Earlier today, while thinking about this and that ( Chris is phat!) I had an idea of mild yet wild proportions. You are quite correct if you were assuming that this thought had to do with Time. Although if you assumed it was about Don McLean, me, and Bandcamp '99, you wouldn't be far off!
Time is... is what exactly? What in Metatron's name is it?!? Now I'm sure many people will point to clocks and watches at this point, but I have an answer for that. I have an answer for most things actually... Time not being one of them.
Clocks. I can see what some of you are getting at, but you are most definitely incorrect. "Clocks" is a song by Coldplay, 5.07 minutes and Record of the Year 2004, amongst other things. What a clock does is measure our perception of the passage of time. Our perception of time. I think that is the downfall when we try to broach this subject. But what else can we expect from those who only use 10% of their brains - some less (though this may in fact be a myth...)
Time is something that we cannot see, we cannot touch, hear, taste or smell. It is an idea we have conceived in order to make sense of the world around us, but we don't understand Time itself. And in all honesty, trying to understand Time is like trying to understand how vastly hugely mindboggingly big space is. Or like trying to work out what infinity is. Or why I walk around shouting "Voldemort's Nipple". Yeah, its pretty tough.
So, I think having convinced you that you are wrong about Time, and that I have very little idea of what I am talking about, I think it appropriate to take my leave.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Makes Me Wonder
The interweb: a strange and wonderful tool (but a tool none the less). One which the world could not survive if it were to go on the blinker. In fact, the interweb, and the computer by extension, has become so much a part of our lives, that I think we as the Human Race would not be able to complete everyday functions. We would fall and crumble to the mice of the world, and eventually, monkeys too.
Alright... thats not quite where I'm heading, so keep your pants off (or on, if you'd prefer).
The interweb is strange in that you are able to research so many things - certainly more than you could ever know or ever need to know, and that people could search YOU on it. Yes. It's true. All your base are belong to them!
You see, all this came about within my mind when I was on an unnamed social networking site, which I will call "My Facebook Page", for anonymity. I was busy plundering around, looking at the 'Potter Puppet Pals' page, and joining 'Yugioh: The Abridged Series' page (both are rib-destroyingly awesome!) when I noticed that I had a Personal Message wating for me.
My curiosity piqued as I don't often get such attention, I made the tough decison: I'd see who sent it, and what was said.
It was from one Christian (Insert Surname Here). The message contained was thus: "Here is a Chris (Insert Same Surname Here) from Brazil...but I'm living in Rome. Take care."
So, what I assume is that this guy decides to search his own name, can see that I am the top of the heap, so he sends me a message. Or maybe sent everyone with a common name the same message?
But that is strange right? I remember a month or two back, another person I didn't know asking if I was the person that they knew. I suppose thats more normal. But this other guy's actions are a tad strange.
I'm going to have to employ some anti-stalker tactics (unless its Shrike) to keep me from harm.
This is how all murders start... so I've made the safe choice and have not and will not reply to him. Even if he does nearly share my name.
On a side, and final note, I'd also like to mention that the murderous stalker says he's in Rome... why? It makes no sense to me at all. It's in Italy for Goodness Sake! A travesty in accordance with my near name! Such things to me, they bring shame.
Alright... thats not quite where I'm heading, so keep your pants off (or on, if you'd prefer).
The interweb is strange in that you are able to research so many things - certainly more than you could ever know or ever need to know, and that people could search YOU on it. Yes. It's true. All your base are belong to them!
You see, all this came about within my mind when I was on an unnamed social networking site, which I will call "My Facebook Page", for anonymity. I was busy plundering around, looking at the 'Potter Puppet Pals' page, and joining 'Yugioh: The Abridged Series' page (both are rib-destroyingly awesome!) when I noticed that I had a Personal Message wating for me.
My curiosity piqued as I don't often get such attention, I made the tough decison: I'd see who sent it, and what was said.
It was from one Christian (Insert Surname Here). The message contained was thus: "Here is a Chris (Insert Same Surname Here) from Brazil...but I'm living in Rome. Take care."
So, what I assume is that this guy decides to search his own name, can see that I am the top of the heap, so he sends me a message. Or maybe sent everyone with a common name the same message?
But that is strange right? I remember a month or two back, another person I didn't know asking if I was the person that they knew. I suppose thats more normal. But this other guy's actions are a tad strange.
I'm going to have to employ some anti-stalker tactics (unless its Shrike) to keep me from harm.
This is how all murders start... so I've made the safe choice and have not and will not reply to him. Even if he does nearly share my name.
On a side, and final note, I'd also like to mention that the murderous stalker says he's in Rome... why? It makes no sense to me at all. It's in Italy for Goodness Sake! A travesty in accordance with my near name! Such things to me, they bring shame.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Sunburn
As he sat on the wooden steps of his back porch, letting the morning’s orange sunrise splash across his weathered face, a feeling of déjà vu came over him. He had seen this before, sometime, somewhere, exactly the same yet not the same at all. He did not let this sensation disturb him, but rather he reveled in it. He basked in the comfort the sense gave him, and he leaned back. He hadn’t felt this much at peace since he had been moved here, when his memories had begun anew, with naught but a safe, and the words of the officer in his ears, not to open the box until he felt the time was right.
That had been many years ago.
A flash of bright orange sunlight streaming through branches swaying lightly.
He sat up sharply. This time it was not déjà vu; it was memory – from his lost life! Something long forgotten, something he wished he could have back. He lay down, closed his eyes, and tried to control his rapidly increasing heart rate. A few minutes of silence, interrupted only by birds singing, and crickets chirruping, and the steadying breaths of the man.
Bright orange sunlight streamed through trees; leaving orange patches on the green lawn as the young man took in his surroundings. He was filled with joy, optimism, barely controlled calm and most of all, a burning love. He smiled as he recalled the previous night, putting the ring on her finger…
The rest of the memory faded into the vivid light. He felt slightly winded; how could he have felt such love, been engaged, and have no apparent knowledge of it. He tried to recreate his fiancé’s face, but found himself unable.
“This is it,” he thought. The time felt right, this has got to be it, the time to open the safe. His heart started pounding as his body caught up with his mind. He started shaking, in anticipation, anger and fear. He went to the cupboard he knew contained the safe key.
He was unable to keep steady in his attempt to open the safe. He tried using both hands, and the key went in. He took a deep breath, and turned, hearing it click into place. The door slowly opened of its own accord, the hinges moved as if oiled recently. Inside was an envelope yellowing with age.
It was addressed to him. It was his own handwriting.
The seal had already been broken. Had he opened it before? As he pulled out the paper within it, a smaller piece of paper fell from the envelope. He picked it up. It was written in his own hand, containing only three words.
I am sorry
That didn’t make sense at all. He was now confused, and more than a little curious as to the truth of his own past. He set down his note, and opened the larger folded paper. It too was addressed to him, the handwriting eerily familiar, yet he could not place it.
"I’m missing you already! It’s only been three days since we saw each other, but it feels like an eternity!"
A clear thought floated to the surface of his consciousness – it was from his fiancé, a few years before they became engaged.
"I guess we can manage two more weeks till I get back, right? So far the family’s been good. It’s nice to meet all the cousins and aunts and uncles that I haven’t seen since the last reunion. It makes for interesting stories, and I’ve already got a few juicy ones stored that I’m sure you’d be interested in!"
The rest of the letter continued in a similar train of thought, and caused him to feel a slew of emotions rise, and memories to almost surface, surely as the time he had first read it. He smiled wanly as he read on. How could he have forgotten something so beautiful? He choked up on the last lines:
"I love you,
Megan"
He wiped at the tears forming in his eyes, both of anger and sadness. How could he be deprived of such a thing? How could he be deprived of a love he had?
Memories danced tantalizingly, just out of reach.
He wondered how his own note related to this, other than with leaving him no answers to his many questions. He stared at her letter, Megan’s letter, trying to take in all the details, the neat hand, the tendency to give a tail to the 'a's, and elongate the lines of the 't's, the slight smudging of ink where her hand must have brushed, and the way she had written “I love you”.
He tried again to remember what she looked like, but that, like all the other memories he knew were in uproar, was avoiding him. He looked to close the safe door, when he noticed a piece of card on the bottom of it. He picked it up. There was a date on it, a year or two before he’d arrived at this house, and a name – Megan.
He turned it gently in his hands. It was a sepia photograph of a beautiful, compelling woman. Megan. His breath hitched. As he looked at her face, stared into her gorgeous eyes, his heart felt suddenly desperate, and the memories arrived in torrents.
A flash of a hospital room, being strapped to a chair, an empty room, needles, precision knives, tubes and wires, a mound of earth, medical equipment of the sort to drive the bravest men away, blood, crying faces.
As the memories flooded him, he felt the emotions of the memories rushing through him, despair, anger, loss – complete and total loss, guilt, fear, depression, disgust, horror and suffering. So many emotions he had never felt so close together and in such intensity as now, he felt as if his head would cave in or fracture.
With a pounding headache, he realized what had happened, the true horror of his past and why it had been kept hidden. Why he had said he was sorry and why the emotions were so intense.
He had gone mad. Gone mad with guilt, grief, and immense suffering. He had himself committed to a mental institution. He couldn’t live with himself, not after what happened, not after all that he lived for had been taken away from him, in one foul and bloody swoop.
He had found some measure of comfort that the procedure he would endure would erase his memories up till that point, so he wouldn’t have to think about what had happened. But for this he felt guilt at not being able to remember his love, so he wrote a note for himself, put it along with a letter from Megan - her first to him, and a photo of her. He told the hospital orderly what he wanted done with it, and hope that they would respect his wishes.
But now, he had those memories, they were his again, but he wished fervently that they weren’t. Disgust, a cold fear and wave of despair fell over him, as if it had occurred yesterday, or even today.
He smiled as he recalled the previous night, putting the ring on her finger.
He thought that his life was complete; he had money, a house but most importantly, a beautiful, loving fiancé. Life couldn’t get any better.
A few hours later he set out to meet her for breakfast. He got no answer at the door. Finding the spare key, he let himself inside.
He immediately noticed the stillness in the air, the curtains all still closed. He cautiously made his way through the rooms. He gasped in shock when he entered her bedroom, and gagged at the smell. The walls were painted blood red, Megan lying in a pool of her own blood, hardly recognizable, engagement ring still on her finger.
He let out an inhuman scream of anguish as he dove to her side.
She couldn’t be dead, not his Megan!
He tried to find a pulse, “It’s going to be alright, please. Hold on, Megan! Hold on!” He struggled in vain, finding no sign of life, other than that flowing out of her.
His body became racked with sobs as the truth set in, as he realized that she could not be saved. Someone had found it appropriate to steal her breath, and in such a brutal manner.
It was hours later when the police pried the emotional man from his fiancé’s mutilated body. Her death was something he would never understand, so needless. So senseless. So cruel. It was all he had, now gone.
He was still looking at her picture, through his tears as he remembered her, when he saw at the bottom of the picture was a caption. His tears redoubled their efforts as he saw the words were the same she’d used to agree to his proposal.
Forever Yours
That had been many years ago.
A flash of bright orange sunlight streaming through branches swaying lightly.
He sat up sharply. This time it was not déjà vu; it was memory – from his lost life! Something long forgotten, something he wished he could have back. He lay down, closed his eyes, and tried to control his rapidly increasing heart rate. A few minutes of silence, interrupted only by birds singing, and crickets chirruping, and the steadying breaths of the man.
Bright orange sunlight streamed through trees; leaving orange patches on the green lawn as the young man took in his surroundings. He was filled with joy, optimism, barely controlled calm and most of all, a burning love. He smiled as he recalled the previous night, putting the ring on her finger…
The rest of the memory faded into the vivid light. He felt slightly winded; how could he have felt such love, been engaged, and have no apparent knowledge of it. He tried to recreate his fiancé’s face, but found himself unable.
“This is it,” he thought. The time felt right, this has got to be it, the time to open the safe. His heart started pounding as his body caught up with his mind. He started shaking, in anticipation, anger and fear. He went to the cupboard he knew contained the safe key.
He was unable to keep steady in his attempt to open the safe. He tried using both hands, and the key went in. He took a deep breath, and turned, hearing it click into place. The door slowly opened of its own accord, the hinges moved as if oiled recently. Inside was an envelope yellowing with age.
It was addressed to him. It was his own handwriting.
The seal had already been broken. Had he opened it before? As he pulled out the paper within it, a smaller piece of paper fell from the envelope. He picked it up. It was written in his own hand, containing only three words.
I am sorry
That didn’t make sense at all. He was now confused, and more than a little curious as to the truth of his own past. He set down his note, and opened the larger folded paper. It too was addressed to him, the handwriting eerily familiar, yet he could not place it.
"I’m missing you already! It’s only been three days since we saw each other, but it feels like an eternity!"
A clear thought floated to the surface of his consciousness – it was from his fiancé, a few years before they became engaged.
"I guess we can manage two more weeks till I get back, right? So far the family’s been good. It’s nice to meet all the cousins and aunts and uncles that I haven’t seen since the last reunion. It makes for interesting stories, and I’ve already got a few juicy ones stored that I’m sure you’d be interested in!"
The rest of the letter continued in a similar train of thought, and caused him to feel a slew of emotions rise, and memories to almost surface, surely as the time he had first read it. He smiled wanly as he read on. How could he have forgotten something so beautiful? He choked up on the last lines:
"I love you,
Megan"
He wiped at the tears forming in his eyes, both of anger and sadness. How could he be deprived of such a thing? How could he be deprived of a love he had?
Memories danced tantalizingly, just out of reach.
He wondered how his own note related to this, other than with leaving him no answers to his many questions. He stared at her letter, Megan’s letter, trying to take in all the details, the neat hand, the tendency to give a tail to the 'a's, and elongate the lines of the 't's, the slight smudging of ink where her hand must have brushed, and the way she had written “I love you”.
He tried again to remember what she looked like, but that, like all the other memories he knew were in uproar, was avoiding him. He looked to close the safe door, when he noticed a piece of card on the bottom of it. He picked it up. There was a date on it, a year or two before he’d arrived at this house, and a name – Megan.
He turned it gently in his hands. It was a sepia photograph of a beautiful, compelling woman. Megan. His breath hitched. As he looked at her face, stared into her gorgeous eyes, his heart felt suddenly desperate, and the memories arrived in torrents.
A flash of a hospital room, being strapped to a chair, an empty room, needles, precision knives, tubes and wires, a mound of earth, medical equipment of the sort to drive the bravest men away, blood, crying faces.
As the memories flooded him, he felt the emotions of the memories rushing through him, despair, anger, loss – complete and total loss, guilt, fear, depression, disgust, horror and suffering. So many emotions he had never felt so close together and in such intensity as now, he felt as if his head would cave in or fracture.
With a pounding headache, he realized what had happened, the true horror of his past and why it had been kept hidden. Why he had said he was sorry and why the emotions were so intense.
He had gone mad. Gone mad with guilt, grief, and immense suffering. He had himself committed to a mental institution. He couldn’t live with himself, not after what happened, not after all that he lived for had been taken away from him, in one foul and bloody swoop.
He had found some measure of comfort that the procedure he would endure would erase his memories up till that point, so he wouldn’t have to think about what had happened. But for this he felt guilt at not being able to remember his love, so he wrote a note for himself, put it along with a letter from Megan - her first to him, and a photo of her. He told the hospital orderly what he wanted done with it, and hope that they would respect his wishes.
But now, he had those memories, they were his again, but he wished fervently that they weren’t. Disgust, a cold fear and wave of despair fell over him, as if it had occurred yesterday, or even today.
He smiled as he recalled the previous night, putting the ring on her finger.
He thought that his life was complete; he had money, a house but most importantly, a beautiful, loving fiancé. Life couldn’t get any better.
A few hours later he set out to meet her for breakfast. He got no answer at the door. Finding the spare key, he let himself inside.
He immediately noticed the stillness in the air, the curtains all still closed. He cautiously made his way through the rooms. He gasped in shock when he entered her bedroom, and gagged at the smell. The walls were painted blood red, Megan lying in a pool of her own blood, hardly recognizable, engagement ring still on her finger.
He let out an inhuman scream of anguish as he dove to her side.
She couldn’t be dead, not his Megan!
He tried to find a pulse, “It’s going to be alright, please. Hold on, Megan! Hold on!” He struggled in vain, finding no sign of life, other than that flowing out of her.
His body became racked with sobs as the truth set in, as he realized that she could not be saved. Someone had found it appropriate to steal her breath, and in such a brutal manner.
It was hours later when the police pried the emotional man from his fiancé’s mutilated body. Her death was something he would never understand, so needless. So senseless. So cruel. It was all he had, now gone.
He was still looking at her picture, through his tears as he remembered her, when he saw at the bottom of the picture was a caption. His tears redoubled their efforts as he saw the words were the same she’d used to agree to his proposal.
Forever Yours
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Scandalous Scholastics
Well, I suppose I should explain the situation. On Day 6 and Day 1 on my school timetable I have so-called "study periods". A misnomer if there ever was one, I'll let you know. So today happened to be Day 1, and our "study period" happens to be in the last slot of classes for the day.
Unfortunately, we were not allocated a set classroom for this, so a few of the guys (myself included!!! yay!) started kicking around a soccer ball. After much fun and frolicking in the sun, our Dean stopped our joyous activity. Apparently we should have known better than to frolick, epecially since some of us had applied for leadership opportunities in the school (hangs in head in most total and desperate shame... *sad face... twice* ).
She, the Dean, then kindly removed possession of the ball from ourselves to herself in an act of what I'm sure will be seen by her as saving us from ourselves. But I don't see how that could or should apply to this situation. Hmmm... let me ponder...
So anyway, after a telling off, a pat on the back for good work and fair amount of time later, I was given the Most Noble Quest of Finding Hami. Indeed 'twas an honour. In my Quest I was joined by two loyal compatriots of whom I could trust. One, an applicant for the highest leadership level for blokes, the other, on a complete caffeine high. You ever seen "Over The Hedge"? That's what he was like, that Squirrel... actually, I think that Squirrel was named Hammy... let me check. HEY!!! It is!! What a co-inkidink! Actually, I don't believe in those... it's a CONSPIRACY!!!!!!!!!!!
Moving along, the Applicant, Hammy, and Myself began our search for Hami by going through his usual haunts. Several building stories, some fast talking, a lot of confusion, a Geo teacher, and the school office later, we were unable to find him.
We had to report our not so successful Quest to our Dean, who only mildly tortured us for the failure, for which we are all grateful. We will live to see another day. What I am most upset about is that we did not find Hami. Because had we done so, the possibilities could have been endless!
Moral of the Story: Find a way to incorporate an Applicant and especially some one on a caffeine high into looking for Hami, as a Quest. Scandalous scholastics: it pays.
Unfortunately, we were not allocated a set classroom for this, so a few of the guys (myself included!!! yay!) started kicking around a soccer ball. After much fun and frolicking in the sun, our Dean stopped our joyous activity. Apparently we should have known better than to frolick, epecially since some of us had applied for leadership opportunities in the school (hangs in head in most total and desperate shame... *sad face... twice* ).
She, the Dean, then kindly removed possession of the ball from ourselves to herself in an act of what I'm sure will be seen by her as saving us from ourselves. But I don't see how that could or should apply to this situation. Hmmm... let me ponder...
So anyway, after a telling off, a pat on the back for good work and fair amount of time later, I was given the Most Noble Quest of Finding Hami. Indeed 'twas an honour. In my Quest I was joined by two loyal compatriots of whom I could trust. One, an applicant for the highest leadership level for blokes, the other, on a complete caffeine high. You ever seen "Over The Hedge"? That's what he was like, that Squirrel... actually, I think that Squirrel was named Hammy... let me check. HEY!!! It is!! What a co-inkidink! Actually, I don't believe in those... it's a CONSPIRACY!!!!!!!!!!!
Moving along, the Applicant, Hammy, and Myself began our search for Hami by going through his usual haunts. Several building stories, some fast talking, a lot of confusion, a Geo teacher, and the school office later, we were unable to find him.
We had to report our not so successful Quest to our Dean, who only mildly tortured us for the failure, for which we are all grateful. We will live to see another day. What I am most upset about is that we did not find Hami. Because had we done so, the possibilities could have been endless!
Moral of the Story: Find a way to incorporate an Applicant and especially some one on a caffeine high into looking for Hami, as a Quest. Scandalous scholastics: it pays.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
All Good Things Come To An End
What I honestly can't believe is that I have already had two months of holidays and am now back at school. Today was just my first day back getting into the spirit of things, so just going to classes, saying hi to Hami, having quite the entourage in Chemystery, handing in some paper, and being introduced to new teachers. Also, I got Accounting and English homework. How sad is that? I guess it was almost balanced out by the fact that we had a study (FREE!!) period at the end of the day. Unfortunately my next isn't for another 5 school days. Damn.
But I caught up with old friends, made no new ones, and stuff. So all in all, it was interesting.
Yet, I find it strange, that where I am is at the start of my final year at school. It is honestly something I never expected to actually arrive. I never thought I would actually get out of the place, and now that I am so close it just doesn't feel right. There's just something off about it. Its a strange feeling to know that, barring something going terribly wrong, I won't be back at school as a student next year. That this year is going to be the last time I'm going to see the majority of the kids in my year, and obviously from every other year. Our close knit community is going to broken up and there won't be any stitches lying around to put it back together. We're all going to go our separate ways making promises of seeing each other and keeping up, yet that is more than likely not a reality. At least not in the sense that everyone who says it, will in fact do so.
Well, this is really just more of a thought than something foot ticklingly hilarious, but its gonna have to do, hey?
In the not so immortal words of Mosely, Hills, Furtado and Martin...
Honestly what will become of me?
Don't like reality
It's way too clear to me
But really life is dandy
We are what we don't see
Missed everything daydreaming
But I caught up with old friends, made no new ones, and stuff. So all in all, it was interesting.
Yet, I find it strange, that where I am is at the start of my final year at school. It is honestly something I never expected to actually arrive. I never thought I would actually get out of the place, and now that I am so close it just doesn't feel right. There's just something off about it. Its a strange feeling to know that, barring something going terribly wrong, I won't be back at school as a student next year. That this year is going to be the last time I'm going to see the majority of the kids in my year, and obviously from every other year. Our close knit community is going to broken up and there won't be any stitches lying around to put it back together. We're all going to go our separate ways making promises of seeing each other and keeping up, yet that is more than likely not a reality. At least not in the sense that everyone who says it, will in fact do so.
Well, this is really just more of a thought than something foot ticklingly hilarious, but its gonna have to do, hey?
In the not so immortal words of Mosely, Hills, Furtado and Martin...
Honestly what will become of me?
Don't like reality
It's way too clear to me
But really life is dandy
We are what we don't see
Missed everything daydreaming
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