Archive for June, 2015

Alex Bernhardt.

Posted: 2015-06-21 in Thoughts For The Day

2014: she’s in the news, not just reporting it, for having an Esky of water dumped on her.

2015: she’s in the news for having a cigarette stubbed in her face (alas, such a pretty face).

As a journalist, I feel solidarity, but her plight also tells me something about the reality of TV news reporting (pretty and sordid combined – but perhaps it is more reflective of society than my wannabe highbrow brand of investigative, informative journalism. And, whilst I haven’t been assaulted literally thus, perhaps I am every day laughed at by the TV station employees as they cash their pay cheques, Vaudeville-inflated, Hollywood ideas. Assaulted in another way).

Winner takes all. And the readers get to see that I am clean-shaven (or rather, epilated, plucked mechanically) down under. Clean. But that part doesn’t matter, it’s the exposition itself that titillates.

Do you have anything to say?

Do you have anything worth taking the time and effort and solemnity to commit it to the printed page?

Do you have anything worth saying which is worthy of being preserved for future generations? Do you have anything worth saying that even you, yourself, would appreciate reading again in 10 years time?

Sure, you’ve got plenty to say – we all do. But, really, is it *that* valuable?

Talk is cheap. Actions can be cheap. Writing is expensive (the soul encapsulated, somehow – how can money compare?).

His Own Drummer.

Posted: 2015-06-19 in His Own Drummer.

She noted that he repeated his statements quite frequently. He would barely have finished a sentence before he would repeat the words, as if a compulsion.

If life was poetry, perhaps it would be okay. But, here and now, in the prosaic world we live in, it is slightly annoying.

She automatically assumed that the automatic repetition came from a lifetime of people not understanding what he was saying, one way or another, so he was accustomed to having to make his point twice. Sigh. Hoping it would make a difference.


Posted: 2015-06-18 in Thoughts For The Day

Is lying ever justified? Well, yes, we all do it every day, just in order to survive, to get us from A to B in this crazy world

Sometimes it protects us from perceived harm.

Sometimes it reflects us (what we inherently view as the *real* us, regardless of perceived “facts”), as such these lies can seem more authentic than banal truth.

Sometimes it deflects another from getting too close to one’s core.

Indeed, lying, if based in truth and ardor, can be noble.

Where does it begin, where does it end? Reality in the mind or on the ground? How someone else sees you or how you feel? A hope of becoming what you want to be and forgetting the pain of the past, friends departed, never truly mine? …

I know that I’m an excellent resource, remaining untapped. I believe that I’m a world changer, an agent of positivity, far and wide, just give me a chance! …

I look at the job ads and marvel at the inadequacy of the words, the lack of professionalism – these people want me to make the effort of selling a piece of my soul, giving a piece of my life and times, to go through the purgatory of applying for their poxy job? On the basis of that vague, shitty ad? Only for the undoubted ignominy of a rejection. No, no thanks.

Next time treat your wannabe applicants with a shred of decency, please. And maybe the world will keep turning.

Yeah, you speak, talk, blabber, babble. You tell me about yourself in so many ways (white trash) in small talk. You ask questions occasionally, presupposing I actually want to give a truthful answer.

Meanwhile my mother marvels at the wonder of the giant’s footprint on the bed.

And a Jewish übermensch delights in standing strong as Germans weakly sit, on a winding road.

Fuck you, you who think you know.

Grayness and complication and hearing aids that don’t work. A lack of communication, seething anger, feelings of violation as new neighbors (ahem) make them selves at home next door. You wish they’d never been born, these self-righteous pieces of white trash, sigh, like, yeah, it would’ve been good if their asshole father had just pumped his piece of filth into a dirty sock instead. Like so many others in this street, locale, province, country, world. Scourge, they impinge on others but are acclaimed in a counter-logic way – people love to be pissed upon. … They, these fucks, pretend to be carpenters, to air some effect of credibility for their pathetic gang. But saws do damage, especially to one’s careless self. Hey.

Today’s news, forgotten tomorrow. The lack of follow-through is disturbing, the difference between me and you.

The devil, it would seem, has control of the weather, the elements on planet Earth.

Rain torrents flood, kill and destroy.

Fire burns, kills and destroys.

Earthquakes and volcanoes, don’t get me started…

Heat, cold, wet, too much dry, they all cause misery. They all result in despair, a betrayal of faith, head in hands moments, a fundamental, elemental, primal cry of “why did I even try?” …

By writing it, it becomes real, even in the pages of fiction.

Meanwhile, talk is cheap (certainly the words I hear flying by, chirped out by excited and banal village people, have no meaning to me – they only serve to make me feel more disconnected).

Yet many argue that the spoken word is extremely powerful (you get what you proclaim, the fruit of the mouth, etc.) – if so, then what is the written word?