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.