Friday, October 31, 2008

I Don't Get It (aka Ex # X)


I don't blog enough. Why do I even keep this blog up anyway?

Sit down. Feel your ass settle into the chair. Close your eyes and think of the last single most relaxing thing you did. Like eat your favorite chocolate. Or talk to your favorite person on the phone.

Mmm. Feels good, doesn't it?

Feels as if the past few days were a blur. You're slowing down though, like a horse fresh from the races, catching it's breath after a tenuous run. Through your closed lids, you imagine yourself looking down at your forelegs and seeing the veins bulging through your hide after all that effort. There is steam rising from your flanks, your body is so heated after the run that you're emanating an aura of sorts. You grin, and shake your head.

In real life, you shake your head as well.

It's been a good four days. Nobody will ever find the body, you think. After all the running and the effort, the pains you took to hide Elsa's corpse after you accidentally stabbed her during that last argument, there was no way in hell any one of them could find her. You were too careful. The last twenty four hours, in fact, were spent in making sure that all trails went cold fifteen minutes after you started following them, and not even the culmination of all the bloodhounds and CSI experts in the world over can track Elsa down to that -

No. Don't even think about it. Focus. Focus, goddammit.

You open your eyes since the oppressive isolation brought by the absence of sight wasn't working. You promised yourself that today, you would relax. That today, you'd try not to think about it at all.

Of course, that was difficult since her father was staring at you in the face. They shared those stormy, hooded eyes, father and daughter, and the way they both said "You motherfucker," like they meant it, and he was mouthing it now over and over again as if the chant was going to be enough, that the loss of his only daughter's life would slowly fade into the background if he kept on calling you the oldest most religious curse in the book. Against your better judgement (Umberto Eco had a funny thing to say about that phrase), you stare into his face and wouldn't you know it.

"You've been screwing Danica," Elsa'd screamed then. The two of you were in the bedroom, and she had a pair of scissors with her then, although she couldn't have hurt you with the way she held them.

So you had been fucking Danica behind her back. Big deal, you thought, Elsa couldn't even have given you head if she wanted to. The day you married her you discovered that she had what the doctors had termed as the female version of sterility, that her body never got the urges, that even if you tried, you'd end up scarring yourself due to the aridity of her nether parts. So in the midst of her tirade, you grabbed her and pushed her to the bed, to shut her up.

That was when the scissors, which she were still holding on to, stabbed her in the stomach.

There was the sound of a book closing, and you look up. You realize that you were drooling, but there won't be any evidence until after they inspect you later (they'll know that you were drooling then, oh boy). You feel groggy for some reason - you fell asleep for a few minutes, due to your attempts to relax, and for a few minutes everybody around you seemed disfigured, almost insect-like, with their pallid faces illuminated by the scant overhead light that was normally used in the sets of interrogation rooms. The guy who is hooking up the apparatus seemed to be one with the machine, the mess of wires and cables an extension of his hands and stomach, but he is blocked by the man in the black cassock who comes up to you and talks to you in gibberish, or maybe you just chose not to understand.

You instead hear her voice the first time you met Elsa, the way she smiled at you as she offered to take you up the path. She gave you a bag of potato chips - funny how you don't remember the particulars, the mountain OR the chips - and the way you got drunk and kissed each other like runners at the home stretch of a marathon, or maybe like horses, what is it with you and horses today this is the second time

Then the machine is pulled and a million (or billion? trillion? again the specifics escape you) watts of electricity pummel through your body and the funny thing is that the last thought in your mind was How the hell did Elsa kiss me so wildly if her body was unable to stimulate her sexually in any way -?

OH. This is why I keep my blog alive.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Alex Ross Kicks So Much Ass


Instead of explaining with words as to why this man is amazing, I will instead show you a photo.

Photo courtesy of Robot Walrus. All rights belong to Alex Ross.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

People and their Beliefs


It's good to have something to believe in. Really. It's always good to work for a cause, to fight the good fight so that a select group of the population have an easier time of it. I mean this in all honesty. Marxists supposedly work for the equality of the social system, feminists fight for the equal treatment of the genders, environmentalists tout the rejuvenation of mother nature for the continual benefit of future generations of the human race. We're all fighting and believing in something, and one way or the other, everybody's got a point.

Which is what brings me to mine: the -ism I adhere to is the one belief that will sit on the sidelines and chuck bombs when everybody else has gone to hell and back trying to shove each other's ideals down the next guy's throat. My personal -ism takes enjoyment in seeing the gestalt of a situation and making fun of it by pointing out the pros and cons of either side. Most importantly, my -ism believes in a sense of balance, where the good and the bad things never outweigh each other, where right encircles wrong in a slow waltz. My choice of -ism isn't an -ism at all.

That's right folks. I believe in neutrality. I am not apathetic, inasmuch as I care about the state of the world is in, and I am not impartial, since I think environmentalists and the pro-green activists are the way to go. But I like seeing how some good things will badly affect those in the immediate surroundings, while some bad choices will ultimately bring about a more nurturing status quo where fewer folks will have to suffer. I guess you could say that neutrality is all about damage control - neutral thinkers are the dudes who make sure that civilians aren't killed in the crossfire, or that you don't get accidentally shot because you were busy taking a shit when the Germans crossed the no-man's land.

Earlier today, I commented on a friend's post about Anna Garlin Spencer, a person who I know jack shit about. I understand that she was probably a pretty big proponent in the women's rights movement. The article outlined something to the effect that there are very few, if any at all, published works that praise the genius of a person who created what I imagine were plenty of useful things and ideas that the world benefits from today. In exchange, the text went on to say, her husband and children starved or suffered. A pretty ambiguous statement, at best.

Since I didn't know who she was, or what her contributions were to society and gender studies, I reacted (vaguely, it must be said) on the rather alarming statement that had something to do with her husband and children suffering. What irked me is the response of a person whom I didn't even know who seems to have snidely assumed that the person should have been common knowledge, or at least that her importance should be paramount.

Huh.

Well, miss Delirium 1986 (yes, I censor very little in my blog), if you'll forgive my blatant ignorance in the world of women's rights, I will forgive your ignorance in science and the possibility that you may not know that the man who conceptualized the radio satellite was Arthur C. Clarke, that Ada Lovelace was one of the best programmers who took over Charles Babbage's work in computers, and that the hyrax is a creature with rabbit-like features. I apologize for not knowing who Miss Spencer was, and I shall make it a point to ensure that every male person I encounter will know of her and her exploits, and why other people close to her should have suffered for the better good, whatever that is. I apologize that my world does not revolve around the same universe that you yourself consider very important, or that I should hold the immediate safety of other folks in higher importance than the point of making a statement against the status quo stereotype that females are the nurturers. After all, the fact that you don't know how I think is no fault of yours entirely (hilariously enough, this statement is true), and you are allowed the right to do and say whatever you want to show your utter disbelief that people can be so stupid.

Well, you know what, miss Delirium 1986? If you have that right, then so do I, since you, a female, and I, a male, are equal in every sense. And let me just greet you with a little "Shut your fuckin' know-it-all pie hole and shove whatever feminist-induced hatred shit you have lingering in your brain up your ass." It's feminists like you who make chauvinists out of neutral pigs like me. I believe in equal rights, I really do, but if equality is only going to bring about men and women who react like you to every gender-sensitive topic in the world out there, then why even fight for equality? We'll never have peace because people like you will be too busy yakking your self-obsessed righteousness into the world.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Inhalation


Two nose-related stories. So without further ado. . .

Lately, I've been having nosebleeds left and - well, mostly left. It started during my week-long battle with a flu that kept me in bed the whole of last week. I was woken up from an afternoon nap by a clogged left nostril, so I picked up the rag I was using for a handkerchief and blew my nose.

Imagine my surprise when I saw gobs of blood on the rag. I wasn't really shocked since I was used to my nose bleeding at the oddest of times, so I just plugged the hole with TP and went back to bed.

The past few days, though, the same nostril's been doling out the blood like a faucet. Just yesterday, I ended up wasting a brand-new handkerchief because I was gushing as if there was no tomorrow. A friend actually told me off when I was telling her about my plans to gym later in the evening, since I did just come from a sickness. This morning, though, after another episode of gooey geyser, I used the office bathroom's mirror to peer up my nose.

Dab smack in the outer wall of the nostril was this long black strip of what looked like hardened black animal skin. There was a wound scabbing over, apparently, and every time I picked what I thought was a booger, the scab would come loose and bring forth another red harvest to stain whatever nose-blowing implement I may have nearby.




I was pretty early at the gym this evening. I was thinking that finally, I'd be able to gym and get home before it was too dark. The problem I didn't anticipate was that when I got to Slimmer's World in Trafalgar Square, the entire place was packed to the rafters with every gym rat and his mother.

Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, since you could take turns with anybody on the machines, and there were plenty of free weights scattered throughout the workout area. The irksome part came when I signed up for the treadmills. All of the machines were booked for the next two cycles. So if I signed up for cardio, I would have to wait for an entire hour - which was the time I usually arrived at Slimmer's anyway, which kinda made my early arrival a useless gesture.

So instead of waiting for a free treadmill, I hiked to the workout area's second floor and got on one of the stationary bikes. Now, the thing with me and bikes is that the last time I rode a bike (stationary or otherwise) was six years ago at least. Unlike running, I didn't know what to anticipate and I had no idea of how I should pace myself.

There was this neat little dial thing sticking out the front end of the bike that adjusted the difficulty of your workout. Me being the clueless idiot that I am put the dial on "15," which I found out was pretty high up on the scale. After two minutes of duking it out with a bike that refused to move without the application of gargantuan force, I lowered the handicap to ten, and finished fifteen minutes' worth of cardio exercise.

I had no idea stationary bikes could be that intense. My feet were wigging out on me as I climbed down the stairs, and I had a hard time getting a full breath of air. Still do, as a matter of fact. Today, I learned a lesson. Stationary bikes are perfect for insane folks like me who don't know what the hell it is they're doing.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

The Tale of Tetebaluchi


Gather 'round, kiddies, and let me tell you a horrifying tale. This little ditty ain't no sham - it tells the truth (upon my honor) about the mad-dog menace of the stick they called . . .

TETEBALUCHI.

Now, as things started out, he was just a tree mindin' his own business down south of the country. But then one day, the choppers came, and saw no finer wood for profit than Tetebaluchi himself. He protested, oh yes with all his tree-given gifts, but the axes were sharp, the men's arms strong as an ox during the matin' season.

Tetebaluchi fell, amidst a furuious cascade of profanities that would make your sailor brother's mother's uncle pink with embarrassment. Oh yes, boys and girls, Tetebaluchi fell, and he shattered the earth beneath him with a thunderous CRACK!

Now, the thing about them trees is that you can cut them down, but you can't ever kill them, no sir. When you cut them down, you hurt them and take away a little bit more of their life, but wood only die when they're willin, and you can bet your last two centavos Tetebaluchi wasn't going down without a fight! The entire time he was in the millin' camp, being chiseled down to a mere stump of his former glory, throughout the nerve-wracking sanding and mind-boggling shaping, he hardened his resolve and swore to get back at man for all his suffering.

Years passed, and Tetebaluchi changed hands faster than a whore who needed abortion money. He was no more than a stick now, but a proud stick he was, strong and resilient in his forced turgidity. His owners varnished and polished him right daily, transforming him into a beautiful little weapon of mass destruction. And he bade his time well, that Tetebaluchi. He made sure that his vengeance would be swift, unexpected, and decisive.

But his time in the city made him soft. No matter how strong his resolve, Tetebaluchi postponed and postponed and postponed his avenging strike. The oils used to wax him were relaxing, and repeated coats of varnish as his older coat flaked off or grew old was like getting a facelift for goddamn free. This was the life of a stick, he reasoned, and it couldn't get any better. Vengeance can wait.

Until one day, when his present owner brought him to a bar gig somewhere in the metro. The obscenely loud noise from the guitars, the clashing and crashing of de-tuned cymbals and the agonizing, stifling smell of tobacco smoke in the stale air of the bar woke the fury burning in his heart of hearts. He remembered his life as a tree, and he remembered his downfall. His shame.

His revenge, thought Tetebaluchi, was at hand.

He sat down, patiently, looking for the perfect target. Beer bottles were emptied, ashtrays were filled with stale cigarette ends, and yet he lay there, observing. Feeling through the intensity in the air for the perfect victim. And after several hours, Tetebaluchi, that darn cuntfucker of a stick, found his target.

Me

Photo courtesy of Mahal Adams

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Post-Hiatus Vignette #1


He really needed to get back to his fiction. After checking out an artist's blog for inspiration, he felt it. It started small, a creative rush dripping throughout his body. It didn't feel like writing on the adrenaline-induced equivalent of crack or staring into the eyes of God, no.

This was something different.

It was like coffee, or Super Mario Brothers. This was what one would feel after downing a mugful of rich, luxurious espresso shots. This, he reasoned, was probably how Super Mario felt like after eating a mushroom - bigger somehow, and more secure that while he wasn't really larger than life, there was this voodoo majik that gave him the endurance he needed to storm the castle and save the princess.

Super Mario and espresso. Some reach, he thought after a second. Holy shit, that was a false start. He stood up and closed the computer, headed for the bathroom to take a shit. Afterwards, there was dinner to look forward to. So much for day one.

Where in the World Did the Time Go?


Wow. I promised to fix up this blog a long time ago, but even after all that, I only get around to doing it now. And I go and choose a default layout, to boot. What a jerk.

So anyway. Hi.




The problem with coming back from a blog hiatus of sorts is that you've had plenty of opportunities to write decent blog entries but you end up saving them for the future when you get to bringing your website back to life. I'm no stranger to that, I'll admit - so many things have happened these past few months that made me stop and thing that "Hey, there's something nice to blog about!" only to be followed by the thought that "Oh shat, I haven't cleaned up my blog yet."

It can get very frustrating. Especially when the only bit of writing you do get to doing involves work.

Which, by the way, is doing great. I've never been busier - dealing with the constant demands of the clients for better, cleaner output can be both frustrating and rewarding, despite the hideous amount of overtime I end up pulling. I still get to gym thrice a week, which is always good, and then there're band gigs and rehearsals every once in a while. This last bit can get pretty troublesome, sometimes, since gigs are late-night affairs and I usually have really early mornings. But it doesn't worry me much, for now. A busy Kilawinguwak is a happy Kilawinguwak.

I also managed to get that six string bass I've been threatening my bank account with. Cost me a good fifteen grand, but I think that Dr. Evil (not her real name) is somewhat worth it. The overall boom of the sound does tend to fall kinda flat when you get to the groove, and the mids could use a little bit more brightness, half the time. But a new set of skirts (pick-ups) on that baby and she'll be purring like a big-ass momma cat. Photos of her once I get the time to take decent shots; meanwhile, head on over to Abbey's Multiply for MaHaSa gig shots with me and the lil' darlin.

On the homecourt, in the meantime - everything's been pretty decent. Mom's doing well enough for everybody to be happy, although she does complain that she doesn't get to see me due to my insanely busy schedule. Which in turn makes my dad get on my case. Vicious (although not really very troublesome) cycle. I'll just have to juggle my schedule a little bit to set aside enough time for the family. So yeah - I know you read my blog dad. Haha. No heartwarming comments in this blog - if it doesn't have testosterone, keep it out (ok, I'm kidding).

As for the blog itself, there have been a few major changes. Firstly, I'll be converting this blog to a truly personal repository for my thoughts, rather than a place for noteworthy reads. I gave that a shot for some time, and I just really ran out of juice way before I could even get into the groove of things. Secondly, I'll be limiting the amount of outgoing links on display in the sidebar. I won't be optimizing this site for SEO purposes, since I don't really plan on turning the Mezzanine into an earning project. So yeah, people who link to me for purely linkback purposes, eat your hearts out. I've also removed the Google ads on display like I promised, and I have to say that the website looks much better without it.

So here's to a not-so-fresh start on blogging. Hurray to me. I'll be seeing you bitches in the next installment.