spencer truth

I suppose it makes a bit of difference to speak in turn, or out of turn, or whenever you're called for, or whenever one feels the need. Either to intervene or to punctuate, it's required of the inside eye that we speak, that we clear the air, make a point or pleasantly agree with a truth. Because if it's deemed necessary to alleviate the truth for truth's sake then so it should be, but no guaranteed understanding is to come of it, nor disagreement, and potentially disregard - which could be the case. But the lesson and the more general finesse of things doesn't lie there; it lies elsewhere above the mind and in the beholds of ethic, or conscience. There is truth but there are also gentle things that can be plated in a white lie, and be just as easily decoded and applied. What's important is that the message is there, presented in understanding light or naked darkness, in either case a tool for further future stepcases.

It's nice to be nice, I read recently.  But niceness is itself all wrapped up in a concept of plastic, fragmented to the everyday user as series of intuitive guesses. Does being nice not encompass also a certain element of meaningfulness, of truth of intention? Should it exist because we mean to, or because we have to? In either case I wait and watch. The real truth is called the Spencer truth, the one where it's known invariably that it is so after clarifying tonics. One hopes to be a tonic to one's own, but it becomes interesting and very much necessary to also be clear, concise, firm and direct. In summary: potent, but not toxic.

I hope (one can do more though) that the eggshells we tiptoe around are to disperse soon and already, that they lose their crunch of importance right in-between two sleep nights, dissipate with the brightening moonshine. Normalcy doesn't exist, but niceness is her distant cousin and very much fleshy, alive and functional.


egyptian slave

"She suffers like a miser. She must be miserly too with her pleasures. I wonder if sometimes she doesn't wish she could be free of this monotonous suffering, of these grumblings which start up again as soon as she stops singing, if she doesn't long to suffer once for all, to drown herself in despair. But in any case, that would be impossible for her: she is too set in her ways."

- Sartre, Nausea


tell me about magic!

I will.

It strikes me that there's a whole bunch of young kids wanting to talk about art (a generalising term for conversation about the creative) and discuss significances, but lacking the everyday vehicle, lacking, maybe, the confidence to engage in it. Intellectual discussions sound pretentious and carry a conflictual stigma. And despite the fact conflicts can be healthy, kids are scared shitless of it.
So no one reads anymore.
So knowledge is superficial.
So no one bothers trying.
And for the ones that do, and that find others in the same position who are willing to talk, it's like a Renaissance of ideas. It's like being in good old Athens watching Socrates standing in some dusty public-speaker stone, striking a pose as he engages the crowd. It's exciting. It's refreshing. It's an eye-opener. It's sad, to realize this. 


sleep walking

"Thank you for the cigarettes."
"You're welcome. Why did you come here for?"
I am growing paralytic with desire. 
"I forgot."
"I forgot the name of that band…" 
I can't do this.
"Which one?"
Her face was angular and emotionless.
I'm weak. I can never tell her.
"The one that sings-" and she broke into a failing chorus line, dara-doom doom, da-ra-da-doom…
"I'm trying to think…" he said.
I can't think. 
She looked in his direction. He retracted the little of face he had left from the light.

"I am so tired." she said.
Please don't be tired. I love you.
"I'm boring you."
"You're not boring me."
Her hand dropping by his side. 
"You could never bore me," she continued. Her voice weak. Her jaw tough. 
She has no idea.
"I better head off soon."
"I'm not kicking you out. You can stay for as long as you want."
She's being polite.
"It's late."
"You know me. I would tell you if I wanted you to leave."
The bias-cut statement, inviting duplicity.
I want to kiss you.
"Could I sleep here?"
She barely hesitated.
Straddle you against the floor. Your hair randomly tossed to the side.
"The guest room's empty. The bed's made I'm sure."
Of course.
"Sounds good to me," he replied, turning the frustration into measured enthusiasm.
"All right. I need to sleep. You know your way upstairs."
I do.
"I do."
"Goodnight then."


the apprentice (pilot season)

Why is the world so full of endless business transactions?

It's all bullshit and whoever is running it should be fired. 

Donald Trump: "What the heck do you think you're doing?"
God: "Sir, if you'll just let me explain…"
Trump: "You've been Project Manager for the past 2010 years. I'm frankly getting sick and tired of your style, Mr. Christ."
God: "Can I just say, in my defense sir, that Mr. Mankind has not been very cooperative. I gave him a specific task, and that was to quit sinning and start making some money…"
Trump: "Is he telling the truth, Mr. Mankind? You're shaking your head in the corner there."
Mankind (laughing): "Mr. Trump, Mr. Christ has been a very absent leader. He even had a nap on the seventh day."
Trump: "Is that true, Mr. Christ?"
God: "Sir, by the seventh day we were all done. There was nothing really to improve on. I mean, quite frankly, the site you gave me to construct on…"
Trump: "So you had a nap?"
God (reluctant): "Sir, I will stand by my words. There was no way to improve that place. I did everything within my power."
Trump: "Mr. Christ, you have let your team down once again. First it was the failure of jesus@prayers.com. Then it was the bankruptcy of your Church business. Now I find out you've been sleeping on the job."
Sir: "Mr. Trump, if I could just say, they all looked like great ideas at the time."
Trump: "Not to mention your attitude problem. I mean, quite frankly, Mr. Christ, from the moment you stepped into my office, I could tell you wanted people to worship you day and night. And why the hell do you speak in Italics? Do you think you're better than everyone?"
God: "Sir, I honestly never thought that things could get this out of hand. Obviously Mr. Mankind should take a share of the responsibility and at least some of the blame here, sir…"
Trump: "Mr. Christ?"
God: "…"
Trump: "You're fired. "
God: "…"
Trump: "You may leave the boardroom now."
God: "Sir, thank you so much for this opportunity. I've learnt so muc…"
Trump: "You're very welcome. Now get the hell out of here."



not a wanker

And in hindsight, he thought smartly,
Kisses are made of wet lips tasteful.
And that it would suffice in the evening shine
Made of butter glow and pay-to-see dime
To kiss the light that brought behind the curve of her slender,
Decrepit loving being, in its phase-crime.

And that to let it go was to give it liberty to explore,
I guess that's the word.
To incapacitate the wanting to awake with them
Was the most serene, most sound
Equivalent gentle man thing. 

mx would kill for this one

"Brisbane is full of weirdos."

- a weirdo onboard of the 175.

people in russia like my blog

That's what the stats tell me. Fear not, this isn't tumblr.

I am going through a reno around here. Because I'm a people-pleaser, more over-opinionated articles are on the menu. Less tears and general lonely gloominess.

I have a Mac Pro. I can do anything and you can't say a word, ha, poor you, you Toshiba PC-Vista operating computer. Still hurling around your dirty little LimeWire. Spending the night awake brewing viruses while biscuit crumbs accumulate on your virtual lap. Deleting all my files one by one. Disabling free anti-virus trials like a incognito ninja.

I'm just too overly excited about my new Monet desktop background to care.


the bedroom

So it is: beside
The bedside of your squinting nonsense
There is a small ripper
Tearing up the ether sea:
Fans are cycling in the dark
While the stark contrast
Of white walls reflect widely.

the thought

There is reason to believe
That all these capricious hearts
Wanting to approximate
Hope that the kingdom of solitude isn't theirs.
But I suspect
I am here as bare laminate,

the weather

Take it easy, cowboy
Crawl into the nook of my ear
As the capacity for the ever-clear
Is within near reach.
Allow the old command of the men
To unfurl in fine softness
Like shampooed hair on the pillow bed.

Just as it's possible to enjoy cool heat
Is that I prefer to just breathe
The simple venom.

Two arms around me would burn dry
All the rain kept dutifully.
See, months were spent
Looking in
Wondering why your weather lies
And why I feel so warm and thin.
Better yet is to cloud one fact
Then let the two find detailed things.

the bank

The drops
They trickle slowly if you may
A thousand dollars every day
For every single customer.