I want to write.

All the time.

Subjects flit in and out of the periphery of my consciousness, to be replaced, overlapped and fused together by others.

I sit, silently cursing my nonchalant, arrogant response to what one could consider the seed of a brilliant insightful piece; the literary equivalent of a butterfly catcher devoid of a net, that awakens to find himself in a field in springtime and can only watch as everything he has ever desired swirls around him, yet can do nothing but watch helplessly.

At times I wonder if the humorous overtones that I so deftly deploy in the majority of what I produce serves not only to avoid serious criticism from the audience, but as a smokescreen to my own flailing self-confidence. A topic of utmost gravity becomes a shadowy figure of it's own possibility, not only in my mind, but the mind of the reader, and sometimes I am powerless to stop it.

The meandering, verbal journeys produced by those butterflies should at times be allowed to roam free, no matter what the subject, or the cost.

At times I want to write for nothing other than the sheer joy of creating. I simply long for the journey. Not for the destination, or the origin, but the meandering sprawl of everything in between. To walk slowly along a stream; to stand silently, omnipotently above a neon city at night; to lay sprawled on dusty, red clay as we did as children and watch ants scurry; to touch someone's hand for the first breathless time, and everything in between.

All I need is a net.

The rest is up to me.

I figured it was time my rather languid-looking LiveJournal got a facelift, so after much deliberation, and a plethora of what were they thinking-type designs perused, here is the end result.


Also, I've just started my own DJ School here in Canberra, so I'll be including all the information about what's going on with this venture here.

More information to follow shortly...

For those of you that have ever seen a movie entitled 'Office Space' wherein a fiercely annoying lump of a woman proclaims to anyone with less than a rictus grin that they appear to have a 'case of the Mondays', I, today, am a thoroughly suitable candidate.

Having had a weekend which I considered to be wholly enjoyable, I appear to have woken up this morning in a mood diametrically opposed to the general bonhomie I have experienced over the past two days.
In short, I am completely devoid of mirth.

Perhaps this is the non-pharmaceutical version of 'Suicidal Tuesday', that well-known period following an ecstasy-fuelled weekend, whereupon you awaken feeling like you've just been dumped by Tila Tequila because you weren't smart/tall enough.
In short, you have no logical reason to continue living.

Today I articulate this by staring hatefully into the soulless eyes of any public servant (yes, I do realise the irony), that comes within striking distance of me.

Fear my caffeine-deprived wrath..somewhat.


"When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows".. - Hamlet, Act I, iii

I'm not exactly sure where to start with the "dining experience" I had recently. I was told Element was one of the best restaurants Canberra had to offer, but

Most of the meals (we chose the Deg menu; $98 inclusive per head including wine), were disappointingly devoid of flavour, but when it came to the dessert, well, this deserves it's own explanation.

My partner had the Vanilla Brulee, and I chose the rather exotic-sounding "Chilli Chocolate Mud Cake".
Now, I do consider myself to have a fairly mature palate with respect to all things edible, but to say that the chef was a little heavy-handed with the chilli would be like saying Dannii Minogue has had a 'little work done'. I've consumed Vindaloo Curries with less kick than this.
After draining the contents of my partner's water glass and a nearby vase, I waited for the steam to clear so we could converse further.

Suggesting that we depart (in order for me to head home to apply aloe vera to my now rather numb mouth), we made our way to the cashier, who (before the transaction had taken place), inquired as to our meal. My partner advised him of the wait between courses and also the molten mud cake.

His response? "Thanks, I'll let the chef know. That'll be $197 thanks".

To sum up, I am reminded of something my mother used to say to me, 'I'm not angry, I'm just incredibly disappointed'.

And I was.