ddavey

Time's ticking, and I can feel the balloon inflating from within. Do something! Do something! And so something I do, but it never fulfills; it's never the something I needed. So I toss and turn in bed hungrily, waking up dry, unable to discern whether I slept or not. God I hope I did.

I strain to focus; listen, learn, grow, grow tomatoes, tomato plants smell like weed, write a script about the legalization of weed and the effects it would have on globalization. Ambition! Ambition! If only ambition could lift my arm, move my pen, write that script. If only... shit what were they talking about?

Double click the icon. I can't wait to play, I've been waiting all day to play. Production logo, production logo, main menu, hover the cursor over the button, it flashes; Continue game? Continue game? I've been waiting all day... I want something to eat, better go check the fridge: salty food; sweet food; moldy food. What am I doing? I'm not even hungry.

I think I will sit down on the couch. It's a beautiful day out, I should go outside. Oh Ellen is on the telly, I love her. Yes I will watch some Television, that's what I will do. I reckon I look the telly in the eye more than anyone else in my life, I wonder what it thinks of me. I should write a short film about a telly, or write a short film from the perspective of a telly, watching a family's interactions; even when they think no-one is watching. Yeah, that's a good idea...

...for fuck sake, DO SOMETHING!

Gather around impressionable ones, let me tell you the story of the slum-bound shrew who made it big in the music industry!





So it was not long ago, when trends swayed too and fro, a young slummy shrew - shrewed her slummy ways in the land of lime

As she grew, she grew into a full grown shrew, and knew, that she knew, she wanted to be known in time

And so along life's road, she grew tired of her humble abode, and pondered the pondings of a shrew burdening a load not lite.

"How does a shrew, which is neither true nor Jew, make a few bucks along the Buckingham line?"

"For I am few true to amount, and few Jew to account, how can a shrew continue to meet the bottom line?"

Then the shrew opened her shrew mouth, and out came a sound, bodiless and dull, that could neither chill nor straighten the spine

"That's it, I will sing! And to hide that voice which makes cringe, I will layer it with things, productions and beats to mask these shallow lyrics of mine."

And so the shrew sold what she may, for professionals she could pay, room for her talentless ways to hide

But then she hit a dilemma, a dilemma that threat to best her, here is the conundrum that antagonized her mind.

"But how can I be loved by all? To be both short and tall? To plant a foot in either side of the line?"

"For everyone knows, the markets that make wallets grow, are the barbies, indies and emos."
"The ones that wear the shallow skirts of hos, and the ones that upturn
their pretentious nose, into all these I must sink those greedy shrew
fingers of mine!"

And then it finally hit her, like the mediocre stick once did her, upon the most repugnant shrew face of all time.

"I will lay bubbly beats for the kiddies, and pretentious lyrics for the arties and hissies, this is the plan upon which I decide!"

"I will cuss to make it more edgy, and bleep it to lighten the heavy, when playing on the bubbly radio line."

"I will promote my music on the Internet, something that's used by all the idiots, to further this scheme of mine."

"The barbies will gather and hear, the colourful musical cheer, and then they will be satisfied."

"From indie to indie it will be told, that my lyrics are sophisticated
and bold, and they will drink the juice of their own grapevine."

And so they all conformed, and the shrew took the world by storm,
indies and barbies, culturally hand in hand for the first time...

So I just finished watching Gran Torino, and as is often the case when I watch a good film, I spun into a spiral of thoughts and inner conflict. It isn't rare for me to spiral (despite it being rare that I watch a good film) and I was already in motion to counter the spinning with my patented ritual. Absently scuffling up the stairs, I planned to make some mi-goreng, sit down next to my Jaffadog and not only share the noodley goodness with her, but also the chaotic eruption of jibberish bubbling under my skull.

After almost tearing my hair out from tediously tearing open those greesy flavouring sachets, I drained the noodles, mixed them into the bowl and headed over for a good O'l chinwag with the Wise One. Entering the living room, I flicked on the light switch - one could say both literally and figuratively - because as I looked over to Jaffa's basket, that familiar stone fell on my chest once again... I burried my Jaffadog 3 weeks ago

Force of habit is a force to be reckoned with, and a force that can go fuck itself.

This isn't the first time this has happened. Everyday when I come home, or I can't sleep, or I wake up in the middle of the night, I'm pulled by the strings of habit, to the place my friend used to lay, only to have my loss shoved up in my grill.
UP IN MY GRILL PEOPLE!
And i will no doubt keep touching the hotplate till i learn my lesson, till my brain registers its folly. Because thats the thing about involuntary actions, we never choose to do them, and can never choose when they end. Sure we can choose when to take action to correct them, but we are really just setting ourselves on a path with an invisible goal, waiting for it to trip us up, so we can finally turn away from where we are going.

These habits can often seem small and harmless, but pebbles make mountains, and habits make lifestyles, and lifestyles make your life. Yes thats right, it's lifestyles that make your life, not your job, or your relationships, or even how many roots you get. For these are all simply "effects" to the "cause" of how you live your life. A good tree cannot produce bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot produce good fruit. The tree is independent of the fruit, but the fruit is consiquential of the tree.

Oscar Wilde once said:
"All of us are in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"
Often in my life, I have felt I am walking one way, all the while looking over my shoulder to my heart's desire. I have realized that if I want whats in the distance, no matter what the latest motivational text tells you, you sometimes have to look down at your own feet, to where they are taking you, because there is nothing wrong with the goal, only with you. I feel this is a lesson often lost in our generation; a generation built on goal setting and titles. We run rampantly through the humanaity supermarket, looking this way and that for the item we want, and once we do; once our heads turn to our hearts desire, its very unlikely that we are running in the same direction.

So ffs run people, we only have so much time to reach that which shines. But watch that your feet dont betray you, lest you end up in the gutter, looking at the stars.

Your distant smile on the path before me
Here I wait quietly, under a giant tree
Oh how I long for your arrival my dear
Lay in the shade, under a giant tree with me

But the sun wails its banshee scream
The song of your steps slows in my ear
Exhaustion falls into the embrace of apathy
And coerced from me you walk my dear

Behind you, the path melts under the sun
A furious flower that sucks moisture insatiably
Here i wait quietly, with no path to walk
Waiting for all the moisture to be sucked from me

Man



The Penis
The most distinct feature of the man is the penis. The penis is actually a separate organism from man, capable of comprehension and cognitive activities. Unfourtunately for man, the penis is consumed by only one thought pattern at a time:
Vagina
Penis
Vagina and/or Penis.
 
In the case of the vagina thought pattern, the man is deemed 'heterosexual' and is considered to be the manliest of man-states. This man-state is infact so manly, that all other man-states appear un-manly, to the point of seeming womanly. The irony of this man-state, is that its manliness propells it toward woman. This manly desire for woman, drags the man into a balancing act of being manly (but not too manly) and womanly (but not too womanly) to achieve its goal of woman. The rediculous contradiction of the manliest man-state desiring its opposing element (woman) is evident througout all genital thought patterns, and paramount to the sexual phenominon

The second thought pattern of the penis, is for penis itself. This 'homosexual' desire for another penis, should not be confused with the desire for ones own penis (a trait paradoxically most common in heterosexuals [AKA narcissits or wankers]). This man-state is commonly percieved as the least manly, to the point of being womanly. Infact, this man-state rivals the womanliness of woman itself, pushing the boundaries of femininity with turtle-neck sweaters, archives of pox 90s dance music, a diverse knowledge in horderves and after-hours industrial sex parties.

The third thought pattern of the penis, is for vagina and/or penis (AKA bisexuals). This is a mix of the previous 2 man-states and is generally quite mixed in nature, like choclate with orange, salty fries in softserve icecream or a platypus. Infact, many of the men of this man-state have been reported to have the apearance of a platypus, zebra or in some rare cases a zoarse. Though not quite as womanly as the homosexuals, they are still considered quite womanly by the more manly man-state.

The nature of man
Not armed with the equavilant emotional tools to women, men shy away from esoteric conversations about feelings and relationships, and lean toward simple stimulating activities such as footbal, UNO and swordfighting. Many of these activities cause perspiration and result in sweaty-man. Sweaty-man is apealing to neither man nor woman but is an innevitable result of active-man. This activity driven lifestyle has developed a very practical mentality, which has lead to awesome architecture and the discovery of science, but has also lead to conflict and world-wars in which millions of people have died. It is proven that if women were the world leaders, there would be absolutely no wars (1992 by the world-simulatortron 3000) but it is also proven by the same world-simulatortron 3000 that we wouldn't win any wars either.

Mans use is often brought into question, as it seems unapparent outside of a purely reproductive sense. This can be attributed to the constant comparison of a mans performance to a womans, a see-saw that never tips in mans favour. Even in physical labour (an activity that man is physiologically geared for) such as fixing gutters and mowing the lawn, mans performance is deemed lackluster when compared to the hypothetical performance of a woman (if they had 'your muscles'). This often causes psychotic confusion in man, as he must choose between reality and the mentality of women, where there is no black or white, only conversations.

The continuation of man and the entry for woman to come...

Prada... Puma... CK... K9?
Let it be known, if I see you holding your dog in your arm like an inanimate object, that you've draped in colorfull fabrics on a hot summer day, I will take that Prada bag from your other arm and choke you with it. Comprimising the comfort of your loyal companion, in an effort to make them more color-collaborative with your outfit is...

D I S G U S T I N G

The fact that you cannot resist such a depraved exploitation of your potential best friend, is testiment to the superficial relationships that encompass your life. As you pick and choose your furniture, lifestyle and friends from the Ikea catalogue of the skin deep do you feel any consummation at all? Is there anything left for you to color code and fabricate, to craft the proverbial christmas-card that is your life? Do your neighbours, family and business associates fit into this pretentious jigsaw? Or do you close your eyes and block your ears to all that is drab, difficult, wise and bubbless as you sing the lyrics to the latest Jonas Brothers single, merrily skiping down the yellow brick road toward the Wizard of OZ (AKA a justified death)

"Suicide is selfish" ryhmes with "Jews die of shellfish"
Where did this notion come from? Are we really so insensitive, to put our vicarious pain that resulted from death, above their personal pain that resulted in death? Really? To look past the immense suffering of others, to the pitifull inconvinience of attending a funeral, is the epitome of narcisism. The perception of suicide being self-centered is the product of a world that revolves around ourselves, any hitch in the fluency of our world's revolutions is such a fucking nuisance, isn't it?

How dare they be brought to their knees by overwhelming sadness, clawing for anything to take the pain away, only to grasp the dark uncertainty of death. HOW DARE THEY! Now my world must pause for a few hours while i don a suit, drive to a funeral home (which is very reminiscant of visiting grandma at the old folks home [God, why couldn't she have died?]), as I listen to "Die Motherfucker Die Motherfuck DIE!" on my ipod during the eulogy and cram as many horderves into my mouth as physically possible, out of fear that someone else might steal one of them.
THESE ARE MY HORDERVES MOTHERFUCKERS!!@!!
HOW FUCKING DARE THEY@!@!@!!!11@!!

I'm aware that this doesnt correlate with my previous work, but theres a reason for this. Its not that I only write humorous pieces, its that they are the only pieces i post. I'm breaking this habbit though, as I may be entering into a writing course.

Paradoxically, I wrote this melancholic poem sitting in my girlfriends garden, waiting anxiously for her to come home. Thank you Tess for a precious weekend.

Fingertips press against the keys
Tendons stretch along the bone
Nimble muscles flex and pull
In the arms and hands of a man
A man sitting in the dark, alone

But the music is played for the last time
And all hope is subject to attrition
For the taxman comes to take the soul
To take the heart from the spirit's body
To take the instrument from the musician

Famine has played its unbeatable hand
Food of thought must pay for the mouth
The body will writhe and frivolously turn
In the hope to quench the thirst
Of a fire that raged and now lies doust

Clay must be given to form the piece
Years spent to craft, to hone
The taxman comes to take even this
Now only blood will remain
Of the integral muscle torn from bone

The musician stands without the music
A husk of matter unable to emote
The soul struggles and gasps for air
The taxman knocks quietly at the door
The dagger pends quietly at the throat

All but silent except for red drips
The vessel remains behind without vision
The taxman enters to fulfill his intention
Unaware that he now takes nothing
In the still eyes of the dead musician

As you all know, my last interview with Kevin Rudd didn't go to plan. Maybe it was a break down in communication, or my inabillity to deal with the fact that someone so white could be more chinese than me. Either way, Kevin and I just dont seem to have any synergy, but that doesn't mean we cant get the answers we want! I have drawn up some very difficult questions, that I feel other media personalities are simply too spineless to ask. I then painstakingly sifted through hundreds of interviews with our Prime Minister for appropriate answers. The result is a compilation of answers to questions, that deep down, you want to ask our great country's leader

DD: So Mr Rudd, in inches, how big is your penis and what do you plan on doing with it?
KR: Well its about 15 million and I plan to invest every bit of it into single mothers.

DD: I hear you have a nicname for your penis. Are you a "love thy self" cat, or is it something you like to share around?
KR: Ah yes the worm... Look even if it favors me, the worm is still in the hands of the Australian people.

DD: Ever get the desire to just bend Malcom Turnbull over a chair and spank him stupid?
KR: Theres a time and a place for everything. The time is now! And the place is Canberra!

DD: You and Julia Gillard ever gotten REALLY drunk and just gone at it like shameless socialite sluts?
KR: That would be a miscalculation of gross proportions.

DD: That doesn't answer the question though does it? I bet you got your self a bit of action down there.
KR: On the whole, it smells a little fishy to me. I mean, where did these oil deposits come from?

DD: And finally Mr Rudd, is it true that while in America as a UN observer. you got drunk and entered a strip club?
KR: I was too drunk to remember anything

DD: Thank you for your honesty Mr Rudd