In The Land of The Seeing

Is a wonderful nothing.

Written by Tim on 10:59 AM

Am I the wonderful nothing.
born and bred,
a liar.
a thief.
a rapist.
Am I the wonderful nothing.
fed and fuel'd,
a pain.
a hurt.
a disease.
Am I the wonderful nothing.
brok'n and beat'n,
a tisket.
a tasket.
a lonely casket.

Fuzzy Blobs

Written by Tim on 9:34 AM

Sometimes it comes down to a point in one's life where you don't remember where or how or why you're going to a certain place, or what exactly was so special about it in the first place. Also at this time you'll forget where you've been, how you got there in the first place, and also what it was about this place that was so special that made the former instantiation of you so desparately want to get there. The lights surrounding you look vaguely like black blood splotches and you can't recognize anyone's features. It is at this momment that you close your eyes, start screaming at the top of your lungs, and begin drinking heavily. This is, and above all things will always be, the only truth I've learned.

Everything I say is a calculated fabrication of the truth.

The End.

Bad Fiction

Written by Tim on 5:22 PM

The Trickster.

The room is like a sealed box floating on an endless ocean. Not much matters on the outside of the box. The world that is, is the ocean. The inside of the room is the box. There's a door that leads to the cold harsh reality of the world. But not that that matters, leaving the box is certain death, and what lies beyond the door is utter madness. We've been in here for quite some time, this box room, its white walls shrinking around us, the rain pattering on the glass windows. A second ago there was boisterous laughter, my companion and I engrossed in conversation. We were chums he and I, mates on this ironclad boat protected from the waters. But now entered someone different, someone new. Opening the door and walking through as if it was nothing. He was a man of few words, though many ideas. I was cold, it was cold, or so my companion had told me early, and acting accordingly I had wrapped a warm afghan around my shoulders. But the chill I had previously recognized had gone when this new man entered the room, and I remember asking him, "Is it cold?" He had answered no, he said that it was very warm out, and looked confused at my attire. It was warm. My companion, who only a few seconds ago was trustworthy unto death, had lied to me. He had mocked and taunted me, I thought. I should now place the trust into this new man, a stone sober man of few words, and many ideas. He enraptured me with stories of indigenous malcontents, and orgiastic bestiality. His philosophy intrigued me, no matter how curt or concise he might have been. I began casting sidelong glances at my once chum, my former companion, silent now cowering in the corner of the room. He had not said one word to the new man, when it several things dawned on me at once. At first I realized that the new man was bundled up in various frocks and furs, heating himself on our fire. Second I realize he had taken my wool blanket and was using it as a pillow. And at once I felt utterly chilled to my soul again. I snatched the afghan back and shouted, "Prince of Lies!, is there no one to trust now?" I threw the blanket over my head and wondered now, whose hands was I to place my life into, whom could I call friend? Certainly not this Prince of Lies, with his vague ideas and his quick talk. Certainly not my old companion, who must certainly see me now as a traitor and a simpleton, eating up this Prince's falsehoods. He would betray me in spite. The seawater was leaking into the box, and once more steps shuffled down the corridor from the door. And so entered my fear, a trickster of worse proportions. A jester with glued on faces and a facsimile smile, one of which there was no trust or belief. But there was nothing to say, he could be of value to me for he was new, and I knew him not yet to be a Liar or a vengeful soul. I asked the trickster, "Is it cold on the outside?” but he did not respond. Or, he did not respond with speech but with capery and slight of hand. And now I was astounded by this Minstrel's dexterity and deftness. He plucked the raindrops from the windowpane and juggled them with his eyelashes. He contorted his body to make the signs of the zodiac. But he did not talk. My former companion, still sitting in the corner, watched this jester with a wide grin. He was bemused and excited with this new stimulus, and I imagined that he hoped it would never end. The Prince distractedly watched this action, but was more concerned with tending the fire and keeping himself warm. I caught a sneer on the Prince's lips, and a mock in his eye. I feared the Trickster would take offense to this, and that he would stop his merrymaking and go to blows with the Prince. But the heckling did not faze him, and the Jester continued to alight the room with his pratfalls and cutups. I thought, with such skill and grace this Trickster must be a god in a world of ants on the outside of the box. And we on the inside must look even more pathetic and wretched to him. I continued to put on a wonderstruck facade though, as to not alert his attention to my new revelation. What if I were to anger him, and he were to strike us down with terror and malevolence, changing his shtick for blood feasting, defiling our sense and defecating on our corpses. I could not let on to this Trickster God. Why had he come here? Why had the Prince come here? To step away from the wary world for a while? To trade tales and tricks for the warmth of our hearth? Nay they had come to feast on our souls. My companion was none the wiser, he had partaken in strong drink to warm himself further, and childlike gazed at the Trickster God, while the Prince of Lies spewed the shite of the dead into our room. I gagged at the stank of his language, and clapped my ears shut with my hands, screaming to drown out the ever increasing noise of his lies. The Trickster now spun around dervishley, his chicanery building to such great a passion it blinded my once companion and friend, who's hand now cut across his belly, spilling forth his own bowels in an effort to free himself from the pain of being a man. The God and the Prince now stopped their task and began feasting on his innards, while my dying friend's grin widened further and further, filling up his entire head. His face mushroomed and ballooned to a freakish dimension, cracking the ceiling in walls. My hands still clasped over my ears I wailed and moaned, vomited at the stank of the shit and bile and blood. The four humours splashing on my leg. I collapsed finally to my knees in a corner, and saw now the God and the Prince, once human men, now bloated animals with wings. Their goat legs covered in brittle black hairs, their torsos fat and disproportioned, scaly with the flesh of fish. Their many arms were all wrong, jutting from improper places and jointed and sickening angles. They had no heads yet some how continued to feast the rotting flesh of my no longer smiling companion, his head had deflated to a wrinkled prune, and the grin was replaced with a Mongoloidian gape. I saw as they stuffed the rest of him down into themselves, through unseen maws. As I now lay, eye-widened, chewing down on my tongue, blood trickling from my cracked lips, the damnedable sons of Cain began to fornicate. Baying like pigs and killing each other in the process, spraying blood and indeterminable juices all about the former white walls and all over my face, the feasted on each other in horrible pleasure, their engorged organs penetrating orifices that had not once existed. The bizarre inhuman sexual frenzy became sour and slow as they began to lose whatever vital fluids or functions they had needed to exist, their intertwined figures, I now unable to determine which parts belonged to which body or where the bodies where separate at all, these figures now collapsing in a colossal thud down next to where I lay. My breathing was deep and I coughed blood uncontrollably, the afghan tossed now over my head, protecting me from whatever lay beyond its veil.

birthday story.

Written by Tim on 11:23 PM

story time
once upon a time
like so many stories begin
once upon a time
to signify that it is not the present
but a long time ago
before computers and condoms and email
there was a boy named Christof
Christof lived with his two younger sisters, his father, and his evil step mother
now
right now you realize two things
Christof is our hero, he will encounter magical things, because this is clearly a fairytale, what with beginning it, once upon a time and he suffers, because he has an evil step mother
EVIL
step mother
it's never just his step mother, always EVIL step mother
that's key
it's not his natural birth mother because his genetic mother could not be evil
no, she would be kind and caring
it associates with children how they always feel that maybe there parents, who are figures of authority, and therefore punishment, are not their real parents. Their real parents would never treat them badly
they would never hurt them or make them do work
they are kind folk
loving and nurturing
but I digress
Christof had a bitch of a step mother
she fucking beats him with a hickory switch
and sure as shit doesn't let him listen to the Black Mages on full blast
he has to sleep in the garage
with the mules
and by mule I mean F150
by the way this is a modern fairy tale
like Cinderfella or The Passion of the Christ
One day Christof is weeding the garden, you know, planting gardenias and shrubbery
and his big-titted step mom (why else would the dad marry her) is sitting in a lawn chair tanning, sipping on a bloody mary or some kind of yuppie cocktail
and screaming the fuck at him
so he takes the planting bulbs he has in his hand, and wouldn't you know, a magic fairy bursts out of it, and tells him to yell the word Sluberdegoleon at his step mother, and she will turn in a magic muscle car which will drive him to sunny San Diego
and he yells SLUBERDEGOLEON!
and his mother turns into a goddamn mustang
well he asks the fairy
Who the hell are you.
and the fairy says
my name is Rickenshaw
I come form the land of Hawaii
if you "dance" with me, I will turn into a beautiful princess
now here dance means have sex with, but this is for the kids, so we'll just say dance
so he dances the bejesus out of her
and she turns into a beautiful princess
now they both get into the hot pink mustang that just happened to be there and it just drives them to the land of San Diego
all the time they dance together in the back seat
Steppenwolf plays on the stereo 24/7
they have all kinds of adventures on their trip to San Diego
he "slays" a dragon with his magic "sword"
(for slays see the note about dance)
it turns into another beautiful princess
but he brings her back to her father the King of Kansas City for a whole bunch of gold
like
more than a hundred monkeys can carry
the hundred monkeys follow him on his journey, and when he has to fight the three headed ogre to get to enter the City of San Diego, the monkeys fight the battle for him and win
but right now he's in Reno
"dancing" with a bunch of "princesses"
the overt sexual undertones of fairytales serve to teach children about the changes they undergo in maturing into adults, but this isn't a fucking college course so I won't really bore you with that
they get to San Diego
fight a giant ogre
has three fucking heads, swear to god
the people are so happy that he defeated the ogre (you guessed it, turned into another princess that he had to dance with) they make him king of San Diego and proclaim the Princess Rickenshaw their queen
meanwhile he faxes his dad and two sisters that he's a goddamn king
they come and meet him and the sisters become princesses and marry some other kings of awesome places
the Kingdom of Hawaii is also theirs so hang ten dude
awesome
FRICKING AWESOME, he yells
he throws this big ass party
of like 100 kingdoms, because he's now in charge of them, what with marrying into a bunch of wealth and pimping out his sisters to some others johns
and the party lasts for one hundred thousand days
and he is proclaimed the greatest dancer of all
the end
That's how you tell a story

Birthday Present

Written by Tim on 8:27 PM

Early b-day present from my favorite and favourite cousin Lauren. You should all thank her for being so awesome. This nalgene (gourd if you're a Canadian) has radically changed my life. It must be the naloprene or something but water and applejuice (not together) taste sooooo much better coming out of this.

Michael: Yeah, great talk. That cousin of yours is a hell of a girl. It’s too bad you can’t date her.

George Michael: No, I meant... Wait, you wouldn’t have a problem with that?

Ping Island Lightning Strike

Written by Tim on 5:59 PM

Hipsters rejoice! Adidas apparently has put together first test mock-up prototypes for the Team Zissou trainer.

Three Pic-uh-tures of George Warshington

Written by Tim on 8:44 PM

I got my personal icon from LJ blogger Pessmistchick, she does good work. I found a bunch off her, and will probably rotate them until I find a picture of myself I like, or start gimping my own together.

My Friend Flickr

Written by Tim on 6:49 PM

Sibilance, Sibilance

Written by Tim on 4:14 PM

Decided to make a 2nd blog, just because of the titles. Yeah I'm neat like that. Gonna keep a separate travel/trying to travel blog and a regular, personal rants/doodles/pictures/words blog. By the time I'm in Japan though I suspect they'll be rather similar. This post is generally just to get everything up so I can fool around with templates and what not.