Went to Nelson the other day, it was snowing and thankfully we were in a 4WD....
The Forecast
Gloom drifted in from the west, past snow encrusted mountains and over wild and swollen streams. The silent descent of the low cloud gave rise to the unconscious suspicion of dread that had steadily overtaken the pilgrims. And now, all they could do was wait. Snow began to fall, large flakes drifted along the side of the road, piling up - pure white against the greying blue yonder overhead.
Beech trees enshrouded in snow encompassed the road, mighty glaciers lethargically eroded subaqueous valleys while Kea spiraled overhead, looking for an unsupervised car to dismantle.
I went to a 21st Birthday the other day. There are a few references to what happened over that weekend, mainly that the brakes on my car needed immediate attention, so I took it back over the Takaka hill..... It was fun...
The other things that happen in this one are mostly made up when I wrote it.
The Astronaut
Glowing a yellowish orange, the reentry pod burst into the atmosphere, the friction from the air blasting it as it plummeted towards earth:
'This is Sinclair 11, going to manual control.'
'Ah, Roger, Sinclair 11.'
'This is banging in and out here; I'll have to control it manually.'
'Roger.'
'Sinclair 11, This is Takaka, do you read?'
'Roger, Takaka, read you loud and clear.'
'Sinclair 11, Sinclair 11, this is Motueka Com Tech. Do you read? Over.'
'Roger, Motueka, go ahead.'
'Ah, Roger. Reading you 5 square. Standby for transfer to Motueka Cap Com.'
'Roger.'
Water that would have condensed on the pod turned to steam making a vapor trail behind the capsule as it descended with a blistering pace. This was the extreme altitude where scientists weren't even sure if there was any air for the reentry module to 'rub' against:
'This is Motueka, Sinclair 11. We are recommending that you leave the retropackage on MOT through the entire reentry. This means that you will have to override the 05g switch which is expected to occur at 04 43 _3. This also means that you will have to manually replace the brakes. Do you read?'
'This is Sinclair 11. What is the reason for this? Do you have any reason? Over.'
'Hear that grinding noise? Over.'
'Ah, Roger. Say again your instructions please. Over.'
'We are recommending that the retropackage be jettisoned on MOT. You will have to override the 05g switch which is expected to occur at 04 43 53. This is approximately 4-1/2 minutes from now. This also means that you will have to replace the brakes manually. Do you understand?'
'Ah, Roger, understand. I will have to make a manual 05g entry when it occurs, and replace the brakes, ah, manually. Is that affirm?'
'That is affirmative, Sinclair 11.'
'Ah, Roger.'
The cosmonauts cautiously looked at their watches, 04 43 53. With a steady hand, the pilot reached out to press the big red button over head, the one with 05g written under it. Click. Tense seconds went by. The high pitched whine, the sound of either the module blistering through the air, or the extractor fan, filtering the cO2 from the limited atmosphere inside the pressurized pod, the high pitched whine suddenly changed octaves and with a grinding noise that made the hearers cringe.
'This is Sinclair 11, getting some vague interference relative to reentry altitude.'
'Roger, that should only last while the retropackage is on MOT.'
'Ah, Roger, going to reentry attitude, then, in that case.'
'Roger, everything down here on the ground looks okay.'
'Ah, Roger. This is Sinclair 11, commencing phase one of Splashdown routine.'
'Roger.'
Invisible from the ground below, Sinclair 11 plummeted toward Earth like gravity was going out of fashion. On the ground, the technical department struggled to keep from falling asleep, (most of them had attended a 21st the previous night) while the hierarchy thought it prudent to invest in an extra crate or two of 'V'..... At least that is the official story......
A thin veil of fog smeared the clear night, fuzzing the vision of the masked driver of the black van as he pulled up behind a grove of dead (or dying) cabbage trees outside the 'abandoned' warehouse on the outskirts of Nelson. With his face obscured for reasons that would become obvious, he killed the engine and cautiously but deliberately wound down the window, careful to not make too much noise. There he sat for an hour or so, just observing. At 2:45 a light appeared in a window of the building and the masked man of mystery retrieved his binoculars from the glove box and looked inside.
The smell of the mice was almost visible. Racks of cages containing mice in varying stages of stupor lined one of the longer walls. Canisters containing specific Isotopes of Uranium, some of them byproducts of Nuclear fission were scattered haphazardly on the folding table. A clinically white light flickered in the fluorescent tube that should have been replaced long ago. Mildew growing onambianceting walls of the warehouse offices added to the ambience. With such a scene, you could have expected maniacal laughter from a mad professor with a plot to overthrow the free world......... and you wouldn't be too wrong. Unlike the generic evil genius, spasmodic bwahahaha laughter wasn't part of Hans's repertoire. He didn't find his occupation that hilarious that he would loose control of his faculties. His preference was to sit on an ancient couch and watch reruns of 'MacGyver' (currently he was unable to sleep, so he was watching one of them now). The mice (which he had at first named after Apostles until he ran out of names, then he started giving them numbers) were part of his lifetime's work. His experiments now needed testing on humans, otherwise how would he know whether his serum would achieve it's sinister goal.
It was time. Han's retrieved a bottle of 'V' from the small beer fridge that hummed in the background. The fridge was set to 3 degrees C, minimizing the pressure inside the bottles. With a fine drill bit, he bored into the black plastic lid of the bottle. 'Ffiiisssssssssss', the bottle said. With a syringe containing one part 'V', one part serum, Hans dripped the bluish green liquid in, counting the drops. Three per bottle. Sealing the lid with molten plastic, he placed them back in the fridge. 'I wonder what it tastes like?' Hans mused, squirting the remainder of the syringe into a coffee mug that had the caffeine molecule emblazoned on it. As he took a fateful sip, me muttered something underneath his breath about a banana and then passed out.
Seated in the Black van, the driver observed Hans as he worked, noting the precision. When Hans passed out, the driver whispered matter of factly 'It's time'
The Moon overlooked the warehouse, it's refracted beams indiscriminately lighting the corrugated iron roof. The sound of the dry twig breaking that always heralds someone attempting to sneak rang out over the weed infested parking lot. The two guard dogs, no doubt victims of another batch of experiments lay comatose in their kennels awaiting the sun to waken them from their invigorating sleep. Half a dozen shapes stirred behind the gorse, black smudges in a dark grey fog. Silently and swiftly, the black shapes exited the Black van, coagulating as they approached the warehouse, kicking down the door, they entered the run down complex.
The overalled invaders searched through the office complex of the warehouse, though instead of ransacking the place, the methodically searched the place in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the formula.
As genius as Hans was, he was in the tradition of all great scientists, a bit dumb (as can be seen by his ingesting some of the serum), and also like many scientists from movies that he had modeled himself on, he had his plans all inside his head. He was painfully aware of what could happen if these plans were to get out into the open, so he never wrote them down. Not until he could patent them that is......
Getting anxious, the invaders decided that the bottles of 'V' would have to do to achieve their purpose.
The stolen goods were placed inside a box. It looked innocuous enough, a smallish kitchen appliance box with a picture of a kettle on the side. At three fifteen in the morning, you don't ask questions.
It was a tense moment, with hands gripping the steering wheel, and eyes darting cautiously to and fro, looking for potential unwanted attention, the driver of the black van sat and fumed. This hadn't been part of the arrangement, it was shear stupidity, but what could he do?
A faint tapping sound on the rear passenger side window was enough indication, the driver unlocked the door to let the thief in. With a cough the engine started and the relieved passengers started to loosen their tensed muscles as the old bomb drove off toward their rendezvous with the other members of their team.
The other things that happen in this one are mostly made up when I wrote it.
The Astronaut
Glowing a yellowish orange, the reentry pod burst into the atmosphere, the friction from the air blasting it as it plummeted towards earth:
'This is Sinclair 11, going to manual control.'
'Ah, Roger, Sinclair 11.'
'This is banging in and out here; I'll have to control it manually.'
'Roger.'
'Sinclair 11, This is Takaka, do you read?'
'Roger, Takaka, read you loud and clear.'
'Sinclair 11, Sinclair 11, this is Motueka Com Tech. Do you read? Over.'
'Roger, Motueka, go ahead.'
'Ah, Roger. Reading you 5 square. Standby for transfer to Motueka Cap Com.'
'Roger.'
Water that would have condensed on the pod turned to steam making a vapor trail behind the capsule as it descended with a blistering pace. This was the extreme altitude where scientists weren't even sure if there was any air for the reentry module to 'rub' against:
'This is Motueka, Sinclair 11. We are recommending that you leave the retropackage on MOT through the entire reentry. This means that you will have to override the 05g switch which is expected to occur at 04 43 _3. This also means that you will have to manually replace the brakes. Do you read?'
'This is Sinclair 11. What is the reason for this? Do you have any reason? Over.'
'Hear that grinding noise? Over.'
'Ah, Roger. Say again your instructions please. Over.'
'We are recommending that the retropackage be jettisoned on MOT. You will have to override the 05g switch which is expected to occur at 04 43 53. This is approximately 4-1/2 minutes from now. This also means that you will have to replace the brakes manually. Do you understand?'
'Ah, Roger, understand. I will have to make a manual 05g entry when it occurs, and replace the brakes, ah, manually. Is that affirm?'
'That is affirmative, Sinclair 11.'
'Ah, Roger.'
The cosmonauts cautiously looked at their watches, 04 43 53. With a steady hand, the pilot reached out to press the big red button over head, the one with 05g written under it. Click. Tense seconds went by. The high pitched whine, the sound of either the module blistering through the air, or the extractor fan, filtering the cO2 from the limited atmosphere inside the pressurized pod, the high pitched whine suddenly changed octaves and with a grinding noise that made the hearers cringe.
'This is Sinclair 11, getting some vague interference relative to reentry altitude.'
'Roger, that should only last while the retropackage is on MOT.'
'Ah, Roger, going to reentry attitude, then, in that case.'
'Roger, everything down here on the ground looks okay.'
'Ah, Roger. This is Sinclair 11, commencing phase one of Splashdown routine.'
'Roger.'
Invisible from the ground below, Sinclair 11 plummeted toward Earth like gravity was going out of fashion. On the ground, the technical department struggled to keep from falling asleep, (most of them had attended a 21st the previous night) while the hierarchy thought it prudent to invest in an extra crate or two of 'V'..... At least that is the official story......
A thin veil of fog smeared the clear night, fuzzing the vision of the masked driver of the black van as he pulled up behind a grove of dead (or dying) cabbage trees outside the 'abandoned' warehouse on the outskirts of Nelson. With his face obscured for reasons that would become obvious, he killed the engine and cautiously but deliberately wound down the window, careful to not make too much noise. There he sat for an hour or so, just observing. At 2:45 a light appeared in a window of the building and the masked man of mystery retrieved his binoculars from the glove box and looked inside.
The smell of the mice was almost visible. Racks of cages containing mice in varying stages of stupor lined one of the longer walls. Canisters containing specific Isotopes of Uranium, some of them byproducts of Nuclear fission were scattered haphazardly on the folding table. A clinically white light flickered in the fluorescent tube that should have been replaced long ago. Mildew growing onambianceting walls of the warehouse offices added to the ambience. With such a scene, you could have expected maniacal laughter from a mad professor with a plot to overthrow the free world......... and you wouldn't be too wrong. Unlike the generic evil genius, spasmodic bwahahaha laughter wasn't part of Hans's repertoire. He didn't find his occupation that hilarious that he would loose control of his faculties. His preference was to sit on an ancient couch and watch reruns of 'MacGyver' (currently he was unable to sleep, so he was watching one of them now). The mice (which he had at first named after Apostles until he ran out of names, then he started giving them numbers) were part of his lifetime's work. His experiments now needed testing on humans, otherwise how would he know whether his serum would achieve it's sinister goal.
It was time. Han's retrieved a bottle of 'V' from the small beer fridge that hummed in the background. The fridge was set to 3 degrees C, minimizing the pressure inside the bottles. With a fine drill bit, he bored into the black plastic lid of the bottle. 'Ffiiisssssssssss', the bottle said. With a syringe containing one part 'V', one part serum, Hans dripped the bluish green liquid in, counting the drops. Three per bottle. Sealing the lid with molten plastic, he placed them back in the fridge. 'I wonder what it tastes like?' Hans mused, squirting the remainder of the syringe into a coffee mug that had the caffeine molecule emblazoned on it. As he took a fateful sip, me muttered something underneath his breath about a banana and then passed out.
Seated in the Black van, the driver observed Hans as he worked, noting the precision. When Hans passed out, the driver whispered matter of factly 'It's time'
The Moon overlooked the warehouse, it's refracted beams indiscriminately lighting the corrugated iron roof. The sound of the dry twig breaking that always heralds someone attempting to sneak rang out over the weed infested parking lot. The two guard dogs, no doubt victims of another batch of experiments lay comatose in their kennels awaiting the sun to waken them from their invigorating sleep. Half a dozen shapes stirred behind the gorse, black smudges in a dark grey fog. Silently and swiftly, the black shapes exited the Black van, coagulating as they approached the warehouse, kicking down the door, they entered the run down complex.
The overalled invaders searched through the office complex of the warehouse, though instead of ransacking the place, the methodically searched the place in an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the formula.
As genius as Hans was, he was in the tradition of all great scientists, a bit dumb (as can be seen by his ingesting some of the serum), and also like many scientists from movies that he had modeled himself on, he had his plans all inside his head. He was painfully aware of what could happen if these plans were to get out into the open, so he never wrote them down. Not until he could patent them that is......
Getting anxious, the invaders decided that the bottles of 'V' would have to do to achieve their purpose.
The stolen goods were placed inside a box. It looked innocuous enough, a smallish kitchen appliance box with a picture of a kettle on the side. At three fifteen in the morning, you don't ask questions.
It was a tense moment, with hands gripping the steering wheel, and eyes darting cautiously to and fro, looking for potential unwanted attention, the driver of the black van sat and fumed. This hadn't been part of the arrangement, it was shear stupidity, but what could he do?
A faint tapping sound on the rear passenger side window was enough indication, the driver unlocked the door to let the thief in. With a cough the engine started and the relieved passengers started to loosen their tensed muscles as the old bomb drove off toward their rendezvous with the other members of their team.
We had a contest at the church luncheon to see which of the guys could bring the best food. There really wasn't any tension, but it makes the story sound more interesting. I hope I have spelled Spirilini right.....
The Onion
'Beep beep beep', the alarm clock blazed in my ears, as if it was angry that it wasn't getting any attention. 'Beep Beep' I reached out from under the covers, silencing that menace for now. Snooze buttons are very tempting in the early morning. A pale pre-dawn twilight came through the vertical blinds draping the fixtures with contrasting stripes of grey.
I sat up and leant on one arm and peered through the window to see the smoke from the neighborhood’s smoldering fireplaces becoming part of the atmosphere. 5:12 – time to get up.
The butter sizzled on the hot stove as the onions were added. Softened onions have a weird smell that I would do a disservice if I tried to describe. Actually, come to think of it, there weren’t any onions in this recipe.........
The coil glowed with an inner radiance, heating the pot containing their magnum opus – their Grande Finale - Baked Tuna Spirilini. With careful precision, we prepared our entry.
With coffee in hand, I retreated to my bedroom to watch the sun rise. When I awoke, it was time to hasten to church to await the outcome of the contest.
In an effort to avoid opening up old scars, I will keep this brief, but this tale must be told or all this might have happened in vain.
After church, as the entries were rolled out, a vague sense of apprehension fell on the gathered throng. Maybe it was when Simon’s exquisite creation was unveiled, or when the aroma from Jason’s delightfuliscious entry wafted from the kitchen, maybe it was just the sobering shriek of the zip boiling – wailing like a Nazgúl, whatever the cause, a foreboding felling was felt even by the judges. And then it hit me like the old dog hits the hard road – there were no judges.
It’s been one week since the contest, but it feels like only a few hours. The tension is still palatable, though the exhibits have been long digested. At least they all went to a worthy cause. There were four of us entering – foolhardy and arrogant, easy to say in hindsight, but no one could have foreseen the consequences that this competition would bring.
The Onion
'Beep beep beep', the alarm clock blazed in my ears, as if it was angry that it wasn't getting any attention. 'Beep Beep' I reached out from under the covers, silencing that menace for now. Snooze buttons are very tempting in the early morning. A pale pre-dawn twilight came through the vertical blinds draping the fixtures with contrasting stripes of grey.
I sat up and leant on one arm and peered through the window to see the smoke from the neighborhood’s smoldering fireplaces becoming part of the atmosphere. 5:12 – time to get up.
The butter sizzled on the hot stove as the onions were added. Softened onions have a weird smell that I would do a disservice if I tried to describe. Actually, come to think of it, there weren’t any onions in this recipe.........
The coil glowed with an inner radiance, heating the pot containing their magnum opus – their Grande Finale - Baked Tuna Spirilini. With careful precision, we prepared our entry.
With coffee in hand, I retreated to my bedroom to watch the sun rise. When I awoke, it was time to hasten to church to await the outcome of the contest.
In an effort to avoid opening up old scars, I will keep this brief, but this tale must be told or all this might have happened in vain.
After church, as the entries were rolled out, a vague sense of apprehension fell on the gathered throng. Maybe it was when Simon’s exquisite creation was unveiled, or when the aroma from Jason’s delightfuliscious entry wafted from the kitchen, maybe it was just the sobering shriek of the zip boiling – wailing like a Nazgúl, whatever the cause, a foreboding felling was felt even by the judges. And then it hit me like the old dog hits the hard road – there were no judges.
It’s been one week since the contest, but it feels like only a few hours. The tension is still palatable, though the exhibits have been long digested. At least they all went to a worthy cause. There were four of us entering – foolhardy and arrogant, easy to say in hindsight, but no one could have foreseen the consequences that this competition would bring.
Recently I went to a friends birthday party - we went via Bealy Ave into town. There were a few "boy racers" going in the same direction. Other than that, there isn't much other similarity between reality and this blog.
The Ecosystem
Monkeys, Toucans, Elephants, Jaguars, Birds of Paradise, Crocodiles, - they were all there. The typical Hollywood Jungle scene mixing the fauna from Africa with fauna from South America (with a nod to PNG). And how could I forget the Insects? Hoards of unnamed flying malaria carrying invertebrates swarm around the overheated and muddy, pith helmet wearing visitor with seemingly vengeful attitudes. Who could blame them...... The sound of this menagerie - the same sound that had incessantly gone on for thousands of years is suddenly broken. A sense of disquiet is evident in the faces of the elephants that are cooling themselves off with a nice long drink. Crocodiles slip into the water as if they know where the action is going to be. Eccentrically coloured heron suddenly take to the air with a proprietary warning call that is even weirder than their previous noise that they were making. Then an uneasy stillness settles over the rain forest. and through it all, on a moss covered limb of a ancient, vine strangled mahogany tree that had stood there for many monsoons overhanging the waterway, the poison dart frog sat, throat bulging, singing it's heart out like Michael on NZ idol, oblivious to the scene unfolding around him.
DIN DIN DIN... the mechanical sound of a boat smashed its way through the now tranquil primeval Jungle, creating sound waves that shook the leaves of the baobab tree that was looking out of place in it's wet surroundings. The engine sound slowed to an idle and the captain stopped in the shade under the moss covered mahogany tree. Without stopping his tune, the poisonous frog peered over the edge of the limb at the flies that had been attracted to the unfortunate captain. Hunger burned inside the diminutive digestive tract of the amphibian. The consequences of such a leap could potentially be annoying - he would have to make the return journey to his ancestral home, but on the other hand, being hungry while a feast is only a leap away isn't fun. He jumped. Snatching a few insects on the way down, landing on the tightly wrapped raincoat that the captain brought - a seemingly wise precaution when you go to a place called the "rain forest".
As the other boats approached - they were in a convoy of sorts, the captain of the lead boat began to brief the others on what was up ahead. There was a glut of "Minor" obstacles on the journey to the treasure, but such things don't deter the intrepid.
If the poison dart frog understood English, he would have heard the Captain of the lead boat. "We're nearing the ylaeb " explained the captain "it is used as a rite of passage for the local natives - to go from childhood into irresponsible adolescenthood." he reached into his waterproof box where he kept his energy drink and continued to explain "When a young boy gets his first canoe, it is a special moment for the whole community. A solemn ceremony is performed and the almost adolescent takes to the river in search of a race." With a prestidigitational twist of his bronzed muscular wrist, the Captain opened the bottle and set it down again. "Other youths will congregate at these rapids that are just round that bend to race." he drained the bottle in two swigs, his pupils dilated as the drink energized him. With a cough the engine started again and the convoy was off again on their quest for an unnamed treasure, not sorry to have a breeze to deter the insects.
"BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM..." the drums in the back of the dugout canoe shook the water, rattling the body kit on the fire-engine red stained outrigger next to it.”BOOM BOOM stchak BOOM BOOM stchak..." replied the outrigger, a neon glow was visible just under the waterline - iridescent beetles were carefully rubbed on the surface of the watercraft to give it that menacing radiance. The young native at the helm clutched the small racing rudder handle with a passive and hidden euphoria - this was his turn. With a plop, the ripened mango fell into the water signaling the start and they were off down the rapids. Winning wasn't the main thing, (although there was prestige to be gained) it was the participation that made you feel like you had finally made it.
The Ecosystem
Monkeys, Toucans, Elephants, Jaguars, Birds of Paradise, Crocodiles, - they were all there. The typical Hollywood Jungle scene mixing the fauna from Africa with fauna from South America (with a nod to PNG). And how could I forget the Insects? Hoards of unnamed flying malaria carrying invertebrates swarm around the overheated and muddy, pith helmet wearing visitor with seemingly vengeful attitudes. Who could blame them...... The sound of this menagerie - the same sound that had incessantly gone on for thousands of years is suddenly broken. A sense of disquiet is evident in the faces of the elephants that are cooling themselves off with a nice long drink. Crocodiles slip into the water as if they know where the action is going to be. Eccentrically coloured heron suddenly take to the air with a proprietary warning call that is even weirder than their previous noise that they were making. Then an uneasy stillness settles over the rain forest. and through it all, on a moss covered limb of a ancient, vine strangled mahogany tree that had stood there for many monsoons overhanging the waterway, the poison dart frog sat, throat bulging, singing it's heart out like Michael on NZ idol, oblivious to the scene unfolding around him.
DIN DIN DIN... the mechanical sound of a boat smashed its way through the now tranquil primeval Jungle, creating sound waves that shook the leaves of the baobab tree that was looking out of place in it's wet surroundings. The engine sound slowed to an idle and the captain stopped in the shade under the moss covered mahogany tree. Without stopping his tune, the poisonous frog peered over the edge of the limb at the flies that had been attracted to the unfortunate captain. Hunger burned inside the diminutive digestive tract of the amphibian. The consequences of such a leap could potentially be annoying - he would have to make the return journey to his ancestral home, but on the other hand, being hungry while a feast is only a leap away isn't fun. He jumped. Snatching a few insects on the way down, landing on the tightly wrapped raincoat that the captain brought - a seemingly wise precaution when you go to a place called the "rain forest".
As the other boats approached - they were in a convoy of sorts, the captain of the lead boat began to brief the others on what was up ahead. There was a glut of "Minor" obstacles on the journey to the treasure, but such things don't deter the intrepid.
If the poison dart frog understood English, he would have heard the Captain of the lead boat. "We're nearing the ylaeb " explained the captain "it is used as a rite of passage for the local natives - to go from childhood into irresponsible adolescenthood." he reached into his waterproof box where he kept his energy drink and continued to explain "When a young boy gets his first canoe, it is a special moment for the whole community. A solemn ceremony is performed and the almost adolescent takes to the river in search of a race." With a prestidigitational twist of his bronzed muscular wrist, the Captain opened the bottle and set it down again. "Other youths will congregate at these rapids that are just round that bend to race." he drained the bottle in two swigs, his pupils dilated as the drink energized him. With a cough the engine started again and the convoy was off again on their quest for an unnamed treasure, not sorry to have a breeze to deter the insects.
"BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM..." the drums in the back of the dugout canoe shook the water, rattling the body kit on the fire-engine red stained outrigger next to it.”BOOM BOOM stchak BOOM BOOM stchak..." replied the outrigger, a neon glow was visible just under the waterline - iridescent beetles were carefully rubbed on the surface of the watercraft to give it that menacing radiance. The young native at the helm clutched the small racing rudder handle with a passive and hidden euphoria - this was his turn. With a plop, the ripened mango fell into the water signaling the start and they were off down the rapids. Winning wasn't the main thing, (although there was prestige to be gained) it was the participation that made you feel like you had finally made it.
This one is about a LAN party that we went to recently. There were nine of us (I think)
The Local Area Network
An indistinct growling sound intermittently made itself foreboding in an apprehensive way. Like a synthesized waterfall sound, indistinct and ever present. Kind of like static on the wrong channel. Unsure as to whether it was because the horses were invisible, equine ghosts, or whether there was another force working on the carriage, but in no doubt of the purpose of the occupants, the carriage growled it's way down the pine-shaded - gravel infused path. The gatekeeper turned the lever which set into motion the mechanics that would open the gate. The nine had started arriving. Black rubber clad spoke-free wheels rolled on to the gravel of the driveway and without a further sound (discounting the change in volume) the horseless carriage sped off to the rendezvous point.
From the midst of the serpentine labyrinth of Category 5 the information was dispersed. Their hardware plugged into the matrix of networking, the Nine started warmongering.
The Local Area Network
An indistinct growling sound intermittently made itself foreboding in an apprehensive way. Like a synthesized waterfall sound, indistinct and ever present. Kind of like static on the wrong channel. Unsure as to whether it was because the horses were invisible, equine ghosts, or whether there was another force working on the carriage, but in no doubt of the purpose of the occupants, the carriage growled it's way down the pine-shaded - gravel infused path. The gatekeeper turned the lever which set into motion the mechanics that would open the gate. The nine had started arriving. Black rubber clad spoke-free wheels rolled on to the gravel of the driveway and without a further sound (discounting the change in volume) the horseless carriage sped off to the rendezvous point.
From the midst of the serpentine labyrinth of Category 5 the information was dispersed. Their hardware plugged into the matrix of networking, the Nine started warmongering.
This is what happened today. I couldn't think of too much else that might have been interesting to warp. I hope you don't mind my philosophising.
I decided to use the name "amateur" because I don't get paid to live, I live for "the fun of it" so to speak.
The Amateur
From the south it came, growing colder as twilight even gathered with it's seasonal trademark chill. Antarctica incarnate, a blustery wind that wasn't rare this time of the year. A smattering of water was falling from the heavens - not enough to call rain, but enough to be annoying, wetting the grass that was starting to grow again after being subjected to the antithesis of the current weather during that summer. A shaft of light shot out through a crack in the curtain of the house, illuminating a thin corridor of light on the paddock outside.
Everyone has one. Most people want to give theirs away. Like software - Some should never be released into the public domain. Viruses are like that. But like software, if the source code is made available, holes in the architecture can be spotted by more sets of eyes. Constructive opinions are good. Destructive opinions are best kept to yourself. How can you tell which is which?
Constructive opinions are by nature ideas that need air(ing). When starved of oxygen (in the form of expression) some become anaerobic ghosts, living and populating the minds (and souls?) of those who haven't given them away with devastating consequences for both the sender and the (un)intended recipient.
With Neurons aglow, the Amateur mentally paced back and forth, forth and back. People often like their views to be aired. Not in this case however. Sadly, Christians are often called hypocrites (justly or unjustly) and I wonder weather to wear a mask and to say when greeted "I'm fine" but in reality it's all hush hush that there may be things that you are sick and tired of just bubbling under the surface. Can this be counted as hypocrisy? an untruth? or just an opinion called W32.Mydoom.f which should never see the light of day?. Questions of this ilk were running through the overclocked mind of the Amateur.
Sitting in front of his computer, the Amateur absent mindedly stared at the innards of a car radio cassette player sitting on his desk. 20702953. Tired and unresolved, the Amateur decided to pack it in for the day.
I decided to use the name "amateur" because I don't get paid to live, I live for "the fun of it" so to speak.
The Amateur
From the south it came, growing colder as twilight even gathered with it's seasonal trademark chill. Antarctica incarnate, a blustery wind that wasn't rare this time of the year. A smattering of water was falling from the heavens - not enough to call rain, but enough to be annoying, wetting the grass that was starting to grow again after being subjected to the antithesis of the current weather during that summer. A shaft of light shot out through a crack in the curtain of the house, illuminating a thin corridor of light on the paddock outside.
Everyone has one. Most people want to give theirs away. Like software - Some should never be released into the public domain. Viruses are like that. But like software, if the source code is made available, holes in the architecture can be spotted by more sets of eyes. Constructive opinions are good. Destructive opinions are best kept to yourself. How can you tell which is which?
Constructive opinions are by nature ideas that need air(ing). When starved of oxygen (in the form of expression) some become anaerobic ghosts, living and populating the minds (and souls?) of those who haven't given them away with devastating consequences for both the sender and the (un)intended recipient.
With Neurons aglow, the Amateur mentally paced back and forth, forth and back. People often like their views to be aired. Not in this case however. Sadly, Christians are often called hypocrites (justly or unjustly) and I wonder weather to wear a mask and to say when greeted "I'm fine" but in reality it's all hush hush that there may be things that you are sick and tired of just bubbling under the surface. Can this be counted as hypocrisy? an untruth? or just an opinion called W32.Mydoom.f which should never see the light of day?. Questions of this ilk were running through the overclocked mind of the Amateur.
Sitting in front of his computer, the Amateur absent mindedly stared at the innards of a car radio cassette player sitting on his desk. 20702953. Tired and unresolved, the Amateur decided to pack it in for the day.
Nothing much has happened recently, hence the lack of updates.
This one is about (if you can figure it out) when yesterday I left the window open and heaps of insects invaded my room. Nothing like a vacuum cleaner to finish them off.....
The Invasion
The thin ghost of a figure, seemingly held up by some invisible force floated toward the light. Myriads of these unknown entities congregated, drawn by their common desire for the light. Their six arms waving in the cool breeze of autumn as they traveled, like a manifestation of some Hindu deity, giving them the appearance of some benign extraterrestrial beings.
The sun, glowed behind the horizon, reflecting a pinkish orange on the high altitude cloud, prolonging the twilight enough to see the open window, behind which, the light in the hallway acted as the magnet that was drawing the invertebrates to their imminent doom.
A low hum, resonated through the double glazing of the window which was now closed, reverberating over the dry countryside. The smell of freshly cut grass, recently kiln dried pine (from a building site shrouded in the midst of the tall dark evergreens that often line the roads in that part of the world), or some sort of fertilizer smells that remind one of the countryside. Enough about the atmosphere (which was by the way, a slate blue colour), the hum continued.
A purple and grey apparatus, with a metallic tube emerged through the door and the tractor beam (Massey Ferguson) got to work literally sucking the invaders back to the mothership.
This one is about (if you can figure it out) when yesterday I left the window open and heaps of insects invaded my room. Nothing like a vacuum cleaner to finish them off.....
The Invasion
The thin ghost of a figure, seemingly held up by some invisible force floated toward the light. Myriads of these unknown entities congregated, drawn by their common desire for the light. Their six arms waving in the cool breeze of autumn as they traveled, like a manifestation of some Hindu deity, giving them the appearance of some benign extraterrestrial beings.
The sun, glowed behind the horizon, reflecting a pinkish orange on the high altitude cloud, prolonging the twilight enough to see the open window, behind which, the light in the hallway acted as the magnet that was drawing the invertebrates to their imminent doom.
A low hum, resonated through the double glazing of the window which was now closed, reverberating over the dry countryside. The smell of freshly cut grass, recently kiln dried pine (from a building site shrouded in the midst of the tall dark evergreens that often line the roads in that part of the world), or some sort of fertilizer smells that remind one of the countryside. Enough about the atmosphere (which was by the way, a slate blue colour), the hum continued.
A purple and grey apparatus, with a metallic tube emerged through the door and the tractor beam (Massey Ferguson) got to work literally sucking the invaders back to the mothership.
While Dad and Mum were away, I had to do some of the cooking. I did a quiche, Pizza, and Lasagne. The Pizza dough recipe really does have honey in it..... Here it is:
1 cup warm water
2 tablespoons yeast (or less...)
2 tablespoons honey
0.25 cup olive oil
0.5 teaspoon salt
3.5 cups flour
All this goes into the breadmaker on the "dough" setting. It gives more of an edible base than the other recipe I tried that day.
The Chef
Piles of old, grimy books lay jumbled, half sorted like the thoughts of the hapless wannabe cook who was at that moment, sifting through the contents of a rainforest worth of culinary directions. The cool wind lifted some of the loose leaf editions even looser pages, till the floor was an anarchy of "Edmonds cookbook" pages. Thus being the case, he was left with no choice. www.google.co.nz........ the quick search found many recipes, 19,100,000 in fact. Plenty of choice....
"You're going to make Pizza dough with honey in it?" enquired The onlooker (Theresa by name). "That's what it has in the recipe...." replied the puzzled chef as he steadfastly followed the bizarre instructions found online in an attempt to make a light base that wouldn't taste like a wine biscuit.
The oven roared, blasting hot air to the other side of the cavernous kitchen. Flour, misplaced by the sudden rush of heat swirled up near the smoke blackened ceiling, obscuring the light from the one barred, but open window. Filthy pots, waiting for their monthly clean boiled on the open flame on the other side of the oven, their contents awaiting ingestion by the lord of this unfortunate castle......... Suddenly, the cook awoke from that semi-consciousness that he often relapsed into, and was grateful that this wasn't a medieval kitchen that he was working in......
1 cup warm water
2 tablespoons yeast (or less...)
2 tablespoons honey
0.25 cup olive oil
0.5 teaspoon salt
3.5 cups flour
All this goes into the breadmaker on the "dough" setting. It gives more of an edible base than the other recipe I tried that day.
The Chef
Piles of old, grimy books lay jumbled, half sorted like the thoughts of the hapless wannabe cook who was at that moment, sifting through the contents of a rainforest worth of culinary directions. The cool wind lifted some of the loose leaf editions even looser pages, till the floor was an anarchy of "Edmonds cookbook" pages. Thus being the case, he was left with no choice. www.google.co.nz........ the quick search found many recipes, 19,100,000 in fact. Plenty of choice....
"You're going to make Pizza dough with honey in it?" enquired The onlooker (Theresa by name). "That's what it has in the recipe...." replied the puzzled chef as he steadfastly followed the bizarre instructions found online in an attempt to make a light base that wouldn't taste like a wine biscuit.
The oven roared, blasting hot air to the other side of the cavernous kitchen. Flour, misplaced by the sudden rush of heat swirled up near the smoke blackened ceiling, obscuring the light from the one barred, but open window. Filthy pots, waiting for their monthly clean boiled on the open flame on the other side of the oven, their contents awaiting ingestion by the lord of this unfortunate castle......... Suddenly, the cook awoke from that semi-consciousness that he often relapsed into, and was grateful that this wasn't a medieval kitchen that he was working in......
Yesterday, Andrew and I went paint balling, for Ben Bays birthday, with some other friends. I was on the black team (hence the name "Black Faction" in this blog). Unfortunately we forgot to use our face paint, although I doubt it would have made much difference.
The Soldier
The sun scorched through the needles, filtered by the upper canopy of the pine forest that had turned into a battle ground. The cool breeze came off the snow clad mountains to the west, making the heat from the sun slightly more bearable. The weather however was the least of their worries right now. "pop" "whirrrrzzzmmmfff", John could hear them whizzing past his head as he flattened himself out behind a fallen tree that barely covered him from the hail of bullets that were directed toward his vicinity.
Earlier that day, though it seemed like an indeterminable period (in reality it was 15 minutes), the "soldiers" of the black faction, motivated by greed, boredom or most likely a strong idealism, converged, their faces painted to achieve maximum inconspicuousness, they percolated through the pinus radiata to their rendezvous point for their surprise raid on those who would get in the way of them achieving their undisclosed objectives.
Purposefully, the guerrillas moved, traversing the terrain quickly, but without compromising their camouflage, always alert, scanning the perimeter, weapons ready for the unlikely event of an ambush.
Stopping just out of eyesight of where their scouts had told them the sentries were, they immediately moved into their pre appointed positions, blending into the surroundings, disappearing like a $50 note left in a bus stop, awaiting the signal to start the operation.
To John, a member of Black Faction, it seemed like an epoch ago, and with only a few centimeters between his present state and eternity, he wondered what he had done in his life that was worthwhile. Cautiously, he peeked through the rotting roots of the tree he was behind and let off a spray of bullets over to where his present adversary was taking cover. Rolling to reduce the amount of his person that was exposed, he shuffled round to try and get a better angle with which he could then dispatch his enemy. Raising his gun, he felt the sudden searing pain of two direct hits to his shoulder......... GAME OVER.....
The Soldier
The sun scorched through the needles, filtered by the upper canopy of the pine forest that had turned into a battle ground. The cool breeze came off the snow clad mountains to the west, making the heat from the sun slightly more bearable. The weather however was the least of their worries right now. "pop" "whirrrrzzzmmmfff", John could hear them whizzing past his head as he flattened himself out behind a fallen tree that barely covered him from the hail of bullets that were directed toward his vicinity.
Earlier that day, though it seemed like an indeterminable period (in reality it was 15 minutes), the "soldiers" of the black faction, motivated by greed, boredom or most likely a strong idealism, converged, their faces painted to achieve maximum inconspicuousness, they percolated through the pinus radiata to their rendezvous point for their surprise raid on those who would get in the way of them achieving their undisclosed objectives.
Purposefully, the guerrillas moved, traversing the terrain quickly, but without compromising their camouflage, always alert, scanning the perimeter, weapons ready for the unlikely event of an ambush.
Stopping just out of eyesight of where their scouts had told them the sentries were, they immediately moved into their pre appointed positions, blending into the surroundings, disappearing like a $50 note left in a bus stop, awaiting the signal to start the operation.
To John, a member of Black Faction, it seemed like an epoch ago, and with only a few centimeters between his present state and eternity, he wondered what he had done in his life that was worthwhile. Cautiously, he peeked through the rotting roots of the tree he was behind and let off a spray of bullets over to where his present adversary was taking cover. Rolling to reduce the amount of his person that was exposed, he shuffled round to try and get a better angle with which he could then dispatch his enemy. Raising his gun, he felt the sudden searing pain of two direct hits to his shoulder......... GAME OVER.....
I was away at Arahina for 2 weeks, hence the lack of blogging. On the way there, we had a blowout.
In case you are thinking something else, that disgruntled entity at the beginning of this one, is the tyre that blew. Not me.
The tyre
Because of the revolution, he was forced to adjust, stretching to accommodate the new position that he found himself, degraded and slighted, he carried the whole societal structure on his shoulders, but because of his unglamorous position, he was more often than not ignored.
The acuteness of his sense of duty was, in the past, immense, but over the recent months especially, his patience with the whole degrading system was wearing thin. Very thin. It had started with only an innocently disgruntled thought. "why am I doing this?", which evolved into a more "why am 'I' doing this?".
Inevitably, under such incredible internal and external pressure, he cracked. Not visibly, but he had sprung a leak, which would, in the near future, rip him apart.
Black smoke, the acrid smell of burning rubber, the squeal of balding tyres - Who ever was driving, they were in a hurry. The moon, partly shrouded by an evening mist, cast it's reflection on the shiny black surface of the speeding car. Onward and upward it drove, the driver concentrating hard, trying to keep himself awake, was always alert for the flashing lights, the wailing sirens that would indicate that their identity had been discovered. Round the bend ">>>>>>75" said the sign, ">>>>>>85", the driver unconsciously calculated. Over the rise they drove, the panorama of the ocean reflecting the night sky. "No time to look at the scenery...", the driver thought glancing at the clock - 12:47 - they were making good time....
"mmmmmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm...." The unexpected sound, accompanied by a rumbling vibration, snapped the sleeping occupants of the vehicle back into consciousness. The tyre, full of vengeful hatred - rather than air, had chosen this moment to spring it's last gasp surprise on the driver. It had chosen an effective time to go - 02:03.
The rubber of the tyre was torn. Pieces of steel were sticking out at unnatural angles, giving it, in the darkness of the summers night, the look of a mouth, snarling up at the driver (who was at that time, holding a cell phone's luminous face up to it, as he hadn't a torch).
In case you are thinking something else, that disgruntled entity at the beginning of this one, is the tyre that blew. Not me.
The tyre
Because of the revolution, he was forced to adjust, stretching to accommodate the new position that he found himself, degraded and slighted, he carried the whole societal structure on his shoulders, but because of his unglamorous position, he was more often than not ignored.
The acuteness of his sense of duty was, in the past, immense, but over the recent months especially, his patience with the whole degrading system was wearing thin. Very thin. It had started with only an innocently disgruntled thought. "why am I doing this?", which evolved into a more "why am 'I' doing this?".
Inevitably, under such incredible internal and external pressure, he cracked. Not visibly, but he had sprung a leak, which would, in the near future, rip him apart.
Black smoke, the acrid smell of burning rubber, the squeal of balding tyres - Who ever was driving, they were in a hurry. The moon, partly shrouded by an evening mist, cast it's reflection on the shiny black surface of the speeding car. Onward and upward it drove, the driver concentrating hard, trying to keep himself awake, was always alert for the flashing lights, the wailing sirens that would indicate that their identity had been discovered. Round the bend ">>>>>>75" said the sign, ">>>>>>85", the driver unconsciously calculated. Over the rise they drove, the panorama of the ocean reflecting the night sky. "No time to look at the scenery...", the driver thought glancing at the clock - 12:47 - they were making good time....
"mmmmmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm...." The unexpected sound, accompanied by a rumbling vibration, snapped the sleeping occupants of the vehicle back into consciousness. The tyre, full of vengeful hatred - rather than air, had chosen this moment to spring it's last gasp surprise on the driver. It had chosen an effective time to go - 02:03.
The rubber of the tyre was torn. Pieces of steel were sticking out at unnatural angles, giving it, in the darkness of the summers night, the look of a mouth, snarling up at the driver (who was at that time, holding a cell phone's luminous face up to it, as he hadn't a torch).
We were traveling on the Interisland Ferry over to Wellington the other day. It was pitch black and I got bored. Hence the blog entry.
The Privateer
The Black water churned as the ferry steamed along through the dark overcast night, brightly illuminated in contrast to the nearly starless sky. A lonely moth, lost in the middle of a vast ocean, and being drawn to the light, finds refuge on the deck, under the salty mist whilst the bright spotlight shone down around. The spots, shining brilliantly like a light saber piercing the inky blackness, searching for obstacles - ghostly white icebergs, wayward fishing vessels, submerged reefs, or other objects that would be detrimental to the whole ship's safety record. 21 years without so much as a stubbed toe, the Arahura was the pride of the "Interisland" line.
"Rise to periscope level" said the captain calmly, commanding a respect that wasn't developed by shouting. It was a good time to be a privateer, - a modern day Sir Francis Drake. Good crew were easily acquired with enough moolah to silence the conscience - his financier had plenty of that. Obtaining "equipment" was a little harder, but then, that's what bribery was invented for......
Slowly, the great steel husk named "AH12" in it's previous incarnation, began to surface. Stopping a few meters short of breaking the surface, the now renamed "pomegranate" - a nuclear "capable" submarine, surplus from the cold war spotted her target...
The Privateer
The Black water churned as the ferry steamed along through the dark overcast night, brightly illuminated in contrast to the nearly starless sky. A lonely moth, lost in the middle of a vast ocean, and being drawn to the light, finds refuge on the deck, under the salty mist whilst the bright spotlight shone down around. The spots, shining brilliantly like a light saber piercing the inky blackness, searching for obstacles - ghostly white icebergs, wayward fishing vessels, submerged reefs, or other objects that would be detrimental to the whole ship's safety record. 21 years without so much as a stubbed toe, the Arahura was the pride of the "Interisland" line.
"Rise to periscope level" said the captain calmly, commanding a respect that wasn't developed by shouting. It was a good time to be a privateer, - a modern day Sir Francis Drake. Good crew were easily acquired with enough moolah to silence the conscience - his financier had plenty of that. Obtaining "equipment" was a little harder, but then, that's what bribery was invented for......
Slowly, the great steel husk named "AH12" in it's previous incarnation, began to surface. Stopping a few meters short of breaking the surface, the now renamed "pomegranate" - a nuclear "capable" submarine, surplus from the cold war spotted her target...
We went to a Basketball game the other day (Go the Breakers..), and were waiting a while out in the cold. I was in the process of writing this one, but got too busy. In case you were wondering, New Zealand is not a communist country (yet)
The Game
The icy wind blasted across the stark grey square, buffeting the small gathering that was beginning to congregate. Cold air from the subantarctic swirled in gusts, one second wafting through the razor wire atop the pale smooth concrete walls surrounding the square, then suddenly blowing yesterday's newspaper in a mini vortex around the car park.
"Be there at 1900 hours sharp" was the instructions, be at the western packet arena. "something must have happened" muttered Nathivich, his eyes scanning the area most likely to be the approach of the organizational party who were coming in from the eastern part of the city. "they've still got 5 minutes" mentioned Johnofski, glancing at his digital watch, "They'll be here soon....."
Across the sprawl somewhere in Bloc F - a suburb that once housed the "oppressive class", but now housed mainly CDHB, ECAN, or CCC employees, Andropov stumbled back to his car, fumbling with the keys in the frigid air. A wheelie bin salesman since he returned from doing his service for Mother Aotearoa in the Navy (the Airforce would have been his first choice, but it never really recovered from the sale of all its fighter planes way back at the turn of the century).
The Game
The icy wind blasted across the stark grey square, buffeting the small gathering that was beginning to congregate. Cold air from the subantarctic swirled in gusts, one second wafting through the razor wire atop the pale smooth concrete walls surrounding the square, then suddenly blowing yesterday's newspaper in a mini vortex around the car park.
"Be there at 1900 hours sharp" was the instructions, be at the western packet arena. "something must have happened" muttered Nathivich, his eyes scanning the area most likely to be the approach of the organizational party who were coming in from the eastern part of the city. "they've still got 5 minutes" mentioned Johnofski, glancing at his digital watch, "They'll be here soon....."
Across the sprawl somewhere in Bloc F - a suburb that once housed the "oppressive class", but now housed mainly CDHB, ECAN, or CCC employees, Andropov stumbled back to his car, fumbling with the keys in the frigid air. A wheelie bin salesman since he returned from doing his service for Mother Aotearoa in the Navy (the Airforce would have been his first choice, but it never really recovered from the sale of all its fighter planes way back at the turn of the century).
On the last night of camping, it started to rain. Wet tents had to be packed the next day. We had fun......
The Monsoon
Precipitation. That's what they called it. Molecules of H2O bound together by a common cohesiveness to form rogue droplets around an airborne particle of earth/dust/pollen/exhaust/ash, surrounding it like the protective detail around a VIP in a hostile mob, or maybe more like the thin crust of an aircraft, piloted as a kamikaze bomb, hurtling toward the earth at a frightening pace. Whichever similitude you think is more appropriate, the "rain came down"
At first the droplets land on the dry dusty ground, making miniature craters in the dust, quenching the thirst of the drought stricken land. The hot wind blows the damp air making everyone sticky and uncomfortable, as if they had been suddenly teleported to some unnamed equatorial location prior to the arrival of the monsoon rains that come to drench the landscape of terraced rice paddies, filling the drainage trenches with water. Deja Vu?
Mud, the most likely result from the conglomeration of dust and water was inevitable. The dusty paths that had been trod were transformed into a murky, muddy, grimy, wet, brown muck making movement outside in the rain difficult at best. Unfortunately, it was necessary to traverse the bog between the cluster of shelters.
Muddy feet were epidemic
The Monsoon
Precipitation. That's what they called it. Molecules of H2O bound together by a common cohesiveness to form rogue droplets around an airborne particle of earth/dust/pollen/exhaust/ash, surrounding it like the protective detail around a VIP in a hostile mob, or maybe more like the thin crust of an aircraft, piloted as a kamikaze bomb, hurtling toward the earth at a frightening pace. Whichever similitude you think is more appropriate, the "rain came down"
At first the droplets land on the dry dusty ground, making miniature craters in the dust, quenching the thirst of the drought stricken land. The hot wind blows the damp air making everyone sticky and uncomfortable, as if they had been suddenly teleported to some unnamed equatorial location prior to the arrival of the monsoon rains that come to drench the landscape of terraced rice paddies, filling the drainage trenches with water. Deja Vu?
Mud, the most likely result from the conglomeration of dust and water was inevitable. The dusty paths that had been trod were transformed into a murky, muddy, grimy, wet, brown muck making movement outside in the rain difficult at best. Unfortunately, it was necessary to traverse the bog between the cluster of shelters.
Muddy feet were epidemic
I wrote this one while I was camping on the shores of lake Hawea.
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
Saturday I was helping some friends move house, this one is about that experience, though it has been embellished somewhat. There is no nefarious organization based in Kiapoi that I am part of, incase you were wondering
The fog
Fog was stratified, almost like layers of mud at the bottom of a stagnant tributary of the Kiapoi river, which slipped by underneath. The conditions were ideal, the fog, so thick as it hung there, motionless in the dawn would hide even someone as conspicuous as Wally Behan that Sunday evening (he was wearing a bright orangey shirt with a pinkish tinge) from the most inquisitive eyes. Eventually, the cargo accumulated in the hold of the barge and as the fog lifted, at last they set off downstream, wary of the other river people who were going about their business, oblivious of the audacious heist that was in progress.
The fog
Fog was stratified, almost like layers of mud at the bottom of a stagnant tributary of the Kiapoi river, which slipped by underneath. The conditions were ideal, the fog, so thick as it hung there, motionless in the dawn would hide even someone as conspicuous as Wally Behan that Sunday evening (he was wearing a bright orangey shirt with a pinkish tinge) from the most inquisitive eyes. Eventually, the cargo accumulated in the hold of the barge and as the fog lifted, at last they set off downstream, wary of the other river people who were going about their business, oblivious of the audacious heist that was in progress.
This is an extract from a letter that I sent to my brother Andrew when he was in the states. I will be writing some new things later but for now, while I am trying this technology out, it will have to do. I hope you like it anyway.
The Deluge
The scrawling script, meaning filled and yet uninterpretable like the innumerable Egyptian hieroglyphs before the unearthing of the Rosetta stone, extending over the whole dark wall of smudgy blackness. The sound of rapid scraping punctuated every now and then by an exclamation of annoyance, terror, grief, diffused throughout the chalk dust that was settling, filling the cavernous room with a quiet determination, the will to triumph, the resolve to conquer. The Mathematical Scholar, mentally exhausted from his efforts, but no less determined to complete the task, reluctantly decides to have a brief respite, and reaches for what has become so often a source of inspiration (apart from his copy of the inerrant Holy writ). As he retrieves his pick from the inner recesses of his pocket, he uses his cognitive powers to ascertain the correct song for his mood. Settling on "flood" the edgy tones pierce the compound as he emphatically strums, plunging their way into the collective consciousness of those for whom it had been preordained to hear that frustrated sound.
The Deluge
The scrawling script, meaning filled and yet uninterpretable like the innumerable Egyptian hieroglyphs before the unearthing of the Rosetta stone, extending over the whole dark wall of smudgy blackness. The sound of rapid scraping punctuated every now and then by an exclamation of annoyance, terror, grief, diffused throughout the chalk dust that was settling, filling the cavernous room with a quiet determination, the will to triumph, the resolve to conquer. The Mathematical Scholar, mentally exhausted from his efforts, but no less determined to complete the task, reluctantly decides to have a brief respite, and reaches for what has become so often a source of inspiration (apart from his copy of the inerrant Holy writ). As he retrieves his pick from the inner recesses of his pocket, he uses his cognitive powers to ascertain the correct song for his mood. Settling on "flood" the edgy tones pierce the compound as he emphatically strums, plunging their way into the collective consciousness of those for whom it had been preordained to hear that frustrated sound.
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