular cruel, or 'naughty boy' cruel but genuine vicious cruel. I was the type of kid who would salt fish gills whilst the fish was alive and kick puppies if I was bored. Not a nice boy but one who survived on good deeds and pleasant manners. I was good at the con trick. A sweet choir boy facade, I could walk on butter and leave no trace.
However a dark heart lurked within my frame. By the time I reached 8 years old I was plucking goldfish out of their tank at home and stabbing them with corn on the cob spiked holders, caught in what I can only describe as a morbid fever. Utterly thrilled by the power I had over the death of another living creature when I was so young, I knew too soon the mechanics of a kill. Newts were also not spared from my madness and I would collect them in tens to put in a giant boiler tank in the garden filled with a black water. Not all would be killed but many were unfortunate enough to be splattered against the wall by use of catapult.
What would possess such a normally mild mannered and timid boy to become such a fiend at times? I was born into a loving family and wanted for nothing. In fact I was a spoilt brat and seldom did anything not go the way I wanted it. I got all the love and attention I needed but always in the back of my mind was death and its grand mystery. The reaper has sat on my shoulder since forever, like a pirates parrot headbutting every idea into a grim scuttle that holds the pitch gem coals of mourning, loss and misery.
I remember well how I would creep downstairs whilst my parents slept and headed to the goldfish tank with sadistic intent. Plunging a hand into the cold water I would grab the slowest fish with a rising, grisly excitement ringing through my spine and place it on a table, getting my pyjamas wet from the poor creatures thrashing. It was this moment during my mania which felt the most potent; the time just before the kill, where I had all power in my young, tender hands. Sometimes the motions of the fish could break the spell which seemed to hold me mesmerised and I would feel pity and put the goldfish back but usually it ended in the other, gorier outcome.
As the intense power buzz reached the summit in my perverse head, I would bring the sharp prongs of the corn cob holder down onto the body of the miserable fish and smile whilst stabbing it repeately. Not frantic stabs; stab one, watch it dying, stab two, watch it dying, stab three, look at it dead.
And after life had been snuffed out I would flush the carcass down the toilet and put my corn holder 'weapons' back into the drawer.
In the morning I would get the obligatory ticking off by my mother but I do not think my parents were that worried about their sons disturbing habits. It only happened twice with the fish so perhaps they thought I disliked those particular fish? And the catapulted newts was a one off. I was not an evil child, I didn't kill every animal I found. Bigger animals such as cats and dogs were never in danger, in fact I was (and still am) an animal lover excluding those instances where I temporarily became manic.
The only other time I experienced one of these dark 'outbursts' was a few years later when I discovered a slow worm under a flat piece of plywood in the garden. I happened to have a nitrogen spray on me (another story) and that same dark mist descened upon my spirit and I was compelled to spray the reptile, suffocating it in spray while I looked on in glee.
I am at a loss in explaining these quite frankly sick (but mercifully brief)periods of my bygone years but I am relieved to report that they did not shape the man I was to become. These were aberrations in an otherwise normal childhood, a childhood I must add that was filled with a LOVE for nature and animals. At all other times I have acted with nothing but kindness towards other creatures, weeping uncontrollably in some instances over losses at pets and tragic stories.
Its fascinating how many serial killers have began their 'career' doing what I was doing and quite frightening if I allow myself to think how near I was to the same edge. But whilst their rage, hurt, anger, call it whatever, consumed them making them target bigger animals before moving onto humans, my rage was quelled by a streak in my spirit which smothers everything; it is gentle and kind, it is the backbone of my very being. Beyond my rough exterior and savage yells lurks a peaceful imp.
And God love it because without it there would be only steel along with the cold, black eyes of a Great White shark. Also learned men would be proved correct with their tedious theories and never ending waffle and I could never have that.
However a dark heart lurked within my frame. By the time I reached 8 years old I was plucking goldfish out of their tank at home and stabbing them with corn on the cob spiked holders, caught in what I can only describe as a morbid fever. Utterly thrilled by the power I had over the death of another living creature when I was so young, I knew too soon the mechanics of a kill. Newts were also not spared from my madness and I would collect them in tens to put in a giant boiler tank in the garden filled with a black water. Not all would be killed but many were unfortunate enough to be splattered against the wall by use of catapult.
What would possess such a normally mild mannered and timid boy to become such a fiend at times? I was born into a loving family and wanted for nothing. In fact I was a spoilt brat and seldom did anything not go the way I wanted it. I got all the love and attention I needed but always in the back of my mind was death and its grand mystery. The reaper has sat on my shoulder since forever, like a pirates parrot headbutting every idea into a grim scuttle that holds the pitch gem coals of mourning, loss and misery.
I remember well how I would creep downstairs whilst my parents slept and headed to the goldfish tank with sadistic intent. Plunging a hand into the cold water I would grab the slowest fish with a rising, grisly excitement ringing through my spine and place it on a table, getting my pyjamas wet from the poor creatures thrashing. It was this moment during my mania which felt the most potent; the time just before the kill, where I had all power in my young, tender hands. Sometimes the motions of the fish could break the spell which seemed to hold me mesmerised and I would feel pity and put the goldfish back but usually it ended in the other, gorier outcome.
As the intense power buzz reached the summit in my perverse head, I would bring the sharp prongs of the corn cob holder down onto the body of the miserable fish and smile whilst stabbing it repeately. Not frantic stabs; stab one, watch it dying, stab two, watch it dying, stab three, look at it dead.
And after life had been snuffed out I would flush the carcass down the toilet and put my corn holder 'weapons' back into the drawer.
In the morning I would get the obligatory ticking off by my mother but I do not think my parents were that worried about their sons disturbing habits. It only happened twice with the fish so perhaps they thought I disliked those particular fish? And the catapulted newts was a one off. I was not an evil child, I didn't kill every animal I found. Bigger animals such as cats and dogs were never in danger, in fact I was (and still am) an animal lover excluding those instances where I temporarily became manic.
The only other time I experienced one of these dark 'outbursts' was a few years later when I discovered a slow worm under a flat piece of plywood in the garden. I happened to have a nitrogen spray on me (another story) and that same dark mist descened upon my spirit and I was compelled to spray the reptile, suffocating it in spray while I looked on in glee.
I am at a loss in explaining these quite frankly sick (but mercifully brief)periods of my bygone years but I am relieved to report that they did not shape the man I was to become. These were aberrations in an otherwise normal childhood, a childhood I must add that was filled with a LOVE for nature and animals. At all other times I have acted with nothing but kindness towards other creatures, weeping uncontrollably in some instances over losses at pets and tragic stories.
Its fascinating how many serial killers have began their 'career' doing what I was doing and quite frightening if I allow myself to think how near I was to the same edge. But whilst their rage, hurt, anger, call it whatever, consumed them making them target bigger animals before moving onto humans, my rage was quelled by a streak in my spirit which smothers everything; it is gentle and kind, it is the backbone of my very being. Beyond my rough exterior and savage yells lurks a peaceful imp.
And God love it because without it there would be only steel along with the cold, black eyes of a Great White shark. Also learned men would be proved correct with their tedious theories and never ending waffle and I could never have that.
Tuesday 8 June 2010
Bored Cup Twenty/Ten
So one of sportings great festivals is almost upon us. The wonderful football (yeah right) World Cup is due to begin in a few days in South Africa and peoples of the planet should rejoice in glorious raptures and euphoria as this kick about makes everything alright again (double yeah right.)
Am I the only person who is sick to the gills already? Before its even officially started? Football has never been high on my list of interesting sports, in fact I utterly abhor the game to the core but in these last couple of months my loathing has been tweaked up a notch or six. Everywhere I turn that wretched black and white ball makes its presence felt; in newspapers, magazines, on radio and television, even on sweet wrappings and in supermarket aisles! Players from all teams adorn shampoo labels and lager tins with their thug-cropped hair, promising to make you fabulous with whatever you drink or wash with. It is truly nauseous.(And I won't mention decrepid old pundits/players wailing embarrassing songs of support. Cringe.)
Fine if it gives fans a little HWYL as we say here in Wales but to the disinterested the build up has been like trying to swim from a tidal wave in that just as you think you have got away from it you look behind only to see its gotten bigger. I dread to think what it will be like DURING the damned thing, and please God spare us from an England win! The fans are insufferable when only THINKING they can win it, if they do actually pull it off I for one am going to see what my options are as to living in Cambodia.
If it wasn't so hyped up I wouldn't mind, im all for a feelgood vibe and God knows we need it, but this over saturation of what is essentially JUST A GAME is making me very bitter towards the entire thing. Other sports don't blow things up to this ridiculous extent (not even in the US), so why a game played by over paid, vulgar cretins needs to do so is beyond me.
Popular it may be but that does not make it so great as to warrant half the globe bowing before it like man discovering fire for the first time. And it IS going to get worse! The further England go the more the media and every other cashing-in leech will suck the life from it, showering flags, merchendise and bunting everywhere, as if forcing EVERYONE to take part. Of course those who don't will be labelled a miserable killjoy and shunned like a pariah but I don't care a pip.
I would get more thrill replacing my brain with sawdust and rotten cabbage than I ever would sitting through a football match. That ought tell you everything you need to know about my feelings toward this forthcoming world cup snoozefest. You can't really blame shops for trying to cash in but I wish they would remember that not everyone wishes to be part of it. And if anyone has a submarine or space shuttle on offer that I can use for a month or so I would be eternally grateful.
Am I the only person who is sick to the gills already? Before its even officially started? Football has never been high on my list of interesting sports, in fact I utterly abhor the game to the core but in these last couple of months my loathing has been tweaked up a notch or six. Everywhere I turn that wretched black and white ball makes its presence felt; in newspapers, magazines, on radio and television, even on sweet wrappings and in supermarket aisles! Players from all teams adorn shampoo labels and lager tins with their thug-cropped hair, promising to make you fabulous with whatever you drink or wash with. It is truly nauseous.(And I won't mention decrepid old pundits/players wailing embarrassing songs of support. Cringe.)
Fine if it gives fans a little HWYL as we say here in Wales but to the disinterested the build up has been like trying to swim from a tidal wave in that just as you think you have got away from it you look behind only to see its gotten bigger. I dread to think what it will be like DURING the damned thing, and please God spare us from an England win! The fans are insufferable when only THINKING they can win it, if they do actually pull it off I for one am going to see what my options are as to living in Cambodia.
If it wasn't so hyped up I wouldn't mind, im all for a feelgood vibe and God knows we need it, but this over saturation of what is essentially JUST A GAME is making me very bitter towards the entire thing. Other sports don't blow things up to this ridiculous extent (not even in the US), so why a game played by over paid, vulgar cretins needs to do so is beyond me.
Popular it may be but that does not make it so great as to warrant half the globe bowing before it like man discovering fire for the first time. And it IS going to get worse! The further England go the more the media and every other cashing-in leech will suck the life from it, showering flags, merchendise and bunting everywhere, as if forcing EVERYONE to take part. Of course those who don't will be labelled a miserable killjoy and shunned like a pariah but I don't care a pip.
I would get more thrill replacing my brain with sawdust and rotten cabbage than I ever would sitting through a football match. That ought tell you everything you need to know about my feelings toward this forthcoming world cup snoozefest. You can't really blame shops for trying to cash in but I wish they would remember that not everyone wishes to be part of it. And if anyone has a submarine or space shuttle on offer that I can use for a month or so I would be eternally grateful.
Friday 4 June 2010
The Might Mighty
In the beginning a lot of people thought nothing would come of the latest human fever that is 'blogging'. The blog they concluded was nothing more than a fad in which aspiring writers could beaver away, hammering out their ideas and creations while the rest of the world plodded on to more exciting pastures. Sort of like World of Warcraft but with Words replacing Ogres.
But rather than dying off as fads are wont to do, blogs are becoming more popular by the day, and are quickly being recognised as a legimate media. Most newspapers and magazines have blogs connected to them, with the bloggers themselves appearing on radio and news segments. And it is a wonderful thing in my screen-shot eyes because it is fulfilling a prediction I made many years ago regarding this wiry beast the internet; that it would give many many thousands a career which would have been impossible without it. (Including other areas like music.)
Rightly so too, there are too many talented individuals out there who can now reach a deserved slice of recognition whereas in the past they would have been missed. The old routes into the spotlight were often down to luck, or worse privilage. Yes inevitably there is also a tidal wave of shit; teenagers with too much time on their hands boring everyone with suicide and vampires, or budding philanthropists attempting to save the gargoyles but who cares? There's always a SKIP arrow to click out those creepy eyed does.
Personally I believe that blogging (or self publishing on teh interwebz) is a breath of fresh air which can only revive a flagging interest in writing. This planet must have lost thousands of gifted people who have simply quit their literary endevours because they saw it going nowhere. Of course one could argue it wasn't taking off due to lack of talent but come on! Get off your snobbish horse and admit it; there MUST have been SOME emeralds lost amongst the bile!
Im not saying everyone who has a blog or website is a Shakespeare or Coleridge in waiting, but there IS a crop of untapped talent out there and by publishing their work online then at least its being read and not lost forever. It is a grand tool of the future and only a crusty old sap would deny it. There has always been bad and good and so it will contine with blogging communities but at least with the web there is hope to read more of the great.
But rather than dying off as fads are wont to do, blogs are becoming more popular by the day, and are quickly being recognised as a legimate media. Most newspapers and magazines have blogs connected to them, with the bloggers themselves appearing on radio and news segments. And it is a wonderful thing in my screen-shot eyes because it is fulfilling a prediction I made many years ago regarding this wiry beast the internet; that it would give many many thousands a career which would have been impossible without it. (Including other areas like music.)
Rightly so too, there are too many talented individuals out there who can now reach a deserved slice of recognition whereas in the past they would have been missed. The old routes into the spotlight were often down to luck, or worse privilage. Yes inevitably there is also a tidal wave of shit; teenagers with too much time on their hands boring everyone with suicide and vampires, or budding philanthropists attempting to save the gargoyles but who cares? There's always a SKIP arrow to click out those creepy eyed does.
Personally I believe that blogging (or self publishing on teh interwebz) is a breath of fresh air which can only revive a flagging interest in writing. This planet must have lost thousands of gifted people who have simply quit their literary endevours because they saw it going nowhere. Of course one could argue it wasn't taking off due to lack of talent but come on! Get off your snobbish horse and admit it; there MUST have been SOME emeralds lost amongst the bile!
Im not saying everyone who has a blog or website is a Shakespeare or Coleridge in waiting, but there IS a crop of untapped talent out there and by publishing their work online then at least its being read and not lost forever. It is a grand tool of the future and only a crusty old sap would deny it. There has always been bad and good and so it will contine with blogging communities but at least with the web there is hope to read more of the great.
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