Song Of The Day - KRAM

Silk Suits by KRAM. The legendary front man behind the kit. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Superheist

Bullet by Superheist. An old one, but a good one, by an Australian band that disappeared off the radars about ten years ago. Shame. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip

Thou Shalt Always Kill by Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip. I got put onto these guys a couple years ago by one of my students. He got a handful of gold stars that day I can tell you. The album version is better than this, but you get the picture. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Ben Folds & Nick Hornby

Levi Johnson's Blues by Ben Folds & Nick Hornby. Too good for words. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Driftless Pony Club

Legends of Archery by Driftless Pony Club. Short but sweet. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Girl In The Red Light

Kids Get Wasted by Girl In The Red Light.

How this song didn’t get to number one in Australia is beyond me. Enjoy. S.H.

Song Of The Day - Otep

March of the Martyrs by Otep. Turn it up.

S.H.

A Day in the Life

I received a correspondence back today from a short story competition I entered a while ago. I didn’t win it but made the ‘long list’ - whatever that may be. The feedback was wholly positive and contained such quotes as ‘there are excellent descriptive movements’ and ‘strangely exciting and believable’ so, hey. S.H.

Sail Away

I've been de-friended. One of my few followers has jumped ship; left the keel; deserted the crew; bailed out; hit the spits; cracked the wobbleys; left the ranch ... not too sure about that last one but the picture is crystal I'm sure. I can't work out who it was, which in itself is probably the reason, but hey, each is each. Tally ho, ta ta, farewell my internet friend, as you cast yourself back out into the raging wilds of the vast sea of online communications. May your life as a cast away end with you landing on the desert island that you seek the most. However, if you ever feel need to set sail in web that is as wide as the world, know that there will forever be a place among the crew that it balderdash, ever ready to welcome you back into the fold, like a shipwrecked companion once pulled of course by the shining light of treasure, but now with their matetys, home again on the seven billion seas. S.H.

I'm Not Gonna Cry

I'm not gonna cry today, I won't shed a tear,
even if some milk is spilt, I won't dilute my beer,
I won't use a tissue, my pillow will stay dry,
and I won't need a shoulder, 'cos I'm not gonna cry,
I'm not gonna snivel, and I'm not gonna sob,
Both my eyes will remain dry, and I won't have to dob them,
Move me with a tragedy, just go ahead and try,
Play me a tear jerker, but I'm not gonna cry.

I'm not going to weep today, I will not wet my cheek,
I'll count to ten and I'll hold it in, I'm not gonna leak,
And I'm not gonna loose it, though I may want to die,
They say it's good to let it out, but I'm not gonna cry,
I'm not gonna blub today, I'm not gonna bawl,
And I'm not gonna fall apart, even if you call me,
I could not cry for forty years, I was to tough a guy,
Now I can do it any time, but I'm not gonna cry.

I must have cried a million tears, at least ninety-six,
I cried me a river, and an ocean just for kicks,
Listen to the thunder, dark clouds fill the sky,
Well it looks like rain, and I hear a train, but I'm not gonna cry.

Yeah, well it looks like rain and I hear a train, but I'm not gonna cry.


Alas, this is not mine, but belongs to the great Mr Wainwright. Big respect goes to the man, the myth, the legend. S.H.

Thou Shalt Always Kill

Thou shalt not question Stephen Fry. SH

I Shall Be Released

And to business. Fettered utterances were the call of the day as most of it was spent reading. Either that or basking in the sun. Or gazing out at other things as they basked in the sun. The day was partly cloudy and mostly quiet. But only where I spent it, as I imagine a building site or the playground of the nearest McDonald's was probably anything but quiet. As one would imagine they would be on most days they were in active use. The afternoon past, a sunset appeared, and soon after nighttime ensued. It still continues as I speak, but for the most part the day has drawn itself to a muted, if not regular conclusion. Excitement did not really rear any of its heads for me, but dare I say it may well have done for several others. Most of these people I will never meet, so the height of their excitement on this day would seem to be interminably unhelpful. Except maybe as serving to brighten my outlook on the day that yes, good things do happen if you are only in the right place when they happen. I will await the proof of this dizzying theory with most eager open-mindedness. Probably. SH

The Summer

Salty skies, air like warm honey. A tethered breeze seems hardly enough to carry anything of worth my way, but still it cools the sand, cools the water, cools the earth. Withered tales crumble and break up above like fallen leaves of autumns long passed away. They turn to dust like decayed vines, no longer snaking their way around and into recesses they should have never found, now blown away by the breath of something new.

I realise this is utter drivel, but something has to fill up this cyberspace, so until I become involved in anything more interesting, this will have to do. SH

Of The Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue stockings.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.
Who tells me the truth, even when I don't want her to.
Who knows it's only just rain.
Who walks like she means it.
Who forgives but doesn't forget.
Who bangs her head to every thick drum beat.
Who has a jacket made of red cotton.
Who speaks like a thunderstorm and sounds like a rainbow.
Who is just around the corner. SH

The Broken, Beat & Scarred

Leave your line of silk, your tawdry tale. Bereft the rest of us your lies, your sullied maze. Take the time and make it yours, keep your clock away from gaze. No eyes of mine could wish to see, nor care to look upon, or wist to be akin, to anything of your own entropy. SH

What Is He Thinking?

I find it hard to turn my mind off. The problem with this is that my mind usually controls most of what I do. Wherever I am I am usually thinking about something, and believe me, this is not always a healthy pursuit. It leads to the all too common 'over thinking'. Which in turn leads to the also all too common 'some more over thinking.'
If you have heard of or know of, anyone that has in their possession or is aware of how to get their hands on a button that not necessarily turns the mind off but more putts it on mute, then I would be more than obliged if you could pass on their contact details. Thank you and good evening. S.H.

You Don't Know Me (Yet)

Your tales are told with marble eyes, a whistled promise, the perfect sigh.
The day's away, the night is here, a crumpled hand, unwelcome tear.
The trees can fly, the birds can sit, there's nothing more, you're here, you're it.
Settled skies have never grown, I'm delicate like a glass gnome.
With silver shoes and patterned dress, you walk along and I'm a mess.
The cloth of time upon my face, I'll rip it up and make my chase. S.H.

Ta Douleur

Ta douleur, ta douleur, never do we bleet more than for the shackles that hold us to be lifted.
A common occurrence among many is to feel the worser for our wear. For some this sense is a justified, if not still unhelpful way of thinking. But for many of those that crow the call of the wounded beast hard done by, a heady lesson in deference would do all their hearts well.
Often it is unfair how some have some and some have some more. But while this state of affairs may cease to breed humility, it is all a statement of the past and the present. The future is there for the victor to evolve, the canny to manipulate. What is now can be shaped into what will be. And while a certain nothingness may house the scene in front of our eyes, it is the warmth that exists behind the trees that can be seen but not yet visited that will forever be all one will speak of and know. S.H.

Soldier's Poem

I saw the plastic soldier man today. Walking to and fro along the beachside path, dressed in uniform of baggy tracksuit and clear thin poncho. He marched a steady beat, step by step and heart to heart, thickened eyes gave me a careful look. We passed a second time, his form irresolute, and I left him on his way, moving off to make the world a better place, and smote any new rain drops that dared to splatter his transparent plastic poncho. S.H.

How To Explain

Concerning those ladies with the microphone and speaker in front of the jewellery or clothing shops. Are they aware that every one seems to be ignoring them? This one I saw today was all smiles and radio voice with the volume on eleven. Everyone in a six block radius could hear her, but they were trying desperately hard not to show it. Even the people that had their hair parted as they walked past the speaker blast held a resolutely passive facial expression, continuing on as if they had not just temporarily deafened.
The lady doing her thing today was outside an upscale jewellers. She was busting out the latest offers on top form, but had to unfortunately compete with the loudness of her trousers. It looked like she had stabbed a male peacock to death and then sewed the poor creature's tail feathers together, wrapping them around her legs and finally securing the whole lot in place with a Pritt Stik. It wasn't pretty. S.H.

Great Southern Land

The lightning is painting the night sky in flourishes, the air is warm and the insects are singing. Great Southern Land. S.H.

Today

The day today. Up, breakfast, Ellen, write, washing. Lunch, movie, write, read. Shopping mall, walk, music, paddle pop, Youtube, read, write. How was your day? S.H.

Carpe Diem Baby

Carpe diem, baby, carpe diem. S.H.

Chase That Feeling

It is said to be luck, a great gift to have a feeling so strong, a burning sense that you were placed on this fair brown land to do one specific thing. Maybe not only that one thing, but it sings certainly as the most prominent, the one act or vocation or doing that without it in your life would be a life ill-used, a time on earth wasted. This "feeling" is told to not only be special but rare. It's not something that one would necessarily get paid for, praised for carrying out or even be noticed by others, but all of this is irrelevant anyway. None of these are the reasons. You feel the urning to do it because the world would crumble if you did not. The skies would remain bleak and the vast horizon would never stop, and no way would you be able to cease your wandering.
To describe such a feeling is impossible to convey to those who do not share it's essential pull, it's numbing ache and filling swell. You know you have to do it. You just know. And until you do, or when you do not, you know nothing, and you may as well fall thought he clouds for a million years, because time means nothing when you are not spending it doing what you were born to do. S.H.

Don't Think Twice, It's Alright

Lately my mind has been walking through places it shouldn't. And across sharp ground with no shoes on too. Reckless? Definitely. Wise? Probably not. Necessary? Indeed. Will any of it prove to be fortuitous? Only time will tell the tale worthy of explaining all the questions. Let's hope this time I listen to the answers when they are given. S.H.

Moving Right Along

Time for an actual blog post. I've been engaged in the tiresome act of attempting to sort out life's various little mishaps. Also working on a number of short story submissions. Along with working on another longer, or perhaps to be more accurately described as 'full length' story as well. Observing some of the world's growing population of simpletons. And trying to remain as even as possible about the whole kit and caboodle. That is all ... at present. S.H.

Walking On The Moon

What do we do but to wander. Why do we wander but to do. S.H.

Truth

Love knows not rank nor river bank, nor street bank nor days dank. Love knows not place nor virtue, not age nor curfew. Love is careless for place nor power, heedless of scantly shack nor gleaming tower. S.H.

Blow Up The Pokies

To further your musical education. S.H.

Seether

For the unenlightened among you. S.H.

What a person does as an individual is important. Not what anyone else tells them to do. S.H.

Bonkers

You're not in my gang if you don't like Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Sabbath.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Metallica.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Ben Folds.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Aretha.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Three Dog Night.
You're not in my gang if you don't like The Whitlams.
You're not in my gang if you don't like The Fugees.
You're not in my gang if you don't like DJ Kool.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Veruca Salt.
You're not in my gang if you don't like Jebediah.
I'm sorry. You just aren't. S.H.

Tightrope Walker

Into the heart of darkness they proudly step, with boots like blocks of stone. Heady mind and sullied soul, the bleak becomes the march.
She pulled her jacket around feeble shoulders and re-secured her hood. Long black lashes like needles blinked the floating rain from her eyes. A wall of dark figures paraded on in front of her, too little she was deemed to take the full brunt. Her muddied shoes slipped and skated, any way but where she aimed them, her focus now drawn to basics of one foot in front of the other. Alone the people on either side of her sat huddled in their castles, marvelling at her spirit and cursing at her rancour. The night was beginning to die, the day not yet begun, and still she marched through cold and dark and on towards the sun. S.H.

Dreams Be Dreams

Today I got a message from a girl I went to high school with, saying that last night I was in her dream. What's more strange is that just yesterday I was talking with someone else about getting in their dreams. Peculiar. How extremely peculiar indeed. S.H.

City Hum

The fluorescent light hummed away its merry monotone tune, but still the cafe remained a little sullen. The early winters evening had wrapped its cold colourless hands around the place with greedy revere. A deep fryer sizzled in the back, the cook's shuffled feet another instrument added to the soundtrack. The kids were eating happily but making little noise, their cheery red cheeks slowly warming and returning to their original pale rose pigment. A few shadows passed by the tall cafe front windows, mostly black blurs of indistinguishable age or sex. The smell of salt and vinegar and hot fried potato was strong to the point of intoxication. The night rumbled on for miles around, the city was happy. And for the most part, so were its people. S.H.

For What It's Worth

There is some drivel about. My word there is some drivel. The level at which a vast number of people communicate is nauseating. It is no wonder or surprise that the population is getting dumber. It is no shock or unforeseen occurrence that society is continuing to slowly descend into mediocracy. Utter balderdash is being substituted for linguistics and stupidity is applauded. Not a good thing. S.H.

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

With the rain comes wisdom. A single drop makes its intense but precarious way from endless amounts of space above.The drop splatters onto the world to join its fellows. Silver petals sheet across the landscape like moving worlds. Their path is set and winding and moves on ahead forever. Lights that sparkle far away call like vibrant laughter with echoing warmth. The vision is set and the shoulders are sharpened. Two paths waiting to be crossed, two drops waiting to continue on falling as one. The clouds carry the message. It must be made so. S.H.

You've Got To Learn To Live With What You Are

What if the trees were tired of their roots? How would it go if the sun didn't like the ground anymore, didn't care to warm the soil? How could the clouds pretend to be empty, and the rain forget to fall? And the wind had no strength to blow, dancing grass by my feet no longer. And the bees sat down, and the birds didn't fly. The fish went home and stayed there. The animals hid in their holes and never came out. If we all gave up what place would this be left to call home? S.H.

Staring Down The Sun

"Hi."
"Hi."
Not knowing, then knowing. The strangeness was dispelled and the familiarity pitched.
"Didn't I see you this morning?" said she.
"Ah ... I believe you may have, yes," said he with his voice, while the rest of the dissident's internal capacities ignited and flamed, a gentle warmth now spreading everywhere.
"Looking for a new dress?" she said. His eyebrows darted together and confusion beset. He looked up. Then he looked around. While possessing eyes for naught but her, unbeknownst to him he had wandered into the women's clothing section on that floor of the department store.
"Ah - yeah - I'm just browsing, actually." Her face was painted in neutral tones, despite the obvious inference that the supremacy was with her. She could have chosen to wither him right there and then, but she did not. How can this be possible? he thought instantly. She stood out to him like a blazing lighthouse on a single dark hill in a single dark night. Not just beautiful, beautiful didn't cover it. He could have spent a lifetime writing that word over and over and over again down on endless sheets of paper, and still it would not match what he sought to now describe, to feebly put into words she which stood before him. S.H.

Where Two Oceans Meet

The unavoidable position left no room for his initial reactions to be fulfilled. The drums were thunderous explosions, the sound waves echoing off the inside walls of his skull. She turned and the air rippled, the tottering surrounds oblivious to the effect. Her hair it moved like she was underwater. All on the outside looked calm among him but for the symphony of clatter that coursed its way around his body. Her eyes looked up and the atmosphere froze, the air itself seemingly ceasing to be. A second past. No more than a second of time elapsed and he was held firmly in place for a year. It felt like even longer. Her eyes of forever held his face with soft hands that could not be shaken nor moved. The drums ceased. Everything ceased. And the one shinning thought that now filled his head was "what the bloody hell do I do now?" S.H.

Jungle Drum

The drums began to tap in the distance, gradually building up their volume like an approaching train. The dissident looked for somewhere to hide, an instinctive reaction, and tried his best not to unsettle his head. The figure drifted closer, but still she did not see him. There were enough clothes racks and shinny shelves to help him blend, the constant buzz of beings helping his cause. She moved closer still. He tried his best to think like paint, to become part of the scenery and melt into the walls, a white boy on the white wash. He had noticed her in an instant, his body realising before his brain. The sight of her face from afar enough to squeeze his heart like a sponge. His skin crackled and shifted its nervous weight with alarming fervour, his blood thundering around his veins with exactly the same idea as to what to do with itself as he. S.H.

Go

With the drum rattling gone, the day carried on, and the dissident left the pavement. Over the road and onto the grass, a wide open expanse, skipping over a path or two when he came to it. Milling around in a great arc and the steel above his head subsided. Never able to keep away from the bustle for long, he turned into the sweep, the sway and to and fro, the marching mass, as it ran like a conveyer of faces. Through a door, into a store and the gentle browsing begins. The eyes wander and trip over a sight. The sight of a figure. A familiar figure? S.H.

Dissident

The dissident stands muddied and tired. He walks the uneven path with straightened conviction. The traffic noise sings around him and he settles into his skin. He passes the familiar sights and comfortable landmarks. He turns his trail down a side street and is met by a figure. The figure doesn't talk but he thinks she does and he chirps a friendly reply. An answer is given by the figure as she flows past. He turns and watches the figure depart, the drums in his head thumping and ratting a mad tattoo. S.H.

For Love Or Money?

Some time ago I decided that I would do what I enjoyed as work, even if it wasn't the highest paying or most sparkling of status positions. The work I do DOES enable me to look after myself, save money and do just about what I want within reason. I won't be buying a brand new beamer or owning that six bedroom home in Hertfordshire any time soon, but I've gotten along alright in the past.
The problem I find myself being readily confronted with is what will happen a decade or so down the track. Will I still be content with enjoying what I do, even if it means I have to scrimp and save a little in order to support my future family? Or will I HAVE to reeducate and up or even change completely my qualifications in order to get that "real job"?
I guess the crux of my query is this - is a guy's salary really a big pull or deterrent to a girl?
Add to the pot that what I do is not considered a "regular" occupation for a guy to have (for the record, I work with kids) and I have had many a girl who has turned the other way when she has found out my status among the career world.
Unfortunately, all this means that now more than ever I am faced with a simple question - do I continue to do what I love, with the risk that I will never be taken seriously by another as a future other half? Or do I change my ideas radically and go for the practical option, get another qualification and start doing a job that I may not enjoy as much, but at least I'll be able to park that new BMW in the front drive of my six bedroom house?
It all comes down to one. Does the higher flying job and larger salary package really mean that much? (We're not talking about the difference between being flat broke and a millionaire here. It's more the difference between having a second hand Toyota Corolla or a brand spanking new Mercedes C Class). Or is it really true that as long as there is love, you can always find a way to make it work no matter what? S.H.

The Star

I looked upon a star as it sat atop a hill. I saw this star in the day time and it was only me who saw it. I gazed at length and thought of how it got there. It twinkled for me, like a shinny fleck of steel. It went away then, but its job was done. It met the thought it sought to chose and pushed and shuffled things. The blue swallowed it up, the day smoothed it out. It joined itself back in the air in hopes of finding the night. S.H.

The Concrete Pond

I looked over and across the square. The dark umbrellas were like twirling lily pads on a concrete surfaced pond. They rushed along at a dizzying pace, spinning and swishing this way and that. The odd blots of colour looked like round frogs, zipping along on their own way, a coloured umbrella the sure indication of a more imaginative amphibian.
The fourth floor was a pretty good vantage point I had decided, definitely good enough to see anyone I was expecting as they approached the building. The rain seemed a little frustrated I thought, so many prepared commuters, their heads being astutely kept dry. But the skies would have their fun with at least one person today. This I knew for sure. The frog that I was looking out for had decided to swim through the crowds, not jump along with them. They had not forgotten their waterproof skin on this dampened day. They just never had one to begin with. S.H.

This Maddening Little World

Yes. Well. Let's make this an actual "blog" post, shall we?
I sit and stare out the window, waiting for the answer to leap into the room. The trees may as well be matchsticks. The sky may as well be a painting. Usually there is always one clear cut answer within the heart. It may be speaking the same language as the brain, or it may not. Either way, there is always an answer. A yes or a no. On those rare occasions when there is no clear shout, I have no other energy in me but to sit and wait. Maybe one of those birds has the answer for me? Oh ... no ... it's flown past. An interesting annoyance it is. To be leaning towards social adherence, and then turning away from it just as clearly is confusing to say the least. What a maddening little world we do live in. S.H.

Six Word Story

He lunged. She fell. He jumped. S.H.

Missing Blog Post #3

Don't worry your pretty little cotton socks. This one will also be back soon. S.H.

Here Comes The Sun

Her face folded across the sky like clean white cloth, silken and pure. I dared not reach out, for it seemed too perfect a thing to touch with my imperfect ways. The ground moved from under me like running water, and I could have been anywhere. The blue sky rejoiced above her head, no cloud filled peaks to worry the dawn. The roughness subsided to nothing and I continued to stare, nothing able to dampen her beauty. The winds changed, not in the air but behind my chest, and my eyes fell down to closed. That was it. S.H.

Nice Guys Finish Last

Reading a post from one of my kind followers, I have been inspired to communicate a little information concerning the issue of dating. More especially I mean the "finding of one's other". According to most contrary and otherwise opinions, it's hard as hell. This is a sentiment I would have to concur with. From my extensive research, I have concluded that there really does seem to be an overwhelming amount of awesome girls out there. The problem seems to be though, is that somehow the douche bags somehow manage to get to them first. Why is this so? It's surely not universally true, but there seems to be a startlingly high percentage of this occurrence taking place.
I get the image that a lot of girls seem to go for a more volatile guy because it makes things a bit more interesting, but is this really true? The phrase "nice guys finish last" really does seem to ring true. However, on the other hand I have heard of many situations where a girl would like nothing but someone who is good to them. Sure, they've got to be interesting, I think that works both ways, but nice is nice. It's one of many attributes the right guy should have in order to find the right girl. But seemingly, this just doesn't work. Could it be that what a girl is attracted to and what she really wants in the deep pools of her heart are two utterly different things? I've had a friend or two (who happen to be girls, mind you) say that the "looking" for someone doesn't work, and to an extent I agree. I think you still have to put yourself in the situations where you can "not look" for someone, but then don't you have to show initiative as well? I'm a big believer in that if you want something you have to go out there and get it. Were as this has proved a sound philosophy to everything else I have accomplished so far, could it be that it does not apply to the single thing that is number one on the list of needs and wants anyway, above all other goals?
There should be a website called "I'm a nice person dot com". It should be a place where nice people are selected by an independent judge that flies around the world and signs off on everyone that wants to join the site. There are plenty of sites out there as it is, but somehow I really don't think internet dating is the way forward. I could be wrong. I could be wrong about everything on the subject. That conclusion would at least explain why I'm still in the same boat as all those other hopeful, not desperate, but hopeful singles out there, patiently waiting for the lightening bolt to strike them down with a vengeance, the smile on their face never so wide for such a bout of electricity to be running like wild horses through their veins. S.H.

Walk On

There is a place you can go if you leave the road and make your way through a crumbling fence. Laying your soles on the lush grass you need to scale the hill. Make sure you wave at the cows as you pass but avoid stepping in their left behind reminders of a livestock's breakfast, lunch and dinner. Push through the Kissing Gate with care but step even more lightly into the graveyard. It's a nice place, and without the blankets of snow around its edges, all the more friendly, the tombstones laid back and sighing in the warmth of the sun. Pass the small church on your right and and head towards the local hall. If you look up, the trees are bending from Spring's weight and stretching out their thin green fingers to catch a ray or two from the sky. If you turn your gaze as you walk the hill drops away behind you and falls into the lap of a small valley. A village lies scattered across the opposite hill, like stones dropped from an ancient and gigantic hand. S.H.

Missing Blog Post #2

I'm going to cheat a little here by reposting and old story. As I'm getting some increased traffic this way I thought the new people might like to see it if they were not readily inclined to make their way quite to the bottom of the page. I've been told this story is not too bad.

Don't worry, this one will be back soon too. S.H.

Never Mind The Bollocks

Unfortunately this is going to be a little bit more along the lines of bullshit than inkwells. It comes to my attention that there are quite a few blogs out there are filled with nothing but tawdry and self obsessed bollocks. Happily, no one that follows me (yet) has a blog that matches this description. However, oh so many webpages seem to be supplied by pretentious twits with a somewhat twisted sentimentality that so wears at everything I do posses. I'd really rather not run ANYBODY down for anything because, truth be told, they aren't bothering anyone. It's not these people's fault that they have no true concept of what the real world is. They will one day. But until then they seem happy, so why not just let them be? Far be it for me to stipulate what constitutes a blog entry, because quite clearly I don't know. But if I read the words "I love vintage" uttered anywhere one more time ... Well. Let's not go into what might happen if that little situation was to eventuate in the not too distant future. S.H.

The Bread

The bread. The bread. The doughnuts? No. The bread. What about the M&M cookies? They call to me with their little chocolatey voices. Their multicoloured bodies laid to rest amongst a grave of golden brown dough. Yes. Those will do nicely. I will take some of those. In walks a guy right out of a Dolce and Gabbana advert in GQ magazine. I guess he's looking for animal produce. Our little friend saunters up to the deli counter and enquires as to the brand label of the hairnet that the plump little lady behind the glass cases of meat is wearing. At least that's what I imagine he said, I can't say I was listening. Anyway, the bread. The guy thankfully exits my view and I'm left to wonder if he actually paid money for that shirt, of if it came with his Burberry sweater. I make a b-line for the checkouts. I exchange a crumpled bank note for my goods in a plastic bag and onto the streets once again I do venture. The sky is in it's own shade of steel, looking down on us all with a bored expression. I thread my best through the clatter alongside swiftly moving clumps of machinery and metal and hit the steps. A wide set that lead downwards like a gently sloping grey hill. Across the Mall, a cheeky wink in the direction of Her Majesty's abode, and it's into the park for me. Crunchy gravel and jumbled laughter from bohemian wannabes kindles my soundtrack of general city noise and my hunger ceases to be theoretical. Dead candy shells are calling. S.H.

The Supermarket Thing

Does the supermarket thing really work? You know the score. You're walking along, minding your own business in the deli section when before your view there slides one of the most charming looking girls, or as the case may be, guy, that you have seen in recent memory. You clear your throat with sandpaper comfort and set about chancing introductions. "Oh, fancy that, we use the same brand of cottage cheese. Shall we go out?" Of course I now it's probably not that simple. But then again, it might be. The question that remains for me is wether or not it is humanly possible for humans. This is excluding Brad Pitt and and any other demigod of the netherworld, that is. I have a friend that assures me it is defiantly possible. But when you look like he does, it's more probable that HE'S the one getting approached by nervous produce wielding beauties. Mind you, this is also the same friend that suggested that in order to take it to the next plateau with my then girlfriend of four weeks, that I book a hotel room without telling her and then end our day's date by saying "I've got us a room. Let's go." Maybe that would have worked. But maybe not. The supermarket thing works in movies. But everything works in movies.
Back to the main thread, and IF this all works. Well, I'm sure it does. But I'm even more sure that it's not normal people that manage to pull this seemingly unsurmountable feat off. It's done by these chiselled characters with mythical good looks. It's done by the Populars and their scudded accomplices.
Aside from anything else I think common decency holds ME back. I just don't think anyone wants another person to creep up behind them while they are trying to make the ever important decision of wether to get smoked or regular bacon. I just don't think it's good manners. But then again, what's manners when the magnetic field begins to wail? What does common decency matter when your favourite song begins to play over the supermarket loud speakers, seemingly spurring you on in an oh so spiritual way. That's how it happens in the movies. Maybe that's how it happens in real life too? S.H.

The Great Escape

I sat and I watched on a sullied park bench as a plastic bag set fourth to make its great escape from a rubbish bin. The birds in the trees chattered away like children and the surrounding traffic noise rose up like the unconcerned rumblings from parents in the background. The tall leaves around swayed like hair and the plastic bag lay in wait, timing its actions like the prisoner watching the guard. After several valiant attempts the cause looked all but lost. Until, handles pulsing as great steadied arms, the bag got itself teetering over the edge of the green bin. The time was now, all was poised, and perched on the knives edge between freedom and deathly relegation, the bag paused, waiting desperately for one last ounce of wind. It came! And with the warm whip of the wind, liberty was found. The bag looked like a delighted animal, skipping off at high speed down the park path. It rolled and spun with its own pride, and carried away on the summers breeze, towards the city from whence it came. S.H.

How Long?

It sucks like quicksand. Pulls like tentacles. I walk along in second hand skin and no one notices. It's been worn before but not by me. I trace a path and songs refuse to help, speaking of things in twos and pairs of doves, none of it any use to me. The tether is breached. It's spent and frayed. Parades of bliss before me don't inspire hate but envy. Not envy but longing. The sky changes its face again to rumple up and offer its small condolence. Being awake for handfuls of small lifetimes takes it's toll the most. To remain without relief for so long is a powerful tool for any to use against me, but for one to set me free.
Again, apologies for the melancholy bullshit. Situation dictates manner. S.H.

Could I Whisper?

Do you want to hear about the hilltops? Do you want to hear about the trees? The jagged rocks that slowly get tamed by centuries and moving earth, the mossy grass like cool emerald lava. Would you like to know about the mountains? The stars that seem the only things close enough to tell of what it is like to be so high. Could I whisper in your ear about the sky, and the many faces it chooses to show? Can I tell you about the cities? The bricks and mortar, the stone and toil. The bust and bustle, the rats and their race, the people and their shoes. Would you believe me if I told you about the lights? Oh, the lights. Glowing like fireworks, painting like ink onto any skin that bares itself to the air.
Sorry. Not too sure where that came from. S.H.

Ruby

There's a children's hospital in Melbourne. In Carlton I think it is. And at one point I had occasion to be working a day in that hospital. For the life of me I can't remember how I got there. I seem to recall catching a train into the centre. Silver and sleek, graffitied vistas along the way. From there on I think I must have walked. I ambled uphill for some ways, that I know to be true. It was quite early as well. Vacant building blocks and black gum stains on ashen paths. The security at the hospital was amazing, as well it should be. One of the first people I met during my day was Ruby. Ruby was four years old. And only just so, as she proudly told me. She wore these red Mary Jane style shoes, all shinny leather and sparkling silver buckles. They matched her name perfectly and seemed to me to be the perfect kind of shoes for splashing about in puddles. From then on I don't remember more than a handful of seconds or so that Ruby wasn't at my side. She turned out to be one of the coolest kids I ever did meet. I remember climbing on the playground and racing toy trucks with her. Ruby gifted me with a hug before I left that day. Given to a person that eight hours previous she didn't know from a bar of soap. Her little arms barely had enough length to wrap around my knees.
I lived for a further year and a half in the city of Melbourne after that day, but not another time did I see Ruby. She'd be a fair few more years older than four now, but every time I think of her she's wearing those bright red shoes. S.H.

Jacqueline

Jacqueline. Twenty one and works behind a desk. Her grey suit serves as her skin. It looks the same as everyone else around her. It camouflages her into the office walls, like a brand new piece of equipment, fulfilling the same old tasks. Her skin appears the same as others, but she has nothing in common with them. She is here by foolishness. They are here by ambition.
Her day ends and she steps into the damp darkness that greets her. Having long ago learnt to blot out the vulgar eyes that trace over her skin like dirty fingernails, she instead doubles her pace. Thin heels on uneven pavement. It is the nature of the world that a being of such beauty has admirers. But in preference, not such followers as those on rain stained streets lurking at the sharp edges of sullen street lights.
Her dark flat is right where she left it. As well as her regrets of past decisions and forks in roads that have led her to living such a soulless life. The snap of the light switch turing on feels like a broken bone, leaving her only short of distraught as to how many more times she can sustain the injury and force repair before all confidence in continuing seems lost. The television goes on and the oven warms up. She yearns for a holiday. She hopes for the holiday to find her. So that work can forever onwards only be done when needed for the money. S.H.

Chocolate Mistress Of The Night

As I look sideways at my phone, my stomach grumbling, and I contemplate if there is anywhere I can go at this time of evening to procure the correct ingredients for constructing you which I would desire. No. It's late, you fool. Don't give into that. Oh cruel mistress of chocolate and sugar, why do you mock me so? Your luscious lure is upon me like the spirt calling the poor grieving soul, the pain all the more stinging as it dangles in ones face what can not be seized by ready hand. To play with the heart of one so welcoming your gentle rush of everything sweet and good is a wicked game to play indeed. I will have you soon, my pretty. I will have you soon. S.H.

Interpretation

Okay. Give me your interpretation of this situation. A guy walks into a clothing shop. He's only looking, probably has no real intention of buying anything unless it's really cheap, you know, a real bargain. The store is fairly empty of other shoppers, one or two of them perusing the wares on display. There are two female sales assistants. One of them is behind the counter, the other busily restocking a nearby rack. Now, the guy, remember him? Well, he mills around a bit, and in doing so passes the counter. The girl behind it gifts him a smile. The guy returns the gesture and walks on, his back now to the counter. The girl continues to follow him with her gaze. The guy knows this because he can feel her eyes on the back of his head, like delicate fingers running through his hair. Sure enough, as the guy rounds the edge of the shop and catches the girl in the edge of his view, she hands him another smile, before offering an unheard comment to her coworker. Now the coworker throws a quick look at the guy too. At that moment, someone approaches the counter to make a purchase and the attention of the two sales assistants in redirected. The guys leaves the store.
So, should the guy have waited around until the other shopper had made their purchase? Or was the sales assistant behind the counter just being generally friendly? S.H.

A Paper Clip

"Nothing more than a paper clip getting blown into it, that'd do it. The whole thing would blow."
Thanks for that, mate.
Some years ago, and it was that I sat on a scantly filled domestic aeroplane, on my way to Nashville, Tennessee. Seventies orange and brown. That's what sticks in my mind the most. An airline seating decor to trump all other airline seat decors. It felt more like a small town jazz lounge than a plane cabin. I spent the better part of an hour expecting to hear a trumpet whine into full voice at any moment.
The fount of wisdom introduced himself as Eric. This is, of course, after his initial words to me were "I could tell you stuff about jet engines that would scare you senseless." A jagged spike of lightening flashed across the faceless sky out of the window. The plane jolted like a bucking horse. Thanks, Eric. He goes on to tell me that he is an engineering student at the University of Tennessee. However, what he is doing on a plane to Nashville in the middle of the night I have no idea of. He winks at me from within his rounded southern exterior, the flaxen locks on his head like a chiselled concrete mould. More lightening jumps through the window and and onto my face. Eric smiles again.
A sudden memory of a Twilight Zone television episode muscles its way into my mind, predictably doing me no favours.
Eric is a nice enough guy, sure. He's dressed smartly. And he doesn't really push his nature onto me. But in a plane that has almost as many flight staff as it does passengers, I did start to wonder what dice roll of fate had sat the two of us right next to each other. S.H.

Missing Blog Post #1

Don't worry. It will be back soon. S.H.

Perception

Perception. I'm sure there are many more interesting items of note that could be discussed on this fine day, but on this fine day, I can't think of any.
Other people's perceptions of you are primarily what they use to judge you. Wether it is done in a nice way or a not so nice way it's still judgement. Although these perceptions can sometimes be accurate, they are far more often invariably not. The problem with people's perceptions is that they are quite usually ruled by stereotypes, second hand information and assumptions. And as Samuel L Jackson has taught any good boy or girl, we all know what happens when you make an assumption. And fifty sparkling points go to you if you can pick the film reference there. S.H.

Resume Dream Please

The grass was scattered with money. Hundreds and hundreds of notes. I joined my two cohorts, scrambling around on the ground to collect in as much cold hard cash as possible. A tiny wind was blowing, but nothing to take my mind off the prize that would await.
I became suddenly aware of helicopters wailing overhead, and within seconds the great metal birds had touched down on either side of me. I looked up and into the distance to see the burning red tail lights of my companion's Land Rover already disappearing over a far off hill. Bastards. They had run to save their own skins and left me alone to face the guns. Masked and machine gun swathed men all in black leapt down from the helicopters, their weapons pointed right at me. Thinking that it was their money I had been picking up, I threw my hands towards the sky.
"Don't shoot!" I said with cliche abandon. But shoot they did not.
"The pack!" one of the masked man yelled. I looked over at the army green backpack on the ground. "The jacket!" he yelled again. I looked over at the green bag once more. "A blue coated key in the left pocket," the man said, gun still pointed at me, his boots still not moving, "serial number 2 - 2 - 9." And with that, back into his helicopter he stepped and back into the new sky they soared. I looked over at the lonely backpack on the ground.
And then I woke up.
These are the final remnants of last night's dream. The overwhelming feeling that persisted in me was this: "wouldn't it be great to have a RESUME button in your dreams?"
I mean, I was pretty excited to see what happened next when I pulled that blue coated key out of the jacket pocket. And I was pretty pissed off to not have the opportunity to do so. It would be amazing to be able to drop back into sleep the next night after just such an occurrence, and then pick it all back up from where you left off from. I think I'd pay for one of those "RESUME" buttons. I really think I would. S.H.

When?

The Tempest is maddening. The rich salts have stung and continue to do their work. Is it that hard to find someone at least remotely like the mould that I have broken? Alas, this task is left to all of us in our own special way. The weary, the scuttled, the shaken. One for one is never too much to ask. S.H.

Girl at the Bus Stop

I remember the dead leaves the most. Hundreds of thousands of them, strewn all over the street. Puddles of leaves, small hillocks of the little bastards. All forgotten and blown away. They made the footpath somewhat more difficult to navigate along I will concede, but the faces of them were brilliant. A hundred shades of brown. Who'd have thought a colour like that could be so eloquent?
So, Leeds it was, and towards the city centre that I rambled. Earphones in ears and thoughts being thought. If it hadn't of been for the smile I would have missed her completely. I only turned just in time to see it. Black hair too. Indescribable black hair. She was waiting at the bus stop alone and I was walking past it alone. I returned it of course, the smile, with a feeble attempt of my own, but wether she took in its full meaning I will be eternally uncertain of. Five paces now separated us, then ten. By the fifteenth I turned my eyes back in the direction of the bus stop, only for them to be greeted by a large movie poster behind a perspex sheet. A pair of shoes and a pair of ankles were just visible below the poster, in the space between the bottom edge of the bus shelter wall and the uneven ground. Apart from the familiar black hair I remember only one other thing. She was nice. I knew she was nice, i just knew it.
"Go back," said my stomach.
"You can't now," my brain said back. S.H.

You're Not a Writer

Here's a little tip. You're not a writer unless someone's reading your shit, and you get paid for it. I wouldn't assume to be an expert on the subject, as I feel that no one should. But it really yanks my chain when those "oh so many" people out there think that just because they have a blog and enter a few short story competitions that they can call themselves a writer. By no means do I intend to discourage or criticise any aspiring writers, definitely not. But call yourself just that, an "aspiring" writer. You're not a writer. You aren't yet, bud. You just aren't. S.H.

The Symphony of Madness

The Symphony of Madness bothers me greatly. Not only are parental role models dwindling as parents seem to be deciding with more and more steady regularity that they are more important than their little ones, but because of this and the ready availability of digital media, kids have all too ready access to the Populars, who the children are forced to substitute as their secondary mentors. The problem with this is that the Populars are anything but role models. They facilitate and promote an image of human beings that is not only irresponsible, but for a vast number of the general population, unattainable. For the most part the Kings and Queens are oblivious. They serve only as the pretty puppets for the machine operators to twirl and preen, fully aware that the damage they are doing is not only far from innocent, but boarders on destructive and criminal. S.H.

Woody Allen in the Dark

I finally got around to seeing Toy Story 3 the other day, in the morning on a school day. There were eight people in the cinema in total - four adults and four kids (including myself). We were nearly outnumbered by those wily Pixar loving grown ups. The film was good but the 3D blew. I would have much rather watched it in the regular and accepted fashion. For what I got out of the 3D, it was taken away by the realisation that I looked like Woody Allen in a dark room for over ninety minutes. What is it with the current obsession with filming everything in 3D anyways? Come on, I'm not three years old, just show me the goddamn movie.
I didn't have any snacks durning the film because my pipework needed clearing and I wasn't daring enough to risk any premature urges to unclog said pipework as the only option was to partake in a little public convenience. Even though I hardly find it a convenient place to do anything, and especially when you have to cope with the lack of oxygen going to your brain during the whole experience as you've got your breath held in an effort to avoid the biological warfare that haunts those places. maybe the Ladies was better. I doubt it. S.H.

The Schizophrenic Shopper

So, as it was, whilst attempting to procure a little enlightenment via Keats in a supermarket parking lot, that I stumbled across the Schizophrenic Shopper. A middle aged lady of not abhorrent appearance, she talked away at regular pitch and volume, completely alone but for her apparent friends the grocery items. I couldn't tell if she was talking to herself or to the produce to be honest, but she did bust out phrases like "Oh, aren't you a large packet of toilet rolls," "you can't go there, you're not meant to go there" and my personal favourite "why do you do this to me?" Do what? Is she angry at the bananas for being a dollar a pound? It's not the air freshener's fault that it was buy one get one free.
I continued to get a few more minutes of this blissful observation until the nice lady got into her nice car and in her white Toyota straightjacket she drove away. S.H.

This Liquid Horizon

It occurs to me that under this liquid horizon that we so readily gulp down like it is the flowing juices of the Gods of the Populars that have so freely been crowned the Kings and Queens of a castle that never belonged to any of us in the traditional sense in the first place, that we not only risk leaving the sky dry for our children, but for the rest of anything as beautiful as they that could be left to be on this great place we call home. S.H.

A Wise Person

A wise person once said to me:
‘My favourite colour is pink.’
‘Why is your favourite colour pink?’ I asked.
‘Because it's pink,’ the wise person replied.
The lesson in all this? You should never have to explain why you like something that is pure. S.H.

Sowing

‘The hardest field to reap is the one we sow ourselves’. I just made that up, thought it sounded kind of ok. S.H.

Do Squirrels Eat Toast?

Do squirrels eat toast? Why yes, they do. Don’t believe me? Well, then I’ll tell you the story. The year was 2004 and I remember it as clearly as if it was only six or so years ago. I was taking a light stroll in a north London park, as was my want of that period in my life, and I came across a squirrel in possession of a full piece of white toasted bread.I guess it could have actually just been a discarded slice of stale bread that looked like toast because it was rigid, but it looked like toast to me. I looked at the squirrel, the squirrel looked at me. To be honest it was quite awkward, after all, he was in the middle of his breakfast. How would you react if a six foot tall squirrel walked into your kitchen as you where about to hoe into a whopping bowl of cereal?
Anyways, I looked at him and he looked at me, as if to say ‘got any jam, buddy?’ As it so happened, I didn’t, but he didn’t ask so dignity was retained by both parties. Any how, in answer to your question, do squirrels eat toast? Yes they do, and they love it. S.H.

Pop Music Is Killing the Hottest 100

Triple J’s Hottest 100 for 2010 was counted down and revealed on 26 January and once again I am left baffled as to the order of songs picked. In the last two or three years or so, Triple J seems to be being overrun by garish pop tunes and a suffocation of electronic acts.
Dully noted the trend of the moment is a more 80’s style sound, with a keyboard chucked in here and warbling lyric belted out there and a large majority of the high ranking songs on the list this year have followed this trend. Electro-garbage that is not good music but just great to dance to has invaded and is taking prisoners.
My problem is not with the trend but the fact that a well made tune like La Roux’s Bulletproof managed a tidy number 6 placing on this year’s list, but was far superior song compared with Parlez Vous Francais? by Art vs. Science which nabbed second place. Even Hip Hop gods Hilltop Hoods have not produced their best song to make it all the way to 3.
Of course the issue of fan base voting as always been present in the hottest 100 and a general poll is never going to please every one, but some of the positions of songs are on the edge of bewilderment.
Muse’s entry at 9 with Uprising, not a particularly good song by Muse standards, but given the amount of Muse fans around, its place would have been assured based solely on the fan’s voting for the song because it was made by Muse.
Lisztomania from Phoenix is a cute song, but that’s all it is, and to get in at number 4? Sheer madness, and the signs of a changing listener base amongst the Triple J faithful. The listeners are getting younger. Now, this by no means is a bad thing, but because Triple J is more and more classing itself as a new music station, these youngsters are growing up with a popular music driven mentality and are no longer sifting through boxes of old CD’s at the local record store, or raiding your older sisters record rack to form their own idea of musical taste and what they like.
Musical taste, if that is even an acceptable term, is now being seen as more of a fashion accessory by the kids of today, and musical taste is moving in packs, and individualism is dying the death.
Six of the songs in the top ten have no business being there. This not to say that they aren’t decent tracks, but they are definitely not amongst ten of the best that were released last year.
I suppose it is all empty words if I don’t put my money where my mouth is, so I’ll tell you which Six songs I think shouldn’t have been in the top ten, and the songs I think they should be replaced with.
Out: (in no particular order)
Art vs. Science - Parlez Vous Francais?
Phoenix – Lisztomania
Bluejuice - Broken Leg
Lily Allen - Not Fair
Muse – Uprising
Florence + the Machine - Dog Days Are Over
In: (in no particular order)
Metric – Help I’m Alive
Kasabian – Fire
Vampire Weekend – Cousins
Sarah Blasko – We Won’t Run
Paul Dempsy – Ramona Was a Waitress
Philadelphia Grand Jury - The Good News
Dissecting the whole list would be a waste of time, but I have come to expect that the top ten of the Hottest 100 contains the previous years best songs, and this year it clearly doesn’t. S.H.

Piano Rock

Here’s a little … something, that I just wrote, thought I’d share. Hope you enjoy.

Piano Rock … oh yes. Shaking and shattering keys tickled and tapped then rattled and hummed and pounded and pumped whilst rippling and chilling my skin. Profanities are spoken, windows are broken, chairs are thrown, minds are blown, feathers are ruffled, grumbles are muffled, people are offended and players are commended, attitudes are changed, the piano player is deranged. Piano rock, I love it so. S.H.