HALL OF SHAME

Moved.

2010-07-27T07:06:00.000-07:00

Out with the old, in with the new: http://from-the-gutter.blogspot.com/

Describing the Colours and The Disease of Doubt.

2010-06-22T13:06:00.000-07:00

To start from the beginning? Nah, firstly I couldn’t even remember accurately when I grasped consciousness on this whole farce; and secondly I’d only serve to misrepresent, you know when you just can’t get it right, oversimplifying, exaggerating, playing down or abbreviating all the wrong things in all the wrong places? Plus I am in no way narcissistic enough to think you’d care for my life story, the origins of my being, I know it bores me half to death to even consider telling it. Instead I will brief you by telling you that I am considered an ill person, a spoilt person and although possessing the latter trait, my words and actions mean very little (if not nothing) to my peers around me. Consider me the pig who likes to think it can evaluate its own poke, a lonely consciousness and un-articulable clarity at the price of misery. Gosh, and what misery this difficulty brings to even pen these words to paper when it seems all I’ve ever set out to do is jeopardise myself and any chances of prosperity that have ever come my way; worse still I’ve even actually started to feel contentment with this seemingly backwards arrangement! Hell, these words seem too much like progress for my liking! Yet I must keep thrusting ungracefully forward, forcing myself to believe that you dear reader won’t view me as disdainfully as I am capable of viewing others, most of all myself.

If you're still here then let's start from the here and now, from the throbbing pulse of the point and straight to the core. This body exhausted and this mind blown...

II.

Stacking shelves is selling yourself as is bending down in a clients face.

I never tired of laying here early morning. For five days solid the cars moved outside, evacuated the lot as regular as the sun came around. Out went the neighbours like profitable ghosts to spend their civilized days, the nights before filled with lucidity, superficiality, venality -all the qualities necessary to make one stick to a successful reality. Laying awake, sharing the morning consciousness, the sound of the neighbours televisions came through the walls most mornings, the programmes always the same, gray news coverage, the aspiration of the advertisement, the light hearted finale to get you on your way, the same zombie like procession day after day. Because of this repetition I rarely bothered to turn on the television most days, the bright lights held the allure of many, a moving stairway to nothing, a sedative of sorts, too much moving imagery to evaluate the stillness of the nameless day.
My work began in the dark. Night time and another world is rising, animalistic, harsh and brutal, revolving without reason. Those with little pride stayed in the shade of darkness, no pride to protect them from the light. And what envy I possessed for those strong enough to face the light, for such blissful unawareness, for such a prolonged adolescence. Half past eight in the morning on an overcast day, out went my peers to greet despondently the working day. The reality of the myth of Sisyphus, pushing forth, going nowhere. His hill now a desk, a word processor for a rock. Even the God’s thought there is no more dreadful punishment than a futile, hopeless labour.

Wreckage inside all that's real
Another bought product, no reality
Passive consumers with patrolled desires
Mindless countdown to retirement

Yet I lay and try to numb my senses when it comes to such talk, conscious of the perception of the angry lone pessimist, all too aware of how media and its holy counterparts have made the caricature of the little man as unique, ridiculed and as dangerous as the local village idiot. Oh, to blow the man down with a distorted image, one sees themselves as reflected in others. A world of warped carnival mirrors - held up to you by those with vested interests...

Word from the wise...

2009-11-24T10:54:00.000-08:00

"The more sensitive you are, the more likely you are to be brutalised, develop scabs and never evolve. Never allow yourself to feel anything because you always feel too much..." -Marlon Brando

Efface...Expunge...Erase...Delete...Rub Out...Wipe Out...Obliterate.

2009-11-23T13:00:00.000-08:00

'As every humanities undergraduate now knows, Barnes in his famous 1967 essay The Death of the Author, declared that writing is a kind of self-annihilation or death - not an act of self discovery or self expression, not a covenant with immortality. Or to put it in Nabokov's terms, one writes not with the graphite at the nub of one's pencil, but with the eraser on the other end...'

Vladimir Nabokov and the Art of Play - Thomas Karshan.

The skull beneath the skin.

2009-03-18T20:57:00.000-07:00

Human

2009-03-18T01:54:00.000-07:00

The fever. The sickness. The plague. This emotional plague.

Late tribute to articulacy, sensitivity and true beauty.

2009-01-02T07:08:00.000-08:00

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.

Edward FitzGerald

Write Right.

2008-11-26T04:23:00.000-08:00

I'm going to force myself to write a piece about the desert island of the soul. My feelings of solitude, loneliness, and separation experienced on an every day basis. Instead of the bodily separation of a shipwrecked man; my protagonist will be isolated amongst incalculable number of men but with the same feelings of stranded abandonment.

My struggle.
Wish me luck.
x

+

2008-11-25T03:00:00.000-08:00

Too much going on in this head;
enough to constitute nothing.

A Declaration.

2008-11-24T11:19:00.000-08:00

My pathetically pointless narcissism is the only thing keeping me alive.
The declaration not said in the traditional sense of the 'One day I might achieve something' vanity but simply because I can't compose an articulate enough farewell note that would be at least of some true representation of myself. It'd be my last stand as a perfectionist I suppose...
My excuse to procrastinate? I'll do it soon, I promise.

Marriage is bad for FEMALES and good for MALES.

2008-10-09T04:44:00.000-07:00

Sunday Times:

*Single men die early: they drink more and, smoke more and kill themselves more often, whereas single unmarried women live longer than their married sisters.

* The longest life expectancies are found among groups of nuns.

Naked.

2008-10-09T04:30:00.000-07:00

Finally released on DVD for 2008. Watched the directors commentary too, the first film I've 'felt' in ages.

Pretty much sums up my silence...

2008-10-02T15:05:00.000-07:00

Life is terrifying and we will seek not to cross uncharted territory by never saying anything that has not already been said by someone more beautiful, someone more dead.

Emma Forrest 2002.

A-sexuality.

2008-09-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

"I was a compulsive, serial masturbator. I utilised that organ and rode it for everything it was worth. It's no longer a motivating factor for me."
- - - -
"Sex is the refuge of the mindless.
I haven't got time for sex of any kind. That's a hang-up."
- - - -

Robert Downey JR and Valerie Solanas - speaking my mind in these seemingly endless days of inarticulacy.

Time goes by so slowly...

2008-09-01T14:19:00.000-07:00

Earlier today I came across an old journal entry from the summer of 2006. Is it a pathetic declaration to admit I nodded my head earnestly, and worst of all - in agreement with my teenage ramblings of yore?

"If you were to ask me what I've been doing for the past few days, I couldn't tell you... It's been a year of groundhog days and the only way to differentiate such days has been by staring at the kitchen calender when making yet another simple meal for one at some ungodly hour. I know for certain that nearly every day for the past few years; this life presented the same morning wake-up call - a feeling like a lead weight holding my body down, making it hard to move one foot from the bed and start with the day ahead; which I know will hold no pleasantries of any material, form or substance. Everything I do is a diversion to stop the melancholic thinking. People will tell me to see friends, go shopping, get a job - but I feel un-capable of doing all such things. My mind is elsewhere, even the most simple tasks such as working as a Londis check-out girl proved difficult. My focus was elsewhere, all thoughts on concentrated on negativity and morbid thoughts and there was nothing I could do to stop thinking of these things - no matter how much fun I was meant to be having or how much work I was meant to be doing. I feel self-indulgent talking like this - everybody being made to job and the same 'born + work = die' cycle but at least the majority there find worth/reward at the end of a task. I simply see no worth in anything. At the risk of sounding like a bored, middle class depressive - I have tried everything and nothing, NOTHING at all gives me any kind of hope for the future."

The past truths still stand, but to accompany them is the ticking clock; fast and furious it brings with it the feeling of sheer desperation. But desperation for what action? That's the worst thing... I don't know.

A Borderline writes.

2008-08-27T08:12:00.000-07:00

Being a borderline feels like eternal hell.
Nothing less.
Pain, anger, confusion, hurt, never knowing how I'm gonna feel from one minute to the next.
Hurting because I hurt those who I love.
Feeling misunderstood. Analyzing everything. Nothing gives me pleasure.
Then I self-medicate with alcohol. Then I physically hurt myself. Then I feel guilty because of that.
Shame. Shame. Shame.