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Reader submission #2523 from: dot

Posted 4 January 2002, 11.27 pm by Alexander

It is easy to mistake inspiration for depression and insanity when you have been creatively empty for so long. Suddenly, although nothing in your life has changed, something can go off in your head. So you spend a good part of the night crawling out of your skin because whatever is inside is trying to escape. How does this start? In a room filled with incense, a cute tech support girl on the phone, frustrating technology and a boy lying on his back about 3 feet away. She puts me on hold and an awkward silence. Awkward because I can't pretend I am busy doing something else, because it becomes glaringly obvious I am basking in his company. His empty, painful company.

The cuts on my wrists ache and I want to show him. The cuts on my chest, the ones he made when he sliced me open and stole my heart, start gushing blood. Covered in the invisible mess I am sure he can see it, smell it on me. Staring at him, I wonder when his skin got so clear and when his features softened to that of an angel. Sitting, pretending to look at the computer, I daydream about crawling on top of his chest. Curling up, listening to his heart and staying like that forever. I don't have to show him, he knows without asking. He feels my hips and cries. He kisses my wrists and tenses up. Please, oh please, don't leave me again, don't dig deeper inside yourself, stay here, with me, I promise, I promise I won't do it again, I promise I'll eat, I promise the drugs, the knives, the pain inside, I promise it will all go away, just please, oh please, don't leave, I beg. What is it, what's wrong? Insomnia? Headaches? Depression? Shhh, shhh, I understand, I understand, I get migraines, you remember. You can't kiss them better. They go away with time, just don't touch me, and it will all get better. He leaves the room. I hold my breath, bite my tongue, and cry.

Nine hours later. Insomnia? The man behind the counter asks. I squirm and mutter things under my breath. Yes, yes, insomnia. It's not a total lie. Not my insomnia, my mothers. No debit, that's fine. I search my pockets for the last two dollars I have. I'll get some more money after this cup of tea. Half an hour later, in the closed off section of the bank that stays open all nite, my card is refused. How stupid could I be? It is January, expired.

I have no money, no place to go. I curl up and cry, under the fluorescent lights, dry and warm in that little alcove, realizing inspiration hit when my heart left the room and understanding it once the rain and wind whispered it in my ear.

One day..

Posted 3 January 2002, 11.48 pm by Villager

One day I will travel the world.
One day I will write the perfect novel.
One day I will run for Prime Minister.
One day I will eat only healthy food.
One day I will run the four minute mile.
One day I will let my loved ones know they are so.
One day I will Climb the tallest mountain.
One day I will fix the handle on my wardrobe.

And yet today I have done nothing.
Or yesterday.
Or the day before..

Reader submission #2312 from: dot

Posted 3 January 2002, 5.46 pm by Alexander

I look so small in the mirror. Almost pretty. I touch my stomach, my hips.
My belt is half off when I decide to wash my hands. I scrub and scrub until the skin is soft and smooth again. My eyes are dark. I turn and stare at myself from a side angle. So close. My pants rest on my hips, my underwear showing about an inch. My stomach aches and I am sick. Self-induced. No, not another eating disorder. There is nothing to get rid of. I wash my hands again. Splash water on my face. I want to wash my hair. I wish my best girl friend was here to help me. I am so proud, I can't help it. It shines through the self-hatred and depression. I wonder how much more time I can waste in this washroom, in this café, in this state of mind. Gleefully calm as I spiral into self destruction.

Back at the counter the late shift employee makes idle chitchat. I consider rolling up my sleeves and laying the pills out in front of him. Laughing and crying. I ponder taking off my shirt, as if to explain, quite simply, all the problems with my life. See, these are my tits, you can do whatever you want to them. This is my stomach, always in pain. These are my hips, with all that unwanted fat. You already saw my arms, and I'm sure you know what's wrong there. Back to my tits please. Look closer, no, that's not close enough. Stare longer. There you go. To the left a bit. That's my heart. Understand? Of course you do. Who wouldn't? Well that was fun, let's share a joint.

Parents, do you know where your children are? How about alone and broken.

Thanks a hell of a lot for paying attention.

Fuck the mainstream? Fuck you.

Posted 2 January 2002, 11.12 pm by Villager

The "rebel" attitude is not a new one. Popular predominantly among youth cultures, it's always been the 'in-thing' to go against what we are told and essentially be different, whatever different might be at the time (hippies, goth.. take your pick). I cite youth culture as the main feature because the youth are the most impressionable, the most vulnerable to pressure from their peers and generally the ones most influenced by advertising, media, the new world around them. It is no surprise, then, that the youth, unguided and unsure, turn to these influences, and so develop a pattern of thinking in which they believe they are Doing It Their Way.

But whichever age group, there is pressure to do things your own way. People so often tell me I should do this or I should do that. Some of it is reasonable, common sense that shall stand me in good steed for the future - other advice is a slightly more innate view that one should not deviate from the norms in society. School University, stable job - family, pension, yada yada yada. By no means shall my life be a copy of what tradition and society expects.

But, but the very same token, the people who tell me not to become a sheep and get married for the sake of being married, not to kiss the Government's ass by getting a job, and to essentially shun all the undesirable elements of society around me, these people are even wider of the mark.

I firmly believe I make my own choices in life, as far as one can and not become an exile, but that is no reason to shun the society that created me. I want to get married - it may be a slightly superficial institution to a non-Christian, but it does hold meaning within society and within the people I know and love. And that's not something I wish to escape. Again, if I need to get a job in return for ££ to pay for the kind of lifestyle I desire, that's a fair trade.

Too many people have an OTT reaction to society, it's not some George Orwell's 1984-esque conspiracy, it's life amongst other people. I'm not being milked like a battery hen by some demonic leader hiding behind the public face of Tony Blair. I'll do what I want - but don't tell me I'm a sheep if any of my choices happen to be traditional or typical.

The Power of Sentiment

Posted 1 January 2002, 9.05 pm by The_Roach

(The New Year is a time of looking forward to the future, a time of hope and of joy. It is also a time of sentementality, fond remembrance of times past that shall not be forgotten. I would like to demonstrate how powerful sentiment can be by telling a story of New Year's past.)

It was by no means a particularly significant evening by anyone's standards. In fact, that night we all discussed how it didn't seem like New Year's, that Christmas hadn't quite seemed like Christmas. As far as I was concerned, it was just another night out on the town, another excuse to get drunk (as if we ever needed one). Two of my friends who made up this little group were recently married, having done so in the early part of the same year. Very much in love, they've never ceased to demonstrate to me that, while love does not conquer all, it makes the hard times seem that much easier. This specific evening, we ended our troublemaking at their home. As they were in the process of moving, much of the furniture had already been removed and we were forced to sit on the floor.

Two minutes remained until the dropping of the ball. The New Year was fast approaching. The pair prepared themselves for another year of living and of loving. The husband grasped the bottle of champagne, planning to pop the cork at the precise moment that would be upon us while the bride held their ceremonial glasses in anticipation. The cork popped prematurely, the husband's face red with embarrassment, or the cold, or the earlier indulgences of alcohol that had taken place earlier. I'm sure I'll never know. What I remember happening next was the clink of crystal, or so I thought at the time. On reflection, it was too sharp, too severe. It sounded more like a heart breaking, which is not too far from the truth. As a result of amusement towards her somewhat clumsy husband, she had clapped the champagne flutes in her hands together and shattered one.

Here was a woman that I had never seen unhappy, never experienced any hint of sorrow from. No matter the circumstances that tried to hold her down, she always stood proudly with a smile on her face. Not this night. Not this last minute into another year. All she could do was stare at a broken champagne flute and cry silently.

I was stunned. The thought that something so trivial as a glass could possibly tear down the defenses of this strong and independant woman was mind-boggling to me. She was graceful, though. The moment it occured to her that someone might have noticed her plight, she rose and walked from the room, lifting the tears from her face with an empty hand.

I'm still not quite sure I understand why this was such a horrible event. Certainly, I can relate to the sort of attachment that comes as a result of associating material items with events in one's life. I am just as guilty of it as anyone else. I suppose what has always led me astray is my own sense of symbolism, coupled with my attitudes towards love and all it's joys: That it is to be shared.

Now they have but one glass to drink from each year, one they will both sip from in hopes of a fruitful and harmonious New Year. I have no doubt that she has forgotten the importance of that broken crystal in times past, but I also know that she weill never forget the significance of the one she still has.

Happy New Year. May you be safe, and joyous, and free.

A Brand New Day

Posted 31 December 2001, 3.19 pm by Alexander

I awake and the light of a new sun hits my face. Smiling at it's warmth I get out of bed, get dressed and eat some breakfast. I put the radio on a news station, just to make sure nothing bad has happened in the world while I was asleep. Sure enough, nothing to report. All is calm. Finishing my breakfast, I turn on my pc. I connect to the world wide web and make my way to my website. I designed it myself. It's taken me just under a year of solid work to develop it to where it is now, it's not perfect by any means, but I'm always learning. It seems to have been busy overnight - lots of discussion in the forum and some of the staff writers have posted thought-provoking articles. It's not an amazingly busy site, but it seems to have a loyal following and the readership is growing steadily.

I pop open bersirc and enter the #akpcep chan. It's got a few people in, we chat about mundane matters. Some of the staff are there and we thrash out a few ideas on new functionalities. But too much internet is bad for you, so I switch off my computer and pick up my guitar. I work on a song or two and scrawl down some lyrics. Checking my watch I notice it's time for rehearsal, so I load up my car and drive to the rehearsal studios. The rest of the band are already there setting up so before long we're running through the set for the upcoming show. All goes well and equipment is working perfectly.

After the rehearsal I come back, unload the car and get back into my flat. I put on some old skool hip hop and drink a beer. After a few freeweights and a run through some of my kung-fu forms it's time for bed. I don't resent sleep because it gives me the energy to face tomorrow.

Living in a fantasy world is fun, try it.


Posted 30 December 2001, 2.21 am by Acheron


Charybdis. A puking mess of emotions, swirling about. The greatest poem-essay-novel-epic-symphony ever set down on conceptualized paper, dancing about. The human experience. If we were telepathic, or at least honest, we would merely examine each others' emotions. Bottled joy. Suicidal depression and angst for the youth and youthful at heart. Content in a can for the masses. Love for the lonely. Instead we vicariously experience these emotions through indirect means. A subject! my kingdom for a subject! Open my ribcage like a tabernacle and pour emotion like honeyed molasses syrup onto a dry dusty canvas. Frantically search the mundane world surrounding me for some fragile link between sense and nonsense. 4 walls, floor, ceiling, chair, everything anything something nothing. Somehow a story comes into mind, moulded imperfectly from my perfect emotions like Plato's Play-doh. At last, the searching is over: viens, mediocrity.

//In the act//

The hardest word to write is the first. I have a subject, still more ethereal, closer to perfection, than my finished product can hope to be. The perfect essay does not exist - on whatever level that statement is looked at. With practice, writing the story itself is not so agonizing. Just ignore that little voice up top - logic, reason, intelligence, thought, consciousness whatever it's called - and let the haphazard rhythm of the keys carry me. No. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Backspace. Clickety clack. The environment fades away as the keys become everything. I am exist when and where my fingers touch the keys. I am AWEFJIOL. ASDTJK;[SHIFT]. [TAB]WEY[SPACE]HIO[?]. I exist like sparks in the darkness; salmon reflecting moonlight on a tranquil lake as they take flight in the night. Like a locomotive pulling into the station, I slowly fade back into reality. Done.


Embarrassment. The emotional context is gone - just a soul, in dire need of a fig leaf or two. Shame, shame, shame. Tut. Tsk. Chit. Edit. Correct. Edit again. Ba-dee-ba-dee-ba that's all folks. See some more mistakes. Edit again. Finished? Never - corporeal existence is quite a burden for us perfectionists.

The Internet: A crock of shit.

Posted 28 December 2001, 11.18 pm by Alexander

Vill, you're wrong. The internet is the biggest fucking disappointment of the 20th Century. It has utterly utterly failed. The fact that you can chat to people across the world using it is an insult to it's original promise. Where's the money it was supposed to generate? Why can't companies survive in a virtual marketplace? Why is it used to peddle porn and advertise things nobody is buying?

We're like kids playing in the shell of a NASA rocket that failed to take off. There are no innovations, nothing new. Things just got faster, more anonymous, with less personal responsibility. That's been happening gradually since the dawn of time.

It's a medium like any other. Except other modern media has fulfilled it's expectations, mainly because there weren't many to begin with. Take TV, great entertainment for all the family. It's a roaring success because it brainwashes the masses and is a very successful advertising tool - uhuh, you can't watch the other half of that film until you sit through this message from our sponsors... So TV is doing better than anyone would hope, and did from the outset - it informed, entertained and sold people shit they didn't want.

The internet sells nobody anything. It provides nobody with a significant amount of work (anyone can design a website). It's use as an information source is only as good as the data input, and there is no safeguard guaranteeing validity of information. "I read it on the internet" is as scoffed at as "a bloke down the pub told me". It has no credibility.

The internet is a fairly good timewaster. It can help college kids scam second hand data for schoolwork. It provides stupid negative fucking losers like me another outlet to inflict pointless 'art' on the general public. The more you think about it, the more you just want to disconnect and play video games on your pc, a much more wholesome and focussed entertainment activity.

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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 ?


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