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randomthoughts - Random thoughts on everyday life: Who knows where they come from

I guess its the age old question of survival. If you had to, would you, could you, eat another person if it was life or death? I guess its a stupid question unless you were actually those people. Logic says hey I you are in the forest, hunt or something, but, they did have injuries to boot and I guess logic wouldn't exist in dense virgin jungle when you have just cheated death.

I'd like to think I'd be the one who said NO way. Imagine even considering eating another person.

Do you think you could eat another person?

Here's a link to the story

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Posted By: Louie - Category: No Category

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time for an urban myth

March 28th 2008 03:04

With all the religous debate going on, my mind could not help but wander to this Urban Myth that did the rounds a few years ago. This one I have found says it was a University of Washington exam question, but I also saw another site that said it was MacGill University in Canada. The question

Is Hell exothermic or endothermic?

Here is a lnk to the blog where it is posted

Here is the bit that the recent Orble bickering reminded me of...not sure why

As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.Some of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there are more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all people and all souls go to Hell.

Happy Friday, Louie

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My first ever short story Part II

October 20th 2007 23:46

CLICK HERE FOR THE BEGINNING

That day 2 years ago, 728 days ago, he remembered waking; instinctively he had known it was early despite the deceptive light streaming through the windows. Morning sounds touched him; still , slow, no urgency. It was hard for Ritchie to believe she was dead, especially that day. He always thought they would be friends forever. Her always there bailing him out at all life’s corners, yelling at him but always forgiving him, the only one never to judge him.

He always loved getting up early, being the first to start the day, do all the mundane chores while there are no people around, not for any other reason than he hated people more than anything. By choice he had lived his life on an alternate time clock to everyone else. It is easy to avoid people if you don’t mind doing things differently, he didn’t.
Today especially. Goodbyes were the worst.

That morning the swallows had been playing in the park flying around and it reminded him of her and the time she told him that swallows never touch the ground; they were standing in Bacalar on the lake of the seven colours; that amazing deck watching the sun go down, watching blue become blue, turquoise, aqua, green. The lake was called seven colours but at that moment in his life he honestly thought he could see a hundred colours, light refracting detracting dancing with the swallows. He always felt like that around her, their friendship a Kaleidoscope of infinite possibility.

He remembered asking her once why she loved the swallows so much, she said it was because they always seemed so happy and they didn’t need little blue pills to be that way. It made him feel guilty but he didn’t stop. She hated drugs. Mostly because of what they did to him.

It never ceased to amaze him how time dragged on when he was doing something he hated like living without a friend, he wondered if that meant his life would seem longer living without her. He hoped not. Its not like he didn’t try to be normal. He was married now and for love and for the sake of Sarah he always tried to fit in. March to the beat of their drum. Breath into his space. B was the thread that held all that together. Sarah knew it, she knew the man she loved.

The noise of the child’s party brought his mind back into the room. He looked around and saw the Elephant. He couldn’t believe it was there in the corner, somehow it had survived, misunderstood in this world that went on without her; jeez how long ago had he bought that for her? Maybe it was the joint he smoked but he could swear it was looking at him with those funny stone eyes. Tiny piercing dots. Like a sun’s ray through a punctured piece of paper. Sharp focussed light illuminating his memories, uncovering shadows in his heart. Looking over walls he had built deliberately.

A tear fell.

He hated when men cried.

He would be the only one to know the story of when they met in Mexico. The first time he ever felt that strange sensation of realising he would know someone forever. They talked all night on the beach; talked and talked and suddenly she had felt better and she learnt she must accept herself to move forward, so she did, his words helped so much. He didn’t know where that wisdom came from, she would love him forever for it. It was just hard to imagine that she thought people would hate her for a thing like being gay so he found all the right words. She couldn’t believe he didn’t judge her for it, he couldn’t understand why she would care. On a simple misunderstanding a forever was begun.

She was never perfect and it was her imperfections he loved the most. She was his swallow, scattered yet definite, she talked her poor head into circles, so passionate about right or wrong but right and wrong changed with every breath she took.

He could never believe that there was someone on this planet that thought the Eiffel tower in Vegas was better than the real thing in Paris. That she preferred Bees to butterflies. More gallant she said, always willing to give up their life for Queen and hive, always working, the unsung heroes of the world. She loved to quote Einstein who said the world could only survive four years without Bees, that is how important they were. What has a butterfly got she would say, one day of exquisite beauty, one day to do what? No contest. He disagreed. Butterflies tasted with their feet.

One time she had almost got them killed by a little Mayan man with seeds in his beard, he still remembered the look on her face when he pulled the gun. It still made him laugh when he thought of the moment they realised it wasn’t loaded and he flipped the guy the bird and they both bolted, laughing till they cried. The kind of laughter that can only come from the relief at still being alive. He had never laughed like that again. Her and her big fucking mouth, jesus. He didn’t mind, she could have gotten him nearly killed a million times over and he wouldn’t have cared. She had given him something to live for, more than hope, a connection to the world. She was the only one he ever marked his card to. Of course there were other important people like his now pregnant wife, Sarah; but B was it. Things started and finished with her, a lot of people never got it. He didn’t really get it. But it was what it was. Friendship in the purest form he supposed. Well it was nothing now. Nothing but a memory.

All he wanted was a secret garden of his own to hide and be alone, today of all days. But he had learnt you cant hide from your memories and they came into his head like a flood of colour, all the colours of the lake coming back at him he could feel them rising like a tide and see them spinning like a colour wheel, it kept spinning and spinning until it was so fast it became one colour and that colour was black. Fear rose in the tide and he started screaming not out loud like they used to on their screaming bridge, but inside; he stopped, pushed the thoughts down and jumped and grabbed the wheel. He held onto it for grim death and finally it slowed. The memories became colours again swirling calmly smiling down on him; not because they were happy but because his dreams knew if they started again they would send him into a dark place, and the victory of knowing they could was enough for now. They loved the dark awful place they sent him sometimes, loved it not because it made them happy but because it made him sad. His memories you see were at war with him. Who could blame him for not being able to get off the gear.

He had sometimes wondered if Swallows ever did touch the ground. He had never bothered to find out if was true, he just believed it because she told him, now he never wanted to find out. He just tried to hold on as best he could.

He left the party, Sarah wouldn’t notice for an hour or two.
Lately he had realised the pokies were a great place to be alone, a haven. It seemed harmless enough, its not like he was a gambler, in fact he deplored gambling. They were more like an island to him. He could hang in there with all the misfits, go un-noticed. These people were different, no ambition. He liked that. Ambition around him scared him intimidated him. He loved the dark room the sound of the machines like an old fashioned amusement park, an amusement park of hope. Hope that you will win, hope that you will change your life. Then the money runs out so you sit defeated because nothing ever happens. That is what he wanted, he hated it when stuff happened because he always wanted more. The safest thing to do was to want nothing then he wouldn’t want more. He hated the greed he felt inside. He felt justified in life. His laziness was borne of ambition. As boring as it made life it was a necessary evil. Greed got him to drugs, always wanting more high, more everything. Once he realised it was greed that got him into trouble things had become a lot easier, well that and the prospect of jail had helped to dry him out and after that he met Sarah that had to be good, love, a normal relationship and now a child. He had stopped the drugs, mostly.

Despite his efforts to forget his mind went back to the funeral.
Like most funerals the air was filled with sadness regret. This was worse. This Funeral full of ghosts and widows to be. Nothing sadder than a young person dying at the beginning of it all.

They all sat bobbing in a sea of bitter grief, side by side, old friends, new friends, the famous the anonymous, she was special amazing. We tried; all of us to put our differences aside for B, after all she managed to maintain this menagerie of people in her life. All the old unresolved problems stuck to our faces like a kid who ate too much cotton candy and forgot to wash his face; sticky, forgotten until you see a mirror; flavoured with the bitter salt from our tears. Our common ground the question, WHY? An aneurism they had said, how does this happen, to the one who had so much to live for, seven months pregnant and all. Ritchie felt like it should be him in that box. He who had pushed life to all its boundaries and had found no joy. He who was holding on by a thread for Sarah and his unborn boy.

Sarah looked at him , she was sad and afraid. Afraid to love this dangerous man, especially now his friend was gone, the friend that had been his life line. Sarah had a baby on the way and this man to deal with. He reminded her of butterfly big, beautiful, gentle, then when he turned over you saw the teeth and realised he was a moth, and you realised those teeth could eat through just about anything. Especially their love. She remembered once they were driving, two furry red and white moths were mating on their car window, fused together, two identical ends of a whole, unable to escape as the car sped up. They would have been blown off if it wasn’t for the strong one holding on, feet firmly planted, aerodynamic; its mate flapping, flailing, clinging. That is what she felt like now. But he had to want to hold on too. She touched her belly with their unborn son, the first son of the seventh son. Lets hope they both wanted to hold on.

She knew how superstitious he was and she knew he was angry for only last week he had refused to pick a four leaf clover, he said it was better to leave the luck for someone else to find, he said finding a four leaf clover brought expectations and you only felt disappointed when your luck didn’t change. The only way to get something good out of it was to leave it there.

He looked at his wife and his unborn son. He had to be strong for them. For them he endured living in the world. Being normal. Because that was what you do. For them he would be strong. It was six months since he had last od’d, the moment they got pregnant he had stopped, mostly. A mistake welled inside him, he knew he didn’t have any mistakes left.

He walked out to have a ciggie. Scottie was standing there. He supposed he had to forgive him sometime, funerals were always a good time to bury the hatchet. Regrets hung creating a web. They breathed their smoke into it, hoping it was enough untangle it; so they could try to start fresh, do the right thing; bury these pains and trivial grievances that damage friendships. They smoked till their faces went grey, neither said what he was thinking.

Scottie looked at Ritchie and remembered the day it happened, he was the one to tell him. They called and told him to come home from work. He had to cycle and it took forever, somehow he had known, he felt her leave his world. By the time he got there it was too late. Scottie hated holding him down, telling him the baby was alive, there was a legacy to worry about. Scottie remembered the colour of his face, all red and grey, like the last fabric B had designed for the Sofitel hotel. This pattern not of her own deliberate design but hers none the less. Ritchie went to the child immediately, he would make sure it wasn’t an orphan.

Scottie did what he did best to avoid the real issues and made small talk, he probably wouldn’t have if he knew how Ritchie despised his small talk but he didn’t know what else to do.

Ritchie stood thinking Scottie was his usual asshole self, but he could play the pretend game too, the game Scottie seemed to love so much. He hated the man Scottie had become hated the his pretentious ways. They used to laugh at people who played the name dropping game, once. Now they played.

Scottie looked at Ritchie he knew he was hiding his pain he could see it in his eyes. Ever since the days when they learnt magic tricks together and the bird died in the cage he had been able to see pain in Ritchie’s eyes. They hadn’t of course understood the trick, they believed. Two went into the “Magical” cage; one flew out, the other flattened into a feathered pancake.

They had always gotten Ritchie into lots of trouble those eyes. Ritchie used to say his own eyes betrayed his body. Telling people things he didn’t want anyone to know. They have their own free will; pupils dilating, retracting, refracting, deep black pools of endless possibility. He used to think they should act under his command. Scottie wondered if any of us truly have command of ourselves, our desire, primal instinct, can we really control at the most basic level what our body does?

He knew Ritchie had become so numb that the only way to feel was extreme pain , he was feeling today. He just hoped he was going to stay off the coke today for Sarah’s sake. Mind you he was stinging for a line himself.

It was hard for Sarah, pregnant and dealing with grief, they were going to have the babies only months apart, now B was dead, the baby Jazz was hanging on for dear life with no mother in a hospital.

Scottie had learnt, people like you better when you lie, he had certainly liked Ritchie a lot more when he was a lying larrikin druggo but a best mate, with a rich daddy footing the bill for their misguided uni days. Not this walking truth of how imperfect all their lives are. Yes he preferred the lies. Preferred when they thought life was going to be one big endless party, when they hadn’t worked out you always got the bill at the end of the line, it was a matter of when not if. He knew Ritchie had so many regrets, man anyone who’s blown that much cash should.

He thought again about the little girl, it was hard to believe she had survived, what a will to live. Popped out of her mothers stomach like an olive pip Jamie Oliver style, no regard for the mother flesh. They had wanted to save one soul that day. A miracle little Jazz.

They say an aneurism is like a power switch that explodes. That’s it. Connection broken. Game over.
It would be hard for the little girl to grow up not thinking it was somehow her fault.
The angel who had been due on her mothers birthday. Now it was a different kind of anniversary.

****
Ritchie’s mind came back to the party. It was two years later now and he was a dad, a husband, he had stayed away from all temptation and
he wanted to be in these moments, enjoy what he had. He wished the ache would go away but he had learnt to ignore the calling.

Sarah watched him standing in the corner of the yard, standing in a patch of mud. Everywhere else was dry it was the only patch of mud, she wondered what he was thinking.

He stood in the shade and wondered if he was standing on a place that never saw the sun, somehow he knew what would be like to never see the sun, he wondered if the wind alone was enough to dry those places. What happens if the mud never dries did it just became like quicksand? maybe he would sink. The thought of that scared him because it made him happy. He wondered if there were places in his heart that never saw the sun anymore, if the great pains had created scars that hid his heart from the sun. He wondered if there was a wind inside him that could dry the mud or if he was quicksand.
Then he heard the church Bells, Sarah came and took his hand they left the party, the bells were still ringing and it made everything seem beautiful for a moment. Even though they had decided to go the other way he walked towards the bells and he lost his thoughts in their music. For once. Made him wonder why he couldn’t appreciate life more but that it is the way of things isn’t it, give an inch, take a mile.

Sarah and the baby would have to be enough.

****
They weren’t, nothing was.

He did not see the cage.

Driving, he was thinking of the little bird that used to live on his Veranda in London. In four years it was the only bird he ever saw that wasn’t a pigeon. He often thought of that lonely, lucky the little bird.
Ritchie used to watch him every morning sitting on the windscreen wipers of his car, he could never work out why it sat there day in day out; one day he heard the little bird twittering and tattering and he laughed to himself. He realised this little black friend was looking at his own reflection and had conjured a mate. The next day Ritchie covered the windscreen.

One morning after it snowed Ritchie woke to see little foot prints on his veranda, etched into the shape of shamrocks, his very own white clover patch. It looked like more than one set. Maybe his friend had found his mate.

It was snowing again now, somehow it always seemed so quiet after snow, like the volume had been turned down.

He enjoyed the silence wanted it to smother the pain. His memories could not forget their war, they wanted a victory. He decided it would be ok; he had a plan.

The plan was simple, he would just buy a small amount, have bits late at night after the house had settled, no-one would know. He could shoot it in his foot so Sarah wouldn’t see. He would be a better person, father, husband for it. Deep down he knew he wasn’t that bird looking for a mate, he was more like a Magicians Bird waiting. He had flown into the cage enough times to know.
*
Years away from this place and he still knew how to score. The moment he got the drugs in his hands he felt relief, all those battles he had fought, for what? This was what he was truly aching for. As he drove, the drugs made him feel like he was flying, escaping the cage. Again.

He thought he saw a swallow touch the ground, tasting with his feet for the very first time.

As the car slid off the road, he knew what he had done.
He hoped Sarah could forgive him. Hoped they would never tell Sean what his father had been. He hoped someone would tell Jazz. Everything.

The death was ruled as an accident.

What is an accident?

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Posted By: Louie - Category: No Category

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My first ever short story

October 20th 2007 01:35

OK People be kind. This is my first ever short story.

I am not sure about copyright etc so have published most of it to a different Blog. The first few lines are here then you can click through.

All constructive criticism accepted gratefully. i know there is only one way to learn.

here we go.

cheers

Louie

P.S. Thanks for reading it

**

The death was ruled an accident.

There is no such thing.

He could not believe 2 years had passed, Jasmine’s second birthday. He knew time was relative, for Jazz 2 years was her entire life for Ritchie it was 730 long dry days that could have been a life time.
He looked into the room where all the parents and friends had gathered for the party, the presents were piled into the corner; a technicoloured bee hive. Way too many presents. To be expected he thought. That scale would never be balanced, just like a habit, you could never put enough on that side of the scale.

People would always try.

****
He knew he would always think of B on this day, Jazz’s birthday, a different anniversary. His best friend, stolen. He thought of all the things she had taught him. Mostly she had tried to teach him to breathe, in her calm annoying way. She thought that if you remembered to breathe all problems in life could be solved. He preferred to hold his breath; Especially when trying to get out of a jam. He needed the silence, she could never understand how noisy a breath was to him and how afraid of that noise he was.

Fear is noisy, breathing is louder.

She had always thought he was just lazy and wouldn’t put in the effort that breathing properly required, she thought it required way too much concentration for him.

She never did quite understand, the only one that knew him.

*****
Despite his efforts his mind wandered back to the day of her funeral. His stomach turned at the memory; he tried to breathe into the spaces like she said and tried to make a place for himself in this world, their world.
‘Make a space and hold your ground.” She would say.

Those words that advice seemed so empty now. He felt the fire in his belly; paper caught in a candle.

Flames, moved through him, slowly, a tide. His insides were like an inner city shoreline. Subtly changing. Blemishes exposed as the tide falls; Mangroves, mud, stench of sulphur wafting, barnacles gripping, so stoic.

Every breathe a history, every breathe a tide.

CLICK HERE TO READ MORECLICK HEREclick here even

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Should i publish my first ever short stoy on Orble....

October 19th 2007 02:23

I have a friend who is a professional writer....you know crunches words for a living, annual reports and the like..he said to me the other day that his word sdon't mean a lot to him because it is his crust and he doesn't take it all personally....I aspire to this affliction.

I am doing a Creative Writing course at the moment and we had to submit our first story a few weeks ago...i have been toiling with the idea of exposing my self on Orble and having all you guys read it......I am jst a little scared.......to be honest I am not sure what I am afraid of, we had to write using a method and I churned ot the apporpriate story given the method ...it just ever time i go to publish it here I freeze......

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Confessions of a Radiohead Junkie

October 17th 2007 07:28

I am a Radiohead fan from way back - I once took a job because my bosses girl friend was the sister of a band member - oh yes it is true people - I just downloaded their new Album with trepidation - I was soooo worried it would be bad and disappoint me - as the last time they toured here they cancelled the Gig on my Birthday (I had back stage passes and cried for the whole day) so I didn't feel like I could take another disappointment.......

Phew ITS AWESOME. The guys still have it and so far I prefer it to the last; tho Ill always treasure my signed apology for the cancelled gig and ruined Birthday

You can download it for free if you want, I felt a bit too guilty to do that so I forked out some cash, I was tempted to pay nothing given they have millions but didn't want to ruin the concept for other artists employing such a strategy.

The link is simple www.radiohead.com

But make no mistake people Radiohead still ROCKS.....

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How far would you go for a story?

September 6th 2007 02:55

Just read this headline on the ABC news site

Truth stranger than fiction as Polish author jailed

Posted Thu Sep 6, 2007 0:25am AEST

Polish author Krystian Bala has been sentenced to 25 years in prison for the murder of a businessman after he published a novel which contained details of a similar killing.

The body of the businessman was found near the Polish city of Wroclaw seven years ago.

Prosecutors say Bala had humiliated, tortured, starved and later killed his victim, who had a love affair with the writer's wife.

Bala told authorities that he had taken details of the case from press reports and made up other aspects of the story.

Ok there were extenuating circumstnces, like the victim having an affair with his wife...but talk about taking things to extreme's to write a good book (let's hope it was) guess he'll be doing a lot more writing from jail......

Hope this doesn't mean all Crime writers are now under suspicion......makes me look on Orble angst in a whole different light too.......

This story disturbs me on several levels: If he is innocent then this is CRAZY...imagine if he did it what was going through his head at the book launch etc.....crazy

HERE's THE LINK...dont know whether to laugh or cry about this one

Another link to STORY BACKGROUND

Happy Orbling

Louie

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My Battle with Technology

August 23rd 2007 07:19

Well it has been a week now...i ordered the dream machine brand new computer. Checked with the software company that provides my Trading software to make sure it was all compatible, i dotted i's and crossed t's did everything a person could think of to have a seemingly smooth technology transition.....apparently not...It has been a week and I am still not p and running properly. i think the Tech God's totally conspired against me, even my internet stopped working for two days, ALL BY ITSELF it has nothing to do with my new Computer.
Now i am in Qld with a new computer that only half works, yes you guessed it the VERY expensive new trading software does not work on the New PC, no-one knows why........What the!!!!!!!

I feel like throwing this shiny new Laptop out the Window and screaming, what does a person have to do to get things to work properly. The only solution available is to trade off the Old coputer and use the Laptop for other things for the time being....aaargh......

Here's hoping i go btter tomorrow getting my new internet connection from a friend that works at Telstra up here.fingers crossed, I am trying my hardest to join the Tech Revolution....boo hoo keithy

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What a load of Globaloney!!

August 5th 2007 06:04

I was all excited for a minute, I was reading a magazine and found a great new word: Globaloney The questions flowed, what does it mean? Who made it up? How can I use it? Imagine the metaphors and double entents in everything I write, how cool, how clever, how much fun......then I saw it is trademarked. What does this mean trademarking a word? Does this mean I can't use it in a sentence or a title, what am I supposed to do, pay the person who made it up every time I use it. How the hell can you trademark a word?

I'll have to admit, I hesitated before writing this post, I mean should I quikly run out and trademark the alphabet before I tell the world of Orble that words are now trademarked and if you don't get in first all words will be out of reach to you. Imagine the trading going on, I'll l end you my "and" for your "the", no you can't have the capital "T" today I've sold it to the Financial Reveiw for an entire year.

Is it just me or is this absurd, trademarking a word? Je ne comprendez pas. or whatever the french say....do French people trademark words?

I am going to sleep on this before I write my post on Globaloney, maybe the owner will contact me so I can get some clarity.....

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The Power of the unimaginableimagination.....

August 3rd 2007 08:01

I have been sitting here for an hour, imagining I can hear the marching band...for all of those who don't know, 2day FM was giving away a house in byron, my Dream house...its all I've ever wanted house in Byron and for the last month I have been trying to win it...

The DJ's Hamish and Andy have sent a marching band to the winners house....I have been focussing all my positive energy, well all my energy towards winning this house.I was incapable of speech, thinking, I almost stopped breathing hanging out to win this house......every ten minutes I convinced myself I could here the drums, the trumpets, the marchers footsteps...they are coming to my house, I am going to win.

I will be rewarded for all my dreams, the fact I bought dove soap not once but twice (yes the first time I bloody left the receipt at the counter)

My dog's even joined the party, running to the front door every time I flinched at the prospect of hearing the marching band coming down my street...i sent my poor partner to the bottle shop to get supplies just in case...no I couldn't go along, i was busy focussing on winning my house...... even writing this piece I can hear them coming walking to my door, excited, that a worthy winner was going to win it....the power of the mind ...please please please......It;s my house, all i have ever wanted, the sacrifices I have made the dreams the diappointments...it has to be mine just has to be...the drums the drums I can hear the drums........ok so its the band that plays in my back alley every night but goddamit I can hear those drums, for one blissful hour this house is mine, I am swimming in the pool, dancing in the street...PLEEAAASSSSe......why won't my phone ring......sob sob sob, who can want it more than me???/ I ask you...WHO I am convinced they are coming.................ah well, I have my health, and my stupid detox which I now have to stick to because there is no special exception for celebrating, but wait the phone rings......OMG....

breathe, there is no one on the other end, I hear on the radio, someone else won it....boo hoooo

in my imagination I can still here those drums....still imagine that house is mine, ....better work bloody hard next week and the next ten years so I can have a better one, the great australian imaginationaldream........I guess I'll just have to suck it up....and that's why I never enter competitions..thanks for everything and nothing 2Day FM, forever more Hamish and Andy SUCK,,,thet let me down... ......

No desperate housewives mansion for me....Maybe i would have abused the power..............