So much for blogging. No point anyway.
Listen to this, whoever you are:

As promised, here are some pictures of the mask I made for my mate's masquerade party.

Complete with suit and crazy hair:

And some weird posing:


I was pretty happy with it. It's fun to dress up.
Anyway I guess I'd better do some work for uni. Who would've thought studying a robot could be this boring?

Woo.

"Do you think I was only gaoled? I wished to cry out as she turned to leave & rapped thrice on the door for Pobjoy to come & open – for I too was the gaoler. Do you think to keep my own hide unflogged I never lied? Never stole off a mate? I have a weakness for blue gin, old women, white rum, young girls, porter, pisco, human company & the Commandant’s laudanum. I have a great fear of pain. I am beyond shame. Do you think I never informed on a mate? I was both cobber & dobber, I liked them & wept for them when they were flogged on my false information. I survived. It was bad & wrong & it may as well be the cat-o’-nine-tails stripping bark off their backs when I traded souls for some scraps of food or paint. I gave away all I needed. I was a vile piece of cell-shit. I smelt the breath of my fellows. I tasted the sour stench of their rotten lives. I was the stinking cockroach. I was the filthy lice that didn’t stop itching. I was Australia. I was dying before I was born. I was a rat eating its young. I was Mary Magdalene. I was Jesus. I was sinner. I was saint. I was flesh & flesh’s appetite & flesh’s union & death & love were all equally rank & all equally beautiful in my eyes. I cradled their broken bodies dying. I kissed their suppurating boils. I washed their skinny shanks filled with ulcers, rotting craters of pus; I was that pus & I was spirit & I was God & I was untranslatable & unknowable even to myself. How I hated myself for it. How I wished to essay the universe I loved which was me also & how I wanted to know why it was that in my dreams I flew through oceans & why when I awoke I was the earth smelling of freshly turned peat. No man could answer me my angry lamentations nor could they hear my jokes why I had to suffer this life. I was God & I was pus & whatever was me was You & You were Holy, Your feet, Your bowels, Your mound, Your armpits, Your smell & Your sound & taste, Your fallen Beauty, I was Divine in Your image & I was You & I was no longer long for this grand earth & why is it no words would tell how I was so much hurting aching bidding farewell?”

Richard Flannagan – Gould’s Book of Fish (A Novel in Twelve Fish) 2001

I'm working on a mask for a mate's masquerade themed 21st party. It's going to be pretty bizarre. So far it's a black Venetian beak mask with an almost gas mask effect on the eyes. There will be several red screws sticking out of it in all directions. Possibly red feathers and sequins. My goal is creepy. It already looks pretty interesting.
I'll put up some photos after the party this Saturday of me in my complete outfit.
Should be fun.
Meantime, weed, spaghetti bolognese and probably several episodes of Would I Lie To You? and Man vs Wild. Assignments can wait.
Much love.

Back in the world of SG.
Woot.

Harro chief.
Ret's talk, why not?
My engineering project has made the finals at UWA. Basically we make little robot things transport rice from one platform to a higher one.
We did a shit job.
Evidently, most other people did shittier jobs.
Drinking some Famous Grousse in my coffee.
Gonna go move some rice around soon, then on to End of Semester Show.
Meanwhile, reminiscence of the old Slipknot days. Paul Gray was the business, esp on MFKR.
Do nothing.
Bitchslap.
Peace.

Just got the net again after a few months without. Was probably never going to be consistent with a blog anyway.
I've started drawing again. Will upload a few more pictures.
Much love.

Hey again. Summarising what happened last weekend...

Friday:
Saw The Butterfly Effect and Dead Letter Circus play a fantastic show, drank a lot of beer, usually one in each hand. It was awesome. TBE covered Reckless by Australian Crawl and it rocked my shit. Then I chatted to the bassist from Calling All Cars who had done a few lines and was tripping balls, managed to get a shirt and an EP for $5.
Went to The Shed and had one of those extremely intense very sexual, but not, moments with a girl who looks like Cobie Smulders or Robin from How I Met Your Mother. Then she said a lot of things I couldn't hear, looked apologetic, walked off, danced with who I presume is her boyfriend. Awesome.

Saturday:
Cut my thumb open while sadistically stabbing a penis-candle from a mate's birthday cake. Drank more beer, took party bus to Northbridge, drank a shitload of these Soju vodka shooters for $5 each ( ), karaoke'd the shit out of Paranoid Android, drank some Long Island Ice Teas, staggered around Northbridge, got a train home, smoked a few joints with some friends, watched a Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds DVD, slept for about 18 hours.
//

Was a good weekend.

Yesterday:
Finally some good weather, so I sat out on the parkbench that lives on my front yard, drinking beers and smoking joints all afternoon with Hapi87. We later pretended to be dinosaurs. Found out our drummer has left the band, she's not feeling it anymore. I was thoroughly nut-kicked by that.

Today:
Enjoyed about 5 hours of public transport enforced waiting around, took a driving lesson, came home, read on the beach instead of watching porn for a change. Raped by catharsis.

Cheers and adieu.

Figured I might as well start a blog even though maybe 1.5 people on average will read it.

This morning:
Took my... seventh(?) driving lesson and did a terrible job. FML. Read some more of John Fowles' "The Magus" - this is incredible, mind blowing stuff. Got home and was overwhelmed with an empty lethargy. A sort of "I can't be fucked doing anything, my life is bland and unexciting" feeling, you know how it is. Would light up and listen to Failure but have no green.

Tonight:
The Butterfly Effect are playing at Metro City. Dead Letter Circus supporting. Fuck yes, this will be intense. If you don't know either of these bands, it's probably because you're not Australian or are, but don't listen to Triple J. Check them out immediately.

Tomorrow:
Friend Tina's 20th birthday party- predrinks at hers then a bus is taking us to a karaoke bar in the city. Never karaoke-ed before, but plan to attempt one or two songs. Won't get too drunk like the last two times I tried to go out. Maybe singing in a drunken party context will help me sing in front of people in an amateur musician context.

Exciting shit huh? Stay tuned for the resolution.

In the meantime, here's a sneak preview of tonight's awesomeness:
Dead Letter Circus on MySpace
(They have an amazing bassist, wicked technique)
And TBE with Crave:


Enjoy.

What's a blog?
...
Here's some words I wrote one time:

Egg.

"The serpents are hungry," or so thought the starving physician in his humble cellar, walls spastically stained with the splashes of ethanol he once doused himself in for no reason more than to evade the fetid tentacles of the tedium that had recently become his life. He was suffocating in the pit of rancid waste and slurry which he regretted to call his existance, so much so that he had totally lost interest in his perverse little experiments. One of which was precariously leaning upside-down against the south-east corner of the physician's cell. A fleeting glance toward it reminded him that he should dispose of its remains, lest the serpents become irate. Presently, the physician - let's name him the Hyperion for the sake of clarity - lifted his discarded plaything by its crooked left ankle and dragged it sluggishly toward the opposite, north-west corner of the dank tomb which encased his entity. There, he pulled a rusted iron lever which revealed a chute, opening in the wall to his left, into which he heaved the mangled remnants. Moments later, the chute closed automatically. The Hyperion stepped away from the corner, ignoring the sounds of the grinding buzz-saws and disposal-machinery inexplicably concealed beneath the damp, muddy ground as they separated flesh from bone, driving meat-pulp into the storage chambers buried underfoot, where countless ophidians surely awaited a meal. Though this was not even close to ample.

The Hyperion was not amused. He approached the mildewy iron ladder bolted into the bricks of the eastern wall. Climbing to the top, slowly and in sporadic spasmic twitches of muscle convulsions, he glared in disgust down upon his home, nay prison. It wasn't his choice to live there. It wasn't his choice that he would someday die there. It was just how things had come to be. As he reached the ceiling, he forced the heavy stone trapdoor up and hoisted his feeble, sweaty body through the manhole. As always, the Hyperion was indifferent to the detailless white scenery of the surface of this foreign world above his cell. From a detached perspective it would appear as though he stood atop a white sphere, hurtling through an empty grey universe. This was all that the Hyperion had ever known. This was all he had needed.

He meandered as if guided by some hidden beacon through the empty scenery until he reached his destination, a completely unmarked area, in no way distinct from anywhere else on the small orb. The Hyperion started scratching with his fingernails at the smooth, white floor. He then peeled a translucent layer of film from the ground, under which lay a somewhat gelatinous white substance. The Hyperion began digging into this floor until a runny xanthous liquid oozed forth from the ground at a depth of roughly 1.33 metres. He then thrust his forearm into the liquid and reached for something frantically. After some struggle, his grip closed around a thin, boney limb. Instantly he then tore this appendage forth from the yokes that entrapped it within the ground. Connected to this frail limb was an equally frail torso. That of a bald, deformed, malnourished young hen, around the size of the Hyperion but much thinner. Its beak short and crooked, its eyes blind and grey. The decrepid creature's wings were mere skeletal hooks covered in a thin layer of pale, coarse flesh. The Hyperion kicked the chicken in its shin before it had time to rise to its pathetic feet. Then he proceeded to drag the sorry bird by its left wing back towards his cellar.

Upon reaching his dominion, the Hyperion violently thrust the frail beast down the manhole and followed suit. Withdrawing a vial of colourless liquid, he grimmaced slightly. After drinking the entire contents of the vial, he sat on the dank floor, his operating gown sullied by the filth within which he permanently dwelled. The Hyperion presently grasped a scalpel in his left hand and fingered it nervously. This was to be his final task. He wanted it to be a success.

As the physician approached the cowering mass of boney joints, talons and beak huddled in the corner a faint stroke of genius overrode his internal operating system. He recalled his countless previous experiments, as indeed they were all he could recall, and the underlying futility of his operations. Instead of attempting to improve this specimen by "fixing" it in his callous manner of massochistically disrupting its life processes, he would, for the first time, allow it to live and monitor its behaviours. At least, for the time being.

And it was such that the chicken-beast stayed in the physician's cellar. It, however did not move from the corner. Frightened, cold and blind, it was unable to trust this new environment. Never before had it experienced anything beyond the warm, tender embrace of the sphere's nurturing whomb. Yet here it was, so close to its birth place beneath the surface, trapped in a lonely stone cellar with a psychopathic surgeon. Cold and broken, it could not move, nor did it desire to. In the blank emptiness of this invisible, blind prison, the chicken slowly lay itself to rest.

The Hyperion, after patiently waiting for several weeks and being dismayed by the lack of progress decided to instigate an investigation into the problem. The chicken-thing had not moved in the last 13 days and he began to detect a malodourous new scent. He simply could not accept another failure. His sole purpose in existance was to operate, and success was the only option. Yet he had ultimatley failed with all of his prior attempts. Feeling the few remaining ties that bonded his mind to sanity slowly dissipating, he twitched slightly and advanced upon his patient. After kicking it a few times, he deduced that the bird had stopped like all of his previous experiments. He then fell to his knees at the avian cadaver. Confused and desperate, he shook the cold, lifeless mass of flesh until he collapsed upon its remains. Weeping, he embraced the bird. What could have gone wrong? He didn't even use his surgical tools and the beast had stopped. It was an inconceivable situation. The Hyperion wept and wailed. His final test subject had failed. No, he had failed.

There was nothing left to do but dispose of the body. It was a waste to leave it in tact. The serpents were hungry and they had to be fed. Disposal was not only necessary, but somewhat appealing, for the first time. There was nothing left to do, nor ought left to be done for. So that was exactly what he did. Pulling the cold lever one last time, the Hyperion toppled into the chute and within moments, the machinery began its churning monotone. For the first time he felt. Something stimulated a response in his nerves. For the first time. Something was happening. For the first time, he was happy. And then he was cold and empty like the cellar from whence he was birthed. But it was of no consequence, for he was now fodder to the serpents. And they needed to be fed.



Sprayed from the bowels of Ben Roberts.