Tired of the counting
Of numbers running through
Want a pace to set
With irregular occurrences
But I see the math around me
And fear to step out of line
For the dream does not equal
The equation in my mind
Wish to slow the sequence
Happy to embrace the imbalance
To breathe without the ticking
For once to have time
But without a single digit
There can be no addition
No 'safety in numbers'
Living without a dime
Monday, April 12, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
God is a Bullet by Boston Teran
“During Christmas week in 1995, a fourteen-year-old girl is kidnapped by a bloodthirsty satanic cult that calls itself the Left-Handed Path. Bob Hightower, the girl’s father and a small-town copy, embarks on a desperate mission to find his daughter but his only hope lies with Case Hardin, an ex-cult member and ex-junkie living in a halfway house in Hollywood.
“Their quest – his for his child, hers to exorcise demons from the past – becomes a primal hunt-and-chase through a savage subculture of drugs and ritualistic violence. But it is Bob who holds the final card to throw into the macabre ‘game’…the twentieth enigma of the Tarot…the angel who signals Judgement…”
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE is book in a major way…my favourite passage:
“See,” she continues, “I believe everybody knows what life really is about. Only they are just not ready for what they would call ‘bad news’. They fight against it with God and the devil and all that holographic New Age bullshit. Yeah, I believe everybody knows there is nothing. Everybody knows down in their guts. It’s x number of years, then the ground and done, and it frightens them.
“I believe the human beast is desperate and saw fit to retro a god in its own image to conform to what it wants when it wants it. To what it needs when it needs it. To what it must have when it sees suit to have it. And worse yet, it was Michelangelo’s vision. You know…”
She stretches out her arm in a mock imitation of the God of the Sistine Chapel ceiling reaching out for Adam. “The big man,” she says. “Great White, as I like to call him. The shark of sharks.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah. White. And a man. You want my opinion, that was the original bullshit sin. ‘Cause it set a precedent. It said the godhead – perfection – was a male. Which the white culture turned into their own native son. So everyone and everything else was a step down. Women. Blacks. Indians. Animals. Gays.
“Shit, it’s Genesis. Which is just so much muckraking bullshit. So much moral and philosophical gerrymandering. It’s Hitler’s Mein Kamph, but a better mindfuck people can get into.
“Those who buy the faith ostracize those who don’t. And countries are built on the back of that faith. Civilizations on the back of those countries. The fuckin’ dollar bill, man – “In God We Trust” – what a fuckin’ wink.”
She flicks her ashes hard, and they rim the ashtray before dropping in. she takes one of the empty shot glasses and separates it from the others, letting it stand alone at the edge of the table.
“Then an outsider comes along,” she says. “And has a thought. Other outsiders buy into the idea. You know what it is. Cyrus. They create a devil in their own image and likeness. Their patron saint. And the war starts. And why not? Why should the outsiders lie down and die at the feet of the bullshit holy? You and Cyrus…” She slaps her arm where the needle would go. “You need each other. Like junk. ‘Cause neither side can see it all for what it is without their fix.
“Everyone needs a club. Club God and Club Scream. On the same block. With different bands. But the riffs are begged, borrowed, and bullshit. And the cover charge is too much, no matter what. You want the real truth, Coyote, go knocking on coffins.”
She points her cigarette at him. “And you want the real reason why you’re breaking apart? To believe in your God is to believe in him. Cyrus. To believe in him is to believe in the power of it all. And I don’t just mean what he did. I mean the implications around what you feel like. Being the rat’s ass in the Great White’s eyes. To believe in that is to believe in the reason for things to be what they are, and since that reason is beyond your grasp, you pray for your baby’s death. The end of suffering. The end of some failure in the Great White’s eyes.”
She holds up the cigarette, lets it burn some. “But whose suffering, Coyote, hers…or yours?”
….yadda, yadda, yadda…
“Of course, there is one loose cannon running around that could pass itself off as the real thing.” She looks around, reaches under the table and into her shirt. Bob watches her arm fiddle a bit, then come up with a closed hand. She opens it clandestinely. In the palm is a Frontier cartridge – a good old gliding metal jacket with brass bullet for better, deeper penetration.
“Take a look. This is the ultimate life form, the highest art form. The great equalizer. It crosses all political, social, and religious lines. It has no ties. It plays no favorites. It cuts both ways. It is as simple and profound as any fuckin’ parable the Bible could slop up through all that magisterial garbage. It carries history on its back. All life falls before it. All faith resides within that virgin brass casing. The virgin birth, baby.
“Yeah. It births new religions and bears down on old ones. There’s god, Coyote. Grin and bear it.” She slips it into his hand.
“Their quest – his for his child, hers to exorcise demons from the past – becomes a primal hunt-and-chase through a savage subculture of drugs and ritualistic violence. But it is Bob who holds the final card to throw into the macabre ‘game’…the twentieth enigma of the Tarot…the angel who signals Judgement…”
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE is book in a major way…my favourite passage:
“See,” she continues, “I believe everybody knows what life really is about. Only they are just not ready for what they would call ‘bad news’. They fight against it with God and the devil and all that holographic New Age bullshit. Yeah, I believe everybody knows there is nothing. Everybody knows down in their guts. It’s x number of years, then the ground and done, and it frightens them.
“I believe the human beast is desperate and saw fit to retro a god in its own image to conform to what it wants when it wants it. To what it needs when it needs it. To what it must have when it sees suit to have it. And worse yet, it was Michelangelo’s vision. You know…”
She stretches out her arm in a mock imitation of the God of the Sistine Chapel ceiling reaching out for Adam. “The big man,” she says. “Great White, as I like to call him. The shark of sharks.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah. White. And a man. You want my opinion, that was the original bullshit sin. ‘Cause it set a precedent. It said the godhead – perfection – was a male. Which the white culture turned into their own native son. So everyone and everything else was a step down. Women. Blacks. Indians. Animals. Gays.
“Shit, it’s Genesis. Which is just so much muckraking bullshit. So much moral and philosophical gerrymandering. It’s Hitler’s Mein Kamph, but a better mindfuck people can get into.
“Those who buy the faith ostracize those who don’t. And countries are built on the back of that faith. Civilizations on the back of those countries. The fuckin’ dollar bill, man – “In God We Trust” – what a fuckin’ wink.”
She flicks her ashes hard, and they rim the ashtray before dropping in. she takes one of the empty shot glasses and separates it from the others, letting it stand alone at the edge of the table.
“Then an outsider comes along,” she says. “And has a thought. Other outsiders buy into the idea. You know what it is. Cyrus. They create a devil in their own image and likeness. Their patron saint. And the war starts. And why not? Why should the outsiders lie down and die at the feet of the bullshit holy? You and Cyrus…” She slaps her arm where the needle would go. “You need each other. Like junk. ‘Cause neither side can see it all for what it is without their fix.
“Everyone needs a club. Club God and Club Scream. On the same block. With different bands. But the riffs are begged, borrowed, and bullshit. And the cover charge is too much, no matter what. You want the real truth, Coyote, go knocking on coffins.”
She points her cigarette at him. “And you want the real reason why you’re breaking apart? To believe in your God is to believe in him. Cyrus. To believe in him is to believe in the power of it all. And I don’t just mean what he did. I mean the implications around what you feel like. Being the rat’s ass in the Great White’s eyes. To believe in that is to believe in the reason for things to be what they are, and since that reason is beyond your grasp, you pray for your baby’s death. The end of suffering. The end of some failure in the Great White’s eyes.”
She holds up the cigarette, lets it burn some. “But whose suffering, Coyote, hers…or yours?”
….yadda, yadda, yadda…
“Of course, there is one loose cannon running around that could pass itself off as the real thing.” She looks around, reaches under the table and into her shirt. Bob watches her arm fiddle a bit, then come up with a closed hand. She opens it clandestinely. In the palm is a Frontier cartridge – a good old gliding metal jacket with brass bullet for better, deeper penetration.
“Take a look. This is the ultimate life form, the highest art form. The great equalizer. It crosses all political, social, and religious lines. It has no ties. It plays no favorites. It cuts both ways. It is as simple and profound as any fuckin’ parable the Bible could slop up through all that magisterial garbage. It carries history on its back. All life falls before it. All faith resides within that virgin brass casing. The virgin birth, baby.
“Yeah. It births new religions and bears down on old ones. There’s god, Coyote. Grin and bear it.” She slips it into his hand.
Monday, January 18, 2010
"Lonely Werewolf Girl" by Martin Millar
"Millar's expansive tale of werewolves in the modern world - friendly werewolves, fashionista werewolves, troubled teenage werewolves, cross-dressing werewolves, were wolves of every sort - blends satire, black comedy, fantasy and is hard-edged, hilarious, believable and utterly unputdownable.
"As teenage werewolf Kalix MacRinnalch is pursued through the streets of London b murderous hunters, her sister, the Werewolf Enchantress, is busy designing cloths for the Fire Queen. Meanwhile, in the Scottish Highlands, the MacRinnalch Clan is plotting and feuding after the head of the clan suddenly dies intestate.
"As court intrigue threatens to explode in all-out civil war, the competing fractions determine that Kalix is the swing vote necessary to assume leadership of the clan. Unfortunately, Kalix isn't really into court politics - laudanum's more her thing. But what's even more unfortunate is that Kalix is the reason the head of the clan ended up dead, which is why she's now on the run in London...
"'Martin Millar writes like Kurt Vonnegut might have written, if he'd been born fifty years in a different country and hung around with entirely the wrong sort of people' - Neil Gaiman*"
Currently reading "Lonely Werewolf Girl" (I know, very emo), and I will simply say that if anyone out there enjoys a "well written" novel with "in-depth, thought-out characters" please DO NOT pick up this book.
For example (and I’ll try and write this as badly as the author):
Two humans, Moonglow and David are currently huddled in a corner of the office of Thrix (a werewolf fashion designer). With them, Malveria ("Fire Queens of the Hiyasta, Mistress of the Volcanoes, Protector of the Flame, Lady of the Inferno, Ruler of the Burning Element, Persecutor of Mankind, Conqueror of the Ice Dwarves, Destroyer of the Iron Giants…") hidden behind a sorcery spell.Now Thrix’s werewolf brothers enter the room. Tell their sister they can sense someone hiding in said corner. Than continue to talk about killing their other sister (family business).Previously stated Malveria decides to help werewolf fashion designer and leaves the protection of the sorcery spell. And, hey presto, the werewolf brothers refuse to discuss family business among non-family members. Who the fuck did they think was hiding in the corner?
I hope I’m not the only one with a headache…and if you think that is bad do not think that is the only inconsistency.
Now I’ve read crap…lots of crap, mostly found at the bottom of the bargain bin, but I don’t think I’ve read anything that feels like an idea for a novel in point form flushed out with a sentence here and there. Oh, we have a gap? Fill it in with useless information that you used just the page before. Can’t remember which character’s perspective your writing from, don’t bother checking, just pick one. Is your main character a teenager? Oh yes, wonderful, just make sure she has an eating disorder, drug problem, violence issues and a strong need to die, all while being described as amazingly beautiful in her excessively skinny state (so hot right now) and you have a book deal.
Who approves this shit? How the hell do I get a job like that (ooh, free books AND I get to be a bitch)? And he has won an award for a previous book!?! I wonder if standards are slipping or he is?
Well, I’ve started so I now have to finish, but I can't see the level of annoyance I'm feeling right now subsiding until I'm done.
I think this is the first time I have had a rant like this over a book…with the amount of crap I have read over the years, THAT’S how bad it is.
*Sounds like someone couldn't think of a nice thing to say.
"As teenage werewolf Kalix MacRinnalch is pursued through the streets of London b murderous hunters, her sister, the Werewolf Enchantress, is busy designing cloths for the Fire Queen. Meanwhile, in the Scottish Highlands, the MacRinnalch Clan is plotting and feuding after the head of the clan suddenly dies intestate.
"As court intrigue threatens to explode in all-out civil war, the competing fractions determine that Kalix is the swing vote necessary to assume leadership of the clan. Unfortunately, Kalix isn't really into court politics - laudanum's more her thing. But what's even more unfortunate is that Kalix is the reason the head of the clan ended up dead, which is why she's now on the run in London...
"'Martin Millar writes like Kurt Vonnegut might have written, if he'd been born fifty years in a different country and hung around with entirely the wrong sort of people' - Neil Gaiman*"
Currently reading "Lonely Werewolf Girl" (I know, very emo), and I will simply say that if anyone out there enjoys a "well written" novel with "in-depth, thought-out characters" please DO NOT pick up this book.
For example (and I’ll try and write this as badly as the author):
Two humans, Moonglow and David are currently huddled in a corner of the office of Thrix (a werewolf fashion designer). With them, Malveria ("Fire Queens of the Hiyasta, Mistress of the Volcanoes, Protector of the Flame, Lady of the Inferno, Ruler of the Burning Element, Persecutor of Mankind, Conqueror of the Ice Dwarves, Destroyer of the Iron Giants…") hidden behind a sorcery spell.Now Thrix’s werewolf brothers enter the room. Tell their sister they can sense someone hiding in said corner. Than continue to talk about killing their other sister (family business).Previously stated Malveria decides to help werewolf fashion designer and leaves the protection of the sorcery spell. And, hey presto, the werewolf brothers refuse to discuss family business among non-family members. Who the fuck did they think was hiding in the corner?
I hope I’m not the only one with a headache…and if you think that is bad do not think that is the only inconsistency.
Now I’ve read crap…lots of crap, mostly found at the bottom of the bargain bin, but I don’t think I’ve read anything that feels like an idea for a novel in point form flushed out with a sentence here and there. Oh, we have a gap? Fill it in with useless information that you used just the page before. Can’t remember which character’s perspective your writing from, don’t bother checking, just pick one. Is your main character a teenager? Oh yes, wonderful, just make sure she has an eating disorder, drug problem, violence issues and a strong need to die, all while being described as amazingly beautiful in her excessively skinny state (so hot right now) and you have a book deal.
Who approves this shit? How the hell do I get a job like that (ooh, free books AND I get to be a bitch)? And he has won an award for a previous book!?! I wonder if standards are slipping or he is?
Well, I’ve started so I now have to finish, but I can't see the level of annoyance I'm feeling right now subsiding until I'm done.
I think this is the first time I have had a rant like this over a book…with the amount of crap I have read over the years, THAT’S how bad it is.
*Sounds like someone couldn't think of a nice thing to say.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Plus-Sized Models
I am over the debate about plus-sized models (http://www.news.com.au/story/0,27574,26042579-5007146,00.html). They look amazing. Healthy, sexy and so happy. Yet people (mainly women) are ripping them apart. "Yes it's good that were getting away from the sticks, but idolising the 'obese' is wrong."
OBESE...give me a break...if you have to lift your belly apron to find your bits, your obese. If you can't breath after a trip from your bed to the loo, your obese.
Anyone remember this little goddess?
This women was idolised before junk food, inactive lifestyle and TV turned curvy into obese. And I'm sure she did a shit more than thirty minutes of exercise a day and ate more than the recommended serves of fruit and vegetables and less red meat.And I know more than enough people in the "health range" that are extremely unhealthy...body image is not about health...a healthy body (what ever size and shape) is.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The Nightwalker by Diane Guest
“If Virginia Andrews makes you shiver, Diane Guest will make you scream…”
“In the cold, clear moonlight surrounding the gardens of Clairemont, someone, something, is out for a midnight prowl…
“When Gillian Norlund learns of her half-brother Robin’s request to reunite her with her father, she returns to Clairemont with some reluctance, for it is a house of unhappy memories: the place where Gillian’s mother Claire met a horrifying and untimely death, and where Gillian herself experienced a shattering rejection by her family.
“Now Gillian is grown up, with a loving husband and Daisy and Will, her adorable eleven-year-old twins. By her reckoning, there’s nothing to lose by returning to Clairmont – so why is she so scared?
“When the family arrive at the house, they find a mansion infused with a sense of trauma and fear; the age-old disturbances are buried, but not forgotten. Gillian’s younger sister, Amanda, is psychotic and obsessive; her half-brother Robin alternately aloof or friendly; and the twins are clearly terrified of something – yet they won’t confess their troubles to Gillian. Only Robin’s wife Lenore seems ever cheery and optimistic, and that is peculiar in itself.
“Something, somewhere is casting terror over Clairmont – a terror which only Gillian can dispel, yet which threatens her, more than any other, with a vengeful, violent death…”
Oh, scary…well, not so much...at all. Predictable but written well enough. Was expecting a lot from a subheading stating, “If Virginia Andrews makes you shiver, Diane Guest will make you scream…” The closest this came to Virginia Andrews, was having her name on the cover.
All in all, it was a simple ghost story…predictable or not, I didn’t get who “done-it” until the end, but if I’d read the whole the blurb on the back, it jumps out at you.
And if I was that husband, the marriage wouldn’t have lasted long, I would bloody hell want to know…but I noisy.
Bring on a book with Amanda as the main character…she was fun...I do like the crazies.
Not likely to read again…anyone want?
“In the cold, clear moonlight surrounding the gardens of Clairemont, someone, something, is out for a midnight prowl…
“When Gillian Norlund learns of her half-brother Robin’s request to reunite her with her father, she returns to Clairemont with some reluctance, for it is a house of unhappy memories: the place where Gillian’s mother Claire met a horrifying and untimely death, and where Gillian herself experienced a shattering rejection by her family.
“Now Gillian is grown up, with a loving husband and Daisy and Will, her adorable eleven-year-old twins. By her reckoning, there’s nothing to lose by returning to Clairmont – so why is she so scared?
“When the family arrive at the house, they find a mansion infused with a sense of trauma and fear; the age-old disturbances are buried, but not forgotten. Gillian’s younger sister, Amanda, is psychotic and obsessive; her half-brother Robin alternately aloof or friendly; and the twins are clearly terrified of something – yet they won’t confess their troubles to Gillian. Only Robin’s wife Lenore seems ever cheery and optimistic, and that is peculiar in itself.
“Something, somewhere is casting terror over Clairmont – a terror which only Gillian can dispel, yet which threatens her, more than any other, with a vengeful, violent death…”
Oh, scary…well, not so much...at all. Predictable but written well enough. Was expecting a lot from a subheading stating, “If Virginia Andrews makes you shiver, Diane Guest will make you scream…” The closest this came to Virginia Andrews, was having her name on the cover.
All in all, it was a simple ghost story…predictable or not, I didn’t get who “done-it” until the end, but if I’d read the whole the blurb on the back, it jumps out at you.
And if I was that husband, the marriage wouldn’t have lasted long, I would bloody hell want to know…but I noisy.
Bring on a book with Amanda as the main character…she was fun...I do like the crazies.
Not likely to read again…anyone want?
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