On stream of unconsciousness

"Not to be confused with stream of consciousness." Though it is rather confusing. I am confusing. And confused. Now the music stopped. Now I started it again. But one of my ear plugs are broken. The set is broken. It's mono. That is not related to the music stopping (again!), because my speakers are stereo or no-o-at-all, alternatively. I got an invitation yesterday. I already rsvp-ed.

I think it's lunch time but I feel like having breakfast. Second breakfast. I already had one. But I think I was asleep. I think I still am.

I really do have ice cream in the freezer. Having it anywhere else would be strange.

It's like this: I could have coffee. But I already did. Besides, quote from a fridge magnet in the coffee place I visited today (the guy working there is real nice, by the way, but you can't go there too often, because then he'll start making you "the regular", and then you feel obliged to always have that and always come there. I can't be tied down like that) - quote (with picture - piquote?)

Except I have no energy. Maybe this is a dream? In which case I'd like to not wake up. I probably need the sleep. Besides I'm not doing stupid things. Yes. That. I'm not doing them. That's stupid. Blinds. The blinds are stupid. And automatic. Like the blinds in front of my eyes. I should eat. Lunchfast. Breakunch. Brunch. Second breakfast. I'm not that found of LOTR, actually. But I do like a good second breakfast. Don't tell my friends I said that. The first thing. About the rings. I like rings. But it's difficult for me to wear them, because my fingers vary greatly in size according to my general body temperature, which also varies, apparently.

Paragraph.

One more.

Interesteling playlist. I didn't make it. I borrowed it from an old coworker. It's very nice, but I am very sleepy. I don't normally talk in my sleep. As far as I know, I don't have any parasomnias. Unless you count that I turn into a blabbering maniac when in lack of sleep. But you shouldn't. Count it. It doesn't fall under the right definition- I forgot full stop- Paragraph-

Foods and animals are really random.

And shampoo.

Whenever someone says "think of something random!" I think of shampoo. Which of course makes it not random at all. Random very rarely is random. Panda. Not random at all. You might think it is. But you would be wrong. Do pandas drink coffee? Probably not. Probably because they are so busy with eating bamboo and not procreate. I sometimes mix up the words procreate and procrastinate.

The curtains here are ugly. They are meant to be decorative, since the blinds take care of light regulation. But the curtains don't decorate. They undecorate. Dedecorate. Disdecorate. "Go, won't you?" I said that. And I meant it. But for entirely different reasons. ...it would be the first time.

Airplane. Swallowed by a cloud. Chewed and spit out again on the other side. The cloud didn't like the taste of metal. The passengers never knew what almost hit (or, rather, digested) them.

It's not really so that random is funny because it is random.

Fridge.

Not random.

Not funny.

But still possible to laugh at, if in the right state of mind. "Arms racing is a state of mind" vs "Arms racing is intense military competition" vs "Arms racing inevitably leads to war". The latter is wrong. Cold War case in point. Besides/ monocausal explanations to excuse personal blame for what later was to be known as the First World War (they didn't know that in the beginning, though, which is a more valid excuse)/

</fedora>

Teh food. I nneedd to go downstairs. Knife. Not of the slaughtering kind. But to eat. With. By. For. Over. Under. Around. Of. There are more. It's not important.

I'll be right back.

It took three minutes. I brought my key but forgot to lock the door.

Jack Malone is actually not the same man,
as,
he,
once was.

His wife left, or so he told everyone. In reality? He knows exactly where to find her. Six feet under a pile of dung. He planted a rosebush on top of it, to cover the smell. The rosebush has thorns.

Jack Malone is not the kind of man,
you,
want,
to get too close to.
As a narrator, then, you assign him a name, to create some distance. To keep yourself out of his head.
But Jack's name isn't Jack. And as you admit that, you feel him creeping into your head after all, speading his darkness through your veins and arteries, like a bottle of ink streaming (unconsciously) into every crease in a wooden floor, after having broken upon impact. From a desk. You are the desk. You are the floor. You are the ink. You. You are the narrator.

You thought it was me. You thought I was the one facing the problem. But you were wrong. Jack infuses you, now,


It's all very obvious. The cards are dealt. The chess board set. With the instructions in a foreign language. Someone draws a gun. Then colours it pink with half-broken crayons.

I have to go. I'm awake now. Asleep. Almost. Always. After all.

On millions

On this day a million years ago, your ancestor, Homo Antecessor, woke up, scratched his leg, and thought a coherent thought as one of the first humanoid species to do so. It might not have been a very impressive or complicated thought; perhaps he was wondering where to go for a dump or whether to eat fruit or leftover raw meat for breakfast. But it was a thought. And just like that, he became a front-runner of what human beings have been doing for a million or so years: thinking. Occasionally thinking too much.

"It was a million years ago," we might say, describing a distant past - be it our youth, our last relationship, or last Thursday. Sometimes things happen so fast - or such amounts of it happens at once - that even short spans of time give the impression of containing decades, centuries, millennia. It was a million years ago, yet it happen yesterday.

Probably we think too much. Thoughts both of the impressive and complicated variety, and of more mundane matters. "My throat hurts," I think. "My heart doesn't, but probably should." One thought is very simple; the other is very complicated. It happened a million years ago, but really - it's only been a few days.

My throat really hurts. I have the flu. I don't often get that; in fact - this might be the first real flu I've ever had. I've had the common cold about a million times - last time was a million years ago way back in January. But the flu? With the muscular ache and fever and all? I can't say I've been diagnosed with that, ever. I haven't been diagnosed this time either, but the symptoms seem coherent. If it isn't the flu, though, it might just be sore muscles from too much dancing this weekend, combined, again, with a common cold. It's entirely possible. I danced, a million years ago, with people I hadn't seen in a million years. I felt like a million dollars.

Sometimes life happens like a million and one - all you can do is to close your eyes and hope you don't fall off.  It's running at the speed of light, and you're lucky to catch a breath of air once in a million blue moons. "Do I miss you yet?" she asks. Yes. No. It's only been a million years. "Do I miss you, then?" she asks again. It hasn't even been a day. She shouldn't miss anyone. She doesn't. She does. My throat hurts. I want soup.

In a million years nothing happens. Then everything takes place in one short week, and you're left wondering what the next million will bring. Probably nothing. Other than a million thoughts.

On frogs and smartphones and tomato soup and automatic cameras

I'm confused. Why can't you just come out and SAY IT? Whatever it is??

Frogs are cute. Not real frogs. They are - slimy. Or at the very least they look like they are slimy. I'd put that "they look slimy", but that isn't accurate, because that implies that I can actually see some slime. Which I can't. I'm simply assuming it. Not that I've seen that many frogs. And of the ones I've seen, many of them have been so small that their possible sliminess is difficult to determine without touching them. I'm NOT doing that. Eugh. What if they ARE slimy, eh? So yeahno. No touching. No kissing. Kissing a frog - I don't know if the prospect of finding a prince at the other end of the kiss would be enough to initiate one, really. Especially if there is slime involved.

Besides. Princes. Bah. Unless they are able to say things as they are, I'm not that interested.

Smartphones are not very smart. They are tricksy, perhaps. Tricking us into being far more mobile and online and available than we actually want. They make all sorts of information available at the touch of a finger tip. But that's not smart. It's convenient. It's fast. It's fun - at least for a while. But it's not smart. Smart - smart is the invention of the wheel. Or a spork (the spoon-fork hybrid, and not the lesser known water-pig. Long story). Or cleaning windows with vinegar. Now that is smart. A phone that has no keyboard and whose fancy thingamabobs are so time-consuming you don't have any time left in your day to actually do cool stuff? Not smart.

Besides. Phones. And people who use them. Or don't use them. Bah.

Tomato soup is really neat, y'all. It's made of tomatoes. And it's a soup. You can totally eat it. You can totally make it, even. If you use canned and crushed and skinned tomatoes, a grated carrot, some garlic and olive oil, and then a touch of salt and pepper (plus whatever herbs you fancy), it's even quite healthy - as you have complete control of what you put in your mouth. Not a bad idea.

Also not a bad idea - to have control over what you let out of your mouth. Like clear-cut, non-confusing messages. That would be as awesome as automatic cameras.

"Smile!" FLASH!

And yet they somehow always manage to catch you with you eyes closed, or just as you were about to say something, leaving your face all distorted and funny and not in a good way. They leave your face looking as though you were waiting for someone to say something, but then they didn't, and thus it was left hanging in the air, making you both feel a little awkward. And then you end up wondering what in the world they want from you, and then they stick the picture in your passport and there you are. Every single time you enter a new country, you have to look a mixture of confused, annoyed and heartbroken for them to believe it's you.

So maybe, just maybe, you can just say it as it is, instead of talking about frogs or smartphones or tomato soup or automatic cameras, yes? No?

On slug tales

Hello. My name is Sluggie. Well, obviously, that isn't my name, since I have a much longer and more impressive name. But the human I am currently residing with is part goldfish and thus she has forgotten my full name. She seems to think it is "Slugbart von Knittlich" or some such silly thing. I have grudgingly allowed her to use the short-version until she can recall my proper name. I wouldn't have put up with it if she hadn't been feeding me crocheted leaves. 

Anyway.


My name is Sluggie and I'm a slug. Not just any slug, mind you, I'm one of the few remaining individuals of the rare Bostonian Mollusca Knittilus breed. We're on the WWF endangered species list. So as you can see, you're in fine company today. I thought I'd take this opportunity to tell you a little about myself.

First of all, I am very fond of flowers. And cookies. Anything is better when you add flowers. And cookies.

I'm a voracious reader, and for some reason I mainly enjoy books about the political situation in the Middle East. I'm quite sophisticated, you see. 

Still, it isn't beyond me to relax and have some fun. Get out of character for a while. Halloween is my favourite holiday, and I always go trick or treating. Sadly, my speed limitations doesn't allow me to visit as many houses as I'd liked, but I do enjoy a good costume.

Count Slugula

By the way - would you like to hear a joke? It's my favourite.

"Waiter, there's a slug in my soup!"
"But of course, it's your cousin Wally."

Why didn't you laugh? Perhaps it'd help if I posted a picture of my cousin Wally:

He's my best friend, but he can also be a pain in the slime. He keeps boasting about his fancy shell, and his ladyfriends. I wish Susie would sell Wally's shell by the seashore. That'd show the slag... Sometimes Wally's bragging makes me feel grumpy.

But for the most part Wally and I get along.

I'm getting tired, so I think I'll wrap things up and slide back into my sleeping bag. It was nice meeting you!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand if you're once again wondering if I've lost my bonkers I do believe we have established that QUITE some time ago... I can explain why I allowed my blog to be slimed away with (knitted!) slugs today, though.

Me and slugs - we go way back. It's a looooooong story, but let me do the short version: I am/was a Harry Potter geek. In this capacity I spent some time at a Harry Potter website (where I met most of my fellow Burrowers, incidentally). On this site I developed a complicated theory that slugs somehow were important to the Harry Potter series, since they were frequently mentioned. It went as far as me counting how many slug references each book held. I may or may not have written a fanfic about slugs. Slugs and me - it was a thing.

As a consequence of this, the WONDERFUL Leanne (also of the Burrow variety) KNITTED me a slug! That is - as you may have guessed - Sluggie (he really is very offended that I cannot remember his full name).

Finally, today's post is the result of a challenge, which in turn is a result of the challenge that initiated this week - my threesome O-post. Since we had so much fun with the threesome, we decided to extend the challenge to a foursome, where we each posted in each our styles (or our knitted pet's styles...), using four keywords or topics if you like. Tami provided soup. Natasha offered sophisticated. Tara came up with slags. And I couldn't not pick slugs. I have absolutely no idea what any of them will write, but I do have a feeling it will be entertaining. Thus I highly recommend paying them a visit, and learn all you ever wanted to know (and more) about these four fascinating topics...