This place needed an update, so here’s one.
In Chemistry today, we were learning about titration reactions.
"Because of the unlimited demand for tits, and the limited supply, the economic problem can be answered by tit rations!" – Jacob Moffit, 2006.
"Little does Mr Lambourne know, I hid a bottle of buthane in my clay sculpture." -Jacob again. Buthane explodes, btw, and hiding it in a furnace is a stroke of genius.
Vinga-chiva finally came in handy. Paul had it coming, and in a headlock…  I had to eat my choc-top.
-I got close to my first genuine fight at Trinity. I actually wanted to hurt him. I could have snapped his neck if I used more strength to… yeah. And it was justified, because he initiated, and had me in a head lock.
-My knuckle is bleeding. I scraped it on a locker or my books by accident, but Jacob asked me who I had been fighting. He knew the reason. Ben wondered if I had clipped someone on the teeth.
Vinga-chiva is a Capoeira move where you step behind the opponent and trip them. Because Paul was in front of me, it was easy. He didn’t let go when he was tripped though, and it brought us both to the ground, where I piledrived him with my elbow.  I wanted to hurt him, because he was being an asshole and was pretending to rape me again. I saw a picture today, when he had me in a headlock- I looked pitiful. Apparently he wants to get me back for Friday. If he does try something, I think I’ll be inclined to fight back.
Patrick taught me something today. Yes Patrick, you. That I’m even weaker than I thought. Physically, I don’t know why. Genetics or just environment, but regardless of the reason, anyone of decent strength could reverse a strangle-hold because I’m just not strong enough to keep them locked. I’ll stick to kicks and jabs and rely on speed to counter. Maybe I do suck at fighting? Very possibly, but until I get into a real fight, with someone I genuinely want to hurt, then I can’t say. It’s terrible of me, but I’m going to try and nudge Paul into it. He’s a more than worthy opponent.

God damn you all!

(except you, dear readers.)

Over the past few days, I’ve been pushed closer and closer to the edge. I just wanted to write this post so you have some idea of what I’m going through. I considered keeping this to myself and dealing with it like that, but hell, I’m too close to snapping, and I just want someone to realise that I’m losing it.

Seriously, don’t tease me for a day or two. I might hurt you. I punched Brendan Morphett for filling in for Paul with the whole "I wanna make love to you John Marshall" gag. I momentarily crippled Stephen’s fingers. Yesterday in Economics, I was temporarily delusioned and spent the entire lesson laughing hysterically at any excuse. I make quite an ass of myself in public, you know. So yes, first sign, I lost lucidity during class, and made two violent attempts. I sat up suddenly, towards the end of the lesson, declaring,
"I’ve got it! Violence is a psychological orgasm!"
Just feels so damn good, and you want to hold on to it for as long as possible. It looks like I’m not so masochistic after all. I fear for my control, and I believe this is something like what [Ahldrunnia (sp?)] is going through.

I’m not gay, God damn you, because I write poetry. Sure, the romantic poets were mostly homosexual, smoked all kinds of weird stuff, and were as promiscuous as you could get. But just because I imitate the style of romantic literature doesn’t make me gay! Just because I’m strange doesn’t mean I’m queer. I heard Aaron in Year 12 ask someone if I was gay; he was the Cairos member in charge of my Peer Ministry. That was a fricking slash, to the heart or wrist, whichever is more liable. Caring and being sensitive doesn’t mean you’re a transvestite.

Damn your determination to hate everything that’s different. Damn you all!


[please forgive this rant. I needed to be angry for a little while. I’ll try and calm down before school, but just in case, remember not to tease me today.]


Imagine, if you will, that heaven is a myth.
What reason is there to live?
Now picture, if you can, all that waits for us is hell.
Do you still want to die?


How’s that for emo? Asses.

Ubiquitous Unity

Dear residents of earth,
I love you all. Even though you may not know it, you might not accept it, or you refuse to believe it, I love you. I can’t always tell you this to your face, but just know that it’s true that deep down in my heart, there is a place for everyone. Especially you. Yes, you. I thank you, very sincerely, for taking the time to listen to what I have to say, and care enough to read my astranged entries.
"I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it."
-Denis Diderot, Evelyn Beatrice Hall, or Voltaire.
(There’s some speculation about who really said it, but it was Mr Watson who said it to me. So it is, I thank him.)

An essay- moderately long

Paraphrase of the question: "Every narrator has some bias to his words. Discuss reader position in The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald."
There is no such thing as an impartial narrator. This is especially true of "The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzerald, of which the narrator is a middle-aged man named Nick Carraway, who is insinuating and subtle in his use of words.
From the very first few pages of the book, Nick spends a great deal of time making it known to the read that he is always impartial and reserves judgement. This is, of course, a lie. Nick was the product of F. S. Fitzgerald, and because the novel was written by a human being – that is to say, Fitzgerald sat down and chose words to express his intent (much like I am doing now), certain words were used to evoke certain reactions.
Fundamentally, truth is a perception. Because Nick was designed (if you will) to be human, his own choice of words when retelling the tale he called "The Great Gatsby", he was biased even to start. "Great" is a matter of opinion, and so from the moment you even read the title of the novel, you (as a reader) are being positioned and manipulated to see the world through Nick’s eyes.
Nick Carraway is a character actively involved with the events of the story, as well as being the narrator of it. If truth is really a perception based on past experience, then Nick’s experience as a first-person narrator are already positioned to see the world in a certain way. That said, everything you (as a reader) subsequently read was told by a narrator who wants you to see his side of things. Because all narrators were born of human invention, it is safe to say that every story, novel or text ever written will be biased in some form or another. When an author writes a story and tells it using the narrator as the medium, that author must choose the words in which the narrator will tell the story through. Quite simply, regardless of what the narrator might claim (such as being impartial and never letting involvement effect judgement), it is ultimately the author putting words into his or her mouth, so to speak.
A reader’s own interpretation of a story relies most heavily on his (or her) own context. As aforementioned, truth is your own view on a matter based on oyur past experiences (or in other words, context) that shape your current weltenshaung (or view of the world). This means that how you interpret a story- "The Great Gatsbye" for example- is up to how you choose to see it. The narrator of a story will present to you a tale of events in one light, but it is then the choice of the reader to accept the view he (or she) has been given, or to seek alternative ways of interpretation. A story is only a representation of the world; that is to say, someone’s perception of how things might be. The nature of alternative or oppositional readings is to find different interpretations of the story, whether on a tangeant or directly opposing the perception the narrator just fed us.
No story that was ever written by a human hand, or ever invented by a human mind, is free of bias. "The Great Gatsby" is no exception to this, despite the proof Nick tried to claim. Christening a stranger "Owl Eyes" is hardlesunbiased, or describing someone as beautiful (for is it not "true" that all things are beautiful if only you find the beauty in them?). Every word Nick wrote came from the inevitably biased hand of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and so no reader is free from some degree of manipulation, unless the narrator shares precisely the same views as the reader.
This was written in the final hour of a 190 minute exam. I was understandably tired, and sick of writing and thinking. I got just a little laidback in my style and practically engaged in conversation with Mr Watson, who marked it. Don’t start me on where I went wrong. Instead, I’ll just give you the mark.
9/25, or 36%.
John, be warned. Lit essays are not opportunities for you to [opine?] and pilodophise. You are called upon to develop an argument based on the text which interrogates the concepts and directives of the question. This account is extremely limited in these areas.
Average of 48% over the three essays I wrote for my literature exam. I was hoping to get at least 70%, for I let myself believe I did reasonably well. Alas, presumptious old me was given his comeuppance for arrogance and philosphy. I’ll do better at the poetry unit. At least, I’m presuming I will. I must redeem myself. *sigh*

A poet’s nightmare

I had a nightmare last night. I don’t remember what it was about, but I knew it gripped me with fear, and all I was concerned about (in this whole entire world) was surviving. This disturbed me. Fear is.. is just about as evil as you can get.
Anyway, what I wanted to say was that it was curious. It must have been during my light sleep (stages of sleep, deep and light and all that) because I was aware that I was dreaming, and very badly wanted to wake up. I remember struggling to move my fingers as I was scared of whatever I was dreaming about. I couldn’t open my eyes, they took far, far too much effort, and my mouth refused to open to let out any sort of noise. I was trapped in a nightmare, too weak to free myself. It was with tremendous struggle I forced my eyelids open, but after this strain, was too exhausted to keep them that way, and fell back to sleep. It was a more pleasant dream, this time.
Curious, if you ask me, but very few people ask me. Captain? Your thoughts?
In other news, my poem for the day! For the yesterday, actually. This was NOT written by me, but rather, found on the poetry site we were looking at in English yesterday. Whoever wrote it could not have done a better job. It’s beautiful.

Magnificent Existence


God has made existence magnificent,
He has made it through nonexistence.
He has concealed the sea
And exposed the foam,
Concealed the wind and displayed the dust.
The whirling dust flies like a dancer,
The wind is invisible, known only by trust,
The foam moves all about you,
But without the sea no whirling takes place.
Thought is hidden, speech is manifest.


I don’t know what time it is. Period 3 on a Tuesday. I’m failing maths. Like, literally failing maths. No long is this an idle threat- it is malignant, and worthy of serious contemptation. 80’s and up are A’s. Under 65’s are C’s. I’m a D. Brad Shaw’s down here with me, tying for worst in class, at 46%. This is my all time lowest point in maths. I may have to sacrifice those $15 a week and take up tuition. [My mother pays me an additional $15 on top of my pocket money if I don’t take tuition, because it’s cheaper for her.] My income just dropped 25% at the cost of doing well in maths. I genuinely don’t know if it was worth it.


My Reading List has been changed to my Reading, Writing and Watching list. I would imagine if I were to work consecutively for three months I would get it done. That’s with scant sleep. If you were to add the video games I have to play, as well, (Prince of Persia, Windwaker, Ocarina of Time, Crystal Shards, soon to be Twilight Princess [OMFG!!!] and all those merciful classics I wish I had played, like Lost Kingdoms…) We’re talking about a year, maybe three. And all this while I re-start Gunbound. I think I’ll just delete my account to save me the agony of wasting my life on it.

EDIT: Oh, I forgot to mention, there are about 25 fanfics I want to read from an author known as Canihaveasoda. A chapter takes about 20 minutes, so collectively we’re looking at a fornight’s reading, if I do nothing else. All this while I have school and half a social life to maintain.


DOUBLE EDIT: Also have to watch "Shakespeare in Love"


I just watched X-Men 3: The Last Stand with my brother. Good movie, with tremendous flaws. Won’t ruin anything if you haven’t seen it, but that ending was a slash to the heart. And that clip after the credits? Damn. Anyways, I watched X-Men 2 a few days ago to get into the X-men mood, and when Jean was holding off the water from reaching the jet… The cinematography (if that’s the right word) sent a shiver down my spine, and my eyes closed themselves to the screen and invented this little clip. I paused the movie to write it. Funnily enough, it could have happened.


They say that when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. It doesn’t. All you have time for is to remember the one thing that means the most to you, before it’s all snatched away by the relentless, murdering scythe of death.

I felt that now, as I tapped into the power I never knew existed and parted the water, like Moses. The power of one of natures greatest forces threw itself at me with Thor’s Hammer. I gasped for breath as my left hand behind me raised the jet from the snow. Inside, I could feel Scott’s anguish, but I knew what I was doing. It was the only way.

With a spur of psychic waves, I launched the jet into the sky, and within me, I could feel the power burning. My eyes grew hot as the feeling rushed through my veins, and fire rushed across my body. I had no fear that it would harm me, for it left only a tingling on my skin, and as the flame grew, I felt my power explode exponentially. Lowering myself into a crouch, I burst from the ground, wings of fire erupting from my back, and I spread my arms to the sky.
“Phoenix!” I cried, though I know not why. The hydro tempest hissed beneath me, clearing the land of trees and anything that stood in its way, and I rose above it uncertainly. I was on fire… I was unstoppable. These were the only two things in the world that I was certain of.

The jet hadn’t yet noticed me, and so I dropped from beneath them and shot across the surface of the water. I couldn’t go back to them; not yet. I needed time by myself. Time to see what my new powers had given me. I tensed, and the fire shot out around me into the shape of a soaring bird.
“Phoenix,” I whispered this time. “I am your goddess.”

Chess, anyone?

This is a rather terrible story that I wrote just now. I’ve been meaning to, for a long time, write a story based on a chess game- two armies, two kings. The names Hamlet and Fortinbras are just names which I threw in for fun, and it was with some difficulty I managed to write this. I’m better at telling than re-telling, but I played a game of chess with myself and put it into words- a re-telling.

Inspired by the movie Moonlight, where a single knight surged against an evil army and slay dozens to reach the king. During the movie, there was a scene where the evil king inspected a chess board, where a single white knight challenged a sea of black.

I consider this project a failure, for I gave up on making it sound like a real battle halfway through, but perhaps you have the patience to think otherwise. Personally though, I couldn’t care much less. I wanted to write it, I wrote it, it’s ghastly, but it was written. I can finally cross something off my To-Do list.



[story deleted]


Upon reflection,  it was that bad. It isn’t worth publishing, but hell, at least I wrote it.

The Day My Book Went Roundabout

I set down “The Tale of the Otori Trilogy”, a truly fabulous collection of books by Lian Hearn (who’s real name I’ve forgotten). Nevertheless, I didn’t want to go slugging around an 800 page book for the evening, so I left it on the table in good faith- it was a Christian gathering, it would be safe. I went inside, after the mass, for a small dinner with everyone else who came- Father Michael (from school) was great friends with everyone, even if he didn’t know them. That’s why I love him so much, but more on that later. Continuing, I eventually went back outside and collected my book from the table when we were planning to leave.

Unbeknownst to me, an Aboriginal boy had taken my book a long time ago. He was about 8, I think, and when Father Mac saw him carrying it, he asked him if it was his. It was not, and with a grin, the priest said (I can imagine),
“I think you’d better put that back where you found it.”

Father’s masses are largely for the Aboriginal community. He loves and accepts all without prejudice, or any sort of judgement, and I admire him greatly. What I don’t understand is why the boy took it. I had asked the kids at the mass (ordered to by my dad) if they could sing in the choir. None of them could read, so I nodded and thanked them anyway. Dad said the reason why he took it was because it was in his nature to- that’s how he was brought up. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Eugene neither agreed nor disagreed, and when I tried to defend the boy, Dad raised his voice and gave the “I’ve lived forty years longer than you” speech, about all the experience from his days. While I don’t doubt all he’s seen and endured, I don’t believe it fair to close your heart to stereotypes.

But then Eugene joined in by mentioning all the abuse and whatnot that runs in Aboriginal families. He says education would solve just about everything. I have to take his word on it for that one. My father is racist because he has suffered much racism, and it has turned him callous. My mother is racist because she was brought up believing that Chinese culture is the greatest in the world, and that it shouldn’t be mixed with anything else. My brother, I am unsure of, but he seems rational in his love. Me? I want to love everyone, and ignore how people look like, but I’m being warned on all sides that they’re bad folk. I’m not sure if I’m being impractical for ignoring the obvious.

Example. Red Cross Soup Patrol- riding around in a soup van and giving cups of soup and loaves of bread to the homeless. One lady came up, and she looked a mess. I didn’t know what had happened to her, but I pitied her greatly and wished I could change her life for the better. My partner for the night said she was probably wishing she could get her hands on more drugs. I know he was probably right, but I hadn’t considered it until he told me. I had ignored the obvious.

Father Mac is a legendary figure because he is not racist at all. He becomes mates with everyone who exists, and they come to love and respect him because he loves and respects them. That, my friends, is what Christianity is all about. But I just can’t do it. I’m too scared that if I were to start chatting with an Aborigine, we’d have nothing to say, or he’d swear at me. That’s racist, for even considering it as a possibility. Let me remind you of the time two different groups of Aborigines tried to steal from my bag, while I was wearing it, on the way home from school. A bunch of abo (not racist, just shorting the word) kids threw rocks at my Mum’s car for no apparent reason- they were about 5, 7 and 9.

It is a sad society we live in, to have done this to the people who lived here first. We were ‘cultured’ enough to make guns, so we were the ones who came, who saw, and who conquered. And after that, the racism hasn’t finished since, because of our bitterness to the Aboriginal ancestors, who in turn were bitter to us. This bitterness has passed through generations of children who live on two different sides of the social barrier. What will it take to break that barrier down?

I apologise for the long read. I’ve just had a lot on my mind to think about. Love is always worth giving, isn’t it? But what if that love is not returned, and I end up losing my wallet or something because of it?


Question for the day:

What would you give to save the life of a total stranger? Say, if time was frozen, and this person needed your help to survive, how much would you give to save them?

PS: In response to Georgie’s comment, the only people who would read a two-page story (Microsoft Word) is someone who enjoys it, or is told to. If you see a diary entry that long, pretty much the only reason you would read it is because you want to see what’s being said. Because you don’t mind how long something is, as long as you enjoy it. That is the only way I have managed to survive reading the Captain’s entries, which are considerably longer (2-4 times) than my own.