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Baaaaaa

Posted 6 October 2002, 6.37 am by firebrand

Click on link.

Check out the "virtual Afghanistan" section. crazy shit man, crazy.

Esheep.com

Play with Letters

Posted 6 October 2002, 1.55 am by firebrand

Click Me

From my collection of tender links.

Yeah, But I Didn't Mean To

Posted 5 October 2002, 10.12 pm by Berly

Intent. It is the one thing that can be known only by the individual it resides in.

So how do YOU know what someone's intent is? Can it be proven? Beyond a doubt? How do you know they have not mislead you about their intentions? It could be as infinite as a reflection in two mirrors opposite each other, or it could be as simple as someone telling the truth.

Built of a blend of such things as thought, rationale, and emotion - it becomes something even more abstract and futile to clarify.

One is permitted all kinds of latitude when it comes to undesirable thoughts and emotions. Not so with perceived nefarious intentions. Even flawed rationale is not nearly as damning as flawed intentions.

I find it amusing that such an impossible thing to know is used to appraise people. The legal system will even grant you a lesser punishment if you can prove that you didn't mean to do it.

It effects each and every one of us, regardless of our age, race, location, etc....[insert symbol for infinity].... Even the non-human are susceptible. Discussions surrounding the intent of deities as well as devils are as passionate as any others.

This hopelessly sought truth is more powerful than a first impression.

Caught Up in the Moment

Posted 3 October 2002, 9.23 pm by Jake

“Well,” I think, “at least I won’t have to go to work tomorrow.”

I heft the pistol in my hand. It feels like a brick of lead, so heavy yet so small. A Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum revolver. 6 little friends. 6 little ways to die.
Right now I have two options.

Option #1: I can put the gun to my chest, approximately where my heart is, blowing a majority of it away yet risking the concept of surviving a mortal wound.
Option #2: I can stick the barrel in my mouth, blowing off the top of my head and a good bit of my gray matter, yet the risks? See aforementioned statement.

I choose option #2, for aesthetic purposes.Just for the sake of the coroners and medical examiners.
I begin to count down from 5.
Five. Four. Three. Two,
I grit my teeth around the barrel and begin to tighten my finger on the trigger.
Hot tears are rolling down my burning cheeks. I’ve got a pounding fucking headache that’s on the verge of being cured by a single Cor-Bon 280 grain bonded-core lead aspirin.
The phone rings.
I jump out of my chair, scared shitless.

I reposition the gun in my mouth like a wretched child on a teat of death, gritting my teeth onto the barrel, trying to ignore the ringing telephone. My thoughts begin to wander. Who could be on the other line? Ideas of salvation from a telephone line, someone else’s voice begin to cloud my head. FUCK! No! I try to concentrate on the task at hand, in my hand.

The phone trills for the fourth time. Should I answer it ? Ah, no! I can’t. I gotta do this.
Instant relief, and I’m willing to throw it all away over a telephone call. Gotta be tough. Gotta be a man. Instant self gratification, freedom from this dirty fucking mortal coil. Right here. Right now. I tighten my grip on the pistol, and begin to tense the muscles in my finger.

The answering machine kicks on. I hear my own voice for what may be the last time. I roll my eyes as the greeting drones on with all of its little insignificant requirements…Leave your name, number, and a brief message and I’ll give you a ring from the afterlife.

My best friend’s voice echoes over the speaker.

“Dude? Hey, this is Justin. I just wanted to know if you wanted to come down to Blue’s and have a few beers with all of us. It’s Lisa’s birthday, so grab a card on your way. I’ll see you when you get there. Peace!”

I look over at the mirror next to my bed. I look like an idiot, slobbering all around with half of a gun sticking out of my face. What was I thinking, anyways?

I sigh and take the gun from my mouth. I walk over to my laundry hamper and pull out a used towel to dry the spit off of it. I look at the pistol disdainfully, and decide to eventually take it by the pawn shop and get rid of it. Give me $300, give me $5, just give me a reason not to use this thing on myself.

I pull on a shirt, spray on a bit of cologne, grab my housekeys and walk out the door. I lock it securely and turn around, stepping onto the sidewalk. I glance both ways before I step off the curb and onto the crosswalk.

So much for salvation.

The Great Filing System that is my Brain

Posted 3 October 2002, 3.54 am by firebrand

We fashion memories from scraps in the fabric of time.They are never an unbroken line; each is just a snapshot or a fly caught in amber. These memories are part of me, and yet they ARE me.

Some we share, others we cling to as if voicing them will somehow take them away from us. As if we will lose that part of us . . . .

I remember watching someone sleep, and having the urge to kiss him. For no reason at all. For some reason the draw of red lips, slightly parted, was almost more than I could bear. Something inside pushed me towards him, straining to feel the silken slip of lip on lip. Something always pulls me back.

I remember the cold rough concrete in downtown Knoxville, curled up in a corner next to a bridge. The smell of spilt beer on the walkway above and the texture of the pants I was wearing. The hot, wet tears cascading down my face, and the sobs bubbling up from my chest. I remember trying to be silent when someone passed by so they wouldn’t hear my shame.

Memories affect all the decisions I make and all the feelings I have. They can pick me up when I am down, or stop me in my tracks. I can box them up and shove them in the back of my mind, putting off the inevitable day when they resurface. I can share them with my friends or squirrel them away in a diary. All these snatches of time – these instants – make me who I am.


Cybar-Lovah? more like Cyber-Loser

Posted 2 October 2002, 1.18 am by firebrand

Go Here, Fools.

requires quicktime; i'd reccommend one of the lower bandwidth versions.

Self-Taught

Posted 1 October 2002, 7.54 pm by Alexander

All the skills I use on a regular basis and those that I've got the most use out of are self-taught. Not necessarily basic life skills like reading, writing and arithmetic but certainly all that I do that I consider 'artistic' or expressive. I've taught myself how to play multiple instruments, to build websites and sing, write songs, mostly how to draw and paint. How important is it to be self-taught? Given the option, would you choose tutelage and guidance from one who is experienced over working it out yourself?

In my case, the skills I list above and anything that comes from them comes directly from me, rather than through a filter of other people's preferences and decisions as to effectiveness. On the other hand, often they lack discipline, are less effective and harder to communicate than classically taught examples of the same activities. I can't read music, so I can't use that method to learn or teach other people how my songs should sound. I can't really read guitar tab terribly well either. The fact that I've written literally hundreds of songs that have been enjoyed by thousands of people in my mind underlines the non-essential nature of such accepted methods.

Ironically, I would like to pass on my skills and share my knowledge with others. How valid is my guidance when a lot of the time I just 'know' things are right? It's hard to teach someone how to play the guitar without falling into the same trap I tried successfully to avoid - you're not teaching someone how to play an instrument, you're teaching them how YOU play an instrument. It's convoluted in the extreme, and those exponents who have qualifications in particular art forms (which is a fairly ludicrous concept when you really analyse it) are wont to decry autodidacts like myself as fauvists, naive or (hopefully) idiot savant.

Of course, all the above applies mainly to what falls under 'the arts'. I don't think many people sit down and learn quantum mechanics without even a book to steer them. Then you can add natural talent into the equation - do some people learn things faster due to an inbuilt propensity for it, or do these people just naturally learn fast and take an interest in a particular metier?

It's an interesting train of thought, and brings up a lot of questions. Think of the skills you possess and the things you're good at. How much of that skill do you attribute to schooling, training and external influence, and how much to your natural abilities? Have you ever found yourself to be really good at something you don't enjoy?

Moving On

Posted 30 September 2002, 9.09 pm by Shaggy


I often feel like I am possessed. The most obvious of times, the moments when some spirit seems to sweep from above and inhabit my body, is usually as I walk home from school. It is at this time that I begin to doubt myself, begin to wonder how I have managed to make it this far. Especially when you consider the fact that, just four short years ago, I couldn't conceive of moving on with my life at all.

Why is it that it feels this way? Is it because I do not trust myself with my future, that elusive and sometimes daunting task that looms above my head, waiting to rip me to shreds with its many teeth? Is it because I am an artist, something sublime, and as such am touched by something divine, something that allows me to see into things differently? Or am I just mystifying my role here on earth?

Or am I just slightly crazy? Everyone of us is slightly crazy, it is why psychologists have such a problem on their hands when they attempt to prescribe mental institutionalization. Is this my Bane, speaking to me from some place that doesn't exist?

Is it perhaps, that I am actually possessed, living a world with more than one soul trapped in this shell of a body? Indeed, my memory is often hazy, at best, and I do not usually remember origins to tangent thoughts, studies, or even people (very well).

"I have this condition."

No, I think I have not yet touched upon what this feeling is, if indeed it can be categorized as a feeling or emotion.

Are my appentencies at fault, or is it something else entirely?

I turn 20 in a few days. I'm almost as young as my collective subconscious. Perhaps there are holes in my memory because we are the young, while the Old remain unseen, left in the shadows, in a realm which exists inconceivable to our intelligence.

I have seen the pathway, I have seen visions of this other side, yet no matter how hard my mind wraps around this issue, I cannot see how the pathway can be created, I cannot see how I can bridge this gap that I can sometimes mirror in my dreams. How can I come down from my perch, or, perhaps, how can I re-elevate myself, bringing the particular in my hands to the Real, to the Truth.

My tongue is an eye, indeed, yet there are somethings the eye cannot see, and other things the tongue cannot tell.

There exists something else, I can feel it in my bones. Laugh at me all you will, but it is possible to climb up and down from the perch, and I hope to be reminded, I hope to climb back up on the perch but this time, I will not sacrifice my sensation for the journey. I will bring the flesh, for the flesh is a member of the particular, a subset if you will, and I will bring sensation, which invariably comes from the flesh.

There exists somewhere else, somewhere which we have not seen for thousands of years.

I am not crazy.

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They were done for an exhibition a couple of years ago . They asked for something to so with the summer. They are mixed media and oil paint on metal advertising boards - for ice cream.


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80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

Yo ! Does this work ?

* Alexander wonders if this still works

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