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no one of consequence

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moving towards a better tomorrow [Jun. 30th, 2007|05:23 pm]
no one of consequence
[Current Mood |jealousjealous]

felix, who was and is still living under a dreadful curse which forces him to get whatever it is he loves for just one day and never again, first learned of his horrible affliction at the age of 19. prior to that he had always assumed that the way in which the world operated for him was the way in which it behaved for every individual. it wasn't until then that he was able to appreciate the lasting, albeit less frequent, periods of happiness enjoyed by his friends (only the ones he had never loved, as the ones he had loved were obviously not around any longer, some having passed away prematurely and others merely refusing to speak with felix ever again) that he began to understand that there was something seriously wrong with him.

the worst of it was when he met the daughter of a family friend who couldn't have been a day older than 17. remembering the happiness that youth had brought to his proud, estranged ideological father, the columbian colonel who had fought and lost 32 civil wars in his country, felix was torn. he knew by this time that if he fell in love with her she would be inexorably drawn to him by the nebulous fingers of the universe until she loved him back, but all of his happiness would inevitably be destroyed by those same inscrutable fingers which had lowered the thing he most wanted in front of him, just close enough that he could almost grab it when he jumped, by the next dawn; however, he began to wonder if such beautiful youth could truly have a price too high, even if it would end in personal tragedy, perhaps, he briefly entertained the thought, this time it might be different? maybe, he hoped fervently, the curse has been lifted?

felix, unable to make a decision when presented with the competing visions of nearly guaranteed misery for him and her in the future and certain happiness for a day accompanied by the impossible hope of future happiness if the curse had indeed been lifted, simply chose to ignore her. it wasn't until he discovered that her daddy was rich, as was betrayed by the gold rolex which was exposed as her father's shirt sleeve pulled back when he extended his hand to him, that his decision was forced and he made up his mind to ensure his future misery at the price of present happiness.

the universe is not fair.

but perhaps felix really made no decision. after all, the position we find ourselves in at any point in time is entirely dependent upon our position in the past, and if we can shrug off radical empiricism for a moment, we can assume that the laws of nature are always constant, which means that in each and every apparent instance of choice, there is in fact only one physically possible outcome. c’est-a-dire, from the beginning of time, all of the events in the universe (including those taking place in the human mind) were already determined (that is, predetermined) because the universe follows a certain set of rules which do not and will not ever change and which are responsible for shuffling the contents of the universe into its present state. this, of course, means that the past is the sole dictator of the present and future and, since the universe began, has followed a single and inescapable path based on several emotionless, unchanging, and universal physical principles right up to the present second.

what could be more fair than following the rules?

what could be more

what could


maybe it's just another excuse, i don't know.

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to the accuser, who is the god of this world, [Mar. 18th, 2007|02:40 am]
no one of consequence
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every day is a good day [Feb. 20th, 2007|01:04 am]
no one of consequence
[Current Mood |jealousjealous]
[Current Music |excuse you - mc paul barman]

A designer knows he has achieved perfection not when there is nothing left to add,
but when there is nothing left to take away.

i entered the anechoic chamber expecting to hear absolutely nothing, but when they closed the door, i heard two sounds, one high and one low. when i described it to the engineer in charge, he told me that the high one was my nervous system in operation and the low one was my blood in circulation. i now believe that nothing will ever be perfect, there is just too much going on for me to ever reach the bottom.

"the suffering that all astronauts endure is almost impossible for us on earth to understand..." the speakers at the back of the lecture hall that were producing the beautiful voice emitted a shrill screech followed by the thumping of two aged fingers on the microphone, which was being worn by the owner of both the beautiful voice and the two aged fingers who was standing at the front of the hall, "rarely, if ever, can someone who has seen the darkness express it in words that have meaning for anyone who has not experienced it. in this way it is much like conceptions of god, except instead of the infinitely occupied creative light that is associated with most gods, it is a complete emptiness that attempts to force its way in to areas filled with light and take from them anything they might have to tell us; this darkness isn't the same as the darkness in your home at night that can be made to retreat when you turn a light on. no, this darkness will not leave at the insistence of a lamp," the ancient man at the front of the room paused and the entire audience immediately missed his beautiful voice, which had seemed, to those who could only imagine the darkness, to be the only thing capable of restoring the light. when he continued, the relief of the audience was almost audible, "it is certainly a difficult thing to explain using only words which must stand for ideas that are nearly incomprehensible to us, so i will tell you all a story which will, i hope, make this clearer," he paused and again, as soon as the last reverberations of beautiful, peaceful, hopeful sound had faded, the audience became afraid.

as soon as the people of the town saw the blind boy stumbling down the street, they demanded to know what had happened to his blue eyes which they all agreed had been beautiful. it was eventually explained that the previous evening his brother had told him what beauty was to him. his brother had said that a beautiful thing must be timeless, that it could show no signs of temporality or it would reveal itself as just another one of the superficial trimmings of the world, not true beauty which must transcend all human systems and show itself to have been written into the very laws of the universe. he had disagreed, at first with only mild annoyance, but eventually, when his brother refused to compromise, with great anger. he shouted that nothing in this universe is permanent and we must be willing to accept the inherently fragile nature of beauty, because if we couldn't do that, then we would miss out on everything wonderful in the world. he gained even more volume and violence when he told his brother that it was not the idea of flowers blooming that he found beautiful (even though the timeless nature of such an earth-dependent event was highly dubious) but the individual flowers that had bloomed which were beautiful. how, he demanded, could any human ever be beautiful by his brother's definition, for all humans were doomed to die, and even before that many lose their beauty; some even gain beauty through cosmetics which will fade before the night is over, and is that not true loveliness? when he had finished, his brother responded by saying he believed that beauty exists apart from what human eyes can see. what is beautiful in a woman to one might not appeal to another, but that does not mean there is no standard in the universe, it is the fault of our eyes that we cannot see which one is right. no, he continued, it was not right to think of short lived things as beautiful, just their ideas, which were, he argued, timeless. his brother stopped then and looked at him, expecting a nod; however, no nod was given; instead, he had raised a knife to his beautiful blue eyes and was preparing to teach his brother a lesson about the fleeting nature of beauty.

the wonderful voice was raised again and effortlessly made to say, "after the perceived death of his crew, the astronaut was further from another human being than anyone else in history. he wandered the halls alone, always trying to find his way back home with his little pocket of light, but he was always aware of the thick blackness waiting outside of the glass and metal of his ship. the blackness would gently probe his vessel for a path inside, it wanted to flow through an open window and drown out his cabin lights, surround the astronaut, and force its way inside his helmet," because this was being relayed through such a splendid medium, the audience was not immediately terrified after hearing such a horrible thing. it wasn't until the lecturer stopped and let his voice fade that the audience began to shift nervously in their seats, upon seeing this transformation, the man at the front continued, "i must add that this blackness isn't a malevolent force specifically targeting humans in spaceships, it is simply a natural entity that flows out to take up the greatest possible area, like water. but that area is the entire universe except for the area we protect here with the dome you can all see about your heads when you walk outside. continuing on, the astronaut was plagued by the relentless and unthinking assault of the darkness for his entire 6 month trip back to earth. he would be awakened every night by a gentle tapping at the window and the noise of voices that sounded almost human urging him to open the airlock to let them in. it took all of his strength to resist the temptation to open up and just let the darkness have its way."
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in the end, isn't it all about fucking the man and making the world better for hanging out in? [Dec. 4th, 2006|02:41 am]
no one of consequence
[Current Music |joanna newsom]

i hadn't been in turkey long, certainly no more than a week, when i grew tired of my hotel room and decided i might relieve my ennui by taking a walk through the city. perhaps i would even see something interesting enough to tell at parties; there was certainly more chance of that on the street than in my room waiting for an audience with the general. despite the heat i wore a jacket. i didn't want to look like a tourist. i made for the market, i'm not sure why, and i was drawn to a crowd that had gathered around a deeply set back doorway towards the north side of the marketgrounds. i suppose such a thing must have been common, because very few people not already clustered around the doorway were stopping to see what was going on, but i was very new to ankara and always drawn to spectacles, so i pushed myself forward in the crowd until i could see what everyone else was looking at: in the center of the doorway there sat a frail old man who was cradling his knees with his horribly thin arms, white hair falling limply past his shoulders and down his back. the sight of him made me shiver, for i hate being reminded of my own mortality. the crowd, however, was not so put off by his miserable physical state as i, they, instead, were focusing on his words. despite my best efforts i cannot understand a word of spoken turkish, so i had to clumsily ask a thin french man with a deep tan standing near me to translate what the old man was saying. apparently he was describing, in some detail, the greatest achievement of his long life: the flawless peeling of an orange. when i heard this i stared in some disbelief; i had always had great difficulty with oranges, but to call the peeling of one (even without fault)the greatest achievement of a very long life seemed very ridiculous to me. i continued feeling this way until he finished his lecture and displayed the orange peel, slightly curled and dried after these many years, but still breathtakingly beautiful. i stared in incredible disbelief, for before me there was a dried orange peel that was ripped from the bottom navel in exactly 4 places of perfectly equal distance apart. the orange peel had become an immaculate symbol of addition, except nothing more could ever be added. the audience gasped in shock and amazement (although i will admit that behind me the crowds continued to mill about, unaware or uncaring of the perfection that hovered tantilisingly nearby). for many minutes we remained like this, the old man, looking weary, holding the orange peel in the palm of his hand, and the crowd staring at it in disbelief (some of the women even fainted)until one very ugly man from the back pushed his way forward, and without even really looking at the peel, snatched it from the old mans hand and gave him a frightful kick in the face that produced a disgustingly dry and hollow sound, like long dead leaves in the wind, and took off deeper into the market. some people tried to follow him, but none were as fast. the old man did not get up. i returned to my hotel room and that night i had a dream about the ugly man from the crowd taking credit for the peeling of the orange. i forgot all about this dream until now, as i lie in some wretched anatolian prison cell, because that morning i was granted my audience with the general and he ggave me permission to begin my expedition.


i suppose you could say that i am a lady's man.

or perhaps a ladies man, because there is not one woman that is enough for me.

the duke cut a very elegant figure, with his wide chest and slim waist. he was always dressed in his ceremonial dress uniform, a reminder of his military days to some and a sign of his failing mental health to other, less romantic, critics. the duke would certainly not have gotten on with that second kind of critic, for he was himself a most romantic man, this was especially evident on days when the grey fog hung low over the bay that his castle overlooked and he stood, with his arms behind his back, staring into the virga to make out the slim shape of the girl. she had arrived quite suddenly and without warning, and was highly suspected by those same unromantic members of the duke's court of being a spy, or at best, a very ambitious courtier. either way, she was made unwelcome by some, but not by the duke who, although he did not love her and probably never would (due to a defect that he had developed some while earlier and through no fault of the girl's), he saw that she loved him and felt horribly sad and helpless. he could sustain her in body for as long as he chose to, his jealous members of court had no bearing over whom he provided for, but one night he would have to tell her that he didn't love her and never would. as he stood at his window, looking down on the small girl on the beach, he hoped to that that night would be a long time in coming.

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like a bed-ridden child staring at a UV lamp and dreaming of the sun. [Oct. 12th, 2006|02:51 am]
no one of consequence
[Current Mood |jealousjealous]
[Current Music |at the drive-in]

i had something dreadfully important to write down, but i am very sorry to admit that i have just forgotten whatever it was that i had intended to say. how strange though, that i should hold it so near my heart for so long, and then when the time comes to finally release it, it should vanish from me entirely. how strange.


the mahdi's eldest son raised his slender hand slowly and held it infront of his eyes to shield them from the sun. "tell me," he began, "what do you see?" i looked out past him and, from our vantage point on the hills that make up the highest "mountain range" in burkina faso, i saw the pathetic hovels his people lived in, i saw the brown grass that sustained them, i saw the piles of garbage and filth that were steadily growing around their village, and then i wanted to see no more. the mahdi's son was a smart man, and he must have known what i was thinking, for he turned his beautiful blue eyes on me, beautiful blue eyes that were shared by all the people of his tribe, and he asked me what i thought time would do to them.
"time never gives, it only takes."
"does it seem fair to you?" i shook my head and looked back at the village; a drunken woman was stumbling home from one of the drinking dens that sold homemade alcohol, which was strictly banned by the muslim government. she slipped and fell several times before she made it back to her government built hovel. suddenly the mahdi's son turned to me with those eyes and said, "do you know, that once, not long ago, our ancestors wandered the plains freely and feared no man? now look, we have been caged. we do not deserve this. my people are beautiful, strong, intelligent, and kind. how can we be rewarded for that with this life?" i looked into his face and in his eyes i could see all the way back to a time before the government forced citizens to register and chained them to the land, effectively outlawing the nomadic lifestyle his people had thrived on, a beautiful time in the past. he continued, "and now i look at this undeserved torture and some days i see it getting better in the future, i see our children regaining what our grandfathers were unable to defend, but other days i see it staying the same. i think maybe staying the same is worse than things getting worse, but i am not certain."


i remember what it is i wanted to say. i am so pleased that it has returned to me. perhaps things aren't as bad as they so often seem.

when the wall came down, pèter asked me if i would not go to the state intelligence building in berlin to see what the stasi had put in my file. i told him that i did not care what the stasi had thought of me, the west had won and there really wasn't any reason to dig through the past. what was it to me if my neighbour had once informed on me? i am here and the german democratic republic is not. but then he told me his story-- his file said he was a long time and loyal member of the communist party who had always paid his dues, which was strange to him because he had no recollection of being a member of the communist party or of ever paying dues, and if it weren't for a series of happy coincidences, he might never have learned the truth behind this lie: the head of the east german writer's soviet had signed him up and paid the dues, whether from his own pocket or from the party's own funds we will never know, and equally unclear is his motive-- did he want to protect young writers by making them appear politically loyal? was he doing it for his own gain-to show that he was an effective recruiter? did he want to protect his writer's free speech by keeping enrollment numbers high? was he out of his mind? we will never know, because ivan drakulic has been dead since 1986. pèter told me that i should look at my own file, because it might also be full of lies and falsehoods, and if i should die without correcting the errors, those papers would be all that was left, and there would be no one to say, "no, you are wrong, he was not like that at all!" people would just accept what they read as the truth. i reluctantly agreed to visit the building, which turned out to be one in an entire neighbourhood of buildings devoted entirely to spying on the citizens of the former gdr, and after several days of constant requests, my file was finally located and i was given time in the reading room to review it.
i approached the file with great hesitation: we of the west had won, of that i was sure, but what could it contain that i did not already know? had my constant paranoia served to fuel there machine? had i played right into their hands by behaving as i did? i was soon to find out. on the desk lay a plain file folder, it was off-white and had my name written with a very old typewritter on it, and the s jumped the line, i remember that quite clearly. the folder was very thin, and when i opened it i found it to be empty. i asked the receptionist if there were some mistake, but he assured me that the entire contents of the stasi's interest in me was in that file as it was. and then, in that musty room, i felt more alone than i had ever felt in my entire life.


there are alligators living in the sewer, that is a widely believed fact, but the idea that they were once pets and then flushed down the toilet is ridiculous. they arrived by far more sinister means.
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vanity, not love, has been my folly [Oct. 2nd, 2006|01:26 am]
no one of consequence
[Current Mood |jealousjealous]
[Current Music |the past is a grotesque animal - of montreal]

"i thought of you today."
"did you?"
"as i was deleting your number from my phone." she smiled, fully believing she had done me some grievous injury.
"it would be weird if you were thinking of someone else while you were doing that." i honestly don't care.
and then she said, "i took it out because we never did anything and i wasn't planning on ever seeing you." as if that news was supposed to hurt me.
"that’s understandable."
"how can you be so cold?"
"have you ever read death of a salesman?"
"never mind then," i paused for a second and looked at her before i continued, "none of my secrets are physical now."


i don't understand pozzo. the second is every bit as sweet as the first, as the third, as the fifth. i'd do anything once so long as i could do it a second time if i wanted. there is something so tragic about knowing that you're doing something for the last time. so tragic, infact, that i would rather hold all of my cards until i can no longer hold them than show them when i am first able to, because after you've shown them you're finished and nobody cares anymore. besides, i have great difficulty living for today, it is always for the future. i guess the truth is, even if i were to throw away all of my copies of nintendo power, i'd still have a lot of issues.


"look, it's been a long day, thank you again for coming out. i'll call you when they're all developed." i don't use digital, i never have. i'm not sure why, i just don't feel like i have the same control over the finished product as i do with a regular film camera, and feeling like you have control over something is probably more important than actually having control; maybe that is why my sets are always so bizzare. i am not as careful when developing as i should be, concidering how much time i spend thinking about what i will photograph, but we all cut corners somewhere; however, i don't think that has anything to do with what has been happening. at first i didn't notice, they all looked perfectly usual to me: the light and colour i had captured seemed to appear perfectly on the paper, but after i spoke with her, they started to change. at first i thought it was her fault, she was doing something to me that was making me look at my own pictures wrong, but i later realised that i had been seeing them wrong the entire time. it started with one face, the most recent, but soon every model in every picture i had ever taken was undeniably a perfect likeness of myself. i've been too embarassed to speak to any else about this. i was going to keep the pictures locked away where nobody else could see them, but no one i have shown has noticed. maybe it is just me.


"do you ever think that maybe the heights are just as scared of you as you are of them?" i asked c. c continued staring up at the lead coloured sky above as that threatened to fall at any moment.
"why do you ask?"
"because i once knew a girl who was exactly like something i read in a book. she was my hermine. she was the way the underground man saw himself. everything was perfect about her, but i have no idea what she thought about me," it began to rain,"because i would like to think she was a person who had feelings like me, but how can i be sure? everything about her made me think she was all knowing and mature, like she had experienced the world in such a way that there could be no surprises left. it sounds dreary and frightening, i know, but it was quite comforting, i assure you. i fear that i am not expressing myself at all like how i mean too..." i stopped talking for a minute and realised that my audience had already left and was wandering towards the ground underneath a patch of blue in the tumultuous sky. after some time i got up and followed, still speaking to myself. "i think it is like when i first learned to dance: i was so nervous and my hands were sweating and all i could think about was my partner's opinion of me. only now do i wonder if my partner was really formulating an opinion of me while i danced. was she spending all of her time judging me? or was shenervous too? i don't suppose that i'll ever know."

i love hearing gossip about myself, but i always feel so stupid when i try to explain why.
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i like my misfortunes to be taken seriously. [Sep. 4th, 2006|03:41 am]
no one of consequence
[Current Mood |jealousjealous]
[Current Music |the crane wife 1 & 2]

'before i begin, i'd like to take a moment to honour a fallen hero. a man who showed the world that courage and bravery can take many forms and can come from the most unexpected places. steve irwin died doing what he loved. may we all be so fortunate.'

'well, i must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if i wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. it seems that they are very beautiful. and if not the butterflies--and the caterpillars--who will call upon me? you will be far away . . . as for the large animals--i am not at all afraid of any of them. i have my claws.'
and, naïvely, she showed her four thorns.


i woke up slowly, dimly aware that the sun had risen some time ago, but also dimly aware that no matter how much difficulty i had keeping my eyes open, i would be up long before anyone else in the filthy flat we all infested together. i looked around and vainly tried to wake the skinny girl who had been sleeping nearest to me, she didn't even shrug or groan, she just lay there, barely breathing. there were no drugs left, that should have been obvious, but i looked anyways. it didn't really matter that there were none left, my credit was still good. my mother always told me that drugs were just an easy way out, a way to avoid growing and maturing as a person, because when you have drugs you don't have to deal with difficulties in life. i'm sure that she was right, but it seems to me that i could get the exact same outcome from being in an unhealthy co-depandant relationship that began in highschool and wasn't likely to ever end without any of the relief of drugs and for much more money. i tip-toed past all of the sleeping bodies in the hall and made it to the refrigerator. empty. fucked.

before i continue, i'd like you to know that i am actually a really nice guy. i always do my best to be one, it is really the corner-stone of my reputation. anyways, it was a stiflingly hot day and i had been trecking through the desert with no water for days, having lost my herd almost a week ago trying to ford the colorado, which was much wider and stronger back then than it is now. although i was wandering in the direction of the chicken wire fence that marked the begining of my property, i wasn't sure why i was returning home, as there was no longer anything for me there. it was on the 4th day that i began to hallucinate. i knew right then that i had to drink. well, that isn't true, what i knew was that i had to either find water or die. you always have a choice.


i'd see these huge black birds that would wheel in from the sky and swoop at me. even though i knew they weren't real i'd still fall to the ground every time i saw one come at me, and each time it was a little harder to get back up. i was certain i was going to die when i saw, in the distance, a cloud of dust--a wagon filled with water was coming my way with only one guard.

when the guard and his wagon got close enough i shouted at them for help and he replied, 'in some ways i'd like to help you, but in others i do not. do you understand? i can see that you don't. perhaps this will help: have you heard the description of free will as a person wanting to want to want something? that is, i want to help you, but i don't want to want to help you, but i also don't want to not want to help you because i, like you, want to consider myself a good person. actually no, that isn't what i mean at all, it is just the best way i can explain my reluctance to let you drink from my water caravan.' i stared at him incredulously as he continued to ramble about destroying friendships and making awkward situations in the future. i'd like to pause here to remind the reader that i have always considered myself a good person, so when i relate what transpired i ask that you not judge me too harshly.

seeing that my only chance of salvation stood behind a single guard who was too busy making excuses and considering awkward social outcomes to notice what i was doing, i raised my battered shotgun and fired once into his body. he fell to his back with a hollow thud, wheezed once, and then was silent. i nimbly stepped over his corpse and drank my fill from the water drums he had been hauling. and that is all there was to it.


'i'm glad that you're such a nice guy. you could never be a murderer.' after praising me she looked into my eyes, started to open her mouth to say something more, but checked herself when she saw my face nervously twitch, a sign she took for embarassment. 'i just do my best.' i told her, and then was silent for the rest of the night. after she left, i noticed that the shell casing had been lying on the ground very near to where she had been standing the entire time.

'in conclusion: every man has things he will only tell to his friends and keep a secret from the unfriendly world, and every man has things he would only dare tell to himself, things his friends can never know, and there are some other things that every man has which he will not admit to even himself. do not think these the trademark of an evil doer, for every man has these things, infact, the better the man the more of these things he will have.' the man in all white finished his sermon. in the half light of dusk he actually did have the appearance of a preacher, but that was absurd, because there hadn't been a preacher anywhere near here in almost 20 years.
'but how can you know this for certain?' asked a filthy farmboy, one of many who had gathered on the outskirts of town to hear the stranger speak.
'i read it in a russian novel.' the man replied, looking more preacher-like every minute.
'is that all the proof you have?'
'it is all the proof i need.'

her skin was like pepper and oranges and i wanted more.
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but you guys do think that my girlfriend is good looking, right? [Jul. 20th, 2006|01:42 am]
no one of consequence
[Current Music |also rain - french kicks]

on the bus from downtown to the beach there was a lady in pink. she must have been eighty, at least. she had bright pink hair with flowers in it, a matching pink dress, pink lips, pink nails, pink handbag, pink earings, and, in her shopping basket, there were boxes of pink kleenex.
in the wedges of her clear plastic heels a pair of goldfish were lazily floating in formaldehyde.
i was too intent on the goldfish to notice the midget in hornrimmed glasses who was standing on the seat beside me. 'permit me to ask you, sir' he asked in a squeaky voice, 'which of the human qualities do you value the most?'
'i haven't thought,' i said.
'i used to believe empathy,' he said, 'but i have recently moved over to compassion.'
'i'm glad to hear it.'
'permit me to ask you, sir? at which of the professions are you presently engaged?'
'i'm studying to be an archaeologist.'
'you amaze me, sir. i'm in that line of country myself.'
he was a sewer-rat. his friends would lower him, with a metal-detector, into the main sewer beneath the hotels of miami beach. there he would prospect for jewellery flushed, accidently, down the toilets.
'it is not, i can assure you, sir,' he said, 'an unrewarding occupation.'
i suppose we were the same, except he found his treasure every day he went out for it by dirtying himself, while i, by staying clean, condemned myself to a life of waiting for treasure.

in chilliwack a young, obviously misguided boy got on the bus and asked to share my seat. he didn't read, he didn't listen to music, he just sat and stared at the seat infront of him for the 7 hours to westbank.

being homeless has its benefits. if you walk down the street singing quietly to yourself, no one will think anything of it. it really upsets me that my enemies aren't destroying themselves as quickly as i would like.


'no, i don't think you understand,' replied the young artist, 'the bread is the boy's soul, and here it is being served to his family,' he pointed at the loaf of bread in the centre of his picture,'and you see, each one of the people in his life is taking a slice. they are eating his soul! don't you understand?'
'that's horrible.'

my first real experience with other people's feelings occured when i was about 9. i was having my birthday party at crash crawley's (i was allowed such excess because i am an only child) and after the cardboard-like pizza, it was time for presents. my best friend presented me with the guess who game i use to impress girls with to this day, but i was so rushed that i barely had time to think. this put him into a deep sadness, he was always an emotional person. i learned of his unhappiness through my parents, so when he came over to my house a few days later, i suggested we play his game. 'but i thought you didn't like it?' and that was it. i wish it was always that easy.


to the arabian bedouin, hell is a sunlit sky and the sun is a strong, bony femail - mean, old and jealous of life - who shrivels the pastures and the skin of humans.
the moon, by contrast, is a lithe and energetic young man, who guards the nomad while he sleeps, guides him on night journeys, brings rains and distils the dew on plants. he has the misfortune to be married to the sun. he grows thin and wasted after a single night with her. it takes him a month to recover.

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the genie in the lamp [May. 11th, 2006|10:48 pm]
no one of consequence
[Current Mood |jealousjealous]
[Current Music |song of our so-called friend - okkervil river]

"He who binds himself to a joy / Doth the winged life destroy /
But he who kisses the joy as it flies / Lives in eternity's sunrise."


i was flattered and perplexed when i learned that you were still calling me a friend, but the poverty of language prevented me from explaining it to you properly; i just find it remarkable that people are so impossibly different and so impossibly similar at the same time.

to me, the great problem with restraint is how unrewarding it is: the gains one makes from abstaining are entirely esoteric, while the gains you can make from indulgence are clearly apparent to everyone. of course, the only way out of the heart of darkness is restraint, but would anyone who was comfortable want to leave? my nature won't stain my face nor the face of my likeness like dorian gray, with whom i feel i have something in common, so why should i worry about what my soul looks like? it is quite true that the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it, and i have to wonder if a man who goes his entire life suffering temptation's slow pull on his mind is any stronger or better than a man to whom temptation is nothing to be afraid of? obviously there is a difference between pleasure and happiness, but there is no scale where they can be weighed against each other to determine the worthiest goal.


devant une façade rose,
Sur le marbre d'un escalier.

and that was all of venice?

when his father died, alistair became the sole supporter of his mother, six sisters, and five brothers. he worked 16 hours a day, every day of the week besides attending school, which is compulsory for a boy of his age.
one day, as alistair was walking along a deserted beach during some rare time off, his toe hit an old-looking lantern half buried in the sand. he picked it up and, on impulse, rubbed it softly.
suddenly, billowing smoke streamed from the spout, and a giant genie followed it. he towered over the astonished boy, laughing deep in his throat. then, the genie became serious. he picked up alistair between his huge thumb and forefinger
"you summoned me from the lamp," he roared, "now, are you going to grant me three wishes...or am i going to have to crush you to death?"

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(no subject) [Mar. 26th, 2006|01:00 am]
no one of consequence
tomorow (monday) is my birthday. failure to wish me a happy one will result in a broken heart for me.


happy birthday simon and happy belated birthday anton
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