A little naive

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

This dream brings the headaches, this nightmare takes them away

Walking down a sun-kissed wide avenue (as the word boulevard looks cliched there) clumps of polystyrene foam as a visual metaphor for brain matter fall from my head (particularly from my ears). Firstly my speech gets jumbled (gteds mbulej jubmle93d #3yd t!!! yryeb steg) before I ultimately become mute. Then the movement becomes erratic, the wide white line which starts off straight weaves across the street. I turn back and two young children, never having seen snow in their lives, tear up the polystyrene into smalller pieces and throw it over their heads in a grotesque parody of winter play. Snow never happens here any more, not for at least 30 years, no one mentions the snow, no record of snow ever existing lives on, yet these children instinctively react to it the way we're used to seeing children react to snow.

A gentle awakening to the mother of all headaches. I've had these before, they are scary, slightest movement sending cascades of pain type aches.

A darkened sky, almost anime-style visuals. Two wires are lying on the same street. The eyes of the children glow enough to illuminate the scene in a trademark "eerie glow" effect. The polystyrene foam is gathered in front of me and put in a box. I'm mute, mostly still, jerking occasionally in strange ways. The wires are attached to the box and - fwooom - a sharp instant of blinding light were time slows down in a cartoon fashion and - I wake.

With no headache.

Posted at 07:40 pm by Kindie
Tell me I'm wrong

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Hailstones

Its been a sunny day, but it just started hailston-ing (just what is the precise word for the act of hailstones falling? hailing? isn't that what celtic fans and people who want taxis do?). I wish to go outside and lie on a rock, allowing the hailstones to pound against my skin, taking away this clogged feeling in my chest and clear my head. But as suddenly as it started it stopped, before I had a chance to even pick up my keys.

Posted at 05:42 pm by Kindie
Tell me I'm wrong

Saturday, June 11, 2005

A story with no real beginning and no real end, and not much happens in the middle

All night she’d been giving him discreet looks across the bar, he knew she’d rather not be here but he had to socialise with his contemporaries, this his reparations for poncing their coursework all through his academic career. Unfortunately this resulted in him tearing himself away from her, but she was friendly enough to cope, indeed he noticed that she was chatting away to a vivacious blonde from his course, a friendly enough girl but just a little too loud for his tastes.

Drink flowed, people talked and danced (as they do at these things)(but not he, he was driving, although despite not drinking he was still expected to partake of the talking and dancing, both skills he felt woefully underdeveloped in) until the bell rang, then later the lights came on. Still people milled around, determined to eke out every last minute from the evening until finally the staff became a mite too forceful with their requests for the patrons to “finish their drinks and step outside please” (the thought that an even more forceful tone was taken with a highly similar phrase in countless bars across the city brought a small smile to his face).

Then into his car it was, first into town “fur ra dancin”, but given most of the party’s inebriated state this was an abortive mission. So then to said vivacious blonde’s flat, along with her friend who was in the city that night, along with her, the woman he loved (author’s note: I realise the phrase “the woman he loved” is criminally overused but it was his curse to love her). A short car-ride later where nothing of note happened and they were there. After the cursory showing round the flat of, he found himself in desperate need of the bathroom facilities, despite sticking to the soft drinks all evening. I’ll spare you the details, as bathroom happenings are never pretty.

When he came out of the bathroom, she was in the kitchen with the other he, so our he (for, dear reader, he is ours now, we mould him, I decide what happens to him and you decide his mannerisms, how he looks, sounds, dresses etc) goes into the lounge with the vivacious blonde. She put a single on the turntable, something with angular guitar riffs and yelpy vocals. He liked this kind of music. When the single finished, they both started to listen to the conversation from the kitchen, which, although muffled, was clear enough to get the gist of. They were talking about sex. He (ours) distinctly heard her state “I enjoy sex”. In an instant his heart rate shot up, inversely proportional to his perceived temperature. He silently moved to outside the kitchen door in order to better facilitate the eavesdropping. He did this after a break in the conversation that was followed by a sound he thought was remarkably like the sound of two sets of lips meeting. Every fibre of his being felt as if it was tearing apart. Still he waited outside the door, summoning the courage to view what he feared. The conversation resumed, then, after another pause, he burst through the door. The other he was obscured by the opening of the door, but our he saw her jump, startled, before wiping her lips with the back of her hand (“She wiped her lips!” he thought, dying inside). Raging, his mind in turmoil, you’d think he may have swore. Indeed, looking back he’d have thought so too. However, he didn’t, instead opting (if opting can be used to describe an almost automatic reaction) for a rather effete sounding “just … go away”. He storms out of the house, pausing only to say goodbye to the blonde and pick up his jacket. The cries of “we were just talking, we were just fu-uh-cking talking” resound in his ears. He briskly crosses the road to his car (but he doesn’t run, oh no he definitely doesn’t run) where he reverses quickly and leaves the street.

Five minutes later he is on the motorway, topping 90 mph in a foolish attempt to show off to some boyracer. He hits a patch of rainwater left by the torrential downpours that hit the city that afternoon, loses control of his car and hits a concrete support for a flyover, dying instantly …

is not how this story ends, not for this story the rock-n-roll clichés (but plenty of other non-rock-n-roll clichés) of “live fast die young”, “leave a good-looking corpse”, “hope I die before I get old”, not for this story tales of sex and death, the two primal urgesfearsemotionsneeds that charge us and that are watered down to sell us everything from the latest must-have gadget to the latest must-have social conscience fad. Sex and death, what 99.9% of songs are about, do not come into this rather dismal tale. No, this is a story of ordinary people who do ordinary things.

Instead, what happened was this, he slumped against the door frame, concentrating firmly on not falling to the floor convulsing, only dimly aware of her sobbing into his chest. He is, however, acutely aware of the stares from the vivacious blonde, and this troubles him, the fact that he’s caused a scene, he dislikes this and now he wants to leave, knowing there is nothing more ugly than seeing a couple argue in public, knows exactly what other he and other she are thinking as he’s been there too, how tawdry must it seem. Other he keeps repeating “we were just talking” like a mantra, each repetition our he believes less, but won’t allow himself to be angry at other he, not even angry at “our” she (for although she is ours in the same way he is, he is our conduit for her, and some of the possession is thus transferred to him) but he alone, knowing that he should never have been in this position, knowing that she’s always had the power, knowing that he’s been too weak to stand up for what he wants. He can’t help but feel a momentary disgust of her though, blubbering into him, drunk and teary, incoherent moans into his shoulder. This passes quickly however, to a feeling that he should protect her, take her safely back to the sanctuary of home. A voice in his head screams that she is winning yet again, like she always does, he ignores this as best he can, knows its right, knows he’s sacrificing his happiness and peace-of-mind for her. Eventually they get home (two detours to allow her to be sick, one lengthy discussion as to why she should get back in the car and not try and walk home), he puts her to bed and sits awake all night. In the morning the happenings of the previous night are not discussed, not even hinted at, already it is another resolutely locked room in their house of shared experiences, down that unlit corridor which he longs to break down every door, smash every window and allow light to flood into every crevice, a final act of defiance he is unsure if he’ll ever commit.

Posted at 03:01 pm by Kindie
Tell me I'm wrong

Sunday, April 10, 2005

*fin*

Firstly, apologies for the lack of updates recently.

Certain real world commitments have been neglected by me recently, my lacklustre application in some areas has caused untold problems. To attempt to rectify this, I have come to the conclusion that changes must be made. As part of these changes, my "internet life" I suppose you could call it shall be severely curtailed. Gone are the hours spent talking on MSN or forums, and in comes a more dedicated and applied Kindie. Also, this blog will more than likely not be updated, however this is not such a radical change, given the haphazard nature of the timing and content of my posts.

For those who are curious (or more than likely terminally bored) then Mouse In A Microwave will have content (however questionable) added soon. I feel that as we've paid for the domain and hosting then Grambo and I should at least do something with it. I know that if I were to withdraw from MIAM duties then absolutely nothing would get done (Sorry Grambo, but you're as lazy a sod as I am :p)

For those who care enough to bother, I am deeply sorry for this unfortunate, but ultimately necessary course of action. I am not deserving of the interest.

Yours apologetically

Kindie

Posted at 03:18 pm by Kindie
Comments (1)

Friday, April 01, 2005

Grr I'm miffed

For a couple of reasons:

1. Use of "gay" as an insult. Its just not on.

2. I think it's sweet that Jack and Sally are romantic.
3. So shut it you pair of unromatic fools.

Jack and Sally (you Nightmare Before Christmas loving romantic fools) ...

Carry on.

Posted at 12:28 pm by Kindie
Comments (1)

Friday, March 18, 2005

Hear that?

Its the sound of my relief at getting that mega report out of the way

Posted at 05:54 pm by Kindie
Tell me I'm wrong

Saturday, March 12, 2005

God love 80s one hit wonders

"Echo Beach" by Martha and the Muffins hell yeah! What a tune. Sod prozac, prescribe this.

Posted at 12:44 am by Kindie
Tell me I'm wrong

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Because we fucking suck