Say No To Toast!

We have been in the "Post-Modern" era too long!! Come on people, it is time to throw off the shackles of an undefinable movement for too long. I mean, come on! How can we be respected as poets/writers/musicians/artists/dancers/actors or even people if, when the history books come to name us, can only describe the period that we were creating within as "the period that happened after the modern period, kinda like avant guard but with less direction." Less direction than the Avant Guard? That particular movement thought that turning a urinal upsidedown and calling it a fountain was a work of art. Certainly, with all our brains and creativity, we can come up with something with more substance.
And so, myself and my friend Calvin have. The new movement shall be called "Say No To Toast" or "No Toast" for short. Basically it is based on and overblown breakfast metaphor. But it has direction. Observe:
-There are basically three types of people in the world, Dough, Bread and Toast. People with no inclination to strive or goals that they are reaching towards are dough. People who work are Toast, either being Toastees if they are employed or Toasters if they are employers or bosses. Toasters are all part of the giant mechanism, "The Toaster", which chars everything that comesinto contact with it. Bread are the people who have their own goals and heated by their ambitions they rise towards them, free from "The Toaster" in mind or body. The world in which we live is "The Plate". We all start off on "The Plate" as Dough, but it our choses in life that will determine what we become, or if we change at all.
-What people leave behind them, what they give to other people, are crumbs. Of course, dough being the sticky substance that it is, leaves no crumbs. Bread leaves little crumbs but what it does leave is useful, a substance that is able to be used in other types of cooking, for crumbing chicken and the like. Toast leaves many many crumbs, but these are burnt and corse things unuseful to all and are, after a small amount of time, need to be washed from the plate. Unfortunately, in this process, most of the bread crumbs are also washed away.
-Being bread, toast or dough is not just a fact of life status, but also a state of mind. It all depends on how much you think on things, bread being the optimum state to both be useful and still retain its adaptability. The main point of the movement being that people need to think but not become set in their ways, not to submit to "The Toaster" which burns and makes a person fixed, unmoving and unchanging.
Of course, this is not all there is to "No Toast". There are subclasses such as "Breadwinners": Toastees that mistakenly beleive that their own goals and that of "The Toasters" are the same, which may seem innocent but too much time inside the machinery of the toaster turns them into burnt out crusts, or "Vogels": those that were born to be Toast, and their aptitude for being able to think things through in minute detail lets them turn the machinery of "The Toaster" to both their ond everyone elses benifit. There are also loaves, which only like minded Bread can form. Inanimate objects, historical events or present happenings can also be refered to as "Toast", but here the meaning is slightly different:
-To call something "Toast" in the negative sense is to say that it is normal, unchanging, stagnant, of no use, but,
-To call something "Toast" in the positive means that it is something unexpected and amazing, while having the appearance of the above but, against all expectations, the Crumbs of the object/event have managed to form into something that is useful, interesting, changable and full of worth. It is like a person who has never played chess before winning against someone much more experiance: all their mistakes have come together to create an unbeatable strategy. Of course, the person who they were playing was probably halfway Toast if they couldn't adapt to meet a new chalange, but the event of this occuring would be "Toast" in the positive sense in any case. Occurances of positive toast make us refelct on what it really means to be bread.
Of course, people themselves cannot be toast in the positive, only their actions.

And that is the start of the Say No To Toast movement. Pretty spiffy huh? No doubt things will change or expand, but its a start. And you should start as well. Say No to Toast today.

Before the stuff happens:

Just a quick blog before I have the band practice that is tommorow night at the bodega that happens with glee. I have been enjoying waving my hands in the faces of friends and co-workers and complete strangers and shouting "WEDNESDAY!" to remind people. Of course, many people didn't know what I was reminding them of. But im a busy person, and if they don't know then Im not going to tell them.
Childish, yes, but it works for me.
Anyway, it has been nine (9) days since I last posted and if people aren't thinking that I am dead then you should be. Not that I was. But the last half week was pretty much a no-go for me. I had things to do, people to see, exhibitions to attend, parties to dance naked at.... and what I actually accomplished was a whole lot of fuck all. Just stayed in bed mostly. Not alot indeed.
But on the bright side, I got an "A" for an assignment, a grade that I contested because I thought that it was too high but apparently I am actually good at essays. My horn that I have been blowing has not been blown with hot air. This is good. This next essay I am actually going to try, get a draft done and have someone proof it and then re-write it. Yes I know, these are familiar words to some of you, but I finish my BA at the end of this trimester and I'll be damned if I am going to go to teachers college without the warm glow of satisfaction that I beleive an A+ will bring.
Also, work and school has started up again which forces me to do things. Perhaps not the things that I have to do, but things none the less. I have tidied part of my room, done some washing and almost finished a couple of short stories. Not too bad me thinks. And tommorow night shall, with our ten song set, hopefully lift me to new highs of grand feeling-ness and leave me motvated and eager to do everything I possibly can, at least after the hangover goes away.
Man, is all I do moan and whine? Perhaps. But Lymph means "pure water". Put that in an essay. People love big words.

Also, I knicked three paninis from work today! Go tomorows lunch! I am sure my George Forman grill will help me knock out that excess fat. I whish I'd George Forman'd that pie I had for breakky/lunch/dinner (Just the one for all three, thank you) because man it tasted like poo. But what is it about those pastry wrapped, easilly held, warm parcels of meat that tempt us every time? Who knows. Who knows. Do you know? I thought knot.

There goes the text message for my ride. See you tomorow night.

Wouldn't ya know...

Immediately, and I mean immediately, immediately after I posted my previous post on how noone exists, the phone rang. It was Calvin. Then my flatmate came home. Then Charlie rang. It just goes to show you: weather it be karma or god or a giant hamster, someone upstairs really enjoys messing with me.
Anyhoo, so I went to the party that I had mixed emotions about. It wasn't too bad. It had a theme. That theme was "Flat Idol". Yes, everyone had to get up on stage and do a little performance. The winners got a pech snapps and lemon shot and the losers got losers punch, the components of which are a mystery to everyone who spends more than $5 on alcoholic substances. I wowed the audience with a solo performance of "Apple Tree" and advoided the punch, and the shot was quite good. At bout 12.30, after one and a half bottles of wine, three snapps shots and a glass of vodka with diet lemonade, I walked home and made myself some toast.
And thats about my night. Toast.
It was alright. Nothing splendific happened. Nothing awful happened. I just did what I usually do- try to drink away the social uncomfortableness and, when I run out of alcohol, stumble home. Good times.
Well, today myself and Calvin are going to meet for some chicken curry, play some pool and then retire for a night of drunk and music. So I shall catch you all, my lovely captive audience, on the flipside.

Flan out.

Eureka!

...I somehow think I might have used that as a title for a blog before. Anyway...
I have come to the conclusion that noone else exists on this lump of rock we all inhabited until sometime late last night. I have been trying to ring people to organise things to do, but there is no one at the other end of my telecomunications devices. I was supposed to be going to a party at Charlies house, an event that I have mixed emotions about, but it doesn't seem too likely now. Why? Well, I left a message on that wonderful invention the automated answering machine, and received not one but two phone calls when, as soo as I picked up te phone, the person on the other end meerly expelled air at me or hung up. So when, after waiting a few hours, I decided to ring her land line, all I got was the suspicious sound of someone taking the phone off the hook. Strange hey? So then I rang Clarisse, but alas, no one home, and my friend Calvin, ditto. I want to go have a beer and play some pool but you feel really really lonely when you do that.
Yes, I know, blogging twice in the same day kinda elicits the same response.
Hmmm... look at all those psudenoms that start with the letter 'C'. Coincidence? I hope so.
So now I am basically going to wait for things to happen to me. For the phone to ring, for my message alert to sound, for my flatmate to come home, for the armegeddon. Whatever.

This blog is brought to you by the number 7.

Nature, and all the joy it brings.

Of couse, I am not a nature person. I don't like to think about outside much less frolic in it. But it strikes me that my sanity does, and when ever I go back to waipuk *poof!* there goes my sanity off for an extended romp around the contryside with all its birds and bees and butterfly trees.
Now, back in wellington with my mind back in the, if tenous, grip of my sanity, I can clearly see, looking over the last few posts, the downward slope my mind takes when I am left to my own devices for any amount of time. And I wasn't even working.... it is unfortunate then, because of my apparent undesirability to the opposite sex, that after all this studying and so forth my chosen life path shall lead me into a single apartment somewhere wher I shall be spending most of my time writing in rooms with the blinds drawn, sipping vodka from a wine glass. It is a scary thought when you consider how much I can get unhinged in a weekto extrapolate that into the future...
Fortunately, crazy sells books. Just look around you. All the famous writers were either depressed, drunk, or doing the addictive substances fandango. And all of them were crazy. With this trend in mind, I think I am going to be an uber-author, the kind that has not been seen since the time of Dryden. Oh yeah. Flan nee Dryden. Of course, im not marring the guy, just appropriating his muse. I dont think you need a civil union for that.

Ok, so perhaps over emphasised the grip my sanity has on me. Did you know that in america there are toads the size of coconuts?

BACKING into the TOWN of TOWELS!

Today I go back to wellington! I just cannot wait to start worrying about all those things that you have to worry about when you are, you are... well, I can't say I live alone, I suppose "live apart" is a better phrase. Yeah. That looks good. Has a nice feel too.
Anyway. Yes. Worrying. Bills. Assignments. Classes. Work. Women. Friends. Money. Booze. Health. Meals. Clothes. Carpet. Whose that cat is. Other women. Parties. Illegal drugs. Legal drugs. That cat is still in here. Organising... all of these are things that most of us have to worry about on a daily basis. Thats why it is nice when you go and stay with your parents for a time. Because when you are at your parents house, certain things are a given. Such as "Do I have any clean clothes to wear?" becomes "Hey, look, my clothes drawer has magically filled itself up!" A similar thing happens with your stomach box. That cat is probably your cat and is more than likely up to date on its anti-flea stuff. Everything else you dont really have to worry about if you dont go outside, and who wants to do that anyway?
As for all the things that I said I would do when I was at home and away from all these stresses I have done about half of them. And of course they arent the most importaint tasks, oh deary me no.
But on the positive side, I still have anohter week off work! And a bit of money! Which means I shall be procrastinating while engaging in drunken practices with my friends. Yes, this means YOU. Sometime this week I will be turning up at your house with a bottle of wine and no I do not care if it's a tuesday morning. For soon I shall be back at the soul-rendering, foot-disease giving lovely front-for-satan's-planned-invasion-of earth cafe and before then I am going to make sure that I dont have much of a soul left to destroy. And we all know that spirits is the only way to do that. "Lose yourself in the first, find yourself in the second." Of course, when people say that, they mean the first and second sips. I mean the first and second bottles.

Also: Come see us play! Bodega 25th. Be there or I shall never talk to you again. Seriously.

Ever wondered...

...about the trend of goth girls becoming the sidekick/ love interest of the hero in cartoons aimed at teens?
....the etymology of the word "etymology"?
....why the sun goes away at night when clearly the light would be more helpful?

Is your mind bamboozled? Of course it is. Mine is. His is. Everyones is. I had something to write here at one stage today, but I have forgotten. Oh well. Tommorow I go to get my eyes checked again. I think they are getting worse, but I am not sure. Becusause I am not an optometrist. If I was, I might know.
OK, seriously, I have nothing. I suppose it is time to go read some of the illium.

Oh yes, and the awnser to question no.2 is:
[a. OF. ethimologie, mod.F. etymologie, ad. L. etymologia, a. Gr. , f. -: see ETYMOLOGE.]

Of course, the problem with many of life's awnsers is that they only raise more questions. And so the cycle of life continues, birds migrate for the seasons and somewhere far away a small lion cub is born, the only hope for a young script writer down on his luck who will do anything to make a buck. You reading this Spasm? Money lies not in your fancy art house films, but in movies about talking animals with a snappy soundtrack. Oh, how I used to cry when Scar dies...

Anyway, talking of people dying, at the moment in the Illiad Archillies is busy laying about with his heavy ash spear and since I have read 3/4 of the book for this bloodshed I had better go read about death rather than inflict it on all of you with this insane [ad. L. insn-us unsound (in mind), f. in- (IN-3) + snus healthy, sound in body or in mind, SANE.] prose.

Apparently "eccleptic" is not a word. Well, from now on, with the power vested in me by our lord jesus shakesphere I proclaim it to mean "illogical and disjointed writing [a. Flan's diseased mind], '2007 FLAN: Writing in which an active condition of insanity is passed from writer to reader through a lack of understanding on either participants part as to how one paragraph, sentence or in extreme case, word, could possibly follow logically from the other weeble weeble weeble.''"

Weeble weeble indeed.

My shoulder aches.

Today I thought it would be good to grow some swan plants. You know, those plants that only monarch butterfly catterpilliars will eat. Unfortunately, Monarch Caterpiliars eat alot. ALOT. And lots of swan plants die. So what I would do is grow lots of swan plants undercover, and then when they reach maturity take the covers off for a day or two. Then I would recover them. Hopefully this would mean that only a few butterflies would lay eggs on the plants so that the caterpiliars would have enough to eat and the plants would not die and I could do the same thing every year, the releasing of the grown monarch butterflies beccoming a yearly event for me which I would enjoy with a bottle of wine made from a few of my own vines as I slowly grew old and bitter and more cynical on a small lifestyle block just south of gisbourne.
Where this thought came to me from I do not know. I breifly considered making this little segment a part of a story, but I think I can do better. And this is what this website is partially for: the dumpbox of Ideas I no longer feel need to be inside me. And a dumpbox for the occurances of my life, of course.
In other news, I am supposed to play squash with my grandmother tomorow (or today as the case may be, you picky bastard). Unfortunately, my shoulder hurts like fire and brimstone for some reason and, as I am sure you are aware, my gradmother is not an easy opponent. Some might say that I being 45 odd years younger than her would be an advantage, but in squash the more experiance you have the better.
Or I am just greviously unfit. GREVIOUSLY.

Man I like that verb. Is it a verb? I get confused between verbs and the other ones. Anyway, "Greviously" is a great word. Think about what it means.

You know you have a problem when...

No, I shant tell you about the house. Except for the fact that in the new house there is exactly the same toilet as we had in the old house. As far as I know toilets usually come with the couse, so I think thats just odd...
Andyway, time to list all my crazy-makers:
- I have a phobia of marshmellows, I can eat them, but I cannot stand touching them. Which makes it rather difficult.
- Last night I found out that, even in a room full of people I know who I am comfortable around and even when the relaxitive known as alcohol is flowing smoothly, I am decidely uncomfortable in a large group of people. Even if it was a room simply filled wit clones of my best friend I would still need to go outside for a breather. This is disturbing, because along with my being uncomfortableness with large, open spaces, it now means that if I want to feel comfortable, I have to spend time alone, in a box, without marshmellows.

Why do my brain be the crazy? I like people, sometimes. I want to hang out with them in social situations, sometimes. I dont want to spend my life in a box! Please dont put me in the box, mother!

Back on the home turf

Yes, I am back in waipuk. I have many things to do while I am here but, becuase waipuk is an energy pirate, I do not know how many I shall get done.
Things to do:
- Read: The Illiad, The Golden Gate, My bloody poetry anthology.
- Write: The rest of the crazy short story I mentioned some posts ago, some more of my novel that has been on the back-burner for too long.
- Play: Guitar, with the hope of wiriting some songs, and FFXII.
- Sleep: In a bed. And that one I am going to do right about...now!

More about the house/ random rambling on rubble / life nexttime on Highlyflannable: It hurts your kidneys not to read!

Quickly! I have things to do!

But before you go, admire the crappy things I do when I am bored and cannot be bothered proof reading essays that have to be handed in tomorow!

And now I must fly through a shower and onwards towards my last day of work for two weeks. I am the hyper excited.

It has been said before...

but it needs saying again: I am an essay God.
I got up at seven am this morning to write my stupid 2000 word essay. Two and a half hours later I was finished. Ohhh yeah. Well, I am about 200 words short and I do need to proof read it, but hezus christ almighty Essays come to me like mud. Mud filled with WORDS!
Unfortunately, now after an essay in the morning and six hours work my mind is now, yes, filled with mud. But the non word enriched mud. Just plain boring old mud. Thick mud. Mud you can lose pennies in. If we used pennies in new zealand. Perhaps mud you could lose a fifty cent peice in. The new ones, not the old ones. You seen an old fifty cent peice lately? No wonder we changed to the new monies: if you threw an old fifty cent coin hard enough Im sure it could penetrate concrete.
Seriously. They were pocket sized weapons.
Anywoo, tomorow is my last day at work for a while! Huzzah, and I shall celebrate the only way I know: with WINE! COPIOUS COPIOUS (that isn't spelt right, is it) COPIOUS I SAY bottles of WINE!

And then the day after I go home. Expect more bout that later.

One down one to go.

And so starts another week. This one shall be filled to the gunnles with ESSAY! Thats right, not just with essay, but with ESSAY, the new and inproved version.
Yes.
Well, on a brighter note just before I hand in the first essay and get swallowed by the second, on this thursday I get to go home to see my parents. They have a new house. No doubt this shall be a strange experiance, so expect to hear more about that after I filter it through my mouldy brain.

Alright, time for the morning coffee. COFFEE!

Park Bench.

It must be hard to be a hobo. Waking up on a park bench is not one of the most enjoyable ways to start your morning. No wonder the homeless are always swearing.
Yes, you guessed it, last night I was the drunk. THE drunk. The penultimate drunk. The god of drunks. Nay, I was so drunk that even the god of drunks looked up at me as I staggered down the lonely Palmy street with a burger in one hand, two burgers in the other hand and a beer in the other other hand and said "oh shite man, that guy is fucked up". And indeed I was.
So what was I doing in Palmeston North? Celebrating with an old school friend who had managed to turn 21. We did so with 520 cans of beer. And 21 bottles of wine. And a five litre bottle of rum. Oh yes, you can get 5 litre bottles of rum.
Ehhhh... I really dont have much to say, except that I am a smoking hot bitch on the dance floor. Not with all this hipping and hoppin, jiving and joving buisness you all do these days, but that old school stuff, with the arms. You know what I mean. I am going to get some dance lessons inside me so that I shall be immortal. On the dance floor. You better bet I look good.

Now I have to finish an assignment. Yeah, I didnt get round to it on thursday. Essays + Hangovers = F.U.N!

The "F" stands for "Fire". I'll let you think about the rest.