Rookie log #5: HQ locale
It was a cool, sunny day when it occurred. A peaceful stroll past the water fountain led me to a bench on the edge of the large pond. I would’ve taken the very right seat, like I do every Monday afternoon, however, there was a gentleman sitting there, choosing to stare off into the distance rather than at the newspaper in his hands. There was something fishy about him, but I took a seat on the left side anyway. There was a hanging silence in the air that only the swimming ducks felt the need to fill. Then, 15 minutes had passed and…
“Awfully fine weather.”
I took a moment to look around to see who he was talking to. He turned his head slightly in my direction. “Isn’t it?” I was stuck in silence for a moment, not knowing how to respond. I hadn’t prepared myself for a conversation. I said what I thought was the most appropriate response for such a sudden conversation.
He must have been pleased by this response, as the conversation continued.
“Some would say too fine.”
The gentleman stressed the last word as if it were a warning. I replied accordingly.
“That is expected of a Monday.”
The man gave a nod. Then, while still staring forward, took the briefcase that sat at his feet (which surely hadn’t been there before), placed it flat on the bench beside him, and slid it across to me. Then, he got up and walked away. I remained seated, thinking the gentleman would come back for the briefcase. Finally, when the sun was well below the horizon and the people were few, in fact, none, I ventured to open it. I turned. I clicked the clasps. I opened. It was close to empty. All there was to occupy the velvety space was an official-looking paper.
HQ locale. Member #5.
Then, I woke up here.
Abroad this rusty carib boat
And sing to no avail
You can cry til ears run dry
And drink til you are stale
Hopeless wander’rs lose their hearts
And forfeit up this game
With lagging features ’cross their marks
And ticks that never tame
Wilful widows hide their tones
And whisper in the dark
There isn’t anyone at home
Or yet there was a park
For once a day within the bleak
Amongst the shadowed liars
Jokers let their hands behold
Their tricks left in the briars
Tell the tale once again
Of lost winds caught at sea
Never do you steer the ship
Towards the jagged leaves
I never had a hand hold
Nor did I catch the life
Reflected in the sunny sky
Between the candlelight
Hedonic adaptation refers to the way a person's emotional state returns to an equilibrium following bursts of emotion.
So, no matter how much you surround yourself with the good things, it won't matter.
You're not happy.
You were happy,
but only for a moment.
The joy will leave.
The happy will leave.
Like sand through your fingers...
oh god I'm so lonely....
Johnny Depp, birthdays, and princesses
I used to think Johnny Depp was Australian, which made me pretty happy since I was Ausn. I was extremely surprised and disappointed, however, to find out he wasn
I also thought that all my birthdays were different. My mum has been looking at the calendar when I asked her when my next birthday was. Again, extremely surprised to find out it would be the same day for the rest of my life.
And finally, I cried when my mum trimmed my hair. Apparently (according to me), if I got my hair cut, I wouldn't be able to be a princess.
*note: I still am Australian.
The same angsty stuff
Held by the silence,
cooled by the solitude,
warmed by the merciless Earth,
a temper consumes you
like a deadly disease
ever since the day of its birth.
It feeds off your heart
that's rotting within,
littered with mould and loam.
Where the living lack life
and the corpses don't rest:
this wonderful world we call home.
Blathering, blithering, boisterous buffoons! How they are so bold! Their brash and bossy behaviour they bother to boast so busily banishes all benign bodies brave enough to bear the breath of such bullies! It is beyond me, beyond my brain, why bickering brothers and their buddies can be brought to be beside such balmy bods and bask in their benevolent balance even though they don't belong in the bastion of beloved benefit!
On a mound beside a canal, a man sat with his dog, with whom he engaged in curious conversation.
"The meaning of life," he said, and left it at that. A boat floated by. The man continued. "Suppose there is one and someone finds it." The dog listened, probably, its still form standing attention to the small waves in the water. "Who will it be?" The man took a puff from his cigar. One he'd found. "It could be us," he nudged the dog, "could be one o' them philosophers. Or a monk." The dog chose not to respond. "Could be a politician." The man analysed the cigar. "But, that's supposing." The dog let out a whimper. "Suppose there isn't," the man said, handing the dog a piece of bread, "a meaning to life, that is." Another boat floated by. "What happens to all o' them? The thinkers? The believers?" The man continued to look out onto the water. So did the dog. "If they find out there is no meaning, there'd be nothing to look for." The dog remained silent. Perhaps, in thought. "You and me are lucky," he said, "we ain't like them thinkers. We do other things." They sat, watching another boat go by. "Hmm," he sighed, "yep."
I am cold. I am hopeless. I am mad that I have not done what I am supposed to, but also, and mostly, because I must. Because if it were up to me...
It wouldn't be. It can't be. If it were up to me is out of the question. In fact, if it were up to me does not make any sense. It wouldn't. It can't. How I admire the absurdists. They have it all right. The liberating feeling of knowing that we know nothing is one I wish to embrace. But I wouldn't. I can't. It is not up to me. But if it were...
See the people. The civilians. See the everyday spur and spark of society. The roundabout way of life. The dull haze of rhythm that we awaken from every now and then. The one we're not particularly okay with. The one that spins constantly, making us all dizzy and unconscious. That one. I strive to be a part of it. A part of that. I aim to be sedated by the sense of purpose and community. A vegetable. A cog. Each passing day, I aim for it. I do not dream of it. I am haunted by it. After all, if it were up to me...
How vague a goal it is, as well. Nothing particularly spectacular, though very particular, and nothing daringly desired. Just a box in a box in a box. Opened and unpackaged. And there it is. Nothing but what you see. Perhaps, the next box will have a hat. But no. It never does. There never is anything other than what you truly expect. It never changes. It wouldn't. It can't. If it were up to me...
Is it just me
or is it everyone else?
Am I the best of the best?
Is it just me,
I can't really tell,
or am I just strangely obsessed?
It's awfully strange
but awfully there.
Perhaps everyone here is inferior.
Yet, I can't fight this feeling,
this ominous air,
that makes me feel oh-so superior.
What am I thinking?!
What is the matter?!
Please, ignore me. I'm sorry.
It's not as if
all of you are subservient.
Now, that would be a worry.
Unless you are. Oh my!
You're all far lesser!
I did not think that it could be!
You are as lowly
as I am amazing!
I guess it wasn't just me.
"It's a real shame, man. I heard you were the best." His slight smile made me feel uneasy. Even more, anyway. When you're thrown into a dirt pit in the middle of nowhere with your hands tied, uneasy is an understatement.
"Please," I heave, "you have to understand." He didn't listen to me. He kept fixing up his facade. His clean shaven face was now covered in rough stubble. A moustache covered his top lip. It was only just smaller than my own, but he would grow it out. My chest rose and fell rapidly as I watched him turn himself into me. My desparation turned to fury. "They'll do it to you too, y'know!" I wheezed, "as soon as you fail, they'll come for you!" He wasn't bothered by anything I said. He turned and looked at me, a plain, nearly bored, expression on his face. It suddenly lit up like a christmas tree.
"How do I look?" He stuck his arms out to present himself. I huffed.
"Let me go."
"Yeah. You're right," he scratched the gristle on his chin, as if that would make it grow faster, "it's not the full picture. Is it?" He took a step closer to the pit and stuck his hand out. "The earring." He fixed my earring to his ear and looked himself up and down in his car window. The same flashy suit. The same hair, the same earring. He looked just like me. Only he wasn't tied up in a pit. I gave up fighting. I knew this would happen. I just didn't think it would happen to me.
"You know what I always wondered?" I could see his reflection fixing up his tie. "Who the first one was. Someone was the first. But then they failed, and..." He turned and looked at me with an amused smile. "Well, I guess you'll find out." I let out an exasperated sigh.
"Let's just get it over with," I said quietly. I stared at the ground, listening. His footsteps in the dirt. The rustle of his clothes. It was at the click of the gun that I closed my eyes.
"You already know what happens, though. Don't ya?" The wind filled the quiet. "Yeah," he said, his voice low and slow, "at some point you were standing where I am, and some poor larrakin was in a pit." He laughed. I took a deep breath in
He continued, a chuckle still in his voice. "Yeah. You said somethin'. Didn't ya'? What was it?"
"Your story ended, so I will rewrite it." It was like an epitaph, that phrase. The last thing many had heard. And, it would seem, the last thing I would say.
"Yeah. That's it. That's the one," his tone was serious. He got down on one knee and I felt the hairs on his face as he leaned in and spoke softly into my ear. "And rewrite it, you shall." With that, he stood. I heard the rustle of clothes and the footsteps in the dirt. The sound of the car engine faded into the distance as I finally allowed myself to open my eyes.
And rewrite it, you shall.