A Minister of Infernal Affairs

From the Archive: Parkway Drive - Winston McCall Interview

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Originally appeared in Buzz Magazine, December 2008.

Kicking back in his native Byron Bay on the tail end of a massive international tour, Winston McCall, lead vocalist of the immensely popular Parkway Drive pauses for reflection. How does a hardcore/metalcore band such as theirs react to writing and record a chart-topping album? (Horizons managed to debut at #6 on the ARIA Album charts.)

“It’s been pretty good. It’s been better than we ever could have hoped.” Having that said, it wasn’t completely out of left field.

“When Killing the Smile came out it got such a good reception it was better than anything we could have hoped to have achieved with that. We were put in the position where we thought nothing could ever do better than it.”

Horizons wasn’t destined for any sort of greatness – Winston describes it as the “backup” album to merely ride on the coattails of Killing.

“Funnily enough, Horizons seems to have gone really well; the songs we play live seem to go down just as well if not better than the old songs, I like the songs more and kids seem to be stoked on it.”

Being as popular as a metalcore album could ever have dreamed to have been, was this the signal for a headlong drive into the mainstream, albeit the fringes thereof? According to Winston, underground core lovers need not be frightened by the neon lights and MTV cameras just yet.

“I don’t think so. Simply because you still don’t hear any of it played on the radio and [metalcore isn’t] definitely breaking any kind of mainstream barrier in terms of acceptance, you never see film clips or anything like that, it never has any support like that…you could hear it on Triple J or on independent radio stations. The volume of kids listening to it is testament to how big the actual following is. Other than that, it’s still definitely under the radar from the mainstream.”

Parkway Drive have built themselves from the ground up, playing in Europe to mere handfuls of people all the way up to headlining shows.

“When we went to Europe, it was like starting up again, as if you were a brand new band,” he recalls. “We’d be playing in the smallest venues you’ve ever seen without stages and holes in the roof, but now we’ve got thousands of kids rocking up and it’s just ridiculous.”

Has Winston ever considered playing something else for the band?

“No,” he insists, “I’m so, so bad. I cannot play an instrument.”

Even despite being revered for his vocals, Winston doesn’t think they’re anything praiseworthy.

“I can’t sing either. I found that I could scream at kids and I lost my voice like hell when I first started out but it was the first thing I could actually do that gave me an outlet for the passion that I had. I wanted to start a band but I had no ability to do it because I couldn’t play anything, I guess that was the only thing left for me to do. (laughs) I still can’t play anything for shit.”

He did, however, try to learn the harmonica, but to no avail. How would it fit into the Parkway Drive sound?

“Well, I don’t think it would. But it seems pretty simple. I’m finding that it’s more complicated than it looks. I find myself going ‘hee’, ‘haww’ over and over again and I’m like,‘shit, how do you actually play this thing?’”

Metalcore has long been considered the orphaned lovechild of heavy metal and hardcore music, which many fans on either side relish in deriding instead of accepting.

“Europe has the most unified scene when it comes to that. But when you go to the States, it’s broken down even beyond that. You’ll go to a show and kids won’t come out unless it’s a specific genre of music,” he reveals.

“There’ll only be a handful of bands that fit their criteria and will actually go out of their way to support. To me, I don’t really care what the label is. If it’s heavy and there’s a punk ethic, I’ll call it punk. If hardcore kids like I’ll call it hardcore and if metal kids like something I’ll call it metal. To me, the music being played is a lot more important than the label being placed on it. I don’t think pigeonholing a band will make it sound any different or any better. I don’t think that’s going to change, though.”

Parkway Drive recently re-mixed and re-mastered their first album, Killing with a Smile after only two years of recording it. Why would a band resort to re-mastering after only two years? Winston explains that it wasn’t a business decision, but as a thank you to their new fans that couldn’t find their earlier work.

“Well, our first album went out of print, so kids couldn’t find it. So we got our first album and all of our other out of print stuff before Killing and whacked it all together and put it on one release. We tried to make it available to kids if they wanted it. It wasn’t so much of a marketing ploy, it was doing something that kids asked of us, I guess.”

And Parkway Drive are always accommodating to their fans.

“We try to hang out with as many kids as we can after shows and stuff and we try to make kids as happy as they can. For example, I signed some guy’s nuts in New Mexico.”

You read right. He signed a fan’s nutsack.

“He got them out and they were swollen, and I signed them. I even took a photo with him afterwards. It was crazy.” All part of the Parkway Drive service.

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Through The Wire, Part III (Receiver)

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 11:55:00 +0000

Part III of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."

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Driving down the interstate at 2am, Juanita glanced at her phone again. No missed calls. That wasn't like Michael. He must have been tired. He wouldn't be doing anything untoward. He wasn't like that. "Because he's spineless," her unconscious mind pushed through. Fuck that. She lit up another cigarette and pushed her clunker past 65. Its even possible the wire had been severed. There wasn't much coming through the wire. Just the old memories of times gone past, the intense heat of passion that had now yielded to routine, to the same old shit. Oh how those days had passed so quickly, oh how they scorched her lip and tongue just thinking about it. Unbeknownst to Michael, she kept all the old letters from the wire. She could almost remember every word.

"Do you remember that, sweetheart? Do you remember that feeling? We waded through the free waters of a day that felt like it would dawn with such brilliance and never end. It was like a renewal; a glimmer of hope in a world that had shunned and trampled over us. You held that pain in your heart for so long; you long seized that the notion of this life was meant to be a struggle. That you were waiting for the day it would all come down. We went out on our limbs and spread our arms wide to catch each other. Sometimes, it was if you fell backwards and in the act of catching you, you had already fallen to the floor. Even so, our love is so great it can weather any storm.
We had this promise made, we were in love."
It could've been true; everything that was said in those pages sent over the wire - but then again, it could've all been bullshit. The prick disappeared without a trace, almost. He was back somewhere, working on his problems without a care in the world for anyone else. There was love but no trust. All the wires she thought that were connected both ways were just shadows; her mind playing tricks on her. There was even doubt that the wires ever existed, or that they always had. It was a constant battle of probability fighting uncertainty.

As the cigarette snuffed itself out and ash scattered across the dashboard, it occurred to her that she was no where near home. She was going to the place where she lived. So many things on her mind - every topic and subject conceivable except for herself. If she wasn't thinking of her, then who was? The wire didn't have the answer. So who would? Would anyone?

Through The Wire, Part II (Deceiver)

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 11:41:00 +0000

Part II of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."

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“It’s okay,” he said with a muted voice down his overpriced cell phone in the middle of a lonely stairway like a clandestine encounter.

“Juanita’s at work. I’m in another state, for Christ’s sake.” He paused for the other voice on the other end of the wire.

“It’ll be fine I don't mind waiting a few more hours. When you do, wear as little as possible,” he said wryly. He gave a little chuckle and walked back toward his suite.

Sliding his key into the door, he heard a familiar beep and click and pushed himself in. Walking past the kitchenette and amenities, he slumped himself on to the bed. Loosening his collar, he flung his tie across the room and turned on the television set. His stock portfolio was losing traction. A few more days and it would tumble down a cliff all by itself.

A sigh. “I love Juanita, I really do.” He thought to himself as he lay, sleep gathering in his eyes. “But Lacey. Fuck me. I’ve never felt that way before. She makes me feel like a new born child. Free of sin, free of shame. She makes me feel right being me.”

Before Michael knew it, sleep had claimed him. In his dreams he sat in a lonely room watching television again – Sesame Street. Panic swarmed over his body. He could almost taste the musty stench of decaying old feta and extinguished cigarettes. He could see yellowing floral wallpaper curling up at the corners of the rundown walls. He was the age of four at his grandmother’s. Where was mommy? Where was daddy? Where was anyone? All of his bricks were smashed and no one was coming to help him. Crying didn’t help him. Cleaning for grandma didn’t gain him attention. He was forgotten, abandoned. Nothing he did seemed right. It was all misshapen, he even felt wrong just for sitting here watching Big Bird argue with Snuffy. Why was he so different? Why was he so unloved? Was there something wrong with him? He began to inspect his hands, his feet.

He got up off of the tattered couch and walked toward the bathroom. He took the footstool from the corner to gain enough height to look at himself in the mirror. All he saw was his sandy blonde hair cover over his brown eyes. There were tears streaking down his rosy cheeks that burned hot with anger at the world and himself.

Anger at being imperfect. And not being able to do a thing about it.

There was a knock on the door. The buried shame had risen into his stomach. Once he realized who it was at the door, it disappeared. It was completely gone, for now. “Sweet freedom,” he thought. “A few hours of freedom are all I need. It’s all I need. Please give it to me. I’ll do whatever you say, darling. I’ll do whatever you say.”

Before he could shift off the bed to answer the door, his cellphone rang. The lights flickered on and off with a pulsing rhythm – the word “Juanita” flashed in his eyes. What was she doing, calling on the wire? Why would she even care at all?

Through The Wire, Part I (Redeemer)

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 23:46:00 +0000

Part I of III in a short story series entitled "Through the Wire."

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Smoke wafted toward the ceiling in thin blue tendrils, clogging the fluorescent light with its blue hue. The work lay out before him on the table in a fashion unbecoming of a productive time. The pen scribbled furiously in one hand, the other propping up his head with a cigarette between his fingers. He gave a little sigh. He took another long drag, exhaling the smoke on to the glow of the computer monitor. The girl wasn’t on the wire. The girl he once loved. It was love that was slowly deadened inside his heart. There was love across those wires, in the air and over the sea. He remembered it fondly as if it happened yesterday and many years ago. He knew he would love again – through those wires – but it was a matter of time, a matter of will. Then his mind wandered. He found himself walking into that citadel again.

Stepping into his private plasterboard cathedral, she was sitting there on the bed. Glasses perched on the end of her button nose, auburn hair tousled down to her shoulders, sea green eyes glistening in the sickly glow of the television screen. Sweetly smiling, he sidled up to her.

“Juanita, baby,” he whispered into her ear.
The hairs on the back of both their necks raised on their ends. Juanita could feel his hand stroke up her side and towards her neck as he planted his lips just below her ear. Juanita closed her eyes and smiled.

“Mmm, yeah. I was waiting for you to get back.”

“Not a moment too soon, hey.” he laughed.

He could feel her hands clutch at the back of his long, thick hair, fingers furrowing through them as he kissed down her neck and caressed the length of her thigh. A wince of pleasure pressed against his ear as Juanita’s hands slipped downward, struggling to open the buckle of his pants. Inserting his hand into her top, he fiddled with the clasp of her bra until she pushed him away and quickly ripped her shirt off. He did the same. Embracing with a calamitous burst of energy, they writhed together in ecstasy until Juanita’s eyes glossed over with passion. She threw him down on the bed and unzipped his fly, urging his pants off. Like a woman possessed, her tongue gently slithered down his torso, kissing towards his crotch, her hand sliding up from his knee and across his thigh until…

He woke up with a start. The work was staring back at him and his memories were slowly receding into the background. He gave a little sigh. Where was she now? The wire had been severed and so had that love. She loved another and it was not him. There would be another wire...

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Cont.

What do you know?

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 23:58:00 +0000

"How do we know what we know?" was a question posed by psychologist and Palo Alto Mental Research Institute member Paul Watzlawick (working with such prestigious alumnus as Gregory Bateson, Virginia Satir and Jay Haley) in a book he edited with a similar title.

So, how do we separate inferences and biases from our map-making or ideation of the world?

Consider an artist meeting a group of people. One works as an electrician, another as an accountant, the third a graphic designer. Introducing himself as well as his occupation, the abstraction process begins almost instantly. The electrician and the accountant, unfamiliar with art figure he is a painter of portraits. The designer, however, cannot accept his abstraction so easily and make a reversal of order and thus probes further. Suddenly, it is revealed that the artist sculpts figures from stone. What we seldom achieve is the self-awareness to ask ourselves how we arrive at our conclusions. Is it intensional assumption or extensional reasoning by way of evidence and testing?

If the accountant and electrician had not gone further in their inquiry they would only have partial knowledge of the artist's extensional occupation - they would have the word the artist used to describe himself and no other real, concrete knowledge. Their maps would be incomplete, shaded by unconscious biases and internal referential indexes based on what they had encountered previously, not in the present moment. Of course, artist₁ is not artist₂, yet it seems awfully convenient to coddle together all artists into an indeterminate class to save on time and mental energy.

I ask the question; does a culture that demands instant gratification inevitably demand the dissolution of knowledge into the manageable and familiar, possibly restricting the range and probity of thought and inquiry?

If expediency breeds increased probability for error, as has been demonstrated in so many cases, could the same lust for rapidity erode maps, distorting them to such a degree that it impairs sane and rational judgment? We are all guilty of this and oftentimes it leads us into despair and ruin. I would implore all people to use their nature's gift of self-reflection and self-awareness to avoid such semantic and symbolic traps and to use their nervous systems and the nervous systems of others for the greatest outcome. How? By routinely asking questions and (almost) never staying satisfied with the first answer you get.

In the words of Robert Anton Wilson: "Doubt. Doubt that you have doubted enough. Doubt your doubts." Never take anything on its face value; the world is infinitely complex and in constant flux; those that attempt to answer simply and definitely we should be especially skeptical of.

A Static Flame

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 23:01:00 +0000

Looking around this society of ours, we have become so preoccupied with time and its forward motion we have become afraid of its very existence. In one respect, we in Western countries have strode headlong into a complete disavowal of change. We fear it, we reject it and we try to cover it up to the best of our ability.

As Marcus Aurelius said in his Meditations, "The universe is change; our life is what our thoughts make it." We sell bottles of anti-change, we charge money to keep change at bay and we legislate change away in parliament.

In my view, I feel that the fear of change is another source and cause of so much misery and discontentment for so many people. They fail to recognize the only constant is the thoughts of the self and his actions and those too are subject to change. People jump unabashedly into work, into relationships and into commitments that prevent or minimize the chances of change. People foolishly believe that some institutions are forever; that once one problem has been solved, it cannot resurface in another guise as it evidently does in many cases.

Politicians are even scrambling to cover up the fact that change is inevitable; they use scientists with dubious rationality to insist that climate change is a myth; there is no credible reason for things to constantly change, even at the submicroscopic level. Just like a belief in God, they believe that humanity has no agency for change; all is predetermined, all will reveal itself in God's own time. This divine control is filtered down into religion, into politics and even into households that follow the words of God, Allah and Yahweh.

So we attempt to control change and re-label it progress. Like unconscious Marxists, we believe that progress towards higher standards of living and technology will lead us into utopia. With all changes, there are winners and losers. We focus on minimizing harm rather than maximizing utility associated with change; we irrationally suppress all change just in case something bad happens.

And shit does happen; it happens to every one, some more frequently than others. Sometimes shit happening allows us to learn and lead us in a new direction. To embrace that rather than shy away from it is the challenge we must all face. To recognize a life in four dimensions can still lead to one of fulfillment and happiness is the one change I believe that everyone should make.

What was once a great love is now deadened; what was once a routine hobby lies in the corner of a room. There's change everywhere; its ultimately up to the individual whether he stands amongst it or walks along with it, tempering it to his own needs.

Strategies for Unsanity

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 22:54:00 +0000

In my dreaming last night, I saw more literal signals than symbolic, i.e, conversations in their entirety without adulteration by my unconscious mind (which would have to be taken with a grain of suspicion anyhow!)

A friend of mine called me out of the blue - he wanted something from me and I figured as much since I had never received a social call from him before. We got to talking and he hit upon his recent feelings about being depressed. I had noticed after much self-reflection that his depression was not innate or a priori, but learned and reinforced throughout his life.

If we maintain that the Structural Differential holds true-to-fact, then language shapes thought and thus behavior. So at which point can we define the fundamental causes of undesirable or depressive feelings being generated? In my opinion, identification at the evaluation level and its confusion with the event level effects on our feelings with greatest impact.

My friend would say (i.e., utter and most likely subvocalize) that his pursuits both for his work and pleasure were nothing to be commended; that they were "adequate" at best. He would mostly downplay his achievements and enforce irrational restrictions on his well-being.

The maps he had internalized in the past now bear claim to appearing as "reality", using broad and vulgar terms. Despite his activities being "neutral", he identifies them as good or bad by holding them up to unattainable comparisons (i.e., his writings are not read by millions, therefore it is a failure or inherently bad) or believing them as so instead of evaluating them as they are in their environment, or liking/loving them unconditionally as an extension of himself. He continually struggles to feel happy by placing demands on the universe when realizing it is neither benign or malignant but indifferent to his needs.

If you wish to feel inadequate or worthless, I recommend you start or continue to do the following:

Need rather than want, or have second-order needs: i.e, "I need my need for love."
Misidentifying others' problems for your own.
Reversing the order of abstraction by mistaking your evaluations of reality for reality itself.
By thinking either too negatively or positively in absolute terms.
By tying your well-being to external events and external evaluations (i.e., verbal praise)
By using outdated maps (i.e., past situations) to navigate present territories.
By merely hypothesizing and never testing situations to gain the facts.
By thinking the universe owes you something for services rendered or intentions pure.

I do not claim to be a psychologist; I do however claim to be a student of General Semantics. By using the GS approach, much of his needless self-imposed suffering could be avoided and effectively remedied.

The 3rd Meeting of the Australian General Semantics Society, Melbourne Chapter

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 03:34:00 +0000

Over the weekend of February 13, 2010 and February 14th, Mr. Laurie Cox, President Emeritus of the AGS and Dr. Earl Livings and myself gathered at Earl's house to conduct several GS inquiries and discussions in an informal and relaxed setting. I was particularly surprised and humbled that Laurie had traveled all the way from Sydney just to talk with us! After a quick catch up, we launched into the mini "symposium"; a (very!) brief summary follows below.

Saturday, February 13 2010
Australian Internet Censorship and the GS response
Our first topic of conversation was the debate surrounding the mandatory censorship of Australian web traffic at the ISP level. After explaining it to Laurie in detail, we asked the questions: "What does it hope to achieve?" We surmised that the program was to halt the spread of child pornography and to protect children from it. As GSers, we concluded that the "time-binding" mechanism that is the internet could not be effectively policed with any degree of certainty using a traditional "old world" paradigm or "space-binding" approach.

Sanity, Unsanity and Insanity
The next hour or so was spent on finding an operational definition of Sanity, Unsanity and Insanity. It was almost instantly agreed upon that Insanity was a complete and marked identification of a higher order with lower orders or even the event level. Earl and Laurie posited that Sanity was the simple fact of having the Korzybskian "consciousness of abstraction" as formulated in Science and Sanity.

Pinning down Unsanity was much more difficult however. Laurie drew his own version of a Structural Differential to demonstrate the abstraction process and tried to throw up some examples of non-sane behaviors such as perception on the object level as the object level itself, misidentification, identifying with other person's feelings as one's own and reinforcing second-order feeling (which will be talked about later.) I drew on the teachings of Albert Ellis, Ph.D. and his Rational Emotive Therapy, defining one element of Sanity as "unconditional self-acceptance", and the use of rational thinking and the ABC model.

Laurie noticed the similarity to IGS member William Haney's "ROPE" model (Reality-Object-Perception-Evaluation). We reached a consensus that Unsanity was a mixing of maps and orders of abstraction and that Sanity, by contrast was acknowledgment that we, as humans, make inaccurate maps at times and can take steps to correct them as best as possible and to accept this without condition.

Modes of Male and Female Communication
After reflecting and critiquing our discussion, we moved onto the topic of Male and Female communication. We regarded honest and true-to-fact communication as a responsibility of GS students to "act" according to Korzybski's principle of time-binding.

Drawing on extensional examples such as the research done by Ken Wilber and Erich Fromm in their transpersonal philosophies and approaches we also talked about communication as whole - not just words, but body language and tone of voice. We also marked differences in outlook of males and females, such as inclusive (female) vs. exclusive (male) language and the difficulty or reluctance due to gender conditioning on the part of some males, to recognize the ability to state one's own feelings and needs at given times and to ask oneself, realistically, what those needs and feelings are.

We also wrote down the biological differences between men and women and how that forms behavior. Males are fueled by testosterone which strives for "achievement" and "agency." Females, by contrast are driven by oxytocin which is freed through physical touch and interpersonal communication.

We emphasized that a GS approach would seek complementarity instead of competition between the sexes, that female-driven "communion" and male-driven "agency" can be bridged by awareness and the recognition of the needs of the other and vice-versa while still maintaining our own.

We closed for the evening after a four hour session and resolved to meet the following day with Mr. Robert James to discuss the upcoming National Conference. Unfortunately I was unavailable to meet him due to a conflict of schedules and we instead met again at Earl's house for further studies.

Sunday, February 14 2010
Intensional and Extensional Language
Returning to Earl's house Laurie and I discussed the differences between extensional and intensional language, using Korzybski's definition of the overdefined (intension) and underdefined (extension) and the probability of both. We also used Kodish's example as well as Hayakawa's and Weinberg's interpretation.

First and Second-Order Feeling
Earl had come across a copy of Harry Weinberg's "Levels of Knowing and Existence" as Laurie commented on using self-reflexiveness to take a positive view after scraping his knee in a fall. He, as Weinberg wrote, "liked" his "liking" of an eventual recovery, i.e., his second-order feeling could effectively change his first-order (non-verbal) feeling. This was part of the circularity of human knowledge as demonstrated in the Structural Differential. Once the second-order thoughts effect the object-level first order, they eventually "become" part of that first-order.

We also discussed "synchronicity" by aligning maps with others and looking at a broader map to give context to more complex or troubling situations.

We also surmised that this awareness was an example of the reverse order of the consciousness of abstraction and that putting assumptions first can be damaging. Furthermore, we explored what questions we can ask to arrive at these inquiries, and that some questions are unanswerable, i.e., are either ambiguous or meaningless. Ambiguous questions are unable to be answered by experiment and meaningless questions are similarly so unless they are modified to become merely unanswered; that an extensional, falsifiable and scientific methodology can be made to address the parameters of the question.

At this point, Earl conducted an experiment to demonstrate the Structural Differential. I was writing and he yelled out "STOP!", to which I did. We then drew this as a diagram, with Earl's want for me to stop (second-order), the command itself (first-order) and its transposition on the event level (the utterance as heard by me.) Then we drew the object level (my hearing of it) and my reaction (stopping writing.) We found this to be confusing as a diagram, so I suggested adding a dimension of time to represent multiple onlookers of similar events.

The Representation of Media
Using this revised Structural Differential, it was time to dissect the growing "relevancy of irrelevancy" as described by Neil Postman in current television media. I drew a figure of two SDs - one representing the conception and inherent biases in media (evaluation), the report (object level) and the report as an event being interpreted by an audience in a similar fashion, with both feeding into one another - does the public as an audience wish for softer news, or is it passive in merely accepting what is given to them? We used real world examples such as the Tony Blair inquiry into the Iraq War.

It seemed to us that Mr. Blair disregarded extensional evidence (no weapons of mass destruction were found in Iraq) over an intensional belief (help the American war effort) and misrepresentation (Saddam helped Al-Qaeda etc.)

We asked how one could prevent this from happening again. We could endeavor to achieve correct symbolism-to-fact; to test and hypothesize and act "sanely."

GS in a non-GS Practicing World
Moving along, we discussed the differences between GSers and non-GSers. For instance, we arrived upon the "Right Man" as Robert Anton Wilson called him, an abstraction (of his own admission) that holds rigid, inflexible beliefs, is intensionally minded and holds only a two-valued orientation (good or bad with no middle ground.)

The General Semanticist by contrast is extensionally minded, multi-valued in his orientation and acknowledges the processes of constant change.

Managing Stress - a GS influenced approach?
Earl and Laurie watched the news last night and came across an item about managing stress. The report stated that we all experience stress, and some stress called "eustress" could actually be positive. However, negative stress could be combatted by asking ourselves questions:

1) Is this important? If the answer is yes, then;
2) Is it reasonable for me to be angry? If yes, then;
3) Can I modify this situation?

It seemed reminiscent of GS and RET principles, and related to the cortico-thalamic pause to gather one's thoughts in moments of heightened confusion and to become conscious of abstraction and reaction once again.

Over 7 or so hours was spent over two days and it was some of the most beneficial, inspiring and insightful hours I have ever spent in GS study. My sincere thanks goes out to Mr. Laurie Cox and Dr. Earl Livings for hosting me and traveling to discuss GS with us!

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Note: If you are a member of the AGS or IGS and read my blog, I encourage you to comment or contact me for online discussions. Over this weekend I was told my blog has a small "following" among some members and I'd very much like to talk with some of you!

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Life, Death and Rebirth

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 07:58:00 +0000

When the last word uttered out of your mouth is untruth, it drips with slime. Each hanging thread crashes towards the ground and oozes self-hate throughout the room. Then as you walk away, you feel as if you have gotten away with a grand deceit, an amazing feat of sheer cunning overcoming integrity. The lie had been sealed and delivered and there's nothing more that can be done.

These last few weeks in my personal development, I've not learned the value of being truthful to others - others will invariably deceive themselves in a variety of ways. No matter how much truth I can tell them, they won't see, hear or feel what it is that I have communicated to them totally; or they shall choose to ignore it completely. Even if I endeavor to tell the truth, there will be instances where I inadvertently and deliberately "haven't."

The cleavage between false knowledge and complete fabrication is where my endeavors lie. To remain true-to-fact about my own life and my own feelings is where my aims are set. To respect these boundaries that I've created by holding fast to them and expecting others to honor them and step back from them when they are violated. I think that's an important step.

Talking to people about relationships and their own experiences, I think that being truthful to oneself and remaining realistic and rational about that truth affords a newfound respect for the truth as a language and behavior in action. Once one can learn how to speak the truth inside his own mind, he can speak it just as easily to others; be it pleasant or unfortunate, wonderful or terrible. When I am truthful to myself and others a great burden has been lifted from me; thinking becomes clearer and the cloud of trying to fool everyone disappears.

Those who are over-concerned with fooling others are invariably fooling themselves; their intense, darting eyes and contrived mannerisms almost seem like a concerted effort not only to convince others of their lies, but themselves; that if they can believe totally and utterly in their bullshit, others just might too.

My angst and worry about being caught out as a fraud that plagued me for so long no longer persists; I am no longer counterfeit and thus have nothing more to fear.

The Age of Bad Decisions

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 01:00:00 +0000

A couple of months ago, I decided to go back to university to complete a Masters degree in Media and Communication. I had been back in Australia for a month, was on the verge of being dumped from afar and had no job, car or money to speak of. Wrenching myself out of bed, I made a few calls and photocopied a few documents. A few weeks later I was accepted. Then I told some of my friends about my news and they just replied with blank stares and asked, "why?"

I figured that further study was something eyed with favor among most people. But then I remembered where I was living - when I was living - and was reminded that I dwell in the Age of Bad Decisions.

Generation Y was one of the economically blessed generations in modern history. I remember when getting a job was merely a formality - if you didn't like it, you could always change. Taking that sojourn abroad was as easily said and done and study? Well, if it didn't yield you your dream career at the end of it, there was something deficient in your character.

Working hard was optional and strategic thinking even more so. Fuck it, buy that big screen TV on credit. Spend the extra money at the pub. Another pair of designer jeans never hurt anyone.

But what it fundamentally contradicted for so many people was that their love for economic risk didn't match their confidence in all other areas. The material abundance wasn't an indicator for abundance in more abstract yet just as valuable things; such as love, brotherhood and knowledge.

Even a decision in and of itself to return to study, to expand my skills and really concentrate my know-how seemed like a ludicrous one in the face of the Bad Decision Maker. It has no obvious monetary benefit; it does not glisten; it does not come with 3G; it does not make popcorn in less than three minutes. We drown in oceans of abstracts but we cling to the material for comfort. We stay in "loving" relationships even though our partners may treat us badly and cause us despair. Our arrangements are less than ideal because we allow them to be. We utter words like "don't" and "can't" and think this is the end; that nothing more is possible.

For some, their tunnels of reality have shrunken down in this Age to only allow a pinhole of light to rush through. Some have merely forgotten that we as humans can do so much more than earn and spend. We can think, we can do and we can live, too.

A Note on Abstraction and Closure

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 03:37:00 +0000

Since we, as humans, perfectly imperfect as we have come to evolve, abstract all sensory perceptions from the outside world, we also abstract our relationships with these perceptions as they are constantly formed and re-formed. If, like Ellis hypothesizes by way of Korzybski, insofar thoughts create feelings and our behaviors, we must learn to accept that we cannot explain the totality of the outside world and thus, accept the nature of the universe as one of uncertainty and probability, not fact and absolutes.

Many friends and relatives with myself included have gone through almost soul-shattering, life-altering break ups, deaths and other tragedies. Many seek "closure." They believe that healing words - the sounds that come out of our mouths - will cure what ails them as if they were a magic incantation.

My advice to those seeking closure is this:

1. Stand in front of a door. Push it open.
2. Pull the door towards you.
3. Realizing that the door has closed and the reality of your present situation has not changed, be content that you are a functioning human being with the ability to know better than to search for answers that have no sensible question.

I to elucidate further on constructing one's own reality, I was talking with my father the other day about time. He said to me that "whoever discovered that there was sixty minutes in an hour was a genius." I replied that he was a master manipulator. My father looked at me quizzically. "Well," I said, "If the dude can make people believe that time is specifically delivered in parcels of sixty minutes and divisions thereof, he should probably have been King of the World."

Never Surrender

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 05:07:00 +0000

"An honest politician is a national calamity." - Robert Anton Wilson

Writing a piece on the Australian Government's proposed Internet Clean Feed for Onya Magazine, I quickly realized some things about governance in the 21st century. Governance is an annoyance at its best, a hindrance to personal and in some cases, small-collective satisfaction at its worst. There's a role for collective action in our civil society and in the cases where Governments overlegislate and create more problems for more people ala the Clean Feed, its time for many leaders both political, economic and civil to sit down and ponder the end of a "space-binding" method of governance replaced by "time-binding" governance, instituted and regulated by information technology mechanisms.

The mindset that space and the matter that resides in it should be the basis for its government has reached a halting limit. The Clean Feed is a blaring example. The old Magniot Line mentality has prevailed even now, in the 21st Century though one can still send a malicious payload wirelessly. Now we must explore other frontiers to govern ourselves both with a public service and without. Will we? Perhaps in a technologically backward-ass country such as my own, only time will tell, and for us time may come too late.

A Distant And Worn Road

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 06:11:00 +0000

"All humans are out of their fucking minds – every single one of them." - Dr. Albert Ellis, Ph.D.

One of my favorite authors on psychology was attributed with that quote and after reading Watzlawick and Korzybski, I tend to agree; as humans, we are intentional creatures and our consciousness creates the perceptions of the outside world that largely govern our actions.

Talking to my dear friend Catchy and his housemate Tom about my new personal journey to becoming an integrated male, we discussed Albert Ellis and his Cognitive Behavior Therapy. Tom, a strident practitioner of Rational Emotive Behavior Therapy hit upon one concept that had eluded me almost all my life; unconditional self-acceptance.

This basically means that no matter what one does, he accepts himself as perfectly imperfect, lovable just as he is, and able to handle all situations in a number of diverse combinations, probabilities and even uncertainties.

I applied this to my thinking as I continued to work through Dr. Glover's exercises that week. I have to say, I have never felt happier. By being honest with myself, I became honest with others. I spoke my mind; my befuddling, negative and toxic thoughts shined with renewal. By no longer tying my self-esteem to external events, it has afforded me a creativity that I have never previously experienced.

In walking down this distant and worn road, I also pick apart and deconstruct the sources and causes of all my misery and self-limiting beliefs. Its a liberating feeling. I also think that one of the major causes of the failure of my engagement to Elyse broke down because of my inability to know myself. To be intimate, one must know himself, knowing someone else, knowing you. I hid so many parts of myself off to so many people for so long, I seemed to dissolve among the ether, residing as fragments with no whole to base myself on. I'm slowly gathering myself together. For the first time, I'm doing it with a smile on my face and warmth in my heart.

"You'll have to take me just the way that you find me - what's gone is gone and I do not give a damn." - Peter Gabriel - I Don't Remember

Here's to Liberation

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 12:20:00 +0000

"Nice guys don't finish last - they rot in middle-management." - Dr. Robert Glover

This was one of the lines in a book I bought about a few days ago. The book is entitled No More Mr. Nice Guy, by the author of that line. I can safely say it has changed my life in such a profound way that I never had thought possible.

I was in a bookstore while a friend of mine was getting her ears pierced. I was actually looking for a copy of The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin, but chanced upon this slim book in the psychology section, perched on the top shelf facing all the others. I read the first few pages and I was stunned - literally stunned. This book, in detail and without too much overgeneralizing, described how had been acting and behaving during my adolescence, young adulthood and through my relationships both intimate and platonic.

It described, with almost overwhelming accuracy, the decline and fall of my most important relationship I have ever experienced with another woman. Everything was there. My unconscious forgetting, my trying to fix things by doing more of the same, my passive-aggression, dumb insolence when confronted with conflict, trying to avoid fights, timidity, unwillingness to lead, getting pissy and moody, threatening to leave, caretaking instead of caring (i.e, doing things for a payoff instead of altruistically) emotional stonewalling and all the rest. It was all there. I could give mental examples this behavior - my behaviors - as I read along - and I was so switched on I read the entire book in about an hour and a half. She lost trust in me because I failed to be the measure of a man that she had expected, that she deserved. I had buried my masculinity for so long, my long held belief that keeping it hidden was a blessing - instead it had turned out to be a black and soul-destroying curse.

Although I didn't have an agenda set in place for 2010, I have one now - it's to stop being a "Nice Guy." Of course, our Aristotelian minds immediately jump to the conclusion that I would become the "opposite" of nice; a complete arsehole. As it turns out, my "niceness" seems only thinly veiled by unconscious anger and spite, which manifests itself in a variety of unpleasant ways. Instead, I plan to become a more integrated, open and honest man and to put my needs first instead of blindly following others and their perceived expectations of me.

So I saw my doctor and we set out a plan, using the book to get myself back on track after so much living through "toxic shame" and attachments that made me fear the world around me. Even though he assured me that technology will continue to make everything better ("We have bionic ears, soon we'll have bionic eyes," he said, reassuringly. "Give it five years and we'll have bionic vaginas...don't tell my wife but I'd be first in line to test one.") I was determined to see this through until the end. Within hours I was following the therapy plan we'd set up, doing the exercises, signing up to the support group online forums and setting up meetings with "safe people" to discuss my progress and help lead me through this journey of self-discovery and personal development.

I can say with all honesty, I have never felt better. I not only see a future, but a great one. I'm going to enjoy 2010 and every year that comes afterward. I don't promise this to anyone except for myself; so let's go!

---

Addendum: For anyone interested in the book, I am willing to set up a regular discussion group in the Melbourne, Australia area. The online support forums can be found here.

The Last Throes

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 13:53:00 +0000

So here I am, foreigner in his own land, struggling to comprehend what he has done and what he hasn't done. A tunnel surrounds my eyes that are slowly being hacked away at a meticulous pace. There's a heart in there somewhere that cries out in agony every single second of the day, but I try to muffle its screams. My mind's eye flashes guilty images and perversions and trials gone wrong. I check the time again. I am no closer to my destination. Impatient, I look for an exit. The door, I fear, is an escape to a place I cannot return from. There’s no where I want to go, except to go back again.

The rattle from an old air conditioner cools the sweat beading from my head. I'm draped all over the ratty couch with no regard for anything in particular. As sleep approaches, I bask in a feint afterglow that diminishes with every breath. A black clad woman fades into obsidian. She's haltingly removed from view as the all consuming darkness claims her. I fall away, shouting out blessings and apologies. It all seems so hollow, now, those words. I can't grab at them, I cannot cage them. I want to, all those cowardly, stupid, undesirable words. Seconds go by for no good reason, each one of them threading together some kind of life. Each path I draw out in the sand gets blown away by the tumult of a mind in rapture. Worse still, I don't even know if she heard any of them. I don't even know if they were true.

I sit at the periphery watching the decline of those I know and those I merely see. Sitting on another couch, I heard voices. In amongst the doorway, I saw people streaming in and out, panic darting across their faces. A girl with glassed over eyes briefly glanced at me. Her face changed every minute. More faces than anyone could ever have imagined. She didn't say anything. No one ever does. My eyes stare and burn themselves into the other side of those walls and they never say anything. A sudden chill snaps through the room when I walk through, even though the heat from my breath fills the air just the same as everyone else.

Then the pleasantry and hellish reality of another beloved enters my view. The decrepit, the weeping, the gently decaying. She's making the best of it but she can't take it any more. She's seen too much pain behind those grey eyes, too much and too soon. Life wasn't short, it was a painful excursion with ever weakening flashes of solace and comfort. Oh, how I feel for you. If I felt at all, I would. Now that's been farmed way out of here by incomputable combinations of chemicals, smoke and mirrors. It would take me years to count all of the particles in a storm that changed every second, even in the insignificant space between the blink of an eye. We lose sight in that second, we lose so many sights. Add them all together and you have a life thats merely been lived between sheets and dreams.

Fear presents itself at the doorway, restricting my entrance. I want to go back. I plead with him. But the seconds pass by he keeps slinging those arrows into my sides. I see them piercing you too, but I say nothing. Doing so would cleave another immeasurable part between the folds of our shivering bodies and you would never speak to me again. Don't worry, it's fine. In every single scenario, you walk down that marble hallway. You dry your tears. Then you walk away.

When the flags have blown away

And the footprints start to fade

Will I find my way again

Or lose the path before me?

I saw the leaves go brown

I saw them falling down

All my dreams lying on the ground

With nothing to assure me

Threshold - Hollow

Christmas Straight Up Sucks

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 12:15:00 +0000

I figure that the most irritating holiday of the year requires input from yours truly, because we seem to be the generation that has perverted it to such a degree no one knows why we sit around a table, eat a damn bird that no one eats during regular times and other shit that we only care to think of during December. Surely, this process could all be mediated instead over Facebook, somehow?

If it were up to me, I'd probably order Chinese food with hell of egg rolls and chicken wings instead. (Provided I was somewhere that did that kind of order.) I'd sit around, download more episodes of The Wire and watch them on a big screen TV, oblivious that my local bar, CD store and Discount Tyre outlet were all closed. I lead an interesting life, dammit - I exist as an eternal mixture of intrigue and backwater sass. (Hah, who am I kidding.)

Talking about The Wire, its cerebral television; it has this uncanny ability to draw you to its narrative, even though the bulk of it is ego-driven political dialog the likes of which Aaron Sorkin loves to masturbate over, losing his jive whenever the characters say "fuck." (And they say "fuck" quite a lot!)

If you can imagine your best friend - as complicated and imperfect as they are, you can get a handle on how compelling and brilliant The Wire is. You probably met at some time in your lives where you both had the same interests and conversation flowed so freely you didn't even notice the sun rising after spending all night on the phone, greeting their brothers and sisters and tagging along to strange as hell events like their Dutch migrant piano recital or application for tags at the DMV. (Er, VicRoads? Screw it, y'all know I want to be seppo)

The Wire is the televisual equivalent of your best friend - the tension between their own self-interest and your need for attention - exists like allegory on the screen. You see cops beating on their own, drug dealers aspiring for the average life and the corrupt, perverse nature of institutionalizing humans at their worst, at their most demonized. As it plays out, you understand and feel everything it offers in and of itself and beyond - much like your best friend does - without even realizing.

Next year, we should all watch The Wire instead of having Christmas.

2009: A Collection of Failures

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 08:04:00 +0000

As time wears on, you lose parts of yourself. You are consumed and you move with arrows pointed ever forward. Depositing innocence in childhood, leaving behind the safety of home to venture somewhere, to meet someone even though the destination was never set. This year has to be the hardest I've ever faced. It held a mirror up to myself, and showed me my limitations, my downfalls, the things I truly cared about and how not to care about them in a meaningful way, in a way that makes a difference. It shattered a faith in something that I had clung to since adolescence; like a dwindling flame from a candle held between my shaking fingers finally evaporating in the air. Then my little room grows dark. Silence ensues. My flight away from myself was folly; it only brought me closer to realizing I cannot escape myself. I'm stuck here, and here's everywhere.

Focused on one thing and one thing alone, I set off to preserve the flame at all costs. It shined so bright, it touched a part of me like nothing else had before. For the first time, I dozed peacefully without care. Wind blew through my hair for the first time and the hand clasped within mine brought a smile to my face. I was so scared of losing it, I guarded myself against it. I had purchased a ring to symbolize a bright new future for "us" and wore it. Every time I stared at it, I was frightened by happiness. My inner fortress eventually fell under the weight of fear and I returned from battle, wearied and scarred. The ring was seemingly lost. Why was I fighting? For peace and love? It made no sense. Being left alone for with nothing but a hound and a cat for company, a(nother) fissure appeared in my psyche. One that's in the process of a lengthy and complex repair. One night I crept around my apartment, lost and confused. 2AM. A shot of Jagermeister. 4AM. A Beer. Eventually the sun rose at 7AM and it felt like the walls were collapsing in and around me. A lone tear streaked down my face. I knew it was the end of something but the beginning of nothing. "Oh," I muttered under my breath to passing joggers and nervous workers in the morning twilight, "nothing seems right." But then again, what did? What will?

Although there was a lot of good done and so many tears shed for the near departed and for my own departure, it doesn't act as a counter to what I have lost, so irrecoverably. Its a loss that was so total and so complete, only the memory of what I once felt remains and not the feeling itself. Rationally, how long can you beat yourself over the head with it? Minutes? Hours? Until your final breath? Distract yourself with something of no consequence? Redefine what's important? Deconstruct and reconstruct your perceptions ad nauseam for some great reward? Thoughts come without repentance; in my case they flood and break down the banks of an otherwise decent mind, leaving me in a heap of nerves.

Perhaps I can steel myself against what the world throws at me. I can stand at a window and watch shadows lengthen in the sun before the moon's pale light emerges and touches silvery leaves at night. I can do it until I can sigh no more. Just pick up your things and carry on with everything. Its all the rage at the moment.

When I sleep and dream, I dream of lesions forming on my body and blood spilling out. They open up everywhere; I'm stunned into position and I cannot move. I figure its my unconscious telling me that the wounds are still fresh and that I am still alive, I still feel, I still breathe. Perhaps one day they will turn to scars and the haunting will stop. It reminds me to believe in nothing, that the preservation of self will only lead to a wooden box or a copper urn on a mantelpiece - from stars we are born, to stars we shall one day become again.

With each success, I feel nothing. With failure brings defeat and emptiness, but familiarity. There's a map with failure written across it and a territory that doesn't mean anything when you turn your back on it. With success, I feel alone and scorned, waiting for the day it all comes down. No amount of riches or fame or "success" by any measure would salve me; I would never feel satisfied. Something would be missing and I'd search high and low to plug the void - even though what wasn't there was benign to begin with; it was a fictitious concern at best. There were more earthly and pressing matters to attend to. I can see that now. Now all I feel is the hot sting of being told I'm second, third, fourth best after an effort to prove my worth. I can empty my pockets and strip myself of clothes and the only wealth I'll seek will be the touch of another and the sound of a forgiving voice in the dead of night; even then, I will still feel poor and wretched.

I would cast me out into a great cold distance too if I had to live with me, so I can understand the reasoning behind the decisions that were made by and for me all those months ago. It's fine, really. I am an observer, not a participant; I write the stories down and try to make sense of them, even though I never ever will. The struggle isn't to elicit the words of care and love, to preserve them in the fabric of time; the struggle is to act in their spirit, day after day. I do; she's gone and happy. In a perverse and seething way, buried under fear, anxiety, hate, despair and remorse, I am glad she is. I'll take everything on face value; don't worry about it.

So I, like you, move on from another year into the next, and then from that, another. Why? Its impossible to tell. Will it unleash another fresh hell from my mind's eye or a pit me in a quest for an unattainable heaven? The ultimate tension between the two creates that void in the pit of my being; once filled with a light that's now gone. May it one day return under a different guise. It doesn't matter who lights it. It became starkly apparent this year that it doesn't matter who does it, it just has to be done.

The limits of my search were defined and promptly conquered. It feels like I've returned from the frontier and found nothing. I just feel like apologizing to everyone concerned and slinking off in any given direction. Then I'll sit myself down at a bar, smoke cigarettes, sip whiskey and say nothing. I will delude myself that people will ask me why I am there, what I am doing; but no one will ever talk to me. The boiling pulse of anger will rise within and evaporate as sweat taking each earthen-colored drink from the bartender. The color of my money will be the wrong shade, the whites of my eyes streaked with red, the dark circles around them growing in strength with every passing hour.

Potentialities abound but none of them seem like they have purpose. I can't see the wood for the trees; I can't even see why the trees are there in the first place. For all the books I read, the trials of academia and knowledge I cultivate, I still feel like a god damned fool. Driving up the highway with a bad transmission, carrying a raving lunatic in the passenger seat and trunk full of garbage with one thought on my mind.

Not all is lost. Nothing can be all lost; I have succeeded and failed - done both, and neither. Whoever showed me that; I am in your debt. But I cannot pay you, you are gone now. I was of no consequence to you and shall remain that way. I feel as I was of no consequence to myself. Sitting up in bed smoking a cigarette, confessing the sins of my being. It's a sobering and sad thought. Like an unwitting clown that doesn't remember telling any jokes but finds himself being laughed at all the same.

Goodbye old year, goodbye. It still feels that things need to be done, therefore I will do them as best as I can. There's a freedom in that; there's none in idleness and despair. Onward into battle my friends, onward and upward.

The love for life once bright
(Out of sight)
A burning fuse
The only flame I have
Fate's spiral down this curve
(Shall only serve)
The seeds growing my misery
These wounds kill time
My struggle sublime
Idle the blood
A black state of mind

All dreams left behind

Katatonia - Idle Blood

Stalker Alert

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 09:44:00 +0000

If you're like me and on an income that is instantly gripped in the talon-like fingers of debt and arseholes, you can't really spend $1.50 on newspapers with copy that doesn't stink of the wretched cologne-soaked keystrokes of PR "mavens", social media'd or otherwise. Therefore on the train, the mX is an alternative to mind-numbing boredom of train travel and the accompanying whines of kiddies who are similarly bored and love the sound of their own attention-making hole. In every edition, the "talk" section showcases snippets of Melbourne's overwhelming stupidity in about 160 characters or less. Even more fun is the "Here's Looking at You" section.

An outlet for the dateless and (very) hopeful, the HLaY section boasts vague 'missed connections' from commuters on the Melbourne train network (for my Amerifriends: it works about as well as our internet does.) Pleas for "the cute girl on the 6:32, I liked the cut of your jib, lets go to coffee" are routinely heard, as well as the occasional, more detailed clip, like this:

Oh sorry, did I say detailed? I meant stalkery. The proximity required for Mr. iLike to make these observations would be mere inches - millimeters even - unless iLike is an actual cyborg manufactured by Apple Computers, replete with digital zoom and programmed to recognize the human emotion we know as love. (read: lust.) However, his memory banks also have brand recognition and like any functional Apple design, the brand is the advertisement. (classic iPod? Oooh!) Fair enough that he can remember what clothes she was wearing - even that she was eating food. Shows that he's attentive. But this dude can even smell the firmware crack on her iPod touch - amazing! Here's what his brunette beauty should say, even though we all know she never will.

"Dear iLike, remember when you bought your first iPod and after about a year, the little sad face appeared on the screen? Well, that's how I feel about you. You're like that sickly little computer confined behind an LCD screen. While I feel sorry for you, it doesn't translate into boom-boom sexy time action. I guess your credit card will be charged with another months subscription to Big Busty Interracial Grannies.

Take care,

Normal Girl"

There are websites and courses that can turn your ownership of a lonely heart into a broken heart. Don't say I didn't warn you, iLike.

Also: see my latest "magnum opus" on YouTube.

Melon Race Sketch #1

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 01:54:00 +0000

Our (Ace and I) first sketch is raring to go on YouTube. A rough draft of what's to come, surely. I learned how to use Adobe Premiere and everything.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1XUIuEkDYWk

Comment, rate and thoroughly rip to shreds!

Twenty-three

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 03:19:00 +0000

It rained on the day that I fell asleep
I never returned
Searching for something I'd lost on my way
I never came back
To life
Green Carnation - Rain

1.

It was a day like today. Hot. Sticky. Humid. There was a thickness hanging in the air. Him knowing him, he was already sweating as he closed the door to the apartment. With jack in hand and tyre iron under his arm, he clambered down from the garden bed and into the small car park. He oversaw the pond in the throes of a disappearing act, sludgy and decaying at its banks.

Walking around to the back of the wagon, he opened the boot. There, a 155 R, 14" custom wheel. He heaved it on to the ground, tapping into an upswell of perspiration. Cranking the jack underneath hoisted the car above the asphalt, inches at a time. Then, rain began to fall, drops landing on his head, streaming down his face.

A black dude in a tow truck calls out, asking if I need help. He shouts back that "I'll be alright." The look of confusion spreads across the driver's face; the unfamiliar twang in his voice sounding ever more foreign when it entered into conversation.

So there he sat for a brief moment. As more rain fell, he labored, pulling those lugnuts off until his muscles hurt. Yanking at them, grunting as he could feel his flesh weaken and the grip slacken. Every time a nut clinked to the ground, it was like a moment of triumph. He gave himself a wipe of the brow as a reward.

He fitted the new tyre on, keeping it there consuming all of his patience. He fastened it with care. All he could think about was getting it done in that all consuming heat, while it was still light. Kids were locked away texting or playing games instead of walking past a disheveled, browbeaten yet somehow grown man struggle to change a tyre for his love. She was working, as he was forced to sit alone, unwanted by the land in which he wished to reside.

As he slinked up the stairs, breathing heavily, he pondered this strange act of love; it seemed like the love throbbed in the cavity of his torn biceps, aching as he slumped on to the bed. His mind raced downward, mulling over one thing, then another, intoxicating himself on delusions and unsane half-truths. He bound himself up in thinking that the day was soon coming where it would all come down. Needless to say, he was right. But he was the one that would be pulling the string to unravel it.

2.

It was sunny and fresh. His mouth tasted like the aftermath of a plate of meatballs. John Cougar Mellencamp was playing a little ditty about Jack and Diane on the radio. The three were all still abuzz from running amok in the furniture store, bemused shoppers staring curiously at their madcap antics. Baby was smoking a cigarette, lost in thought if only for a second. The breeze caught the wisps of smoke and blew them away from the car. The butt hung from the side of her deep red lips as if she were playing a colossal joke on everyone; trying to pull the wool firmly and completely over our eyes. Then her friend made a comment. She repeated it back adding her assessment of "awesome." An eruption of laughter.

The light turned green. Pick-up trucks the size he had never seen before sped off in front, peeling off to thunder down the Interstate. We took the exit, 78 South to Chattanooga and Greenville, S.C. Apparently, America's friendliest city is just next door.

As buildings and billboards appeared proclaiming the low, low price of $499 for an uncontested divorce, he soaked in his surroundings. As unbelievable as that seemed, it overwhelmed and he can't refrain from engorging on everything this wondrous land had to offer, despite the grip of fear wrestling him to the ground. His strength was still intact; he resisted the temptation to implode for another day.

She was so cute and small, the cars she drove made her look like a toy doll. Driving along she was prone to anger and bouts of unavailing frustration. In some people's lives, the search for equilibrium never ceases. The decisions we make aren't good or bad, but we convince ourselves that they are, long after the fact, long after it matters. Whatever happens, happens; the feeling resides within, sheltered and warm, far away from prying eyes.

Up until the uninterrupted ride toward Spaghetti Junction, he's hid those fears that had all but but evaporated until they were displaced by something much less benign. It was a fear in him to overcome that fear. Then anger rose with all its five elements; fear, anxiety, hate, despair and remorse. He pushed them down until they lay dormant, all coming to haunt him in those ceaseless dreams that felt like a harbinger from a decaying psyche. There was just no avoiding it. It was there to stay, just like it had always been. Comforting him from that chronic lack; that inability to feel the colors and contours of life; the hues of spring-time love, a sting of loss, the empathy for a fellow man, the meaning of sacrifice, the notion of another reaching out in the dead of night to wrap her arms around him and declaring love for him. It was precious and real; not some kind of ploy, not a mere ephemeral phenomena that was conjured in a studio of fantasy.

Pulling up to the friend's work, she reluctantly marched off, battle face painted on smartly. Something stirred at the core of his being, a flutter in his chest. He'd never experienced it before and he found it unsettling. It was a feeling of pure calm after months of antagonizing himself, sleepless nights spent wondering if this all had some kind of sad ending. He was just setting himself up for that day. The day it would all come down. Baby asks if he's okay; he replies with a joke. He likes making her giggle. The calm rested in the pit of his mind and flowed throughout his body as the refrain from the song assured him: "Yeah, life goes on / even after the thrill / of living has gone." It had gone. But right here and now things seemed fine. That intolerable relentlessness of life had yielded to a strange contentment. For the first time, in that fleeting irrecoverable moment, he felt alright. It felt right being him. He had a useless, futile life ahead; something he had suspended belief in for those crucial, visceral seconds when he looked over at his sweetheart. For the first time, on that sun-parched and violent freeway the knowledge that she was there made him feel. If he could do the same for her, he'd have felt accomplished, despite and in spite of everything.

3.

Rushed with fresh casualties, the triage nurse was directing traffic in the ER. As the lights streaked across the polished linoleum floors, a sense of urgency crackled through the halls. A man caked in soot and smeared in blood approached on a gurney, wheeled through by two paramedics.
"Massive blood loss from a laceration on the torso. There's also some head trauma," one of them said dispassionately.
The nurse inspected the stocky man, ripping open his jacket to feel for injuries. He flashed a light in his eyes and asked him some standard questions. His head encased in yellow foam, he answered them, straining all the while. The paramedics looked at each other nervously.
The triage nurse heaved a sigh and hooked his stethoscope around his neck.
"Take him to Room 103," he snapped. "Head trauma? There's nothing there. You just imagined it."
By then, the medics had already turned their backs, uninterested in what he had to say. An orderly whisked the patient away as the nurse prepared himself to witness yet another twisted and wrecked body.

4.

When he was there, it all felt natural. Its like he had always been there. It felt as familiar as the family home where he spent his childhood, the schools of yesteryear, the friends from day one. It felt that familiar if he didn't think to hard. Him knowing himself, that's exactly what he did.

If his life was a movie, even he as a spectator would still manage to ruin the ending for everyone concerned. He gorged another piece of toast down. A minute ticks by. "I miss my baby," he thinks. The same thought, over and over. There's no where else to go, why not stay here? Its not comfortable but it seems just right to him. Even the path of least resistance doesn't seem as attractive to waiting right here and preparing for the inevitable hard slog. He couldn't wait until his sweetheart got home. Yes sir. He could not think of any other place he'd rather be. He was convinced. But was she? A few hours later, she emerged at the door. A void emerged in his mind. So he leaned over and reached out for that string...

Taking Back the Flank

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 05:40:00 +0000

"There's no one to take my blame
if they wanted to
There's nothing to keep me sane
and it's all the same to you
There's nowhere to set my aim
so I'm everywhere
Never come near me again
do you really think I need you?"

- Dream Theater - Space-Dye Vest

I remember a great man once said that boredom is a state of suspense. Its that latent craving for action in the midst of nothing happening. It also brings to mind a great scene from the brilliant comedy Spaced, in which Daisy wants to pen an article about whether inactivity breeds lethargy and at the end, she says she can't be bothered. When nothing happening becomes chronic, it becomes almost normal. The motivation to grow and work and promise things just sort of drains away. Applying for jobs, being knocked back time and again is a blow to the ego, but its something that everyone has to endure at some point in their lives. Nothing special there. So what can be done? Like the song says, there's nowhere to set my aim, so I'm everywhere. But what about somewhere specific?

One day, I was looking through postgraduate courses for media and communication, so I applied for as many that might take me. The man who loathed almost every moment of his undergraduate degree wants to go back to Uni to do a masters. But I know what I want now - I have something concrete to aim for, probably for the first time. Well, that's not completely true. But it's a plan; something I'm not usually partial on making but have now committed myself to nonetheless. Here's hoping things look up. I can safely say that there's a light at the tunnel of this, my darkest hour - a fact I was reluctant to even acknowledge only a few short weeks ago.

Bulwark Against Desolation

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 08:23:00 +0000

Most of the night, I stare at my ceiling. The indigo darkness crushes against me as I take another breath. My eyes can roll back into the back of my head but can they push my thoughts even further away? I wait, I wait, I wait. There's another familiar tick of the clock. More waiting. Then I realize; the wait is over, I have nothing left to wait for.

I shift about, looking from side to side watching only darkness creep by. There's no siren responding to the call of emergency any more, there's just a numbing silence. There's no murmur of slumbering companions in any direction. As the break of day sweeps away the night, a glow shines through my blinds. I've seen this sunrise before, but somehow it seems unfamiliar. I twist myself upright, moments away from collapse.

I can see that sunrise elsewhere, hitting a thicket of trees as their shadows lengthen in the sun. It felt like my last day on earth, again - my last day on an earth that I had a hand in creating and destroying all at once. I shake my head. Don't worry son, my father would say. Just don't worry about it. I'd nod in agreement, usually. Speeding through this defeat can't kill me. On the other hand, if it does, I just might let it.

I swallow a bulwark against desolation and wait for it to calm the tempest and storm. The swell subsides, the screams extinguish. In giving up a wound, I slip into stupor. I walk across thorns, I fall to the floor, I play my favorite record. They all end up wretched and blinding; barely there. Just like me.

A New Plan

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 00:43:00 +0000

The past month I've kind of been flat. Some might say I've been like that for the past two or three and they'd be right. I haven't been thinking correctly and I've let personal relationships slide and decay - including the most important one of my entire life.

So I got myself thinking. I need to change myself. I need to become better; not only for myself but for the ones I love. They might say this change has come too late, but I figure its better late than never. I have hurt the one I love by staying the same and becoming worse; by doing that I have hurt myself and I must carry those thoughts with me, every day.

So, I formulated a list in my head which I will commit to paper (or in this case, my blog.) I'm going carry it around in my wallet, as well as a small notebook/journal (which I have been doing) to track my progress. Here's the major themes:

I will not sleep past a double-digit hour for any reason (i.e, oversleep constantly.)
If I do not have something productive to do, I will find something that is or try to help someone else.
I will write 1000w a day (for a purpose), minimum. If I am a freelance journalist, I must write every day.
I will exercise for at least 30min a day. If I'm busy, I will endeavor to find the time to do it.
If I/we encounter a problem, I will write it down. Then underneath, I/we will write out possible solutions and try them out until one is found. We will render them "non-lethal" and confront them.
I will be more attentive in what people say. If I find myself struggling to remember or think I am misinterpreting them, I will also write down key points in my notebook to get a grasp on it and repeat it back to them.
Make concrete decisions after careful consideration. Once I/we have made up my/our minds, I will do whatever we have set our minds to. I will help plan the course of action, reach an agreement on what goals to achieve and endeavor to meet them.
Not to give up. There are some things in life that can be supremely difficult to navigate and face. But it’s important to realize that even small changes can remedy situations. Every little bit of help counts.
Grow myself in knowledge, to be more accepting and to be more loving and caring for the benefit of others.
Stop talking about change; go out, do it and continue to every day.

I'm confident that these small changes will yield great results. Wish me luck.

In Heavy Consternation

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 08:49:00 +0000

There's no internship to work as a freelance journalist. You don't go to a "somewhere", train yourself and go do it. (Perhaps there is; I'd sure like to know about it.) Sure, you can do a university degree in journalism but that doesn't 'qualify' you, so to speak. Like any profession, you learn on the job. The job for me as a freelance copywriter/journo/PR dude is the job (or jobs) you push yourself to get. I've been writing since I was in high school. It didn't dawn on me that writing as a job was a viable option until about the fourth year of my three year university degree. I never thought doing something I enjoyed could actually earn some money. Well, it doesn't. The economy's rooted and so am I. To a certain extent.

But just like riding bicycles and sexy time, things get easier with practice. The more you venture out from your comfort zone, the more hardships you will find and the more rewarding the pay off. The vocation I have chosen for myself will not make me any significant amount of money for a while. I know that. I won't be driving Beemers or drinking G&Ts in penthouse apartments. (Because that's gay.) I'm still in my "internship" - writing for free until I gain a name for myself. I have contacts, I have drive, I have ambition and I have knowhow but not enough clout for subs to rush to their editors and exclaim, "I have Tom Valcanis on the phone! He wants to another piece about how much Facebook sucks!" Close friends and my partner will attest; I'm an egotistical son of a bitch and I hate being rejected. I even get childish about it at times. But as Korzybski, Watzlawick and Ellis have taught me, failure is feedback - try and try again, improving each time.

In my isolation since my return to Australia, I've actually found myself. Being in the US showed me what was important in my life and the lives of a significant other and now I know where I want to be. I have moved past my "grass is greener" mentality; I want to work, I want to improve and I want to be proactive. Getting my arse-kicked the day I took off from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport has left an indeliable indentation on my bum and it will always remind me that there are things bigger than myself that I want to be a part of and have to work towards to be included in again. I've done wrong but I am working to make things right. I believe in second chances and gradual transformation. As one of my favorite authors and philosophers, Robert Anton Wilson says; "I'm not a noun - I'm a verb. I'm always changing, never staying the same from one moment to the next."

Walking Away Scathed

cortexreboot@gmail.com (Crushtor) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 05:15:00 +0000

I sit in front of a computer sometimes and before I know it, it's 2AM. It isn't where I'd like to be, but its where I sit.

In this position, its like you're being held under a constant fear of a great pain to be unleashed across your entire body; like an intense and chronic anticipation of ripping a sticking bandage from your skin. Its an overwhelming, nauseating feeling that accompanies you on the bus, on the walk toward where you live, in the job interview, talking to friends and even when you sleep.

You just wait and wait and hope that it's ripped off soon - then you'll know if your insides come spilling out or if the wound has healed. Or maybe it's even more complicated than that; a feeling of hopelessness yields to one of longing, one of renewal. I don't feel like my old self, I don't want to be that old self, I am in a process of change.

The confluence of distance and immediacy, the amalgam of thinking that another sits at the same computer, another coughs up her medicine in the middle of the night, this shattered heart cannot bear. I hold the shards of it in one of my bloodied hands, the other gripping a hammer of my own making. What is done cannot be undone, even though a repair might come too late, I will endeavor to make it all better. I hope I get that chance, love, even if it takes me all my life.