Deepest, Darkest Cigarette

Today, I have a topic for discussion which I have a lot to say about, but when it first came to me I couldn't find a Word of the Day to do it justice. Because today's topic is about truth, secrets, shame and what we do, as individuals, to justify our actions. For all of these, only one word came to mind. At first it seemed quite odd. But the more I thought about it, the more apt it became. So if you'll allow me to explain . . .

the Word of the Day is: 'WORMS'.

Worms /werms/ n. 1. Zoology. Any of numerous long, slender, soft-bodied, legless, bilaterally symmetrical invertebrates. 2. (loosely) any number of numerous small creeping animals with more or less slender, elongated bodies and without limbs, including insect larvae and tapeworms. 3. Something resembling or suggesting a worm in appearance, movement. 4. Informal. A groveling, abject or contemptible person.

For the purposes of is article, I was looking for a quote somewhere that would suit my needs. So I searched for the term:
  "Secrets are like Worms"
I was surprised to find only four hits (now, you should find five). Some of them were good, others less so, but my findings were thus:

  "Secrets are like worms because they eat away at you until they can crawl to the surface. Only there, in the sunlight, can they die away."

This is indeed true, as evidenced by the latest reports surrounding a popular Australian television and radio host, known as Chrissie Swan. If you haven't heard of her, Chrissie began as a contestant of the reality show, Big Brother Australia, and went on to become a breakfast radio host. Her comeback to television was as one of four female hosts on The Circle (Australia’s answer to The View). And went on to become the latest and greatest host of the new show called Can of Worms. On this show, guest stars are asked pertinent questions about culture, society, etiquette, prejudice, morality, sexuality and taboo.

She is much loved by many, including me. I think that she is not only funny, down-to-earth, intelligent and caring; but also (in my opinion) one of the few women who proves that ‘fat’ does not mean ‘ugly’.

Unfortunately, ugly is a good descriptor for this latest turn of events. On the 6^th of February, five days before this post, listeners of ‘Mix 101.1’, a Melbourne breakfast radio show, tuned in to hear Chrissie Swan in tears. She was giving a confession. One she had hoped would never come to light:

  “I have struggled terribly with totally giving up cigarettes, since I found out that I was pregnant.”

You should hear this confession, in Chrissie’s own words, for yourself. But here is the abridged version:
For most of her life, up until her mid-thirties, Chrissie Swan smoked an awful lot, especially in her early twenties. When she met her partner (known as ‘Chippie’) she reduced her smoke intake, until she stopped completely with her first pregnancy.
After many years clean and a second pregnancy, she sadly relapsed around 2012 and started ‘sneaking’ cigarettes when she was alone.
It was a few months after this that she fell pregnant with her third child. At the time, Chrissie was unprepared to quit again, and so tried to go cold turkey. But after failing many times, she came up with a compromise with herself - Five Cigarettes a Week.
She would smoke these cigarettes in secret, alone in the car. She did this for about six months until, during one of these secret smokings, a paparazzo snuck up and took a picture. After begging and pleading for her secret to be kept, it seems she saw no other option than to come clean. Two days later, this lead up to her confession on radio.

It’s a sad thing, and very bad. When you smoke, a lot of things can happen to your body, and you do take in many chemicals and carcinogens into your bloodstream. An unborn child in your body will not get tar in its lungs, but other than that all of the nicotine and chemicals in your system will be pumped through that baby and its underdeveloped heart. It is pretty nasty for a fetus to go through that.
Chrissie knew all of this and yet smoked anyway. The situation is pretty condemning.

Indeed. The worm burst through the soil, and at its first breath of air, it died. It was a secret no more. But unfortunately, that’s when the cockroaches came, to feed on the carcass.
You see, there are many reactions to this story. But I believe they can be rounded up into two categories:

  “CHRISSIE SWAN, YOU ARE BRAVE FOR BEING HONEST!”
  “CHRISSIE SWAN, YOU ARE DISGUSTING! SHAME ON YOU!”

While there are some level heads out there, everyone who has responded seems to either condone or condemn her actions (if they care at all). But, I feel my position has not yet been heard. That is what I want to talk about today.

For those that call Chrissie Swan ‘brave’, I have to refute. No, she is not. She was caught in the act, and had little choice in the matter. She was a deer caught in the headlights. She could have jumped out of the way, and denied everything; she could have done nothing and let it run her over. Instead, she chose to jump on board, and ride it out.
While I do think she made the right choice, there’s not really any bravery in that, just honesty. Everyone is supposed to be honest. Doing the right thing isn't brave, it’s what you’re expected to do.

However, for those who say that she is terrible, selfish and a lot of other mean words. Well, I have two words: FUCK YOU.
These people have obviously never been smokers. I too have never been a smoker, but I don’t have to be. An addiction is an addiction, and I understand those shameful acts that we do, despite knowing how wrong they are.
What Chrissie did was wrong. We all know it’s wrong, she knows it’s wrong. Does that make her a contemptible, grovelling worm? No. It makes her human.

Alone, she was struggling to keep a secret, because she was ashamed of it. She was disgusted, and knew others would be too, so she tried to stop, whilst at the same time feeding her addiction. Because that is the nature of addiction, and quitting.
You both love and hate a thing so much that you must stop, and yet can’t. Today I won’t get into why I understand addiction so well; that is a longer story for a longer blog post. But I know that thing, that painfully pleasant thing that we must have, yet cannot. I know what Chrissie was going through. With each failure feeling terrible. And with the smallest success, the tension would build until she would again relapse, wracked with shame.

Finally, running low on options, she saw that her only choice was to come up with a compromise. An excuse - an admittedly paperthin excuse - to feed her addiction, which under that pressure of failure and shame seemed bulletproof.
I understand that inner conflict, and so should you.

Throughout her confession, I kept noticing that Chrissie would keep dropping in little callbacks to sort of 'deflect' the spotlight, kept referencing those things that everyone does:
”Is it just me, or did you have trouble giving up smoking?”; “as a lot of us did”; “and I know I’m not alone in this”; “no smoker wants to smoke.”; “is it just me, or is giving up cigarettes easier said than done?”
She kept deflecting and insisting that she was not alone. Some probably heard this and thought they were listening to excuses, but I didn’t. Those words were too honest for that, too raw. What I heard was a plea for understanding. Not for a reprieve, or absolution from her actions, just someone to know that we all feel shame when we cannot overcome something, especially when that something is addiction.

Because this whole time, Chrissie has been alone, too scared to tell anyone about her secret. She didn't tell her workmates, her friends, or even her partner, Chippie. So she wanted to know that she’s not alone, and wants others to know that they are also not alone. After all, it’s true: Many women have admitted to smoking during their pregnancy.
What Chrissie has done is wrong. But calling her or any smoker ‘disgusting’ for succumbing to their addiction is just going to stress them out [and probably make them want a cigarette].
Addiction is part of the human condition. Many, if not all of us, have secrets and personal shames that we keep to ourselves. The reason we are so ashamed is because of these assholes that think their shit doesn't stink. Think that addiction is a choice, a disgusting selfish act; when in truth, it’s often the most self-loathing vice a person can inflict upon themselves.
And to those people I say this:
  “If you were a long time smoker, freshly relapsed and ashamed of yourself, and were suddenly expecting an unexpected child amongst a constant litany of work, home and life stress – could you have quit?”

If you say yes, I don’t think you understood the question. Not really. If you were in that position, you couldn't do it on your own, and would be unable to seek help, because people like you would make you feel ashamed to admit it. Everyone and anyone in that situation would want to keep it a secret. Chrissie did this terrible thing, not because she has bad judgement, but because we all do. We believe that something as complicated as addiction, can be solved with something as simple as 'Name & Shame', despite the fact that, while we demonize one person and keep them in the spotlight, we will then sneak off into the shadows. Hide in our car to smoke our own metaphorical cigarettes.

Because that’s the thing about secrets . . .
Secrets are like worms. Start digging, and you’ll find them. It doesn't matter where you dig. Because, if you dig deep enough, you’ll start to find them everywhere.

Party Mu$ic

Good evening, readers. Today, we've got a new subject of discussion. Now, I don't mean 'subject' in the "predominant theme or topic" way, but rather the "person or thing that undergoes analysis" way. Because today, I want to go through a character study. Can you guess who?
If this blog post's picture and title aren't enough to clue you in, then let me give you another hint:
The Word of the Day is 'GLITTER'.

Glitter /'glitə/ v. 1. To reflect with a brilliant, sparkling luster; sparkle with reflecting light. 2. To make a brilliant show. ♦n. 3. A sparkling reflected light or luster; splendour. 4. Shiny ornamental metallic fragments, usually coloured, designed to be sprinkled onto some form of adhesive.

Surely by now you understand, I am talking about the musician, Ke$ha. Born Kesha Rose Sebert, the girl apparently became a singer around 2005, age 18. But in 2010, she stepped into the public eye after singing the second verse of the chorus of "Right Round" by Flo Rider. The lyrics were as enigmatic as they were poetic:
  You spin my head right round, right round,
  When you go down, when you go down down.

Truly, the next Shakespeare. Unsurprisingly, these two lines were the starting point she needed to begin her solo career as a singer, a songwriter and a rapper.
So why is the word of the day 'Glitter'? Two reasons. One because Ke$ha is OBSESSED with glitter. Not only does she wear it as make-up in most of her live appearances and on ALL of her album covers. But she also sings about it in the songs she writes:

  Take it Off

There's a place I know,
if you're looking for a show.
Where they go hardcore,
and there's glitter on the floor.

  Blow
Dirt and glitter cover the floor.
We're pretty and sick
We're young and we're bored
[also . . .]
Go insane, go insane
Throw some glitter, make it rain on 'em.

  We R Who We R
I’ve got that glitter on my eyes,
Stockings ripped all up the side,
Looking sick and sexyfied.
So let’s go-o-o (Let’s go!)

I have never seen someone accessorize, lyricize and idolize glitter like Ke$ha does. But the second reason why I am talking about 'Glitter', is closely related to the first. You see, glitter on your face isn't a very classy look. You wouldn't wear it to a wedding, or when you go to the bookstore. Because it's not everyday makeup. It's party makeup. And that is the only thing Ke$ha sings about. Glitter, Partying, Drinking, Nightclubs and Boys.
And that is why I find her, and her music, fascinating.
Because, to me, Kesha's music does 'glitter', in the sense that it makes a brilliant show. I like her and her music. But the reason why is not so easily understood, or straightforward as 'I like the beat' or 'the lyrics are cool'. Because, as a rule of thumb, I hate party music. But this has to do with character.

A lot of people hate her music, for the same reason I hate most other party music: it's much too loud, much too repetitive and is usually devoid of deeper meaning. the lyrics are just empty words, insignificant compared to the beat.
Party music is all about the beat, so you can feel it and dance to the music amongst bright lights and other drunk people, even if you can't hear it. So the lyrics are usually just vapid bullshit about dancing, nightclubs, drinking and sex. Ke$ha's music isn't much better, mind you. She too sings about all that. But there's one key difference.

Unlike singers who 'dabble' in party music, she sings it exclusively. (Some others do, but I haven't paid attention to them, because I am not usually looking out for that kind of thing). Remember, I HATE party music.
But this relates to the fact that, because she sings party music almost exclusively, she has also crafted (and evokes) this particular persona: party girl.
You see, when I hear her music, I don't hear someone singing about partying. I hear someone living it. Someone whose WHOLE LIFE is partying.

So despite having no true depth to her, what I see is a character whose life goal is to be the quintessential party girl. Everything is designed to be a partygirl:
The Glitter? So her eyes catch the light in the nightclub.
The Bangles & Necklaces? All loose, so they dance with her.
The Hair? A tangled mess, from dancing all night.
Alcohol? Another way to loosen up.
Sex? Just another way to get your heart beating.
Boys? They are the audience, that watches her dance.
I see the anthropomorphic personification of Partygirl.

I imagine that if you could step into Ke$ha's brain, and walk through that mindscape, you would be walking across a dancefloor. It would be dark, a hardcore nightclub. Lasers, smoke and shadows all mingle through the air in an orchestra of light and dark. In the middle of the dancefloor Ke$ha's self, her stage personality and ego, would be in the spotlight, dancing. The figments of her imagination would be represented by dancing, half-naked women & posing men. Her desires and dreams would be held on the other side of the bar, bottled in liquid form. The barman, her Id, would ask you for your order, flexing his tattooed, sleeveless arms. All the while, the music would be played by the D.J. S-Ego, and the only music she would play is Ke$ha's discography, her entire musical canon, playing through her. As she dances . . .

That is how I understand this 'Ke$ha' persona. That is her life, and her perception. Don't get me wrong, it's not deep. She seems quite shallow, concerned only with the baser needs. But although she has no depth because to her, the surface is her paradise. She lives a carefree life of dance, drugs, dudes and drinking.

Perhaps one day, she will get older. Grow out of partying. Settle and grow to be an old woman, perhaps with regrets, no doubt with a million stories to tell.
But until that day, I would not deny her this paradise. I will listen to her songs, as the nightcall of the party animal. Like the lion's roar, or the swan's song, it is raw and true. It is her nature, of youth and wilderness. And she's going to live it like it's all she's got. So, while we still can . . .

Let's make the Most of the Night,
Like we're gonna Die Young . . .

7-Line Challenge & Next Big Thing

Today, I find myself in an odd position. Usually, I would have a word, and talk about what it means, or some other topic closely related to said word. But for today’s post, rather than a word, I am given a number, and I will barely mention it at all . . .
The Word of the Day is ‘SEVEN’.

Seven /’sevən/ n. 1. A cardinal number, six plus one (6 + 1). 2. The symbol for this number, as "7" or "VII". ♦det. 3. Amounting to seven in number: seven apples. ♦pron. 4. Seven people or things: Seven came to the party.

So, why am I talking about the number seven? Well, because I have been CHALLENGED! That's right, by Meredith R. Pritchard! [tag-back!] another champion, having already completed this task, has called me out with the "7-LINE CHALLENGE". It's a communal 'blog-hop' for writers who have blogs. A blogosphere-wide look-in to see if writers are worth the words they spit.
And I have I accepted this challenge. The rules are deceptively simple:

THE 7-LINE CHALLENGE

You get one of the latest stories that you are currently writing, or have recently completed. You open this text and turn to page seven, or seventy-seven, as you see fit. You select seven consecutive sentences, and put them in your next blog post. Then you link back to your challenger, to let them know you have completed the task assigned you.

If you finish the task, it is then up to you to call out up to seven more writers, and Challenge them as well.

Well, let's do this thing! This is one of the stories in my 'In Progress' folder, called 'Dead Graham'. But this is not just any story. This is the big one. My magnum opus. I look forward to publishing it one day, but until then you will have to suffice with this sneak peek of seven lines from the seventh page:

Dead Graham

However, Graham recalled stories from his youth, of devilish beasties so hideous that they feared to see their true form in the daylight, so they skulked around at night time. Graham’s youth was more than a lifetime behind him, but those beasts were more like him now than anything he knew. He was a creature of the darkness.

A monster.

Graham wandered towards the temple, hoping that perhaps a place so large would have somewhere for him to hide from the citizens of this town during the day. But as he wandered on his own, with almost no hope left in his old corpse, he had but one pressing question on his mind which would not leave him . . .

      Why am I alive?

Ah hah! Take that Meredith! Yes, that is indeed what I’m working on when I’m not doing blog posts, working on other stories, procrastinating, web-surfing, watching television, sleeping, eating, reading or wasting time.

But wait! the job's not done. I've completed the challenge, so now it's time to gloat, and find more victims! Hmm . . .These people I chose exclusively because I have read and loved their work, and I suggest you hunt down these budding, young up-and-coming writers/bloggers who I call out with this challenge. As an incentive for them to write, I will only link to their blog posts after they write their piece, so stay tuned for those links!

WRITERS! I CHALLENGE YOU!

+ Chhavi Kapur
@blog: Inkslinger Gypsy

+ David Defrayne
@blog: The Dreaming Suburb

+ Gord McLeod
@blog: Fiction Improbable

+ Hannah Wilson
@blog: Cluttered Shelving

+ John Christopher
@blog: Man of Opposition

+ Jon Jefferson
@blog: Misadventures in Strange Places

I expect to hear back from you all soon . . .

But we're not done, oh no . . . because I just can’t resist talking about my writing! When talking about stories one hasn’t written yet, we are floating in septic waters indeed. I find it bad taste to talk about my unwritten work, since I am essentially talking about something that does not yet exist.
But today, you’ll get an exclusive preview of what 'Dead Graham' means to me. Because I am also part of this thing, this other 'blog-hop' thing, known as the "NEXT BIG THING". It's another look-in for those future best-sellers, and a bit of fun for the blogging community. here's how it works:

THE NEXT BIG THING

Writers are given ten questions about their "next big thing", their next story they are working on. They must answer truthfully, and do a blog post about these questions and answers. And again, they must tag back whoever invited them.

Sound simple enough? Any questions before we begin?
  "What's a blog hop?"

- Some kind of pseudo-wiki interconnecting web of intrigue linking a whole heap of creative blogs together.

  "Is it lazy to put the 7 Line Challenge entry as well as the  Next Big Thing entry in the one blog-post?"
- Yeah, Probably. But I'm doing it anyway, because I'll be talking about the same story, so why split it?

  "What does this have to do with the number seven?"
- Question 7 is about characters, and since I've been planning this since 2005, I have more than 60 characters [20 crucial ones], so I am only going to talk about seven of them. I know it's a bit of a stretch; but shut up, it's my blog!
  "What's the meaning of life?"
- . . .

Okay! enough of that. Let's get to the questions. Thanks again to Meredith R. Pritchard for giving me these questions. For this I'll be, again, talking about 'Dead Graham', because that's the main story I am working on. And this will be the last you hear of it before it's published, so listen closely. Okay, here we go.:

01. What is the working title of your next book?

- "Dead Graham: The Unspoken King"

Always is and always has been that. The only other thing to tell you is No, Graham is not the titular 'Unspoken King'. The subtitle is for the villain, and exists because this is the first book in the Dead Graham series.

02. Where did the idea come from for the book?

- When I was younger, I loved writing stories. But after a while, I got bored, because everything was so 'perfect'. Because I was young and thought "Hey, this is fantasy, I'll just make everything as awesome as I can!". But in the end, it made it boring. All the characters were awesome, the problems were solved in seconds, nobody ever did anything wrong!
Everyone was just too 'beautiful'. So I decided to make something 'Not Beautiful'. I came up with a character as ugly as I could make it. Old, dead, rotten, mad and in constant pain. Something no one would aspire to be. That is the basis of the character, Graham. And the beginning of the story.

03. What genre does your book fall under?

- Fantasy. What else can I say?
Oh, but I tried to acknowledge every mythology (that I could find), so you could call it "Fantasy Kitchen Sink".

04. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

- A knight, long dead, comes back from the grave and in order to find those who cursed him this way, he must also uncover the Meaning of Death.

05. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

- I want to get a proper agency. This book is worth the time, money and effort. And I think it's good enough to get accepted and published by its own merit.

06. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

- Uh, err . . . I haven't 'actually' finished it yet. It's gonna take a while. Like, at least another year before it's anything close to readable. I am kind of busy these days . . .

07. If your book was made into a film, which actors would you cast as your characters?

- I have already thought of this and, unfortunately, by the time this is published and chosen by a studio and ready to film, the actors I want may not be the right age (or alive).
And I don't really get to choose the cast anyway.
But if it was a film today, and I could pick anyone?

Graham Thrittlestone: Ralph Fiennes
With make-up, he'd make a good corpse and a good Graham. Keep him bald, and some 'green-screen' painted on in places so we can add in the CG bones and rotten skin. Also, I'd direct him to 'harsh' up his voice. It's too smooth, and I'd want it gruff.
Joseph "Messy Joe" Craveson: David Tennant
He does a good madman. Hell, he could use his actual Scottish accent if he wants. But we'd have to CG in a lot of the deep cuts in his face to remove his lips and eyelid. Yes, I can see it now "I always 'try' to be nice . . . "
Vuai Hauntsman: Lance Reddick

He looks the part, and acts very well. And everyone can do a French accent, surely he can. Call wardrobe and ask for a leather jacket and a nice hat, a really big one.
Amala Adscesia: Elle Fanning
With make-up, she could be an albino, red contacts a must. Then get Props to make a light lock and chain around her neck that still looks heavy. [Sorry Dakota, you're just too old].
Dameon "Half-Face" Fisher: Ian McKellen
Scottish accent, a trilby and I guess I'll need a really good make-up team, because he too needs some pale face, fake teeth and a 'dead fish-eye' contact lens on the right side of his face.
Capt. William Martimus: Idris Elba
As a Ghost Pirate Captain, I guess he'll be doing all his work on a green screen, to make him transparent. But he'll need dreadlocks amd lots of 'pirate' props. I'd be interested to see how that thick, deep voice of his sounds with a Jamaican accent.
Evile, "The Unspoken King": Tobin Bell
I had this guy in mind when making the character. Just give him a shredded, black robe to wear and he's good to go, really. Okay, maybe some cool 'veiny' makeup, and sharpened teeth. Did I forget to mention? I love movie make-up!

08. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
- I wouldn't. I don't like comparing books, because they each tell their own story. If you mean "What other books are similar?" Well, every other Fantasy story has similar elements if you're talking generally. But when you get specific, none really compare. However, if I was forced to pick a book to compare, I would compare it to "Mogworld" by Benjamin 'Yahtzee' Croshaw.There are quite a few parallels. We're both Australian(ish), living in the same city believe it or not. Both books feature somewhat crazy "Verby Name" characters appearing in both books (see Slippery John/Messy Joe). Also, both books have a main character that is dead [For the record, I haven't even finished reading the book yet. So, it has had no influence on my story whatsoever].
But they are also different. For one thing, Graham is not suicidal. And for another, Mogworld has a much more comedic bent to it. So I guess you could call Dead Graham the "Grim & Gritty" version of Mogworld, if you feel the need to boil everything down into it's simplest incarnation.So, while juxtaposing the two would make for a good School Writing assignment, overall they are very, very different.

09. Who or what inspired you to write this book?
- Uh, me? . . . I came up with this story myself, and I alone decided I wanted to write it.
Sure, I'd want to thank my writing buddy, X.H. (name removed for privacy reasons), who inspires me and helps me understand reading, writing, stories, fiction and character for every one of my stories.
But to be honest, the hard yards were done by me, and I write it because I wanted to. Why would I write a story for someone else? Hell, I wouldn't want to read a story written by someone who wasn't personally invested in it, never mind write one.

10. What else about your book might piqué the reader’s interest?

- Did I mention wizards, werewolves, vampires, the undead, trolls, ghosts, demons and monster hunters all come into play?
There's love and war; mystery and drama; action and suspense.
Oh, and Messy Joe is not only a very important character, but also completely bat-shit insane.
Trust me, you really want to read this book.

Okay, well that's a wrap people. All this is what you can expect when I finally finish writing this beast, so I hope you enjoyed it. Until then, I want to thank Meredith R. Pritchard again. She's the one who tagged me in for both of these blog-hops, and her blog Secret Life of a Townie is worth looking into if you love zombies, books or life in general. I've linked in this post three times now, and she is totally awesome, so if you haven't at least checked out her blog by now, I am shocked and appalled! Seriously go check it out, NOW!

A Day in the Death of . . .

Morning. 6 o’clock. Too early. The alarm blares, filling the otherwise peaceful bedroom with a painful siren of activity. Slowly, the body in the bed rises a hand from underneath the covers, and slaps it against the clock.
Doing so, it dislodges one of his thumb-bones. The little white speck rolls out of the rotten flesh of those fingers and onto the carpet, to disappear amongst the forgotten socks and debris. The arm was green and yellow from rot, with skin hanging loose like forgotten, laundry left on the clothesline during the rain. Slowly, he rises from his bed, and throws his legs to the floor. Half the toes of his left foot were left under the blanket, and his feet kept flaking skin onto the floor as he finally rose and stumbled out of the bedroom.
Slowly, creakily, he makes his way into the kitchen, opens a cupboard and fetches a chipped coffe mug. He pours cold water from the kettle, coffee from the jar, sugar and milk in it, then opens the cutlery drawer.
Hmm. No spoons.
He picks up a knife and stirs with the handle. Then, having achieved a lumpy brown, watery liquid, discards the knife in the sink and drinks from the mug. Without lips, the cup clinks against his teeth and spills half the liquid down his throat and the rest down his bloody pajama front.
Happily caffeinated, the zombie drops the cup to the ground with a beautiful smash! and turns to the bathroom. Switching the tap on, he steps inside the shower and stares, with one blind, white eye, up into the stream and blinks as it hits his face. A few more strands of hair fall down to get caught in the plug hole, as well as the spilled coffee, some flaked scabs and an unlucky fingernail. When his pajamas are sufficiently soaked through, he turns off the tap, steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around himself and heads for his bedroom again.
Water drips on the floor all the way down the hall, wetting the the dirt, blood and broken belongings all over the floor. In the bedroom, he stands before the cupboard and opens the door. There’s about three pairs of suit pants and two business jackets left. He drags a set off the hangar and drags them onto his body. As stiff as his limbs were, getting dressed was rather difficult. But the zombie manages to pull the pants on, one leg at a time, without losing any more toes, and slips the jacket over his shoulders. Finally, finding a tie on the ground, he ties it in a half-hearted knot and heads out of his room. Tripping over some of the bones and crap on the floor, he heads to the front door.
Stepping outside, the sun was bright, stinging the iris of his one good eye. The zombie groans as he heads down the driveway, but the sun felt nice, and the last thirty or so strands of hair on his head were still wet from the shower, and appreciated the heat. Next door, his neighbour was busy weeding the garden. Seeing the zombie, he suddenly jumps to attention.
  “Hey! Good morning, Zee,” says Mr Jenkins.
  “Urrgarrh,” says the zombie.
  “Say hi to Patty for me, will you.”
  “Hurr rargh,” replies the zombie, opening the car door, and slipping inside. The windscreen was cracked. He turns the key, already in the ignition, and turns on the windscreen wipers as he backs out of the driveway. The car hits the street, running over the neighbour’s dog with a short yelp as he spins into the correct lane and drives off.

After crashing into his parking space, the zombie gets out and heads for the lift.
     “Morning, Zee,” says an unimportant colleague already inside, as the doors slide open.
     “Yerr rargk,” says zombie, mashing the keypad.
The lift heads up to the thirteenth floor.
     “Hurrg Brargh,” grumbles zombie.
     “Good morning,” says Patty, the receptionist. The zombie heads into the office and finds his cubicle. He sits at his desk and looks at his computer. The screen was smudged with something green and sticky, and was cracked in the top corner. Turning on the computer, the zombie immediately starts hitting at the keys, mashing randomly. With a missing thumb, it was hard to type, but he made up for it by using his palms to slap haphazardly at the spacebar.
     “Morning, Z,” says his boss, walking past.
The zombie grunts in response and keeps ‘typing’. He had a lot of work to do . . .

After about seven hours of that, zombie finally grunts, happy with his work and scans over the word document:

  Vbni[ xdg ko’mk;sv’ksdb;fnkl’aFJ O’ sV gk;aJ’Qerjo; Adfghi ’asfgm; VB’ASDGIPHNBK;N AMSFDn0020 klASFGBjiopAh 0020djasdn k;gl’asdNK: ajip Wjo GBPDN;H C adgnimkl;a?

Grunting with approval, he turns off the computer and stands up and heads for the lift.
  “See you tomorrow,” says Patty, not looking up.
  “Mmgrurgkh” says the zombie.
He heads down to his car and pulls out, swerving wildly as he drives out of the car park, sideswiping most of the cars as he goes.Stopping at the supermarket on the way, zombie stands in front of the meat fridge, staring dumbly up at the produce. There was an awful lot of it.
Holding his shopping basket up to the shelf, he swipes an arm across and tips a heap of steaks, sausages and meat into the basket, and a whole heap more onto the floor. He turns for the door and stumbles out.

Heading back up his driveway, the car tires skid over the red stain of the neighbour’s dog, and slams heavily into the garage door before zombie takes his foot off the pedal and turns off the car. Grabbing the groceries in his arm, he stumbles back into his house, again tripping over the bones and crap on the floor.
with his arms full, he pulls open the fridge door with his teeth, chipping one in the process, and drops the contents of his arms onto a shelf. He closes the door, but it doesn’t close properly. After slamming bodily against it and still failing to close it he opens the door, removes a dismembered head that was in the way, then slams it closed again. It shuts properly.
Then he opens the door again, removes a pack of sausages, and gnaws at it with freshly chipped teeth. The pack tears, and so do the sausages as he rams the minced meat into his face.
the meat was dull and flavourless, and unappealingly cold. But the zombie chews it slowly, consuming the flesh.
  “Gruhh,” the zombie sighs. It was so dull. What he really wanted, really craved for was some fresh, warm, juicy brains. But of course, there were none for him here. No matter where he looked, he couldn’t find any brains. No living people. He was surrounded by zombies.
The zombie finishes his sausages, drops the packed on the floor and heads for his bedroom. Tearing off another business suit, he discards it on the floor, and climbs into bed.

My Flood Story

Yet again, Brisbane has been flooded with an unprecedented amount of water. If you know statistics you can argue that, but the important fact is that a lot of people have lost a lot of things, including other people in this latest disaster.
One ex-Tropical Cyclone “Oswald” swept across the East coast of Australia, causing rain and strong winds for days on end. This caused flooding and rapid-flowing water in many cities and low lying areas. I don’t have the ability to get all the details, because some of them are still unfolding at time of writing. However, this is not the first time we have been flooded thanks to a cyclone. In 2011, we also suffered at the hands of Cyclone “Tasha”. In that instance, Australia was already suffering from flooding, and the cyclone merely exacerbated it, with increased rainfall. The storm itself was quite weak, but the rains came down by the truckloads. Many places, including Brisbane CBD, were flushed with water. Throughout both of these situations, I was in a relatively privileged condition. My family and I have always had the luxury of living at the top of a hill or in the very least in places higher than the surrounding areas. We never will suffer from flooding except in the event of an apocalyptic flood. But I have seen the events of this flood. Although I have never been in the centre of this mess, I have stood at the very edge and seen the destruction this has wrought. The Word of the Day is ‘INUNDATED’.

Inundate /’inundayt/ v.t., To overspread with, or as with a flood; flood; deluge; overwhelm: To inundate surrounding country; to be inundated with work.

 It’s always been sort of a joke. Admittedly, a harsh joke. Gallows humour, you’d call it. That bastard, Thesaurus, doesn’t have many synonyms for ‘flood’, so for both of these cases of flooding in Brisbane, the news is peppered with the only word that sounds intelligent, ‘inundated’:
  “Aldershot houses inundated as areas isolated by floodwaters”
  “Homes in South Grafton inundated with flood waters”
  “Inundated mines out of action for weeks”
  “Western suburbs inundated by rain”
And in countless spoken reports, it’s the only verb used to describe how towns have been affected. But I don’t like them using that word.   “But wait,” I hear you say, “The Absurd Word Nerd doesn’t like a word? How can this be?!” No, it’s the word I don’t like. It’s the context. Certainly, the news needs to have some level of authority. They are often the ones providing emergency numbers and vital information for those in these at-risk or low-lying areas. People need to believe in these sources of information, so they aren’t doing the wrong thing. They need to take the emotion away and give clear, truthful information.
But I am here to put it back. Because what I saw in 2011 wasn’t Brisbane being ‘inundated’. It was Brisbane drowning.
It was early morning, and I’d just left Kelvin Grove to go to the city. I was living with some schoolmates in a share house deal, and we didn’t watch much television because it was loud, and six young men couldn’t always agree on what to watch, so I hadn’t seen the news. Anyway, I was headed to the city to go to the doctor. At the time I was suffering from Depression, and I was due for a new prescription. I headed to the city at, I think about nine o’clock or ten. I took the bus. Things seemed normal at the time, even if it was raining a little, but I had just woken up and was under-medicated so I didn’t really care what was happening around me. I got to the doctor’s office and waited in their room there for about an hour and a half. It wasn’t too eventful. But I remember as I waited there I kept overhearing people talk about being ‘stuck’. One of the others waiting was on the phone, convincing his boss that he could work at home. Some of the nurses were saying that not everyone came in because roads were blocked. Some people were calling family, but I didn’t eavesdrop on their personal conversations, I didn’t pay much heed because I didn’t much care. I eventually got to see the doctor, and got my prescription pretty quick. I didn’t think about it at the time, but the doctor didn’t really chat to me. He usually asked how the family was and all of that small talk nonsense. This time was very clinical, very clear and I walked out in less than ten minutes with a new script. I’d like to think (for dramatic purposes) that he was worried about the flood. But truth be told, I think it’s because I wasn’t in a talkative mood. I left the doctor’s office, and the first thing that struck me was the Chinese place next door. It was closed, and there was a sign on the door. It said something along the lines of ‘Closed due to flood’. I remember snickering at the sign. I imagined some poor sod, wading through chest-high water to get some Chinese food. Then he’d see the sign and only then realize he’d walked all this way for nothing. Anyway, I thought the Chinese place was just an anomaly. One paranoid soul trying to get a day off work. But a few stores down the line, I saw sandbags. And I crossed the street to see more stores which were closed and had sandbags piled up either outside or just inside the doors. I started to wonder how serious this flood thing was. It was around about then that I got the phone call. At the time I was sort-of going out with this girl. [It’s a long story, much longer than this one. Suffice to say that it ended. So for her sake I won’t mention her name.] She called and asked me how I was doing. I said that I was wet and confused. She asked where I was, so I told her I had just gotten to the CBD. That’s when she got worried. She explained to me that the city was flooding, and that the best thing to do was to get out. I disagreed, explaining that my parents lived in an apartment at the time, and we’d be fine up there on the fourth floor.
All these people around me, struggling to get to safety. And yet me, in the warning zone, was walking calmly home.
I spent the night there, watching the news, and the next day I went home. back at the Kelvin Grove house, we watched a lot more news. It felt so odd because everyone around me was, essentially, unaffected. But the news kept showing these horror stories. Thirty-five or so people had died, countless others had lost everything.

But one story caught our eye. I think it was a week later or so, when some of the leaders in this crisis were asking for helpers. Volunteers, to aid in the clean-up effort. One of my housemates suggested we help.
Feeling guilty for being so comfortable during the crisis, I agreed with him. And we ended up organizing for a few of us to travel out and help. We went there in my roommate's mother's car.

The road was the cleanest spot. Either the rain had come down drains, or cars had cleared it as they drove through. But it was still gritty, like badly made sandpaper.
All of the lawns squelched underfoot. If you could call them lawns. They were all brown, and so soaked that every step turned a small patch of wet, brown grass into a foot-print shaped chocolate pudding. Then the houses. They didn’t look too bad, just a little dirty, where the dirty water had dried. But they just looked okay, almost every houses had a pile out the front. This stuff had once been belongings. But every wooden chest of drawers, bookshelf, table or desk had swollen, cracked and gutted open like a fallen tree. Some chipboard pieces of furniture had been reduced to a thousand splinters, barely kept together by soggy plastic faux-wood. There were couches that were soaked through and mouldy. In each pile there were televisions and computers, some looking like a novelty aquariums with water in the screens, but most were cracked. Not from the floods, but from the manner in which the owners had discarded it on the lawn in disgust.
Every pile was taller than me, a sick monument to the lives that had been destroyed. Like some cruel god had lifted the houses shaken them up and poured their belongings by the street. And the smell was like shit and tears. A salty mix of mud, sea-water and torn-up plantlife.
I couldn’t help that first day. There were so many volunteers that there was a mix-up. The organizers told us to wait aside as others helped, for fear that too many people would get in the way. These were people’s homes after all they’d been through. A thousand strangers walking through, throwing your once-cherished birthday presents, belongings and memories onto the lawn . . . you could see some of the owners struggling to keep their composure.
And like everyone else, their building looked just a little dirty on the outside. But (I fear, also like everyone else) the inside was another matter entirely. The whole place smelt like mould and wood. Others helped to remove dead carpets, caked in with crud. We shifted out wooden furniture including some ruined billiards tables, throwing it out the back in a pile to be collected as rubbish. Some of the windows were cracked, but most had been washed a filthy brown. The ceiling was also swollen from the water, and we helped them to remove most of it so that it wouldn’t rot and fall on people.
I just spent most of my time sweeping. People would wet the floor with hoses, buckets or mops, and I helped sweep the muck out the door. It wasn’t easy, and the dirt was in pretty good, but we managed to clear most, if not every, concrete surface.
We didn’t fix the whole place. We couldn’t, a lot could not be salvaged. But by the end of the day we had washed the windows, and someone was helping to hose some of the crap out of the lawn, so it was a step in the right direction. For our help, the owners gave us a simple lunch and a lot of words in thanks. I can’t remember what they fed us, but I was more than grateful that they bothered to give us anything, given they had lost so much and probably had to count every cent.
I left that day feeling like I had done something. Not a great deal, but something to help those in need. They had gone through a trial, and managed to come out with a smile.

In the end I got two certificates, one for each day I helped out, but I only kept the second one. Partially because I didn't do anything on the first day, but mostly because they spelled my name Mattjer, which isn't even a word. It was all over, and I never thought I'd see it again.

That is, until a week ago.

I heard about it on the news, and then for a full week, it seemed, there were heavy winds and rains; not only on the news but outside my window every night as I tried to sleep. But for that full week, the only downside for me was that the sound of running water meant I had to pee more than usual. But again, I am left unaffected.
Perhaps I am lucky, but more likely it is my parents being forward thinkers in their real estate purchases, that has kept me not only safe, but comfortable during both of these tragedies.
And this time, I am just thinking that even with all these news stories about the floods, and the rising number of deaths (five, last I heard), the one thing missing is that emotion.
These people have lost everything, and yet the newsreaders seem to tell us nothing but numbers. So that is how I plan to help this time. This was my story of how I saw the floods, and I have tried to express in my words how I feel about the whole mess. If you have a flood story, I ask that you share it.
The news is there to tell us the facts. But I want to hear the stories. The emotions, the devastation and the truth. Because I am still unaffected. I mean, a tree fell down in our front yard, but it hit no one, never hit anything and broke nothing but itself. I feel nothing this time around but surprise. Hell, I barely felt anything the last time, except guilt.

So for those like me who see nothing but numbers, I want to hear your words . . . What is your Flood Story?
These people have lost everything, and yet the newsreaders seem to tell us nothing but numbers. So that is how I plan to help this time. This was my story of how I saw the floods, and I have tried to express in my words how I feel about the whole mess. If you have a flood story, I ask that you share it.
The news is there to tell us the facts. But I want to hear the stories. The emotions, the devastation and the truth. Because I am still unaffected. I mean, a tree fell down in our front yard, but it hit no one, never hit anything and broke nothing but itself. I feel nothing this time around but surprise. Hell, I barely felt anything the last time, except guilt.
So for those like me who see nothing but numbers, I want to hear your words . . . What is your Flood Story?

The Dark Word

The latest Quentin Tarantino movie, “Django Unchained” has been out in Australia for a little while now. I haven’t gone to see it, but that’s because it’s been raining in Queensland for the past week (even during Australia Day celebrations!). And since I have to walk to the movie theatres (until I get my car) I don’t want to get drenched just for the sake of a movie. Especially some Tarantino flick.
But ever since this came out, there has been controversy of alleged racism being slung at the film from various hyper-sensitive groups, mostly because of the use of a particular word within the film. Now, being the Absurd Word Nerd, you can bet your arse that I have an opinion on the matter.
Unfortunately, people can take offense even with the most harmless uses of these terms. So I must preface this by saying that I apologize for any offense you misinterpret from this post. However, I don’t apologize for invoking my right to free speech, because I’m not here to insult people for being black or promote racism. I’m here to teach you something.
The Word of the Day is ‘NIGGER’.

Nigger /’nigə/ n. (offensive) 1. A Negro. 2. A member of any dark-skinned race.

Because it is not often used, a lot of people do not truly understand the word nigger and what it means. In this regard, everyone (yes, even black people) can use a little education. I find a fun way to explain it is by answering that age-old question:
  “How come black people can say ‘nigger’ and it’s fine; but when white people do it, it’s considered racist?”

Well, we already know nigger means ‘members of a dark-skinned race’ or ‘Negro’. To be clear, the word ‘Negro’ just refers to those of African descent, or with identifiably African traits, so nigger just means, broadly ‘a dark-skinned person’.
This is not insulting, and alone is not offensive, although I admit it is a bit blunt. The problem with the word is that we don’t live in a vacuum. So depending on who says the word, and the manner in which they say it, the context of the word can make it quite rude.

You know what I like to do, for fun? I call people who wear glasses ‘four-eyes’. I think it’s funny, because I have a pair of glasses that I wear constantly (or I’d be blind).
It’s fun, because a term used to insult people who wear glasses is removed of all crueller meaning, because I am not segregating or insulting people with glasses. I can’t, because I wear them myself. So, in essence, what I am saying when I call someone ‘four-eyes’ is:
  “Hey you, over there, you’re just like me.”
It’s exactly the same with the word nigger. When a black person points out another’s dark skin, they are pointing out the ways they are the same. That’s not so say that a black person calling another ‘nigger’ can’t be racist, because it’s all dependant on context. But on the very shallow surface of this context it is an inclusive term, akin to calling them ‘kin’ or ‘brother’, which is used by black people for that very purpose.
However, since I don’t have dark skin, if I call a black person a nigger it would be pointing out how they are different from me. It is an exclusive term, because it is deliberately pointing out our differences to separate and segregate us. Not only that, but by reinforcing that difference (especially one as self-evident as colour) there is the subtle implication that since it is a difference worthy of note, then that difference must be inherently wrong.
And if you believe what some people say, using the word is also a way of reminding black persons that they were slaves, and implies that you believe they are inhuman (as a majority of American people once believed) because of the ‘historical context’ of the word, pointing out that cruel period of American history where the blacks were considered subhuman, and people were forced into slavery for their ethnicity.

It can get pretty heavy for one word . . . unfortunately, I am sorry to say, a lot of it is bullshit.

No matter what the ‘historical context’ of a word is, it has nothing to do with the current context. And the context of ‘nigger’ is that we have abolished Slavery and Racism [for the most part] in first world countries.
That being said, to anyone who reads this thinking I am ‘brave’ or ‘edgy’ as a white person using the word nigger: Grow the fuck up.
I am not making up that dictionary entry. It specifically says it is a noun that is offensive.
I don’t appreciate people telling me what words I can use, but I sure as shit don’t like people using words to hurt, harm or ridicule others in a way they don’t deserve. And to be clear, black people do not deserve to be insulted in this way.

There is no getting around the fact that, when said by a white person, it is implicitly exclusive. And that is why I don’t use the word ‘nigger’ against others. Even though I see nothing wrong with the word, as a person with pale skin, using the word would be unnecessarily inflammatory.
That doesn’t mean I can’t use it. I just don’t want to. At least, not right now.

Because I want to be able to use the word. Mostly, because I like to write fiction. There are more than a few examples wherein I would like to use the word either to show the prejudices of a certain fictional character, or to show the inner strength of a dark-skinned character towards whom the insult is directed, or many other similar stories.
There is a lot of emotion, drama and narrative to be gleaned from racism and prejudice, and if I am to talk about it, the word ‘nigger’ is an important part of that Discourse.

This brings me neatly back to the movie ‘Django Unchained’. Characters in the movie use the word all the time. It is used by the Caucasian, American characters many times to demean, differentiate and define black people. However, this is perfectly acceptable, because this is a fictional story that is about racism!
The term is being used by racist characters, in a contextually accurate way. Some people still think of this:
  "Well, I don't like the word, even in context. I don't like to hear it, because it is a racist word."
And yes, I agree that it’s not nice, and in a perfect world, no one would use any racist terms; but the movie isn’t set in a perfect world, and does not ascribe to be. Rather, it is trying to show a horrible, racist world that we were once a part of, and why it was a bad idea which we had to rectify.
‘Django Unchained’ provide examples of using the word, not to affirm racism, but to deter it. So although the film uses the word offensively, the purpose of the film is to demonize those that use it to offend.

I can understand why people don’t like people to use the term, because it is inherently blunt and potentially offensive, and I can agree that I wish we lived in a world where we would never have to use them. But I will never agree with people who say that certain words can’t be used just because they have bad meanings or have a cruel history. Even people that say “just don’t do it, because I don’t like it” because they are just dismissing the idea, rather than confronting it.
After all, words are just ideas, put into a fluent and transmissible form. So fear of words is no different from fear of ideas.
Sure, racism is a bad idea, and you should be afraid of prejudiced and proactive racists. But stopping people from using the word, isn’t going to stop the idea. It’s just going to make it harder to find.
Because you should not be dismissing the word, you should be dismissing the asshole using it. Because no matter how cruel a word is, or the history that created it: You should never be afraid of language.

Haven Sent

I get a coffee cup out of the cupboard and place it by the kettle.
  “A Blog post . . . a blog post . . .” I say to no one in particular. You see, my unofficial update schedule had again arrived before an idea, and I was at a loss for ideas. “I could always just raid my backlog . . .”
I open the fridge door and grab the first bottle of milk. It’s almost empty, but some fortuitous soul restocked the fridge, so there’s a full carton behind it, I take them both to the bench.
  “It’s been a while since I’ve done one of those meta, fictionalized features. That was kinda my trademark way back when, in December . . .”
I ready myself to make a cup of coffee, but I’m lost. Something is missing. For the last few nights my sleeping pattern had been, shall we say . . . irregular. So to right myself, I had not slept the night before, planning to spend the whole day awake and crash that afternoon. A great plan.
Unfortunately my secret weapon, coffee, was a lot harder to make without eight hours of sleep.
  “Teaspoon!” I exclaimed. Of course, not loudly enough to wake anyone in the house, but loud enough for you to read. I head to the cutlery drawer and search for a spoon. I grasp the florally designed handle of a long, slender, silver spoon. We have a random mix of spoons within the drawer. Long and pointed, short and thick, round and thin. But this was my favourite. The size of the bowl holds the perfect spoonful of coffee, or sugar; the stem was a practical length for my coffee cup. The floral designs were isolated at the terminal tip, leaving the business end unadorned, and the bowl tip was pointed, for manual scooping. The perfect spoon.
  “I love having the right spoon for my coffee,” I say to the cutlery drawer as I close it. I head to the coffee bench, piece together the elements of my brown elixir, add ice and milk and head to my room, stirring it.
  “Wake up, Dictionary!” I say, taking the old book from its place on the shelf. As the ancient codex grumbles under the covers, I take a sip of my coffee. It’s perfect, in no small part because of the spoon that brewed it.
  “I love it when the coffee’s done,” I say, referencing Wheezy Waiter, a really cool guy who, alone, validates Youtube’s existence.
  “Sleeping . . .” grumbles Dictionary, ignoring internet and pronunciation references “n. 1. The condition of being asleep. 2. A state no longer applicable to Dictionary.”
  “Sleep later,” I say, “I need a word.”
Dictionary groans, loudly and obnoxiously.
  “Come on, I just need a good word for ‘favourite’. I want to talk about some of my favourite things. But not favourite. Some other word.”
  “Thesaurus . . .” it grumbles.
  “I thought you said Thesaurus was an asshole.”
  “You /yū/ pron. An asshole. See also, Thesaurus.”
  “Look, I just need a word. One word, and you can go back to sleep.”
Dictionary thinks about it for a moment, before it concedes.
  “Right. Now I’m thinking, like, things that are just your favourite, because they make you feel at ease. At peace, you know? Like when things fall into place, and the world feels better, safer and pleasant . . .”
  “ . . . Haven,” says Dictionary, after a moment’s thought.
  “Heaven?”
  “/hey-vən/," it reiterates, "n. 1. A harbour or port 2. Any place of shelter and safety; asylum; sanctuary.”
  “Safety and sanctuary, huh? Yeah, Haven sounds right to me. Thanks Dick.”
  “Goodnight.” Says Dictionary. But I doubt it knows what that means because not only does it give no definition, but it is clearly early morning. I place Dictionary back on the shelf anyway, and start my blog post:

>>Today, I started my morning thinking about those things that I love. Because I was listening to my ‘ Nocturnal’ playlist of songs with soft beats, with the night’s darkness still lingering outside my window, and I just felt content. So today, since my last list was so much fun to write, I thought I’d continue with another list. A much more personal list. A list of things that make me feel safe, and at home, and like the world should keep on spinning for another few years, just so moments like this can exist. These are my:

TOP 10 PERSONAL HAVENS

Number Ten: Wiki-surfing.
On Wiki-based websites they offer links to their other pages. So as I read and indulge in new information, if I then come across a new concept I want to know more on, I can open up that can of worms, and learn even more. Wiki-surfing is when you keep clicking on links and amass a whole bunch of these tabs, and then finally ‘ride the wave’ and absorb all of that information. And for me, when I finally close that last tab, I feel perfectly content. I wanted to read something, and I then read all there is to know on it. I am not only now informed (or just entertained), but I finished a task I set myself. I have feasted on knowledge, and completed a goal. There’s no better feeling than that, except for the next nine . . .

Number Nine: Rain Outside a Window.
For one thing, I have mild tinnitus. So in a seemingly silent room, I will often hear a persistent high-pitched whine, like a bee is screaming in agony. So I like ambient sound. But rain is more than that. Each individual drop makes its sound. A single drip that exists, and then disappears forever. But this one sound, amongst the orchestra of millions upon millions more raindrops, creates a harmony in this downpour of finite, singular tears. It helps calm and clear my mind. Not only does it silence the screaming bee, but also those little niggling thoughts. The mental minutia of an operating brain: nose twitches, skin itches, twerks, thoughts and brain bubbles just become a blank, white slate for ideas. And even if I don’t want to write a story, knowing that I can have an instant, clean white canvas on which to create, puts me at peace.

Number Eight: Having the Right Ingredients.
In the words of Marco Pierre White: “Gastronomy is the greatest therapy an individual can ever be exposed to.” Which is quite true, and so I do, occasionally, like to cook. But not some grand meal something small: French Toast; a Simple Pasta Sauce with Fettuccine; Egg & Bacon on Toast & Westernized Nachos are my favourite dishes. Because they are simple, smaller recipes that I can make my own, experiment in and play with, while still retaining those uncompromising, beautiful flavours. But there’s one thing that makes the moment that much sweeter: Spontaneity. If I am in the kitchen, and I just want to make a sandwich, but then realize we have one of those key ingredients. I’ll start to look. I’ll find more bits and pieces and place them on the bench. And if it turns out I have everything for a recipe, and all of the right ingredients, then I feel a wave of excitement as the adventure begins. It is a moment built by random chance that I celebrate every time, with my feast of a single dish, and I love it.

Number Seven: Feeling Pensive.
Feeling pensive is, essentially, just thinking about things, but that does not do the term justice. Because I don’t mean when you are trying to remember something, or trying to solve a problem. It is more like daydreaming, but while fully conscious of your mind. Not so much “letting your mind wander” as it is “wandering through your mind”. I like it because, when I am feeling pensive I am usually thinking about story stuff, or life, or people and the world around me. In essence, it’s my way of not taking the world for granted. Using my imagination to run a diagnostic on my logic and reasoning. And I like this feeling, because when I am done, I always feel right. As in correct, conclusively proven to be true. Because even if I was wrong about something I once knew, I now know what’s right! This is the more abstract item of the list, but don’t worry, the rest make more sense.

Number Six: Watching a Meaningful Film on my Own.
Some films should be watched in groups. But I find this is because ‘misery loves company’ and these types of films are either bad, stupid or romantic comedies [so: bad and stupid]. And while I enjoy watching some action, comedy and romance films with others, some films I find it better to view with no distractions. No other stimuli. Just me, a dark room and a screen. That way I get to absorb the story. Feel the emotion and understand the characters the way the writer, director or cinematic artist wanted me to. Then, when it ends, I watch the credits, listening to the music as I let it come to a slow boil in my mind. Then when it ends, I get to lean back in my chair, and enjoy the contentment not of having ‘watched’ a film, but having ‘experienced’ it.

Number Five: One last, stiff drink
I like to drink alcohol. But I don’t like to get red-eye, where’s-my-pants, blackout drunk. At least, not all the time. I like to remember my experiences. For you non-alcoholics [here alcoholic should be read as Australian] you may not understand enjoying a drink to get drunk. But for those that do, it’s good to do so amongst friends, and good company.
But when a night of hard drinking is coming to its end and everyone else is calling it quits, I like to enjoy those last moments with a drink. I get one last glass of whatever poison is on offer, and I sit alone amongst the debris, slowly sipping it. I let it sink in, and enjoy the moment. Because I know I have had a good night with friends, and I am mulling over the events in my mind and will soon go to bed and drift into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Number Four: Watching a Sunrise, when it’s Cold.
I don’t like sunsets. To me it just means ‘The End’. And while you can say the colours are pretty, to me it’s just the sun giving up and going to bed. Which is why I like sunrises. They are full of potential, and awaken the day. And they can be pretty. But I’m not fond of aesthetics for aesthetics sake, I think that true art is about meaning, not just colour. But when it is a cold morning, and the house is chilled to a blue coldness, that sunrise means so much more. Because not only does it mean beginning and awakening and fresh life, but as the sun’s orange light rolls over my skin, the warmth of it becomes a part of me, and cooks up my core, so that my body becomes alive with the oncoming heat of the day. It’s an invigorating, bright and beautiful kind of serenity that only the Australian Sun can provide on a cool morning. And it makes me feel at one with the entire world that is coming alive at that very moment. A wonderful feeling.

Number Three: A Well-Made Cup of Coffee
I love coffee. It gets me up in the morning. I know, because when I don’t drink it I seem to drag around like a zombie that wants to melt back between the blankets. But more than that, I enjoy the flavour. It’s the perfect mix of smooth and sharp, and I really enjoy that taste of coffee . . .
But only when it’s done right. Yet the fact that I sometimes stuff up and get it wrong, makes it that much more special when I make it right. Too much sugar is sickly, too much coffee is bitter. But if you can hit that perfect harmony of ‘bittersweet’, then it’s a drink to worship. Just one sip is sweet and inviting, and smooth with the milk and the flavour of the beans. Then the caffeine seems to bleed into your veins, and you stretch and moan with the pleasure. Then the bitterness on your tongue starts to bite, teasing you like a lover. “Please,” it says “have a bit more . . .” and so you do, and that tantalizing taste starts the whole cycle over again. A good cup of coffee is more than a beverage. It’s a seductress.

Number Two: Writing a Good Short Story
I like writing stories, and when I finish writing a long story that I’ve been planning for months and months, that rush makes me feel like King Kong on cocaine. But that’s not exactly a haven, that’s too violent and raw. That should be a list of “Top 10 Favourite Drugs (that are Legal)”. But writing short stories is different. I didn’t spend months planning it, working out the scenes in my mental theatre or talking to the characters like they were real. I probably got the idea a week ago, and wrote it out on the weekend. And while I love those little ideas and enjoy fleshing them out, when I am done, I just feel a little buzzed. Like Donkey Kong on Pixie Sticks. But then, what really makes me smile, is that I then get to read my story. And in one sitting, I experience my writing like a reader, enjoying the fruits of my labour. So it’s all the fun of reading a good story, all while knowing that I was the one that made it happen. It’s a good feeling.

Number One, Soft Words in Darkness.
I like a good conversation. People use their words to express ideas; communicate and make their thoughts material. But good conversation is hard to find. People can say really stupid things, especially on the internet, and even some of my best friends can say inane, pointless shit that doesn’t even matter within the context of why they said it in the first place.
But I find the best way to get people to talk about what matters is in a quiet, dark place. I prefer outside, because of the ambient sound of nature (treating my tinnitus), but it should be at night, early morning or very late afternoon.
I find then, people tend to talk softly. Not in a whisper, just a low voice. I like this for a few reasons. Firstly, even the most annoying, whiny voice can sound pleasant when they speak softly; so it sounds nice. Secondly, It means everything that is said is punctuated by silence, so you are both heard clearly and forced to say what you mean more distinctly, so everyone becomes more social. Thirdly, because of the darkness there are no distractions, just listening to what is being said, or trying to improve the silence. Finally, and most importantly, that quiet, solemn atmosphere tends to make people more thoughtful, and prone to more meaningful and intelligent conversation.
So it’s kind of like Numbers Nine, Seven, Six & Two on this list, all rolled into one, with the added bonus that you don’t have to do it alone. Although, if you so choose, you can. I like the sound of my own voice, and in the early morning, after a sip of coffee, I like to softly read poetry to the darkness. It is a good atmosphere, but of course not as good as having a deep, meaningful conversation with a close friend in the dark, something I think we all need to do at some point, just for the pleasant sanctity of it.

I finish the post, and drain the last few drips of coffee from my cup. Then exhale with delight.
  "Today is a good day."
I look out the window at the late morning sky. The clouds above are dark and promising rain. And indeed, the house is quiet and empty, with Dictionary softly snoozing away.
"Hmmm . . . I might watch a movie," I say softly to myself. I get up ready to leave, but a thought lingers, makes me pause for thought, and glance back at the screen of my word processor.
  "It's a little self-centred isn't it? Personal Havens. Perhaps I could get some feedback up in here . . ."

- - -

That is a conclusive list of my top ten personal havens, but this doesn't have to be all about me. What about you? What do you consider your 'Personal Haven'? Do you enjoy one of mine? Or do you have a serene sanctuary, all your own?

Executive Augur

On this day, in 2013, Barack Hussein Obama II was publicly inaugurated as President of the United States for a second term. Some people don't like him, some people do. I don't much care about that. I don't believe politicians do much good either way, but just the fact that he's African-American sends a message to the world that America is not a sack full of racists, as we once viewed them.
But I'm not really here because I want to talk about politics, or racism or even really the presidency. Because I am the Absurd Word Nerd, and I want to talk about a word that people have been throwing around.
The Word of the Day is: 'INAUGURATION'.

Inauguration /in'awgyərayshən/ n. 1. An act or ceremony of inaugurating.

Wow. Thanks, Dictionary. That was really helpful . . .
But just to be sure, what does 'inaugurate' mean.

Inaugurate /in'awgyərayt/ v.t. 1. To make a formal beginning of; initiate; commence; begin. 2. To introduce into office, etc., with formal ceremonies; install.

Now THAT sounds a lot more familiar. And it makes sense. Barack was introduced into office, and it was a formal beginning. That is fascinating. But that's not the reason I bring up the word. I bring it up because I happen to know of another word that makes this one raise my eyebrow.
I know there exists a much older word, with obvious ties to this one. Dictionary? Can you helps us out, here?

Augur /'awgə/ n. 1. (In Ancient Rome) one of a body of officials charged with observing and explaining omens for guidance in public affairs. ♦v.i. 2. To be a sign; bode (well or ill).

You know, I am always fascinated by this sort of thing. Etymologies. Generally, words are built upon similar words, and you can see exactly what it means, because everyone has meant the same thing through generations. But as with this example the word 'inauguration', although now associated with pomp and ceremony, was once a much more spiritual and holy affair. to 'inaugurate' was to perform the duties of an augur, and essentially to divine the future through blessings and omens.
And on first glance, they may seem terribly unrelated. And yes, there are oddities in history that can show seemingly similar words having completely different meanings.
But I don't believe that is the case here. Think about it.

The purpose of the President's Inauguration is to begin his official term, and they continue it with celebration and, of course, a speech by the freshly hired president.
And what is the purpose of this Inaugural Address, if not to set a precedent? [Puns, gotta love 'em!]
Seriously, Obama read out his speech (which he apparently wrote by hand) for the purposes of setting the standard. Letting people know what he is doing, where he is going, and why he is the president you voted for. The Inauguration can be seen as a sign. A declaration of the duties he will uphold.
And in a poetic way, you could even say that all inaugurations could be seen as the fork in the road that could either bode ill, or bode well, for their term ahead of them. There are still those elements of old traditions. And, of course, when Emperors were brought into office, it is known they did so with the ministrations of that body of officials.

But it's not exact, and there's some give either way on how closely this new use of the word translates to Ancient Rome, but I believe you can see it in there, maybe if you squint. There is a beauty to the way language evolves, but we have to remember it's roots. Where it came from. It not only advises, but evolves what the language means. In fact, to express this idea, I don't think I can say it better than Barack Obama himself:

  'Today we continue a never-ending journey, to bridge the meaning of those words with the realities of our time . . .'

Words of the past do not always translate to the modern age. And in terms of religion, sooth-saying, ceremony, history and prejudice, I believe language will continue to shed away all the unneeded baggage and step into the modern age with a new life and vigour to them, to communicate new ideas. Because words truly are immortal, and as we evolve, words too must catch up with our culture, or they will remain reclusive terms, used only by old, dying men and risk being forgotten . . .

- - - 

That's all I have to say on the word 'Inauguration'. Unfortunately I've got a little time left here . . . hmm . . . what to say, what to say.
Well, for one, the timing here may seem a little late, but that's because I live in Australia. The Inauguration, it seems, happened on the 21^st, and today is the 22^nd, so it seems late. But for us, he was inaugurated today, because of the time difference. Unfortunately, I was asleep when it all happened. But I don't think I would have watched it anyway. This isn't about me, it's about Americans. And I don't care about politics.
Perhaps later, I'll better flesh out my own views on politics. Not next post or anything.

Huh . . . still got 200 more words to fill . . .
Well, I can tell you that I plan on another piece of blogfiction in the near future. I don't want to reveal too much, because I don't want to put too much pressure on it, but be warned: there will be more blogfiction. I also have a special blogfiction planned for Earth Hour. But since I'll put it on a little before then, I guess for those who want to read it, you should print it out (on recycled paper) and read it by candlelight, or you'd defeat the point of Earth Hour.

100 more words?

Gee, I'm really straining today . . . You know what? Since I'm not overly versed in politics, I'll ask you lot: Who on Earth should (and can) be President after Obama?I honestly don't know. Mitt Romney is just a joke, and I don't see him winning. Hilary Clinton was my best bet, but apparently she's getting old, eight years after her presidential campaign, so I don't know if she's got it in her. It could just be the media exaggerating her condition, but I don't know if she even wants to run for the presidency anymore.
I would just prefer Obama continue until he drop dead, but apparently you can only be president if you don't know what you're doing. So he's getting kicked out. But I ask you:
Who will be President after Obama?

There we go, that's enough words. I hope I can do a full post for next time. Until then, I'm the Absurd Word Nerd, signing off.