Could my inspiration be drying up? I logged on to Blogger today and I could barely think of anything to say. That is, of course, I had enough matter within my head that needed to be expelled to fill several planets' worth of books, but i couldn't EXPRESS it. I suppose even the best of people (read: Me) suffer from the occasional writer's block. I wonder how the average joe (read: Not me. No, really, i mean it. I'm totally talking about someone else here. Hey why're you laughing?) gets over it?




And would you look at that? I guess i, at least, have managed to surmount that concrete obstacle, that hugely looming apparition, the veritable fucking SKYSCRAPER that is writer's block, or "TUIENDX W+" for short.

Did you just blink?

The beauty of the human mind. You can set it up in a completely normal situation, and it thinks "Oh sure I know what's coming. Why even bother to keep reading?" and then BOO you dang pull the fucking rug-from-Persia out from under their mental feet, and SPLAT there they are lying on their faces - so to speak, of course.




Those dreaded things we usually call the A level results, but should in actual fact refer to as "OH MY GOD LOOK AT THAT SATAN HAS A POSTAL SERVICE TOO" proof, will, within the bounds of realistic probablity, be released within a fornight. Some are saying as soon as next Friday. So how, then, my brothers and sisters, shall we live? Are we to tremble in fear, cowering and quavering, shivering whilst we await our impending doom? Should we crouch in corners, hands over our eyes (with nothing over our ears for lack of sufficient dexterity in our other limbs - we can't ALL be gymnasts) and hearts in our mouths? Should we spend our remaining days in perpetual trepidation and anxiety, praying fervently to gods we hope can help, while we drip, drip, drip cold sweat?


Nay, say I! We shall march boldly into the future, regardless of our results. On the day itself (peace be upon it) we shall stride with great steps into the auditorium, glancing neither to the left hand of darkness nor the right of righteousness, peering with eagle's eyes through the mists of the future - the mists soon to be parted by certificates. We will show no fear on that day, because there shall BE no fear. We will be gods, you and I, unfeeling, unafraid, and, to be honest, unaware. Nothing shall shake our foundations, for we will be the very bastions of confidence and security. People will look upon us in awe, wondering what it takes to give us such self-possession, and they will dumbly stumble after us, trailing in our wake. We Shall Show No Fear.






Yeah fucking right. Help!

What's in a title? A rose by any other name would still not be a title.

Have you ever had that feeling of not being able to write, despite desperately wanting to? Of having the words choke in your mouth, behind clenched teeth, longing to emerge via fingers or pen, or even through the vibration of vocal cords, but forever trapped? Of having phrases, sentences, entire fucking PARAGRAPHS of prose which needs to be given to Humanity via whatever your chosen medium, but finding that you really, simply, CAN'T?



What's it like? I'd love to know.




I really hope unto the good Lord in Heaven that someone else aside from me - just ONE is all i ask for - got some measure of a kick outta that. Does anyone even spot the fact that there's something glaringly ridiculous about everything i wrote up there? (even though there's truth to the sentiments i've expressed)

Oh well. Why even bother, remains the question. The only answer I can think of is "42", but i don't know how many of you out there will get and/or appreciate that.

Isn't it beautiful how my "I" changes so often? It'll be "i" for fifty sentences and then someone in my mind a little neuron flips a switch and i remember the existence of the Shift key. Voila! up pops "I". its rather amusing in its utter randomness, really. Makes you sit back and wonder. How much of what we do is instinctive, and how much is more coherent, concious action?
Now I know, I know, dont everyone start calling me mister original and startlingly brilliant thoughts guy or anything. This isn't groundbreaking Freud's-descendant shit we're talking about. It's just something rather interesting to talk about. (Dont you just hate it when you get "thing" and "ting" together in the same sentence? Let me re-word that) Its just an issue of passing interest with which to conduct a conversation not involving any of the variously overdone topics, for example sports, politics, or the exact population of gay whales left in the world, and how to save them.




Come dance and sway and sing with me
We'll spin around so crazily
Dream and see what we believe
Around the river Rhine.
In time we'd maybe paint in blue
"Not neglecting other shades" say you.
Yes, our palette must be large, 'tis true
Else mine easel shalt be plain as thine.






Don't touch us, for we are the new, the extreme, the never-seen-before. Obscene, you may call us, and yes, that may well be the case. But is a baby not obscene, when, emerging from its mother's womb, it is yet covered in the muck and grime of its earlier quarters? Such obscenity is the stuff of Life, the very warp and weft of the fabric that makes the New from the unravelled threads of the old. And so are we, emerging out of the comfort of childhood, shedding off the accumulated debris of our twenty-or-so years of life, about to become and indeed to REPRESENT the new.
True, in time our turn will come, and we will be brought low and pounded into the dust. Far be it from us to go lightly into the gloom of eternal night, either. But for now, move back and let us live. Live, yes, with the vivacity of Alexander and Cauis, with the pomp and opulence of Byzantium, with the glory of Charlemagne. Don't touch us, for we are something fresh. To get too close would be to scorch yourself with the heat of our entry into this world, the utter exhilarating rush of our arrival. To examine us overly close will blind you, and looking through film won't help either. Don't touch us, for we are beyond you.





Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You

there's been a fair bit floating thru my head, but right now the most important thing is:

I GOT 1470 FOR MY SATS.

Please leave now, if that affects you in any negative way you can possibly think of.

Now.

(Anyone ever read "AHWOSG"? its a very select group that have. you'll know what that is if you're one of them)

First the breakdown: I got a perfect score for the verbal section (which for some reason seems to have surprised people. It IS possible, you realise this?) but only 670 for Maths. This leaves me in the somewhat miserable position of having halfway made it.

I basically find myself in the quandry of being in a position most seem to envy, but which i personally find somewhat less than satisfactory. I was at least hoping for a 1500+ score (as i'm sure you all knew, and, probably, laughed at) and aiming for a perfect score, and while i've come pretty damn close to that, i havent quite hit it have i?

So.

Part of me wants to be absolutely overjoyed, because 1470 is really a pretty damn fine score. it'll get you into any course and any university in the States, including law or medicine from what I've seen, but it wont quite get you scholarships at Harvard or Princeton. Well not the really sweet ones.

There is this! With my verbal score, I beat 99% of all college-bound entrants, and my math score beat 93%. That's pretty fantastic! Plus a 'good' score is about 1100 or 1200, apparently. Average is about 1150 or something? So there's much to be happy about I suppose.

The other part, of course, is indescribably pissed with myself for not preparing earlier. because really, maths is just practice. especially the maths in the SATS. two and a half years of not touching the damn thing will obviously not have helped. does that come as any surprise?

I guess i'll feed the scores to unis and see how that goes down. ah well.

In other news: Surfing was semi-decent in Malaysia.

Can you tell which topic is foremost in my head?

I leave you with the blessings of our Lord, who may not be your Lord per se, but probably is, all things considered.

What happened to mars?

timothy harries has been mauled by several vicious, man-eating animals in his vehicle whilst making his way from beach resort to the drab place that is Singapore and/or (ooo imagine concurrent suffering!) has been captured by several parang-carrying terrorists who swam from the surrouding lovely islands of indonesia no less.

oh well.