I am currently slightly inebriated as I just saw some pretty lights which are commonly referred to as fireworks then proceeded to visit a friend's house with a large enough party of people to defeat a level 125 dragon and drank several bottles. Due to the fact that my metaphorical weight is light, that is to say that I have a low tolerance level for alcohol I was rather drunk but having got home, the home in which I am presently sitting and what a lovely home it is, and enjoyed a nice cup of tea I realize that I may have said things I should have not and done things perhaps better not done but the emphasis is firmly on the latter. I will definitely regret this in the morning when the nice fuzzy haze of alcohol induced happiness, like a lovely pink fog made of candy floss, slowly dissolves and fragments in the sharp rays of the morning sun.
The fact that my currently intoxicated narrative voice is probably not that different to the speech mannerisms I employ when sober on this special little corner of the internet referred to by travelers as my blog is probably indicative of something but what it is I shall deduce and detect, as I am a detective and a very good one at that, in the morning because my mind will be sharper then. Although I did have a story idea (and i shall record it here in case i forget) about a detective who can solve murders when extremely drunk.
potential extract: The body lay, cold and motionless in the center of the drawing room. "My god", said Detective Stephen Baxendale, as he cast his expert eye over the scene of the crime, "This is some serious shit." Quickly he turned to his assistant, the ever present butler whose name was Timothy Fendleweed, and ordered, "Timothy, get me two bottles of beer."
"Yes sir," replied Timothy with much enthusiasm for he was a young sprightly creature eager to learn the tricks of the trade though he would not be learning anything with this particular detective since his methods were very specialized.
Just as the butler was walking away, Stephen looked at the still corpse again and shook his head, "wait Timothy," he sighed suddenly, "This looks like a tough one to solve. Make it a bottle of vodka"
"Yes sir," came the enthusiastic reply followed by the click of well polished shoes on rich marble tiles as the butler hurriedly exited the room.
Wow, that looks like a bestseller. What would the title be? The drunk detective or the Pissed Private investigator or maybe the inebriated inspector. I am sending out these alliterations like a machine designed specifically to create catchy titles, an alliteration automaton. I'm not sure 75% of this post made sense but I'm sure even if it didn't the remaining 25% will be absolutely quality reading. Anyway no one reads my blog so its fine, for all anyone cares I could spill my deepest darkest secrets on here (like I did when drunk at the after party tonight, god dammit I will regret it in ten hours time.) and no one will be any the wiser. I love society. Peace out. I did not just say peace out. And if I did, it was meant ironically.
Sunday, 11 November 2012
Friday, 9 November 2012
Wall
Finally the end of the first week of school after a period of mind decomposing, knowledge eroding, intelligence rusting holidays. I have that feeling of having run half a marathon at too fast a pace and coming to the sudden dreadful realization that I still have another few kilometers to go. And this isn't even a normal marathon, it is a marathon through a post apocalyptic world.
The academic work that I procrastinated over the holidays has started to catch up. As a maddened blood thirsty hoard they are quickly gaining upon me, mindless and hungry like an insane army of the undead. Not even the shuffling type of zombies but the full on running type, their pale lifeless limbs pounding the ground in a frenzied rush to devour me. They had of course simply been the walking dead at the beginning of the holiday when they were first set but over time they have evolved and very soon, I suspect they will soon learn how to operate basic vehicles and become the cycling dead. Merciless lifeless hunters pedaling away at demonic speed.
It is often said that there is some metaphorical wall that any athlete will come up against during a run, at a certain desperate moment when they seem to have hit their limit and by overcoming this wall they will grow as a person as well as regain a certain energy and sense of momentum. If so, then perhaps there will be such a wall for me in my academic work as well, an opportunity for me to break through and become a generally better grade of human being as well as regain my educational capability.
In fact, I am arguably the very best type of student since, in an attempt to improve as a person generally, I am deliberately conditioning myself to come into contact with that wall of desperation as soon as possible through procrastination and work avoidance. A risky strategy of self improvement that demonstrates my tremendous courage and great aspirations of bettering myself. Hence teachers, as individuals charged with the duty of encouraging the student's growth as a person, perceiving the nature of the student and understanding their motives, should see that I am in fact an exemplary pupil whose current mindset and behaviour should be highly commended not scolded or punished.
Thus I rest my case, though whether the english teacher will accept my logic when inquiring after the distinct absence of an essay on Monday is another matter entirely and one that rests within the fickle hands of the sometimes cruel gods.
The academic work that I procrastinated over the holidays has started to catch up. As a maddened blood thirsty hoard they are quickly gaining upon me, mindless and hungry like an insane army of the undead. Not even the shuffling type of zombies but the full on running type, their pale lifeless limbs pounding the ground in a frenzied rush to devour me. They had of course simply been the walking dead at the beginning of the holiday when they were first set but over time they have evolved and very soon, I suspect they will soon learn how to operate basic vehicles and become the cycling dead. Merciless lifeless hunters pedaling away at demonic speed.
It is often said that there is some metaphorical wall that any athlete will come up against during a run, at a certain desperate moment when they seem to have hit their limit and by overcoming this wall they will grow as a person as well as regain a certain energy and sense of momentum. If so, then perhaps there will be such a wall for me in my academic work as well, an opportunity for me to break through and become a generally better grade of human being as well as regain my educational capability.
In fact, I am arguably the very best type of student since, in an attempt to improve as a person generally, I am deliberately conditioning myself to come into contact with that wall of desperation as soon as possible through procrastination and work avoidance. A risky strategy of self improvement that demonstrates my tremendous courage and great aspirations of bettering myself. Hence teachers, as individuals charged with the duty of encouraging the student's growth as a person, perceiving the nature of the student and understanding their motives, should see that I am in fact an exemplary pupil whose current mindset and behaviour should be highly commended not scolded or punished.
Thus I rest my case, though whether the english teacher will accept my logic when inquiring after the distinct absence of an essay on Monday is another matter entirely and one that rests within the fickle hands of the sometimes cruel gods.
Thursday, 8 November 2012
Within and without
I am currently stranded, trapped within a void. My house is a multistory affair divided into distinctly separate living quarters. My family owns the entirety of the large suburban construction but due to reasons of finance we rent out all but the ground floor. Due to this arrangement there is a hallway shared by all the tenants from which branches off a locked door that is the entrance to what I can refer to as my home.
After a particular alcohol fueled nocturnal excursion about a year back during which I lost my keys. My mother has refused to provide me with a new set which means I cannot enter my own abode unless she is home. In the rare instance that she is away, since I can politely ask one of the residents in the higher floors to come down and let me into the building its self, she usually hides the keys to our actual section of residence somewhere in the hallway.
Today however, she has neglected her duties to do so, hence I am currently sitting in the hallway. I am typing this on my phone, while draped tiredly over the stairs which lie directly next to the door to my beloved home. My sentiments of misery are only excentuated by the fact that the motion sensitive lights turn off every three minutes, plunging me into the evening darkness thus forcing me to stand up and display motion in order receive the short attention and glorious light of the fickle motion sensitive machine.
To further emphasize this feeling of pathetic depression, my cat has run right up to the other side of the door to venture on a campaign of continuous melancholic mewing and sad scratching. It has stayed with me these past thirty minutes, crying from the other side of the solid impenetrable rectangle of wood and despite myself I admit I am rather touched.
Now I hear the light clink of the metal front garden fence and with it the approaching footsteps of liberation. So ends my actually brief but sensationally lengthy stay, becalmed within the void.
After a particular alcohol fueled nocturnal excursion about a year back during which I lost my keys. My mother has refused to provide me with a new set which means I cannot enter my own abode unless she is home. In the rare instance that she is away, since I can politely ask one of the residents in the higher floors to come down and let me into the building its self, she usually hides the keys to our actual section of residence somewhere in the hallway.
Today however, she has neglected her duties to do so, hence I am currently sitting in the hallway. I am typing this on my phone, while draped tiredly over the stairs which lie directly next to the door to my beloved home. My sentiments of misery are only excentuated by the fact that the motion sensitive lights turn off every three minutes, plunging me into the evening darkness thus forcing me to stand up and display motion in order receive the short attention and glorious light of the fickle motion sensitive machine.
To further emphasize this feeling of pathetic depression, my cat has run right up to the other side of the door to venture on a campaign of continuous melancholic mewing and sad scratching. It has stayed with me these past thirty minutes, crying from the other side of the solid impenetrable rectangle of wood and despite myself I admit I am rather touched.
Now I hear the light clink of the metal front garden fence and with it the approaching footsteps of liberation. So ends my actually brief but sensationally lengthy stay, becalmed within the void.
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
Blind Blog #1
Usually I write these posts with a degree of forethought, planning and structure in order to create an architecturally interesting as well as generally health and safety law abiding literary construction. However today I don't have the energy nor the motivation to attempt this degree of creative pondering hence I shall write everything as it occurs to me though in reality, I suppose that very few people will ever see this post and of those few people, only about a cubed root of them will actually be interested enough to attempt to comprehend the chunk of text. Hence what I write here is pretty irrelevant all things considered and for all anyone cares I could write my deepest darkest secrets but remain comfortable in the knowledge that it will probably remain a complete secret to the world.
Much as many philosophers have pondered over the question, "when a tree falls in the woods but nobody hears it, does it actually make a sound?" I often ponder, "If a blog writer writes a blog but nobody reads it, has he actually wrote the blog." The answer to which is yes but for a completely depressingly futile cause. Though when all things are considered life its self is generally futile since the main aim of any organism is to leave off springs upon the planet in order to ensure the continued existence of the species and human beings are overpopulated as it is, meaning nothing that I might choose to do with my life matters in the slightest when thought of in a longer time frame.
The only thing that could make life meaningful would be a situation when the survival of humanity is genuinely at stake such as an apocalypse. Though if such an instance were to occur, I doubt I will survive since I have very few survival skills and am not very high in terms of physical fitness. My only possible advantage would be my incessant paranoia concerning a potentially immanent zombie apocalypse. Which, I occasionally consider, might be a manifestation of my lack of trust in those around me since it is that sort of fundamental fear of familiar people ebing turned into enemies that fuels the concept of the undead.
Now, that sounded quite deep. About 2000 leagues deeper than the sort of thing I usually write on this blog which is a little problematic since when somebody who is usually callous and shallow suddenly makes deep statements it tends to give the impression that they are somehow depressed. I assure you, if you are considering my mental well being at the moment (not in the sense that I might be a psychopath on the verge of going on a killing spree but in the sense that I might be suicidal) that I not in the slightest bit depressed. Though if I do become suicidal, I shall blame it on genetics, though that may be quite pseudo-scientific, since my country of origin, Japan, has one of the highest suicide rates in the developed world. So much so that, when people jump in front of trains in Japan, there is barely any delay, only a polite mildly regretful announcement alerting people to a "human accident", sounding like it is more concerned with the delay caused than the loss of life, and an assurance normal services will be resumed in a short while.
Which, in one sense, is quite enviable efficiency since here in Britain, the unfortunate demise of a leaf on the rail tracks can shock Transport For London on such a deep emotional scale that they halt the entire network for a day or so, presumably in mourning. The same comparison of humanity versus efficiency can be made in other aspects as well when comparing the two countries, Britain and Japan. For example Japanese shops are staffed by extremely well mannered staff who will all greet the customer in synchronization upon entry and work at a fast near automatic mechanical pace whereas British institutions tend to employ individuals who prioritize the social relations with their fellow employee than the many customers waiting irritatedly in an ever accumulating queue.
In the end however, I would take the humanity over efficiency since it does give a sensation of actual person to person interaction. The feeling that you are living in a world composed of individual people all leading their own individual lives towards an ultimate demise but are nonetheless giving it their best shot. The feeling that there are a multitude of potentially interesting stories and melodramas mingling, bumping into each other, walking past each other throughout the packed human test tube we refer to as a city.
Although presently even this happiness is slowly being eroded by machinery. For example the automatic self checkout machines which have replaced person manned counters in some shops. They are, though they originally broke down more frequently than a depressed pubescent teenage girl with attention issues, now quite efficient and not only they prevent the human interaction that used to take place in shops but they also make the buyers into nothing more than mere mindless machines. Mechanically moving arms full of desired purchases in time to the monotonous music of the electronic beeps.
Furthermore the mass creation and release of high quality headphones and portable music players, allowing, as the adverts often quip, the user to immerse themselves in their own bubble like world, cuts off individual people. Where everyone used to travel in the bus, hearing the conversation of others, listening to snippets of other people's lives; they now have their own little musical worlds in which they hear nothing but the music they've chosen. Maybe the two people next to you are discussing methods to counter the immanently approaching zombie revolution because they are secretly a member of an underground mystical organization of zombie fighters. The story should start with you, the protagonist, hearing their conversation and being sucked into their world to be thrust into a hugely exciting adventure of epic world saving zombie decapitating proportions. But instead you're listening to Lady Gaga or One Direction or whatever is popular so you don't hear the conversation and the gates to the potentially interesting future of fiction is forever closed, the opportunity missed.
In the end this became just a strange slightly deep rant with the atmosphere of an old person ranting about the good old days. Or in a word, conservative. So to wrap it all up, I might as well end on a highly snobbish posh note by saying the moral of the story is the well worn phrase of Carpe Diem.
Much as many philosophers have pondered over the question, "when a tree falls in the woods but nobody hears it, does it actually make a sound?" I often ponder, "If a blog writer writes a blog but nobody reads it, has he actually wrote the blog." The answer to which is yes but for a completely depressingly futile cause. Though when all things are considered life its self is generally futile since the main aim of any organism is to leave off springs upon the planet in order to ensure the continued existence of the species and human beings are overpopulated as it is, meaning nothing that I might choose to do with my life matters in the slightest when thought of in a longer time frame.
The only thing that could make life meaningful would be a situation when the survival of humanity is genuinely at stake such as an apocalypse. Though if such an instance were to occur, I doubt I will survive since I have very few survival skills and am not very high in terms of physical fitness. My only possible advantage would be my incessant paranoia concerning a potentially immanent zombie apocalypse. Which, I occasionally consider, might be a manifestation of my lack of trust in those around me since it is that sort of fundamental fear of familiar people ebing turned into enemies that fuels the concept of the undead.
Now, that sounded quite deep. About 2000 leagues deeper than the sort of thing I usually write on this blog which is a little problematic since when somebody who is usually callous and shallow suddenly makes deep statements it tends to give the impression that they are somehow depressed. I assure you, if you are considering my mental well being at the moment (not in the sense that I might be a psychopath on the verge of going on a killing spree but in the sense that I might be suicidal) that I not in the slightest bit depressed. Though if I do become suicidal, I shall blame it on genetics, though that may be quite pseudo-scientific, since my country of origin, Japan, has one of the highest suicide rates in the developed world. So much so that, when people jump in front of trains in Japan, there is barely any delay, only a polite mildly regretful announcement alerting people to a "human accident", sounding like it is more concerned with the delay caused than the loss of life, and an assurance normal services will be resumed in a short while.
Which, in one sense, is quite enviable efficiency since here in Britain, the unfortunate demise of a leaf on the rail tracks can shock Transport For London on such a deep emotional scale that they halt the entire network for a day or so, presumably in mourning. The same comparison of humanity versus efficiency can be made in other aspects as well when comparing the two countries, Britain and Japan. For example Japanese shops are staffed by extremely well mannered staff who will all greet the customer in synchronization upon entry and work at a fast near automatic mechanical pace whereas British institutions tend to employ individuals who prioritize the social relations with their fellow employee than the many customers waiting irritatedly in an ever accumulating queue.
In the end however, I would take the humanity over efficiency since it does give a sensation of actual person to person interaction. The feeling that you are living in a world composed of individual people all leading their own individual lives towards an ultimate demise but are nonetheless giving it their best shot. The feeling that there are a multitude of potentially interesting stories and melodramas mingling, bumping into each other, walking past each other throughout the packed human test tube we refer to as a city.
Although presently even this happiness is slowly being eroded by machinery. For example the automatic self checkout machines which have replaced person manned counters in some shops. They are, though they originally broke down more frequently than a depressed pubescent teenage girl with attention issues, now quite efficient and not only they prevent the human interaction that used to take place in shops but they also make the buyers into nothing more than mere mindless machines. Mechanically moving arms full of desired purchases in time to the monotonous music of the electronic beeps.
Furthermore the mass creation and release of high quality headphones and portable music players, allowing, as the adverts often quip, the user to immerse themselves in their own bubble like world, cuts off individual people. Where everyone used to travel in the bus, hearing the conversation of others, listening to snippets of other people's lives; they now have their own little musical worlds in which they hear nothing but the music they've chosen. Maybe the two people next to you are discussing methods to counter the immanently approaching zombie revolution because they are secretly a member of an underground mystical organization of zombie fighters. The story should start with you, the protagonist, hearing their conversation and being sucked into their world to be thrust into a hugely exciting adventure of epic world saving zombie decapitating proportions. But instead you're listening to Lady Gaga or One Direction or whatever is popular so you don't hear the conversation and the gates to the potentially interesting future of fiction is forever closed, the opportunity missed.
In the end this became just a strange slightly deep rant with the atmosphere of an old person ranting about the good old days. Or in a word, conservative. So to wrap it all up, I might as well end on a highly snobbish posh note by saying the moral of the story is the well worn phrase of Carpe Diem.
Tuesday, 6 November 2012
Labyrinth
The internet has always been a mystery to me. A vast sea of information populated by attractive entertaining aquatic life as well as the occasional unpredictable virtual killer whale and spontaneously emerging pixelated Cthulhu. For example I was once, for some academically motivated research matter, searching "Chernobyl" and clicked a photograph of an animal mutated by radiation on google images, this appropriately landed me with a virus that caused a continuous uncontrollable stream of pornography to flow across my screen. Which, perhaps, classifies me as another victim of the Chernobyl Disaster.
In recent times I had deluded myself into thinking that I had more or less mastered the ever swerving poorly lit maze that is the world wide web. Of course I was not as adept at skillfully gliding through the internet as some of my acquaintances. One of whom, I shall refer to here as Big K for his identity protection and my consequent physical safety, used to often boast the fact he had dived into layers far below the accepted levels of the web. Proudly proclaiming that he had voyaged one thousand leagues under the surface of the internet, where other more innocent users blissfully surfed, with the use of special hacking equipment all in search of ever darker variants of pornography. Which I suspect is, while indicative of the fact he can navigate his way through the virtual labyrinth admirably, a sign that he has gotten lost within the far larger labyrinth of life in general.
Nonetheless I was happy with my own comparatively basic knowledge of this pixelated universe, proud of the daily virtual survival skills and instincts I had developed with time. I could now successfully navigate myself around youtube while carefully avoiding all related videos that let out the dangerous air of potential long term mental trauma. I could create and manage multiple virtual identities around cyberspace, entering and exiting communities as I pleased, free as a cybernetic social butterfly. I even worked out methods to cheat certain systems with the creation of multiple accounts and mildly fraudulent behaviour. Perhaps all this had made me arrogant.
However I was brought back to reality and shown how shallow my knowledge of this realm really was by none other than this site, blogger. There is an area of this site which allows me to observe the various statistics and backstage facts relating to my blog. For example, everyday before I write, I venture into this zone, observe the number of views my page has had that day as well as resignedly sigh at the now familiar zero which sits smugly under "number of followers". There is also a tool within this virtual control room that allows me to see through which channel and websites people are getting to my blog. These are displayed as enticingly blue links to be clicked on.
Wondering what my third top source of traffic was, I clicked one incomprehensible jumbled collection of letters composing a link to see what wing of the maze it would take me down. The screen window turned white and began to load, my anticipation growing with each passing second then, after a moment, a page materialized kindly bringing to my attention that the page did not exist. Which means that people have somehow been entering my blog from an empty space occupied by an overwhelming amount of nothing.
How is that even possible?! As far as I knew when a "page not found" appeared, it was a dead end, a blocked path within the maze from where I would then need to retrace my footsteps. But according to the blogger information center there exists some phantom like figure who is capable of slipping through this solid wall and on the other side, apparently, lies this blog. Is it an internet ghost wondering around the online maze? If so are there many of them? Perhaps four, each with a different bright hue all in hot pursuit of an obese spherical yellow binge eater. Clearly the labyrinth of the world wide web is full of more sinister mysterious occupants and mystical loop holes than I had previously imagined.
If this was not confusing enough, my top source of traffic after that link turned out to be a pornographic website which bares absolutely everything except some relation to my blog. I would hereby like to apologize to the internet gods, ghosts and pac men for my prior arrogance. This world is still as mysterious and unpredictable as ever, a forest that cannot be understood by a mere mortal such as myself. Never again shall I display any pretense of comprehension instead choosing to fearfully navigate my way around its twisted corridors like the clueless worshipper within the temple of the gods that I am. I'm sorry.
In recent times I had deluded myself into thinking that I had more or less mastered the ever swerving poorly lit maze that is the world wide web. Of course I was not as adept at skillfully gliding through the internet as some of my acquaintances. One of whom, I shall refer to here as Big K for his identity protection and my consequent physical safety, used to often boast the fact he had dived into layers far below the accepted levels of the web. Proudly proclaiming that he had voyaged one thousand leagues under the surface of the internet, where other more innocent users blissfully surfed, with the use of special hacking equipment all in search of ever darker variants of pornography. Which I suspect is, while indicative of the fact he can navigate his way through the virtual labyrinth admirably, a sign that he has gotten lost within the far larger labyrinth of life in general.
Nonetheless I was happy with my own comparatively basic knowledge of this pixelated universe, proud of the daily virtual survival skills and instincts I had developed with time. I could now successfully navigate myself around youtube while carefully avoiding all related videos that let out the dangerous air of potential long term mental trauma. I could create and manage multiple virtual identities around cyberspace, entering and exiting communities as I pleased, free as a cybernetic social butterfly. I even worked out methods to cheat certain systems with the creation of multiple accounts and mildly fraudulent behaviour. Perhaps all this had made me arrogant.
However I was brought back to reality and shown how shallow my knowledge of this realm really was by none other than this site, blogger. There is an area of this site which allows me to observe the various statistics and backstage facts relating to my blog. For example, everyday before I write, I venture into this zone, observe the number of views my page has had that day as well as resignedly sigh at the now familiar zero which sits smugly under "number of followers". There is also a tool within this virtual control room that allows me to see through which channel and websites people are getting to my blog. These are displayed as enticingly blue links to be clicked on.
Wondering what my third top source of traffic was, I clicked one incomprehensible jumbled collection of letters composing a link to see what wing of the maze it would take me down. The screen window turned white and began to load, my anticipation growing with each passing second then, after a moment, a page materialized kindly bringing to my attention that the page did not exist. Which means that people have somehow been entering my blog from an empty space occupied by an overwhelming amount of nothing.
How is that even possible?! As far as I knew when a "page not found" appeared, it was a dead end, a blocked path within the maze from where I would then need to retrace my footsteps. But according to the blogger information center there exists some phantom like figure who is capable of slipping through this solid wall and on the other side, apparently, lies this blog. Is it an internet ghost wondering around the online maze? If so are there many of them? Perhaps four, each with a different bright hue all in hot pursuit of an obese spherical yellow binge eater. Clearly the labyrinth of the world wide web is full of more sinister mysterious occupants and mystical loop holes than I had previously imagined.
If this was not confusing enough, my top source of traffic after that link turned out to be a pornographic website which bares absolutely everything except some relation to my blog. I would hereby like to apologize to the internet gods, ghosts and pac men for my prior arrogance. This world is still as mysterious and unpredictable as ever, a forest that cannot be understood by a mere mortal such as myself. Never again shall I display any pretense of comprehension instead choosing to fearfully navigate my way around its twisted corridors like the clueless worshipper within the temple of the gods that I am. I'm sorry.
Monday, 5 November 2012
Personification
Tonight I feel, in a word, cold. In two words very cold. In fact, I feel so cold that I could, if the opportunity were to present its self to me, simply go on a long and tenuous descriptive journey purely around the subject of how cold I am. To accurately convey the sheer coldness of my current being, imagine that you are eating a bucket of ground ice, while sitting in a fridge, which is its self situated atop a boat floating in the freezing Atlantic Ocean. Just nearby the Titanic is sinking and desperate survivors are swimming up to your boat for help but you kick them away, I currently feel as cold as your dark twisted heart as you mercilessly dislodge a dying child clinging desperately to the side of your vessel.
If I were to demand to see the cruel individual responsible for my frosty fate, I would more than likely be directed to a mirror since it is none other than my own mind that made the conscious decision to go out and see fireworks at a local park with companions despite the temperature. However what I require at the moment is not the rational analysis of my own poor judgment (especially in not taking my thick woolen trench coat purely for the reason that it still stank of alcohol and punch which would have been a minor draw back with hindsight considering the heavenly warmth it would have provided) but some figure at which to direct my, unfortunately all too metaphorically, burning anger.
I would currently give anything, well, my entire present monetary fortune (which amounts to about three pounds and twenty six pence) for Jack Frost to appear before me, a personification of the natural phenomenon which caused my legs to feel like ready made fish fingers before defrosting and my arms like pain flavoured ice lollies. Though I am not usually the physically violent type, far preferring to psychologically wound the opponent with skillful verbal jousting, I would readily kick the chocolate flavoured soft ice out of Jack Frost to vent my sheer frustration at this bone biting, brain numbing, scrotum climbing cold.
All I can do however is stamp my feet, rub my hands and curse the current climate as well as the rising cost of gas and electricity bills. Two other things I wouldn't particularly mind being personified to manifest themselves before me as a subject of my anger at the generally conceptual, the Price Rise Pig and the Bill Building Bird. Perhaps I could design them, little fable characters for the new age kids living through an economic down turn. Goodbye tooth fairy who takes childrens' teeth, hello the fat fairy who causes child obesity. So long Santa Clause who leaves you presents, welcome Pawnshop Pixie who takes your stuff at night but allows your family to eat for another few days.
So the moral of the story is, its winter so wear a jacket when you go out, even if it does have the repugnant scent of stale alcohol wafting around it like vultures around a dying animal. God, its cold.
If I were to demand to see the cruel individual responsible for my frosty fate, I would more than likely be directed to a mirror since it is none other than my own mind that made the conscious decision to go out and see fireworks at a local park with companions despite the temperature. However what I require at the moment is not the rational analysis of my own poor judgment (especially in not taking my thick woolen trench coat purely for the reason that it still stank of alcohol and punch which would have been a minor draw back with hindsight considering the heavenly warmth it would have provided) but some figure at which to direct my, unfortunately all too metaphorically, burning anger.
I would currently give anything, well, my entire present monetary fortune (which amounts to about three pounds and twenty six pence) for Jack Frost to appear before me, a personification of the natural phenomenon which caused my legs to feel like ready made fish fingers before defrosting and my arms like pain flavoured ice lollies. Though I am not usually the physically violent type, far preferring to psychologically wound the opponent with skillful verbal jousting, I would readily kick the chocolate flavoured soft ice out of Jack Frost to vent my sheer frustration at this bone biting, brain numbing, scrotum climbing cold.
All I can do however is stamp my feet, rub my hands and curse the current climate as well as the rising cost of gas and electricity bills. Two other things I wouldn't particularly mind being personified to manifest themselves before me as a subject of my anger at the generally conceptual, the Price Rise Pig and the Bill Building Bird. Perhaps I could design them, little fable characters for the new age kids living through an economic down turn. Goodbye tooth fairy who takes childrens' teeth, hello the fat fairy who causes child obesity. So long Santa Clause who leaves you presents, welcome Pawnshop Pixie who takes your stuff at night but allows your family to eat for another few days.
So the moral of the story is, its winter so wear a jacket when you go out, even if it does have the repugnant scent of stale alcohol wafting around it like vultures around a dying animal. God, its cold.
Sunday, 4 November 2012
Party Dark God
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| Cthulhu bringing chaos and madness to a pizza |
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| Cthulhu bringing chaos and madness to public transport |
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| Cthulhu bringing chaos and madness at home. |
In the end I decided I would attend the Halloween party dressed as HP Lovecraft's finest creation, Cthulhu, the octopus faced agent of madness and marine dwelling bringer of the apocalypse.
Apparently Cthulhu was a little too obscure and though I originally explained that I was a madness inducing terrifying agent of the old gods whenever a random curious bystander asked what I was dressed as, soon I was overcome by the futility of the action and simply replied that I was a green octopus. If Cathulhu is out there, reading my blog, then I humbly beg for its mercy for not defending its honourable and terrifying name to the last. This would make it the second deity I offended that night seeing as I swore on the goddess Gaia two months ago that I shall never drink again. I await divine retribution with fear and a little bit of excited anticipation. In the meanwhile I shall receive retribution from my angry Scottish art teacher for the half term homework due in tomorrow that I am yet to complete. His wrath is potentially more terrifying than that of Cthulhu.
Friday, 2 November 2012
Anime Review #1 Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Since its already fast approaching midnight and I don't have the energy or temporal leeway to write another long article, I shall post an anime review I have just finished writing thus revealing to the world that I am in fact a geek (by the world, I mean my extremely small impermanent readership but hey, they mean the world to me).
Puella Magi Madoka Magica Review
Studio Shaft can probably be classed as one of the great
trolls of the current anime industry (though in my opinion the glorious spot of
number one anime troll must be given to Gintama for all its fake film trailers,
deceptive series finales and general attitude) and one of its crowning
achievements, the ever gleaming polished trophy taking the pride of place
within their large cabinet of trolling accomplishments, has to be Puella Magi
Madoka Magica.
The story that the original trailer would have you believe
goes a little something like this: One day, a young innocent inexplicably pink
haired high school student called Kaname Madoka saves an adorable fantastical
animal called Kyubei who offers her the chance to become a magical girl and
fight the evil witches who terrorize the human realm. Joined by loving trusting
friends, Madoka ventures on a journey of personal growth and discovery to fight
unhappiness in the world.
The studio originally publicized the anime as a heart warming
cute affair, the sort of series with an ever-present gentle fluffy pink
atmosphere, that would provoke tears and smiles. In this respect they did half
deliver, except the tears were that of sadness and the smiles upside down. The
entire series is a brilliantly orchestrated crescendo of misery, starting off
on a more or less positive mood it quickly begins its light jog down the steep
hill of dark tragedy and by the latter parts of the show the jog is a blurring
sprint that would blow Usain Bolt out of the metaphorical water.
By the second half of the series I no longer had any faith in
my increasingly unstable emotional relativism because every time I thought I
was the most depressed I could ever be, the next episode would come along and
prove me totally utterly wrong. This is definitely a show to watch with a phone
that has the Samaritans on speed dial in one hand and a box of tissues (To be
used for wiping away tears, just to point out in case of any misunderstanding.
Yes, there are a lot of supposedly teenage girls who like they’ve only just
been weaned off breast milk, running around in cute little frilly dresses and
yes the opening does involve the naked title character going through some
strange process of reverse cytokinesis. Nonetheless the tissues are for crying
into and nothing else) in the other.
To accurately gauge the levels of sheer animated depression
induced by the series, imagine the latter episodes of “Steins; gate” thrown in
a blender with the final few episodes of “Mirai Nikki” and Mufasa’s death scene
from Lion King. Leave mixture to settle for three minutes then add four table
spoons of “Welcome to the NHK” episode twenty-three. Stir thoroughly then pass
through a filter to remove any remaining rogue fragments of happiness and the
result will be something approaching the levels of bleak sadness in “Madoka
Magica” in the same way that beer has alcohol content approaching that of vodka
(which, incidentally, you will need to consume a lot of to get over the heart
wrenching emotionally scarring scenes within the series).
The animation is, as expected of Studio Shaft, so high above
the top notch that there’s no more ruler to measure by. The art style is that
of the standard cute type anime, with physics defying big bouncy beautiful
attractive sensual… hair and biologically impossibly large shiny eyes. The true
artistic power of the studio manifests its self when the characters enter the
magical realm of the witches that is often composed entirely of Shaft’s
trademark combination of colouring pencil and animated collage (as seen
frequently in “Sayonara Zetsubou Sensei”). This chaotically artistic scenery
combined with the cute style characters creates a strange interesting effect that
is probably enjoyable even for those who find highly physically disproportionate
character designs irritating. There are other demonstrations of Shaft’s cheeky
nonchalant surrealism (as seen often in “Bakemonogatari” and “Nisemonogatari” the
sort of scenes which seem to say, “yes, this bedroom has no walls, what of it?”)
that also help to make the series visually stunning. This combined with a
beautiful, addictive and suitably mystical sound track, mostly classical though
some not, makes the show worth watching just from a sensory perspective.
The plot is also far more complicated, both narratively and
thematically, than it first appears (Though really viewers should have braced
themselves for heavy philosophical content when they first saw Latin in the
title). It is often observed that while at first glance they may seem like
polar opposites, the genres of science fiction and fantasy are in fact
neighbouring countries on the large map of fiction who share a very loosely
controlled boarder (no passport checks or anything, let alone barbed wire or
armed security measures). Madoka Magica hops easily across this line as the
series matures, with rather surprisingly enjoyable twists here and there, the
story works as an intelligent deconstruction of magical girls although the
ending (of the television anime series, there is a film finale on the way) is a
little lackluster. The story and atmosphere is, in short, what you might get if
you combined a less pretentious “Evangelion” with a less battle-centered “Mirai
Nikki”, that is to say, excellent.
Taking all this into account, a more accurate summary would
go a little something like this: Kaname Madoka, troubled by a nightmare of an
approaching apocalypse, one day encounters a strange fantastical creature with
blood red eyes and bone white fur. The being offers to grant one wish in return
for a life of servitude to several millennia old war between magical girls and
witches. Stepping into the dark shadows hidden behind the ordinary life she
took for granted, will Madoka be able to resist temptation and see friend from
foe? Can she unravel the truth of the centuries old conspiracy and protect
those she cares for before the monster of her premonition arrives?
Sounds good doesn’t it? It is.
Thursday, 1 November 2012
Chaos
This morning I was expecting to wake up to the sound of panicked screaming, the subtle tinkle of glass shattering in the distance, the incessant shrill wail of a car alarm and the hungry crackle of uncontrollable flames. As I lay entrapped within the folds of my comfortable bed last night, I worried about how I would have to step over all the mangled bodies, some suicides, others not, as I walked towards the bathroom for my morning session of bladder emptying. I imagined how I would be forced to toast my morning bread on the burning corpse of some stranger while slicing another cadaver into bite sized chunks for topping.
To my extreme surprise I in fact arose to the pleasant sound of civilization as we know it not collapsing and had a peaceful morning in a reassuringly non post apocalyptic world. Contrary to my expectations, it turns out that failing to write a blog post for one day does not result in the immediate end of the world. Which I suppose is, although a little disheartening, generally a good thing. Especially considering that my excuse in the event of being held responsible for the termination of the human race would have been quite poor. Standing atop a smoldering mountain of rubble looking down at a disgruntled mob of rag tag survivors seeking vengeance and simply stating, "I'm sorry everyone for causing the apocalypse, I didn't write my blog post for yesterday because I was having a Halloween horror film fest," probably would not have tamed their anger.
However if its any consolation to anybody, it wasn't that good a film fest. For one thing we watched about one and a half films which probably doesn't quite constitute a film "festival". At best, with extreme optimism, it was a film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside", though realistically speaking it probably didn't even achieve that low height and was perhaps something more akin to a film "birthday-party-of-that-unpopular-kid-in-school-who-isn't-even-bullied-because-the-bullies-haven't-even-noted-his-amazingly-insignificant-existence-yet".
This lack of actual film watching was due largely to the presence of beer in the lower levels of the house and the general tendency for teenagers to migrate towards the presence of alcohol and consequently, in this instance, away from a showing of the "Rocky Horror Show" but this did not necessarily make it an enjoyable night.
The first wheel was presumably invented when a caveman, lets say Ugg, found a circular piece of rock and decided to attempt to roll it. Having found that this was extremely entertaining and potentially useful, Ugg then contacted his friend Arg via the use of vocal cords and together they created the second wheel. That night, celebrating the invention and hopeful future mass production of wheels, the two cavemen entrepreneurs hold a party. Its held in Ugg's cave and Arg arrives a few minutes late, carrying a chunk of mammoth leg as a present. He walks into the cave, where a roaring fire has already been lit and is just about to call out when he spots Ugg, sitting in the shadows, making out with Ugga, the girl from the cave next door. That was the invention of the third wheel.
Winter is apparently the season of romance and relationship forming because the number of couples seem to be increasing exponentially. They spawn in the slightly shady corner of every room in a house holding any thing remotely like a party, multiplying and infecting every possible location within a domestic setting like some sort of romantic mold growth fueled by desperation and alcohol. And this film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside" was no different.
I was at all times throughout the evening, a third wheel if not more. But at least a third wheel is something, its a tricycle. True, tricycle's aren't the most popular of transport means but at least toddlers still enjoy them so the third wheel is a vital role in bringing happiness to toddlers. Of course what brings about this realization that being a third wheel is a relatively good role, is the experience of being a fifth wheel.
Even then you can still find comfort in the fact that vaguely important fifth wheels do exist in the world, those wheels attached to the back of big range rovers for example. There, presumably, in case some thing like a randomly occurring shard of diamond on the road manages to puncture one of the monstrously thick tires made specifically not to be punctured. Indeed the event is extremely unlikely to occur but the fifth wheel is an important back up, an existence necessary to give emotional and mental comfort to the paranoid range rover driver.
The seventh wheel however, the seventh wheel is inconsolable. There is nothing like sitting on a sofa and realizing that you are in a tight competition with the empty beer bottles strewn across the floor for the number one spot of most obsolete object in the room. And taking into account the fact that glass beer bottles can be near endlessly recycled and reused, as well as at some point having had the honour of containing the beautiful happiness inducing substance known as alcohol, whereas you are just a purposeless pile of flesh sitting on stuffed leather while using up oxygen that the three other couples making out in the room presumably have more of a dire need for considering all the panting their making, you are probably the champion of unnecessary existence.
So the moral of the story is, I need another bottle of beer or three.
To my extreme surprise I in fact arose to the pleasant sound of civilization as we know it not collapsing and had a peaceful morning in a reassuringly non post apocalyptic world. Contrary to my expectations, it turns out that failing to write a blog post for one day does not result in the immediate end of the world. Which I suppose is, although a little disheartening, generally a good thing. Especially considering that my excuse in the event of being held responsible for the termination of the human race would have been quite poor. Standing atop a smoldering mountain of rubble looking down at a disgruntled mob of rag tag survivors seeking vengeance and simply stating, "I'm sorry everyone for causing the apocalypse, I didn't write my blog post for yesterday because I was having a Halloween horror film fest," probably would not have tamed their anger.
However if its any consolation to anybody, it wasn't that good a film fest. For one thing we watched about one and a half films which probably doesn't quite constitute a film "festival". At best, with extreme optimism, it was a film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside", though realistically speaking it probably didn't even achieve that low height and was perhaps something more akin to a film "birthday-party-of-that-unpopular-kid-in-school-who-isn't-even-bullied-because-the-bullies-haven't-even-noted-his-amazingly-insignificant-existence-yet".
This lack of actual film watching was due largely to the presence of beer in the lower levels of the house and the general tendency for teenagers to migrate towards the presence of alcohol and consequently, in this instance, away from a showing of the "Rocky Horror Show" but this did not necessarily make it an enjoyable night.
The first wheel was presumably invented when a caveman, lets say Ugg, found a circular piece of rock and decided to attempt to roll it. Having found that this was extremely entertaining and potentially useful, Ugg then contacted his friend Arg via the use of vocal cords and together they created the second wheel. That night, celebrating the invention and hopeful future mass production of wheels, the two cavemen entrepreneurs hold a party. Its held in Ugg's cave and Arg arrives a few minutes late, carrying a chunk of mammoth leg as a present. He walks into the cave, where a roaring fire has already been lit and is just about to call out when he spots Ugg, sitting in the shadows, making out with Ugga, the girl from the cave next door. That was the invention of the third wheel.
Winter is apparently the season of romance and relationship forming because the number of couples seem to be increasing exponentially. They spawn in the slightly shady corner of every room in a house holding any thing remotely like a party, multiplying and infecting every possible location within a domestic setting like some sort of romantic mold growth fueled by desperation and alcohol. And this film "autumn-fair-held-in-a-sparsely-populated-village-in-the-countryside" was no different.
I was at all times throughout the evening, a third wheel if not more. But at least a third wheel is something, its a tricycle. True, tricycle's aren't the most popular of transport means but at least toddlers still enjoy them so the third wheel is a vital role in bringing happiness to toddlers. Of course what brings about this realization that being a third wheel is a relatively good role, is the experience of being a fifth wheel.
Even then you can still find comfort in the fact that vaguely important fifth wheels do exist in the world, those wheels attached to the back of big range rovers for example. There, presumably, in case some thing like a randomly occurring shard of diamond on the road manages to puncture one of the monstrously thick tires made specifically not to be punctured. Indeed the event is extremely unlikely to occur but the fifth wheel is an important back up, an existence necessary to give emotional and mental comfort to the paranoid range rover driver.
The seventh wheel however, the seventh wheel is inconsolable. There is nothing like sitting on a sofa and realizing that you are in a tight competition with the empty beer bottles strewn across the floor for the number one spot of most obsolete object in the room. And taking into account the fact that glass beer bottles can be near endlessly recycled and reused, as well as at some point having had the honour of containing the beautiful happiness inducing substance known as alcohol, whereas you are just a purposeless pile of flesh sitting on stuffed leather while using up oxygen that the three other couples making out in the room presumably have more of a dire need for considering all the panting their making, you are probably the champion of unnecessary existence.
So the moral of the story is, I need another bottle of beer or three.
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