Random Musings

Dream update

2012-01-16T02:43:00.000Z

Had some bizarre dreams in the last few days; noting them down:

- I dreamt I could teleport by tapping the middle finger of my right hand on onto the palm of my right hand, whilst thinking of where I want to go. I went to my high school, and teleported a few times between playgrounds. Then I teleported into a huge metal/rock theme shop, which was open and busy at 4am. A chav walked into the shop, and everyone stopped to stare at him. He told the owner, "What you lookin' at? I can come in here, innit." Then he rudely shoved me out of the way, to which I insulted his intelligence and teleported behind him to beat him. Freaked out, he ran out of the shop and I carried on shopping. I seemed to forget I could teleport as I grabbed a stepladder to reach a felt badge and the other people laughed at my height. Then I ended up in a busy American city (most likely New York) in just a towel, along with another girl, and we ran around squealing and hiding from some unknown people.

- Dreamt I was in a field with another person (my best friend, I think). In the field was a very very tall metal pole, and on this pole was a flat platform with two walls. We ended up on the platform, enjoying the view, but there were two versions of me in the dream: one who was on the platform, and one observing from above (omniscient Sita?)

- Dreamt I was a creature, flying around happily in the sky with my other creature friends, when a "bully" came into the vicinity: a huge, whale-like/bird-like creature with many rows of sharp teeth. It started to come towards me, and I began to grow at an incredible rate, but when he eventually approached, I shrunk back down to my original size. I probably got eaten at the end.

- Dreamt I was imprisoned in some kind of workhouse for quite some time. I was with a bunch of other women, slaving away, when one day, I was taken away to another room, filled with lots of women, crying. Turns out the women, myself included, were selected to be surrogate mothers for as long as possible, against our will (like The Handmaid's Tale). Whilst I started sobbing, some random guy who was my boyfriend in the dream embraced me. Apparently he was some important person, and he promised he'd get me out of the situation. No idea if he did or not.

"My Life with the Wave" - rewrite.

2011-12-09T02:21:00.000Z

Writing assignment: Rewrite the ending of a short story we looked at in class. I picked "My Life with the Wave", by Octavio Paz, which can be found here.

Months passed. I had cleared out the hideous fish, the shells, the conches, the small sailboats. The smell of salt and fresh fish had left my home after half a year. I was terrified of going to the beach. I hadn’t left my house for weeks. I had recurring nightmares of drowning and my body being consumed by those fish. Baths were as short and shallow as possible. My old girlfriend persuaded me to see a psychiatrist. He was patient with me, but I could see he didn’t believe my story. He showed me images, first of water, which I flinched slightly at, to pictures of destructive waves, to which I had to excuse myself to the bathroom to throw up. Eventually, I could look at the images and merely fainted, then it was only a mild nausea.

Then my psychiatrist told me the dreaded thing. He said the only way to properly get over my fear was to visit the sea. I was horrified. My old girlfriend, who became my girlfriend again, agreed with this. It took a further month since the suggestion that I finally agreed to go. The day was bright and clear and I was feeling positive, happy even, to be leaving the house with my beau. She packed a picnic and we left the city.

Upon seeing the large body of water I froze, and was on the point of fainting when she held my hand tightly and smiled at me. I no longer felt the tension gripping my chest when I looked at water. We sat and enjoyed the picnic. She was brave enough to take off her shoes and dipped her toes into the water. I cried out, but she looked at me and beckoned for me to do the same. I told her I wasn’t ready, but was perfectly happy to sit and watch.

She was beautiful; her white shirt billowing around her legs as she danced. The wind caused little waves to lap at her ankles. Terrified, I ran to see if she was harmed, but she laughed and told me she was fine. I lay my head on the sand and dozed a little, attentive to the warmth beating my face and the sound of the water as she splashed.

After a little while, I was stirred out of my stupor by a brisk breeze running over my body. I opened my eyes. The wind whipped across my face and I looked over to her, stricken with worry. The wind caused the sea to turmoil. The waves were growing larger. I sat in my spot, too scared to go to her, but shouted out. She assured me she was safe, just dancing on the shore, no chance of being swept away. I relaxed a little.

And then I saw her, taller and lighter than before, moving towards my beau. She was quicker than I remembered, bigger and stronger. She danced around my girlfriend, looking at me and smiling a cunning smile. My girlfriend let the wave consume her, spinning as the water span around her. For a moment, the two became one. I couldn’t move, immobilised in fear. Then the wave struck my girlfriend across the face, then on her arms, then dragged her to the ground, beating her flailing limbs with almighty force, until all I could see was the wave. She called to the bigger waves, who helped carry the body away. Pounding my fists on the sand, I wept.

She glided towards me, and wrapped a smug arm around my waist, lifting me to my feet. I tried to shake her off, but she gripped my waist tighter, and in a low voice, told me to take her home with me. Her voice was menacing. I told her it was impossible, that life in the city would not be any easier. She told me I’d find a way, in a sweet, seductive voice. I had no choice but take her home with me in a large, washed up basin, careful not to spill a drop.

When we got home, at once she began striking me, for leaving her, for selling her, for not loving her. She told me the story of her life during the past year. Over the year, the separated little droplets of her essence met in a cloud; other fragments of waves heard her plight and donated many of their drops, determined to help her get her justice on the wicked man who broke her heart into pieces. When she saw me with my girlfriend, she flew into a furious rage, and vowed to destroy her replacement. She then burst into tears and apologised over and over again, leaving the front of my shirt wet.

I wanted to know why she wouldn’t be happier in the sea. She told me she destined for greater things, destined to be first wave to survive in the city. She made me promise to adjust the conditions of my house so that she’d always be comfortable. I told her it was impossible, as I couldn’t change the weather. She struck me once more, as I stayed in my corner, shaking. She was enormous.

The fish were back. So were the shells and small ships. She no longer lit up the house, but clouded it with her brutish presence. I was patient with her demands, but I vowed to find a way to get rid of her for good. I thought of taking her to a recycling plant, where she’d constantly be used as drinking water then recycled, with no chance of evaporating quickly enough to return to the sea in her gigantic form.

The depression returned. I was confined to my house, forced to smell that ghastly scent. I missed the smell of exhaust fumes, of roast beef and of the perfume on a woman. Her scent was harsh and overpowered me. It was not a marriage of love. Long were the days when I felt affection for her. She reminded me daily that she was mine, covered me in salty kisses, much to my disgust. She refused to sleep anywhere but next to me, entwining her long legs in between mine, and forcing me to cradle her.

It started to grow colder. She made me turn up the heating, until it was so hot I was covered in a thin film of perspiration. I was struggling to pay the bills. She didn’t care; she wanted to remain liquid, warm, and happy. I had to buy a portable heater, which I carried to her as she moved from room to room. She no longer moved with grace, but charged through my house in fits of intense rages, smashing pots and ruining upholstery.

Unable to take it after she broke my mother’s urn, one night I waited until she had fallen asleep, and move to the kitchen. I took out the phone directory and looked up the number for a recycling plant. I dialled the number, hoping someone would be around to pick up, for it was late.

As the phone rang once, I felt a great presence behind me. It was her. She looked at the phonebook, reading down the page. She whipped her head around and glared at me with green-blue eyes. She moved to the sink and turned on the taps, merging with the water to grow in size and terror. With seashells still in her hair, she looked positively alarming. Once more, she said, I had betrayed her. She began dancing around me, ensnaring me with tendrils of pure hatred, as the voice on the phone repeated, “Hello, is there anyone there? Can we help you?”

Cracked

2011-11-08T21:46:00.000Z

Through years of practise, it is beautifully cracked. It is perfectly dreadful, exquisitely broken, unbearable to live with, abused and tormented. It boasts extremities to the finest; excessive indulgence causes it to break slightly more each day. It feeds off impurities and pestilence. It succumbs to the black cloud that visits it every morning, making love until it is left alone, trembling in a exhaustive heap of re-fuelled insanity. Sitting quietly, it has mastered the art of indulgence, of redundant thought and quiet malice towards the utilitarian. It drains the whole, no, kills the completed product, tossing at it every ill-formed, destructive theory the fractured sectors create, until the core falters and so in turn decays.

Fake

2011-11-03T02:27:00.001Z

If you give me a rose, I will pick each petal off, one by one, tearing them into tiny shreds. I will rub the waxy pieces together until they form into one unappealing ball: a fist of lost romance. When I throw the ball into the fire, the pieces will curl up and sizzle; the smoke a nebulous resolution of fabrication. The dark accumulation of cinders would be more accurate than the former crimson ceraceous lies. The stem would be next; merged with the flames that convulse around it, the olive stick would comically cremate. The acrid smoke chokes you, because that rose is a rough portrayal of pathetic and desperate affection, the deprivation of that craved true love affair.

Little black imp

2011-10-17T21:22:00.001+01:00

Your best friend is the little black imp festering inside you. He is sure to remind you that the world is a bleak, bleak place and you can't seem to do anything right. You think he is sensible for stopping you from having dreams, because these plans are futile anyway. There will be no advancing. He doesn't let you forget about your failings and your ugly faults. He tells you the reason that person didn't wave back the other day is because no one likes you, don't kid yourself. Apart from him. He'll take of you. So long as you feed him with your thoughts. You take comfort in your long chats. He is the only thing in your life which makes sense. Sometimes, the little black imp feels himself growing smaller, so he crawls into the crevices of your mind and pulls out some memory you tried not to dwell on, and presents the memory to you over and over again, in vivid detail, like you're trapped in some kind of twisted cinema. Then he's back, and reminds you that you cannot escape, for he is a permanent part of your life. He is you. In his most potent stage, he grows into a terrible great beast and clamps down on your heart, until it's just you and him. You become immobilised and talk to him all day. He's not just a little black imp any more, hiding in your chest, but a monster so akin to yourself, so parallel with your thoughts, that you can't really tell the difference between you and him, and have forgotten what life was like before him.

I am the sum of my parts

2011-10-08T23:51:00.009+01:00

This is the most personal public blog post I've ever written.

It's taken me a good few years, but I think I'm there. I can identify my partitions. Over time, they've become clearer, until it's come to the point where I can now tell them apart. This is, however, extremely tiring. Especially since a few of them don't get along at all. And one of them is berating towards 'me' having partitions in the first place.

They've become so apparent I can identify the individual traits of each, and know the personalities of each. Some are quite stubborn and insistent the others don't exist. I need to get those to acknowledge that the others do exist. We ought to work in cohesion, rather than being several broken perspectives; we need to be one all-encompassing person. Somehow. Since I was little, I've been talking to myself. When I was sad, one Sita talked to the other about it, often out loud. Of course, everyone has mood swings, and the emphasis isn't on the moods itself (as extremely as some may be), but on the splitting and feeling like separate people. Some can't believe I could ever be like others I'm about to describe (briefly):

One is utterly disconnected. In that phase, I can't really remember being in the others, but I'm aware they're there. In that phase, I don't feel real. I cannot feel anything. I can't even begin to understand what 'happiness' and 'sadness' is. I simply exist. When I am in that phase, it feels like -that- is the real me. When I am out of that stage, I realise it's a partition. It's the most stubborn part. It can feel genuine hatred for the rest of me. Violent, aberrant and disturbing thoughts enter mind mind casually and frequently, often in fragments. I see the world through a bubble. I don't even feel like a girl, or feel feminine. I look in the mirror and feel like I'm applying make-up on a stranger. People try to touch me or hug me, and I flinch away from their contact.

One part needs to chew gum or bite her nails all day to keep sane. She needs constant distraction, either from games or TV or stuff online. She can't concentrate on one thing for more than five minutes except for living in her own mind (the current writer of this blog is her). She worries, and worries about worrying, and everything she thinks about she analyses to death, until she suffers from panic attacks. She is never sure of herself, whether her actions and thoughts are logical or consistent to the 'real' her, and panics because she can't work out who she really is. She argues with her other partitions a LOT. She tries to be logical, and talks to friends about it to gain some perspective. She's me more often than I'd like. I try to counter this but shutting down and reverting to her counterpart, the spontaneous one (see below).

One part is confident. She knows who she is. She knows her strengths and weaknesses. She's happy and content with the world. She doesn't worry about the future, but prepares well for it. She's pretty good around people, and likes witty banter. She's logical, honest, kind, intelligent and loving. She is the Sita I like best. The Sita most of my friends say is the -real- me, when the shyness, anxiety, detachment and sadness is taken away. Unfortunately, because of this, she can dismiss the others as silly 'mood swings' and won't do anything to help the other parts. Taken too far and I become -extremely- spontaneous. I don't care for the future; I just want an adrenaline rush then and there. It's the time when I feel truly nihilistic, and try to get as much out of life in those few moments, without much regard for consequences.

Then there's the little depressed Sita. She is past the point of anxiety. But I've been reasoning with her. She's learn to best deal with it through paintings and distraction. This Sita isn't as prevalent as she used to be. She ignores most of the inner demons she used to let in.

I can never answer personality tests. I can answer them for the current person(s) I am (occasionally two or three would combine, and I'd scribble notes erratically on sticky paper in various sizes of writing whilst staring at the oven and feeling like the world is behind a mirror), but this isn't accurate for the rest of the time. In the middle of social gatherings, I can switch within a second; there's often no warning. I am absolutely exhausted from this.

And of course, I am absolutely terrified of posting this.

Ball = Religion?

2011-10-06T21:49:00.000+01:00

Our writing teacher gave us this assignment: We had to make two lists. One was of emotions, and the other of abstract nouns (religion, peace, war, fate etc.). Then we had to think of a concrete object and describe it as obviously as possible (I picked a ball). Then we had to scratch out the title of the object and replace it with an abstract word/emotion that might fit. I picked "religion". I read it to the class, not thinking it sounded like religion at all, and my teacher said, "that -is- like religion." He gave us 10 minutes to write it. Here it is:

It's round, and used in sport. It can be kicked, hit or thrown. They come in several sizes, they come in several colours. Some aren't perfectly spherical, but are elongated and pointed at the ends. Quite often, at the end of their use, they are dirtier and more scuffed. They are the most important object in a lot of games. You can buy them very easily from a shop. Some are small, rubbery and bouncy, played with by children. They are made from several types of material. Some are smooth, others and fuzzy and bright yellow. Some collide with a player's mouth, and smell and taste like plastic and mud. Some make a sharp popping noise if you hit them with your racket. Some cause pain if thrown or hit too fast or too hard. Some are autographed, and worth far more than when it was first made.

Salt and Water

2011-10-06T18:26:00.001+01:00

Short piece written in my writing class. We had to pick two minerals/elements and make them interact.

Water bullied Salt. Salt knew he couldn't win. Water threatened to dissolve Salt, threatened to churn up Salt's smaller pieces until he got dizzy. Quite often, Water carried Salt with him on vast journeys. Salt cried when he had to watch Water chip away at Rock, Salt's old friend. Rock too, was tossed and turned about in Water's vengeful wrath. Salt enjoyed long walks on the beach. Water enjoyed creeping up to people, often carrying jellyfish to them and watching them scream. Salt liked mingling with other flavourings. Cumin was his first wife, but they split on amicable terms. Water was a bully to all, even fire, but was put in place when he was filtered and sold as a commodity. Salt was jealous of the human's love and attention for Water and was hurt when they pulled a face when Salt showed himself too much. Water felt like a celebrity, but he was trapped. Water liked it when no-one tampered with him. Salt feared but admired Water. He admired the clarity in Water's thoughts, even when they were mixed in a pot together. At those times, Salt was tiny, and could only stare in awe as Water rose out of the pot and glided through the air, all too happy to burn others. Salt watched Water claim lives, give life, cool people, burn people. Salt admired the versatility and talents Water had, but it came with multiple personality disorder. Once Salt heard that Water travelled to other worlds, other galaxies, but that could just be a rumour.

Meet Larry

2011-09-23T05:18:00.000+01:00

I began my life again, with the same grey tie I pick for work every Thursday, brewing coffee in the usual Thursday mug, lukewarm by the time I'd finished cleaning up after my cat. Yes, each day is a new beginning, a new stab at life.

It was a sunny day, so I decided to walk to work. I nodded politely at my neighbour who passed me in the street, and asked Mrs. Milton how her strawberries were growing. She smiled at me and promised me a bag of them when they were ripe for plucking. I never could quite understand the appeal of interaction; my brother told me there were lots of reasons, something about loneliness, whatever that is. He had tried to explain to me what it felt like one day, by means of comparisons. He said it was like a sense of emptiness, solitude or loss. I had lost a pair of socks earlier that week, but he said it wasn't the same thing. Anyway, after I accepted Mrs. Milton's offer, she made that peculiar sound again. A harsh, grating sound. When I was very young, I learned that it was laughter. My mother used to tickle me, and I too made that sound. But I wasn't tickling Mrs. Milton. When I asked my brother about all the reasons that cause laughter, he tried once again, to explain another phenomena I couldn't comprehend. And I was always top of the class in my school. "You know when something appeals to you?" he had asked. "Like all those video games you play. It makes you feel happy. Some people laugh when they're happy. Or when they say something funny. Then you laugh." I could understand humour; I've read enough Shakespeare to pick up on verbal wit. And sarcasm. Sarcasm is interesting. It's amazing how many people laughed when I made such... sarcastic observations on their lives. What I couldn't understand, was happiness, or why Mrs. Milton would be happy for me to visit. Was I also appealing, like a video game? I never took her for an RPG fan.

I had told my brother several times that I didn't know what happiness was, yet he kept attributing those adjectives to activities I partook in: playing games, buying ties, feeding Molly. He seemed impatient when I merely called those tasks "appealing" and didn't seem to want to explain what 'emotions' were to me. I asked him why. He said that I frightened him at times. I asked what that meant. He told me to go home and rest. That was a few years ago, at a Christmas party. He had bought me a self-help book, and as I person who had never once thought needed help, I questioned him. "Why did you buy me such a useless gift?" I had asked him. "I am perfectly suited to everyday life." It was true. I just left University and landed myself a great job straight away. I rented a nice flat, and got a cat. I regularly spent my money on high quality clothes and holidays. Why did he think I needed more in life? What was there?

After prising myself away from Mrs. Milton's dull anecdote about her grandson, I carried on with my walk, people watching and thinking. It's really quite incredible, how these... walking fleshy objects find importance in each other, in everything. A head, torso, two arms and two legs. Trillions of cells, constantly replacing each other. Organised into a person. Made from a few elements. Too bad I didn't pay much attention in biology. Maybe I could have built one. Then they stop walking, and eventually decompose. It can all be broken down. Simple. What doesn't make sense is this emotions nonsense. I think my brother just made the whole thing up. He's older than me by a few years, probably a joke he can never stop telling. It doesn't even make sense. The closest thing that's made sense to me is: "there is something outside my body, which isn't physical". But I sure as hell don't have it. After all, he mentioned that the brain and emotions relate, yadda yadda, and my brain is something that works, remarkably well. In any case, I've lived my entire life accepting this delusion everyone else seems to have, learning the social etiquette to adapt.

As I was walking, and the cars were whizzing past, a thought entered my mind. What a fun social experiment it would be, to push someone in the road. I mean, I've had fleeting thoughts like it before, but I knew they actually locked people away for that. That means I couldn't do what I wanted any more, for some reason. We all die, after all. But today, it pressed on my mind a little harder. My brother spoke to me about laws and ethics. Laws I could understand. Morals, no. That day, the concept of laws never once crossed my mind. I saw her. A body. A beautiful body. Petite, blonde hair. Yes, I wondered what it would be like to push her in front of a bus. I felt odd that day, like I wasn't really there. It felt like a dream. It didn't really matter if she died; it was just a dream. And even if it wasn't, she would have died in 60 years anyway. That's nothing. A blip in time. A blip in humanity.

She was in front of me, by about three metres. I quickened my pace, and followed her, in a haze. There were too many people around for me to get close enough. I carried on walking. Oh, what a beautiful arrangement of cells she turned out to be! Finally, she stopped to cross the opposite road. Cars were zipping along, greatly exceeding the 30 miles per hour limit. She seemed too distracted to press the pedestrian button, so I did it for her. She smiled at me. My hazy self somehow forced a smile back. A large delivery van was hurtling our way. I stood behind her, mentally timed it, and pushed.

The van impact her body with such force it killed her instantly. It was quite interesting, seeing the limbs tear apart and hearing the bones shatter. Of course, you hear about crashes all the time but to experience it in real life right in front of you, well it really was something. My haze snapped as soon as I saw her head do the same. The driver slammed his breaks down, ruining the beautiful imagery. He could have carried on, as the broken parts of her body fell gracefully to the ground. But no. Several people started yelling. The driver got out straight away, with protests of "He did it, he pushed her right in front of me... I couldn't stop", pointing at me and weeping. It seemed like a nanosecond before three policeman grabbed me and threw me into a car. Well, I thought, this is not like the Thursdays I'm used to.

They asked if I had any remorse over what I did. If only my brother was here to explain; I could have lied my way out of things. I stared blankly at them. "What is remorse?" They winced, made several notes. They asked me more questions, asked who the girl was to me, asked what my motives me. They didn't seem to believe I was in a dream at the time. I tried to explain that she was just flesh, it didn't matter what happened. I was curious and my curiosity was satisfied. They asked how I'd feel if someone did that to my brother. I scratched my nose. "Well, I wouldn't have anyone to beat on online Scrabble any more." They asked if I'd miss him. "Well, I'd miss having someone to explain the 'emotions' better. Y'know, I was always the smarter brother, yet it always bugged me that he seemed to have this unfathomable knowledge. It always hung over my head..."

Five years later and I still can't work out why they put me here. Something about being a mindless monster, according to idle gossip among the nurses, though my genetic make-up surely points to me being human, a rather brilliant pile of flesh and bones.

Well, at least they gave me a diary to write in.

Dream Log

2011-08-11T22:27:00.003+01:00

Deciding to write down my dreams. Dreams from the last fortnight:

- A myriad of dreams about people I miss. This includes hiding under my bed covers with them and watching movies, getting excited over text message conversations, and phone calls.

- Apocalyptic dream 1: I looked outside my bedroom window, and most of the sky was a pleasant sky blue colour, with patches of yellow. Except for one patch of sky, which was bright red and raining fire. Anyone under the patch of sky was dying, and the houses and trees were also burning. I called my mother over, and we spent the rest of the dream watching.

- I was in a room with a huge swimming pool. In the pool was a naked man, but the atmosphere was surreal, more than comical. Somebody walked by and dropped a toaster in the water, and I watched the man get electrocuted.

- Apocalyptic dream 2: My best friend and I were escaping from hail and snow, consciously trying to kill us. We ran to the nearest library, along with several other people, for safety. Then we (somehow) managed to get on a train to take us out of the city, presumably to a place with less murderous weather (though the hail and snow would've probably followed us).

- I was in a room with a conveyor belt. On the belt were semi-nude men, being presented to me one-by-one and I had to rate them. It was very... objectifying.

Perception: Wonder

2011-08-04T14:05:00.002+01:00

My little collection of thoughts on the sense of wonder. Not particularly profound, just a few ways I see things.

One of my favourite feelings in the world is the glorious, child-like wonder upon the change of perception of an idea, particularly when this perception exceeds your current expectations of whatever idea you have. Life is akin to a video game; as you progress through the game you gain skills, explore new areas and earn more freedom. As a baby, you crawl around your crib. As a toddler, you totter around your play pen, you learn words and make sentences with them. Things begin to make a bit more sense. As a young child, you attend nursery school, interact with a class full of children and with grown-ups who are not your parents and learn that "milk is good for you", followed by milk breaks. Then you go to Disneyland, and because you've developed enough sense of the world, you know this is magical place. You know fancy costumes and roller-coasters aren't the usual part of daily life, but you also know it's a treat. You grow up a little more and figure out what an orgasm is. Mind blown. Perhaps you're even enjoying school at this point. Perhaps learning about wars, literature and trigonometry fascinates you. At this point you know that there is a realm of knowledge and experiences waiting for you.

The unbounded sense of adventure.

There is the misfortune of this wonder being diminished because of the awareness of future knowledge. After all, you learn new things in school; it is to be expected. The wonder comes from the surprise and delight of discovering something completely unexpected. On visiting new countries, it isn't the same reading about it than actually experiencing it. That goes for doing something for the first time. An extreme sport, eating a grasshopper. A new feeling also boasts a heightened sense of perception. I constantly push myself to learn more and experience more because of this child-like curiosity I have adopted over the years.

A few weeks ago I visited my friend at her house (her family home). I got incredibly excited over all the stuff in their house, which was personal to THEM. Their own mugs, spice racks, etc. Even an engraved wooden spoon her parents got for their wedding, hanging over their kitchen sink. All their stuff accumulated over the years, into one house. This on its own isn't particularly special; everyone maintains their own home, after all. What amazed me, however, was the thought that some of these things were decades old, still appreciated enough to belong in their home. Each room in a house requires an incredible amount of care and bears its own personal touch.

A few months ago, I was reading about proposed tall structures and buildings upon learning that Saudi Arabia are planning to build a mile-high tower, thus beating the Burj Khalifa in Dubai. Whilst thinking this was both awesome and ridiculous, I knew there would be more proposed ideas, probably even more ludicrous, in the future. To which I found the X-Seed 4000, the Dubai City Tower, the Shimizu Mega-City Pyramid and the Ultima Tower (which promptly had me giggling). Not to mention the entire page of proposed ideas on Wikipedia. Sadly, the majority of these structures are too large/heavy to be built anytime soon (including this total penis of a building), but the ideas themselves blew me away. It was beyond anything I had thought of myself.

Not to mention giant ships, airplanes, the Megapenny Project, ferrofluids, unheard puns and the comparative size charts of stars.

Learning from others and teaching is very valuable. I care very little what others think of me in public. Therefore, I taught my friend to make obnoxiously shrill noises from a blade of grass, much to his utter delight (OK, mostly my delight at shocking people with the unexpected).

Exaggerations

2011-07-28T01:49:00.000+01:00

Life's greatest moments are merely exaggerations of the mediocrity we've come to expect. The normalcy of living.

The greatest movie-like kiss, the euphoria of playing music on stage, the thrill of a sky-dive.

The positive anxiety which fleets.

Though the usual mediocrity gives the benchmark for which greatness is measured against.

Similarly, the most deplorable situations are the negative exaggerations of life. They are [hopefully] fleeting.

We strive for those great moments, but a... 'practicality' within us allows acceptance of the general mediocrity without constant distress for more. Most of us, anyway.

A life-long orgasm probably isn't as great as one would think.

Emptiness

2011-07-04T20:52:00.001+01:00

The feeling of emptiness is a heavy, heavy burden, ironically. Painted during a time of reflection. Another adaptation of an abstract twitter thought.

Painted on a 12" by 9" canvas board, using acrylics:

Mixing plate, because it looks pretty:

Heart thread

2011-06-26T03:10:00.023+01:00

Every now and again, I feel rather melancholic, and write snippets of wax poetic musings on my twitter account. Yesterday I felt a bit odd, so I decided to illustrate one of my musings. It helped. It's rather simple, but ah well.

Painted on a 20" by 16" canvas board. The shadow picking out the thread was an artistic afterthought. Silly camera phone distorted the colours.

Exquisite torture advice: Pick at the stitches purposely placed, and lament over the damage of this action.

Why I love Opeth so much

2011-06-20T13:11:00.004+01:00

Nearly four years ago, I wrote a last.fm journal about why Opeth are my favourite band. I still like the journal (plus they're still my favourite band), so I am re-posting it here:

Ten reasons why Opeth are MY favourite band:

(I am aware they may not be yours. You may even hate them. Nonetheless, my rather un-subtle list may successfully brainwash you.)

1. Death vocals.
To me, Mikael Åkerfeldt possesses the greatest set of lungs for death vocals. It is somewhat of a necessity to have death vocals in Death metal music; the brutality of the music demands it. However, I find a majority of death vocals to be unsatisfactory; that could range from squealing like a pig (Cradle of Filth comes to mind [purposely unlinked to repel any modern CoF fans]); so gutturally low that the lyrics are indistinguishable (as much as Nile’s music batter the mind in a positive way, I cannot for the life of me work out the words half the time. Shame, because the lyrics are rather interesting); or a gurgling grunting snort found in porno / coprophilia-obsessed grindcore bands. I digress. Not only are Åkerfeldt’s vocals demonic and layered enough to give the elderly a mass heart attack, the lyrics are actually clear. It is quite evident there isn’t much strain on his vocal chords. *coughDaniFilthcough*

2. Clean vocals.
Good lord, he can actually SING as well?! Unlike many of today’s death and clean vocalists (Anders Fridén springs to mind), Åkerfeldt is an excellent singer. Soothing and calm, his clean vocals provide a complete contrast to said growled vocals. I love how in one song there are several transitions between clean and growled.

3. Progression.
Perhaps I am simply a Progressive metal freak, or perhaps I am a sucker for cross rhythms, odd time signatures and elaborated chord progressions. Either way, Opeth go beyond what is considered the norm for Progressive metal, incorporating a churning death metal sound mixed with acoustic passages and influences from jazz, folk and blues. Though a majority of their songs are around ten minutes (not including the impressive twenty minute Black Rose Immortal), whether it’s the constant rhythm or tempo changes, the awareness of time is halved. Take Deliverance for example: only six songs, yet the album is over sixty minutes long.

4. Transition.
One minute you’re listening to a slow folksy passage, the next is a full ear assault (fully complete with well crafted blast beats and a frenzied solo). The transitions between the moods are amazing. Take Bleak for example; after a fantastic acoustic interlude, an electric guitar slowly starts to creep in, then the pummelling drum and bass work kicks in, even topped off with a solo. And The Leper Affinity (to name one of many) is a constant alteration of heavy-light-heavy-light, finally deciding to end with a piano.

5. Texture.
It’s all about texture. Layers up layers of gorgeous guitar melodies, technical instrumental interludes, ferocious double bass drumming, sweeping atmospheric keyboards – it’s all there. Behind the merger between Death metal and Progressive rock are albums, which reign with melody and harmony – pure interweaving intricate instrumentation.

6. Mood and atmosphere.
My God, this is one hell of an atmospheric band. The relishing complex bass work provides the deep and full sound that Opeth are the masters of. Dissonance plays a key role. For example, in The Moor, though the introduction is gentle enough, the unsettling nuances of diminished and augmented chord progressions in the acoustic guitar prepares the listener for a change of mood. The band persistently interchanges characteristics, from antagonistic to placid to melancholy. Indeed, my first Opeth song Demon of the Fall, begins with huge monstrous vocals, eventually veering into soft and sorrowful territory: “Run away, run away.” Songs such as Harvest, Patterns in the Ivy and Benighted focuses on Opeth’s lush and ambient side exclusively. Beauty versus brutality. Opeth’s music can convey several emotions in just one album.

7. Lyrical content.
Without resorting to emo-esque lyrics – “The blade I hold clambers to slash my internal struggle of pain away” (yes, that was a shoddy attempt) – Opeth manage to create absolutely alluring and powerful poetry. Lyrics aren’t too much of a focus for me, unless the band intends to convey a deeper meaning or present a concept. Lyrical content ranges from love and grief: “No joy would flicker in her eyes… / … That hollow love in her face,” malevolency: “His mouth is a vortex / Sucking you into its pandemonium”, to the downright odd: “Wearing the mask of the ghost / Smeared across my skin / Rotting earth and insects”. In the concept album My Arms, Your Hearse, to enhance the flow of the albums, the last word(s) of each song is name of the following, with "Epilogue" leading to “Prologue”, to complete the cycle.

8. Damnation.
I suppose Damnation deserves a reason of its own; they certainly transcend above many bands, exploring and experimenting beyond what is considered their trademark “Progressive death metal” formula. Instead, it is an entirely Progressive rock album. Mellow it may be, void of the crushing guitars, but perfectly sculpted with elegiac songs. The almost viscous minimalism does not take away the intensity. In Closure, the twisted intervals in the passages are still heavily present, accentuated by the dense orchestration. (A rather similar comparison would be Porcupine Tree.)

9. Consistency.
(I do not mean that every album sounds the same.) Each album is consistent in the fact that they are all masterpieces, even with the differences from album to album. Orchidstarted their signature sound, and it has continued in their favour up until Ghost Reveries. I honestly cannot name a favourite album, and even less so, a favourite song. Though Ghost Reveries and My Arms, Your Hearse are my top Opeth albums on Last.fm, there is really no preference. I hope that they continue in this vein, for I shall be devastated if Mendez exchanges his bass for a musical saw (as cool as that instrument is).

And finally…

10. The almighty “O”.

Satan's diary

2011-05-29T19:19:00.000+01:00

A Day in the Life of Satan

9:00am

The newcomers arrive. Some slightly marred in places; a few gunshots here and there, slashes, needle marks, nothing too interesting. I miss the good old days of seeing souls carrying their own heads, or those sporting lumps of household objects stuck in dubious places.

10:00am

I stride into the waiting room, turn imperiously with my cape billowing behind me and E diminished organ chords playing in the background. Some cower. I smirk to myself. Still got it. I give them the introductory speech about their eternal damnation, bla bla bla… Before they submit to tears (God [God? Hah] I hate that) I remind them of the endless, hellish, torturous fun in store for them.

11:00am

The main events. We don’t like remorse in hell. I encourage sinners to take pride in their earthly crimes (more jollities for myself). There are many who remorse, unaware that it’s too late, the big guy in the sky doesn’t want them, and they should be delighted to spend eternity with me. I don’t like to feel unwanted. Sniff. I take the newcomers to a hall. There, the remorseful stay; I coax the newcomers to play an assortment of delightful games with them: “Monopolise”, “Pin the Tail on the Remorseful” and a family favourite, “Who Really Doesn’t Want to Be Here?” A couple of the newcomers protest, so onto the remorseful list they go! Unlike Him, I give my slaves – er, my friends a second chance, so if they wish to embrace hell, they can go in my good (har dee har har) books again.

3:00pm

Because I am so kind, I let the newcomers have their fun first. Now it is my turn. I divide the pitiable mob into three groups. One to clean hell – signed souls do leave a bit of a mess; one to help decorate hell – a bit of manual labour won’t hurt, the more statues of me, the better; and one to push boulders from A to B, because, well, it’s funny to watch.

8:00pm

Meal time. There are an assortment of delicacies to feast upon – fire toads, lava worms, flaming crows. Some souls looked reluctant; others took a bite after justified trident prodding, and promptly spewed. I chuckled (not very “evil” I know) to myself, relishing that burrito I had earlier. As much as I love hell, the food on earth is to DIE for. I simply ooze wit.

10:00pm

Back to forcing the newcomers and indeed, the rest of my minions to carry on with their tasks, for the rest of the night. Souls don’t need to sleep! Do I go easy on them because they are new? Nahh.

After all, it’s how I get my kicks.

Sleep paralysis

2011-05-27T22:33:00.001+01:00

Because sometimes, the party in your head beats reality.

I have a pretty interesting subconscious. I lucid dream and astral project. I design intricate tattoos that I could never reproduce in real life, create and rule my own cities like the twisted she-demon I am, and engage in several illicit acts. Unfortunately, with that comes dream paralysis. A quick summary: it is a period when the body is unable to move whilst experiencing hallucinations. They are hella annoying. I sleep terribly, and wake up about four times a night, so it's no wonder I'm prone to them.

I experienced quite a severe case of it on Tuesday:

I woke up at 12, but decided to go back to sleep (I hadn't slept for 39 hours, and decided to sleep for as long as my body wanted to - 14 hours in this case), and got 'stuck' in some nightmare dream world. I couldn't move for what felt like hours. I was trying to wake up, in my normal room, but I ended up snapping back into my bed after a few minutes, realising it was just a dream. The same process happened again, and I was crawling out of bed in agonisingly slow movements. Then I snapped back into bed. The third time I decided I may as well jump out of my window since it was bound to be a dream, so I climbed out to try it, but for a wild second I thought it MIGHT be real and didn't want to risk death, so I managed to climb back down to the ground, in my pyjamas, with dream-people staring at me. I realised I was definitely dreaming then. So went back into my house and threw myself down the stairs to see how that felt. I was in a lot of pain, but I DID NOT WAKE UP PROPERLY. I found myself in bed, and started hallucinating again. I did sleepgasm though. The only positive thing to come from this.

Then I could control my breathing, but only move some parts of my body, such as my left hand, but not my right. It felt like hours, but I think it was in the space of 15 minutes. I could open my eyes, breath and blink and stare at my poster, and not much else. My poster was shape-shifting, with red dots circling around it. When I breathed in sharply, I did wake up properly, for 5 seconds, until I slipped back into hallucinating.

This happens a LOT.

Sometimes it takes about 10 fake awakenings before I'm awake in reality.

I hallucinate much more terrifying things than just my poster shape-shifting and strange people outside my window. When I was younger, I used to see faces and teeth in front of me, but I couldn't move or do anything. I'd see my wardrobe opening by itself. I'd see the wall start to move. It scared me shitless.

At least it's an adventure.

Travelling

2011-05-24T18:48:00.003+01:00

Today I counted the number of tickets I've saved up in my bag. It amounts to 171 tickets. So I neatly laid them on the floor to take a picture.

When I started using trains I lot I didn't bother saving them, and ticket-eating machines have claimed quite a few of them, so I've travelled a lot more. But still, my floor enjoys the company:

Indian shop observations

2011-04-21T17:53:00.001+01:00

I love going to the Indian side shops with my dad and sister in Preston. So many bizarrely named vegetables, and ridiculously over-sized jars of condiments. For the serious mustard fans out there:

There is about 5 calories in a teaspoon of mustard. So that's around 1667 (give or take a fair amount, maybe) calories. Wahey!

And I believe there's some prawn cocktail paste concoction in the background. Delicious.

5 kg of chilli! For your enemies.

Hell, let's just stock up on everything. ;D My kind of a feast.

Wax poetic musing

2011-04-19T17:31:00.001+01:00

In the journey of life, people are a series of dots and dashes, a "Morse code" society, if you will. Family members being the longest lines (with luck); the man on the bus a mere dot, leaving no significant impact.

There is no confirmation how long those dashes will last, or whether the potential lines are just dots after all. No guarantee almost begs for inherent human selfishness.

Tragic, really.

Of course, this is a merely nihilistic view, and slightly negative.