Weeping Harp

What waning minutes
Feel like the trespassing of hours
Is it when the daylight is fading
Or when moonlight is passing?

Or is it perhaps
When your touch is fleeting
And your eyes look elsewhere
And my heart still beating; waits
for our next
meeting.

The wails of Senoh but mirror
Poorly at that
The sound of my skin as it calls so sweetly
For another chance with which you'll cheat me
Out of one more kiss
Out of one more sky-ward glance
Out of that desperate last chance to fare well.

lal.

I don't know what to tell you. I'm good? You okay? Hey, where have you been? Did I do something wrong? Oh you shouldn't have! Really, hah! See you soon? Talk to you later! BRB! You frustrate me. You make me smile. You're awesome. Bye. Goodbye.


I love you.

I love you so much, I think I'll tell you a little story.

There once was a Crowned King of a Country
Who carried out Royal and Regal Duties, Regularly.

But as his workload grew more and more in abundance
Stress would stress-in and stress out until the King doth wince

Hitherto, the young King managed to perform every other deed
But it became apparent and evident that he needed a trust Steed.

So the King went to the Royal Stables
And found most fit a steed for his future fables.

The King mounted the horse and commanded its will
Through harsh summer months and the cold winter chill

But once the King's health faltered and he lost grip on the reins
The Steed took over through exploiting the Kings Pains.

The Steed followed itself whilst the King's slumber
The columns of the Palace broken asunder

Aye, steadfast is the battle for dominion between the King and his Horse.
Aye, constant is the struggle between the Mind and the Heart.

Climate Code Green Campaign - the impact of Climate Change on health (am...

Today, I came across something that irked me.
Nay, today I saw something that scared and annoyed me, incredibly

Thank you, de-motivator google!

What I found, personettes and peoplethings, was a cameraman and a 'journalist' of a women conducting a vox pop outside my school gate. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? After all, there are plenty of people pouring in and out of the gates every hour, and trickling in between--so naturally one would conduct a vox pop there, especially for something like Wednesday evening news.
Alas, to my grand, sodding dismay the woman was asking students 'if they drink alcohol.' Students above the legal age for alcohol consumption who live in a culture where drinking is normal and not really frowned upon at all.
Next up, Newsy Newsperson tells us that Water is Wet. More on that, after the break. This is Stupid McStupidface on L-Ahbaliried.
Honestly, asking youths about alcohol? How shallow can we get? Is there *really* nothing more important to talk about? Is this the extent of tele-journalism, brainwashing and spin? Is this really all that the youths should be asked about, do we not have any other questions to be asked?

Regression at its best, media.

To Another

I know a friend called Ben Kaffar
In some years time he'd be driving his Car
To many a festival where he'll play guitar

He'll play his sing-song tunes
To riff-raff beats
And sing his blue-bird lyrics
Many a stage he shall see
A famous man he will be

But oh, Dear Ben, it's been so long
Have you learned right from wrong?
Do people plague you with social etiquette
and cause you to worry and fret?

Don't be down, old bean
For in time, pain won't be seen!
Rejoice and dance with yourself
Put those doubts on the shelf

And set it aflame, ablaze, asunder

Let confidence roar like thunder!

That is it, I am spent
Perhaps in time I shall have some coin
With which to spend on more than rent

**

There is a man, Matthias the Kentzia

The man, the legend, the 'bestja'.

A man made to dare

Chest brazen with many a hair

Of Germanic descent and Maltese blood

Miles above those who live in the mud

Lover of Discipline and Imperium belief

With many a person he holds a beef

Some of these people he knows their face

The rest, one day, their IP he'll trace

They'll rue the day they fragged his ass

They'll wish they had a more respectable class

Thundering down with the raffica, akimbo

He'll leave you in martyrdom's limbo!

To Elaine!

He loves you
it's true
he made this sing-song to tell you the truth
like superman taking you into his booth

hipster fashion and pop culture jokes
it's when it matters that he chokes!

see the tell tale signs of love-stricken eyes
look deep, pray tell, don't be petrified

by his double-beat thumping heart
through his life a map you must chart

through thick and thin stick with him
when the lights are bright or even dim

lest there be darkness to fight within
lest there be troubles and you let them win!

I came to pay a visit; it's my turn to be kind
So open up young lady; let me into your mind

Take me past level one and two
Take me deeper where blue is not blue

Take me past level three and four
Where gravity makes sense no more

Take me past level five and six
Where reality can no longer play its tricks.

When you take me and when I get there
I will, after all this, tell you how much I care

We'll walk over bridges and have lovely talks
In reaches were doubt can no longer stalk

Where Autumn trees are the Summer norm
Where Spring birds in the snow can form

We'll laugh and cry and laugh again
I'll hold you in my arms, my old friend.

Let us dive into the river brown
So we can reach that rustic town

Lull me into that deep deep sleep
Where I count the android sheep

Luck will follow us no better
Than rain can make the sun wetter

It is there, O lady, where we can and will be.

I want critique.

The snow-coated beach asks for nothing. It holds its Summer memories but is ready to embrace the stabbing winds and blanketing waves of snow of a Canadian Winter. It's non-expectant, it's ambitious, it's... dare I say, human. It is constantly engaged with the grey skies that come with the season, in a dialouge more engaging than lover's quarrel.

I've always liked snow-beaches though, they've enchanted me since childhood, longer than I've liked girls I'd say. Yeah, that sounds about right; a good long time ago. There I stood, a figure of blacks and grays, draped with layers of clothing shaped by my pea coat. I remember how I wore that woolen hat to hid my greasy, matted hair, thinking I'd see no one and nothing of significance. Had I seen myself though, I would've felt nothing but pity.

At the edge of the shore, by the lighthouse, was a girl in teals and bright greens, she stood out more than me. I'd learn her name sometime later. Not then though, no, I knew I wasn't meant to then. I drew my name in the sand with a yardstick I found by some rocks, gave a look to the horizon and then to the girl. After that, I left. I walked up the wooden staircase out of the beach and onto the trail, and I walked that trail. Right up to my car, I got in hastily, eager to turn on the heat. After letting the heat reach my fingers and de-misting the windows I drove off to my home. I missed it.

I didn't slack, I has photblag, see?!

The Tale. Pt. I

. THE TALE OF AIDEN DAES; THE GUTSY CHILD


The children galloped and scurried on the turf-covered ground of the playground. They went round on the merry-go-round, slid down the slide, swung on the swings and took delight in candied foods. But the children did not, however, talk to the blond child by the tree. That child was the village's burden, an orphan fed and housed by the makeshift welfare state. All the children would mock him and shun him, because all the adults would tell them to. Aiden didn't know why, nor did he think it mattered. To him, that was their way, and he was fine with it.
But why was their way causing him so much harm? Why would he clutch his chest every time a parent will pull their child away from his sight?
"I never hurt them," he'd say, "but it's their way."


As the children walked home with the sun, Aiden stayed at the playground counting the falling Autumn leaves. One by one he'd count them, going down, down and down. Slowly they'd fall from a great height, but they wouldn't even dent; it amazed and astounded him. He was snapped out of his gaze, for the leaves were hidden by the moonless night.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" He yelped as soon as he realised how late he had stayed out. "How'd I not see the freaking sun set?! It's the sun! Seriously!"
He pushed himself up with his hand and got up and started scrambling to get home, he didn't live far, he thought, but he had to hurry.


By the small pizzeria two corners from his house, was a broken street lamp. He was familiar with the street lamp, for some reason it's been broken for weeks. He'd hate having to walk by it, he'd always get the darkest of feelings in the pit of his stomach. He'd tell himself the street lamp was growing stones in his belly, and that he should stop passing through. It was as he was warning himself of the gut-wrenching feeling that he saw two figures under the street lamp grappling each other--fighting. As he inched closer he saw that the aggressor was a man and the victim the woman. He got closer still and recognised the woman as Ms. Packerton, his school teacher.


Ms. Packerton always took care of Aiden, she made sure he wasn't bullied at school she shared her lunch with him when he couldn't afford any and she always scolded him when he was mischievous. It was when he was remembering all that she had done for him that he felt a fire in his heart and tears on his toes.


Aiden charged, bearing a sky-tearing, God-fearing cry in his lungs; and it exploded out of him like a star out of the sky. He launched himself onto the bewildered man's back and dug his finger into his shoulders and ribs. The man wavered and swore, bashing Aiden into the lamp post. Aiden bit down on the man's neck, but the man did not take this kindly, and retaliated. The boy's back and the red-brick walls met in a heavy thud. Aiden fell to the ground in agony.


The man stood over the boy and kicked him in the stomach, but someone forgotten is someone to be wary of. Ms. Packerton gave her last-ditch effort. She threw a rock, with all her might, directly at the man's lower back. The man growled and turned his gaze to her. He walked towards the Middle school teacher, his steps tick-tocking away at the cement pavement. Slowly and meticulously he took in the victory that was teasing his fingertips.
"You shouldn't have done that, I could do this town a favour by killing that monster and get with a fine piece of ass like you in one night. Now, I might have to kill you just so you don't go yapping your whore mouth off."
He raised his hand and it hung in the air, loosely, before tensing his taut muscles and bringing it down upon Ms. Packerton.


But Ms. Packerton's skin did not break, and her bone did not crack.

Like a winged statue, Aiden held the arm of the man with one hand. His body was tense, but his eyes were relaxed. His resolve was solid and his will was ablaze. The man was confused and angry, and he shouted questions at the young boy who's endured so much.
"Why do you even care about this bitch?! You're risking your life for a person who hates you, like everyone else!"
"Because Ms. Packerton is my friend. And I will protect my friends; because that is my way!"


The man finally saw what a strong soul Aiden has when he looked him in the eye. But it was too late, for Aiden had launched his fist into the man's stomach. The man jarred and fell to the ground, his arms clamping onto his abdomen.


"Aiden..." Ms. Packerton began to utter, "...why didn't you run away?"
"Because," Aiden began, "Love came down, and rescued me."

And that floating consciousness, like a pearly bubble of undisturbed thought, floated in a black ink which shared its eternal space with an indiscernible shade of blue. It was stark, save for that sphere of dreams.


And it burst. From the orb of minds a plethora of colours reached and spun outwards, forming tentacles and networks of colours; like radiant veins in the blackness of infinity. A supernova of consciousness pierced the space of self. The Reds arranged themselves above and around, the Oranges darted below, the Yellows shot and branched out of the ground, the Greens took flight and broke through the sky, the Blues stood over all as obelisks, the Indigos scattered and scurried across the ground and the Violets covered large portions of the ground, moving back and forth in perpetual motion.


I suppose I should fill you in a little, you just picked this up and all you got was a very intimate moment with a dream that was arbitrarily picked from my Dream Logs. I had this dream a long, long time ago. Listen, sometimes in life, it's the first things that make themselves apparent to you which are the most important. You don't realise it at the time, but it always is. The thing is, that we humans are resistant to the idea of foreshadowing outside of films or books. We just always like to think that we want will come true; regardless of previous signs already rejecting this.


Sometimes though, it's the disregard of a sign, but the following of that raw, gut instinct that helps us see through the day. This particular morning, also.
" 'Ello, Benjamin." I heard from behind me. Funny thing, instincts, they're not wrong that often.
"Hey there, Roberts."


Wesley Roberts was one of the most distasteful, disgusting and dishonest men one would ever meet. Sure, his hair is going gray and his skin is getting wrinklier, but his wallet gets fatter and his lackies get bigger. In number and brutish qualities.


"You owe me an eye." he said, bursting at the seems with authority.


"And you owe me a life."


 Do you ever get that feeling of instant regret after opening your mouth for no real reason whatsoever? No? Well, it's kind of like feeling your balls retract all the way up to your oesophagus and build a cottage up there for the winter. I apolgise to all ladies reading this, I don't know what it'd feel like for a woman, but I assume it's just as bad.


"This is industrial London, Benjamin, and most of my money is made off of bricks and mortar, as you know. Every man in this city interested in owning any property, any man with wide-eyed dreams of opening a business in any shape or form, and many other such men, can be bent over by yours truly."


"You're out of luck then aren'tcha? I'm not interested in any 1 square inch of land in this city." Oh, I'm outdoing myself this morning. Wesley Roberts stood there, staring at me through his dark-lensed Ray Bans with contempt, or so I thought, until he sported the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen a man sport.


"Oh, you'd think that, wouldn't ya? You see, every so often I find someone who has something I want. Now, I'd normally just go about the usual methods to get what I want from such a man, but sometimes I make us of other methods. They're a little rough around the edges, but I think that makes them especially efficient."


Oh... shit.

The Natural yet Somewhat Less-Useful Internet.

I have not posted in a while. I call that dedication. Oh yes.

In case you haven't noticed, NEW LAYOUT, if you already noticed, awesome now get with the others and celebrate the new layout. Free chicken wings for all.

So a while ago I was thinking, and I had a thought. A thought that I found to be quite deep.

What did I do?

I did what any pseudo-intellectual would--post it on my facebook.

You can hug the whole freakin' world. That's awesome, hug the word and everyone on it. You can look at the moon and think 'wow, there are other people avoiding coursework just to look at the moon; like I am!'

Just last night I was looking at and pondering about said moon. Then my friend, who's studying for her A levels just sends me a text, telling me how beautiful the moon is. Now there's only two explanations for this.

1. I told her I was going to look at the moon.
2. She saw my reflection in the moon (and thus has ocular powers I should ask her about)

So, that's all for now, I got a bigger post to bring so GET READY.

Or don't, I know I wouldn't hold my breath or anything. You can't wait for dedication

/procrastination

Barefoot for a day

Barefoot for a day



Hell yeah.

The Teatime String Theory.

I'm probably one of the only people who thinks that (and I await a facebook group to defy me)somewhere, some day a future me will confront me thanks to time travel (and my characteristic and diligent following of rules)and it will be comforting to know that time travel was made possible and that my future is probably pretty cool.

I shouldn't think too much though, for my head will hurt with all the pondering and whatnot. Besides, then I'd have 0.02 less material in my current book, 'The Quantum Travelling of Time, Space and Being with a side of Chips'.

It's a working title.

But yeah, today I was on the bus and there was this guy who looked a bit like an older, socially awkward me (I guess having access to the Internet with cybernetic eyes would make one less inclined to venture outside, then again, why would a shut-in civilian of the Internet decide to venture outside of his own dimensi- DAMN IT I'M OVER-THINKING AND WASTING GOOD MATERIAL). Right, where was I? Ah, yes, future me. No, he was pretty cool overall, gave up his seat for old people (the seat next to mine) as soon as I was about to get up. He also walked right up to the Junior college ATM alongside me. And I swear he gave me a few, discreet glances which screamed 'Oh yeah that's me, man I was so cool. I want to talk to him but that could be dangerous HMM OH DANG'.
Not only that, but he didn't actually use the ATM, he just waited in line. Clearly a man from the future won't have a current savings account he'd need to withdraw from.

That's not over-thinking, that's rationalisation!

I really felt like blogging before vlogging (I love how the v and b are right next to each other on the QWERTY keyboard, totally not atrocious to type offhand/blindfolded.)

I think I've used enough brackets for the day. So, to you, I bid an adieu. <3

(Have you noticed I started watching The Big Bang Theory?)

Lettered Adieu.

But if I had to walk away again, would you ever forgive me? If I had to leave before the moon, even if it's sometime soon would you smile the very next day like I had never gone away?

As I sit here on the clay-tiled roof of our home, I see the moon shine over Rome. I can hardly hear a bird; let alone a spoken word. I can't even see a cat stalk, let alone encounter someone on my walk.

I saw the many homes and shops of Rome, all seemingly bowing to the growing stature of the Vatican, which was partly covered by scaffolding and the like, for the Pope commissioned artists and architects to work on a new addition to the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel. Whatever for a Church of love in life needs such lavish constructions for is beyond me, and seeing all the construction and hearing all the eager comments of the citizens became stones in my heart. But these daily annoyances are pebbles that could fit in a child's hand compared to the boulder which I've been trying to ignore.

My dear Emilia, she's so precious to me, such that she is a necessity. I've never held such a love for someone I didn't want to bed. It is inexplicable, I see something in her that just seems to make me want to protect her, cherish her and guide her in life. Ever since I met her 7 years ago in the snowy Alps. She was so weak and hungry but still there was something in her eyes, something beautiful. It's not a word I like to use, but I do not think that anything else is as apt as that word for what I see when I look into her eyes. I can talk about how she holds ten-thousand stars in each one, or about how her gaze gives some of its own magnificent to light to whatever she casts it upon--but it does not suffice. I just had to protect that.

I had left her once before, 3 years ago. It was because I was scared that I took up too much of her life, that she wasn't living her own life because of me, and every day after that I used to look at the night sky and think about all the stars I'd see in her eyes, even now I think that the only reason there are this many stars at night is because they leave her sleeping eyes and settle for sky's infinity until morning arrives once more.

When I found her again a year ago she was selling pendants she made herself by the fountain in that yellow ocher dress I had bought her in Florence. The pendants would only be worn by peasants but they had a certain charm to them, something I feel that no one else would appreciate. When she had seen me standing so close to her she nearly fell into shock and started crying. She cried a million tears, and pounded my chest a million times. All I could do was hold her while she told me about those two long years we spent apart. She asked me to not leave her again.

What a promise I have to break, and you shan't know why, for if you did I know you'd follow me and that's something I know I cannot want. I'm a man of foolish tendencies and even more foolish habits, and it's because of those habits that I must bid her a farewell, at least for now.

The Outside World Doesn't Belong In Your Bed.

The Outside world doesn't belong in your Bed

If you let it in it will take your stead

The smell and touch of your day

Will never ever go away.

If you don't cleanse yourself

You'll end up off your bed and on the shelf.

So take some time to shower

No more than half an hour

Before you dream the night's dreams

Before the sun bares its beams.

Evidently, I have to do this, well tralila and a sheep's hammock; here I go! On my way making the list. (I'm trying to evade formatting issues >_>)

The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.
1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicise those you intend to read
3) Underline the books you LOVE.
4) Reprint this list in your own blog/fb note so we can try and track down these people who've read 6 and force books upon them

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. The Lord of The Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter Series - JK Rowling
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible

7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare *not complete yet*
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19. The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis (haven't read them all)
34. Emma - Jane Austen
35. Persuasion - Jane Austen
36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - C.S. Lewis
37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving
45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52. Dune - Frank Herbert
53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac *I know I'll love it though*
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones' Diary - Helen Fielding
69. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte's Web - EB White
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute

97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

So, in total...

Read: 23

Intend to read: 21

Love: 9

A Story.

Have I ever told you the story of the viper and the rooster? No? Well set yourself down.

Once, on a farm between nowhere and anywhere, there was a rooster. This rooster was a standalone kinda bird. He'd perch himself on different posts along the fence and watch as the other animals busy themselves and work about their daily lives on the farm. I'm not saying he was a loner, but he would never stick his wing in another chick's (or hen's) beak. He'd shout out 'Good morning' to everyone as loud as he could, every morning; for it was his nature.

Then, on a star speckled night when the Rooster visited the river, he encountered a viper. The viper greeted the Rooster--but the rooster was wary, for he knew of the viper's venom. The rooster told the viper to keep her fangs away, but the viper assured the rooster that her fangs were dull and wouldn't be able to pierce a leaf. So the Rooster relaxed and he didn't retreat. He enjoyed the Viper's company, they were suited to match. But time didn't slow its march, and as the sun crept off, the Rooster had to make his way back to the farm.

"Will I see you again?" Asked the Rooster.

"Definitely," retorted the Viper, "but first I'll make sure you get home safe and sound." And so they slithered and trotted; all the way back to the wooden fence of the farm, opposite the chicken coop. The Chickens saw the Viper, and they were scared.

The next morning, before the sun rose, the Rooster walked away from the farm, towards the river once again. He hoped to find the Viper, but she was not there. The Rooster's orange eyes wept and wept, his tears being carried off by the uncaring river. The Rooster waited and waited, but he was disappointed, and heard not the voice of the Viper. He went back to the farm, his feathers dragging behind. Upon his arrival, the Chickens glared.

The next morning, before the sun rose, the Rooster walked away from the farm, towards the river once again. This time he ran with anticipation, and she was there.

"Why did you not come again the day before?" Asked the Rooster, seeking relief and sound thoughts once again.

"I had not the chance." the Viper replied.

But while the Rooster was happy with the Viper, he was often caught staring at the uncaring river, with a look too morose to bear.

"Why are you sad?" asked the Viper.

"Because the day will end, and I know not about time." replied the Rooster.

The Viper contemplated, and then she spoke, "Then here, let us drink, as a promise to the walking sun."

The Viper and the Rooster drank from the uncaring river, but the venom from the Viper's glands was carried down to the beak of the Rooster, and the Rooster coughed, splattering blood. The Viper was shocked and still with fear.

"How'd I get poisoned if your fangs are dull?" asked the Rooster, his speech slurred.

"The venom leaked out from my glands!" cried the Viper.

But the Rooster made no reply.

The Viper cried and cried, so hard and for so long that the venom was cried through her eyes 'till there was no more venom to be taken by the uncaring river, 'till the viper turned white. As the walking sun made 400 journeys, the Viper shrunk as leaves shriveled, the Viper grew frail as ice thickened, the Viper grew wings as flowers bloomed and the Viper took flight as the sun shined. One never steps in the same river twice, and the Butterfly never became the Viper again.

Draft from the mind.

Blogging again and again and again. Oh sweet tap-dancing omelet chefs. Since I seem to be in a bit of a trough today I'll blog. Why? Because I write better when I'm in a bad mood. Go figure.

So, last Saturday at Y4J a thought brewed in my head. It was continuous and random and had very little to do with the actual mass there. Oops. Well, I think it was productive nonetheless.

The most common argument against the idea of a 'caring and loving God' is: "How can you say there is a loving and caring God when there is so much suffering in the world?" I can go and answer this in two ways. I can use a theological approach, or I can bring forth a simple observation, one that is objective, rather than subjective.

According to Theology and Doctrine

OK, this'll be quick. The main idea is that God has given us free will, in order to be able to choose between right and wrong, to choose to follow him and so on and so forth. This is based on the argument that love has to be made out of choice and be true to our beliefs and ourselves. Thus if God were to just make everyone good and rid the world of all wrongdoers it's more of a forced coercion rather than free love. Another thing, some people say 'why would God put the 'snake' in the garden of Eden?' Well, the short answer is that he didn't, but the snake is the Devil, an angel, and thus a free spirit, that chose to rebel and oppose God. But all this doesn't lead to the point I'm trying to make.

The stuff I really want to talk about

Yes, the world is full of horrible things like war, famine, death, strife, tragedies, fallacies, crime, abuse, misuse, exploitation, devastation and many other scary words. True, but then you must think a little. Is the world all bad, or is all you see bad? Well, that's a rhetorical question, but the correct answer is that yes, while everything in front of your eyes may be bad, it in no way means that the world is bad.

Just as there are natures of despair, misfortune and cruelty in the world there are natures of hope, blessings and benevolence. I can humbly vouch for the authenticity of that statement. So if you don't see these wonderful aspects of life, you really only have yourself to blame. For I promise you, if you seek you will find.

But, for the sake of the argument, let's say that you've looked for more pleasant aspects of life in this existence but you still cannot find them. Well, if I were to overlook a very possible attitude problem I'd suggest you would, in the words of Ghandi; "Be the change you want to see in the world." In other words, if you don't see good-natured things in the world then you should try and be the source of such good-natured things. But, in all probability, you can't find the nicer side in life and you're not trying to make the world better; in which case you really only have yourself to blame. So before you start playing the blame game it would be best if we discuss the whole 'trying to make the world better' part.

Gonna make the world a happier place to be!

You might discourage yourself, in all probability, by saying any act of yours that attempts to bring a better, more positive colour to the world is dwarfed by the lethargic, apathetic and close-mindedness of your society; but I tell you, if you take up reckless abandon and freely attempt this you will in all probability touch someone's heart. You won't expect it, and all your plans could go to hell in a hand-basket but someone will be inspired by your act of good will. And you'll also need to adjust your attitude a little, you'll need to be able to expect failure and be able to appreciate the little things in life, the little triumphs and glimmers, of hope, peace and love. For it's in the little things that you can accomplish the greatest deeds.

Alas, you still probably would not see this act as something feasible. You'll argue that you'll be mocked and that "it's not your thing." Well, screw that. If that's the case then you've got three things holding you back.

Fear, fear that you'll get in trouble, or fear that you'll be vulnerable, or fear that you'll waste resources. Any fear that is impairing you.

Ego; very strongly-linked to fear. You fear for your ego, for your 'self'. You want to protect that image of your 'self', you want to feed your ego by doing what you do best and sticking in your comfort zone. That comfort zone you're so verily addicted to.

Addiction; you can't break out of the mold. You're trapped and stuck inside a comfort zone that gives you a social approval. Showing that you're addicted to the social standard and general approval of others.

The only way you'll ever come close to doing something charismatic to deliver more benevolence and hope in the world is to overcome those three 'demons'. You have to be nonchalant and care not of your image, you have to be ready to sacrifice time and materialistic things. You have to be ready to risk your reputation. For fear, ego and addiction are the dead weights to your wings. Only after unshackling yourself from fear, ego and addiction will you be able to act freely out of love.

Alright, so you've started to see the nice things in life and appreciate the little things in life too, you decided you want to be a source of Joy to others and you are also freeing yourself from the three weights Fear, Ego and Addiction. Alas, even after all this, you still can't take those steps forwards, even though you want to. You find yourself unmotivated and lacking spirit. Well, if you're a Christian (which is what most of my reader's are), you'd probably do what I'd do. That is, pray for God to give you motivation and strength. To fill you up with inspiration till you are, not full, but overflowing, and you will never never feel empty. I mean, how does a cup that drinks from the ocean feel thirsty? How does a cloud that is driven by the wind feel stagnant? Hopefully those metaphors better illustrate my point.

To summarise, if you think there is no joy, look for it. If you do not find joy, be it. If you're scared to bring joy, humble yourself. If you're lacking strength, ask for it.

A handy website that always lifts my spirit is www.givesmehope.com. The only site and media that makes me cry on a regular basis. Oh yeah. I cry.

Art and stuff and yeah!

To think that I'm finally 16. I hit the legal drinki- Oh no wait I haven't because 16-year-olds drinking is one of the top crises in our country. Dod freakin' gamn it. Americans my age are already the drivers of large, heavy, metal deathmobiles that they use to pick up other drivers of large, heavy, metal deathmobiles and here I am unable to purchase a beer.

Mind you, they can't drink until they're twenty-one. Ha-has to America, yes indeedy.

Hear that?

No? Well, that sound is the sound of SHALLOW VICTORY, and it sounds like an aluminium bell. ;_;

OK, honestly I don't care that much but I needed a bit of comic pessimism to start the blog, that's how the cookie breaks/bakes/crumbles/explodes. All in all, my birthday (and the day preceding it) kicked the ass out of a donkey farm. But that's not what you want to hear about, is it? No no, you want to hear about the HOT SEXY ASS CAMERA I GOT OH YEAH.

Well, you won't. Instead you get an artsy fartsy update! That's right, artsy fartsy.

It's true!

<3

Delicious :3

NOW, THE OCTOPUS AND THE HUMMING BIRD

Click to enlarge

Pastures of the Wind.

The sounds of the man-made machines that impersonated giant dragonflies beats down and around the nearby valleys and mountains, clouds bowing to their flight, the sun chanting for their travels. With pride, distinction and indifference they pass over the little villages that reside in the flatlands adjacent to the stone giants that reached for the sky. The villagers barely glanced at the helicopters, still tiding away at crops and fruits, grinding wheat and tending to their daily lives. Dedicated and spirited, these lower-class men of China seem to be born of a different Era, one which had a near-poetic way of living. So much more respectable than the modern people of our age that get caught up in superficial ideals and artificial pleasures.

Swallows flew around the papered wings of the windmill and leaves glided together in circles, dancing on the ground. Mice as dirty as the ground were traversing around in search for nutrition; until he arrived. The man was a little scruffy, his vermillion coat hung loosely off his arms and shoulders, tattered and flowing by his pant pockets, the sleeves creeping just below the elbow. His gray pants run past the knee and in his hand is a lacquered cane of sorts that matches the shade of his coat, using it to walk. Then, he came to a halt and opened the unshaven mouth, framed by locks of white hair, and spoke.

"S'gonna get good, real soon."

School Essays

Jamie Iain Genovese Group 1.1 0560893M

When I woke up, everyone had gone and I was left completely alone. My flatmates, Phil, Alice and their associates seemed to have left like smoke from a cigarette or birds from a tree. They were all there just before I slept this afternoon. I then opened my bedroom window and the fresh gusts of air from the night sky waltzed into the confinements of my room. The sky was spotted with silver granules which winked and shimmered. It didn’t mean anything to me though; for the sky wasn’t real anyway. What was real was the note that Phil left me.

That was three nights ago, it is now the eighteenth hour of the thirtieth day of the eleventh month, and Phil and Alice still weren’t back. My name’s Alex Carol. Some privileged people know me by my pseudonym; Epilinge. I moved to Tokyo with Phil and Alice since we’re on the same journey, the journey to garner experiences, ask questions and hope for answers. We live separated lives mostly, seeing each other a bit every day at home and meeting up every few days at a park or a playground to recapitulate and not lose relations with each other, lest we ever need the company, aid or solace of one another.
I stared at my room, and it stared back. It was simplistic, the walls white and the furniture a deep mahogany brown or black. I picked up my coat, long and red and wore it. I donned my top hat, tall and black. I put on my vizard, smooth, unshaped and ceramic it engulfed my face in its white sheen. The only interruption on the white surface was a pixelated, smiling face in its barest form conceivable.
I opened the window to the outside world, and stepped out onto the fire escape, the night air invigorated me; I ran up the fire escape with the three tails of my coat trailing behind me, accentuating my gallop. Once I reached the top landing, I made my footing on a windowsill and hauled myself over to the top of the roof. Suddenly I saw beneath me the pulsing life of the Asian city, and I grabbed with my glove-clad hand the sturdy pole on the wall’s edge and swung myself around it, arms stretched; taking in the utmost of the night air. Phil instructed that I must take off to the southern district, find ‘The Lucky Bar’. So I made my way through alleyways and rooftop conduits to the southern area of Tokyo in pursuit of the Bar. I planted my feet onto the grimy concrete floor of an alleyway opposite the bar; hands in my pocket while I stood by a tree on the pavement to wait, and to whittle away the time I counted the stars; even if they weren’t real. Then, along the otherwise empty road was a dog, which walked with a spring in its step towards me. In preparation I crouched and welcomed the dog, rubbing its face and scratching behind his ears.
“How are you, Alice?” I asked, my fingers becoming slower in movement around her head.
“I’m good, Alex, thanks for asking,” Alice quickly looked at the bar and back at me again, “Phil’s still inside, you should go talk to him, it’s important.”
I rose and turned from Alice, taking myself to The Lucky Bar, and when I arrived I pushed open the doors with the back of my hand and entered. The bar was empty, with the exception of the bartender and Phil.
I sat myself on the stool beside Phil, “What do you want, Phil?” I asked impatiently.
“Alex…” Phil hesitated, and with an uncharacteristic anxiety he drank some more whiskey, the amber liquid swirling into his mouth and down his gullet, then he smacked his lips and began to speak, “… what if I told you we could make the sky real again?”

***

Jamie Iain Genovese Group 1.1 0560893M

When I woke up, everyone had gone and I was left completely alone. My world was seized by the ankles and devastated. In one foul swoop everyone in my family was stolen from me by a man called Death. My eyes gazed apathetically at the white-washed ceiling of my room. Then I rolled to my side, facing the side of the bed were my wife, Clementine, used to slumber, where her head used to dream and her body would rest.
My hair’s red and my name Irish. I live in Brooklyn, now by myself. My wife and daughter were taken by a drunk driver on their way back home from Clementine’s sister’s house, which was on the other side of town. It’s been two years since the incident, and to this day not once do I wake up with eyes that aren’t wet and red with tears.
I sat up and got up, and went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and washed my face; the bathroom where my wife and I would get ready to embrace the day or take solace in the night’s rest. The walls patterned with hand-painted tiles she chose and the tiles of the floor were now grimy and unwashed. The whole bathroom was dirty, bar the patches where water reached.
I left the bedroom and walked down the hall, opening the door on my left, the room where my daughter, Susie, played with her plush toys. I saw her candy-coloured room and plush toys, all instruments of colour and joy, but these instruments were guitars with no strings, pianos with no keys, flutes with no air and drums eternally ruptured.
My hand gripped the doorframe tightly, and I looked longingly with a burning pain in my chest. I pulled the door behind me and it clicked with a melancholic click. I heavily made my way down the dusty stairs, my hand sweeping off a thin layer of dust and grim from the banister. I looked around me and saw the living room in which we used to spend nights together watching films and eating buttered popcorn on Thursdays. Or the nights we spent with Suzie helping her with her homework.
I walked on, over to the kitchen which used to smell of bacon and eggs every morning, and meat and potatoes in the evening. I opened a cupboard and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of single malt Whiskey. I sat at the counter and poured the sorrowful liquor into the coupled glasses. I drank from mine and remembered when we unintentionally bought these glasses and made an inside joke out of it. There were, originally four, but two out of the set broke, so on the remaining two we painted “His” on one and “Hers” on the other. It was a happy memory, one of the few I had left. I then drank from hers and looked at the drapes, which let in such a faint and dead light. I then remembered how we had bickered over the design, I remembered all our little spats, even the tiniest of disagreements and I regretted it all. I drowned it out with more liquor.



These are both incredibly short, and they are so because they're schoolworks.

They say you should never go into writing a blog post without something that resembles a plan in your head.

Up yours, they. I'm breaking ALL the rules *dons John Lennon shades upon self*

Well, apparently printing the Internet is quite a feat. Well, here's writing the blog to add to that ass-staggering amount.

I wonder how they'd print out the porn. Flip-books? HTML? OR, perhaps, with that new fangled, moving-image screens they plan on putting in Magazines. Oh baby.

So updates about my life, why? You're bored, I'm going to entertain you. Don't question me. It's not wise to question me. Well, it's wiser to question me politely.

Starting school soon, grandad died (I love and miss him, so much.), I've made new friends (lots of them) and am aiming to heighten my writing skills. Huzzah.

I need to buy lots of things to update myself for winter and whatnot. Oh baby.

On a small quest to be more of myself around people, and make better first impressions. I do love the first impressions.

I've been playing this MMORPG a lot, Perfect world. Really getting my fix of RPG games. Wahey. But I still desire to learn how to play the Ukulele, and that is a thirst that is still unsatisfied and dry.

Oh! I got my own room now, that's pretty awesome, no?

Okay okay, here it is, the long and maybe deep debacle that is the product of my reflection and impromptu writing. So, with no further adieu...

So in this transition between Summer and Autumn, from heat to cold, from blue to gray, from sun to rain, I've seen another transition. Joyous to gloomy. As much as we love the trinkets of Winter, such as layers of clothing (zoodies and hoodies ftw baby), warm mugs of Hot Cocoa, Tea and Coffee, nice, healthy suppers, the smell of rain in the morning and so on and so forth, we will still, subconsciously at least, hold the aesthetically pleasing brightness of Summer close to our hearts. We can't help it, it's part of being human.

Something else evolution should kill off.

So, this leaves us all with a society of people conglomerating in crabby moods, who long for the proper arrival of Winter. And to be frank, it puts quite the damper on the happy springs in my heart.

But there is a way to counter all this. We as humans should properly tune ourselves to the change in climate. We expect the weather to leave us unaffected, while we carry on with our little things in life; our appointments and social gatherings, or chores and errands and so on and so forth. But by ignoring the weather, we get this uneasy feeling underneath. That feeling, my dears, is the feeling of the climate-carpet being pulled from under your feet. (side note: dear GOD that climate-carpet phrase comes off as corny. Damn, what's next? Quiet-quilt? Weather-walk?)

The Weather-walk (double-damn!)

I suggest, to those that like physical exertion, to walk at different wakes of the day. To really take some time of isolation and peace to feel the weather, to walk in nature and literally take up all the senses. The cold, the humidity, the lower levels of light - all of it. Like this, you're starting to really set yourself up for Winter, and you'll start to get ready for it. Sounds like a crock, given, but I can't say it won't help. This alone time is always good to clear your head.

And if you're more of the artsy type, then be a creative person, go out and take photos, go on your roof and paint, walk in the park and sketch trees and people, improvise and play your instrument, do what may feel right.

In other news, there's hope for rap! A new local artist, No Bling Show, seems to be group that uses the Maltese Language on a proffessional level, while tackling some of the darker issues of society. Their new video: Lucija u Samwel.

University Websites are the Schizophrenic Children of the Internet.

Okay. People go through ordeals and, from those ordeals, we get experience. Experience in dealing with certain types of people, with handling tools or vehicles; in short, any activity in life that you can shake a stick at, and stick-shaking itself. And, I'm going to divulge what I've learned on my journey for Higher Education in the future, in other words, sifting through the steaming excrement of University websites.

And I'm going to be a bit frank here, I didn't quite like it as much as I wanted to.

I have, as a matter of fact, handled and interacted with websites created by pre-pubescent boys that had a better sense of 'intuitive design' than the overpaid crockpots that make University websites. Yes, it's easier to navigate a site about ninja, game systems and Naruto fanfiction than it is to see the basic information for a University-level course.

In general, when you design the front page of the Website, you should design it in such a way that you have all the possible needs of the visitor in front of him, behind a small, legible and aesthetically pleasing selection of links which concisely tell you what you'll find yourself reading when you treat said link with a humble click of the mouse. In most cases, I believe, a user would enjoy looking at a website to see the faculties, centers and institutes of said University presented, in and orderly fashion, in front of him, and thus allowing him to simply choose the course which he so rightfully desires to take. And once you click the title of that course, he should expect and receive the information for that course. So, basic information (like, say, possible course duration depending on whether you're part-time or full-time, the basic requirements, the outline of the course and even, if needed, the courses it opens doors to.) should be easily accessible from the very beginning, making good use of hyperlinks to cross reference to other material, related to what you're looking at, that sleeps dormant in the alleys and avenues of the website.

I'm not saying that the sites didn't have all the information. Far from it. I'm just saying that it was cluster-fucked between paragraphs of by-laws, information on other courses, hyperlinks that never quite made it and then having said information blown up and spread across the four corners of the pathetic excuse of a website.

What's more is the lack of standards in anything and everything, ESPECIALLY in information. Once, on the same University site I learned that a course in journalism could be completed in a year at full-time, two years part-time. Imagine my surprise when ten minutes later I see ANOTHER page on the site and it says it takes four years to complete.

Am I supposed to flip a coin here? I'm not Batman, and the web-designer isn't the riddler, so I fail to comprehend the reason as to why such basic information fluctuates more than the temperature of a woman's utilities during menopause.

Another puzzler I ran into was when I found that the CCT (center of communication technology) offered two diploma level courses, one in Journalism. "That's not a shocker though Mr. Shpow!" Well, no, but finding out they later pulled the ol' switcharoo on me did. Later they seemed to change 'Diploma in Journalism' to, what was it? Ah yes, 'diploma in archiving and data management'. Not much of an expert here, but I gotta say, that doesn't quite translate into journalism, does it? And they do this with other courses too, shuffling names like a card-dealer in Vegas.

And please, if you insist on writing references to by-laws on a website arbritrarily, the very least you could do is, oh I don't know, throw a LINK to the said law. It's not that hard, you do it like this. Not quite rocket science, and I'll even show you the code used to make that handy, clickable reference:

"<a href="http://www.blogger.com/">this</a>".

And you know what the funny thing is? It took considerable more work to make that bit of code visible to you guys in comparison to making the hyperlink. And I know as much as the next guy about HTML, and the next guy is Edgar. He's kinda illiterate and thought that HTML was an abbreviation of his next favourite burger at McDonald's. But I'm sure he'd do a great job nonetheless. Why? Because Edgar isn't a sadist.

And then we ask why people such as this student (fig 1.1) shoot up University Campuses.

Fig 1.1: Disgruntled student

"I WASN'T SURE WHAT COURSE I HAD APPLIED FOR. ALL YEAR! MOTHERF#%!ERS!"