New Russian

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All His Head Were Vampires

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Salient features arranged as a face. A bulbous nose, a full mouth, two blue eyes. His cheeks are the limits and his ears, tucked in at the sides and with detached lobes, become useful beyond hearing for reasons of balance. When he talks his scruffy chin dips and wobbles and it sometimes scrunches when he misremembers or misspeaks. The right corner of his mouth, as you would see it or as it is in a mirror, curls and opens to dump gaseous echoes. After a day awake and mobile he can seem quite handsome to himself with a square jaw line and the appearance of focus. In the morning, through blurry eyes, he wonders only what happens to his identity in those hours asleep that can turn this small source of pride into one of contempt.
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Voices In My Ear

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Robert has his mind, a lockjaw sort, always open and dry. It floats and feels removed from the brain as if it belonged to someone else, as if stolen. Robert keeps it thusly, secreted as if it’s presence made him guilty, as if it could terrify and scar.

This practice keeps Robert reclusive, his whole body suffering the shame of his mind, and alone. Between the same walls and within the same atmosphere, one of artifical lights and staid air, he slowly grows accustomed to a life without titillation or impulse.

It is a poor existence, repetitive and dull, one which affords few distractions for this gawping, dense mind. It is also an existence of his design, the inevitable result of his every decision from acquaintances to home.

He doesn’t suffer but for however much suffering a comfortable, laminated life can cause.
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Simple Gif

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No. 9

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

I have a project.

So finishing this list isn't a priority.

Also because nobody reads this. I was talking to myself.

If you want to get with what the cool kids are jammin' to, read our Eisenhower post.
It's more popular than sex and breathing combined. I checked with scientists.
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No. 8

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

I have thoughts on death.

When a member of your family, or another person otherwise loved, dies, the hardest part in overcoming grief is recognising to what extent their existence had an effect in your life. It is understandable how a person may be overcome by the death of a parent as theirs was a relationship of dependence, naturally. It can exhibit itself in questioning ones adequacy at life:
“How do I go on without my [recently deceased parent]?
A person can feel helpless without the guidance of an elder, a person to whom to turn when a financial/relationship/occupational problems, or otherwise, occurs in a young life not usually frequented by such issues. When that aide dies, or when that particular relationship becomes untenable, it can cause a type of trauma from which some don't recover. It can haunt.

I may consider issues of death with more levity and distance than others as I have dealt with it on and off my entire life, helping my father in the funeral business. Just as context, I have no problems with dead bodies, or with the idea of dying. I may have existential hang-ups with the notion of a finite existence occurring for a small, arbitrarily allotted span, or so it seems, along a time-line whose size may be, in it's entirety, too substantial to accurately contemplate. But that idea doesn't impact the loss one can feel on a personal, gut level when someone they are close to dies, which is the focus of this short piece.

I believe this grief can be overcome, if not easily, at least without extended mourning. Death itself is a natural part of life, the idea of which can be grappled and fought with, becoming a companion of sorts. It can be intellectually reasoned with. But that doesn't in itself overcome the emotional edge in knowing there will be a full stop, no returns, to your loved ones lives.
So, after some consideration, I have come to think of grief as a mechanism in dealing with the empty space left in ones life after someone they are close to dies. It's that space, unwashed clothes or favourite recipes lost, which reminds those who have lost of their loss. I am not suggesting that when a persons mother dies, they should fill that emptiness with routine excursions to the cinema or in a fantasy football league. That space should be filled with, only initially perhaps, little moments that remind of the special times, routines replicated or favourite songs hummed. The memory of the lost can be honoured then, remembered fondly, until one is ready to say goodbye. It is to ease the transition.
A loved one shouldn't necessarily be replaced glibly in ones life, but I feel a function of life is to move on. Remember them fondly and recognise you have not just lost a person contained in meat, but certain conversations, amusing tics, sounds and smells. So on. Honour that then by living fully.

Of course, if you hated the dead motherfucker, then the above nonsense is no good to you.

Anyway, as an aside, I think the most difficult thing is not the dying exactly, but making ones way the end with a death neither horrifically painful nor humorous.
I'm talking about the type of death which ends up as a twenty word piece spread around the world's newspapers.
"John Smith, 65, Nowhere, died yesterday after being stuck straight the fuck through by a urine icicle. A plane dumped the contents of it's latrine which froze at the high altitudes, forming a spear. He will be sadly missed."
"That's funny", I say. "He died funny."
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Look At This Toilet

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Now look away.
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No. 7

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

25 year old me would totally murder 21 year old me.

No doubt 29 year old me would murder 25 year old me too. But I think 25 year old me is justified in wanting to murder old 21 because 25 inherited so much ignorant bullshit. 29 won't have any excuses. He will know everything 25 knows, be aware of the same, and more. 29 should be straddling the mule of intelligence, who amiably chases the carrot of wisdom, held with the string of vocabulary, just out of reach of the braying face hole.

21 is a dick. I am so displeased with his bullshit, I would totally go back in time and kill him in his bed while he fumbles around with his parts. Temporal paradoxes be damned.

I have a similar feeling now as when I read about terrible injustices against children. Nike factories or sex slavery. What have you. I just want to tear the planet in two. Fuck the consequences. Dead human bodies floating through the forever of space, incapable of rotting. All those worms going hungry. Just a whole new species of meaty space debris and I wouldn't care because, in tearing the earth into two halves, I would have proven just how fucking miserable child abuse makes me. I would have emotional closure.

By the same token I would travel through time and take joy in the confused eyes of 21, his brain using up the little air left in his body, trying to understand why a slightly heavier, more wicked version of himself is strangling both of their lives away.

Dumb fuck wouldn't get it.

Which is my point.
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No. 6

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

Robert Meehan is a drone.

A silly human, writing in the third person, who wishes around the clock to be totally fucking perfect. Robert Meehan reads some of his old posts and wants his money back. They contain no thought and little promise. They are just records of his worst habits and work. Yet, knowing this and that he should do better, he continues to add to the trite shit he has already produced with this post. And five more the same.

Today's lesson: Your shit stinks.
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No. 5

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

I used to think being bored with my writing signaled a higher cause. Now I think it's because I have nothing to say.

I'm not sure. Perhaps every second one of these will be about writing. It has been my preoccupation of late as I cannot get it together. At least, I find it difficult in ways now I found natural before. I have said, and still believe, writing is a mental process. One need not put pen to paper to improve writing as a skill. All of that can happen in the mind and the act is just the final proof. It would seem then that I have a mental block working against the process. Or perhaps the process itself is not conducive to my natural mental state.
Either/or my mind is working against my intent. It has hurt my feelings. I eat chocolate bar.

I am disinterested in what I write, the content of what is written. Once, as the title suggests, I believed in a cause I had yet to formalise, a fourth dimension to explore with words. It was characterised by a feeling pulling me in a direction like how a compass points north. I understood the direction I needed to go but not the ultimate destination. Only that it would not require conventional, some might say fundamental, story techniques. I believed characters were unnecessary. And plot. And dialogue. These were just the hooks used to hang the coat. The coat itself is something else, something like truth.

I still like how that sounds, it swings romantic, though I am not so sold on the idea any more. At least, I feel, it may not be for me. Whatever vigour is necessary, and some amount is certainly required, I may not have. The mental agility, the alertness, the intense longing for truth all belong in front of the light source. All focus must be on them to perform without hesitation and with speeds instinctive and unusual. It may be I want to just sit for the rest of my life, to check my e-mail and travel once a year. It may be the great effort may not pay due dividends and the toll, the waste, may be equally great.

I asked myself recently would a novel produced by investing one hour of every day for twenty-five years justify the time spent writing it. Would half of my life equal not just a great novel, but the greatest novel? Or would the task itself, so grand and noble, be worth the effort alone?

I cannot decide.
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No. 4

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

I don't want children.

During a brief period of heavy thinking, lasting no longer than a week, I came to regard my brain as the container of my whole conscious being and my body as transport and set of sensors with which the brain can experience the world from it's own enclosed environment. I met my limitations as a human in an ice-cream parlour. We amicably decided the relationship would never get off the ground so we separated at the door. Finally, in this week, I decided I didn't want children. Not for my life.

My rationale for the decision remains simple. I could not think of a single unselfish reason why to have a child; not one benefit for him or her. What good would another life be in seven billion? What am I denying a potential son or daughter by not fertilising an egg? I don't believe life itself to be such a prize. At least I expect, were I never born, I would not long to live. So why have a child if not for my own security in old age, or as an achievement or for fulfilment? Having children, it seems to me, is a selfish act and thus one I won't participate in.

My position on children, as an aside, collided with another fresh opinion on the limitations of being human. I tell myself often enough for it to be routine I can be what I want and can will into being whatever I dare think. I remember, when first realising the faulty logic behind this sentiment, stopping mid-trot. If I wanted to climb Everest, as unlikely as that would be, I could attempt to do so. I could attempt space travel, or to master foreign languages. I have an unmade future. But, as I was deciding to never have children, I raged at my inability to carry one to birth.

Though I felt strongly about this at the time, it is but a thought now safe at the back of my mind. I was just stricken by how we are limited at birth to a gender, eye colour and so on, then we choose to limit ourselves additionally as we continue our lives. I was chafed with one limitation forced upon me and, at the same time, limited myself further by choice. I don't want children, I would rather a robot, but wouldn't it be something to experience?
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No. 3

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

I want to write but sometimes I really fucking hate to.

This is one of those times.
The initial idea for this post was my desire to remain childless.
But I just cannot write it out.
I imagine how different writers might approach this.

Some would begin with an anecdote. An American writer, of a certain vintage, would describe the old lady who lived next to their childhood home. In one version she wouldn't have had children but took care of the author as a sprog like a mother. Another version would have had the woman next door overflowing with children, producing an endless line of kids.
The author would cleverly describe her with hazy nostalgia as a mother sow with eight breasts.

An Irish writer may open with his childhood in a bog or a rain sodded city. He would punctuate each sentence with the memory of his drunken father's fists. His mother would never let him see her cry, such a proud woman, and he would conclude the anecdote with the image of him running away from home after her funeral. The destination was England and he swore on the boat to never punish his son with his fathers fury.

But I am young. I have no stories.

More pragmatic writers may begin with clearly drawn details of egg fertilisation as if copied from a textbook. They may let the story become somewhat gory and include a portion on child birth. The entire piece would favour facts and statistics.
“There are twice as many humans alive now than when JFK was inaugurated.”

Another more modern writer would imagine a tale of two lost children, unknown to one another, separated by some great geographical distance, leading lives that mirror one another. They meet with fame and brush with death. Neither fulfils their heart's desire but they sully it with rejection.
They drown together as their makeshift rafts collide with one another mid-Pacific during a storm whose description could have been lifted directly out of the back of the bible.

I hate all of the above and remain, for tonight at least, unable to find honest expression. It defies me and, from it's burrow, watches me cry.
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No. 2

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

I would like to grow a beard. Alas I cannot.

Spoken like a true man, that title is an admission of failure, of weakness. It is to say I try and I fail; my biology is corrupt. Except, now that I adjust to the disgrace left in the wake of a public revelation of personal infirmity, I remind myself that real men don't require beards to log trees or explore alien atmospheres. Real men only require ingenuity and shoulder width. With sufficient breadth in ones shoulders, new frontiers can be birthed, conquered and siphoned of their pure juices in an evenings work.

But the hair my face spurts is a joke played on the rest of the world. My face, ever the diva, takes solace in relieving attention from the shoulders, where attention initially belongs, and in redressing it's owners honest message as one of a post-puberty hiccup.

“My shoulders are broad like a child-bearers hips. I can provide for the children she expels.”
“Your beard shames you. Hell, if there existed a expression more accurate than beard I would use it instantly. Those granny's whiskers. That cat's tail hair. You grow beards like how trees grow nests. You should just buy one in a shop.”

Growth, I feel, comes slowly to me, both physically and mentally. My interest in childish pursuits wavered only in my late teens, finally tipping in my early twenties into more adult expression.
I may, however, have had a sense of taste about that culture & media I imbibed, even when it was animated for Saturday morning broadcast, as I could not stand French cartoons. I would tarry with patience through another obnoxious Garfield episode for Batman: The Animated Series, which aired a little later in the afternoon.

And so it can only stand that a full beard won't take growth until later in my twenties when it will blossom into something awesome. Until then I can only talk about it and, like the recent and erroneous spate of hair growth across my shoulder blades, just let my face express what feeble attempt at a beard it can muster.

And as for my abilities as a man, I remain optimistic.
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No. 1

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RULES: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

(To do this, go to “notes” under tabs (+) on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)

Sometimes I would rather not know you or even know you existed.

Though not everybody, enough people can throw screws into my machinery, with as little effort as lying on ones side, as to make me miserable for many hours. And I think this:
“I would rather not even know you existed.”

And what does whoever do to have me kicking my legs as if I were clutching to some branch high in a tree?
Not much. Really. Chatter mostly.
Some people, enough of them, think I, and everybody, care enough about them that we will listen to them describe their lunch. But I, and everyone, don't care uniformly and most completely.

I am astonished by the act however, and do tend to obsess over it. I read and listen to people's lunch descriptions, or tales of alcohol consumption, though I can stop or walk away but I wait for them to explain why they are sharing this. When do they reveal why I should care?

They don't, never do, and I still don't care about what they put into themselves except for the fact they are telling me without solicitation.

This does broaden out to areas beyond other lives inane details. I tend to wish people out of my memory who are not calibrated to reality as objectively as a human can, given such madness.
[I ask for a simple awareness, not for people to erect shrines in the memory of history's victims, but just for the understanding to recognise a donkey when one is being sold as a horse.]
There tends to be a tolerance of external hypocrisy and internal dissonance when there are sufficient distractions in ones life. Christmas time is confusion and excess, for example, and sums the worst of humanity into an annual ritual. It's a repeatable, verifiable experiment on modern, western cultures failings and... well...

Anyway.

It's clear I'm not great with the self-absorbed section of humans. That's the message. The two examples above, and unspoken others, tally to that conclusion, ironies and evidence of self-hate aside.
You are free to exist but I would rather not know about it.

(Yeah. 24 more of these. Lets hope some are good.)
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How Has Reality Not Murdered Me Already?

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This is my save information for Deus Ex. I'm just about to kill screen it.



I saved 333 times in 20hrs 55mins 40secs. That's once almost every four minutes.
The difficulty was set to 'realistic', which is my excuse, but is it normal to suck so much?
Answers on a postcard.
Daly's need not reply.
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Unfinished & Unfit For Publishing. However...

Scene 12

EXT. A THIN, CITY STREET - DAY
It’s lunch-time and the street brims with suited pedestrians eager to get food and be back at work. A passing taxi draws our view upon a YOUNG MAN. He strolls quickly, with intent, his gait twisted to hide his overfed stomach. He passes various bars and fast-food joints before stopping by the entrance to:

24HR RUB SEX SHOP.

He rubs his gut while checking his reflection in the shops black tinted windows, paying particular attention to the eyes. Sound can be heard from inside the shop. Voices, then Eastern European music, then silence, then the unmistakable chatter of a news anchor. The young man enters.

24HR RUB SEX SHOP – DAY

The shop assistant, YURI BUTTERFLY, pauses his channel hopping to throw gaze on the young man. He returns his attention to the shops 32”, wall-hung, LCD screen unimpressed. A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN IN A WAITRESS UNIFORM enters the frame from behind a magazine stand. She leaves quickly, her face sloped into her chest, brushing against the young man in her hurry out.

YURI
(To the Waitress)
See you tomorrow.
He raises a dildo into view.
YURI
(Letting his voice become louder)
Both of us will. USUAL TIME, OKAY?

Yuri turns to the young man and lowers the dildo below the counter top. He mutes the television.

YURI
What would you like today, sir? Our shop carries a wide range... a spectrum of goods to satisfy your every desire. Over there...

He points across the store.

YURI
...we have the perennially popular Le Box Chocolate. Imported, by us, from France, and retailing at the discounted price of twelve-ninety-nine, Le Box Chocolate guarantees the most flavoursome chocolate vagina you will ever taste. That's written on the packaging, sir. Money back.

The young man bites his lower lip, then shakes his head. Yuri squints at the young man in an attempt to gauge him.

YURI
(Hesitantly)
Chocolate penis, sir? Le Baguette Chocolate. It is equally delicious but isn't discounted. Eighteen-ninety-nine.

YOUNG MAN
(Sheepishly)
No. I-

There is silence punctuated by laughter and the soft rumbling of vehicles from outside. It lasts uncomfortably long.

YURI
(A-Ha)
Dildo!

The young man is taken aback by the suggestion.

YOUNG MAN
(Vehement)
No-no-no-no-no... But I-

YURI
Many men, young like yourself, find it difficult to purchase their first dildo. But it's as natural as one-two-three.

YOUNG MAN
I- Do you remember me? We met... bumped into one another in Club Rubix. We both know Indra... She told me you worked here. I'm Aharon.

Also, as an aside:
I Am Man, Conqueror Of Panties. Tremble Panties

The ghost entered the machine with nothing on it's mind. He asked the bartender for a stiff one.
The bartender, shocked, asked if he has just seen Tron.
The ghost sighed and told the bartender that the monkey was a present.
He poured the bartender a drink.

The following week the ghost entered the machine with nothing to say.
The bartender did not pour the drink. This wasn't important as the ghost brought his monkey.

On Thursday, the ghost entered the machine a stiff one. He left behind a monkey.

The Offical Blog Of Games I've Been Playing

Take That, You Mutated Son Of A Bitch!

Anyone Seen The UFO?

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It's about relaying a full experience, not snatches or drips of it, but the whole experience through the grit of work. One must then relate the whole to the audience through familiar settings, emotions or what have you. With the attention, or permission if you prefer, of the audience, the writer can take them to places only their sub-conscious has the ability to process.

This isn't a talent or a birth right, an ability born with baby attached, consumable by the human mass. This is hard work and grind around the clock. This is your back twisted and broken, your fingers clubbed and chewed, you mind set on the parapet of existence, staring into eternity, and never, not once, questioning why it's failing at it's singular purpose. To understand.

It can happen in a brief moment of clarity.
It happens in an instant.
Ahem...

The zombies attack because they are hungry. You have all the brains.

Did you feel that? Planets collided.
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Bring Home Space Drugs, Space Man

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I have the door closed anyway.
Shit
She was captured there.
Oh shit.
Right
Yeah
Yeah, they're coming up the stairs here as well.
Oh shit. Boomer. There's a boomer here.
I'm in trouble.
I'm totally in trouble.
Need ammo.
Big guy, is it?
What's going on?
No, he's not. He's by the stairs here.
Guess who's dead? Huh.
Dead.
That's Daniel playing now. Look.
Uh-oh.
Jaysus.
Ah-hah. You're dead Dan.
Whack 'em. Knock 'em off.
Aw.

Yeah.
Jesus.
Jesus.
Oh right, so i'm...
We're going to go up to the roof, I think.
I'm up on the roof.
I think Zoe's in trouble.
They're all coming up to the roof and coming down the stairs to ye.
WHAT!
How did ye all die?
I can save ye all now.
I saved ye all.
Lads, I could do with help.
I'm grand okay. I could do with help.
Is that all the help we have, is it?
Okay.
Okay.
Okay.
Hold on
Hold on
There's canistors here we can trow them out.
I threw it out here on your level.
No, it's not.
Okay.
Okay.
Shit.
I'm ready.
OH SHIT!
They're all coming up the stairs.
Yeah.
I have 'em. I have 'em.
I have the bomb.
Shit.
Someone help me.
Someone help me please.
I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead.
I'm gone.
Oh jesus. Ah.

Fuck.
This is on hard, I take it, is it?
Ready?
Oh.
I'm dead anyway, I'd say.
I'm being attacked and nobody is helping me.
I'm not.
The witch.
The witch is...
Don't let the witch in.
Daly, how's it going?
Shit.
Was there anymore medipacks below, was there?
I never got it.
I can barely move.
Obama just saved me.
Yes we can. Yes we can.
Were the fuck is Obama gone?
We trusted you.
I just got ano...
They're all gone for him.
YES WE CAN!
Now I need a health kit. Give me a health kit.
Thanks bitch.
Coming from behind us.
Where's Daly. Oh, there he is?
ARGH!
Is that it, is it?
It's all over.
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