The Oboist

I think it is official. I am not insane. However, I often have some tendancies which many would view as lacking a certain cognition which I have become infamous for in certain quarters. I have finished my novel. For the time being it will be called: The Oboe Player Must Die! (yes the exclamation mark is part of the title, and no, this part in brackets isn't) Feel free to suggest any stupid and inane names for the novel which you might have thought up. You can be certain that I will feel free to totally disregard them.

Sometime in one of the potentially infinate number of futures that some quantum physicists would lead us to believe exists, I may desire to upload this epic story which is completely lacking in Ninja's or Zombies, or even Zeppelins, some would even say it is lacking in discernable plot. Such people would be in good company, as that has been my opinion for a while now, but for now, I have decided to sleep on it. Here is the cover I worked on for an afternoon whilst procrastinating.

By the way, NaNoWriMo is not, as is commonly believed by some uncommon people, an exercise for the under twelve demographic, although that's not excluding them from expressing themselves in the peculiar medium of the novella. Oh, and if you think this story will make a good bedtime tale of adventure to read to little Johny, think again. I hope the cover will scare off enough of the people who might be offended by it's somewhat textually explicit content (I can't very well say graphic now can I? it's not a picture book for Gandhi's sake.)

Shout out to none other than Wikipedia (no I won't provide a link. Google it.) the good folks at dictionary.com, and my main man Franz Ferdinand. Without your untimely assassination, my novel would have.... actually been better. Huh. Thanks a lot.

The Environmentalist

Over at http://www.blogactionday.org/ the question on the front page was asked:

"What would happen if every blog published posts discussing the same issue, on the same day?
One issue. One day. Thousands of voices."

While obviously a rhetorical question, I couldn't help but be reminded of the "Make Poverty History" campaign. But rhetorical questions are still questions......

My short answer? Nothing. (I could elaborate on the meaning of that term "Nothing" for instance use slang words that mean "Nothing" like "Zip" or "Diddly Squat" or "Naught", but I think that wouldn't serve much of a purpose except to... I can't actually think of a purpose for that.... anyway, back to the topic at hand...)

On the appointed day of October 15, I'll be posting something regarding the environment. Suffice it to say, that I'll be using more maths than I've used in years. I just hope that the weather clears up for it.

BTW, I got the pic from http://flickr.com/photos/urbanbicyclist/464086542/ just so you know

The Re-Animation

Kia Ora, and welcome to the re-animated (that's re-animated as in "Frankenstein") version of this particular unimportant piece of the internet stratum. Over the course of the season of this particular incarnation, I will mention things that I find interesting, perhaps even writing something interesting myself (but don't get your collective hopes up) If you would like to contribute to the ongoing maintenance of this elbow on the series of tubes that make up the internets, well I'm sorry, you can't. Comments however are welcome, as are off topic rants, allusions to Godwins law, and name dropping of obscure historical people. Finally, not that I'm expecting hordes of extremist followers of Ned Ludd to come and read this, (my estimates are that there will be about five) I might not link to every cryptic reference to its wikipedian equivalent. So with little further ado, I present the content of the next post.


I often see bizarre things (not sure just why, perhaps they're not that strange after all) but it's not often that I have the opportunity to get a photo. This was taken just after landing at Auckland airport on Friday. You can see the jet engine in the bottom left corner there. It seems that there is at least a token effort to reduce carbon emissions by someone at the airport.....

The Prophet

I was going to post a longer one, but nothing the even half fitted together came up, so I opted for a shorter one instead.

Don't say I didn't warn you about the coming worldwide foodstuffs rebellion. (I'm pretty sure that I'm the first one to use that term)

The Prophet

The wind cut with a nasty edge that had been sharpened by the southwesterly front that was now blanketing the nation in a heavy load of precipitation, closing airports in the major centres, disrupting the ferry crossings that were a vital link between the main islands. On the top of a mountain overlooking the city, as the lightning flashes lit up the sky for an instant, the Prophet stood (as is the habit of many prophets, even today) his gnarled hands grasping an even gnarlier staff as he looked out over the sea at the gnarliest waves he had ever seen, half of him wishing that he was surfing.

The Marmite Wars

This post is one of the more bizarre ones. Possibly, because it is about a bizarre occasian that happened recently. I was watching a movie with Andrew, and we heard this noise coming from outside. It sounded like someone was out there speaking, and after a little humming and haaaaing, I set off to investigate. From out the door, you could hear someone on a megaphone speaking things like "come out with your hand's up" and "you are surrounded" and such things like that. In between these outbursts was this music playing, seemingly being played in defiance. all of a sudden there was a flash on the horizon and the music stopped. True story that. What follows isn't strictly true......

The Marmite Wars

The TV glowed a greenish iridescence, illuminating the lounge where the non-conformist agent provocateurs lounged in front of its prescribed viewing for the day, acquiescing to its reasonable demands that they spend an hour or three watching a movie that they had seen already. The protagonist on screen swore, echoing the sentiment in deeply hidden in the many layers of intrigue that made agent John somewhat of an enigma to the few people who bothered to try to understand him. John himself, had he tried to come to grips with his essential being, would have had a hard time trying to quantify, or in the very least, justify his preference for Marmite on toast (as opposed to say, jam, or peanut butter). It was, however, a deeply held conviction of his, and of many of his associates, that one day, Marmite eaters would rise up, throw off their guise of normality, and challenge the status quo, united with a will of iron (1.8 milligrams per recommended serve) to gloriously purge the world of the memory that ever there existed the abomination that is Vegemite.

The AOS team assembled from various directions through the heavily wooded area surrounding the house that had been under constant surveillance for two and a half weeks now, and the team had been briefed on what to expect. The floodlights were in place already, and they were just waiting for the all clear from the GCSB Psychologist whose job it was to ensure that the intended targets would maintain a healthy self esteem during and after the raid. Donning their thermal imaging gear, they stood by silently with weapons at the ready.

The lights flickered for a second, and then suddenly the power was cut. John looked up from trying in vain to programme the remote (for the second time that night) with a steeled determination in his eye, tossing the remote aside. "It's time" he said matter of factly to his associate – an agent who went by the nomenclature of 'Andrew', who glanced at his watch and nodded. They stood in unison, and walking to the stereo that was in the next room, they opened the window, and placed the speakers precariously on the sill.

The Negotiation Team leader, sighed, and flicked the switch that would turn on the floodlights that suddenly illuminated the exterior of the house with an unworldly light, an intense and apprehensive light, that made shadows menacing enough to seem as if they too, were malevolent beings intent on spreading marmite through the whole universe, enveloping it in a darkness that no amount of butter and toast could make appetizing. He shuddered to think what the world was coming to, and would have* had a flashback about how when he was young, Marmite-ites and Vegemite-ites got along fine with each other and even with the agnostics like himself (who couldn't tell any difference between them), A-mite-iests (who didn’t like either one of them) or Multi-mite-arians (who seemed to think that all different typed of spread were valid choices, including the oft-shuddered-against, generimite Marmite substitutes, like the anathema that is 'Powermite'.

"This is the Police" said the voice from behind the megaphone. "You are Surrounded" it said, echoing metallicly among the old growth of the ancient forest. "Come out with your hands raised above your head" demanded the utterance. John cautiously stuck his head through the now open dining room door, and said in no uncertain (certainly uncomplimentary) terms what he thought of that voice. Leaving the door open, he powered on the stereo on the window sill, and the haunting song broke out, diffusing through the trees, catching the negotiator off guard. In his many years of experience, he had never come across this tactic before. Sighing again, he made the decision to call in the top secret Flash Response Team.

The Fast and The Furious: '2fast 2fendalton', or 'Merivale Drift'

It seems to have been a month since my last post. Much has happened, and much should have happened, but procrastination just doesn't want to die (and to be partially honest, if it did, it seems like right now a part of me would die with it, but I'd get much more done) and though I want to kill it, I just haven't got round to it yet - it's on my to-do list.

The Fast and The Furious: 2fast 2fendalton, or Merivale Drift

Tires squealing, the black car suddenly sped off from the small thin capillary like side street adjoining the vein that is Papanui road. Fast approaching the speed of the other cars on the road, the drive furiously slowed, braking fast to avoid a collision with a white van "Heck" said the furious driver, observing the apparent lack of regard for a reasonable driving speed on a Sunday afternoon, while subconsciously acknowledging the common sentiment that the driver of the white vehicle that just narrowly missed an unceremonious nose to tail was either driven by the well known proverbial granny driving home from church, or the not as widely known proverbial 'person looking for real-estate open homes'. As the black car followed the white van to the next set of lights that had recently turned a distinct reddish tone, one of the agents in the black car suddenly turned an even paler shade of pale than normal (not very many people had a tan that winter, there was an abundance of excuses why not, and this guy had a plethora of excuses to chose from not the least of which was that he hadn't yet had a chance to go up to the slopes yet this season all though the base at Mount Hutt was apparently deep.) and pointed at the black smudge on the back of the white van. "Isn't that Van Diesel?" said the pointing agent.

A relative silence filled the interior of the black car as it tailed the white van along that busy street. "Well," the driver broke the silence, "I think we're going to have to find out.". He pulled up along side the white van, which was now looking even more menacing by the minute. "I wonder how he got to Al?" one agent with a heavy eastern European accent thought aloud. Al Greco Katraz was a valuable 'friend' to the agents in the black car, and after having a run in with this Van Diesel character, he disappeared and was never seen again. This greatly annoyed one particular agent who had invented this identity to use when buying certain things that agents buy, and had gotten a lot of flybuys stacked up on that identity. Van Diesel (not his real name incase you were wondering, it was a nickname given by his friends/enemies at his place of employment because he torques alot....) had stolen this identity and had used the flybuys points to redeem a trip to Santiago for who knows what nefarious purpose.

Suddenly the driver realized that the race was on. The light was defiantly of the greenish persuasion, and the white van, now took off like the proverbial mammal of the Chiroptera order from the place of eternal punishment.

The List

This insanely long post is long. It is late and I am tired. Perhaps some of my readers can suggest a better way to end the story. Probabaly it needs heaps of work for anyone to understand what the heck I am going on about and why the doctor does what he does.

The List

It would be the perfect spot for that hebe cutting. Grandma finally decided. She looked up from the spot where she was digging. Hearing a noise she leaned on her well worn spade as she squinted into the glare. The postman had come. Sighing, she put down her spade and made her way over to where the mailbox was. There were three letters today. Two were of such a nature that doesn’t interest people like Grandma. One was one of those letters addressed to the ubiquitous “Householder”, the second was so forgettable that no one is really sure what it was about anymore. The third was, however of considerable interest. One of those letters that have that little plastic window on it, it had “Canterbury District Health Board” in bold type on the top left corner. It was addressed to “John Sinclair”.

When John returned home from work that evening, there on the kitchen bench was that letter. "It's about freakin' time" he thought as he opened the envelope. It was an appointment for him to see one "Dr Chantage Consultant". Finally, he was at the top of the waiting list. He had waited more than a year fo this appointment that would in all likelyhood take about 15 minutes, 20 at the most. "The public health system has gone down the proverbial" he muttered, throwing the letter on the table. He made himself a strong cup of tea and then sat down at his computer to ask Google about this "Dr Chantage".

The morning of the appointment, and Doctor Chantage was agitated. He was as usual reading the Press at his favorite early morning coffee haunt - "The Daily Grind" he had ordered his usual - Flat white - but it was taking longer than usual. He glanced over toward the man in the grey suit seated in the corner, taking care not to turn his head or make it obvious that he was looking at anything other than the article in the paper that detailed someting about a rates increase proposed for some reason. The man had removed his glasses. "That was the signal". He watched out of the corner of his eye as the man paid and left. "half a minute yet" he thought to himself. He watched the second hand slowly make its way around the face of the clock suspended above the counter. "It's time". He got up and went to the bathroom. Sure enough, under the spare toilet roll in stall three, he found the package. Sitting on the closed lid of the toilet he pulled a pair of latex gloves from one of his pockets. Pulling them on like he had done so many times before, he operated on the package. Inside he found a business card for an auto electrician by the name of "Reynold Mardel", and a small black device no larger than a cellphone with the words "Cardio Call" written on it. He placed them in a small zip lock bag, pocketed it and made sure to flush the excess packaging and the gloves, he made a show of washing his hands and went back to finish his coffee. "Make no change from the established routine" he told himself - he finished his coffee, made a show of reading the front page, and smiling at the cartoons. His job was now half done. As he made his way back to his car, he noticed a parking ticket. Swearing under his breath, he looked at it and screwed it up. Whoever thought of ticketing a doctor for $96 for parking in the disabled car park? “ah well, it was bound to happen some day”.

The day had arrived and John was early for his appointment. Sitting in the waiting room he couldn't help but notice the TV in the corner. On it was a plaque engraved with the thanks of someone or other who had finally got to see a heart specialist after who knows how long stuck on the list waiting for what should have been a simple diagnosis of mild Ischaemic heart disease which turned into a full blown heart attack case in need of angioplasty, because it wasn't diagnosed sooner. A nurse put her head round the door "John Sinclair?" she asked, "Yes", John said as he stood. Finally he was going to see the doctor.

After the diagnosis, as soon as John had thanked him and left the room, Doctor Chantage picked up his phone and dialed the number on the business card. He left a message on the answering machine stating that the 'cheque' was 'in the mail'. He hung up and breathed a sigh of releaf. He now wanted nothing to better than to forget the whole thing. Hopefully the blackmailers would leave him alone now.

After being told by the doctor that his condition was likely to be some thing that by now he couldn't remember the name of (that's John that couldn't remember, the doctor seemingly knew off the top of his head), John was ushered into another room to be fitted with the listening device that would accompany him for the next two weeks. It would sit in his pocket, attached to the electrodes that were attached to him, and it would listen apparently to his heart. He was now, for a few weeks at least, the bionic man.

It is a little known fact that it is possible to devise what a person is typing by the sound the keys make as you hit them. Each key has it's own unique acoustic signature so that, with enough recordings of someone typing, and using frequency analysis it is possible to listen in on the typing of someone and discern the message without looking at the screen. Simply by recording the sounds of someone typing at an internet cafe for instance, you can have access to their most personal data

One week later, as John arrived at work, he noticed a white van with "Lincoln Shuttle" written on the side parked outside. Upon entering the bank where he worked, he was arrested for five accounts of unlawfully accessing an information system, and for the theft of 5.1 million dollars. He wasn't granted bail. One Dr Chantage was at the court the day that John was convicted. He was there to pay an overdue fine for $96 for parking in a disabled persons car park without a disability sign.

The Unconscious

In a real strange way, this one started out as a blog about something rather different. None of it is true (unless you count the idea of ignoring the alarm clock). I think it makes one of the things on my 'stupid things of the month' list is obvious.

The Unconscious

He could hear a faint distant beeping in the background. Quiet. Rhythmic. Soothing in an almost animate, livingly hypnotic way, and yet in an uneasy mechanical way, full of foreboding and the sense of apprehension. The smell of the darkness was particularly deep, well worn and engulfing ones consciousness like the darkness itself, intense and all consuming. His mind was clouded with a 'can't be quite certain' 'don't really care right now' kind of daze that would occur if all the
reality television were distilled and refined to it's mind numbing, neuron atrophying essence. Stupor Concentrate. Freshly brewed in one universal entertainment percolator for your prescriptive pseudoreality fix.

The Diplomat

Recently I installed Ubuntu linux on my laptop, and it took two tries to get it to dual boot with Windows (my fault though, I didn't read the on screen instructions). This blog idea was originally based on that idea of two competing systems trying to have access to the same resources. Dumb I know, but since it was about time that I posted, my sense of duty overcame my often contradictory but seldom complementary sense of the cool. It was real boring at first, until, I changed what happened at the end - this made it like some of the stories by Philip K. Dick - who wrote 'Minority Report'.

I guess I'm just tired by all this good guy protagonists in my other blog posts and decided that my character could have some malevolant intent.

The Diplomat

With an air of deep seated but obscured suspicion, the sole New Zealand Delegate eyed his counterparts across the over-engineered but stylishly subdued negotiations table 'probably made from extinct exotic hardwood' he thought as he leaned back in his chair glancing with annoyance at the pen clicker – a lower level diplomat in a sombre gray suit, obviously bored by the proceedings who was clicking his pen in and out, in and out 'a little too bored' thought John.

'... relation to the trade embargoes which forthwith must be given our cautious approval.....'

Droned the drone on the other side of the table. John could see that his counterpart was nearing the end of his monologue, he sighed, made a show of pretending to hide a yawn, and rubbed his eyes, much to the consternation of the Beijing representative, who had just reiterated his nations sovereign right to 'blah blah blah....' John grinned inwardly as he glanced at the pen clicker, who obviously had a low immunity to yawns, and had caught the bug.

'...so in closing, we as a nation cannot in good conscience sanction this course of action in the light of the ....'

He had prepared this part of his speech at least. He knew the Chinese foreign policy, and that it would not allow this so called intrusion on their sovereignty and so he had prepared these closing remarks for his speech to the assembled delegates. He knew there wasn't much hope of them changing their mind, but this was the protocol. But there was an eerie sense of foreboding in the air. something that wasn't right, and it wasn't the feng shui of the room. Something was out of place, he knew it, but he didn't know what.

'...unprecedented and frankly unwarranted economic hegemony which...'

He carried on his speech, noting the various faces in the crowd.

'...has been crippling the regional economy. I thank my fellow delegates, and hope that the situation will soon be resolved.'

He smiled, sat down and glanced through the glass panel in the heavy soundproof door, leading to the reception area where afternoon tea was being prepared'...what the heck...?' he mumbled in a monotone, barely audible even in the subdued hum of the post trade talk environment. He was looking at the pen clicker in the hallway adjacent to the negotiations room – the bored diplomat touched the inside of it's earlobe and retracted the antenna which was protruding from where its upper vertebrae were supposed to be. 'Thank goodness that's at least semi-reflective glass' he thought slowly opening his mobile phone and using the camera to take a picture of the robot which was standing in the hallway near the main exit. 'they've really done it this time' he thought as he mailed the picture to one of his many anonymous email address as insurance against an unforeseen future. The now much better disguised robot entered the room, 'that is one serious piece of technology' John thought, remembering the well copied yawn. 'I've got to get me one of those'. He watched, as if in slow motion, as the alien technology began to make it's way methodically round the room, shaking hands with all the other delegates who were oblivious of the real nature of the too friendly consul. Grasping each hand that was offered it, the robot grinned, as it exchanged business cards with the other people. 'they might have some sort of tracking device, or a virus of some sort?...' John worriedly thought, unable, or rather unwilling to move, paralyzed by an inertia born not of terror of the the mechanical menace, but of an apathy honed by many boring afternoons restating the same old problems to the same old people for the same old reasons. 'Maybe this will make things more interesting' he thought, as he watched from the comfort of his gray suede chair. He cracked open his laptop, and began, to check the live feed from the robot's five senses that were being relayed to the satellite, and to email the programmer asking about why his most helpful spy decided to sync with the satellite in the hallway. 'must be the SQL inflection bug again' he thought, 'thankfully no one saw, or we'd be at square one again' He realized for the first time that he, or rather, his country now had the technology, and the information to make a real impact in the region.

The Golden Egg, and other anomalies

There are some real sad people on the internet. I feel so sorry for them. No, I really do. They have some idea that what everyone believes isn't the truth, and then they go and start to fight against the reptiles. It might be some sort of joke, but from the little I saw of it, it looks like someone put a lot of time into it and really believes it. I was looking for a plausible name for my mythical Inca city, then came across this rubbish (it would be hilarious if no one believed it). maybe I shouldn't link to this kind of thing, and I'm sure that since I have said this about it, it will get more clicks than it deserves.

Today Paula had a birthday party of sorts. We had an Easter egg hunt. Some of the eggs were wrapped in golden foil.

The Golden Egg

The scorching heat of the sun at this time of the day was unbearable, like an ambivalent foreman overlooking the factory floor of the world, the sun dictated work here just as it does the rest of the world. From about 10:30 till four in the afternoon each day, the excavation team halted their toil and returned to the cluster of caravans and tents, seemingly tossed in a rather haphazard manner among the boulders like some of us play petanque. As the archaeologists returned with the mornings find. A buzz of excitement swept through the temporal village. "They've found them!" someone half whispered, half choked as they ran toward the main tent. The grimy, exuberant archaeologist who had made the discovery was there, with a grin that would make a certain cat from Cheshire envious, her grimy hand shaking other hands in varying states of grime. The "discovery of the decade" as people were already calling it was located in pride of place in the centre of the tent. The legendary "oeuf d'or metallique" was a legend no more. The near mythical "Huevo de oro meta¡lico" was discovered deep in a convoluted passage way deep beneath the ruins of the once tropical city of Tlexcxutnal, the last stash of the legendary Inca gold. From out of nowhere, someone conjured a bottle of champagne, and the three cheers echoed off the sheer cliff walls of the area.

The 6th Airborne

After Church today, there was a big red mattress used mainly for gymnastics and stuff like that. We used it to land on after jumping off the stage. It was rather fun.

The 6^th Airborne

The massive thumping sound vibrating through the steel fuselage was deafening - likely from the fact that this aircraft had two Bristol Hercules XI radial engines, each engine putting out 1,590 horsepower. It was a converted bomber, modified instead to carry a hopefully more effective package than six or so tonnes of explosives. Rows of men silently sat on bench seats on the sides of the massive steel shelled aircraft, most staring at the floor, quietly going over their objectives in their head. In the distance, visible through the cockpit windows, the flak exploded over to the south in scorching infernos, peppering the air with shrapnel, glowing orange against the smoke from a thousand detonations permeating the atmosphere at that altitude of 700 odd feet. As they neared the drop site the men stood as one, ready to face the hidden enemy in the darkness of that early summer morning over the coast of Normandy. The Green light blinked on, GO! GO! GO! Someone shouted, and half pushed, half jumping, the Paratroopers exited the plane just as the flak in their part of the sky opened up with a rain of hot metal shards, their 'chutes opening as predicted, catching their fall into the darkness below.

Dark shapes loomed up against the slightly lighter of the fallow wheat fields. Trees. Something for the paratrooper to avoid. The ground, came up fast, and the soldiers hit the ground - two of them - Private A. Moore, who sprained both ankles and Corporal J. Sinclair, who damaged his knee landing on his side. All told, a good time was had by all. I'm sure we'll be in Berlin by Christmas

Three Rousing Huzzahs!

Sunday, on the days that we have church lunches, we often have a competition, of who can bring the best thing to the shared lunch. This time 'round, I made a Pav.

3 Egg Whites
3 Tablespoons cold water
1 cup castor sugar
1Tsp Vinegar
1Tsp Vanilla Essence
3Tsp Cornflour

Beat egg whites until stiff, add cold water and beat again. Add castor sugar very gradually while still beating. Slow beater and add vinegar, vanilla and cornflour. Place on greased paper on greased tray and bake at 150 degrees C for 45 minutes, then leave to cool in the oven.

This one at the beginning was going to either be about a kitchen where implements of terror are made or about a p lab. I just thought that I might need to explain it a bit more.

The Synthesis

Heat radiated from the discoloured aluminium pot on the stove, the flames from the gas fire enveloping the exposed metal with a soft blue haze. The hand inhabiting the perishing yellow rubber glove grasped the corroded long handled spoon made out of indeterminable materials and slowly, carefully stirred the opaque mucilaginous liquid. The hand performing this potentially dangerous task belonged to John. With his other hand, the now slightly apprehensive John turned on the air vent. The poisonous fumes surged from the incandescent flames, the smoky gaseous vapour climbed as it was sucked into the tube through the fan, wafting into the clean air outside, warming the earth by some ingenious method whereby the gas in question was able to either retain the heat, or somehow reflect it better than it’s neighbouring molecules of nitrogen and oxygen, somehow insulating the earth better from the coldness of the vacuum of space. With a slightly shaking hand (coffee) John poured the rapidly jellifying plastic explosive into a square steel container to set. C4. Guaranteed to obliterate the competition.

La Pavlova es bonito

It rained on Sunday. I was going to make a bad joke about being high on p when I wrote the 1st paragraph, but I decided against it. I need to do something else now.

The Emancipation of Precipitation

The water pooled. Rivulets of the wet stuff ran down the exposed surfaces, forming puddles and ponds, pooling precariously proximate to the precipice of precipitation, plummeting predominantly past pulchritudinous people (potentially) in its passage perhaps to the Pacific (possibly).

Drops of liquid fell from the great expanse above, emerging from the darkness of the evening to gleam briefly in the glow of the electric lights (like so much in this world) before making a muted abrupt halt, a tiny splash unnoticed by the throng that had gathered in spite the meteorological event that was determined to run it's course. Sheets of water blew in from the North, saturating the sodden ground, the droplets, having tasted seemingly autonomous freedom, fell from the grasp of the immense tropical cyclone, felt the thrill of reaching their terminal velocity of six metres per second, and the agony of the sudden inevitable jolt of terra firma.

'fitting accompaniment'. I've used that phrase in both of the last blog entries. How bizarre. This one is about an optical mouse which I 'fixed' at work today (no, not that kind of fixed. I'm not a vet). The hardest thing about writing these things is, coming up with something interesting that I can write something about that I don't get bored with as soon as it is written. The depressing thing is that all of them have some kind of darkness, coldness, or otherwise saddening feel to them. Maybe I should write something uplifting. Or maybe I should just get some sleep.

The Eye.

With an intrinsic and characteristic menacing glow, it stares. Just stares. Concentrating. Waiting like a carnivorous amphibian, it's senses tuned to detect the slightest motion, waiting for prey to come by. Meditating on the surface before it like either a buddhist seeking nirvana, or like the electron microscope on the floor below. each second of it's monotonous existence, it observed the landscape, and observed it again one thousand five hundred odd times. And so it glows, illuminating the blackness of that demure office which was sparsely populated with 60's 70's and 80's office furniture in a kind of multidenominational or to be more specific, a multigenerational ambivalence. The lidless and unblinking eye radiated with what a post-modern chromatologist would call "chromaticity of the red persuasion". Being white in colour, and with a red eye, I suppose this would have to be an albino variety of mouse.

Kia Kaha

This one was inspired by the recent acquirement of a key to the cabinet from whence the heaters come forth from at church. I am involved in the set up for church, and it wasn't too cold, I mean, it's still only the beginning of autumn, but heat the hall we must on a day like this one when the world outside is eight degrees. One of the earlier sermons was about the glory of the church. That's why the vague reference to the amazing idea of the incarnation (and who can comprehend that?). I was going to add another section about how it was when the heater was turned on, but I decided against it, although it would make a nice contrast with the whole cold thing... heck this is a long explaining thing...

The Cold

The Frigid wind howled, with a chant of ten thousand soprano apparitions, their ethereal operatic, menacing in it's vociferousness. Powdered snow, blown to various degrees over the permafrost, swirling in seemingly lost purposelessness, provided a fitting accompaniment to the spooky sound.

a lone figure trudges, bent over, either from the extreme cold, or the long journey. As he nears the end of that sub Antarctic traverse, his mind is set on the next task, frozen like the bleak landscape, immovable in the resolve to accomplish the task he had been set. In the Distance, the wind blows across the plateau, smudging the horizon, blurring the definition between terra firma, and infinity beyond. Through the haze more figures are becoming visible, congregating together in the brotherhood of those who have been there and done that. It is nearly time to set up. Few words are exchanged, it is just enough that there is someone else in the world who understands, who cares enough to be there, to lend a hand at this momentous undertaking, the kind of which, though previously seen before, should never cease to amaze those with the profound clarity of thought to grasp the idea of such seeming unintelligibility.

"Vox clamantis in deserto" was a quote that I found when looking how to spell Veni, Vidi, Vici. I thought it might be appropriate. and having been once again inspired, I set forth to document this odd occasion. It’s been so long, I'm not sure if this will be comprehensible, but there it is. Work tomorrow, so I'll have to wrap up the tweaking of this textus incredulous.

The Show.

In the darkness of that hexangular room, that central hub of comings and goings of the general populace, the light flickered on the vanilla white walls, providing a fitting accompaniment to the canned noise that protruding menacingly from the stereo speakers that were incorporated - nay - immersed in the television set - which was taking pride of place in that living room, it's Cathode Ray Tube humming a high pitched Pwiiiiiinnnnn... hovering around 20 kHz - the sort of noise that things make if they are imbued with up to 32,000 volts. There in the rimu cabinet, wholly dedicated for it's joint use with the DVD player, VCR, and 5.1 surround sound system a tragedy of epic proportions was played out in Technicolor.

It was then that John noticed it. It was subtle at first as these things often are, and most of the time no one cares even if they do notice. It took him a few seconds of perplexification, before he made up his mind to act, but nevertheless, it was a step in the right direction. One mighty deed for a man of an otherwise procrastinational nature. Veni, Vidi Vici.

I came, the TV was on, it was Desperate Housewives, I saw that it was not really good enough to justify being the #1 rating show in NZ or whatever it is, I conquered the barely felt need to join apparent throngs of my fellow humanity and bask in the dubious glory that is capitulation to the Status Quo. Or more candidly, I failed to conquer the felt need to get away, to flee the wrath that is "the Tyranny of the Urgent" and conceded defeat to the unimagined felt need to check email, write a meaningless blog, and to ponder the secrets of the universe. Ubi maior, minor cessat

Vox clamantis in deserto.

I've just revamped the old template, so hopefully, that will motivate me to get back to writing. It has some issues when viewed with Internet Explorer (hence the firefox link at the bottom of the side bar thing)

I wanted to use the word "Crepuscular" meaning twilightishness, but it didn't really fit. Maybe another time.

Driving back into Rolleston yesterday evening, we came across a storm that was happening. I didn't manage to hear any lightning though.... it was strangely odd....

The Tempest

Intermittent flashes of light illuminated the gathering clouds. Towering masses of vapor leaned precariously, bent by gale force winds, tortured into vast temporal edifices that spoke of the imminent storm rapidly conglomerating.

“Extensive...” Nathan said, turning his head absent mindedly to look at the meteorological display, making its presence felt over the whole district.

Something was missing. The clouds were immense, the lightning prolific, the wind had just kicked in with a vengeance, buffeting the trees, causing them to buckle and creak, making life interesting for the magpie family nesting in the unstable far reaches of the lofty eucalypts growing along the roadside. But something was not there.

Silence. Apart from the wind, the tempest was silent. Flashes of lightning came and went, unaccompanied by the usual deep boom of the thunder. It started to drizzle, making the insects that had collided with the windscreen smear on contact with the windscreen wiper. Flash. The billowing mists overhead were suddenly illuminated by another heavy duty static charge. To the southwest grey upon grey upon the blackness of the night sky. The blackness returning to its former transcendence. To the east, the lights of Christchurch igniting the low ceiling of orange tinted clouds, a rusty smear on the horizon.

Ages ago, I was going to blog about this, but I couldn't get going. I decided to finish it off tonight. I went to the "castings" for extras for the movie "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe". I didn't make it as a Centaur..... but I tried. (also, all my life I have spelt the name of the title with only one "ue". It is disturbing when something that you thought was an easy way of getting rid of the "Qu" in scrabble or upwords, is anhilliated before your very eyes..)

The Queue

The stark lines converged on one point in the distance, making the corridor seem of infinite length. The queue crept along moving at random intermittent intervals, progressing slower than a committee of procrastinators. Judging by the décor, I guessed that the building had been there since the early eighties, and by the look of some of the other people in the line, they had been there waiting since the worn carpet was newly laid, waiting with subdued anticipation.

“Fill out this form please” said the man who was probably the boss. I half disinterestedly scanned the document, trying to decide whether to start here, or wait till I was next to the table. At least this was going to occupy my mind while in line. I tried to concentrate enough to read the small print while all around was the buzz of noise that permeates through long hallways.

The Circumference of my head. They wanted to know the circumference of my head. I wondered at first whether someone was following an antiquated philosophy of anthropology, judging people’s intelligence by the size of their brains, an idea that was popular during the late 19^th century (I think). They used to think they could predict whether someone was of criminal descent (and thus likely to follow their ancestors into a life of crime) by looking at their skull shape (What the heck they thought they were doing when they started sending convicts to Aussie, I have no idea).

I don’t know about you, but I don’t keep a record of my head size to fill in the odd form that asks for it, or even to buy a hat (I’ll try it on) but I did know some other vital statistics (shoe size, height….) that the bureaucratic form could accommodate.

Nearing the doorway, almost in to where I can see some progress. I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation of the people in front of me. Thankfully, I can’t remember what it was, but for the sake of the story, I’ll synthesize a subject. The tall guy with the longish hair and the eighties sunnies took the position, That Microsoft is analogous to the Roman Catholic Church during the Reformation, Linus Torvalds is equivalent to Martin Luther, and Linux is the Doctrine of Salvation by faith alone. All the different specific flavours of Linux are comparable to the various protestant denominations, all with the kernel of that doctrine. The shorter girl with dreads was of the opinion that it wasn’t possible to use this as an analogy because of the omission of the Mac and the fact that both Win and Lin work as operating systems (as opposed to the corresponding fact that without faith it is impossible to please God)

Nearing the tail end of this egalitarian snake that is the queue, I was able to get to grips with the operation. Two people were measuring potential extras and one was taking photos while a fourth was writing names on a small whiteboard which was held by the potential applicant in an anticipatory fashion, posing for their mug shot with a smile in the hope that they would be the lucky select few that would become part of the movie for which they were cast.