tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39641976538993422162024-03-05T19:09:50.158+11:00RakuliMostly just wordsRakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-44414230669954801792012-08-16T01:30:00.001+10:002012-08-16T07:43:20.238+10:00A box of dice and a bag of tricks<a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5281/5243371791_1b5180ec39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5281/5243371791_1b5180ec39.jpg" width="320" /></a><em>"Daddy, what's in the bag?"</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>"A box of dice and a bag of tricks, love," he would respond, sometimes pausing to kiss her forehead, sometimes stroking her cheek with a faraway look in his eyes. She loved the evenings after school. Her dad was always just waking up when she got home; he would help with her homework and then make dinner while she watched her favourite television shows. They would eat dinner while watching the news and wait until her mum came home. Her dad would take the bag from her mum and head out for the night.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>"Mum, what's in the bag?" she would ask as her parents whispered to each other in the kitchen.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>"Your future, my present, and more past than you need to know, Crystal," her mum would reply, handing the bag over to dad. They never really looked at the bag, her mum and dad, they just traded it like a relay baton when walking in and out of the small apartment. "Say goodbye to daddy, baby, it's time for bed."</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>"Goodnight, Daddy. I love you, will you show me a trick soon?"</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em>"Maybe not these tricks, Krissy, honey," her dad would reply laughing, leaning down to pick up Crystal and give her a kiss. "I'd never fool you with these ones."</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
Crystal sat on the edge of her dad's bed, looking down at his fragile form. "A box of dice and a bag of tricks, Dad?"<br />
<br />
"What else could I say, Krissy?" he croaked, hand reaching out to sit on Crystal's knee. "We never wanted you to know, we had a plan. You were never to know." He broke down into another fit of coughing. It sounded so much worse in the sterile emptiness of the hospital room, the machines beeping to accentuate the silence between each of his wracking breaths.<br />
<br />
"So why?" Crystal rested her hand for a moment on her dad's limp fingers, and then pushed his arm away from her. "Why do I find out three days before I go to college, why do I find out at all? And why like this?"<br />
<br />
"The money, baby. Not a lot, but enough, for you," his eyes were full of guilt, glistening with tears that could not have been far from falling. "Your mum decided that we had to stop using as soon as you were born, but we could still push, we still needed to push, for you, so you saw normal, so you saw us as normal. But your mum fell first, and when she did, I fell soon after. We still pushed, but we lost our way."<br />
<br />
"Why didn't you stop when she died? I wouldn't have known, Dad, why would I have known?" Crystal turned her head to look at the doorway, trying her best not to sniff audibly or let her shoulders convulse. "She just disappeared, you let me think she just disappeared!"<br />
<br />
"Krissy, I'm sorry. For what good it does, I am sor--" her dad broke into a violent episode of coughing. Crystal looked down at him, at the intravenous tube in his arm adding little to the pinhole damage already in existence, at the blood starting to show through the bandage around the gunshot wound in his chest, and she could feel the shaking in his legs from withdrawal. "I didn't know any other way. I still don't."<br />
<br />
"A box of dice and a bag of tricks, Dad." she stood up and looked down at her dad's gaunt face. "Thank you for putting me first, but fuck you for how you did it!"<br />
<br />
"It's always gambling and illusion, Krissy, always," his voice had died halfway through the sentence leaving Crystal to read the rest from his lips. She leaned down to kiss his forehead for what she knew was the last time, and left the room to the sound of his ever-weakening cough.<br />
<br />
<em>A box of dice and a bag of tricks</em>, she thought. <em>How much do I owe to chance and magic?</em>Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-79878838305564824622012-08-13T21:25:00.002+10:002012-08-13T21:25:16.238+10:00A six petal rose<br />
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<i>I can’t believe I’m doing this,</i> he thought wryly.<i> If someone was filming , they could make a straight-to-tv, midday movie from this tripe.</i> With a smile, he shook his head slightly and pulled the first petal from the long-stemmed rose in his hand. It was a yellow rose, chosen not because of preference for colour, but because it was wilting and had been marked down for quick sale at the florist. Frugality was not a part of it either, he had simply chosen not to waste a healthy rose on what he was about to do.<br />
<br />
He was looking out over the ocean from a cliff edge high above the frothy white mess of wave meeting rock. It was a long drive to get here, but the location had come instantly to mind the moment he decided what he was going to do. Isolated, unblemished by human touch, and windy enough to let nature bite him while he admired her beauty.<br />
<br />
He placed the rose petal on his upturned fingertips and stretched his arm out over the edge. An up-draft from the sea below quickly grabbed the petal from his hand and carried it out toward the horizon.<br />
<br />
“She loves me.”<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<i>First contact, shy smiles. Eyes meeting in glances of ever-increasing length. Cheeky grins, playful jests, fingertips stretched to touch for the want of touching. …</i><br />
<br />
<br />
The second petal came away from the flower, he thought it offered more resistance than the first, but it was captured by the ocean breeze just as readily.<br />
<br />
“She loves me not.”<br />
<br />
<i>First cracks, fears spoken. Worries planted, differences sprouting. Words recited, well meaning, true meaning, hands still held for want of gripping. …</i><br />
<br />
The first petal was lost to his eye now and the second yellow fragment had fallen straight to slide and tumble its way down the cliff face toward the water. A third petal sat on his outstretched hand, moving in circles, caught in an eddy above his palm. He blew toward it until it began to fall.<br />
<br />
“She loves me.”<br />
<br />
<i>Flowers blooming, smiles warming. Fingers clasped when not running through hair. Laughter resounding, hot breath on bare necks. Heart stopping words whispered in ears tensed and waiting …</i><br />
<br />
He had closed his eyes and was smiling, arm straight out in front of him as the wind grabbed his hair and flapped the folds of his long sleeved t-shirt. Without opening his eyes, he plucked another petal from the remnants of the yellow rose. He felt the the wind lift it from his fingertips.<br />
<br />
“She loves me not.”<br />
<br />
<i>Panic growing, worries taking root in fertile soil. Soft skin flinches from attempts to touch. Words spoken, by rote, meaning lost to repetition. Labels used for sake of labels. …</i><br />
<br />
His eyes were closed and arm still outstretched, but the corners of his mouth had fallen with the last petal, leaving his lips compressed in a thin line. His arm fell slowly to his side and he looked down in time to see the yellow petal’s flight brought down violently in the a puff of sea spray. Only two wind-crumpled petals remained on the rose, and that soon became one when his fingers deftly plucked another.<br />
<br />
“She loves me.”<br />
<br />
<i>Perfection. Uttered in disbelieving gasps of simultaneous ecstasy. Lucky, blessed, gifted, and loved. A warming connection even when hearts met distance. Perfection, lived and believed. …</i><br />
<br />
He was smiling again, but his eyes were open now and the lack of light in them gave away his smile’s lie. Gaze fixed on the final petal struggling to remain attached to the decrepit rose, he tossed the entire thing over the edge, watching it plummet toward the rocks below.<br />
<br />
“She loves me not.”<br />
<br />
<i>Distance manufactured, voices muted, whispers silenced. Cracks sprouting forests, words spoken known for lies, worries carpeting fields of green, brown now from lack of light. Drop outs, drop off, drop. …</i><br />
<br />
“She loved me not.”<br />
<br />
His face had split into a delirious rictus as he looked at his empty palms. He shifted his gaze to the female body at his feet.<br />
<br />
“The flower says you loved me not.”<br />
<br />
He kicked the corpse from the ledge and dived off after it before it was halfway to the rocks below.<br />
Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-25079904264721558692012-08-08T20:36:00.004+10:002012-08-08T20:46:35.334+10:00Opal Dreams<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.osagefoundation.org/files/1513/3674/8285/youth-basketball-header-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.osagefoundation.org/files/1513/3674/8285/youth-basketball-header-logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.osagefoundation.org/index.php/programs/basketball-tulsa/">Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Last night I had a dream, and although this is not exactly an earth-shattering revelation for most, it’s strange to me for many reasons — not least of which being the fact that I remembered a dream at all. Many may lament the loss of these subconscious insights, some may even go another level up and take some lucid control of the dream world, but not me. I know all too well what my mind can conjure even when it’s wide awake and as sober as your average monk, so I’m happy to stay away from what it produces unchecked.<br />
<br />
Of course it’s not the first time I’ve remembered a dream — I didn’t wake up saying “[What.] The. Fuck. Was. That?” — but it was the first time I have woken and still believed that the dream is an outside chance of happening. When you see the subject matter of the dream, you’ll realise how strange that is. It makes me a little concerned that I’ll start basing my socially acceptable behaviour on whether or not I believe a dream where it happened. Will it get to the point where I dream of walking into a mother’s group to start juggling newborns, and wake up thinking “Yep. Could work.”? Will the argument “I dreamed about it and it totally seemed legit,” hold up in the inevitable trial if I completed the act in real life? It’s probably best if you don’t answer those questions, leaving them rhetorical makes me appear a little less insane.<br />
<br />
The dream itself started off in the way dreams do, I dropped into my pseudo-consciousness perfectly happy with the location and the reason I was there. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there is a small, high school swimming and athletics carnival happening in London at the moment — they call it <i>The Olympic Games</i> and quite a few people are watching it. I was in London, at the Olympic Basketball arena, watching The Opals (The Australian women’s basketball team) take on … somebody. I can’t remember the identity of the second team — it could have been Mexico, it could have been Madagascar — and it’s anybody’s guess why I travelled all the way to London to watch a game of basketball. To me, basketball is like a slower version of tennis with less impressive backhands, and even though I support gender equality (where possible) in sports, my dislike for women’s basketball pips the men’s version slightly because there are fewer sex scandals and drug controversies.<br />
<br />
So, there I was at the London Olympics, sitting court-side as The Opals played Iceland (probably?), and I can’t remember if I was alone or with a group — there’s every chance that in this dream I was a true basketball enthusiast and didn’t want to be disturbed by non-aficionado friends. Nepal was wiping the floor with The Opals, the score was outrageously one-sided, when the unthinkable happened. Australia’s star batter (is that the correct basketball term?) came down injured in a scuffle with the opposing team’s (Belarus, probably) wicket keeper. At this moment — and I can remember just how certain and focussed I was at the time — I stood up, stripped off my jacket and removed my jeans, knowing that beneath the clothing I would find myself in a basketball uniform complete with my name and number emblazoned on the back.<br />
<br />
I looked down, eyes locking on the Australian’s coach, she gave a nod, and I, a twenty-eight year old, male spectator, walked out onto the court to take the position of the injured player in a women’s basketball clash between Australia and Tunisia. The crowd gave an awed “oooh,” but not because a spectator was chosen as a player, because I was chosen over another spectator who was favoured to take the position. I walked around doing a few stretches and high-fiving all of the players, got some advice from the coach, and was sent in to play. This sounds absurd — of course it does — and I know this, but there is still a part of me, muffled and up the back, saying “No, that’s totally how they do it. Most teams only bring just enough players and when one is injured, they can totally just choose someone from the crowd — man or woman.”<br />
<br />
What then happened — and I say this with equal parts pride and shrinking embarrassment — was my finest sporting moment to date. I single-handedly brought The Opals’ score back to level with Senegal’s, and then proceeded to stretch the lead out beyond reckoning. Every shot I took hit its mark —I’d like to say that I dunked a few, but even my dream self couldn’t manage that — and The Opals beat Fiji by a substantial margin. When the game was over, I received a couple of pats on the back and a hug or two, got a respectful nod from the coach, and simply walked back to my seat, returned my casual clothing, and left the stadium.<br />
<br />
“Da fuq is that all about?” is what most of me is saying, but still, even now, that quiet voice is saying that it’s normal, and that if I were to head off to London to watch a basketball match, it would play out like this. When I argue with the voice and tell it that the most I ever played basketball was to play some games of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0131857/"><i>BASEketball</i></a>, it tells me that I would perform a lot better under pressure …. The worst part? I am inclined to agree.<br />
<br />
I dread the day I remember a dream of something less ludicrous as I might subconsciously convince myself of things that aren’t possible.<br />
<br />
Actually … could that explain all of my life’s failed ambition?Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-7810084603735166782012-08-01T17:04:00.002+10:002012-08-01T17:11:57.256+10:00The old man and the sixpence<br />
She waited at the bus stop, lost in thoughts of what the day — the future in general, really — might have in store for her. It was a big risk this, and she knew it. The first day of her new job, a job she had left everything behind for — family, friends, house and memories — to cross the country and start anew. She stared across the road through the constant stream of traffic, trying to ease her nerves and remember the path to take from the bus set down through the city’s streets to her new workplace.<br />
<br />
A shuffling sound she had initially mistaken for the whisper of wheel rubber kissing bitumen brought her head around to see an elderly man approaching along the footpath. His short, sliding steps were not fast, but he displayed the economy of movement and familiarity seen from someone accustomed to working with slightly faulty tools. She looked up at him as he turned to sit on the bench beside her. His face was wrinkled, skin loose from age, corners of the mouth held down by cheek muscles bound with the worn elastic of old age, and despite the thick strands of white hair poking out around his temples, she immediately knew he was balding underneath the grey, woollen flat cap he wore. Her eyes met his for the brief moment before she looked away and she was surprised to see vibrant blue irises and perfect whites — a startling contrast next to the grey radiating out of every other part of him; from his bushy eyebrows to the grey trousers he wore.<br />
<br />
She resumed staring through the traffic across the road, watching the old man in her periphery as he reached into the pocket of his sports jacket. A moment later she heard a faint metallic ping and turned her eyes in time to see a coin tumbling through the air, to be caught deftly on the old man’s hand. From his closed fist, he turned it out onto the back of his other hand. The coin showed heads.<br />
<br />
The old man looked at the coin and as his face broke into a smile, all assumptions she had made about his disposition vanished. His whole face seemed to glow as the wrinkles came together to accentuate his sparkling blue eyes.<br />
<br />
“Heads,” he breathed. Her bus arrived.<br />
<br />
…<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
The mornings were the same for the rest of the week. She would be seated at the bus stop and the old man would shuffle his way to sit beside her. Each day he sat, tossed the coin, and stared, smiling at the head facing skyward. Even when her bus was quite late — at one time arriving after the old man had departed — she did not see him toss the coin again. He simply stared at the head for a couple of minutes and returned the coin to a pocket inside his jacket.<br />
<br />
By the third morning of the second week, she had taken to smiling politely when the old man arrived, and to her surprise, they had even engaged in some frivolous conversation. Rarely more than observations on the traffic or temperature, but more than she had ever had undertaken with a stranger before. The old man returned the smiles and formalities with comforting warmth, but silence always fell when he flipped the coin and smiled, whispering, “Heads.”<br />
<br />
The last day of the second week was a miserable day. She sat at the bus stop, huddled into herself for warmth, umbrella pointed at the road to stop the spray from passing cars washing over her. The old man shuffled into his seat, draped in a rain coat that was already beginning to make a puddle underneath the bench.<br />
<br />
“Great day for ducks,” he said, treating her to the smile she was really beginning to enjoy.<br />
<br />
“Ducks probably want a place to hide today,” she responded with a laugh. “And it’s supposed to last all week. I’m not looking forward to that.”<br />
<br />
“Is it really? Good heavens,” he began patting his chest, unbuttoning the saturated rain coat to reach in and retrieve the coin. The coin flew into the air, spinning so fast it looked like a translucent ball in flight. It came down and bounced off the edge of his waiting palm, rolling along the concrete to come to rest at her feet. She looked down to see a slightly corroded head staring up from the wet concrete and leaned down to pick it up.<br />
<br />
“Heads,” she said, opening her hand to look at the coin. It was an unfamiliar head to the money she had in her own purse. “I don’t think I’ve seen one of these before.”<br />
<br />
“That’s King George The Sixth’s head on a 1950 sixpence,” he said through another beaming smile, gently taking the coin from her outstretched palm. “I got that coin the very year it was minted. I won’t bore you with what that coin could have bought you back in those days.” He gave a dry chuckle.<br />
<br />
“Oh, no. It’s fine. It’s a really pretty coin,” she said feeling a little embarrassed that he might detect boredom from her. She looked over to him again, but he appeared not have heard and his smiling eyes were locked on the coin in his palm.<br />
<br />
“Heads.”<br />
<br />
…<br />
<br />
The weeks flowed on and she found herself looking up the street each day, listening intently for the shuffling sound of the old man’s steps. She had eventually found the courage to introduce herself as Erin.<br />
<br />
“Thomas, is my name dear,” was his reply. “But my friends call me Frank. You’re pretty, you can call me Frank.”<br />
<br />
Their conversations became more casual, moving to topics outside of the easily observable. Erin had told him where she worked and Frank had revealed that his daily trips were to a returned serviceman’s club where he sat on the board and played lawn bowls, but every day, without fail, the conversation ended when Frank looked at the coin, head up, and smiled longingly at the long dead king.<br />
<br />
Curiosity had flared for Erin on that very first day, but it had grown as time passed. Apart from the day when she had handled the coin, Frank had never mentioned it again, never hinted at why he tossed it each morning — and he had never tossed it more than once.<br />
<br />
“Frank?” Erin asked one day as he was patting his pocket to pull out the coin. “May I ask— I mean, that coin. Every morning you flip it. Somehow it’s always been heads, but that’s beside my point. I guess, I just— Is there a reason?”<br />
<br />
Frank’s hands stopped abruptly in the act of patting his pockets and he looked up at her. When she saw the faraway look in his eyes, she wished she could take the words back, she felt like she had crossed some line and upset this dear old man. “It’s my lucky coin, love. Just that.”<br />
<br />
She nodded with a smile as Frank resumed his pocket search, eventually fetching the coin and beaming at it when it again came down heads. Erin let the sound of the traffic wash over her and stepped on the bus hoping she had not offended Frank with her prying.<br />
<br />
…<br />
<br />
Months passed, Erin and Frank continued to converse. She was sure that Frank was arriving at the bus stop much earlier; this was fine with her as it meant they had more time to talk. She found herself confiding in him about her fears for the future and what she had left behind. Frank was always willing to provide an ear or an encouraging smile. Erin discovered that Frank was a widower and his three children were spread across the country with children of their own, and Frank would proudly show the photos he kept in his wallet. They spoke continuously now, from Frank’s arrival until the toss of the coin.<br />
<br />
One morning when he had the coin poised on his thumb ready to flick, Frank paused and turned to Erin. “Would you like to flip it?”<br />
<br />
Erin started, this was not expected at all. “What if it doesn’t come down heads?” she questioned. “No, Frank, I couldn’t.”<br />
<br />
“I trust you, love. Go on, toss it,” he reached out a shaky hand and Erin carefully took the coin from it. She felt her heart stop as she watched the coin in flight. She held her breath when she caught the cold metal and turned it out onto her waiting hand. “Heads!” she squealed.<br />
<br />
“Heads,” said Frank, his smile adding euphoria to the relief she felt. “Sixty two years ago I got that coin at an ice cream shop — gone now — not far from here. I fell in love with the serving girl’s eyes. I came back here, to this bus stop, and tossed that coin. Heads, I go back to the shop and ask that pretty little thing out. Tails, I get on the bus and go home. Guess what showed?”<br />
<br />
“I’m going to guess heads,” Erin said laughing. She found herself overcome with emotion at Frank’s willingness to finally share this story.<br />
<br />
“Damn right it came out heads. I charged back to that ice cream shop and asked her to dinner. Six months later, that pretty little thing was my wife, Enid.” Frank took the coin back from Erin and returned it to his pocket, still smiling. “I’ve tossed the thing every day since Enid first said yes, and when it’s heads, I know it’s going to be another great day.”<br />
<br />
“That’s amazing,” was all Erin could say. “It’s not a two-headed coin, is it?” she added with a laugh.<br />
<br />
“No, it has a tails side.” Frank’s smile had gone and he was staring across the road. Erin wanted to ask about the tails but let the silence continue and boarded her bus to work.<br />
<br />
…<br />
<br />
Erin felt like she was going to meet a long lost friend every morning now, she had even found out Frank’s coffee order and started buying him one each day so they could chat over the steaming warmth of their cups. Frank was arriving at the bus stop at almost the same time as her now, and it was taking much longer for him to toss the coin and signal the conversation’s end.<br />
<br />
“Frank?” she asked him one cold morning when the coffee was finished. “Has the coin ever come down tails?”<br />
<br />
“Twice,” Frank said staring directly at her eyes. “The day my first born died, and the day I lost my Enid.”<br />
<br />
“I’m so sorry, Frank,” the reply turning to a whisper at the last. Frank tossed the coin.<br />
<br />
“Heads,” his smile returned.<br />
<br />
…<br />
<br />
A whole year had passed since she first met Frank at the bus stop. She knew his children and grandchildren by name and he was often asking after her family members by name. Everything that happened to Erin at home and work faded away in the hour she was now spending with Frank each morning.<br />
<br />
One grey day, the morning after a party her work had thrown for her anniversary, Erin slept in and was running late. She found herself jogging from the coffee shop to the bus stop balancing the cups, trying to maximise the morning chat with Frank. She turned the corner and approached the empty bench. Frank was nowhere to be seen. She waited for her bus, turning at every gust of wind hoping to see him shuffling along the street. He did not come. He did not come the next day, or the day after that and Erin tried to remember if he had spoken of an upcoming holiday or visit from family.<br />
<br />
On the fifth day without sign of Frank, she sat at the bus stop, umbrella again facing out to stop the driving rain, and caught a faint glimmer in a puddle formed by water running down the bus shelter. Walking over to take a look, she saw Frank’s sixpence, tails-up, looking out from the mud.<br />
<br />
“Frank, I’m so sorry.”Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-52146245290199240312012-06-20T00:02:00.000+10:002012-06-21T12:58:58.011+10:00Dicing with the devil<span style="color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">
<span style="color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Sliced, spliced, enticed, dishevelled</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">I diced for thrice the price of my life</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">With the devil</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Stakes, rakes, his takes undefined</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Heart quakes for a break with each shake</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Hoping for divine</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Intervention, all attention, on intention to win</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Apprehension with the mention of my pension</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Spread thin</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Lighting inviting, inciting fair play</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Fighting slighting while writing a </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Contract to pay</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Frustration, stagnation, damnation to come </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Castration flirtation, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Elation struck dumb</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Locked doors, I roll fours, could be more, wanted higher</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">On the floor, devil’s score, guarantor </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Of hell-fire</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">“I win,” with a grin, devil’s skin glows red</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Head spins, sinking in, beginning</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">To dread</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">“All fives,” devil jived , “for all alive, hard to beat.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">You should have strived, derived, deprived my contract</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">From allowing me to cheat!” </span></span></div>Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-45934786417031259772012-05-31T23:29:00.000+10:002012-05-31T23:29:09.212+10:00Grow where you stand<br />
I<br />
wipe the<br />
soil from my<br />
hands and stand.<br />
Surveying the land,<br />
there is nothing grand<br />
to see as yet, only the<br />
furrows of dirt still wet<br />
from the first drink offered to this infant garden<br />
bed. Seeds planted and placed to form an as-yet invisible<br />
lace that will grace this space with the blooms from nature’s loom.<br />
In their dormant state, those seeds contain innate instructions to<br />
germinate, infiltrate and dominate the hand of space where they<br />
land, growing tall from the place they stand. I will walk over<br />
this patch each day to scratch away at the earth making<br />
sure the berth equals the worth of the seeds. In<br />
time with my feeding they will grow to seedlings,<br />
needing the soft thudding<br />
of water on the soil to start budding and<br />
coiling toward the sky. Without asking of<br />
why they will climb high and try, even if I<br />
left them to die. I will sit in my garden for it<br />
to smooth the hardened edges life drives into<br />
wedges of my soul. The way a flower takes its<br />
place in the world and slowly unfurls pearls<br />
of beauty curling for all to see, stops<br />
me questioning if what I am, is<br />
less than what<br />
I<br />
<br />
s<br />
h<br />
o<br />
u<br />
l<br />
d<br />
<br />
b<br />
e.<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-81843431135410875932012-05-28T23:37:00.002+10:002012-05-28T23:40:55.513+10:00If you're the only one ...<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5260/5415794104_bd8a4fe82f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5260/5415794104_bd8a4fe82f.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Am I the only one smelling that?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
If you’re the only one laughing,<br />
Your joke’s probably not funny<br />
If you’re the only one seething,<br />
Try get over it, Honey<br />
<br />
If you’re the only one smiling,<br />
Keep smiling, it’ll spread<br />
If you’re the only one breathing,<br />
They’re probably all dead<br />
<br />
If you’re the only one dancing,<br />
You should wait ‘til the wake<br />
If you’re the only one burning,<br />
You should jump in the lake<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
If you’re the only one squinting,<br />
You may be standing too close<br />
If you’re the only one vomiting,<br />
You probably took the wrong dose<br />
<br />
If you’re the only one falling,<br />
Make sure your parachute opened<br />
If you’re the only one raptured,<br />
As well you held onto hope then<br />
<br />
If you’re the only one anything,<br />
It’s no bad place to be<br />
If you’re an only one, lonely one,<br />
Be an only one with meRakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-62038911978189405492012-05-26T00:31:00.002+10:002012-05-26T00:34:39.039+10:00Beneath their beautiful eyes<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5292/5525143083_3fd5247283.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5292/5525143083_3fd5247283.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The room was spinning, fluorescent lights fizzing by in a dizzying blur. He focussed on his mothers eyes as she held him aloft, dancing and twirling across the floor. He knew so little of life, had so little basis for comparison, but he knew the smile beneath those beautiful eyes was happiness. In his mother’s eyes he could see his own laughing face among the whirling reflections of objects in the room. Even with his legs flailing so wildly that the ends of his purple socks were coming loose and even with no control of direction or speed, he felt as though he could not be safer anywhere else in the world. He stared into his mother’s eyes, through them he stared at his own smiling face. She blinked …<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
The sun was beaming down warming his skin and the coconut-tinged scent of sunscreen mingled with the smells of salt and sea grass to form an unmistakable olfactory picture of the seaside. He focussed on his sister’s eyes as she placed another handful of sand atop the sandcastle. He knew a little of life, had a little basis for comparison, but he knew the smile beneath those beautiful eyes was happiness. In his sister’s eyes, he could see his own sun-reddened, contented face framed by a blue sky, flecked with clouds. In her blue eyes, his sunburn almost looked purple. He had known this young girl for such a short time but he already knew that he would never be uncomfortable with her. He stared into his sister’s eyes and through them saw himself add to the sandcastle. She blinked …<br />
<br />
The drone of the cicadas poured through the window that was open trying to catch a breeze. The sound drowned out the whispers of cards slipping over each other and almost matched the sound of counted coins. He focussed on his grandmother’s eyes as she placed her bet in the middle of the table. He knew a bit of life, had a bit of basis for comparison, but he knew that the smile beneath those beautiful eyes was happiness. In his grandmother’s eyes, protected from the glare by a purple visor, he could see his own peaceful poker face surrounded by the rest of his family sitting at the green, felt tabletop. He knew that this woman would never judge him and would always offer help even if that was to her detriment. He stared into his grandmother’s eyes and through them saw himself throw his cards into the muck. She blinked …<br />
<br />
The sounds of revelry washed over him and the smell of popcorn, sausages and fairy floss was heavy in the air. He focussed on his first love’s eyes as she pointed out constellations in the night sky. He knew some of life, had some basis for comparison, but he knew that the smile beneath those beautiful eyes was happiness. In his first love’s eyes he saw blue, green and purple fireworks explode into flowers in a star-speckled sky. He saw them burst into a halo around the refection of his own satisfied face. He felt the warmth of her hand in his and the warmth of her body lying on the grass next to him. He had known this girl for longer than he had known that girls were different. He stared into his first love’s eyes and through them saw himself move closer to enjoy another first kiss. She blinked …<br />
<br />
He focussed on his niece’s eyes, he focussed on his Aunty’s eyes, he focussed on his second, third, fourth love’s eyes. He knew nothing, everything, some, all, part, but knew that beneath each pair of eyes lay smiling happiness Within each pair of eyes he saw himself, saw the world. They blinked …<br />
<br />
He blinked …<br />
<br />
He was falling. He remembered he was falling from the cliff where he had tripped. His hands reached out, his fingers brushed the rapidly passing rock as it shot upwards in his vision. He caught a clump of vines, slicing off several purple flowers as his hand slid along the sinewy length. His grip tightened, his descent slowed and stopped. The rough surface of the vine tore the skin from the palm of his hands but the vine did not break.<br />
<br />
He held the vine with both hands, facing the rock face as he swung slowly from side to side. He clenched his teeth with strain and stared at the purple shoots of new growth sprouting from the wall.<br />
<br />
After he had found a handhold to pull himself onto a ledge to await rescue, after he had returned home, after getting into to bed ready to sleep, he remembered how his life had flashed before their eyes. He knew life and he had basis for comparison and he knew that his life had seen happiness.<br />
<br />
It was in the smiles beneath those beautiful eyes.Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-47120357967913949402012-05-24T10:18:00.000+10:002012-05-24T23:12:56.717+10:00Digits and windows<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7221/7233010488_6a9ee12e32_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7221/7233010488_6a9ee12e32_z.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hold on.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You should watch them more closely.<br />
<br />
They will tell you more about me than I am able to articulate. They will tell you more about me than I want you to know. They have the power to touch you. They have to power to hurt you. They have the power to tease you and to please you. They can feed you, heal you, comfort you and sing to you. They identify me in a way that nothing else can. They tell you what music I like. They tell you my mood. They tell you who I am.<br />
<br />
And yet …<br />
<br />
They are not mentioned when describing me. They are not mentioned when complimenting me. They are not mentioned. The sonnets, odes, songs and ballads written in their honour could be counted on one of them.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
My hands tap out the beat on my knees or on a table when a rhythm has caught my ear. My hands scrunch into fists when I strongly disagree, and open, palms up, when I am with you the whole way. My hands push back my hair when I am nervous or uncomfortable, play with my necklace when I am bored and hide in my pockets when I walk past strangers. My hands play the melody while I sing your lullaby, reach out to brush your cheek when your smile makes me want you closer, and squeeze the back of your neck when I lean in for a kiss.<br />
<br />
I can work the muscles of my face into a smile, frown or look of concern. I can even change the glint in my eyes, but I cannot control my hands and look natural. I give all my feelings away through my hands; how they flow, stutter or lay can call out the bluff on my face.<br />
<br />
I may say that I do not want the last piece of pizza, but my hand will be rubbing my neck to cry out that I am still hungry. I may say that I am happy you only want friendship, but my fingers will curl around my thumb to show you the lie.<br />
<br />
I can stare into your eyes for days, taste your lips for years and listen to your voice for decades, but I can hold your hand for eternity. The hands are a window to the soul that make the eyes look like frosted glass.<br />
<br />
I will not offer my hands lightly.<br />
<br />
If I hold your hand in mine, I am wrapping my soul around yours.Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-18528656186573547672012-05-22T21:30:00.002+10:002012-05-24T10:20:34.272+10:00I did it<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5096/5525150263_6486da566c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5096/5525150263_6486da566c.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heh heh. Suckers!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have a confession to make. Forgive me if I waffle, but admissions of guilt come as easily to me as vaginal orgasms — which is to say that until someone learns how to give a guy a vaginal orgasm, I will have trouble admitting I am wrong.<br />
<br />
I did it.<br />
<br />
Yes. Please take a moment to collect yourself and fetch your pitchfork and <i>hatin’</i> fire.<br />
<br />
I did it. Everything. You curse it, I did it.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
The alarm clock that went off this morning, the one that pulled you out of your amazing dream? I was there watching it all night making sure that it sounded at the exact moment you were ready to forfeit your real life for your slumbering one.<br />
<br />
You know how you slept in this morning because your alarm clock didn’t go off? That was me too. As soon as you fell asleep, I crept into your room and either turned the volume down or turned it off completely depending on which was easier.<br />
<br />
Because I am lazy.<br />
<br />
You know that dog shit you stood in on the walk to the bus stop? That bin that you couldn’t fit your McDonalds wrapper in to? That chewing gum on the park bench? I left them all there because I am too lazy to give a fuck about doing what is expected of me, what is environmentally correct and what I am paid for.<br />
<br />
I cut you off in traffic today. I programmed all television stations to ensure nothing you enjoy was broadcast and then when you finally settled on a channel, I made sure there were more advertisements than actual program . I delayed your train, your flight, your bus and your doctor’s appointment. I changed the traffic lights to red or to green depending on whether you were running late or running early.<br />
<br />
I made your children fat. I made your teenagers think they were fat. I changed all the words in nursery rhymes to be politically correct — unless you thought they were fine in which case I changed them all to be offensive. I taught your kids to swear, set them up with violent video games, gave them no context for either, and let them out into the world with only the games and my curse words as guidance.<br />
<br />
I started wars, I smuggled people over borders, I lobbied to let the smuggled people stay while demanding they be sent home. I trafficked drugs, I sold drugs, I used drugs and I outlawed drugs.<br />
<br />
I sentenced people to life in prison and I executed them. I created banners both for and against abortion. I am a Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, Seven Day Adventist Buddhist with Hindu, Islamic, Taoist Druid tenancies and I support everything you hate and oppose everything you believe in.<br />
<br />
You name it I did it. Every single piece of hate you feel should be directed right at me. I did it it all. I am the cause for all of your pain, all of your sorrow, all or your hardships and none of your joy.<br />
<br />
This confession is long over due and I think it only fair that I finally came out as the person whom you can rightfully point your finger at.<br />
<br />
I did it all. Everything you can think of, I did it.<br />
<br />
Now step back and take a fresh look at the world, everything you feel slighted by, wronged by, sorry for, angry about, upset over.<br />
<br />
That was me.<br />
<br />
Now … Look at everyone in the world knowing it wasn’t their fault, it was mine.<br />
<br />
I deserve your fucking outrage, your hatred, your condemnation. The world out there was never out to harm you, I was.<br />
<br />
Step out into the world that is completely neutral, breathe the untainted air and gaze upon everything without prejudice. If something happens that is not to your liking remember that it was me, and direct your fury this way.<br />
<br />
Smile because the world does not have it in for you and it never did -- it was all me.Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-48898758842520122302012-05-21T10:27:00.002+10:002012-05-21T11:16:33.096+10:00Anonymous revolution<br />
They were assembled on the borders of civilisation, rank and file arranged in battalions, battalions amassed as a legion that spread as far as an eye could see. The invisible legion; Invisible as their grey, shapeless forms blended with shadows cast by the waning moon. As invisible as an idea, coalescing with the wind.<br />
<br />
Indistinguishable from a gust of wind through the canopy, an authoritative voice spoke.<br />
<br />
“Are we in formation?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, General. The anonymous legion is assembled, ready to begin the revolution.” The reply came like a sigh by the seaside, identical to the first voice yet unique and subordinate. “Each entity has the messages, they are keen.”<br />
<br />
“Good. Good.”<br />
<br />
The voice of authority stepped back to survey the congregated forces; the movement of a shadow of a silhouette caught in a breeze. It raised its voice to the dull roar of a waterfall, still not out of place within the surroundings of the night.<br />
<br />
“Invisible legion! Anonymous army of abstract concepts! Today we go to war.”<br />
<br />
As the idea of the words passed over the illusionary semblance of the ranks, the silence that was all around transformed into a black hole for noise. In contrast, the speaker’s voice boomed into the emptiness like thunder in cloudless sky.<br />
<br />
“We go to war against a mindset, our weapon is an idea. Each of you holds the sharpest sword ever minted, a blade that cannot be dulled regardless of how often it is used. Wield your words, your swords, and take this fight to change mindse--”<br />
<br />
The superlative voice stopped suddenly as a ghost of footsteps approached. The sound was natural and yet artificial, the sound of a stone thrown by hand. A voice with a timbre, a personality, in perfect synchronisation with the anonymous grey hiss, spoke.<br />
<br />
“General! I must raise my objections again. Our goal is pure, our fight is justified but we hide in the shadow, we slink through the dull tones of night.<br />
<br />
“The message we carry is worthy, warranted and needed but why must we deliver it from beneath a cloak? Under this cover of darkness, our mission is naught but delivery of unsolicited mail. Why can we not show our faces?”<br />
<br />
The black hole for sound had imploded, replaced by apprehensive, curious silence. Colour and faces began to flicker amongst the spectral legion — momentary phases of solidity.<br />
<br />
“We are cloaked in shadow so that if we fail, we remain an invisible legion to wage this war again!” the figure of authority hissed.<br />
<br />
“We should show who we are so that when we win, our victory can be celebrated. We should show who we are so that if we suffer defeat, lessons can be learned knowing who it was that fought and failed!” the voice was no longer natural, this voice was becoming real, the entity that spoke the words showed a face, became more than a shadow and stood solid, eyeing the invisible army. “I will not use this sword of words to stab from the shadows, I am going to war and I will show who I am to the mindset I fight!”<br />
<br />
The solid figure moved beside the idea of a leader and spoke to the legions of nothingness.<br />
<br />
“You can fight from the shadows, cowering behind a fear that your name may be attached to a failure, or you can show who you are and we can bring this revolution into reality. We will not abandon the invisible legion, we will fight alongside them, but we will fight unashamedly showing who we are!”<br />
<br />
Across the ranks, as far as the eye could see, shadows took on forms and faces.<br />
<br />
Now, on the edge of civilisation there stood two legions. The legion of the invisible and faceless and the legion of the solidified entities.<br />
<br />
As one they emerged from beneath the trees to start a revolution against the pessimistic, armed with the idea of kindness.<br />
<br />
Two parallel revolutions had begun.Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-25437469428780772862012-05-19T12:04:00.001+10:002012-05-19T12:04:14.698+10:00The lies we tell our children<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4095/4901577484_c1d998c8eb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4095/4901577484_c1d998c8eb.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course you will grow up to be an astronaut.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Lying has a lot to answer for. Maybe, one day, we will get an answer. And if that day comes, we can immediately dismiss the answer for it will no doubt be a filthy fib. Sure, lying has a lot to answer for, but we do not ask for an answer because we owe more to lying than we may ever know.<br />
<br />
We may debate what is truly considered a lie and what is merely a decorated truth. We may debate the moral, ethical and spiritual dilemmas arising from speaking that which is not. We may debate the point at which lies cease being compassionate and start being outright dishonest. We may argue that lying should be eradicated and that chastity belts should hold all lips shut lest our tongues be sullied by a sinful fabrication. And we may one day rid humanity of lying; on that same day we will stop humanity from moving forward, leaving civilisation to turn stale.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
The problem with telling lies and hearing lies — even when the lie is clearly heard — is that repetition will leave an imprint; repetition of a lie will see traces of it attach to truth and mingle in memory until eventually, what is believed is merely a dull reflection of the facts.<br />
<br />
The beauty of telling lies and hearing lies — even when the lie is clearly heard — is that repetition will leave an imprint; repetition of a lie will see traces of it attach to truth and mingle in memory until eventually, what is believed is more than the facts could ever tell.<br />
<br />
What is a story if it is not a lie told to paint across your mind an image of what could never be? A story of forbidden love coming to be, a lie of forbidden love coming to be. A story of overcoming adversity, a lie of overcoming adversity. A story of wonders beyond imagining, a lie of wonders beyond imagining. Stories that we tell our children, lies that we tell our children.<br />
<br />
Stories that we tell again and again in different ways, in different forms. Repeated. Again and again. Stories that have no basis in reality, read to us from the moment we can hear. Before we can even speak we are surrounded with repeated stories. The facts of life are permanently imprinted with the fancies of lies, and we believe in that which is not. We believe in forbidden love coming to be, we believe in overcoming adversity and we believe wonders beyond imagining simply lay around the bend.<br />
<br />
What is innovation if it is not turning a lie into truth? A story heard or told in ones mind of something which is not; repeated again and again until actuality is a matter of course compared to the certainty of that lie behind the eyes.<br />
<br />
Because we can tell stories and lie to ourselves and to others, we can dream of more than what is, we can dream of that which is not.<br />
<br />
You may have a heartbeat, you may breathe, eat and function, but unless you lie to yourself and your children and convince them that which is not, can be, you do not live.<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-72600176498933564572012-05-18T09:49:00.002+10:002012-05-18T09:49:47.161+10:00Internal thoughts<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Om0Bm2-cVaOh0rkrqQR_-hCwyujvPTHUBffczhGgU9szbjafEeGn_WDWvBdZ_zk_GORJA8HmTbwSPX-trlmhArV8bgWowB9-WNNoP8G0WaVKcyYxu6BA-KvnGytVhoPPapJxRkU28E4/s1600/IMG_6109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Om0Bm2-cVaOh0rkrqQR_-hCwyujvPTHUBffczhGgU9szbjafEeGn_WDWvBdZ_zk_GORJA8HmTbwSPX-trlmhArV8bgWowB9-WNNoP8G0WaVKcyYxu6BA-KvnGytVhoPPapJxRkU28E4/s320/IMG_6109.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Use this thing to do stuff.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>Inner Monologue</b>: You should probably write something soon, hey.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: You talking to me?<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: I think so, are you talking to me?<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
<b>Me</b>: Yep. So you were talking to me then ... Write something, why?<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: Yeah, write something. I don't know, it just feels like a while since you have, that's all.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: How would you even know, you stalking my blog or something?<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: Dude, really? I'm your inner monologue.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Oh ... yeah. Tha-- wait! What am I then?<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: You're your inner monologue too, just a different level or some shit. I don't know, I have the same information as you do.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Weird.<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: Right? So, you should write something.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> Like what?<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: Umm. How abou-- Whoa! Just had major de ja vu. I could have sworn that you and I have had this conversation before.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Haha! I just got that feeling too.<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: Weird.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Right? So, what can I write about? My head has been buried in work and I haven't had time to think passionately about anything.<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: Shit, I don't know. I usually get my ideas from you thinking passionately about things.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Maybe I should wait until I have something to write about?<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: I missed that, sorry. Say again? I have that song you got stuck in our head drowning us out.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: What song is that? Oh, never mind, there it is -- good song though. I was saying that maybe it's better if I wait to have something to write about.<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: That makes sense, I guess. You hungry? I'm hungry.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Let's tell us to go get something to eat.<br />
<br />
<b><i>1 hour later</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b><br />
<b>Inner Monologue</b>: You should probably write something soon, hey.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: You talking to me?<br />
<br />
<b>IM</b>: I think so, are you talking to me?<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Yep. So you were talking to me then ...<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Write something, why?<br />
...<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-52924242470597902622012-05-17T10:41:00.000+10:002012-05-17T10:41:01.880+10:00A 12 Year Old's dirty mind<br />
It’s pouring with rain,<br />
it’s making me insane watching the drips fall from your glowing frame.<br />
All I can think of is the mounds, the primal sounds,<br />
you and I ignoring surrounds as<br />
we flow up and down on the ground that we pound,<br />
our movements profound.<br />
<br />
I so want to hold you, sit on your back<br />
and be so bold as to mould you uncontrolled.<br />
The visage in my mind, a collage of mirages,<br />
a barrage of mental corsages as I lay my hands on you<br />
and massage you in the garage away from our entourages<br />
we can make our own beautiful montages.<br />
<br />
I move close as I sense you’ve<br />
felt my groove<br />
as I approach to prove<br />
I have actions to back my attractions,<br />
you’re frozen seeking my satisfaction,<br />
no distractions for this interaction<br />
I approach to exact my infraction transaction.<br />
<br />
I’m not usually flirty but I want to get so dirty with you.<br />
The things we can do when I am on top of you.<br />
You accept my indictment to excitement,<br />
you know what I meant, our nerves are pent.<br />
<br />
With a hand tremoring,<br />
my inner voice stammering I reach a hand out as my heart is hammering<br />
a tattoo for the things we’re about to do.<br />
<br />
I place both hands on your slender body and wonder how close can god be<br />
as I wrap my legs around your metal<br />
and begin to push down on one pedal…<br />
<br /> "<i>Luke! No bike! It’s raining and I know what you’re like. </i><br />
<i> You'll get dirty and the mud will set and I don’t want you to get wet!</i>"<br />
<br />
No! Not yet!<br />
My mind screams and frets as I owe my dreams a debt<br />
and so close to forget the threat of what we had nearly bet!<br />
The regret, upset but after that voice but I can no longer covet<br />
and have to obey and<br />
get inside away…<br />
from you…<br />
one day I will ride you through the mud - we both want me to.<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-60922802865226671212012-05-16T08:13:00.002+10:002012-05-16T08:22:46.926+10:00A moment before time<br />
There’s this<br />
one beautiful scene,<br />
a moment between you<br />
and me. With our passion<br />
just started and from our clothes<br />
we have parted I look down into your<br />
eyes. There can be no lies, no denials to<br />
give rise to. It is just me and it is just you.<br />
We share in the silence unbroken but through<br />
our locked gazes there is so much spoken that<br />
any aloud, token words would cheapen and not<br />
serve to deepen our connection. This minute<br />
of shared affection, of momentary reflection is<br />
as near to an emotional perfection as I can<br />
ever remember being. An unmatchable space<br />
needing no correction. With my arms encasing<br />
your waist, face to face with our skins meeting<br />
in all of the right places I am left to look down at a<br />
a gown-less you and decide which part, and what to<br />
do first now I have you. I smile for I do know that<br />
as we while away we are in thought compiling plays<br />
to make on each other. Do I smother with lust or do I<br />
cover your bust softly with kisses only a lover is able to<br />
muster? Your eyes eclipse my soul as your soft lips do<br />
hold my attention. Retention of this moment calls for the<br />
suspension of time. It is in this moment that the line<br />
between yours and mine gets blurred and our passion,<br />
unrationed, romantically fashioned is finally to be heard.<br />
<div>
<br />
<b><a href="http://www.redbubble.com/people/rakuli/works/7995226-a-moment-before-time">Get this one on a t-shirt.</a></b></div>Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-29044551728224450192012-05-14T11:17:00.004+10:002012-05-14T20:14:38.898+10:00The birth of a moniker<br />
<i>I am often asked where the username <b>Rakuli</b> comes from and why I use it everywhere online. </i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>The second question can be easily answered: I like to have one username everywhere as it makes it far easier to remember what to type into login forms.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>The first question is a little bit more involved ...</i><br />
___________<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Luke was a little bit unsure about the whole the whole thing really. All the reports he had heard from his friends were positive but somehow he could not muster the enthusiasm everyone else was showing. He had eventually agreed though -- reluctantly, but he had agreed.<br />
<br />
So, there he stood outside his friend’s place on a cool Saturday afternoon. He had been to the supermarket and everything he had purchased -- from a list he was given -- was in the plastic bag he held in his hand. To be safe, Luke checked the contents one more time.<br />
<br />
- Corn chips<br />
- Bag of lollies (sweets, candies, etc.)<br />
- Ample supply of caffeinated beverages<br />
- Notebook<br />
- Pen<br />
<br />
All there and accounted for. With a deep breath he walked up to door and knocked.<br />
<br />
Luke’s friend Ben answered the door and ushered Luke inside to a table in the living room. Around the table sat six people; two more of Luke’s friends and four lads who Luke had yet to met.<br />
<br />
“Luke,” said Ben. “I’d like you to meet Rolf Hammersmith, he’s a berserker dwarf.”<br />
<br />
Luke nodded a greeting toward Rolf before Ben said “And these two fine gentlemen are Rimulus Browonli, a paladin ranger and Kramer Nutcracker, an elf fighter,” gesturing at two more of the unknowns seated at the table.<br />
<br />
“Finally,” Ben continued “This is Tulsa, he will be our Dungeon Master for today.”<br />
<br />
“Hi guys,” Luke said with a shy smile. “So. Table top Dungeons & Dragons huh? Hopefully I don’t hold you guys back and take too long to figure it out.” Luke’s eyes glanced worriedly at the array of dice on the table.<br />
<br />
“You’ll be fine, it’s going to be great fun,” said Tulsa. “First thing you need to do is create your character. Name, race and class.”<br />
<br />
Luke spent a little while being educated on the various ups and downs of each race and class. When he was done, he sat down to play.<br />
<br />
“I am Rakuli Shaka, half-elf archer.” Luke said tentatively.<br />
<br />
Tulsa rolled the dice…<br />
___<br />
<br />
Many years later, Luke sat down at his brother's computer. He was excited that he finally had a chance to use the internet; he had the house to himself so nobody would need to use the phone and interrupt his browsing.<br />
<br />
He was planning to set himself up with an email address and possibly enjoy some of the “Instant messaging” his friends were<i> sp33k1ng</i> about.<br />
<br />
Luke waited a few minutes while Windows 2000 tried to establish a dial-up connection and then loaded Netscape Navigator. The program opened to Yahoo’s webpage. Luke congratulated himself on finding what he was looking for so quickly and began to sign up for a free Yahoo email address.<br />
<br />
“The username <i>Luke</i> has already been taken. Perhaps you would like to use<i> Luke_au</i>,<i> luke15627</i> or <i>1Luke</i>?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t want those names,” Luke said to himself.<br />
<br />
He sat at the computer for a while, face locked in deep thought, before he started typing again. Eventually the monitor said.<br />
<br />
“Thank you registering with Yahoo Mail! From now on, your username will be <i>Rakuli.</i>”Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-63360126929608415102012-05-13T20:40:00.000+10:002012-05-14T11:08:34.142+10:00My advice on giving advice<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4151/5228063972_3717c23885.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4151/5228063972_3717c23885.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anchor related caption.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Advice</b> <i>(noun)</i><br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Guidance or recommendations concerning prudent future action, typically given by someone regarded as knowledgeable or authoritative.</li>
<li>Information; news.</li>
</ol>
<br />
What a wonderful word, what a wonderful concept. Information shared and distributed with no implicit or explicit requirements for acceptance; guidance offered in the hope it will useful but not under the pretense that it will be taken; recommendations, outlines, things to try; not mandatory, not ruling, not commanding.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Why then, does advice so often start a fight? Not an argument, not a debate, a fight — sometimes even a war. Why should insight — shared voluntarily or at request — bring with it such division and animosity?<br />
<br />
I cannot say with certainty — my opinion has been developed from observational evidence only — but I believe most controversy is sparked either by incorrectly delivered or incorrectly labelled advice; advice delivered in a manner that makes it seem a declaration of rules, laws or commandments -or- rules, laws and commandments incorrectly labelled as advice.<br />
<br />
I am a very non-confrontational person — this is not saying that I simply back down or let the world walk over me; I support my opinions strongly — and as a result I have come up with ways of delivering guidance that rarely, if ever, lead to conflict. Now, thanks to the wonder of free speech and internet, I would like to offer some of my advice for giving advice.<br />
<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Delivering advice is tricky and, even if you would carry your recommendations to the grave with you, some people will not accept it and sometimes flat-out disagree. Remembering the difference between a healthy debate and a heated argument is important. If your advice is not accepted, there is no harm in rephrasing and offering it again — this will let you know if the rejection was from lack of comprehension — but it is a good idea to avoid simply declaring somebody wrong because they disagree. You can try adding weight with additional arguments, but if you find that you cannot accept their refusal to accept, perhaps “advice” was not the best way to label your information.</li>
<li>Limiting the use of forcing words and phrases (example: should, must, have to) is a great way to keep people at ease. If your advice is peppered with commanding words and phrases, the line between piece of advice and this is an order/ultimatum can blur, leading to your advice recipient taking up a defensive position. If they believe their choices have been boiled down to the binary “My way or Your way,” a defensive person can go from being ninety percent confident in their stance to one hundred percent confident in their stance. To say the human mind is complex is to understate it completely. Some interesting information on the strange ways the brain works can be garnered by looking into concepts like Attitude Polarisation and Confirmation Bias.</li>
<li>When highlighting benefits through comparison, it is usually better to define the comparisons explicitly rather than lumping it all in a collective generalisation. As advice is often more subjective than objective, it is also recommended that the subjectivity of your statements be declared.<br /><br />To use a classic internet example:<br /><br />”<i>Oh, you would like to know whether to read Harry Potter or Twilight? Definitely go for Harry Potter because it has a better storyline and characters are more likeable.</i>”<br /><br />Statements similar to that above, although seemingly innocent, have been the fuel for fighting on social networks and forums for years.<br /><br />”<i>Oh, you would like to know whether to read Harry Potter or Twilight? Personally, I have enjoyed the storyline and characters in Harry Potter more than I have those in Twilight. I would suggest Harry Potter.</i>”<br /><br />The above will most certainly not stop all debate in its tracks, but it removes a lot of the potential for argument. The recommendation is given as a subjective suggestion right alongside a specific reason.</li>
<li>When defining rules, try to keep them as rules of the advice or rules stated subjectively, rather than blanket rules.<br /><br />Instead of: ”<i>Never use contractions in formal writing.</i>”<br /><br />Try: ”<i>When I write formally, I make it a rule to not use contractions.</i>”</li>
<li>Taking the time hear and respond to objections can help you strengthen your case. Refusing amicable discussion, or not providing a forum for it, can make even the best advice seem overbearing. There will be cases where your point needs to be heeded as a whole or not at all, but often, taking the time to discuss and compromise can see advice flowing in both directions and, even if both parties remain on their respective black and white sides, the resulting understanding can be invaluable.</li>
<li>Sometimes, you may just have to discontinue advising someone. You may think you are offering the best alternative and your frustration levels will rise because you feel the other party is worse-off because of it, but advice, whether it is to be given or received, cannot be forced onto someone if they do not wish to heed it. Sometimes it is their loss, even from an objective viewpoint, but as soon as advice starts being forced, it is no longer advice.</li>
</ol>
<br />
Using these strategies — or combinations of them; remember that almost everything has an exception — I have worked selling telephony products door-to-door, on the telephone as the complaints supervisor, for an airline as the person who deals with the “escalated” (read: irate and unhappy) customer situations, and I am currently in a position where I must advise my superiors regularly on technical points that they do not immediately understand. All of these positions require advising people to change something that they are/were doing, and in the overwhelming majority of cases, this advice has been well received even when it is not taken.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, conflicts cannot be avoided, and sometimes, advice is misread regardless of how careful you are when offering it. But most times, advice is just advice, and when delivered in a guiding way, will not start a war.Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-5651812489667492792012-05-12T10:16:00.001+10:002012-05-12T14:29:18.217+10:00Life of a feather<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="http://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F17042879&show_artwork=true" width="100%"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5060/5403912189_67c49f1c9e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="284" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5060/5403912189_67c49f1c9e.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictured: A feather</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
[chorus]<br />
If we could live our lives as feathers<br />
Go with the flow and let those around us grow<br />
We could get through most of the bad weather<br />
If we touched the world, as light as a feather<br />
<br />
[/chorus]<br />
<br />
<br />
As day follows night, a white dove takes flight.<br />
Given a fright by the sight of a puppy who in youthful delight<br />
will playfully bite all it sees in the bright morning light.<br />
The dove, symbol of peace, symbol of love,<br />
Caring naught for the weather,<br />
Defying gravity’s tether flies up toward the ether leaving behind a solitary feather.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Completely at ease, caught on a breeze the feather floats from the trees.<br />
Delicate, fragile, flexible, agile the feather of fluff coasts on the wind’s puffs<br />
Toward a new world: tough, rough.<br />
In the sun’s morning rays the feather plays in the drafts,<br />
Forrays and graphs a line through a world knowing not of its craft.<br />
<br />
In a natural arc it floats from the park over a world of man locked in habits so stark.<br />
The busy street, people stamping their feet;<br />
Horns sounding, frustration resounding from those astute, locked in their commute.<br />
Man’s lives full of ravel, built up from the gravel —<br />
Far below as the feather it travels.<br />
<br />
Gracefully unsteady but inherently ready the feather swirls toward the ground<br />
Caught in passing car’s eddy.<br />
Through the big and the small talk it coasts up the sidewalk below it the world stalks on.<br />
It’s pushed on by gusts,<br />
Thrust with the dust neither calm nor nonplussed<br />
Not happy or fussed go with the flow it must.<br />
<br />
[chorus]<br />
<br />
Round a bend it descends down near heads of men on chance it depends,<br />
With no foe to offend,<br />
No friend to commend,<br />
No course to amend,<br />
No will to extend, no need to pretend.<br />
Passing by a disheleved buck, clothes torn,<br />
Face covered in muck,<br />
Down on his luck asking strangers he sees to spare him a buck.<br />
Most will ignore him like many before him,<br />
Some will abhore him yet the feather moves on before any assure or restore him.<br />
<br />
Closing in on the ground, amongst all the sound yet still unbound,<br />
It’s journey nearly unwound.<br />
Nearing a pavement so tiled, an innocent child spots the feather as its movements get wild.<br />
With a hand needing a good wipe the child caught in the hype, <br />
Lunges and swipes, plunges and snipes.<br />
The young hand barely missing brings with it air that comes hissing<br />
The feather rises again its descent now dismissing.<br />
<br />
On with the wind still with no care heading to and from nowhere<br />
For that below no thoughts it can spare.<br />
For lives wrapped in gold,<br />
For young or for old, for those warm or those cold,<br />
For secrets kept or those told the feather knows not,<br />
Fears not, can not be bought can not be sold.<br />
<br />
Up into a window it rises past a cat it surprises<br />
To a room where one soul has just removed his disguises.<br />
The soul flops on the bed of which the room comprises,<br />
Teary eyed and forlorn now out of the world he despises.<br />
The feather swirls and rises above as the soul below sets about revising his love,<br />
The feather waits for one more celestial shove.<br />
<br />
Sheletered now in this room<br />
The feather can no longer loom in the air it once zoomed in<br />
But it fears not of doom it cannot assume its end was not meant for this room.<br />
With a proud journey travelled,<br />
Its pathway unravelled it floats with no fight toward the floor of its plight.<br />
On the cold wooden floor too far from the door to catch drafts anymore<br />
It gracefully settles like many feathers before.<br />
No judgements were made of the world that it played through,<br />
The pathway it swayed through<br />
All around it life was beauty to wade through.<br />
Its path has always been its path.<br />
<br />
It knows it came from a dove,<br />
Symbol of love and one perhaps one day,<br />
It will return to above.<br />
<br />
[chorus]Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-20472065440947482762012-05-11T06:00:00.000+10:002012-05-11T06:00:02.464+10:00Downunder<br />
I am an<br />
inhabitant of a<br />
land downunder. It<br />
is a strange, mystical<br />
land where each day I ride into<br />
work on the back of a kangaroo whom<br />
I have named, Roger. Every morning I’m fed<br />
my breakfast (Sydney Opera House shaped pancakes)<br />
by a koala named, Ringo. Wherever I go, I’m not more than a<br />
two minute walk from the desert and I am constantly in a<br />
battle for survival against the venomous snakes and<br />
spiders that run the Australian government.<br />
My accent lends itself very<br />
well to an avid<br />
‘crikey!’ call. <br />
Beer is the<br />
only thing<br />
ever<br />
to go<br />
past<br />
my lips,<br />
even when<br />
they’re parched<br />
by the<br />
sun that never, ever, ever, ever goes away.<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-91077334827525570212012-05-10T10:24:00.000+10:002012-05-10T10:24:19.472+10:00Ninjas took over the world (again)<br />
<br />
On the<br />
day ninjas took<br />
__ /============== /””””\<br />
`”\\;;.____//over the world, no one noticed.<br />
_/./ Ninjas believe stealth is their<br />
\;;;;;;-‘-’ most important trait so when<br />
they succeeded in taking<br />
complete control<br />
while not once<br />
being seen, they celebrated<br />
their victory with much<br />
fly kicking and sake.<br />
This overtaking of<br />
the land is done by<br />
the ninjas<br />
often.<br />
We’re<br />
blind<br />
to all<br />
of it<br />
due<br />
to, you<br />
know, them<br />
being<br />
so stealthy and all of that shadowy business.<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-8448671164774144242012-05-09T14:29:00.000+10:002012-05-12T14:20:08.588+10:00The selfishness of pain<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheer up, me.</td></tr>
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Have you ever noticed how your perception of the world changes when you’re in pain? I raise the point from a specific, physical pain I presently suffer from, but this observation applies to any acute hurt you may experience; be it a broken arm or a broken heart.<br />
<br />
Today is identical to yesterday in almost every way. A beautiful autumn sun shines through my bedroom window, the curtains rise and fall as though breathing with the breeze and the air is filled with the fresh scent of nature.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Yesterday I basked in the morning sunshine, happily performing my occupational duties. I prepared myself a fresh coffee and cheerfully offered to do the same for my housemates. The sounds of the birds in the trees and the gentle bustle of the world outside my window tapped out a natural soundtrack for my morning. Any request for assistance from my colleagues was answered helpfully, efficiently and generously. I floated through the day, happy to share my smile with everyone and everything.<br />
<br />
This morning I woke to find that overnight, my wisdom teeth had started another charge toward the surface of my gums. Pain is so subjective that I hesitate to paint a picture of comparison but I have snapped my collar bone completely in half, landed on my head from the top of a flight of stairs, had the inside of my knee torn off from a barbed wire fence and had a pine needle lodged an inch deep into my temple — the pain from these dental movements is the worst pain I have ever experienced.<br />
<br />
Today, for all the ambient similarities to yesterday, is a completely different day. With the exception of the throbs from my mouth, I am completely numb. The painkillers have removed feeling absolutely -- except for the one place it is needed. The sun through the window makes me squint so I am draped around my laptop trying to shield my eyes. I made myself a coffee and although my housemates were in the kitchen while I prepared it, I did not offer them one. The coffee tastes bitter and burned. The birds in the trees shriek like spoiled children and every sound outside of my window beats in counter rhythms to the blood through my gums. Every request made of my by colleagues and employers appears petty, pedantic or redundant; some of the tasks asked of me are identical to yesterday.<br />
<br />
The pain in my mouth is like the antithesis of dust in my eye fluid. As much as I move my eyes to look away from it, the pain sits burning directly in my vision.<br />
<br />
I just want everything to bow to me and help me remove the agony. I know I am selfish but the only thing I can focus on is me — and my pain.<br />
<br />
Perhaps there’s no such thing as selfish people, just people in pain?Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-88933312321557885292012-05-08T16:51:00.001+10:002012-05-08T16:51:09.543+10:00The Great Soul<br />
So much of<br />
the world is consumed in a<br />
state of constant conflict. Wars that<br />
are fought simply because<br />
they have always been fought. <br />
Wars are fought against<br />
ideas and usually wars are <br />
products of the minority.<br />
Every harvest contains<br />
a few spoiled apples<br />
but so often we let<br />
them pollute entire<br />
crops. We can go bravely<br />
into a battle without a weapon;<br />
it has been done successfully before.<br />
We can keep our arms locked at our sides<br />
showing everyone that we need only our<br />
words and resolve to win. Peace is something <br />
attainable, there is not any need for the<br />
continual letting of blood. It<br />
just seems that some are<br />
not aware of this yet. Great souls<br />
have walked the Earth, we need to<br />
strive to have more than one<br />
at once.<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-56697086082311827832012-05-07T18:28:00.004+10:002012-05-12T14:18:35.955+10:00Double-entendre<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pop! Goes the something or other.</td></tr>
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I woke up sporting my usual morning glory and rolled over to rub it against her back. Morning glories were our shared favourite flower and this was the way she liked to wake up.<br />
<br />
“I’m always so horny in the morning,” she said drowsily. “Can you do something about it?” I leaned over and removed the Viking helmet she was wearing.<br />
<br />
“There you go,” I said. “You really do choose some strange sleeping attire.”<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
“You were incredible last night” she murmured while stretching.<br />
<br />
“That’s what <i>she</i> said!” I responded out of reflex.<br />
<br />
She rolled her eyes and said “Really. I think I’m going to have trouble walking today, you really pounded me.”<br />
<br />
It was true, I had given her quite the working over the previous night but she knew what she was getting into.<br />
“You knew my reputation coming into this,” I said pointing at my wall of <i>Twister championship</i> trophies.<br />
<br />
“Anyway,” I said grabbing her ass. “I’m just going to move this donkey out of the bedroom. He’s looking at me oddly.”<br />
<br />
“Okay,” she said while rolling over. “Come back in here for a quicky though.”<br />
<br />
I don’t know why she insisted on a game of speed chess each morning but I obliged because she always came first. And I liked that. I spent quite a bit of time looking at my pawn before she eventually came all over the board and won.<br />
<br />
After breakfast we moved into the lounge room where I turned her around and started having my way with her from behind. This was a fun game we often played where she wore a blindfold and I moved her anywhere I wanted.<br />
<br />
I took her shirt, jeans, bra and, finally, panties off. I was then able to sit down on the lounge. “I wish you would put your clothes in the wardrobe.”<br />
<br />
“Yes! Yes, I’m getting close!” I cried.<br />
<br />
“Not yet! Go down on me. I want you to go down on me,” she breathed.<br />
<br />
I was never very good at scratching the itches she frequently had on her back and always became excited when I thought I was getting there. I usually focussed a bit too high though.<br />
<br />
She slapped my wrist “You’re always trying to get into my pants!”<br />
<br />
I looked up surprised. I didn’t think she had seen me but it was true, I really liked those pants and just wished they fit me. Yet, no amount of trying would get them past my hips.<br />
<br />
I stopped trying to get into her pants and started playing with my cock. His name was Rufus and I was teaching him tricks. Sometimes it was annoying when he crowed in the morning but most of the time he was okay.<br />
<br />
“Luke, I want you to split me in half!” She cried.<br />
<br />
“You know I already have an assistant for that part of my magic routine,” I replied.<br />
<br />
“Can you make me feel good with your mouth?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Cunning linguist?” I retorted.<br />
<br />
“That one was pretty bad,” she laughed.<br />
<br />
<br />
____<br />
<br />
“I just want it in my mouth so badly,” she crooned.<br />
She was on her knees and struggling with my zip. I had recently discovered that the safest place to keep my lollipops was in a pencil case.<br />
<br />
I started playing with myself while I watched her scrabbling away at her arch nemesis, the zip. I really wanted to get better at chess and playing both sides gave me a good insight into the game.<br />
<br />
“Let’s get dirty,” I said to her with a wink. We had a lot of gardening to do during the day and I knew she wasn’t looking forward to it.<br />
<br />
“How about, instead, I put some cream on my thighs and you can lick it off?” she asked. I hesitated for a moment because I really did love her marinated chicken thighs.<br />
<br />
“I’d much prefer to have you bent over while hammer away behind you,” I said. The garden really needed weeding and the patio had a few loose boards I had to nail down.<br />
<br />
“God I love your tits,” I said. They were beautiful birds and pretty much had free range of the house.<br />
“Your hooters aren’t bad either,” I said gesturing to her souvenir owl collection.<br />
<br />
I sat back and looked at her snatch. She really was fast and the way she snatched the bothersome fly from the air was amazing.<br />
<br />
“I think reverse cowgirl is my favourite,” she said. We had been discussing her aversion to rodeos and livestock and trying to think of the best label for her stance.<br />
<br />
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with this erection,” I said. She had built a large house of cards on the coffee table and I had no where to place my cup.<br />
<br />
“I know where you can put that sausage though,” she said with a sly smile. She held out her hot dog bun which was all prepared with sauce and cheese.<br />
<br />
___<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Oh god yes!” I cried. “lick my balls!” I watched as her tongue traced lines around the circumference of my balls. I had never cooked meatballs before and I was really enjoying watching her eat them.<br />
<br />
“Oh Luke! This is making me so wet!” she was pointing to the water pistol I was occasionally shooting her with. “Oh sorry,” I said and put the plastic gun down.<br />
<br />
“You’re making me hard,” I told my hairdresser who was getting a bit carried away with the hair gel and making my hair about as supple as brick. I still wasn’t sure about getting my hair done at dinner time like this but apparently I had made the appointment.<br />
<br />
“God Luke!” she cried. “You are right, it is hard, and long too!” She was stroking my wand. “Mmmm” I breathed. “It’s so that when I do the magic tricks and tap things, the wand doesn’t bend”<br />
<br />
I stroked her leg all the way up to the moist area at the top. She was a puppet builder and had a disembodied leg on the table, waiting for the glue to get tacky enough to affix.<br />
<br />
I pulled out my member pushed it right into her face. I had recently started a website and it only had one member so I had printed his avatar to carry around in my wallet. I often proudly showed the picture around.<br />
<br />
She continued to gnaw on my balls until she cried “Oh Luke I want you to cumin…” she giggled. “I mean, I want you to be cumin”. It was a game we played where we would roleplay as different herbs and spices. Last week she was rosemary and I was thyme.<br />
<br />
“You’re making me hot,” she said and the hairdresser apologised and stopped aiming the hairdryer at her.<br />
<br />
As I sat there playing with her nipples I asked her yet again why she insisted on drinking out of baby bottles during dinner.<br />
<br />
“Luke I have a burning hole and I want you to fill it with your junk,” she gasped.<br />
<br />
“Sure,” I said and began piling random odds and ends around the wall where flames had burned a hole.<br />
<br />
“I think we should ejaculate,” I said. “This fire is too big.”<br />
<br />
“Wait. What?” she said.<br />
<br />
I said “Oh yeah that one was just stupid”.<br />
<br />
____<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Yeah, slide down on it,” I said looking up at her. “Right down to the balls!”<br />
<br />
“It’s too long,” she panted. “I could hurt myself.”<br />
<br />
I had set up a waterslide in the backyard and it ran down the slope right into a plastic ball pit. So far she had been too scared to give it a go.<br />
<br />
“Okay, okay. Why don’t you get Naked and come down here for some fun?” I said. “Hurry, I want to play with that ass.”<br />
<br />
I had no idea why she had named her donkey, Naked, but we did have a lot of fun playing with it.<br />
<br />
The day had been going great because I had fingered her for the first time the night before and from there we had moved into passionate intercourse. We were having an argument and through my flipping her the bird and the ensuing discussion, we were able to resolve matters quite nicely. Afterwards, we saw each other’s private parts, discussing things we hadn’t yet spoken about in our relationship.<br />
<br />
“I can’t wait to get your meat in me,” she said coming down the hill with her donkey.<br />
<br />
“I’m as ready as you are,” I said. “But it’s all still a bit underdone.” I turned the steaks and sausages on the barbecue. “I’d love for you to play with my organ while you wait, though,” I said with a sly wink.<br />
<br />
She got on her knees and started playing Fur Elise on the old pipe organ I had in the backyard.<br />
<br />
“I can see the neighbours screwing!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “Look at them go! They’ll have that shelf up in no time.” The next door neighbours often left their curtains open. I always saw them screwing, nailing and banging.<br />
<br />
She stopped playing with my organ, walked over and grabbed my dong.<br />
<br />
“Whoah!” I cried. “Don’t lose those, they’re my only memento from Vietnam.”<br />
<br />
“There’s all those photos you took while you were getting ‘happy ending’ massages,” she said angrily.<br />
<br />
“You saw those?!” I questioned. “Come on, you know I relax more when someone is reading me a fairytale and I really liked their accents.”<br />
<br />
“It’s time I gave you a good suck,” she said after we had eaten.<br />
<br />
“It’s ‘sucker’ or ‘lollipop’,” I corrected.<br />
<br />
“Oh that’s right. Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “Would you like a blow job too?”<br />
<br />
“Sure, that sounds great!” I said.<br />
<br />
We were both habitual cocaine users and we shared preparation duties around. This time I was to cut it.<br />
<br />
“I have a great idea,” I said. “We should both do a line, right as we come!”<br />
<br />
“But we do that every day,” she said exasperated.<br />
<br />
It was true, we did it every day right when we come from work.<br />
<br />
“So, do you think I should go on the pill?” she asked.<br />
<br />
“Maybe,” I replied. “But some people don’t handle ecstasy very well.”<br />
<br />
“I can’t wait to get at those,” I said, pointing to her chest. “Can I get off on them?”<br />
<br />
I was hanging from a ceiling beam and the chest of drawers seemed the best place to come down.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” she said. “But can we have sex then?”<br />
<br />
“Sure thing,” I replied.<br />
<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-37297174191107588612012-05-06T09:23:00.000+10:002012-05-06T09:23:56.449+10:00Perfunctory preamble<br />
<i>I don't want to sound like a bitch or anything</i> but your voice grates at my ears like a drunken mosquito and for all that I’ve been trying to figure out what you’re saying, you speak about as much sense as a kicked cat. Every time I look at your face I fly into a fit of rage wishing someone would finally flush that used toilet paper you carry around atop your neck.<br />
<br />
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<i>I don't want to sound homosexual or anything</i> but I would totally fuck that guy over there. Look at his abs, I’d love to be looking at them from an inch away while I showed him all about fellatio. I’d have no problem if his hands were pulling back my shoulders from behind while I was bent over examining the floor.<br />
<br />
<i>I don't want to sound like I'm prying or anything</i> but what do you think about when you masturbate and do you do it often? Do you trim your pubic region and have you ever had an STD? How much money do you make in a year and do you have any debts? Do you mind if I watch you while you go to the bathroom so I can see how you do it?<br />
<br />
<i>I don't want to sound homophobic or anything</i> but I wish that faggot wouldn’t stand so close to me, I can almost smell the depravity. Do you feel like you have to wash yourself when you shake hands with one of them too? I can almost hear Jesus dry-retching when one of them skips about in front of me.<br />
<br />
<i>I don't want to sound racist or anything</i> but most of them are criminals, those filthy foreign monkeys. I always keep my hands in my pockets and watch my stuff closely when they come anywhere near me. It’s lucky that their colour is different, it gives me warning that they’re more likely to steal something than other people.<br />
<br />
<i>I don't want to sound like I'm preaching or anything</i> but the Bible say that we should lay ourselves before God and ask forgiveness for our sins. You shouldn’t drink that alcohol because Jesus gets the hangover. You shouldn’t touch yourself and you shouldn’t lie, like you did just now about touching yourself.<br />
<br />
<i>I don't want to sound like a sexist, bigamist, pacifist, fundamentalist, liberal, republican, abusive, ignorant idiot</i> but you know that whatever I say after that first piece of perfunctory preamble will so heavily label me what I said I wasn’t, that it is wasted breath to have even included it.<br />
<br />
If you say you don’t want to sound like something, why not try to back up that statement?<br />
<br />
<i>I don't want to sound like a grammar nazi</i> but did you know I really like sunflowers? The way they follow the sun makes me smile.<br />
<br />
Too often people think a piece of perfunctory preamble grants them immunity from responsibility for their statement.<br />
<br />
Say what you want but don’t think expressing a desire to not sound like an idiot, makes you sound any less of an idiot.Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3964197653899342216.post-54829850758136113492012-05-04T09:48:00.000+10:002012-05-04T09:48:41.910+10:00Life is<br />
Life is a cliché tale of tragedy; as soon as we are introduced to the main characters, we realise that none will make it out alive. And yet, with a promise of continual revelation and the prospect of a plot twist around every corner, life captivates us from our first breath until our last. Somewhere deep inside, most of us hope life’s main protagonist finds their one true love so their eventual demise is alongside a love everlasting.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Life is a roller coaster, a ride so harrowing and dangerous that many would refuse to step on it if they encountered it in their lifetime. The roller coaster is such a common parable to the ups and downs of life yet so inaccurate for its failure to capture the acuteness of life’s ride. Take the forces placed on the body from a roller coaster’s corkscrews, climbs, descents and loops; apply those forces to the emotions, intelligence and physical appearance of yourself and everyone around you; build a track loop that defies physics by having more descents than ascents with every descent worse than the last; build a roller coaster like that and you might have a storybook representation of the ride of life.<br />
<br />
Life is a game of chance where you can change your cards at any point and every step rolls countless dice that you cannot see land but determine everything. It is a game of chance that requires as much skill as luck but some of the best players have succeeded with none of one and even none of both. Life is a lottery that allows you to see the wining numbers before you select what digits you want to play but the prize pool is secret and may not even be a cent.<br />
<br />
Life is short because someone decided to count how long it lasts and life seems shorter the longer you live. Introspection and reflection can make even the most sour moments taste sweet while at the same time making angels grow horns — add more time before looking back for more sugar or bigger horns. Life will be over before you know it even though it felt like it lasted a lifetime.<br />
<br />
Nothing will have hurt when the curtain falls on life’s cliché tragedy. For all that life is a practical impossibility, life is everything and everything is beautiful.<br />Rakulihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02791180171803674257noreply@blogger.com2