At World's Sort of Central Region, But Kinda North Also

Great, and possibly successful people, have felt the need to constantly point out the fact that all of life's journey's start with a single step. Well no shit.
But do these zealots of obvious wisdom ever discuss the whole concept of "direction".
I mean, one can't just walk backwards towards a pile of dog shit and suddenly be taking a piss in the executive bathroom of some monstrous monolithic corporate headquarters.
Not that I'd want to end up their personally, I'd take the pile of shit on my shoe over that form of success any day.
But back to the point at hand, if there even is one, there is no right direction to anything. But people who have somehow made it to the top always feel the need to act like they knew what the fuck was going on the whole time. I always feel it to be a breath of fresh air when someone comes forward and openly admits to being asleep at the wheel after one too many drinks, wake up covered in puke, and suddenly discovering that they've made it to their destination against all odds. Which is a blessing since they had no idea what their destination was to begin with.

The cement is always cleaner on the other side walk across the street, but pay no heed to that, one can find more interesting tit-bits in garbage smeared trails.

I was on my bike today, departing from a early morning rehearsal, and suddenly found myself flopped over my handle bars staring into traffic. Every single one of those cars had a place to go, even those cars themselves has been someone's goal at a point, the license to get said car had been the goal before that, and surviving till the age that you could get that license before that.
I for one am content with my shitty old bike. It has character, its a lot like that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang car. In the fact that it talks all the time. But instead of going "Chitty Chitty etc."
its more like "REEEEEeeee, EEEEEEErrrr, GROOOAAANNN, SKREEEEEeee, POP."
As I said, it has character, but I'm always grateful when it shuts its mouth from time to time.

But it just bothers me how the disease of conformity is taking it toll on the populace. Even I find myself falling in line sometimes. Its hard not too on a hot summer day, especially when capitalistic war machine is the only guy selling ice cream.
What's even more hilarious is when you look at the so called anti-conformists. Strutting around in leather, colorful hair, ink and paint on their bodies and a loud hatred for society on a whole.
Those people spend the most time on their appearance to the world, they're not rebelling, they're more vain than anyone. One might claim a loud appearance is a way to fight back against god knows who, but vanity is a strong platform of the aforementioned evils.
Hell its only a matter of time before that shit comes back into style, and suddenly high school kids are running around dressing up in something that at some point had some meaning. But now its just the 'it' thing. It hard to fight the world with fire when its perfectly capable of fighting back with fire and then some.

But anyway, none of that up their has to do with anything. I simply wanted to point out that not all journey's start with a single step. They might just happen start with a screech, and a rolling of wheels with rusty gears.

Which of course you might argue that I had to take a couple steps to get to my rusty pile of bike, but I'll have you know I can fly, so I just sort of hobbled through the air and landed on the seat. And everyone knows defying gravity doesn't count as a journey's start, its too easy.

"You're turning into a penguin, stop it."

Reflection of a Forgotten Shadow in a Broken Sky

Ever just wake up at night for no reason? Sure you have, we all have.
But do you ever wonder why? Most of the time we just go back to sleep because its the logical conclusion. But have you ever just ridden it out?
Simply gotten out of bed and let your feet take you to whatever it is your body felt compelled to interrupt your glorious hibernation for?
I spent four hours looking out the window into the night sky. My recently experienced dream white washed from my mind by unseen forces, and any form of worry about the coming morning along with it.

I just stared through my reflection, through the light pollution, and into the infinite abyss that I will never understand fully.
The universe trickling visions into my mind, images that I can't comprehend, but contemplate none the less.
Suddenly I am my reflection staring back at me, a hunk of meat housing potential energy. The scene is familiar. Has this happened before? Am I even awake? Am I ever awake?
I am old now, I have seconds to live. I stare up at unfamiliar faces, but it seems they are important to me. I cry. A wave of nostalgia hits, I remember my entire life. Such a short life, seems but a dream now, my aged and scarred body is a testament to the reality of it all. I die.
I wake up in bed for no reason and walk to the window, staring into the night sky, a feeling of loss that I can't quite understand lingering on the outskirts of my being. But I am young, I have all the time in the world...

Walking Up and Slightly to the Left

After five days of skin scorching persistence, the sun has finally relinquished its post and let the northern winds take their shift.
I've just arrived in Strasbourg, evidently titled the 'Capital of Europe' in recent years, as they house the European Union's parliament. I only realized this after practically walking into the damned thing and seeing, as I mentioned before, a giant sign stating "Strasbourg, the Capital of Europe"
Funny really, hadn't even heard of the place until a friend of mine took up residence there.
Its essentially the Amsterdam of France. Lots of canals, lots of old buildings, and lots of worn-out red bricks. It was previously a disputed territory, between Germany and France, giving it the final Amsterdam'ian quality. Everybody can generally speak something that is, but not quite, German sounding. When I say everyone, I mean 'everyone' in the sense that 'everyone' in Canada can speak French and English. (For you non-Canadians, the actual level of bi-lingual people in Canada could almost be considered a minority.)

I have ridden a bike for almost four days straight, my ass couldn't hurt any less if I tried to pick up soap in a prison shower-room, but its been magical. I had nothing but humor filled venom for France in the past, for no particular reason really, I just liked to be a prick about it. But this city has rather changed my view on all that, France is beautiful, the people are friendly and don't mind trying to speak English for the most part, or German even if need be.
But they're still a bunch of arrogant frogs, and I'm still a lazy igloo dwelling Canadian who rides a moose to work each morning, and that will never change no matter how much I like it here.

"Go up!"
"Gravity doesn't really permit that, I can go forward though."

Pan-Galactical Gargle Blaster

I was sitting in a brick layered alcove today, in the underbelly of a goth club I go to when I am positively not in the mood to do anything constructive with myself, when I noticed the drink menu had a new addition.
The Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster.
For any of you Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy fans, this drink is relatively self explanatory.
But for those not in the know; "The effect of a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick."

Now, I will admit, it wasn't quite as glorious as the above effect, but it was quite amazing none the less.
A giant glass, filled with a curious red liquid, which was set on fire.
I finished half the drink thinking "Dear me, could have been better."
But the final fifty percent of the drink was...well...amazing really. I managed to get drunk off of one drink, which has never happened to me before. I am one of those unlucky individuals whom is cursed with the ability to drink entire bottles of hard liquor and feel just fine. An expensive tolerance to say the least.

I was joined in my little recluse area by some American soldiers who were on leave from their air-defense base in Germany. They had partaken in the same drink as I, and were quite inebriated. That was made evident in the fact that they changed my name every time they spoke to me, and kept asking me where I was from every fifteen minutes.
Brilliant fellows they were. Evidently air-defense in Germany was a very boring post.
"Unless Russia goes ape-shit, we really have nothing to do."

Flying without the happy ending

Falling.
It's a brilliant thing. Lots of crazy shit goes on when your falling. Revelations, spinning wonders, tupperware.
It's like flying straight down, but without the much needed aversion from the ground.
I hate falling, I love falling.
No finer way of getting high, what comes down, must get up after all.
You're just there.
Which falls under the "Just Doing It" clause of Nicky the assanine fool.
He commited suicide 100 miles up, splattered all over the ground.
His suicide note contained only four words, "Because It was there."
Again with this "It" thing. Wasn't It a movie about a Killer Clown?
Am I suppose to do It?
It is not very sexually appealing. Although the idea of a squeaking red nose to play with as I achieve orgasm is kind of amusing.

I hated clowns as a child.
Hated is kind of a strong word for it actually.
I was terrified of clowns.
And fish.
Guess which one still freaks me out.


"Mischief is a four letter word!"