Life is...good?

Uh...so, I've found myself with very little to write lately. I've felt rather uninspired. This has actually been really bothering me lately. So, after much thought on the subject (primarily comprised of testing the durability of my wooden desk with my head) I figured out why my muse has sudden fluttered away.

Well, you see, my muse is less of a majestic, mythical creature as it is an evil, conniving adrenaline junkie who likes to inspire utter chaos and panic for her own amusement, and is essentially schadenfreude embodied. It's also apparently severely bipolar as it enjoys beauty about as much as that creepy kid in American Beauty..















Yes you, you weird fuck.

So, it seems that I can only write in the midst of extreme tragedy or euphoria. I've never been so good at minutiae. Maybe Virginia Woolf could teach me a thing or two...or perhaps I shouldn't take advice from someone who began to hear voices and consequently filled her coat with rocks and walked into the River Ouse.

I digress.

Anyway, as for my lack of inspiration, I think I'm going to try a more Woolf-esque approach. Stay tuned for possibly embarrassing attempts at elevating the mundane.

Still writing,

Bohemian Dandy

BEDLAM! BEDLAM! BEDLAM!

Come one! Come all! To see the chaotic extravaganza! IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD! MUAHAHAHA!!!!

It's dog eat dog out there in the big bad world. Knives are being stuck into the backs of all men, by all men. It's utter pandemonium! Who do you trust? Who CAN you trust? No one! Nobody! They're all out to get you. You can't even trust your fucking self!

"There's a hole in the world like a great black pit, and the vermin of the world inhabit it, and it's filled with people who are filled with shit, and its morals aren't worth what a pig could spit!"

So bear arms with me brothers, those who call yourselves brothers (but are all descendants of Brutus himself) and let's wage war against one another. All you Benedict Arnolds, all you ladies in red, all you hypocrites and seducers, come one, come all! Burn it down, burn it all down. The world is going straight to hell. Rapture cometh! But there are no angels to spare you, no winged saviors to take you away to paradise, for all of you are undeserving! Oh, we self-serving loathsome wretches. "We all deserve to die, even you, even I!" We will all have to face Minos, and he will send us all to our appropriate circles of Hell!

So watch, as the river Nile turns to the river Styx, Amazon to Acheron! Watch as serpents rise to strangle you all and inject their venom into your already poisoned souls! Watch as Cerberus snarls and barks, and as the Minotaur rages. You are all destined to wear gilded cloaks of lead and writhe in eternal fatigue!

"It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine...
It's time I had some time alone."

Your doomsayer,

Bohemian Dandy

Black and White

Life is simple, that's not to say it's easy. There are clear paths, simple right and wrong. Contrary to popular belief, the world is black and white. You're the one that adds color. You are the artist. There's a path you can take, the "right" path, the moral path, and on it, you can stroll all the way to the end of your life completely unaffected. And for some reason, every time I hit that fork in the road, I'll always take the path lined with willow trees, howls in the night, and lightning strikes.

Because how boring the path is that shines so bright, with the sun that smiles down on you and with all the fucking tire swings. I've fought my whole life against the mundane, the banal, the boring. But, is it really so bad? A simple life with simple pleasures. A moral life without the drama. A perfectly and contently boring existence without constant pandemonium. I'm not too sure anymore. I think it would be a nice change of pace.

So, cheers, to settling down, to making good decisions, to not fucking up, to growing up.

Really, my life plays out a bit like Trainspotting (you know, minus the whole bit about heroin addiction).

[First lines]
"Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons."

I used revel in those words (smart yeah, the rationalized words of a fucked up heroin junkie), but yeah, that's how I used to view life. Hell, that's probably still how I view it. But I'm trying, I'm trying real hard to make it to those last lines.

[Last lines]
Now I've justified this to myself in all sorts of ways. It wasn't a big deal, just a minor betrayal. Or we'd outgrown each other, you know, that sort of thing. But let's face it, I ripped them off - my so called mates. But Begbie, I couldn't give a shit about him. And Sick Boy, well he'd done the same to me, if he'd only thought of it first. And Spud, well okay, I felt sorry for Spud - he never hurt anybody. So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers - all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person. But, that's gonna change - I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die."

Lost and trying,

-Bohemian Dandy

Dear Penny Lane,

In bed, sometimes, I'm apt to think of you.
The times we had, so young, so fun, so true.
But truth turns lie in so short a time,
And love and loss becomes our passionate crime,
And those three days of wine and cheese and grapes,
impromptu plot of glorious escape,
Seems now more like a tragic mistake,
two fools too lust-drunken to wake.
So dear, I wish I could have been your William,
But lo, all that I touch turns to bedlam.

With 20/20 hindsight,
Regretfully yours,

Russel Hammond

Things Desired

A cool swim, a Sigur Ros concert in Iceland, death by Hafsol, sneaking out and sneaking in, new beginnings, a smoke on the front lawn, a few good beers (Newcastle's not bad), a blood red moon, cool summer night air, the green glow of the dashboard, the rev of an engine redefining the speed limit, all to the [dead] sound of The Raveonettes.

Summer, you're all right.

On Love, Future, and Ativan

The minutes ooze by like molasses, the clock ticks heavy. Void days lead to sleepless nights. Time bleeds together. My mind is on fire, manic with thought, but the days, the days reflect nothing of that. One listless day, after another, wasting, wasted, gone. My dad asks if I've been beaten up, and where I got the two shiners. I look at him through bloodshot eyes, and I say, "I wish it were that easy, pop."

It's no wonder one mid-afternoon after lethargically dragging myself out of bed and tripping into the warm water of the shower, I begin to halfheartedly sing Minus The Bear's "Get Me Naked 2: Electric Boogaloo." Silly name, relevant subject:

"Try to get some rest,
count backward from ten.
You've gone too long without sleep
I know you won't rest stressed, so give up, just give up.

And don't say no to pills,
Ativan won't kill.

You said, 'My life's like a bad movie,'
And I said, 'It's true of all us.'
You said, you said, 'I've got to wake up so fucking early,'
And I said, 'Maybe the directors turned on us.'

Outside the five sounds like the ocean,
relax, don't keep your eyes open.
Don't look at the clock,
your brain will never stop.

You said, 'My life's like a bad movie,'
And I said, 'That's true of all us.'
You said, you said, 'I've got to wake up so fucking early,'
And I said, 'Maybe the directors turned on us.'

Don't say no to pills,
Ativan won't kill."

I was going crazy. I needed to get out. A trip to the Getty Art Museum would do me some good.

With a Sigur Ros CD and a short drive south, I arrived at my cultural destination. Having frequented the Getty (there's not a whole hell of a lot else to do 'round these parts) there weren't too many new surprises. The French Bronze sculptures were refreshing, but other than that, it was the same ol' trip to the impressionism room, spewing pretentiousness at a high school art history level. However, an unexpected stroll two floors beneath Van Gogh's "Waterlilies", and Renoir's "Le Promenade" led me to a fantastic photography exhibit.

Two photographers: Paul Outerbridge and Jo Ann Callis. The former didn't impress me too much, mostly commercial bullshit, but Callis, really wonderful stuff. Among her many other masterpieces, she went through this tri-picture stage, in which she would juxtapose three seemingly different object, and show how similar they really are. They all, in fact, had uniting factors, light and fluffy, sleek and shiny, etc.

"Cake, Hat, Pillow"


"Glove, Balloon, Shoehorn."


You get the picture (no pun intended).

So, I got to thinking, if I had a series like this, what would I include. Well, this is where the title is relevant. Why can't I sleep, why am I always so fucking anxious? The answers:

Love:


Future:


and the cure

Ativan:


"In a world where certainties are few...no wonder Ativan is prescribed by so many caring clinicians."

Ah, must be nice, but it's the easy way out. I gotta take this thing head on, look it straight in the eyes, and...well, enjoy some more insomnia. So, come thought, come brainstorm, and for the love of all things good, come sun, come morning doves, so I can finally rest my head, and drift out of consciousness. But until then, with a fire in my eyes, and bags down to my cheeks, I'll linger on past, present, and future, and sing the Electric Boogaloo.

-Bohemian Dandy.

In Preparation for the Zombie Apocalypse

We slipped on our boots, zipped up our vests, loaded our clips, and prepared for battle.



Two groups: Spec Ops v. S.W.A.T.

We fired our AK47s and MP5s at one another, inducing 400+ fps stings in each other's skin. Hours of all-out, close quarters, urban tactical assault. Why, you ask? Why shoot plastic bb's at each other in the wee hours of the night until the sun rises to signal battle's end? Because, there is a day, rest assured, one little square on that calendar of yours, that marks the day, Z-Day. And with a single phone call, and two simple words: "It's on!" We'll gear up, lock and load, and pump round after round into the skulls of the walking dead.




"Unthinkable," you say. "Impossible, stupid, juvenile," you say...or at least you hope. Read this:

http://www.cracked.com/article_15643_5-scientific-reasons-zombie-apocalypse-could-actually-happen.html

Brain Parasites, neurotoxins, the rage virus, neurogenesis, nanobots. It's coming, just you wait. THE END IS EXTREMELY FUCKING NIGH!

And we, we will be humanity's last line of defense against the zombie hordes.



And remember kids:

1. Organize before they rise!
2. They feel no fear, why should you?
3. Use your head: cut off theirs.
4. Blades don't need reloading.
5. Ideal protection = tight clothes, short hair.
6. Get up the staircase, then destroy it.
7. Get out of the car, get onto the bike.
8. Keep moving, keep low, keep quiet, keep alert!
9. No place is safe, only safer.
10. The zombie may be gone, but the threat lives on.