Night of the Big Game Hunters

I think I'm going to die today.

I can feel it in my bones. Some sort of great recollection of previous events, or perhaps the knowledge of the future really does reside in all of us and we just choose to forget to save our sanity. I can hear the words of the chemicals in my brain saying 'He is coming...he is coming...he is coming'. The thoughts frighten me because they are not my own.

Something large and dark is coming to kill me. Perhaps even take feast of my humble flesh, crack open my skull and partake of my brain, as a cannibal might to gain the knowledge of their fallen ancestor. It knows who I am, what I am, and I've begun to feel the tremors, not only of the earth and the air, but of the spirit as it comes closer and closer.

Even nature, whatever can be considered nature in an urban jungle such as New York City, is conspiring to drive what little grasp I have on sanity away from me. There are shadows dancing across the buildings like little goblins, harbingers of things to come. There are no stars in the sky that I can see, but there are no clouds to obscure them, simply a black sheet of canvas come to drape over me when the hunter comes to capture its prey. The moon stands in the sky though, like a spotlight, pointing its direction to me. But it's not the usual bright yellow moon, the happy moon seen by travellers to illuminate their journeys; it's the blood moon, the red moon of death. Smells of carrion and waste leap up the buildings toward me, even this I cannot simply attribute to the wasteful nature of the human inhabitants of the city, because of the sheer repugnance of the odours. It's not a smell of human waste, but more of faecal waste of things not human or the decaying flesh of some night creature. With this I realise that I've not been running away from the creature as I had planned, it had been quarrelling me to its lair.

The sounds below picked up, the honking of the horns of the cars below, distorted, elongated into a dirge procession march heralding the coming of the hunter. He was here. My life would be taken back shortly.

He stood in all his glory, a black matter of decaying flesh and teeth. The demon behind the face and ghost. This was my god, come to take me back.
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This short story has actually seen a few different incarnations. I originally wrote it back in either '97 or '98 after being inspired by Clice Barker's Books of Blood, but ended up rewriting part of it in February and again in September of 2000, when I incorporated it into part of an i bent my wookie! column at Comic Book Galaxy. I don't consider it to be particularly good, and it's incredibly short, but it's something that was readily available when I set out to put up this site and the "appearance" of content is better than no content.

Has this ever happened to you?

You're riding on a bus. Yes, a bus. It's a crowded bus because a course in the afternoon just ended and everybody is of course going home. You're sitting down in one of the seats, and then a woman decides to sit on you. Now, you know this woman, she's in your Psychology class. You're not exactly friends, but you do know each other and have had conversation. What is the social norm when a woman decides to use you as a seat on a crowded bus?

And on the furred day, dog said...

..."woof".

He is a dog after all. What did you expect him to say, 'Hello and welcome to Planet Earth, this is the voice of dog, and I'll be your captain for the remainder of your existence. If you'll note that one tree right there with those apples on it, you'll also see the sign saying 'Do not eat of this tree'. That's not there because I want you to eat of the tree, it's there because I don't want you to eat things off of it. Is that clear? Also, be sure to do whatever you want in this garden of pleasure, but mind the poises, that's where I bury my bones for later, and also the bre'er patch, that's where I does my business.'? Sheesh, people thinking about talking dogs creating universe.

What will they think of next? Fabric softener?

Okay, sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake, and sometimes my posts are nowhere near being on topic, but...

...I just realised that Manson's new 'symbol' thingy that he's got 'tattooed' on his forehead is the symbol for Mercury. So, what is he doing now, he thinks he's a planet? Or maybe he's finally given in to the delusion that he's a god?

Something about a monkey, an elephant, and the right for men to wear women's underwear in public

Well, it took me awhile to gather my thoughts on this one, but well, you can only think so hard after writing a religious studies exam. Anyway, today I was touched by many a person, not only people that I know, but some strange women who just had the urge to feel me. I know, that sounds very very odd now doesn't it? You're sitting there saying to yourself 'why the hell would people actually *WANT* to touch him for chrissakes?' I know that that's exactly what you're saying since I perfected that telepathy through a wire thing, but that's something else entirely. Anyway, back to the point, I suppose the reason that many people were touching me was because of what I wore today, and am still wearing in case anyone with sick perversions was wondering. I had one of my 'look like I actually have money' days and wore black suede shoes, black cords, a blue silk shirt and a black velvet (yes, I wear velvet, anybody who has problems with that can go fuck themselves) jacket. I wore the jacket because it was actually pretty warm today and I hadn't had a chance to wear it yet, since I only got it about a week ago. So, all day people were rubbing my jacket, saying how nice it is, and strangely enough some were feeling my pants and my shoes. What might be stranger is that I actually let them, but anyhow...what makes people want to touch other people? Especially when they don't know who that other person is? Or does everyone just like rubbing their hands on velvet?

A Prologue (of sorts)

Upon the shores of eternity, I found myself. It was an interesting predicament, me not knowing completely where I was and happening upon myself. It makes one wonder whether dopplegangers exist, since I was faced with my own.

He opened his mouth and spoke: "You have come, child."

To which I replied, "Where?"

"The beginning and the end of a journey, my child. Look."

As he pointed me out toward the cosmos, suddenly I saw pictures of my life. Visions of me at dawn, asking questions of my mother and enjoying the innocence of youth. Then of me in the afternoon, raising my only family and the joy that comes with being called 'father'. Finally, I saw myself at dusk, lying in a hospital bed surrounded by the faces touched by time.

Then I saw my death.

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.

"I am only showing you what you want to see," he replied, "and what you need to see."

"What I need to see? I don't get it."

"You will."

This being cryptic was getting on my nerves, but I figured that if I knew something that I didn't I'd purposely withhold it from myself if I wanted me to find it out by myself.

"You are entering a time of change," he said. "Go forth through the gates of horn and ivory and see."

I followed his instructions and went through...

...that life is but a dream and we are just an imagination of ourselves...

I've been reading Borges again, and working on a philosophy essay (on Plato's theories of forms and such), and eating some monkey flesh, and this got me to thinking, (well, not that hard, but you know), about reality and other such stuff. I was thinking about how language influences our perception of reality (the Inuit have several hundred words for saying 'snow'), but that's not my main point. This entire year has been somewhat illusory, as though I'm not really learning or doing anything, as if I'm walking through a dream. I'd be more coherent if I didn't write a math test last night (at 7:30 at night damnit!) and I'm still somewhat shell-shocked, plus the philosophy essay I'm working on (as previously mentioned), and a sociology paper ( the proposal is due sometime before December, I should really bother into finding out, oh, and choosing a topic, narrowing it down to a thesis and so on and so forth, that I can present in a week or two or something like that.) Anyway, if you really want to be confused out of your head, I strongly suggest reading Borges' The Circular Ruins, and Tlon, Uqbar, Orbius Tertius, and The Immortal. Real illusory, thought provoking stuff, just take my word for it at this point I'll say something more when I can produce coherent sentences, although if you really want to be confused try Borges in Spanish, it loses and gains something in English that is somewhat clearer in Spanish. I think I might just go on to bed right now, good night.

A Brief Discourse on Rational Though

Before I begin my little rant, I'd like to say that I miss new wave, I miss 80's synth pop, I miss true prog rock and art rock, and I want it back. Much as I like the new releases by Jethro Tull, King Crimson, and Yes, the sheer fact that they were so hard to fucking find just irks me. Maybe it was just my own fault for going to major corporation franchises in order to get them, I mean, the pimply-faced kid at HMV looked at me like I was from some other planet when I asked for Cirkus.

erg...

Anyway, let me get on with it, I picked up Genesis' Turn it On Again, and it sparked this entire backlash against the music industry as it stands now. As much as I like what currently gets passed off as Adult Contemporary , it's just downright boring at best and just the same old crap being played on other stations set to slower, more 'ambient' music at worst. I mean how many fucking hours of rotation do Britney Spears and Ricky Martin actually get, if I have to listen to Livin' La Vida Loca one more time on Classic Rock and Modern Rock stations I think you're going to see a big article on your newspaper's front page about the mad little Canadian who brought the country's entire media operations to a halt and killed millions (and therefore a sizeable chunk of our population since we only have 30 mill. people). I know this have been hashed and rehashed before, but what happened to good song-writing?

In truth we've got lots of straight-ahead rock to choose from right now (Live, Creed, the Foos, and so on and so forth) and here in Canada rock never really went away considering that we're stuck in music about 20 years ago, (hell there's worse stuff we could be stuck in) which is again straight-ahead rock (Tragically Hip, Tea Party, Matthew Good Band, and just about anything Canadian playing on an Alternative station go to http://www.edge102.com/ there should be a link to see what's broadcasting *right now*). Anyway, rock is what I'm worried about anymore, if I ever really was, it's everything at the edges, it's the synth pop, it's the glam rock, it's the prog rock, it's the metal for christsake, in other words it's diversity. Where did all the choice go? For me, what do I get to choose from today? Various forms of rap and rap-metal and 'pop' (I use that as the industry uses it today as 'popular') music are the current flavours that everyone's going ape-shit over, and the much neglected rock medium (although it's better than nothing).

Beyond that I have to listen to all of my old albums and the 'greatest hits' packages that they come out with every five years or so. erg...

As I said before, I miss new wave, I miss 80's synth pop, I miss prog and art rock, and I want it back, but what's my opinion worth in the grand corporate scheme of things? Dick all. Maybe I should trade in all of my Peter Gabriel, Phil Collins, and Genesis CDs for all the clothes in the Gap, a few of the current 'flavour' of music, and a bar code across my forehead? Aw shit, who am I kidding, I think I'm just going to go sulk somewhere bathing in the warm glow of Ian Anderson's voice.

Shake Your Bon Bon

Hey, being a sheep can be fun and enjoyable too. I know that there's a little menudo waiting to suck you off and help you spend you money. It's sitting right there on the back of your shoulder, I swear, I can see him sitting there right now. So, come on people give in to the inane Latin beats, the swaying of scantily clad women to that marimba beat, and that little cutey that lets us call him Ricky. Aw, ain't he cute. Come on people, why do we want to be little gloomy gusses with our intelligently written quasi-metal rock when we can move to rhythm of well-thought out prefabricated muzak designed specifically to appeal to everybody? Get up now and get into your leather pants and halter tops (you too guys) and get on down to your local club for the latest dose of Ricky (aw, ain't he cute).

They left him broken...

...they left him broken, writhing in pain, and bleeding from the anus.

You will understand shortly as to why this title works on many levels. You see, today I was faced with the scourge of all of Western Civilisation. Namely...the All Beef Chilli Dog made by Piller's on Mac Campus. They sit there and taunt you, 'hey you! yeah, you with the glasses and the dancing hair! come here! you know that you want me. you want to eat me, you know that you do. come here. be persuaded by the power of the kidney bean.' and then they have you, you're shelling out your hard earned money for that little bit of temptation. The Chilli Dog is truly the spawn of Satan, but it tastes soooooo scrump-diddly-umptuous.

Not only do you pay for it when you buy it, you also pay for it a few hours later, leaving you writhing in pain. Also, the damn thing cost $7.50 plus tax (although it did include a 600 mL Coke), which brings me to wonder how exactly all the Residence students are supposed to subsist on 15 dollars a day? erg....

These Precious Things

It has been a week of listening to nothing but The Fragile and to venus and back, and I must say that it has been like '94 all over again. Now only to wait for Hours... to come out on the 5th of October. I'm in a complete state of bliss, zoned out from the rest of the world. Please forgive me tomorrow if I'm even less coherent than I am usually.