Danny McBride (With apologies to the actor; his name has a certain alliterative ring that is irresistible)

Nothing spooked Danny McBride. Danny would ride with impunity down the highway, weaving in and out of cars and trucks and buses. Danny loved the rush of wind when he passed a vehicle, bursting through to the other side.

Danny was born with the name Danny, not Daniel. He was often annoyed when - in formal situations - authoritarians would address him as Daniel. Danny often found himself in formal situations, and had taken to preemptively correcting those who took his details.

When Danny was 22 he applied to join the army reserves. The army recruitment lady got his details wrong and enrolled “Daniel McBride”.

When the war came and Danny was pressed into service, he feigned ignorance of his enrollment based on this aberration. This resulted in much consternation by the Sergeant, who called Danny “lily-livered”.

Danny sued for defamation but the case was thrown out. He had chosen to represent himself and did not have any witnesses. Also, it is not against the law to call someone “lily-livered”.

People called Danny a coward and his story was told by the fourth estate. But Danny didn't mind and he didn't have to go and fight.

When the war was over and the changes came, Danny bought a motorbike. He like to drive along the highway with impunity, weaving in and out of traffic.

The Mad Hatter (with apologies to Carroll) Part 1

Hatter was Twenty Four. He had suffered Two breakdowns in his life.

When he was Fourteen, Hatter was hit by a car.

It impacted him greatly.

In the hospital with Two broken legs, his mother bemoaned:

"Oh Hatter! Your legs are broken and you are battered and bruised!"

The doctor told his mother that Hatter's physical injuries were serious, but the true trauma was mental.

"At the current juncture young Hatter appears mentally fit. However, his brain suffered from bruising and swelling and it is unknown how this will manifest in the future."

Hereafter Hatter was dubbed "mad" by his acquaintances.

Mediocrity & Genghis

There is something to be said of mediocrity. Mediocrity allows respite from expectation. It allows you to maintain shelter from the masses.
But mediocrity is not something that people want. Noone, as a child, proclaims:

"I hope I am mediocre."

Noone lusts after a mediocre man. Those that (ostensibly) do are either out of options and desperate for companionship, or mediocre themselves.
Why is this the case? Why do we, as a species, despise mediocrity? Perhaps evolution is to blame. The gradual honing of our species towards greatness. And the curious phenomenon of the leaders of our society, the truly great, taking countless wives and fathering endless offspring. The gradual, systematic, genetic eradication of the mediocre.

Perhaps Genghis Khan is to blame. I read somewhere that 1/2 of Europe can trace their lineage to Genghis (I have no evidence for this claim). And there is no doubt that Genghis was anything but mediocre. His influence was spectacular.

Perhaps prior to Genghis mediocrity was far more accepted, even celebrated. There is something noble about the man who is content with his lot in life, who accepts that the Earth holds finite resources and every dollar more he controls is a dollar less for someone else. I admire that man, for I do not think I could be him.

The Point of this Blog

Right now I am writing my first novel, it is called the Bang. It is about a man who is haunted by a loud banging noise at set increments, and his quest to deduce the cause. I enjoy writing it and have high hopes for it.

The trouble is, I work full time and the only time I really get a chance to write is on my lunch break, with a coffee and cigarette; or occasionally after work.
Suffice to say I do not write an awful lot during the week.
I have recently been working on my novel whilst at lunch but I often find it hard to get the prose 'right' in such a short amount of time. I write a little, go back to work, and when I review what I have written that day I find most of it unusable.
I suspect this is because writing is heavily predicated on mood, and whatever has been going on at work on any one day will dictate the tone of my writing.

But I enjoy writing on my lunch break, I find it helps level me. With that in mind, I have decided a different approach is necessary. I will write whatever I like on my lunch breaks - short stories, snippets of longer stories, musings etc., and work on my novel on weekends or whenever I get the chance.

I have re-purposed this blog (which had been dead for a while) as a platform for whatever I write during the  day, in the hope that someone will read it (and comment). I crave feedback as writing is lonely.

I may also include excerpts of the Bang, if I find any part of it to have particular merit.

I plan to update this blog daily, five days a week. Obviously this will most likely not happen with such stringent regularity, but I will try.

On Selfish II

Selfishness is a state of existence; as much has already been established. Upon being born we are immediately one of the lucky few who manage to see the light. But upon birth we do not recognise these gifts. Indeed, we scorn them - crying and tantrums are the first emotions we know. We do not have the faculty, nor the capacity, to empathise at such a young age. We think only of ourselves and what others actions will mean for ourselves. There is a tragic beauty to this, horrific isolation, terrific localisation. And then we are embroiled in the lie of charity, of empathy. We are told to look to the kind chaplain, devoting his life to the cloth. To the entrepreneurial businessman, creating jobs and growth. And the passionate politician, defending the public good. And it is disturbing how easily such notions take root. Those of us blessed with an education are rapidly introduced to the merit of capitalism, the great provider. The juggernaut that grows humanity, helping those that help themselves. The notion of capitalism is that we who eschew any part in the horrid business are effectively branded useless. Look to the musician who refuses to sell out - however misguided, their stubbornness to refuse selfish gain is truly admirable. Yet they have no place in the capitalist world. They who refuse to be measured by income are not important to the capitalist world. They are nothing, they are worse than nothing - for the capitalist world offered them a role, said "yes! you can be a high income earner!" "yes! you can rule over devoted minions, who only exist to serve!" The Capitalist world - that world of sharks and suits and collars and ties, of weasel words and spin, of overstuffed ego's and boldfaced lies, it is a world that is built on the back of the hard workers. Of the blue collar. And more and more so, it is not the blue collar who lives near the local pub on the corner that is being oppressed. It is the blue collar in some fucked up country that has no choice but to live menially. That will never get a chance, and if they did would grab it extremely hard. And it is this generation of suffragettes, trodden on in the relentless march for profit, it is these victims that will be the next wave of capitalist pigs. We white Australians, educated and plump, have no nous greater than 4 billion disenfranchised. Nor should we. We White Australians, insufferable whinges, are the final wave of white enslavement. We are the last generation of tyrants, oppressing billions. For nothing is more inevitable than the fall of Western captialism. And nothing in history will be remembered as more just a fall. For the better part of 500 years the White world has inhibited the world. By constructing barricades of tariffs, walls of legislature; we are safe from the nasty world. We routinely lock people up who are fleeing oppression. And we use economic arguments to justify. It is incredibly straight forward, yet the eyes of the nation are not clear. They are clouded by spin and selfish concern. And we call this democratic. Well if this is a democracy, a capitalist market, if this heinous excuse of a civilisation ascribes to such philosophy, then it is only the most morally void individual who could possibly defend it.

Abby

A flower amongst the grass, Abby was her name.
She was a sunflower and as bipolar as they come; when Abby felt the suns rays she was happy and in his absence she was sad.
When Abby felt the suns rays on her petals she would smile.
And as she turned her head the world around her was a better place.
Abby's smile was beautiful and it lit up the field. She would fixate on the Sun, opening her pores wide and drinking him in.

The Sun, a million miles away, was ever burning.
Oblivious to his influence, to the beauty he propagated, the Sun was sad.
He was all alone, burning.
He saw the planets near but they never came too close, all they did was dance around him.

Abby was on the third planet, Earth, and she loved the Sun with all her heart.
And she hated when the Sun was hidden, by clouds often, but also at night. And she resented the Sun for this.

Abby's favorite time was when the wind changed and blew hot and dry. She could only just remember that time, forever ago, when the Sun would burn strong all day every day.
It was when she was young.
But gradually, day by day, the sun burned softer, and the wind blew colder, and the clouds took over, and the Sun hid behind the Earth for long cold nights, and Abby was sad and did not smile.

Abby sometimes thought she was wrong and had exaggerated that happy time ages ago in her mind.

She was sad lots and struggled to get through each day, and she hated the long and lonely nights, so cold.

Abby felt older and she knew her petals were not as radiant as they once were.
But she didn't really care because it didn't matter, who needs nice petals without a radiant Sun to bask in?
And one day when Abby woke up her stem was stooped and her petals drooped around her head.
And she did not want to look up.
Abby knew that she was dying and it was because the Sun was rare.

On that day the Sun peeked between the clouds three times.
Each time, Abby looked up and remembered the Sun.
But he was small and distant and he was not hot enough to warm her.
She still looked to him, even when he went behind the clouds, ever drawn to him.
But she would gradually bend and stoop and sag and by the time he again appeared on the next day it was very hard to even notice him, and she could not bring her stem up.

And so Abby never again looked at the Sun, even when he returned in his Summer glory.
Instead, she looked to the Earth, ever closer every day.

The Coffee Cup

The coffee cup is red, and it has a lid. The lid is black and seals the cup to allow convenient transportation. The lid has two holes in it - one big. You drink through the big hole. One small, to allow air into the cup whilst you drink.

There is a corrugated property that is on the outer of the coffee cup. Ostensibly to allow heat insulation, it also adds aesthetic beauty and enables grip.

The primary directive of the coffee cup is to facilitate coffee, but it can be used for any number of hot beverages - tea, hot chocolate, chai. Although not its designed function, the coffee cup is adept at holding cold beverages, and when left to its own devices will seamlessly transform hot coffee to cold.

There are various dangers associated with coffee, and the coffee cup practices due diligence to avoid these dangers from being realized. It contains a helpful warning atop its lid -

"CAUTION HOT"

to prevent painful burns for an unsuspecting user. Truly best practice.

Whilst obviously utilitarian, the coffee cup is equally egalitarian. It does not care for the knowledge or ignorance of its user, nor his race creed religion or sex. It simply serves.

The coffee cup is generally provided free of charge, with any purchase of coffee. It is available in various sizes to accommodate an array of disparate volumes.

When the user has finished his coffee, it is best practice that he throws (or places) the coffee cup in a recycling receptacle. The coffee cup offers full biodegradability at no extra cost to the end user.
After being collected by an authorized refuse agent, the coffee cup is crushed, purified, removed of any extraneous chemicals and dyes, and absorbed into a collective mass of fellow recyclables.

No longer recognizable as an individual entity, the formerly coffee cup is put to application in some other noble role, perhaps as a bookmark, or a sheet of toilet paper.

So let us thank the noble coffee cup, and wish it all the best on its always evolving journey!

Happiness & The Grey, and My Voice.

Happiness is an abstract. But whilst it is immeasurable, it is tangible. I am happy, lively, motivated, & instigating change in my life.

When in a happy mood it is difficult to remember sadness, nomatter how prevalent it once was. Sadness is a tide: once it goes out, only remnants of its existence - reminders - remain. No iota of its pervase is still present.

Happiness does not overcome sadness, it displaces it. When you are sad, mindlessness and addledness are your goals. Not happiness, because you cannot truly remember happiness. But numbness is familiar, as it represents to the sad mind the absence of happiness. But numb does not compare, nor should it. An oft misconception I have made is that I am in a good mood or in a bad mood. There are several shades of grey of course, but the cutoff between the two is exclusive, an insurmountable divide.

But this is not the case. A perpetual numbness, endured over long weeks, can manifest as either comfortable glumness, or contented monotone. It is neither. It is an absence of feeling. It is far more dangerous than sadness for it will not be recognized by the host. It is the truly disingenuous space. The victim may even acquiesce completely, and in the absence of true emotion, find himself believing that this grey experience is ultimate & is what life lived is like. Vague memories of visceral emotion are chalked up to the exaggeration of a youthful mind. This is not the case.

Noone can say, or know, what causes the grey. It is incredibly hard to detect by a third party, & almost impossible for the host to identify. This is the primary reason it should be feared.

My own awareness of the grey was incredibly fortuitous. Having spent countless months suffering obliviously, I suddenly awoke. For what reason I cannot be sure - perhaps because of sheer happenstance?

I awoke to happiness, unbridled, absent of reason or particular. The grey, having dissolved, did not cross my mind. My brain, long thirsty for emotion, lapped up the new and obliterated all memory of the cloud that preceded.

The particulars I recalled, but the mood, or lack thereof, was forgotten. And forgotten it would have stayed, had I not been writing.

For in writing can true mood be educed. Reading over my recent works, even with my newly found mentality, I encountered a strange disconnect. True emotion was absent, a gear I could not reach, a tool I could not perceive. All my work, all those long nights, it all read grey. Vapid. Boring.

I was shocked, truly. How could I have possibly been so dull?

To clarify, the writing was superficially satisfactory. The prose, admittedly hackneyed (as is true of all my work), was nonetheless structurally sound. Nothing jarred, I did not cringe, I was not ashamed.

But reading a work is a journey, & upon travelling for some distance with any piece, a voice appears beneath the writing. A voice of clarity by an expert author. But even poor prose, if honestly executed, will display a voice. Frail, perhaps; uncertain absolutely. But a voice of the emotions of the writer.

I know my voice and when I read my work I hear the voice clearly. The  message may be convoluted, and my authorship whilst happy can be grating. But it is my voice and even in the pits of my depression it would shine through - although not with a particularly elevating timbre.

I love my voice and it is why I continue to write, even when I hate everything I write. I have spoken of it before and it is a signature, embedded in the page, a life force.

And a great author will have a great, booming, prevalent, clear voice. Orwell for me is the greatest of all, not for his words (which can be hit and miss), but for his fantastic voice. You read Orwell and you see his soul, bare, human. Fallible like the rest of us. Insecure despite his brilliance. It is why I write.

So the absence of my voice in my recent works begat a rude realization. No longer could I read and be sucked in, empathetic despite myself, my previous musings. Instead I was left looking at words on a page, searching for their meaning. I hope my voice will return, and I think it will. Only time will tell.

This is why music is beautiful, & this is why I write

You combine the primal, the beat. The rhythm of life and existence. The hum drum rum tum of time gliding over planar space.

The melody, the hook that catches your heart and mind and makes it soar, or plunge. The delicate, or the resonant, forming waves that break.

And the lyrics, pure poetry perhaps. Or maybe spoken, deadpan. Or screamed, in vicious vitriol. Or cried in anguish. Scathing, or loving, or forlorn, or beguiling, or explaining.

Ever entertaining. Uplifting or depressing on a whim. Cliched, but a drug. Nothing else is as primitively powerful as music, nothing else speaks to our hearts as equal to the mind.

So why do I choose to write, rather than make music? Perhaps a lack of talent; I have always found writing easy, composition not so much. Also immediacy - upon writing something down I know what the completed product will be. There is relief in such simplicity. Also intimacy, these are my exact words, as I write them. Not a recording of something to to be prodded into post production submission, ever stagnant.

Words are alive, imbued with not only the soul of the writer but also his mood. Even an abstract like tiredness can be deduced. But also affected by the mood of the reader, whoever he is.

This is the second dimension that sets apart writing from music. The stanzas, the rhythm, they are still present. The authors voice breathes through the page & only an avid and concerted reader will acquiesce to his beauty, beneath.

It is this beauty to which I aspire. Timeless indefatigability. An eternal life from the page, available to those that look. A treasure that can change lives, even alter the future.

But the lot of the writer is traditionally grim. Typically loners, preferring to create than conflagrate the present they inhabit. Not seeking redemption in any form; love, god, money, fame. Only solitude, pen & paper, & death approaching. These are his companions. A noble cause perhaps, even a calling?

But not a choice, certainly not a sacrifice. An anti-sacrifice. Selfish. The writer lives to write and shall not be  assuaged by any other aspiration, realized or not. These are ancillary.

The tryst between two, one French. She was tall but shorter than he.
In Melbourne they met, & drank.
She resented the cigarette ever present in his grasp.
Many times they made mention of their pasts, always talking never listening.
They lay together for a while,
Then they talked some more.
He, looking up at the sky, framed by the narrow city, smoked, drank.
She, on his lap, talked of home. Her Father.
And she talked of love, of desire, of heartbreak.
He listened, but could not relate. He nodded & frowned when it was prudent.
But he was oblivious to what she spoke.

The pair had met, somewhere; it is not relevant.
It was real to him, escape from life. She too, had been dead inside.
And she told him of it, working for just life. Not living. He related and it took his breath away.
But he made no mention, preferring to remain sparse in her mind.
The French girl, she was blonde and pretty.
He called her gorgeous & it made her smile.
There was happiness amongst the anger for a while.
And when she talked of love there was no melancholy, for she was young.
She dreamed of love & it was everything. And he had nothing because he was dead and did not care,
and he knew he would be really dead soon enough and that death is ultimate.
And that only by death can we appreciate life, so death is beautiful.
But awareness did not lessen the cut.

Music I like

So I started this blog to post some of my really short writing. I am writing a novel right now but there is a lot of (very rough) stuff that I write which is independent of this. It is that sort of thing I will try and post. But whilst writing is my favourite way of expressing myself, it is music that inspires me. So without further ado this is what I have been digesting lately. and something that my mum used to always play and I don't think I can remember a song as gorgeous.

On selfish

To be selfish should be worn as a badge. Everyone is selfish - in various degrees - and any apparent absence of it is by design, not nature. We are conditioned from a young age and variously throughout our years to spurn our selfish motives - those that do are held high by the community; those that do not are relegated as second class citizens.

It is the paragon of the weak and pathetic that selfishness should be stamped out. As to why, perhaps the obvious - that empathetic (or more correctly, those lacking apparent selfishness) people are more likely to look out for others, to help the weak at their own detriment. Thus the weak condition all to relinquish their god given selfishness to better their own selves - the true act of selfishness.

BUT one who spurns all empathy, who disowns all emotion in others - his ultimate act is suicide. For the act of killing oneself is to disavow all emotional tethers and relinquish dues to those who care. It is to put oneself unequivocally above all others, to decree on no uncertain terms that

“my short term suffering is so great that it is of more import that it stops than those around me who have investment in my life have happiness.”

"What doth it profit a man, if he gains the whole world but loses his soul" Matthew chapter 8

The Gardener

The wrong side of 60; only just. White-grey hair, beard flecked. But fit for his age, methodical, active.

There is a charisma that follows him about, a good natured humour that makes the sight of him bring a smile to most. His lope is long but precise, sure footed. With every step his height is evident by the movement of his shoulders, swinging in small parabolic arcs.

The Gardener spends most of the morning on his knees, trowel in hand. Seed planting today, pruning tomorrow, weeding the next. By then the lawn will need a mow.

The cyclical nature of his garden is what he finds most attractive. It is easy to become lost in the nature surrounding; the mild weather. Memories of a life well lived permeate.

And it is the small things in life that serve as his memories. Not worth mentioning here - suffice to say they are common to all at peace with the world. Suffice to say they lend a quiet dignity.

The sun reaches its peak, the morning is lost to history. Another moment for the memory banks. Throughout the nation sleeves are rolled up in unison; the Gardener duly submits. A small rumble of the stomach reminds him of the time - lunch calls, not loud but persistent.

A simple snack will sate him; today, plums with cereal. Spoon on bowl results in a steady ring. The cricket on the TV serves a casual distraction. Feet up for a quarter hour, worked bones recuperate.

By the time his break is done, two visitors have taken residence in his garden. His daughter, sunning herself near the clothesline. Reading a novel of some description; her body language suggests that it is a sufficient distraction from the days monotony. And his cat - formerly owned by a sister in law. Investigating certain interests the way a cat is prone to do.

Both visitors will remain compatriots in the garden until the sun wanes; pending the weather.

Back to work. The garden itself is not large, by any measure, nor is it small. It is that odd size where one from the city would view it as exorbitant, but persons rural would think the opposite. No matter, it was perfect for him. The gardener had worked this patch of earth for the better part of 30 years and it had served him well. He knew every nuance of it and had reached the rare union between man and nature that only time can build. Despite the changes of his life, despite the complete unknown that lay ahead, an absolute certainty that his garden would be his companion into tomorrow was calming. The plants he works have grown old with him at their side, caring for them through sickness, staving off weeds and pestilence.

The utter timelessness of such work is what he found attractive. There was no need for change to method.

About an hour after his break was done, the gardeners wife rose. She had been working in the north western corner of the house, working on something I am not privy to. Still in nighty she attacked the kitchen with banging of plates, briefly entering the garden with an offer of zucchini soup. No takers today. After a brief flurry and a microwaved something, she disappeared.

The brief deluge of noise and colour passed, and calm returned to the garden. The cat had retired from its investigations; laconic movement replaced by no movement at all save the odd roll in the sun.

Apparently soup had been requested by the daughter after all. Mother and Daughter took seat in the gardeners domain on the outdoor setting, slurping soup enthusiastically. The gardener, anticipating his wife’s request, put a bucket hat on. The cat rose, pining a titbit which sadly was not available. Pacing restlessly, tail as straight as a flagpole, refusing to accept such outcome.

The gardener joined his Wife and their Daughter at the outdoor table. Snatches of conversation floated through the air, accompanied by the odd cough from the Wife, and the even rarer mew from the cat. Another gorgeous memory in the works. Such simple pleasure so rare in today's age, so foreign to many. Such beauty is inevitably tinged with melancholy; imparted from knowledge that such moments are fleeting.

As anticipated, the moment dissipated without warning. The conversation switched from lazy happen-stance to the family business; the loss of peace noticed by all but fought by none. Time stops for no one, least of all the small business owner. Just as imperceptibly, the conversation changed again. Past relatives were discussed; their death a measure for time. How quickly it flew. The melancholy present afore returned; albeit more morose.

The soup consumed, coffee and tea was prepared by the daughter. Enjoyed by all, along with the conversation. An excellent accompaniment.

The Gardener yawned, the days age weighed on his mind. His daughter held the cat, eyes following a lizard in the garden, paws flexing claws. Mention of its almost forgotten primal hunting nature flicked between the amused family.

The afternoon tasks were discussed; the wife, plans of writing the Christmas letter. The gardener - his afternoon was apparent. And the Daughter, after cleaning the kitchen, would return to her book

The cat was released from the Daughters grip, just as the Gardener was released from the conversation. Back to work, to the plants, to the peace. The Daughter and the Wife were not for such respite; the day not one for them to find such. Wife on the phone with her Mother, discussions of dinner. Daughter in the kitchen, clean-up ensued. The gardener acquiesced to his name.

The Middle

We are born inquisitive creatures, borne of inquisitive creatures. Yet by the time we reach a semblance of adulthood, say 16 or 17, much of our nature has been eradicated. It is easy to be complicit. One must merely adhere to life’s expectation - get good grades, become a professional, raise a family - and another life has been lived, free of shame, of upset, of inquisition. Another life has been devoted to someone else’s pocket, or some other outcome you will see little of.

This desperation to conform to expectation stems from the middle class. The lower - whilst resenting their position - sees no harm in allowing complicity to enter their lives. They see it as largely out of their hands, and sadly - without radical action - this seems to be the case. The upper, without the pressure to achieve off their own brow, can become enamoured with the pleasures that a hedonistic life provides. The exceptional uppers; those that do not regress to the mean, seem to pursue increasingly esoteric validation amongst their gifted peers. They have a tendency to create fields of pursuit when all others are dry, creating a whirlpool of research that inevitably descends into pointless rhetoric.

It is only the middle, the inevitably, beautifully average middle, that may escape the curse of a pointless life.

On Politics

What defines an expansive mind? The propensity to expand? Or perhaps the ability to comprehend different beliefs and adjunct your own personality with this input.

There is an odd idolation of those who ‘stick to their guns’ - that is those who do not adapt to new information. It is obvious that such individuals are not adept at processing and assimilating new feedback, or perhaps lack the ability to do so. Yet in our relatively modern society, we refute the ability to be influenced by new information. The politician who changes his view is labelled a ‘turncoat’, ‘liar’, or something of that ilk. Perhaps they do lie, that is not the point. The point is that we as a society should celebrate the man who can admit he was wrong - or more precisely admit that his previous views were held due to ignorance. But we do not, rather we celebrate this as weakness. But it is the judgemental masses that are weak, for they are the true effectors of change. Unfortunate that the only change they can effect is between one egotistical dickhead or another. And we call it democracy.

The Date

It started well. Ben left home a little late, somewhat apathetic about the date. A girl had handed her number over at the small bar on the river and he didn't really know how to approach this. He acted grateful but resented the idea of having to make contact. Ben was a shy person who had just escaped a relationship and did not want to be ensnared again. But women had that effect on Ben; they appeared amazing and engaging to the point he found the prospect of a relationship inevitable. But the change comes, facades fall away, only brutal truth remains. Boring truth to be honest.

It was this inevitable decline that Ben feared. He would much rather find a loose women, have a good night, and leave. But whilst this seems to occur much in film  it was not in Ben's experience.  Ben resented the clingyness that accompanied sex. He resented the assumption that more was coming.

Indeed, Ben's only recollection of string free sex occurred with a girl he was completely smitten with, and who, despite his numerous advances, never again acquiesced. Such is the nature of the female.

And so Ben found himself on a date with a girl he knew nothing about. She was nice, not especially pretty. A judgmental soul would call her appearance plain. This did not phase Ben. He had not had sex for a while and it was nice to just sit and talk to a female, with the prospect of sex on the table.

But alas it was soon revealed she lived with her parents. Ben's house was a pigsty so taking her home was out of the question. He really needed to clean his house. Tomorrow perhaps.

And so the date was a failure: promises of ‘doing this again’ were made but never carried out. Such is life.

Drunken Ramble

And so today I did nothing. Nothing was achieved but nothing could be, for I was not in the mood. I'm feeling sad today, not knowing a root cause. General listlessness. There is a certain optimism I have found though. Optimism generally is found where hope remains. I have plenty of hope; hope for the future. The trouble is I find that as the future approaches my hope shrinks, my optimism shrinks, and then I am in the present. Sad. So always hopeful, always optimistic, always sad. It is an odd dichotomy. And it leaves me in a quandary: am I deluded in my hope and optimism, or deluded in my sadness? I'm not sure which is worse; at least the sadness is tangible.

But forgive my morbidity, perhaps I am under the influence of one too many glasses of wine. It has the ability to level me. How tragic that the only time I feel normal is when I am addled.

I suppose the sad realization that I will never have a proper career has led me here. It is sad to know that I will never complete a degree, and have such conviction in that. Nothing could ever compel me to return to a university. They are the death of creativity. University breeds generics, people who would not learn what they know unless it is spoon fed to them. That is the death of learning.

For learning used to be about drive, self education et cetera. You researched something because you were interested, and surely this is pure learning. Such unique individual driven learning is natural, and breeds unique individuals. But the tertiary system kills this, instead opting to instil via a washed up has been (or never could) preaching his rote sermon to a room of faceless drones. And then, after doing so for 10 weeks, grouping them into A B C D E F UG 's. Fuck that, and fuck the hollow promise of contentment that a degree and respectable job offers. It is a lie.