shoplifters of the world unite

Big W, a chain here in Australia, kinda like tesco's back home in England, except minus the food, or the equivalent of kmart I guess, sells most everything, and its just downstairs, which is quite handy, if only they didn't insist on checking your bags every time you leave the store, not that I have anything to hide, its just an inconvenience, especially when you look as perennially suspicious as myself.

Ventured there yesterday to purchase new bedsheets and a quilt cover. I've given up on taking my used ones to the launderette.. too cumbersome trying to remove all that fabric from a backpack and place them in the washing machine.. threatens my poise.. any task which impinges upon my ordinarily unflappable air of coolness is a task to be dispensed with.. that's as good a design for life as any I think.. only do what makes thou look cool.. fuck running for the train, or pausing to tie ones shoelaces (unless it gives one a chance to better display one's fuchsia socks whilst flaunting one's pert posterior ).. so I now just buy new bedlinen every few weeks and throw the old stuff away. So deliciously decadent I know, but a rebel's gots to maintain, and there ain't no half steppin.

And after the girl served me, she asked to look in my laptop case (which only contains an empty lunch box but at least it makes me look corporate), but I was clutching my groceries from Safeway's next door so my hands were full and I told her to open it, and she said she wasn't allowed to and I had to open it myself, at which point I laughed and walked out, at which point she started screaming, and it must have been pretty loud as my iPod was blaring out Street Fighting Man on full blast and I still heard her, and one of those Kenyan long distance runner type security guards was walking towards me. I'd have fancied his chances over 10,000 metres across the fucking plains of the Masai Mara dodging wildebeest and antelope but he wasn't gonna be able to touch shit over a 20 yard sprint up the escalator. But he had this pleading look in his big docile eyes, like 'I beg you not make me work, me no in Africa now so me just want be lazy please boss' and I smiled and he smiled, relieved, grateful, blinding me with his picket fence dentures, and he held my shopping bags whilst I opened my laptop case and he laughed and I laughed and it was a beautiful multicultural moment that made me proud not to be an Australian. And next time I go there im gonna pack my empty laptop case with pornos and syringes, or maybe even a copy of the Koran and an ominously ticking clock.. really give the bitch on the checkout something to stress over.

Bored at work today, and reading about Henry James. Henry James once said "A novel is in its broadest sense a personal, a direct impression of life: that, to begin with, constitutes its value, which is greater or less according to the intensity of the impression". That's as good a summation of the art, worth and function of fiction as any. I like Henry James because he says true things like this. And I loved Henry James because of the way he writes about women; the way he gets into their heads, elucidates their motivations, makes you understand the nature of their complications, quite clinically actually, but always sympathetic, yet never patronising. Basically, I'm fucked if I know what goes on in a woman's mind, but I'm slightly less fucked for reading Henry James, and that's something to be grateful for. And I'd assumed that someone able to offer so much insight must have had substantial experience with women in his own life. So im gutted to find out otherwise, and realised again how dangerous it is to delve into the lives of your heroes. They don't just disappoint, they often disgust. I can handle quirks and perversions, but when someone turns out to be a pussy, that's plain unforgivable. An excerpt of a letter written by James to a friend - not a lover - just a friend.

"Dearest Mary Cadwalader. I yearn over you, but I yearn in vain; & your long silence really breaks my heart, mystifies, depresses, almost alarms me, to the point even of making me wonder if poor unconscious & doting old Célimare (Jones' pet name for James) has "done" anything, in some dark somnambulism of the spirit, which has...given you a bad moment, or a wrong impression, or a "colourable pretext"...However these things may be, he loves you as tenderly as ever; nothing, to the end of time, will ever detach him from you, & he remembers those Eleventh St. matutional intimes hours, those telephonic matinées, as the most romantic of his life".

No wonder he never experienced a consummated sexual relationship with that kind of overblown desperation.. and framed within such fuckin formal and mannered language.  Its not that im not a romantic. I am. Love stories are the only stories. Love songs are the only songs. I just have a different conception of romance. Its not to be expressed via grand sweeping empty gestures. I mean, love can challenge, it should challenge.. there's surely no opportunity for inspiration without confrontation, it can be aggressive, reckless, that's all fine, but only if its honest, and honesty isn't always pretty, but the language of honesty is always simple, it doesn't detract from the sentiment because it is the sentiment, and then here's Henry James with his couterfeit billet-doux reeking of bullshit and now i can never read him again.

I much prefer this, which I found today, Marlene Dietrich writing to Ernest Hemingway "..I think it is high time to tell you that I think of you constantly. I read your letters over and over and speak of you with a few chosen men. I have moved your photograph to my bedroom and mostly look at it rather helplessly.."

Currently reading : To Have and Have Not By Ernest Hemingway Release date: 20 March, 1996

5:58 AM - 5 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

I'm Stranded

Walking home from work this winter evening and spot a couple, hand in hand, practically fucking skipping down Elizabeth St.. the kind of obnoxiously amorous behaviour that would ordinarily, involuntarily, expel spit from my disdainful lips in their sickening direction.

But these two lovers were different. Matching band t-shirts. Sort of. The bloke's was Birdman, the girl's The Saints. For those ignorant of that first glorious wave of Australian punk, Radio Birdman and The Saints roared out some of the finest rock'n'roll ever recorded, and in the case of the Saints' 'I'm Stranded', predated the Pistols and the Ramones by at least 6 months.

Before venturing to Melbourne I'd naively expected fans of the two to be everywhere, which didn't prove to be the case at all. Clearly for the best.. nobody needs to be in thrall to the past. But was still nice to see this couple. Except when I pause to look and smile as im horizontal with them, the man catches my eye and growls 'mind yer own fucking business, CUNT '. I was sort of upset, for a second, but that turned to amusement a second later, which a further second later became the realisation that he only took offence cause they were midgets, and he would have assumed I was eying them as some sort of abnormal twosome, or even worse, patronising them. And knowing how much Sri Lankans and Indians want for tact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if him and his girl get stared at by my lot on a daily basis.

Truth is though – and this surprised me, pleasantly – I hadn't even realised they were midgets. I just liked the t-shirts.

And I didn't like how they had me all wrong. How they thought I could possibly give a shit about how they look. I don't begrudge a midget happiness. Well I do.. in the sense that i begrudge every couple's happiness, save for close friends and family.

Somehow it feels worse when a midget thinks you're a bad person. I want to be the midget's friend. Or at least I want the midgets to know that my reason for disliking them is the same reason I have for disliking everybody else. Namely, that they are everybody else, and everybody else sucks.

The midgets are wrong, for I am a good person. I base this assertion on the fact that when I see a pretty girl in a bar whom all the guys are perving at I smile at her not so pretty friend.

Anyway, I can empathise with the midgets because just like the midgets I also attract the stares. I tell myself that its because of my dashing good looks and sartorial accomplishment.  But during those rare moments of clarity, when I slip from the grip of the delusion which consumes me, and I survey myself in a department store mirror I realise that perhaps im not the Sri Lankan Marcello Mastroianni and quite incapable of causing Anita Ekberg's and Anouk Aimée's panties to flutter. At which point I vow to start frequenting a better standard of store with some half decent mirrors.

Currently listening : (I'm) Stranded By The Saints Release date: 23 September, 1997

5:48 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Brown on Brown

Half a bottle of merlot down and another half to go so excuse any incoherence.. Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands just came on my itunes and reminded me of a girl..

i was in sri lanka in the summer of '95.. 15 yrs old and armed with a copy of On the Road. Even at that age i was enough of a cunt to have imaginary conversations in my head with hot impressionable french lit Sorbonne students about how the beats sacrificed literary merit for empty romanticism and bullshit mysticism and that i'd much rather read some henry james or stendhal than any of those dope smoking homos thank you very much.. and so i'd never dare read any fucking kerouac back in england 'cause that's what every other cunt did and at that age i was all about being predictably unpredictable.. but being surrounded by a load of illiterate sri lankans makes it easy to dispense with any silly adolescent attempts at literary elitism.

And i duly started reading On the Road on the 8 hour flight to the subcontinent and finished it in 2 hours and read it another four times before hitting sri lankan soil.. and the book rarely left my side for the whole holiday as i aspired to write the anglo-sri lankan equivalent.. aspirations which i thankfully forced myself to forget about as soon as the trip was over lest i become the beat cliché teen which i knew i was better than.. i mean, its bad enough that i love catch 22 and slaughterhouse five and cuckoos nest..

i can actually see that same copy of it right now on my stack of books symbolically weighed down by the three hefty faulkner tomes on top of it.. and can safely say it will never be read again for fear that i might actually still like it. But at the time it seemed easily as lifechanging an experience as discovering morrissey and masturbation.

I made friends with a boy called Chaminda who lived in the same village as some of my family. i'd give him english lessons and he'd roll me spliffs and show me how to pickpocket tourists. Thinkin about it, some of the best friendships i ever had lasted just two weeks with scruffy sri lankan kids who i'd never see again.

i don't know what Chaminda 'did'. a hustle here and a hustle there i think. he didn't go to school, and always carried a knife.. for 'slicing mangos' he claimed.

He lived in this grubby little shanty hut with his ailing ma and two younger sisters and a bug covered straw mat which served as a bed for all four but he had this positively fucking luminous sapphire sheened chrome Triumph motorcycle which was 5 times the size of him and clearly controversially acquired.. was his deceased pa's, who was some sort of local gangster if i remember correctly but who died a bankrupt drunk and left his family fuck all according to my aunt, save for the bike, which Chaminda refused to let his ma sell despite their shit hole of a home.. and i dont blame him.. it was some seriously sexy fucking wheels, and when you're a dirtpoor undeducated fuck like chaminda with zero prospects, gettin on that bike and hurtling down those dusty sri lankan streets demanding the glances of the village maidens like he was straight outta bollywood was the closest that ugly kid was ever gonna get to being a somebody.

He was kinda a somebody to me though. With my mind poisoned by that cunt kerouac i was all about meeting strange folk like this incredibly generous knife wielding thief of a teen with buttercup coloured teeth and a twitchy right eye. I mean.. i thought he was cool as fuck.. and now, just like 'sad eyed lady..' reminded me of that girl (who i just realised i still haven't written about yet), The Dead Boys' 'Sonic Reducer' has come on iTunes and that shit pretty much sums this kid up..

I don't need anyone
Don't need no mom and dad
Don't need no pretty face
Don't need no human race
I got some news for you
Don't even need you too

I got my devil machine
Got my electronic dream
Sonic reducer
Ain't no loser
I'm a sonic reducer
Ain't no loser

And I'd sit on the back of his Triumph and we'd – 'chrome wheeled, fuel injected and steppin out over the line' – explode around these quirky little villages meeting all sorts.. smoking and drinkin all sorts. And one day we chanced upon this little old temple perched on a hill overlooking some paddy fields.. it was on Sunday, and I'll never forget, as we approached it at about 70mph we swerved to avoid a stray cat and were seemingly headed straight for this 20 foot wide reclining Buddha and i thought to myself 'what a great fuckin way to go'.. but we missed it and he regained control and when we came to a halt we were surrounded by about 50 excited children all dressed in pristine white and for a split second i thought that i was dead and that these are the folk whom god / allah / vishnu / buddha pick to greet you when you arrive in heaven.

No such luck of course. The temple served as an orphanage. The head priest, after indulging in a slanging match with chaminda (that's quite a sight to behold.. witnessing a usually serene monk lose his cool with a skewed toothed foul mouthed lankan ruffian), and upon realising i was english, was just the nicest man, and got some of the kids to bring us out tea and freshly plucked super fleshy rambutan fruit. And in the midst of conversing with our hands (the priest didn't speak english, and my Singhalese is limited, so ive learnt to become a dab hand – pun not entirely unintended – of gesticulating with my limbs and making myself understood) the priest.. or Sadhu as we call 'em back in sri lanka.. suddenly ushered over this shy little girl who had kept quiet amidst the frenzy of all the other kids.. and positioned her on his lap and she looked up for a moment.. a precious moment (the other half of the bottle is now almost over and i think i must be getting emotional.. yuck) .. and she had these insane emerald eyes and a pointy pyramid nose and thin steadfast lips and rich peanut butter skin but most affecting of all was just how sad she looked.. it's a look i've seen a couple of times since.. not so much helpless, but lost, and lonely.. and lookin at her and knowing she was an orphan i just wished i could take her back home to england with my family and make sure she never felt lost again.. the logistics of that being near impossible of course. And then something happened.. her nose suddenly started bleeding.. and a hot blob of blood smacked onto her milky dress and she burst into laughter.. not creepy laughter.. happy.. childlike.. and the priest started shouting at her.. and chaminda told me it was because she apparently always picks her nose despite repeated pleas to stop.. and that's when i realised she was the first girl i ever loved.. and theres only been one other since so shes all the more special.. this 8yr old sri lankan orphan with the bloody nose..with her childhood flames on her midnight rug.. with her silhouette when the sunlight dims into her eyes where the moonlight swims.. with her flesh like silk, and her face like glass..

Its quite possible to appreciate beauty without desiring it. And i hope she did alright and life didn't fuck her over too hard.

Currently listening : Blonde on Blonde By Bob Dylan Release date: 01 June, 2004

5:57 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

my rueful laundrette

Every time I visit the launderette, after I've carefully loaded my fitted shirts and argyle socks and vintage jeans and pure wool trousers and silk embraced towels, I'm struck with the slightly embarrassing sensation that my underwear is nowhere near cool enough for one so stylish as I.. and I'm convinced that all the other folk present, upon inspection of my dowdy boxer shorts, are thinking to themselves, 'so he may have all this classy outerwear and think he's all cool and shit but he clearly has fuck all sex life if this is what his bedroom attire looks like'.

Not that any items are especially embarrassing or cringe worthy.. a distinct lack of leopard print or Y fronts.. (those will be a middle aged indulgence.. but for now I still have a semblance of self respect) ..but still not as cool as young men's undergarments are supposed to be these days. I see these buff, bronzed and clearly homosexual Adonis' seductively staring down at me from giant billboards packing 15 foot bulges of god knows what kind of calvin klein encased luncheon meat.. and after the initial revulsion of having these shamelessly peacocking studs thrust upon me I can't help but feel a little inadequate.

Was in a department store underwear section the other week and all the models on the front of the packaging seemed to have two oranges and a baby python shoved down their organ hugging pants. I think its an aspirational thing.. you too can have a 10 inch cock if you splash out 60 bucks on a pair of briefs. No thanks.

And going back to the launderette, surely the  fact that I'm actually making an effort to wash my underwear once a week is virtue enough.. I think clean supersedes chic in this respect.

.........................................................................

I got punched on Friday night.. some huge jew in burger king sat down and chastised me for 'loving myself'. Kudos to The Rebel for managing to drunkenly wolf down a bacon double cheeseburger in 30 seconds flat whilst still emitting an aura of supercilious cool potent enough to offend the Hebrews. Was sorta my fault as well though.. should have got up and walked away upon the realisation that he was 6 foot 3, but decided to antagonise him further by mentioning Palestine. I'm no anti semite though.. I just take umbrage with people deeming me smackworthy when all I was doing was grabbing a late night feed.

......................................................................

I'm so excited by TV right now! The final season of the Sopranos is two episodes in and nothing has changed to make me defer from my opinion that, along with Be My Baby, Guernica and Anna Karenina, it ranks amongst mankind's greatest artistic achievements; Entourage has resumed, and Ari and Vince are still the two people whom I most hope to emulate; and Malcolm McDowell has just turned up in episode 19 of Heroes!

Currently listening : Be Altitude: Respect Yourself By The Staple Singers Release date: 16 November, 1989

11:04 PM - 6 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

she packed my bag last night, preflight

charith says:
i wanna go 2 california so i can ask someone 4 real 'do u know the way to san jose?'

Kris Kristofferson says:
yeh and rob a bank and escape to tulsa

charith says:
and as ur a day away turn 2 the whiskey swilling hooker in the passenger seat of your stolen chevy and say

charith says:
'we're only 24hrs from tulsa'

charith says:
i can hear church bells ringin but its only 3.50pm

Kris Kristofferson says:
u know y that is dont ya?

charith says:
yeh.. some poor choirboys legged it away from the sexpest priest

charith says:
frantically pullin the bells to get some attention

Kris Kristofferson says:
ha!

Kris Kristofferson says:
u and me.. we;re on the level

charith says:
tramps like us

Kris Kristofferson says:
baby its you

charith says:
r u on myspace?

Kris Kristofferson says:
whats myspace?

charith says:
its like a bar online except the people are uglier cos your not drunk

charith says:
u really havnt heard of myspace?

Kris Kristofferson says:
i ave but im too ugly to put my pic up

charith says:
ur not ugly, just bald

Kris Kristofferson says:
too old then

Kris Kristofferson says:
i thought people r better lookin on myspace?

charith says:
if they r god help us all

charith says:
aint pretty

charith says:
have u seen brief encounter?

Kris Kristofferson says:
course.. noel coward init

Kris Kristofferson says:
i think noel cowards my fav literary homo

charith says:
mines tenessee williams

Kris Kristofferson says:
nah brits do the best queer wordsmiths

charith says:
wordsmiths? y dont u say writers? ur a literary homo

Kris Kristofferson says:
no homo

charith says:
go homo

Kris Kristofferson says:
yo homo

Kris Kristofferson says:
streetcars good but the film sucks

charith says:
brandos hot though

Kris Kristofferson says:
in a wifebeating savage kinda way

charith says:
aren't all wifebeaters savage?

Kris Kristofferson says:
not the french.. they jus dish out a refined slap to put madame in her place

charith says:
the french girls i know wouldnt take that

charith says:
they do the slappin

Kris Kristofferson says:
bacharach had the best lyrics

charith says:
cept hal david wrote em

Kris Kristofferson says:
god u think u know everything

charith says:
everything knows me

charith says:
nobody knows whats goin on in my mind but me

Kris Kristofferson says:
the chiffons!

charith says:
i rememba 1st time we met we bonded over girl groups and handclaps and i had to ask to make sure u weren't gay

Kris Kristofferson says:
yeh and we both liked wu tang so it was alright

charith says:
i miss u u cunt

charith says:
if i was musically inclined id write u a song

charith says:
not a great song but a good song

charith says:
not wild horses, but angie maybe

Kris Kristofferson says:
angies a great song though

charith says:
yeh ur right. so ill just write u a great song then

charith says:
u should come to australia. i know a girl with a beehive haircut and plump strawberry lips and a big bum

charith says:
she sells me mango smoothies on my walk in2 work

charith says:
her names jessica and she smells of vitamin c and has a tattoo above her chest which says REDUX

charith says:
you'd fall in love with her so hard its not even funny. i'll introduce you.

charith says:
i bet she likes em bald as well

Kris Kristofferson says:
i had a dream about steve last night

Kris Kristofferson says:
he was playin the piano

Kris Kristofferson says:
mr bojangles

Kris Kristofferson says:
He said, I dance now and then in honky tonks
for drinks and tips.
But most of the time I spend behind these county bars.
He said, I drinks a bit.
He shook his head and as he shook his head I heard someone ask, please

charith says:
Nina Simone's was the best version

charith says:
then harry nillsons

Kris Kristofferson says:
then dylans

charith says:
i dreamt about steve a few weeks ago

charith says:
he was riding a kids bike up towards the moon like on ET

charith says:
bike was probly stolen knowing him

Kris Kristofferson says:
i want my funeral 2 b a sad affair

charith says:
i remember a time when ur funeral seemed 2 b just round the corner

Kris Kristofferson says:
change the subject

charith says:
sorry

charith says:
i remember tim's brother.. bens funeral..

charith says:
they played the isaac hayes version of walk on by

charith says:
was sad but kinda perfect

charith says:
so.. im writing a book

Kris Kristofferson says:
ur always writin a boook

charith says:
but this time properly

Kris Kristofferson says:
whats the 1st line?

Kris Kristofferson says:
'a peculiar ennui envelops me'

charith says:
no

charith says:
i dont have a 1st line yet

charith says:
but i have a 2nd line

Kris Kristofferson says:
which is............

charith says:
something about an asparagus

Kris Kristofferson says:
2nd line is too early to bring the veg in

charith says:
but its a metaphor

charith says:
but the only metaphor in the whole book

charith says:
or maybe its a similie

charith says:
i dunno

Kris Kristofferson says:
i dont care

charith says:
im listenin to rocket man

charith says:
mars aint the kinda place to raise your kids

charith says:
in fact its cold as hell

Kris Kristofferson says:
i learnt everything i know about childcare from pop songs

Kris Kristofferson says:
im not the man they think i am at home

charith says:
It's lonely out in space

charith says:
On such a timeless flight

Kris Kristofferson says:
and I think it's gonna be a long long time

charith says:
x

Currently listening : Dionne Warwick Sings the Bacharach & David Songbook By Dionne Warwick Release date: 27 January, 1998

11:44 PM - 4 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

I'll state my case, of which i'm uncertain

Time to exert my myspace given right for hypocrisy and refute some of the sentiments expressed in my last blog.  I just don't understand people who go through life saying they have no regrets.. no regrets at all.. absolutely nothing. Now to me, that expresses a level of conceit far exceeding my own egotism.. which is plenty excessive as it is..

Imagine how fuckin insufferable these people must be.. convinced that their every action has been for the best.

And if you live your life having no regrets, how are you supposed to learn from your mistakes? Where's the personal development? There isn't any.. you just trundle through the entirety of your existence emitting a cunt like smugness.

That's why I don't like My Way. "Regrets, Ive had a few, But then again, too few to mention". I know he didn't write it, but still, fuck off Frank. I love him to bits, but that whole song's just saying, 'look at me, I'm the best'. More vulnerability please.

I have a million regrets.. some trivial, some profound to the point of paralysis, and it sure ain't a nice feeling.. but at least they serve as a reminder not to fuck up again. I mean, I'll still keep on doin wrong I'm sure, but less and less I guess. I hope.

In the meantime I feel impelled to kid myself into believing that there's something quite romantic about self destruction. I kinda have to, to quit feeling sorry for myself. And I guess it is romantic, in its own rebellious way. But not healthy. And certainly not clever. And worst of all, clichéd. That's the scariest thing. But its just plain easier to make the wrong decision on purpose.. you could try and do the right thing, and then invariably fuck it up in the end.. or you could save yourself a lot of time and dispense with the false hope by fucking it all up in the first place. It's the easiest way to be in control of your destiny.

Problem with the self destructive route, is that few of us live in isolation.. (the ones that do.. how lucky are they?).. and of course its other people who end up doin most of the hurting. Hence the regret.

............................................................

Something I hate more than most anything is other people's laughter. Or rather, not so much the laughter than the inanity which elicits such laughter. Shit just ain't funny. See.. when MY friends laugh.. its for something deserving of laughter.. something which bears more than a passing resemblance to hilarity. But the people I pass on the streets are so intensely dull.. sometimes i'll turn off my iPod and listen to what they talk about, and wonder how they can look themselves in the mirror when they're all characterised by such deathly tedium.

............................................................

When I was younger I always hoped I'd grow up to be like John Peel.. with real relevant and eclectic taste, but all I listen to these days (and I'm not even grown up yet) are Tom Waits (not edgy out there what the fuck was that Tom Waits but whiskey ballad one man and his piano and a whole lotta heartbreak Tom Waits), The Cars and Chicago, Blood on the Tracks, Billy Joel, Doo Wop and 60's Girl Groups. I've become what I've hated, 'cept I don't really hate it so much after all.

And how good are these songs? So ridiculously melodramatic. I'm pretty sure that teenage girls these days don't fall in love any more.. i think its just blowjobs booze and bongs.. but imagine some 14yr old in the 60's crying in their bedrooms to these.. I love it.

the paris sisters - always waitin'

kenni woods - can't he take a hint

the nu-luvs - so soft, so warm

Currently listening : Growin' Up Too Fast: The Girl Group Anthology By Various Artists Release date: 18 June, 1996

1:21 AM - 12 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

The Fall

I asked my 7r old nephew Sachin last night what he'd been up to. "I've got a girlfriend now but she teases me too much so I think I'll have to finish with her, and anyway, daddy says girl's are trouble". "oh my god!", I replied, "how long has that been going on??". And he says "don't say that! God loves us all, and knows everything, especially about YOU".

Disturbing. I mean, what kinda perception must my nephew have of me if he thinks god needs to keep an extra vigilant eye out for chaz. But mainly disturbing 'cause he's a 7yr old who shouldn't know shit about god just yet.

So I have a word with his mum and dad. Dad thinks its cute. Mum's horrified.. as she should be. She tells me how when they enrolled him at school there was an option on the form to input his religion. She left it blank, telling me that a 5yr old is too young to know what religion he wants to follow.. and whiles she hopes he'll be a Buddhist like her, she'll leave it up to him to decide when he gets older. Which is fair enough. Problem is though, a blank space where one's religion should be is an interfering Christian teacher's wet dream. That's how these perverted prudes get their kicks.. showing lost souls the way to salvation.. and when they do it to kids, it's tantamount to child abuse.. and their behaviour is as predatory as any paedophile. Only difference being that in Australia this kind of spiritual paedophilia is effectively state sanctioned. The prime minister's a religious nut job.. or rather he pretends to be to satiate a reactionary right wing electorate.. which is actually even worse.

All public schools in this country have a stated obligation to keep religion distinct from education. So when seven year olds are being indoctrinated into the ways of a belief system which they cannot possibly even begin to comprehend.. and without their parent's consent.. that's pretty fucked up.

……………………..

There's some chick at my work, and all she does is give me shit. Non stop, but mainly after she's had a few post-work drinks.  I don't mind it so much. She clearly only does it because she wants me, and realises that I'm not at all interested in her.. not at all interested in most anyone for that matter. But she sorta got to me on Thursday night.. was sitting there with two other girls and calls me conceited.. and mumbles something about how I act like I'm up on some pedestal, too good for everybody else. 

That's not strictly true.

It's an arrogance borne out of insecurity.. I amplify my attributes to compensate for my deficiencies.. deficiencies that im all too acutely aware of.. deficiencies that would be debilitating were it not for the aforementioned arrogance. The human propensity for self deception is one of our greatest survival techniques..  (that's what arrogance is.. a delusion of sorts).. because if we're honest with ourselves we'd realise there isn't a whole lot to be proud of and an awful lot to disgust, and the only thing keeping us from downing a pint of bleach is that feigned self-serving sense of superiority.

Currently listening : Back to Black By Amy Winehouse Release date: 13 March, 2007

10:29 PM - 6 Comments - 7 Kudos - Add Comment