two drumsticks, not chicken drumsticks, but actual drumsticks...

ok

so this is a post in where i'm writing out of a sense of guilt rather than out of burning desire to have my words immortalised online. Although now I think of it surely the sum of information that a blog can hold is essentially equal to nil? - if we consider the fact that the sum of possible information that the Internet could hold is infinite (or as close as possible to infinity as matters) and that the sum of possible writings by one man is finite, even if we multiply that one man by the number of all possible humans, we still achieve a finite number. This finite number, representing the sum of all possible human blogging on the internet, is of course set within the infinite (or as good as) world of the internet, and of course as we all know - the percentage of a finite number within an infinite system is effectively nil (or as near as matters) - so basically, in terms of anything that actually matters, no-one has ever blogged anything...

this is depressing for two reasons; first the whole futility of life thing or at the very least of blogging, secondly the fact that i think i may have stolen that argument (or something so similar that it barely matters) from Douglas Adams.

so does is matter that my poorly expressed theory is a thinly disguised argument stolen from a dead author? maybe it does - i do think that sort of thing is important

actually let me address a question to my hypothetical audience (if there is one) - does anyone else ever get the impression that anything they've ever thought before has been thought by someone else - i'm not trying to be trite but, within a certain degree, we're all going to have similar thoughts to one another - especially now that we all have access to the same information sorta thing

i know that no-one will have *exactly* the same thoughts as another - but maybe we all have similar enough thoughts to one another for the difference essentially to tend to zero

is this a good thing or a bad thing? i'm not too sure - in some ways its reassuring that we probably all have a certain sort of thoughts in common (distribution wise i'm unsure - gaussian? its a long time since i looked at stats) or is it quite disturbing and sad that, even if we have what we would consider to be fairly original ideas, the fact is that no matter that whether we're having an original idea its going to be sufficiently close to another original idea by someone else to qualify as the same idea in the long run


so anyway i'm not really sure what i'm going on above there...

i have some nice words i've found below by a woman called Joanna Newsom


"And as for my inflammatory writ?
Well, I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit.
Advice from the master derailed that disaster;
he said "Hand that pen over to ME, poetaster!"
While across the great plains, keening lovely & awful,
ululate the last Great American Novels -
An unlawful lot, left to stutter and freeze, floodlit.
(But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit.) "

hmmm

well well well

have been a little rubbish at updating this page ain't i?

well after the horror that was my exams i figure maybe my brain has been busy healing in the last month or so - hence the inability to lay any of it down on this page

have resits in december but doubt they'll knacker me out as much as the summer exams

anyway have been thinking a lot over the last week so i'm sure it's gonna end up on here sooner or later - there's some great stuff about death and then some less exciting stuff about lobsters and maybe something about go-karts but i'm not too sure about that

oh and i've been rereading loads of jorge borges' stuff - the man was really awesome

also if anyone ever actually reads this methinks that simon joyner is a bit of a musical genius and should receive more recognition for writing pretty songs

because sometimes we need sleep too

staring into fractal clouds tearing my eyes on the cut-glass light
penetrating my lashes
and a japanese man talking to me but i see the terrible edges and the tinder tree twigs
over the tops of the church,
the steeple
and the monstrous distance

sleep and a numerous crowd of bats and music and the dull ember lighting breath,
holding their peace for the moment - a righteous crowd of pimps and prigs
speaking all at once - a dazed assembly of drifters
crowding paths and portals of the capital
fear and desperation and their awesome aching need

a godawful opening of dedicated connections with the one bright bastard spinning away from the stain on the floor with the chirping of a tattered consciousness and a hole mouthing words and a red roaring with exhausted lungs and do i know the way to South Kensington?

the wide flat spaces of the world

A) 'If you can't be happy where you are, you can't be happy anywhere'
Discuss, with examples from your own life.

B) 'Hell is Other People'
Do you agree? Demonstrate how this might or might not apply in the case of
i) The Armenian Massacres of 1915
ii) Either the life of Algernon Charles Swinburne or the death of Walt Disney
iii) the darkness before creation

(answer two of the three)


C) Construct an analogy using the saline nature of either tears or the sea and the salt that makes a dish palatable and adds piquance and savour.

(Examinees are encourages to refer to either the third daughter of Llyr or Lot's wife, but not both)


D) If I was God I would abolish...

Complete in 250 words or less. Physical practicalities and human nature are to be respected. The Law of Conservation of Happiness may not be violated.
(counts for 50% of your final score)

And some machines are dropped from great heights lovingly and some bellies ache with many bumblebees (and they sting so terribly).

Baby

Black, black, black is all you see
Don't you want to be free?

Baby
Red, red fire is what you breathe
Don't you want to be clean?

Honey, the shape you're in
Is worth every dime you spent
Baby Doll

Turn out the lights
Set yourself on fire
Say goodnight
Did you have a real cool time?

Baby
Black, black, black is all you see
Don't you want to be free?

Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!

"Oh the werewolf, oh the werewolf
Comes stepping along
He don’t even break the branches where he’s gone
Once I saw him in the moonlight, when the bats were a flying
I saw the werewolf, and the werewolf was crying

Cryin’ nobody knows, nobody knows,
How I loved the man, as I teared off his clothes
Cryin’ nobody know, nobody knows my pain
When I see that it’s risen; that fool moon again

For the werewolf, for the werewolf has sympathy
For the werewolf, somebody like you and me.
And only he goes to me, man this little flute I play
All through the night, until the light of day, and we are doomed to play

For the werewolf, for the werewolf, has sympathy
For the werewolf, somebody like you and me"

heh - got told off tonight for endlessly quoting but never writing in this damn thing

but then "Like all writers , he measured the achievements of others by what they had accomplished, asking of them that they measure him by what he envisaged or planned."

don't think i'm no writer but like that quote - think it's more universal than merely applying to them that write.

I think it's possible that we're all guilty of that - judging others by what they lack in their life rather than what they plan - whereas we're outraged if no-one can see the depths and possibilities in our good selves (as much as we'd like them to be hidden we long for them to be public). Ee'um we really can be hypocritical wee shites can't we?

but, despite that, how much fun are people? like seriously, how cool and interesting are most people, because, and i know this sounds like mushy shit, you just never know. you may have someone fucking pinned down exactly in your mind as to who they are but they'll still surprise you. and although that can be scary sometimes it's also kinda cool i think.

right - am turning into a damn panda so gonna hit it - night

it grows darker with the day

As so with that, I thought I'd take a final walk
The tide of public opinion had started to abate
The neighbours, bless them, had turned out to be all talk
I could see their frightened faces
peering at me through the gate

I was looking for an end to this, for some kind of closure
Time moved so rapidly, I had no hope of keeping track of it
I thought of my friends who had died of exposure
And I remembered other ones who had died from the lack of it

And in my best shoes I started falling forward down the street
I stopped at a church and jostled through the crowd
And love followed just behind me, panting at my feet
As the steeple tore the stomach from a lonely little cloud

Inside I sat, seeking the presence of a God
I searched through the pictures in a leather-bound book
I found a woolly lamb dozing in an issue of blood
And a gilled Jesus shivering on a fisherman's hook