The breath of ghosts

Wow. No blog entry for just over two months.

I'm writing from work, currently. There's a long explanation, but for now, my offline-ness is a neccesary evil I need to endure.

I promise, though, as I have been doing for a fair while, that once things clear up, I'll have, well...I'll have quite the story to tell.

Time's closing in on it, and hopefully, within a foreseeable future, I should be able to get online again. And then, it's catch-up time.

Sorry to keep anyone waiting. I hope you've not been holding your breath by now.

And at all endings, a new beginning

So, once again, I've managed to disappear for a while - not entirely disappeared off the face of the planet, but I always was somewhat adept at avoiding contact, and I've needed time to get my head straight again. I still doubt it is, but now things are somewhat in the rear mirror.

You may remember that I, some time ago, poured out - in a mildly drunken stupor, admitted - my heart on the topic of my girlfriend. We had a long talk where we somewhat set words to our doubts as to the nautre of our feelings towards each other. No doubt there's a lot of good feelings, but they've changed.

Over this summer, where she was with her family in Jutland, and I was here, working, I spent a lot of time thinking. The result of it didn't scare me as much as I thought it would, nor did it hurt entirely like I had expected. That I loved her, but not as a significant other ought to be loved.

It's no more than a week ago now that I went to visit her, during one of her brief returns to Copenhagen. Before I set out for her place, I felt at peace with the decision I had made inside; to tell her how I felt, and ending things there.
The closer I got to her apartment, the more the past began to resound against my mind; the sunny days, remembering all the good things; pretty predicatble stuff I know, but just then, I felt that pang of rememberance. The heavy thud of all the good memories, wrapped into a tubesock and slammed to the back of my head.

At that moment, I felt sad, and small. I felt bad because it would be the last time I'd go up those stairs as her boyfriend. I couldn't help but to smile over how easy it is to decide and govern over emotions as long as it's all on paper and in the distance, while reality and proximity will show you how vulnerable you are, when you choose to lay yourself bare to another person.

I entered her apartment, and said hi to her. For some reason, a few things that really were inconsequential, suddenly seemed so important to me.
Bear with me, I know how silly it'll look to anyone else, but I need to get it on paper.

I helped to get her a computer some time ago, and I knew she still haden't gotten peroperly set up with security software - the reason for why it seemed important was that it's what killed her last computer. Something I'd always told her I'd drop by and get set up on her machine; I just never remembered to do it while I was there. And now, I realized, it might be the last time I was there at all...It seemed infinitely important, because I didn't want to leave her hanging on something I once promised her.
*sighs*

I know that it fails utterly as a romantic notion (Yay, installing antivirus, firewall and anti-spyware!), but damnit - I cared for her, and I didn't want her to be left without _something_.

We talked a bit, about nothing and everything, and eventually went out to get some ice cream and beers - the latter mostly for me.

And when we came back home, we continued talking, and as the light grew weaker, and the second beer bottle stood empty, I finally found the courage to tell her.
I told her about how I felt I had changed, recently (as the avid reader might notice, I haven't exactly been drowning in boredom lately), and eventually I made my way through my own maze of words and memories to the point.
My voice began faltering as I looked her in the eyes and I told her that my feelings for her had changed to a point where I didn't love her as my girlfriend any longer.
...And that's when my voice broke completely, and I wasn't able to see clearly anymore. Tears tend to do that.
The next two hours we talked - or rather, I think we both cried in equal parts while talking, but even through the tears, snot and broken voices, both of us smiled a little. It hurt, but not like I've come to expect endings to; My past experiences had made me believe that the end was accompanied by both excruciating pains inside, endless floods of tears, and depending on the case at hand, the snap of the psyche. Not so this time.

It was like looking through old pictures together, the reminiscing together over what we'd created together, the good times we'd had; and the quiet acceptance of that things simply were not as they had once been. I remember us holding hands while talking, briefly breaking the hold every now and then to reach out for the ever-thinning roll of toilet paper, but I remember being able to see through tear-addled eyes to see her, as pretty as ever, just stronger, now, than the girl I met and fell in love with back then. I am unsure if I'd actually loved her more in just that moment than I had for a long time before.

She told me of how she'd felt the same way, and had felt bad about not having had the courage to talk to me about it as well; it seems that fatal talk about the future, we had come pretty close, both of us, to saying it; and since then, we had both been mulling over it on our own. And now, we were ready.

We'd always been able to talk about things, even when we strongly disagreed, we never did have a fight over anything. I believe that once a verbal fight starts, is when you stop caring for the other part's feelings.

We kissed one last time, and it was over. Like an old, tired heart beating its last beat, and falling quiet. The way things should end; softly, lovingly, and at its natural end.

I remember, just after there was nothing more for either of us to say, I stood up, stretched, and breathed deeply; and while I felt vulnerable, raw and uncertain, that feeling of being ready for it didn't leave me.

We always were good at talking; and our feelings haven't as such diminished; I am certain I haven't met her, or talked to her for the last time. I'll do all I can to not lose her as a friend, and I know she feels the same way. This is the way things should end and go on, and I look forward to the future, for the chances to see and do good things, making a difference where I am, and living again. Maybe this time, I'll be less flawed, and spend less time living in regret.


There's a song I've been listening to a goodly deal over the last months; it used to scare me a little by its words, but now that the fear has gone, and only the good memories are left; it just tugs a little at the heartstrings and makes me think of the good days;

I'll leave you with this:

Iris: Delivered One

Well your last words were "see you later"
Now the violence of love is gone
In exchange for the hopeful ending
I am liking what you've become

You've really changed
Not for the bad
Just rearranged
So the good parts are all that you have

I'm telling you now
As I'm sure the sun shines
As blessed as sacred rites
You're the delivered one

In the darkness I know I've lost it
In the light I know I'm blind
Though I'm keeping a cleaner closet
There's a whole lot more inside

In our next life
One will be late
And when arrives
The other will be there to take

I'm telling you now
As sure as at first light
The song of the sparrow cries
You're the delivered one

Hold on
I'm losing my place
Hold on
It's getting so late
Hold on
There'll be no mistakes
Now that we're on our own

Corrupted memory

Well, fuck. It seems my digitally entropic touch isn't entirely in the past.

Bear with me here, for those that might not already know, I have, it appears, a knack for disabling, damaging, and occasionally killing, electronic things.

PS2? Crashed it.
XboX? Crashed it by pressing, it'd seem, two entirely wrong buttons at once, green-screening it.
PC? 3 Headcrashes, 1 erroneous partition deletion, hosed soundcard due to a misplaced foot, 1 CPU (from my second machine) with bent pins; I won't even go into what damage one can accidentally cause by shorting a USB port.

Now, to add to the list of victims of my thoughtlessness, clumsiness, and blind bad luck, the memory card for my PS2.

It'll seem silly of course, and I am aware of it; but anything you put time into, starts meaning something, if nothing else then the time put in it.

It appears that my memory card has begun acting up, and the result is that the data file containing the evidence of the hours I've poured into as mindless a game as Tekken 5, are gone. Corrupted, and thus not possible to save. I've had to overwrite it, and start from scratch.

Yes; I know that it's probably one of the least relevant things to anyone else, it's just...well, fuck. I don't think it's healthy to be reminded of the hours I've spent (I won't say wasted, since I have had a load of fun!) on it; bam! Gone.

It's still the first time I've heard of a memory card that selectively corrupted; everything else on the card seems to be working, except for the one data slot that held the most time invested.

Maybe I should start wearing anti-static gloves whenever handling electronic devices; just as Midas of the stories had to wear gloves. I just don't really have a gold touch; entropic touch does sound a lot more intimidating, and, well, me for that matter.

Now, to begin all over with Tekken. I foresee many a sore thumb and frustrated shouts when I lose matches.
It's going to take a while, and probably a lot of cigarettes and beer, too. Now, onwards!

Karma doesn't shield you from being punched in the face by an old friend

{Warning: Long post. Not entirely emo, though!}

So, a few days ago, a friend of mine held a birthday party in a park. I was invited, and although I was horribly tired due to too little sleep, too much drinking the night before, and an excrutiating day at work, I ended up showing up no less. After all, it was just supposed to be a relaxing evening.

Given my penchant for writing up long-winded recaps of my exhilerating life, you probably already have figured things might not have gone entirely as planned.

As it goes, I turned up alongside my flatmate; the party as such had been going on for a goodly few hours, so being sober set us apart from most others there.
I encountered an old flatmate, and while we certainly did not part on the best of terms back then, it was good to see him again, to find he was still alive, and the past got cleared up well enough. I can't say it's something that's taken a lot of space in my life, but even niggling things are good to put to rest.

Barring a mild worry that drunken people should not at all light up a fire in a park, in particular not without proper preparation and emergency fire-fighting equipment, the park party went without further problems, no dead, injured or arrested, which was good.

Eventually, the rain that seems to best define Danish weather these days returned, and we decided to pack up the gear and head back for the friend's apartment; hauling whatever alcohol left with us and contiuning the party there.

I also met another person at the party. An old friend I haden't spoken to for a goodly while. He and I went way back, from the early days of LAN-parties, later to expand on to roleplaying, both LARP and tabletop. Back in the days where things were late teenage-angsty and all;

I remember when he called me one day, as his mother's husband had trashed his room, and broken his guitar. My friend was completely in pieces, he treasured that guitar. I remember walking around for the remainder of the night, talking him out of various acts of violence, and trying to get his mind off the rather harsh things that had just happened.

As time went, we both got involved in the goth scene in Copenhagen - a 'scene', that one might point out had precious little substance, but plenty of make-believe, as any self-aggrandizing subculture really consists of. We got involved in different stratas there, though, and eventually, he became enamoured with philosophical satanism, under the influence of a rather bleak individual that I later crossed paths with as well.

I watched it, and didn't like it much, but in the end I figured it was his choice. Mathematical outlook on life, he often lived by the maxim of "life is a tragedy for those who feel, and a comedy for those who think". Needless to say, we ended up on wildly different ends of the spectrum; I never did understand why people believe it's an either-or choice. Feeling does not exclude thought, nor should thinking deny one feelings.

Sadly, some things also happened that I was not at all happy with.

First off, while arguably fairly innocent, discovering that one's best friend was busy exchanging saliva with one's girlfriend is never a pleasant experience. Bear in mind, it was during my time of my first relationship, and god knows it was dysfuncitonal as hell. No less, while my girlfriend at least had the conviction to tell me it happened, and apologized, I almost had to drag his reaction out of him. It'd seem, that he was more bitter that he had lost control, than bothered by what he actually had done.

To make matters worse, it then happened again about a month later, during a new year's party; ironically enough held at the friend whose birthday party I went to this week.

Fool me once, fool me twice; it does become a bit hard to justify seeing anything friendly in a person who repeatedly gets somewhat too amiable with your significant other.

Bear in mind, that was around 5 years ago.

As things go, my first relationship eventually died a horrible wasting death, and I moved on. Somehow, it was a bit easier to not hate him after the immediate reason for why I'd want to punch his teeth in wasn't there anymore to remind me, and as time went, we started working on role playing scenarios again. He had become deeply entrenched in the "think, don't feel" mentality by then, and the main reason, really, I was working on scenarios with him was due to the fact that we worked well together.
Over time, we had created a scenario-arranging group alongside two of our old friends, called Procyon. It was never intended to be anything grander than to give us the chance to do some luxury live role playing scenarios for friends. We held a couple of sessions, complete with food, a good location, and characters written specifically for the players. It was close-knit, it was elitist, and it was good.

Then, one day, I recieved an invitation for a scenario. Arranged by the people in Procyon. On the arrangers' list, my name had vanished.

Contacting the three people in Procyon, I learned that by initiative of my old friend, I had been excluded, he had apparantly cited lack of commitment as the reason.
Suffice it to say, I had not been even heard on the subject, and the two other people had been highly suspicious of why I had not been present at the meeting where the decision had been made.
Hardly surprising, I might add someone had failed to invite me to said meeting.

On a perhaps vindictive note, I could point out that in the end, the regular players simply turned around and boycotted the scenario. It fell dead to the ground. And I decided that I had tried enough times to make things work with him. It didn't improve things of course that I learned he'd been busy contacting old mutual friends to inform of how I was squandering my life, my talents, and how I was a lost cause. I don't take well to that sort of stuff either. Fortunately, it appeared that most people he tried to sway, simply contacted me and informed me of what he had told them. I chose not to act on it, and decided to close the door.

Cut to tuesday evening, and I ran into him again. It'd been around two years since I last really talked to him, and in the mood of light intoxication, and an otherwise good evening, I decided to sit down and talk with him again. See if there was indeed anything left worth talking about.

So we began talking; and things didn't go as one could have hoped. Were this a Hollywood film, I suspect there'd been strings, choir and a tearful reconciliation. As this is reality, however, there was neither.

The talking deteriorated into him, once again, trying to analyze me, to point out chinks and cracks in the armor of emotions; but when he started patronizing me, I made it very clear that I, not in the past, nor certainly in the present, would let him speak down to me. Considering his rather significant fuckups in the past (some willfull, some simply from lack of a conscience), he was in no position do look down at me.

It was about at this time, that he extended his hand to me, and asked that we put the past behind us. And then he made his final fuckup; he told me to take his hand within 30 seconds.

I looked him dead in the eyes, and told him he had forgotten who had done what to whom, and told him that he was not the one to set ultimatums.

And then, I guess, something snapped for him. And he balled up his fingers into a fist, and punched me in the face. Followed up by grabbing my collar, and delivering a headbutt as well.

There have been things in my life I've done that I am not neccesarily proud of, moments where my resolve has faltered horribly. This time, though, I am in a quiet way proud that I kept my resolve completely.

I looked him dead in the eyes, and I saw him realizing what he had done. And then I quoted my first girlfriend, the one he'd been messing around with, and whom he later was not above socially sniping at;

"At the end of the day, you're the one that has to live with yourself."

He said nothing, and I don't know if he was in shock after what he'd done, or was waiting for me to punch him, or whatever, but he said nothing, didn't move at all.

Then I bid him my farewells for the good times in the past, and turned around and walked away.
There wasn't really much left to say, anyway, and although I certainly felt somewhat tempted to break his nose, this was supposed to have been a birthday party for a close friend of mine.

Having talked with my friends, I've been told he was approaching catatonia afterwards, and for some reason people keep telling me how bad he feels about it now. For some reason, I can't seem to muster up the grace to feel sorry for him.

"But, he really feels awful about it and doesn't know what to do!"

"Really? Let me see if I've got some caring left for him...Ah, damn, came up short. I've got some bile if that helps?"

I still can't figure out how people who saw it happen can claim he open-handed slapped me; last time I checked, fists and foreheads don't count as slaps, but maybe I'm just pedantic.

And to think that instead of doing the right thing, to say goodbye and leaving; in time I know I'll realize it was the right choice, but I can't help but to think what'd have happened if I had simply punched his clock instead. Broken his nose, and told him "That's how you throw a punch, you weak bitch. Now slither on home."

Immediate gratification has its place, I guess, and right now, I'd enjoy the boost of endorphines rather than waiting for karma to thank me. Maybe it'd also have nulled the point of people trying to tell me how bad he feels what he did. I guess if I'd broken his nose, I'd have made my feelings clear. But calm and composure prevails, or something.

Now to see what this'll end up meaning in the grand scheme of things; I just hope I'll keep to my ideals and; once again, be the better person...but damn it, some gratification would be welcome.

At least I can smile a bit after having written this. I still could use having karma on speed dial, though. Call fate up and say "Yo, I think some rewarding's due here?". Heh.

I love the rain...It helps me think

Fear, and panic in the air
I want to be free
From desolation and despair
And I feel like everything I sow
Is being swept away
Well I refuse to let you go

I can't get it right
Get it right
Since I met you

Loneliness be over
When will this
Loneliness be over?

Life, will flash before my eyes
So scattered and lost
I want to touch the other side
And no one thinks they are to blame
Why can't we see
When we bleed, we bleed the same

I can't get it right
Get it right
Since I met you

Loneliness be over
When will this
Loneliness be over?

Loneliness be over
When will this
Loneliness be over?

~Muse: Map Of The Problematique


Well, fuck. I wasn't intending to write anything, certainly nothing of substance; but it seems that the vain need of at least 4 hours of sleep has to take a back seat, to angst, wet & cold socks and selective reality, altogether.

So, I went drinking. For a change. It does seem to marginally define my everyday, at least for the point that I should be saving this for something, but somewhere else than home seems easier to be at right, for no other point that simple feelings. One might point out, that I am not at all stoic. Fortunately, as it is, I have no one to either need to impress nor live up to.

So, I went drinking with a colleague. The trip ended up at a place called The Moose, a location I've previously frequented; usually a hangout for post-highschoolers and easy targets for table football.

I got drunk, for a change. At times I think I drink to either hide, or forget, the proverbial slippery slope, I guess, but again, I feel previous little to either live up to or to make happy. Self included, of course, otherwise this would not be a proper desolation post.


You know how, in video fighting games, the characters often have a desperation move?

Up, up, down, down, left right, left right, B, A, Start.

Boom.

{Insert flashy CGIs and devastating damage}

...Boom?

As it goes, while at the Moose, not only was I reminded of certain vital things, I also ended up incidentally hearing a certain Muse track: Map Of The Problematique. Hence the italicized text at the top. I felt it'd add a certain panache, although certain individuals might label it as emo.

Out of a sudden, it all feels entirely not bearable. That twitch on the edge as you're balancing it all; just half a heartbeat short of staggering and stumbling.

Fuck it; for some reason I feel like I've just thrown it all on the floor, and seen it go to pieces - I am not even sure how it'll feel in the morning, but in some bizarre way I hope I'll remember this feeling; because at the moment it feels awfully more honest than most I've let myself feel for a while.

I'd add a boo-hoo for myself when I read this, like a post-it note to one self, for later reading when you remember what you wrote. Like that note you wish you wrote to yourself about a dream when you woke up late at night, and never could remember afterwards.

So. Fucking. Futile.

I can't get it right.
Get it right.
Since I met you.

Most definately time for the desperation move.

Cold, sogged from rain, and slight panic at the notion that I won't make it to work in anything resembling a normal work schedule...But then, who's counting, especially considering that I don't have any expectations to meet, barring the fact that I have a fucking trophy reminding me that I have been the quarterly employeee. Good on me. I'll be there, when I'll be there. No sooner.

Unfortunately, that goes for about it all. Perpetual standby.

...Someone, please turn me back on. There's too much inside going to waste, waiting and anticipating; it's no use like this.


...So it ends on yet another sob-story, and me (rightfully) blaming myself for failing to make the changes I'd hope to see. Ain't that a change, at that.

I love the rain. It helps me think."
~Sin City

It needs to rain a lot more. I'm not nearly done yet.

Long way to fall from the skies

{melodramatic}
The past week has seen me at both ends of the spectrum; from the brief, dizzying heights of elation, to the proverbial gravel pits of frustration, ending back at the bland realities of normalcy. {/melodramatic}

While I've now been staring, spitefully at the above sentence for the better part of ten minutes, trying to find some marginally more elegant way of saying it, I've failed gruesomly at that; and in protest, I've taken to capping it with the {melodramatic} tags. Take that.

As you're no doubt aware, I work for an ISP, doing technical support. Well, not entirely, as it is; I work for a company who handles outsourcing for other companies. How it becomes economically viable, I have no idea, but apparantly it works. The reason I say I work for an ISP, is because I feel more connected to that, than the company that actually pays me - it's a lot easier to identify with an employer whose company name hasen't changed 4 times inside 18 months. No, I am not kidding.
From Excellent, to Excellent-Tradimus, to Tradimus, and now to Aditro. Fuck's sake. Fusions may look good on paper, and probably on the stock exchange as well, but for the average working joe, it does fuck all apart from the technical difficulties of redoing mailsignatures and addresses.

Anyways;

About a month ago, our Operations Manager forwarded a mail to me; he had suggested me as a candidate for the employee of the quarter. That is, quarter of a year. Quarterly employee? Whatever.

I had pretty much forgotten all about it, largely as I didn't really see it happening. Doesn't matter that I do acknowledge I've done some passably well-performed work, but crux is that I have long hair, wear black clothes, and generally make the higher-ups look weirdly at me whenever fate leads them through our department.

So, waking up monday, and realizing that I had grossly overslept, didn't bode well for the 3rd out of 7 workdays in a row. 14.25 read the alarm clock, and apart from me having trouble catching my breath (yet another riveting dream), I held no concept of a day worth writing home about.
Called in, apologized for being late, and promised them I'd be over as soon as possible.
At 15.05, I clocked in.
At 15.10, one of out TeamLeaders walked over and told me we'd be having a kickoff shortly. A kickoff is basically a 5 minute heads up on the situation at work, usually in the case of focus subjects or specific challenges (I guess I should love the fact that 'challenges' is the positive form of "oh fuck, we're half-staffed all week, and all gateways have just choked!", but I digress);

Well.

In walks the HR-director, a kindly, but strict man with protruding ears and a red tie. Smiling.

This can't be good...

But it was.

After a few minutes of introductionary speech, he proceeded to tell the gathered department that the quarterly employee was indeed to be found amongst us. And that someone was me.

Out of the ~500 people in the building, 400 are neither staff, HR or teamleaders. Out of 400 employees, I appeared to be the chosen one. Go me. Having all your colleagues clap, as you're being praised is definately one of the more memorable things.

Of course, the irony is, that on that very day, they had planned for the award-thing for just after 14, where I was indeed expected to meet. I managed to, unintentionally, oversleep my own award; and thereby forcing our HR-director to go on standby for a bit over an hour.

I told you, I'm the resident rockstar of the support. Hardcore to the bone. Etc etc.

So, what's in it for me?

First off, glory everlasting, and whatnot. And a paid day off, which is nice. Couple of cinema tickets with soda, popcorn and whatnot tossed in as well. A basket filled with weird stuff, ranging from some obscure wine, balsamico, and mustard of some exotic origin that I can't place; as well as a plethora of other strange things.
And a trophy.

Before I get all misty-eyed and start thanking my colleagues and stuff, I could, with usual flair and panache, point out that Balsamico holds no interest to me, mustard I care little for, and the trophy's base was splintered to a degree where I could hardly lug it back to my seat.
Story of my life, I guess; "Here, have a trophy to show how awesome you are. Oh yah, be careful with it, the base is broken."

But well, it did make the day quite a bit different than I had expected.

And from the dizzying heights...

You see, I had forgotten my cell phone at home that morning. After work, unsurprisingly, I ended up drinking to celebrate my new title. Came home moderately intoxicated, and forgot all about my cellphone. Next day, I failed to find it before heading to work. After work, I could find it. Even better, the net at home died. With no cellphone, and no internet, one suddenly feels very cut off from reality. The neccesity of communication is evident at such times. You don't need to use it, but you need to have it.

Luckily, a few days later, my flatmate, when asked if he had seen my cellphone, told me he had found it in the bathroom a few days earlier, and had put it next to his computer in his room. No frickin' wonder I didn't find it - I did manage to completely overturn my room (compounding the mess), and sweep through the living room, which was at the time only lighted by a lava lamp, a TV and my two monitors, as the lightbulb in the living room, when last attempted switched on, knocked the power in the apartment. Not as much fun as it sounds, and reading it, it doesn't even sound that much fun.

Well, coming to a grinding halt here at the last moments of the weekend, the net is back, light is on in the living room again, and I have my cellphone. A return to normalcy, in all its bland lack of glory.
Tomorrow starts a new week for me, although it's only three days of work before two days off again; and the cycle begins anew.

Something's got to give. And something's got to change. This everyday doesn't really do it for me...Although I could reason that it's preferrable to being offline, lost in the darkness of a living room with no lighting, and lacking both cigarettes and a cellphone. Some existential gratitude might serve me well, alongside a slice of the ol' humble pie. Until then, though, I'll remain defiant. Hah.

More linkage

Just to add: Two new blogs linked under others' thoughts; The Wireless Bushman, and A Scream In My Voice.

Also, trying to break the writer's block here, I feel an update is a lot easier to write than actually putting feelings to paper.

Good karma comes to those who...drink?

Indeed. I seem to have that perverse craving to redeem myself, from time to time; you know, to be the good guy I want to be, to do the right thing. Lucky for me, as fate would have it, I did get a chance the other day.

I had visited my father, and as those visits go, they tend to leave me pleasantly inebriated, glowing with conviction and a desire to justify my fortune in life (the fortune that is an operational body, a good intellect and the emotional intelligence to be able to know right from wrong) by helping others.

I had wlaked to my father's place without a coat, given the sun threatening to scorch me seven ways from sunday, and no dark skies on the horizon. Well, at least none I'd managed to see.

So, walking on from there, the rain was of course coming down in spades. Folk, let me be the first to drop this gem of wisdom, a t-shirt and a 1 mm thick black shirt does *not* repel rain all that well at all. But then, quoting Sin City; "There's an old Samurai saying: Rain is only a problem if you don't want to get wet."

So, I was ambling along, ablaze with purpose and zest; when I realised someone was lying on the pavement about ten meters in front of me. Halfway on the sidewalk, halfway on the street.

Not particularly clever, by my standards. But then, it did indeed appear he wasn't really in a state to realize it himself.

Given my state of mind, the path was pretty damn obvious. Help the man out. Two random passerbys were milling about, apparantly trying to find out whether to do something or ignore it - a few choice suggestions had them helping me dragging the poor unfortunate off the street, and into a doorway. Part shield from rain, part shield from him toppling onto the road again.

Next step; making sure someone had called an ambulance, while trying to find out whether the guy was actually mentally present.
Once all the immediates were taken care of, and the other passerbys sent onwards into the evening and the rain, I tried to get the man back to lucid form. He was able to speak, but not to make a whole lot of sense. When he did speak, it was in a broken strand of danish, mumbling to himself in what I suspect was indian. Weird stuff.

He mumbled about needing help, in between lolling back and forth, smacking himself against the door a few times, fortunately without any visible effect; and slowly, he became more coherent. Well, as coherent as someone who's drunk enough to pass out on the road can be, I guess.

Funny thing was, apart from him every now and then looking at me, telling me that I was almost like John Lennon, he talked about that I'd saved him, and he told me about good karma, and how my future was going to be better than it would have otherwise been.

Ironically, I'd say the present then was actually good enough. When the ambulance finally came, and took him along, I felt positively radiant. Doing a good deed rarely feels worth it once done, but I might as well have walked on air for the rest of the journey. The rain felt warmer, and I couldn't stop smiling.

Cheap thrills, I'd assume, but it's damn good when, for once, doing the right thing is enough. No broken bottles and broken heads, no 5 seconds too late.

Obscenely naive I know, but I felt grateful for that I got the chance, and that I did it right.

And to think, it wouldn't have been possible, if I had not stayed to drink at my father's place.

"Thanks to beer, my good karma has increased!"

I am now Captain Awesome...at least until the next time, I almost pull off an incredible stunt, and once again my amazing story ends with "and then I stumbled, and fell over".

Grey dawn, sparkling dreams, and the beginning of a goodbye?

So, yeah. Life's looking to do the good old curveball once again.

Work looks stranger than ever, with teamleaders being hot-swapped like, well, something that gets hotswapped a lot. Feel free to supply your own metaphor for it. It leaves very little room for stability, and it looks like two departments will be merged together, due to the departing of our departments' Operations Manager. In short, it means that the plans, sketches and projects I've had underway with the current OM are pretty much dead in the water; given that our soon-to-be OM alledgedly is a corporate hardliner with little time and inclination for creative, efficiency-improving ideas. Scrapping over 10 hours total of various projects isn't something I'm particularly fond of, not to mention that I have particularly little faith in the merger. That, and not to forget that the company's just changed name *again*. This brings it up to, by my count, the 4th time since I started in march last year. Ugh.

Well, that's what that is. Work's work, and while it's easy to wish for different circumstances, I don't have the influence to affect the outcome...yet, anyway. Here's to hoping it'll pan out reasonably.

More influential on my sleep and waking hours, though, is a long talk I had with my girlfriend recently. I've, for a while, had my thoughts on what the deal really was on the emotions involved. It didn't really fit inside any of the known boxes, which has been gnawing somewhat at me. I'm pretty good at thinking myself into deadends, so often I deliberately try to stop thinking, because I might end up creating entirely unrealistic situations. Well, I had decided to get the thoughts out of my head and on to the table - and so it happened, although not at all in the manner I had expected.

We were talking, one evening, and the topic came to fall on the future. Not ours in particular, but more of a generic discussion. That's when she said something I haden't seen coming.

She told me, half-way jokingly, that in the future, that she saw me living in a glass-and-steel, high-tech apartment, with a bisexual, industrial/gabber listening, EVE-playing girlfriend.

From the outside, it sounds like a fairly innocent comment, highlighting the things I enjoy in life - said in jest, except that she's neither bisexual, nor does she listen to gabber and industrial, nor does she play EVE. Nor is any of those things likely to change.

She asked me where I saw her in the future, and I answered her truthfully. I saw her living in a cottage, or a farm, with her children, in the neck of the woods, waiting for her viking-looking, neofolk listening husband to return home.

Suffice it to say, I may be a good deal of things, but I'm neither viking, into neofolk, nor am I likely to wish to be a father in any foreseeable future, if ever.

After we'd both said our piece, the joke, if there was really one to begin with, had stifled the smiles. Then followed a minute or so, of us just sitting there, looking at each other with new eyes.

...And that's how it began. We talked for the better part of the night, talked about what we actually felt, not that we haden't done so before - in fact, we have always been very open in our communications, but there's always seemed to be some things that just didn't come up naturally. I once told her that I was a little worried that she might become dependant on me, in that while I might be occasionally bleak and weary, she takes medication to help safeguard her against panic anxiety. That I was worried that she'd place too much faith in me and see me as a saviour, rather than her boyfriend. Dependance in a relationship can ever so easily kill the emotions that set romantic love apart from its more platonic form.
I told her how deeply I cared for her, which is true. I told her about all I've been thinking about, wondering and doubting and worrying about. And she looked me straight in the eye, and told her about her own thoughts. And her story was surprisingly similar to mine.

I felt odd, at the time. Anxious to finally set words to the feelings, uncertain as where this would end up. I felt like standing on a theatre stage, waiting for the curtain to rise. Just on the brink of seeing something entirely new. I felt melancholy, as if the words were the beginning of a goodbye, a mild pang of sadness inside for the good times. And I felt ready to face it. Honestly admitting that one's feelings aren't entirely befitting neither friendship nor a relationship is upsetting in a way, but I was able to look her in the eyes and say it, and feeling the elation of finally putting words to the thoughts that had been clouding my head.

Nothing was definitively ended, no doors were shut closed, but the emotions were set into action.
Horrible clichés were said, but in the first light of the sunrise outside, they didn't feel like clichés at all. There's a reason, after all, that clichés become just that; it's because so many say them, meaning them as they say it.

I told her about the devotion I felt, something I once thought was inexorably bound to the caring you'd only feel in a relationship. I told her of how I, a few years back, learned that one can indeed care that much for someone without being in a relationship with them. I told her of one of my closest friends, who once pulled me, all the way back from the bottom, with a dedication that I thought a friend could not possess.

There was a significant amount of tears that night and morning, but they weren't heart-wracking sobs and wails. They just flowed, quietly, constantly, caused by the gravity of emotions worded. Like some people sometimes wake up, tearful after dreaming, not of something immensely sad or frightening, but simply because what you dreamt was so beautiful, so serene and perfect, that you can't react any other way.

I've felt strange since then. Not bad, but restless. I find that I wake many times each night, but it's not nightmares. But I wake up feeling the same melancholy I felt that night. It feels as if I, every night, say goodbye.

But for the first time since I can remember, I wake up knowing that the words aren't just in my head. I've said them, given them life and reality.

Time will give me answers and serenity; and while I might not fully understand my emotions, or what form they take, and what direction they are going, I am glad that I had the courage to say them to one I claim to care deeply for.

All relations are temporary correlation of life paths. You meet, you find that, for an indefinate amount of time, your paths in life go parralel, so you walk a path seemingly made just for you, alongside someone else. But one day, you find that your paths part, and if you want to follow your own way, you may have to say goodbye to the one you've been walking through life next to.

Maybe one day, you'll find you're walking the same way again, meeting someone you once shared life with. Maybe you won't. Maybe you'll meet again, and remember the good things you had. Maybe you'll only remember the bad.
The only thing certain is that if you stop on the path, you'll never know if you one day were to meet them again, further down the road. That's why we go on...to see whose paths we'll cross one day.

Dead yet? Nah. Not that easy.

For some odd reason, I wonder why, it appears that I open any blog with an excuse that I haven't written for a long time. Good thing I know that no lives, souls or worlds are shattered by my absence on this particular scene.

I was about to open this with "funny how real life gets in the way of writing here", and realized I've already written that on a previous occasion; sucks to have a limited amount of excuses. Boe hoe, as an old online aquaintance would have said. Course, he was belgian, and I'd regard anything a belgian say with a healthy amount of regard - I mean, the waffles are cool, but most anything else coming from Belgium is dubious at the least.

On to the show, and enough with the sidekicks.

If you could see me right now, you'd notice that I'm halfway split between rubbing my temples, and actually writing this stuff. I could write about how I bought a new keyboard, and I'd feel totally disinterested myself; I could write about how my hair color's changed, or how job seems to be perking up in ways I had never anticipated. Hell, I could even write about how I seem to be attracting a certain flair for both deception in games, and how I've written documentation for work that'd make a professional consultant piss his pants in envy;

Neither of it really moves my world. I just keep a straight face, and march onwards. If I'm arrogant enough to think that I can decieve myself (and I am, most of the time), then I can be arrogant enough to think I can keep a mask on for nigh-on most of the time towards anyone else. The irony of delivering myself on a silver platter, online, is not lost to me, but hey - I might have been born in analogue, but I was baptised in digital...I see no better place than here to wonder.

It's awkward, yet not, because I know the chances of anyone reading this are about limited to (most) anyone I know online. Nearly no one I'd need to look in the eyes, knowing that they know what I've been saying here, pretending it's not been stated.

I've been trying to run from it, I realise. I've been trying to cover it up, like a person would cover up a blemish, wear a turtleneck to cover hickeys, or riding a flashy car to hide the lack of bulge in their pants.

I'm ashamed of myself. It seems to damn easy to say on text, and assuming anyone reads this, it means that I didn't buckle and delete the whole thing and go to bed.

I'm not what I should be, I'm not making what I should of what I have. Time's wasting, and I'm cruising along on autopilot. From time to time I rant about this, because I find it more cathartic to kick myself for my lack of personal progress, rather than the fact that I'm probably running my body into (and a select few feet under) the ground within a few decades.

And I keep returning to that question: Why? Why do I need to sit here, about 7 hours until I have to *be* at work, and ponder this, when I should do so when fully awake and coherent?

It's simple; I'm more self-aware when the lights go out. They say beauty is but a lightswitch away, and while being conceited enough to know that I am not physically unattractive, I feel emotionally repugnant. No one wants a broken body, even less want a broken psyche (bear in mind, I *did* avoid the "no one wants a broken heart cliché here - do I get bonus points?).

http://www.lyricstime.com/apollo-440-pain-in-any-language-lyrics.html

Listening to it right now; Apollo 440 - Pain in any language. I find myself, when I should be soaring upwards and making the most of what I have, to be stuck in regret. Again.



I fundamentally believe that for any meaningful relationship (friendship or romantic), that there are three levels;

Intellectual;

Emotional;

Sexual;

Of course, between friends, the latter is rather dubious, but here's my take on it:

For a good aquaintance, you need at least 1 of the three to make it mean anything.

For a close friend, you need two, otherwise it's not that close. While you can be okay friends with someone, if it's only intellectual or emotional, it's still not a close friend. If you fundamentally despise the person for lack of intellect (and we do always look down, don't we?), but value their emotional support, it's not a friendship - then it's a simple case of utilitarism.

...And for a relationship to be something that you'll not only remember, but will change you, you'll need all three. Two of them, and it descends into either friendship, or a fuckbuddy relation, and the plummet begins.

I find myself, once again, at the threshold; evaluating what means something around me, I find that there's a reason that I haven't told my girlfriend, in a long time, that I love her - simply because I'd (even subconsciously) rather not tell a lie, and hurt, than to tell a lie and live with it.

I think they got it right, when the protagonist in the film 300 told the traitor: "I hope you live forever." After all, at the end of the day, you're the one that has to live with yourself. Everything else is just flavortalk.

And that's what it all comes down to. There are things I'll have to tell, look someone I deeply care for into the eyes, and tell them what I feel, and don't, and I'll need to take the fall for it afterwards, simply because I won't lie anymore. I've done enough of it, I've seen people I loved break down from it, I won't do it any more.

I dreamt last night, about as cliché as it gets, that I was standing on the Copenhagen central plaza. Around me were people I knew, and I saw their faces looking at me in wonder. I dreamt that wings unfolded behind me, and feathers littered the ground as I took off. I remember the vague feeling of melancholy of leaving something I cared for, but soaring towards the sun like an Icarus prior to the fall, the sun beckoned, and smiled. In that dream, I knew that towards the sun was what I once had felt, the taste bittersweet on my tongue and in my veins, and while the pull on my heart's strings was palpatable, I rose, because I knew that the joy ahead would justify it. I remember muttering the words "If you love me, you'd want to see me smile." as the sun shone brighter than ever;

and I opened my eyes.

Reality's light was not bright enough to bask in, its shadows not dark enough to hide in; its reality ultimately unyielding to my dreams.

But, sitting here now, looking out the window, the sun's rising, and its light is radiant. The sun's reflecting on the windows across the street in a reddish hue, and for once, I take strength from the sun.

*chuckles*

Reading back on the past few paragraphs, I don't fully remember writing them, but my mother once told me that when I was writing, or making music, that I seemed almost glowing. I'm certain she was exaggerating, as is any parent, but I can't help to think that we all have a gift for doing something; and when doing it, we glow from the inside.

My glows just tend to go like fireworks these days, largely because there is nothing to tend to the flame; no one can eternally keep their own flame burning. We keep it on a wake-flame, waiting for a justification to flare up, and shine on the world. We all hope that our flame will warm ourselves, and the most of idealistic hope their flame will warm, and guide the path for others.

Is there any more beautiful way to become blind, than by the luminescence of a shining day star?

It...hurts to do this emotional rollercoaster, and I get reminded of whby I rarely write. I once had, if not a future ahead of me as a writer, but at least the prospect of becoming a reasonable prose productionist; I found, as I learned the sharp edges of life, that if you get too involved in what you write, you start feeling it on yourself. I do so now; projecting myself onto a virtual avatar of myself, writing late, writing drunk, to pretend that this here is not me. It is, and that is why any post that's worth spending the morning awake for, is worth feeling for me.

Me me me me me. As they say, the concept of weblog is egoism, after all, did we not take the 'we' out of weblog? (Yes, the accurate reader will spot that as a rip-off from userfriendly.org)

Anyone who reads blogs do so because they want a free in on someone else's life. I read other's blogs, and I sympathize. If they write well, I'll even drop my grammer fascist mask and read it with an open mind.

If they write something that touches me, I'd bleed with them if it came to that, as long as I am in front of the screen.

And that will be one of my last points; as long as we're in front of the screen.

Blogs are for pouring out one's heart onto the net, wrapped in ironic distance so that no one ever gets too close. Write something while your tears are blurring your vision, and you'll be lucky to get a "That really sucks, man" response. Behind the screen, we're all safe, snug, and immortally anonymous.

Fuck that. Over the past week+, some thinga have been set into motion for me. What I once thought was safely hidden away, far from my mind, has come to surface. I've nearly spayed myself trying to fit in, and pretending to be comfortable. That's not going to work. I'm not normal, so why bother trying to be it.

I owe almost all to a few, a little to many, and the rest deserves a twisted smile, nothing more.

I'm not going to stick to life with 2 out of 3.

And unlike Nietzche, I refuse to spend my entire life mourning over the inability to change my life. I've been blessed, I'll shine, and I will forge a path where there is none. I'll stumble, fall, curse and cry, I'll wish I was dead at times, wish others were dead moreso, I'll wish I chose a different way, but in the end, on my tombstone, I don't want the words "If only he'd had the courage..." to be written on it.

After all, we'll all stumble and get dirt on our hands, but in the low light of candles, we admire each other's scars.

You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly

Still as true as when I read it the first time.

Broken, bloodied, Bacardi bottle

Things tend to pile up, and I try to get them out of my head in due time, but that time seems somewhat lacking. This will be a bit of a rehash of some things that have been crossing my mind over the past week, get some perspective on things.

Possibly the thing that's left me with the most sadness and disgust over the world recently happened late last week.

I had been out drinking with two colleagues, had a rather good evening so far. After going to a few bars (and finding them all crowded beyond the point where entering the bar would be possible), we decide to wander around for a while. Still pleasantly drunk, but also increasingly tired, we were looking for that last stop place for a few beers and calling it a night. Doing so, we passed Copenhagen's courthouse. It lies around fifty meters from a plaza, bustling with people, impressive architecture that really does give one the feeling of being small. The front pylons somewhat obscuring the stairs up to those heavy, wooden doors. The entrance gives the impression of an alcove, which adds to the overall feeling.

Walking past it, we halfway noticed three men arguing inside the alcove, but being tired and drunk, we didn't notice immediately. We managed to walk about ten-fifteen meters past before we realized they weren't arguing as such. Two of the guys were assaulting the last guy.

I remember us walking slower, and eventually stopping to turn around, trying to find out what to do; making decisions while drunk goes a bit slower, and when faced with violence, most of us hesitate.

I've always thought I was strong enough in my conviction to do the right thing, and I still try to be, but it was hard to actually do anything. Violence in films can be awesome, coreographed to beauty, impressive and touching, but violence in reality is ugly, brutal and frightening.

Time stretched, so I reckon it can't have been more than perhaps ten seconds before we actually walked back, but it felt like a long time.

The two assaulters noticed us, and evidently tried to decide what to do. One of them grabbed the shoulder of his friend, and yelled "are you trying to roll him?!", or something similar to that, and the other guy seemed to shake off his bloodlust somewhat, and they lurched off.

The victim staggered to his feet, and began to lurch away. It didn't strike me until afterwards that perhaps he was afraid of us, that we would continue the beating of him.

It was a homeless guy, judging by the looks of him, and in the alcove, we found empty beer bottles...and a broken Bacardi Breezer bottle. With a smear of blood on its side, which was the perfect explanation for the pool of blood that was seeping down the stairs of the courthouse. The bastards had not just set themselves content with beating up on a homeless man, whose only crime was simply to not have run away fast enough, in fact I wouldn't at all be surprised if he was asleep when they accosted him; they had also decided to crack a bottle on his head. When he staggered away from us, he was holding his head, and slipping from side to side.

In some way, that Bacardi Breezer bottle embodied the epitome of excess and decadence, the drink of rich kids, the "have-all" type of people who wear designer clothes that costs enough to feed a homeless for a month, and they decided to use it on a guy, whose life is hard enough already. It makes me sick.

Two assaulters.
One victim.
No chance.

I remember that when I came home that night, and thought about it, it did make me cry. Not because of the unpleasantness of the situation, but more from the sheer amount of insult to my sense of justice this was; beating on a hobo, on the steps to the courthouse, I don't think it could have been a more pathetic show of what's happening around us.

And I felt awful about the knowledge that if we had come by merely a minute earlier, it wouldn't have happened. If we haden't stopped at a bar earlier, or haden't spent a minute discussing where to go next, hell, even if we had just walked a bit faster, there wouldn't have been that god-damn broken Bacardi Breezer bottle staring at me with blood on it.

I should have reacted faster, more decisively, but I hesitated. Drunkeness can only account for so much. Even so, to justify it all, I tell myself that at least we prevented them from really going to town on him, and possibly beating him into a coma. That us showing up prevented things from getting even worse...But I still can't shake the feeling that I could have done more, and better.

...Still can't shake the feeling that I didn't live up to the obligation of doing the right thing, and doing enough of it.

In some bizarre way, I hope I'll get the chance to do it right another time, I don't wish to witness violence, but I do hope that I get a chance to redeem myself in that way, to do the *right* thing and knowing it was what was needed, to save someone. If I can't save a person's soul - which I have learned, painfully - then at least I can perhaps save their body. I've been given a conscience, the ability to know right from wrong, and the responsebility that comes with that, is to not hesitate to help another in need.

I just hope to do better another time.

Added more webcomics

Yah. Nothing important, just added a few more webcomics to the list. Haven't even done any facelifting on the page, but it's probably just as well - leave it to me to find the magical color combination that'll cause epilepsy in healthy people, heh.

A return to the pen

So, yeah, it's been a long time. As usual, a lot of my waking hours spent working (oh, the angst!), the remainder spent trying to make up for working, by relaxing, carousing, waking up the next day with a mild headache, and going to work again.

I've heard thatthe brain needs, every week, about 36 hours, or just shy of, to recuperate. Hence the entire need for two consecutive days off from work, and all. I'm beginning to find some sense in the notion, as I've come to see that I never really relax anymore. Barring illness and just under a week of vacation (which, as the observant reader will notice, was anything but relaxing to me), it's been around 3 months now for me with no two consecutive days of off-time. It leads to some things that are not entirely fortunate; one in particular being the carousing part.

Well, carousing is a strong word, but it does sound better than social drinking with friends and colleagues; and besides, I generally have a good time anyway. It's just...it does get to me, a bit. That I seem to, along with those I work with, seem to rebel against not having a proper weekend to party in, so we take to pseudo-partying on weekdays. I wonder if it's the first step of initiation into the "rest of the world" club, that I hear gathers in bars on fridays to complain about their job?

Heh. I don't have any significant complains about my job, I feel alright about it, I feel welcome and I know I do a good piece of work there. The trust I'm given there inspires me to better myself, raise the bar and ultimately, inspire those around me. Not because I'm an example, but because I want others to feel valued and confident as well.

I just wonder if I pace myself too much; that I'm burning myself out this way. I'm still in one piece, but I've stopped and thought more frequently over the last month. Go figure, with the weird things that's happened and all, but still. I don't feel as stalwart anymore.

Retrogradation 2/2

Main Entry:
lapse
Part of Speech:
noun 3
Definition:
backsliding
Synonyms:
decadence, declension, decline, degeneration, descent, deterioration, devolution, drop, fall, recession, regression, relapse, retrogradation, retrogression

...You're treading a path I cannot follow you on...

So I'm online. All is well.

Except it's not.

In fact, things are about as entirely not well as they could be. Parts of it are of my responsebility, probably a majority of it. I've tired, though, to do the right things, and be the person I think anyone should strive for; Not a saint by any sense, but what I'd expect of anyone, to be a sensible person, acting by ideals governed by common sense and compassion.

Good intentions won't do the trick, though. And fuck for that. Just like neither compassion nor common sense will save anyone. Funny how hard that is for me to learn.

As last post implied, I'd like to belive it all started when my hard disk died. I can't say it was a sign of fate, rather a sign of "Fuck you, let's take what you've created, and kill it so you can't get it again!" - I hate the gods of irony and foresight, and if said deities are watching, here's a message to you; I hope you rot in your afterlife, you sadist parentfuckers. Melt in a fucking bonfire, and have a sidedish of pox, served lovingly witha special of terminal, spinal infection; I promise I'll be serving it for you in whatever afterlife awaits for petty gods of fickle fate and spite. Trust me, I'll do it a lot better than you when you're gone, bitches.

Now, that aside;

So it all started back then. My computer got back up and running. Things were supposed to be looking up, right? They were indeed.
My computer got back up and running late last thursday, and that's about the time where things started going really, really wrong.

Before I continue, I feel I must stress; This blog is purely egoistic. I write about myself, and only in vague terms refer to those around me. This is intentional, mildly to protect those that affect my life (writing them out of the wtory where I can avoid it), mostly because I don't feel tossing names on people I care for will improve this anyway. If you're reading this, chances are you're doing so because you for some reason want to know what's going on inside, and outside my head, not whom I spend my time with. That is *not* meant to belittle those that make my everyday worthwhile. It's simply because you have your own blogs where you can write about stuff I'm not part of anyway. And because I care about you enough to not drag your names down through my quagmire. Believe it or not, I'm doing it for you, not against you.

Below, I will make an exception, however, because I can't write about the past week without including it.

Friday comes, and I struggle myself to work much too early for my sensitivities. There was a friday bar (yay, first friday of each month!), and subsequently, I was looking forward to celebrating a friday evening for the first time in about two months. I've had a nasty tendency to have 14-22 shifts on fridays, which anyone'll tell you, lays a dampener on any party enthusiasm thereafter.

So, friday. Yay. Work until 18, get noticeably drunk at the company party, move party on to a local pub. Get more drunk. Colleagues old and new are there, things are fine, it's going to be one hell of an evening, tomorrow's work be damned.

Well, I was right. One hell of an evening, and tomorrow's work be damned both. Just...not entirely in the way I had envisioned it.



Text message isn't from someone I know. Not being a celbrity, getting text messages from unknown people always surprises me.

It's apparantly from my girlfriend's mother, at least what I read in the message.

By here, it's rather important to briefly explain that, on thursday, the 'Ungdomshuset' (Youth house) in inner Copenhagen had finally been stormed by the danish police. A seven year old strife over ownership rights was finally solved by (neccesary) means of official intervention. The place has, for over 20 years, been a gathering place for punk, alternative and generic misfit socializing. I've been there a few times. I didn't feel welcome, or fit in. Regardless, there is a major legal hassle as to whether the legal rights for clearing the building (where the ground, after tearing the place down, is owned by a secterian, christian cult of no little infamy)...So yeah...the youth's rebelling, and people are spilling into Denmark to support the cause.

On the day of the clearing, a demonstration was arranged. A peaceful demonstration, showing the dissatisfaction and disappointment with the city council's failure to solve the situation.

The demonstration gathered over 1200 people.

Of those, my girlfriend was one of.

As police deemed the demonstration getting too close to the then sealed-off building, they decided to dissolve the demonstration, as is their right.

Some people reacted unfavorably to this, and showed their dissatisfaction by means of propelled ballistics. Well, fucking rocks, what'd you expect?

The police reacted predictably harshly to it. And arrested over 70 people. Of which, the stone throwers were not present.

Over 70 peaceful demonstrators were arrested brutally by the police, for simply being in a demonstration that turned violent, that they could not get out of, even if they had heard the police formally calling to dissolve the demonstration. And if they had heard it, there was nowhere to go, the police had already boxed them in.

The stone throwers got away, to pillage another day. The nonviolent ones? Got put into strips, and arrested.

She was one of them. She would not even be fucking able to LIFT a stone, much less able to, nor willing to, throw it.

She was put into strips and detained for over 24 hours. She was deprived of any personal belongings apart from her clothes, including her anxiety-depressant medicine. She was put in a cell alongside 20 teenagers who had done nothing wrong.

She was put before a judge, just *over* 24 hours later (danish law states that you shall be placed before a judge *inside* 24 hours), having been in strips for a third of that timeShe haden't slept, nor properly eaten, and was about to collapse. In my mind I see her detained, crying and reaching out for me, and I'm not there, I didn't even know she was detained. I went about my job and everyday like nothing was wrong.

I get to the pub at around 22.30; I get set up with a beer and start preparing for a hefty night.
At 23.10, I realize I've recieved a text message. Previously, apparantly someone from hidden number has tried calling me. I check the text message, beer in one hand.

Reading the message, it tells me it's from her mother. It tells me she's just been released from detainment, and that she is coming home.

It asks me to do what I can to be there.

I almost make it there before her.

I make quick goodbyes to my colleagues who look bewildered, apparantly I am, in spite of being an emotional person, usually composed enough not make a scene.

I don't. I read the message, and turn to walk out.

I almost make it before her.

I arrive, reasonably drunk but with an adrenaline level that sobers me surprisingly; I remember guiding the taxi driver as good as any GPS system would hope for.

She's there. I can hear her crying from already before I open the door; not the "I scraped my knee" kind of crying either. She's crying like there is no curing the pain.

I never had a chance to prepare for it, either, drunk or not.

She's there. Crying. She's holding something. I can't really make out what it is.

I get into her apartment, and slip off coat and satchel and try to get my bearings, the warmth of the apartment making my glasses fog. I can't fucking see what she's holding.

But she's rocking back and forth.

I know it's not medically possible, but I would daresay that adrenaline will make you sober faster than anything else. Fear, panic and helplessness, incidentally, causes adrenaline production.

I span the two meters between us in a heartbeat, and find her cradling one of her rats.

...And it's not moving.

That, is about the point where things start splintering inside me. I may understand some of emotions, I may even understand how to curb sadness, but I am not experienced enough in this, I am not educated in this, I am neither sober nor strong enough to help her.

One of her pet rats had died while she was being detained for participating in a peaceful demonstration.

I know how petty and insignificant it seems in the grand scheme, but at that moment the dead rat was what broke my resolve. I simply could not take it.

I managed to get her to wrap the rat in cloth and place it somewhere cold, I got her, shivering and sobbing to bed, I excused myself to the kitchen, saying I was going to call her parents and let them know I was there, taking care of her. I even did complete the call.

And then it came apart. The alcohol, the worry, the sadness, the feeling of insufficience, the dead rat, the anger and the feeling of suddenly having gone an entirely other way than I had meant to, all came down over me, and I began choking on my breath.

I wasn't prepared, and in my egoism, I didn't feel it was fair. I could not do anything to make things better at that time, and when I started seeing clearly again, over ten minutes had passed.

I got her to bed, and called in to my teamleader, telling him in short terms that I'd simply not be showing up for work the next day.

Gradually, over the next day, she got better, a night's sleep helped. Food helped as well. Funny how grief and fear just needs tangible countermeasures to be kept in check.

She still twitches and grips my hand panically when a police car drives by. She still stares around her, looking for escape when she hears a siren far away. She is like a frightened animal, in spite of all her civilisation, and I don't blame her; but my sympathy does not lessen my anger, my sadness.

For I feel, that even now, proud and frightened as she stands, she has started down a path I cannot follow.

I can't protect her against the police. I can't protect her against the injustice, the bending of rules, or the cruel punishment that the police metes out off-screen.

I'm here, and I've built my entire life on the single principle that I would protect those I care for, from evil. And now I can't.

And that's when the anger kicks in.

When did I suddenly become the victim? When did the police lock me up for no reason? When was I slammed against a wall and forced into strips for something I had no part of?

I wasn't and yet I feel that it should rather have been me instead. Not because I want to be a martyr, or because I feel it'd better anything, but just to keep that one, vulnerable soul from the callousness of the state I live in.

...But she chose this path. I will respect that. She did not choose violence, but she chose, last night, to go to ground 69, the erstwhile pile of rubble that marks the last bits of the Youth house.

She's choosing her path.

And I see her walking in a direction that I can't follow.

So I stand here at the crossroad, and come to terms with that this is something I may not be able to abide with, that what I've already felt as a possible lack of emotion and devotion was indeed simply caring, not loving, and that now she's going a different path than me.

The seperation hurts, and I miss that part of her that won't be coming back now; and I am angry at her - WHY did she have to do this? Why should it have had to happen? Why should all this worry, fear and protectiveness all come tumbling down?

And at last, the question that keeps me up, when I try to sleep, cliché as it may be;

Did I comfort her because I love her, or because I worried for her?

What kind of person am I, regardless of the outcome? Can I even look myself in the eyes now, and say that I love?

I've stopped asking, because the answer frightens me more than the silence.

Retrogradation; Deterioration; regression; fall; lapse.

Retrogradation 1/2

ret·ro·gra·da·tion Pronunciation[re-troh-grey-dey-shuhn] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun
1.
backward movement.
2.
decline or deterioration.


Well, it's been a while since I've put to word my life here.

I'm sure it'll enjoy some of my beloved readers to know that I've been away longer than I probably should have, things have tended to whisker me away from the world of electronicae, unfortunately.

As it goes; we need to look back a few weeks, to when what I by now regard as a new chapter in my life started.

It all started with a hard disk head crash. By now, I've realized that apparantly I have a borderline unearthly ability to force my hard drives to die on me; I'm sure there could be written and wrought much speculation on these apparant powers; sadly I can't will them into existance, they apparantly only manifest themselves when physically most inconvenient, and moreover, only in a degree where complete hard drive death is certain.

It all started with the death of a hard drive that I of course had no fucking backup from - being this, the fourth headcrash I've had, one'd have fucking thought I'd have the care to make backups in due time. Not so, not least from my physical inability to do so. No secondary hard drive, no DVD burner. No easy out, and no solution. And obviously, no happy ending.

Well, so the disk died on me, which is, what, a week and a half ago. The first day was spent trying to ascertain the problem's extent, was it a fan making that weird noise? Nope. Smothered them, one by one, didn't stop the noise, and obviously the fact that my PC wasn't booting.
Loose S-ATA cable? Nope. Swapped that one for a new, no difference.
Ah! Unplugging the hard disk made the weird noise stop.

Oh, fuck.

From there on, it went downhill, as you may be able to tell.

That week was intended to be my week off from work (which it was), and a week of relaxation and gathering my senses (which it wasn't). The same evening (wednesday), I had a friend order 2 x 320 gig disks, to run in RAID-1 subsequently. For those not technologically inclined, it just means that one disk will constantly mirror the primary disk's data, meaning that in the case of a disk death (again), I should still have a backup disk...that I'd then swap for the primary disk, hoping that a replacement disk would get there in time to backup the backup.

Order goes out; 2 x 320 gig disks, a fan for the disks (to lower the temperature, hopefully extending their apparantly all too fragile lease on life in my hands), a DVD writer, and a proper headset (because god knows, I need proper sound...and fucking loud, too).

Final order comes down to;
320 gig disk x2
Disk fan x1
DVD writer x 1
Medusa 5.1 ProGamer USB headset x 1 (yeah, programer, cos I...like, uh, live off off internet gaming)

Ordered wednesday. ordered in time for them to ship it for the next day, so my hopes as high as my naïvety figured that I should have my box back up in 2 days, tops.

You know me well enough already, and given that I'm writing this, now, that obviously did not happen.

The next 6 days were spent trying to reach the sender, the danish postal service, blowing money on internet cafés, and alcohol when the burden of offline-ness became too strong. I managed to meet up with aquaintances and friends, loved ones and whatnot in the meanwhile. Outsiders might say it was good for me. Fuck them. I needed to be online, and no amount of enjoyable socializing would in the end substitute for it. Well, admitted, it did for periods of time, but getting home reminded me of what needed to be done. In particular due to my TV and PS2.

I don't think I've mentioned the special relationship I share with my TV and PS2.

No, it's nothing physical, you perverse bastards.

In short, about half a year ago, my TV started dieing on me. As death comes, it comes slowly and unobtrusively, letting you get used to the signs of its coming without noticing it.

First, the colors die, bit by bit. That is, periodically, my TV insists that it is indeed a black and white TV. It'll revert itself after some time, cursing, and complimentary baby offerings. Like I said, the passing of a venerable, but malevolent being. It demands sacrifices and frustration before it is sated to a level where it'll bestow upon me colors. Heretic motherfucker, one day that TV will end its days with a stake through its blackened&whitened heart. And I shall laugh. Until I recall that means no TV, no PS2.

PS2? Well, I might not have that one with me for as long as I would have liked. It's dieing. Like the TV. Like a fucking emo kid on livejournal. Bit by bit. Load time is exploding, disks accepted are dwindling. I won't get into why I actually care for the PS2, but leave it, I'd prefer it wasn't like this. Wishing for things being different, however, is the epitome of futility. It's slipping through my fingers, and no amount of neither screaming, beseeching or violence will turn it around. Fucking dieing on me.

So, I had a PC that was. I have a TV that's slipping away. And a PS2 that, irrespectively of the TV, may or may not work. I am, beyond doubt, displaying my powers of the entropy touch. Just a fucking pity I only can do it on inanimate objects...of own possession. Fucking superpowers, never work entirely like intended.

Short of the long, or long of the short, whichever you prefer, in the end I got things reinstated, working, and now I'm just waiting for something else to die, that's within my reach. I thank whatever god may or may not be listening for the fact that this power only extends to inanimage objects, and myself. Least, that way, I'll be able to keep it inside. Just like the rest.

So yah. I'm online from home, music playing (suitably loud), beer at ready (suitably cold), cigarettes inside reach (suitable...cigarette'ish?). And writing. Suitably...moody?

This was part one. All the technicals. I think I, mostly, managed to keep emotions out of this. I'll amend for that in what is to follow.

Heroes...Who needs God when you've got me?

It happens rarely, that something truly sweeps my legs away under me; my jabs about how I feel jaded may even have some truth to them. Usually, if it happens, it's something life-changing, an entirely new outlook on life or similar, but apparantly, less can suffice.

A few days ago, I was introduced to a series. TV-series of all things, something I've never had any realy interest in. I considered tv-series the pacifier for the dimwitted, which I admit is a rather unwarranted attitude.

The series was called Heroes. 15 episodes of each 45 minutes, give or take. I've chomped through all 15 now. Record speed at that, but then again I never was good at limiting myself once I found a new indulgence.

The series revolves around something that instantly reminded me of the game settings Aberrant; normal people who discover they are developing supernatural powers, and struggling to come to terms with it. From the empathic cop, to the super-regenerating cheerleader outcast, pretty much all aspects and walks of life. It could so easily, ever so easily have become shallow and trite, but instead something developed in this series. I admit I was both tired and marginally drunk when I saw the first three episodes, but even so I honestly felt it touched me, somehow. I came to care for the characters, care for the plot, appreciate the story I was being told.

It made me think of old role playing sessions, things I miss doing. Everyone should have the chance to be a hero at some point, if just for a few hours, or even minutes.

By comparison, I don't think my life qualifies as heroic. Today as an example; top achievement today was to buy an expensive electric shaver, and a mildly excessive amount of energy drinks I've recently fallen for. Hey, they're cheap, taste alright, and apart from that, they alledgedly contain both Guarana and caffeine. Score.

Not epic, though. I very much doubt I could pass the snot in my head off as epic, unless it started glowing - in which case I'd label it radioactive and try to sell it to terrorists or somesuch.

Returning to the matter at hand;

The title of this blog, the latter part is a quote from the series.

I rarely say this, and those who know me know it to be true, it's very rare that I find something that moves me enough to start trying to peddle it to others. Fundamentally, I think everyone should make their own choice to find things...but this is going to be the exception.

You have a chance to stumble upon Heroes, seize the chance. Stock up your fridge, lock the door, and immerse yourself into a world that's as fascinating and promising as it is grim and bleak at times.

It's a form of relief; I doubt anyone has not at several times wished they had special powers, and the ability to do right the things wronged...Doing the right thing, and dreaming of it seems to be an awfully reoccurring theme for me. Yay for reality escaping, I guess.

Minor modifications

Nothing big or world-changing this time around, just a little update;

I've added the possibility of anonymous comments, after a bit of whining from Alex.

I've added a links section. Nothing massive, just a few things I usually go through.

Also, added a picture. Just...because I felt the place needed a little bit of that as well.

I'll probably fiddle around with some more things later, but for now, this'll do.

Valentine's day massacred

Ok ok, so it's no longer Valentine's day. Bite me.

It's a good example of something I once found endearing, romantic and a perfect day to reaffirm one's feelings. Before that, it was a day I found a source of immense loneliness, which may or may not have had something to do with me being single, angsty and teenager, but I digress.

I remember thinking that day was potentially better than both christmas, new year's and my birthday, all included - naturally, barring that one birthday that went horribly awry, but that's a story for another time.

Fuck. I keep sidetracking myself. Yay for lack of focus. I blame life in general, customer in specific, and anyone else than me in particular. That's the ticket, surely.

So, yeah. Valentine's day. Albeit that the very concept of it has been thoroughly reamed by corporate greed, it's a nice thought. Except, of course, for those that are alone on the day. For those, it's not really a lot of fun at all, unless they adopt either spite or ignorance. It's hardly fair, and god knows I'm sure there's a lot of people feeling pressured on the day, when affirmations of affection are no longer voluntary but mandatory, it kind of defeats the purpose...and with massive commercial hearts leaning on you from every side, it becomes something to struggle through, rather than revel in. My take is that our current brand of reality is simply too egoistic and rushed for this sort of thing to work. I mean, just look at what's happened to christmas.

I wonder if I've become too cynical for Valentine's day. Too old, too grizzled, like it's happened with christmas, that by now is just another chore to fulfill to a satisfying degree...whether it's because I simply will not let commercialism nutt in my mouth, and expect me to swallow, or if it's an earnest lack of emotion that dictates it for me.

I feel oddly defiant in the face of it. Maybe make a day dedicated to hating people would get my attention a bit better, and of course, I'd love to see the Colgate-smiles glaring from newspaper ads, not smiling but frowning, grinning, and wishing me a horrible day.

"Happy hatred day. May your face melt, your house burn down, and your significant other run off with your best friend, fucker. ps, fuck you thoroughly."
Whatever they'd sell me with that ad, I'd buy without hesitation.

Then again, it's a lot easier displaying negative emotions than positive ones. You're a lot less vulnerable that way. Maybe that's another reason for my Valentine's day scepticism. I don't feel like letting complete strangers see me smile. I dunno if it's because I think they haven't earned it, or because it leaves them knowing I have something to lose (whether or not I actually do). It's not only more natural, but also seems more gratifying to just grin and cok my eyebrow. Fuck'em, let them earn the right to see me smile if they want it.

So yeah. Valentine's day. What of it?
it's like an extra twist of the knife, ending a phone conversation, an email, or a text message with "Happy Valentine's day".

I don't believe in new year's resolves, for the same reason; you want to do something right and good, you don't need a fricking' title for a day to do so. Turn of a year? Who cares. Any actions, change or whatever needs to come from genuine motivation.

Moving further from the point, isn't there something fundamentally wrong when you need to know what day it is to promise yourself or others to be a better person?

Then again, I stop and wonder again, maybe it's not the commercialism, and maybe it's not even me being too jaded for it. After all, if I didn't care at all, why the hell would I spend time writing about it? Maybe I just lack a proper conduit. Perhaps that'd make it more obvious.

Ahwell. Until I figure things out better, I'll just praise myself happy that Valentine's day has been utterly sliced up from my side anyway. I guess I can put away the heart-shaped scalpel away now, and feel all good about myself. I've done my share.

Screw you, Valentine's day. You're nothing but memories coated in commercialism anyway.

Beaten to death with CAT-5

Or so I fantasize.

This'll be reasonably brief, since I am still at work.

The stream of calls, the lamenting wails of despair, have calmed down for now.

I'm left hating not my job, but the inevitable stupidity that invariably follows.

I know I'm arrogant about a lot of things, and I most definately know that I am arrogant in dealing with customers, at least when they insist that they know better than I do; but even in spite of my instinctive distance to any customer leaves me, occasionally, stumped, and in abject disbelief.

Just when you think you've seen it all. The best part is almost how people take internet access for granted, and assume that unless their house is on fire...

**1 hour later**

Well, fuck. Did I say the stream of calls had slowed down?

Guess what. It picked up again.

I'm considering homicide by flogging. Multiple homicide. As per the title of this entry.

*sighs*

Time to go home, now. Time for some fresh air, a cigarette, and something less mollifyingly retarded.

Fuelled by hatred, desire, curiosity and dreams

I really wasn't going to post tonight. Mainly, to be honest, because I had no real inspiration to write.

Fortunately, when inspiration fails, others step in and incidentally say something that makes you think in new, decaying orbits of thoughts.

And here I find myself looking back again on things in the past. This time, fortunately, it's with a mildly content grin, and a slight shrug.

All people are driven by only a few elements, anything else is just icing on the cake, at least from my perspective. It can be an ideal, an emotion, and assuming mental instability, I'm sure it can be the invisible martian lodged in your brain, too.

Years ago, I was fuelled by bitterness and hatred. Ultimately stemming from not liking myself, or what I had achieved, I projected it onto life, wishing misery on my fellow humans. Not to a degree where I'd actually cause noticeable damage, mailing nailbombs to random people or whatever, but simply wishing loss and sorrow for others.

It's natural, when you feel at a loss, and no seeming way out, you eventually channel it out at whatever gets in the way.

For me, I had an outlook on life that'd make Nietzche hide behind his moustache, and Voltaire make warding-off gestures. Lord of the dusk, mister acidity himself. It didn't make me feel better, but at least it justified my wishing ill on others, after all, what had life really done for me?

Such hubris tends to cause divine intervention, sooner or later I'm sure whatever powers-that-be would have stuck a lighting bolt down my throat, and had me raped by a rabid badger clown wearing a sandpaper condom; so I reckon my luck was that things changed for me.

I just come to think about how it was to be purely fuelled by hatred.

I've never done cocaine, but I guess this was as close to it as I'll get without doing the powder myself.

It's bad for you, and you know it, deep down...but it's so powerful, like fire instead of blood. If you listen closely, you can hear the blood rushing through your veins, and when you're high on hatred, you can feel the power of it coursing through you. It's intoxicating, all while it's disintegrating you, bit by bit. Emotions go first, sanity follows.

Like nitrous gasoline in the tank.

Fortunately for me, I learned there are other things to fuel one's drive in life. Ever since then, though, once I realized how I was running myself into a dead end, I've caught myself thinking even more of the inspiration for anyone I talk to for an amount of time. Is their goal money? Power? Love? Hate?

If you can discern what single word drives a person, you already know a lot about them, what you do with that knowledge is something different entirely.

I still feel disdain, I'm still arrogant as fuck, my most used facial expression is that of a cocked eyebrow and nothing else, but I'm better for having learned to find other fuel methods. Life is richer when you're no longer seeing things in monochromatic.

There was a point to all this at a point, but at the moment the best thing I can think of is how it relates to my (lack of) experience with drugs. Drugs, man. I should have done them properly when I was younger, crash and burn and then return to life stronger for the experience. I hate it when people talk about their journeys through mind-expanding chemicals, and I catch myself momentarily thinking "I really should get around to trying it at some point", before realizing I don't really want to do so anymore. Some things aren't meant to be pick-up elements to your life, but solely added on top of something already good, and while my life, surprisingly enough is good, I don't think it's good enough to be able to bear me waltzing around, white powder and blood pouring from my nose. Nor do I actually think my life would be better for it.

So contradictory, I know. I want to have done it, so I actually could know how it feels, but I donn't want to try something that may change my life so drastically for so little gain.

I'm an addictive nature, as in how I respond to stimuli, and considering the cigarettes next to my keyboard, I don't think I'd need another addiction.

It's the lure of drugs, the easy way out to keep the sharp edge, to make the bright lights brighter, or the comforting darkness softer. It's a lack of self-control for so many, who need the stimulants to reach the peaks they so crave, but who am I to judge them? I don't, I just go down a different path...and we all know how tempting the other path always seems.

Clipped Wings;
Fuelled by hatred™
Fuelled by desire™
Fuelled by curiosity™
Fuelled by dreams™
Fuelled for your pleasure©*

*Only for premium customers