Why can't Mars be like Ray Bradbury's Mars? That'd be cool!
"LE GARAGE! LE GARAGE-RAGE! LE GARAGE! LE GARAGE-RAGE!"
I am running on the walls in this here room to that fine sonic delicacy provided by the next best thing since Franz Ferdinand, the gospel brit-pop-punk band The Futureheads. Y'now, it's that good breed of punk? The type you can dance to - not that whiny screamy mascara-eyed minor chord repetitive pushy ass-wiped bully-fucking shit. Y'now the type "who cares if the music is bad! The lyrics are sick!. Death to authority! Lets shove people and scream ourselves deaf! RAWK ONNNNNN! Yey conformity!! WOOOOOOO!" - yeah, so I may a bit anti-punkoid, but I listen to music for pleasure, not for deafness and sonic frequencies comparable to a thousand rusty nails on a large chalkboard, accompanied by those who can't sing but decide to yell instead.
ahem, before I go off on too long of a rant, I just downloaded the Film supplementary application for York - some crazy stuff, I need to answer a shiteload of questions, write an essay on my favourite 5 minute sequence in a film (how about any 5 minutes from a Charlie Kauffman movie? Or the Matrix), annnnnd I also have to write a 250 word story including "a spark", "something tight", and a "misunderstanding" - here's what I have so far:
Lab Rat
The labyrinth was perpetual in a sense. It never ended, in fact it never began. The synthetic hedges were too tall to climb over, too thick to burrow through, and the cemented ground hindered any attempts of digging a hole under the walls. The disorientation, the fatigue, the madness which engulfed Christophe, could only be distilled with the last breath of sanity - from the sight of the sky; the many twinkling spectators amidst the darkness of the seating area. At least he was not alone. As time slugged on, the walls grew tighter, preparing him for the final squeeze in the great one's vice. Christophe ignored his claustrophobia, by simply imagining that he was shrinking at the same rate and proportions of the shifting walls. Thirty-three more left turns, in the shadowy palms of the night, and unexpectedly Christophe tripped on the foot of a ghost. At least that was the only valid explanation that Chrisophe's ambivalent conciousness could provide. Contrarily, it was not the foot of death, but the foot of life. A sprawling growth in the fractured cement. A tree. Christophe wiped the rubicund juice peppered with dust and tiny crumbs of rock from his jaw, and gasped in simultaneous awe and pain. Through this process of gasping, Christophe noticed a peculiar alteration in the air which inflated his lungs. It was saturated, with oxygen! He grasped a spindly branch of the newfound life and broke it off with a loud snap. The clouds parted, flicking on the adequate spotlight the moon provided. Christophe could see more and more of the spindly trees along the pathway - the first change in scenery it seemed since the beginning of the test. The trees were not of Earth; they bore no fruit or nut, nor leaf or needle, but rigid tentacle shaped branches. Christophe attempted to climb them numerous times, yet the hedges still towered too tall. He tried pulling at the roots, lifting the cracked cement, and even building a ladder from the wood he gathered. None of his experiments fulfilled their purpose, or their hypotheses. Christophe eventually gave up, wiped the condensation from his glasses due to the night's scrupulous physical activities, and collapsed in the nest of the hallway forest. That morning, Christophe awoke to the thick odorous vapours of smoke. He looked down at his feet, where his spectacles lay, glinting in the sunlight.
ok... so it isn't 250 words, and I haven't completed it yet - but yeah, I'll post the condensed edited version in the near future.
well seen as the keyboard is acting unresponsive today, I must end the blog here.
so.... take it ease.
Jamersoid
I am running on the walls in this here room to that fine sonic delicacy provided by the next best thing since Franz Ferdinand, the gospel brit-pop-punk band The Futureheads. Y'now, it's that good breed of punk? The type you can dance to - not that whiny screamy mascara-eyed minor chord repetitive pushy ass-wiped bully-fucking shit. Y'now the type "who cares if the music is bad! The lyrics are sick!. Death to authority! Lets shove people and scream ourselves deaf! RAWK ONNNNNN! Yey conformity!! WOOOOOOO!" - yeah, so I may a bit anti-punkoid, but I listen to music for pleasure, not for deafness and sonic frequencies comparable to a thousand rusty nails on a large chalkboard, accompanied by those who can't sing but decide to yell instead.
ahem, before I go off on too long of a rant, I just downloaded the Film supplementary application for York - some crazy stuff, I need to answer a shiteload of questions, write an essay on my favourite 5 minute sequence in a film (how about any 5 minutes from a Charlie Kauffman movie? Or the Matrix), annnnnd I also have to write a 250 word story including "a spark", "something tight", and a "misunderstanding" - here's what I have so far:
Lab Rat
The labyrinth was perpetual in a sense. It never ended, in fact it never began. The synthetic hedges were too tall to climb over, too thick to burrow through, and the cemented ground hindered any attempts of digging a hole under the walls. The disorientation, the fatigue, the madness which engulfed Christophe, could only be distilled with the last breath of sanity - from the sight of the sky; the many twinkling spectators amidst the darkness of the seating area. At least he was not alone. As time slugged on, the walls grew tighter, preparing him for the final squeeze in the great one's vice. Christophe ignored his claustrophobia, by simply imagining that he was shrinking at the same rate and proportions of the shifting walls. Thirty-three more left turns, in the shadowy palms of the night, and unexpectedly Christophe tripped on the foot of a ghost. At least that was the only valid explanation that Chrisophe's ambivalent conciousness could provide. Contrarily, it was not the foot of death, but the foot of life. A sprawling growth in the fractured cement. A tree. Christophe wiped the rubicund juice peppered with dust and tiny crumbs of rock from his jaw, and gasped in simultaneous awe and pain. Through this process of gasping, Christophe noticed a peculiar alteration in the air which inflated his lungs. It was saturated, with oxygen! He grasped a spindly branch of the newfound life and broke it off with a loud snap. The clouds parted, flicking on the adequate spotlight the moon provided. Christophe could see more and more of the spindly trees along the pathway - the first change in scenery it seemed since the beginning of the test. The trees were not of Earth; they bore no fruit or nut, nor leaf or needle, but rigid tentacle shaped branches. Christophe attempted to climb them numerous times, yet the hedges still towered too tall. He tried pulling at the roots, lifting the cracked cement, and even building a ladder from the wood he gathered. None of his experiments fulfilled their purpose, or their hypotheses. Christophe eventually gave up, wiped the condensation from his glasses due to the night's scrupulous physical activities, and collapsed in the nest of the hallway forest. That morning, Christophe awoke to the thick odorous vapours of smoke. He looked down at his feet, where his spectacles lay, glinting in the sunlight.
ok... so it isn't 250 words, and I haven't completed it yet - but yeah, I'll post the condensed edited version in the near future.
well seen as the keyboard is acting unresponsive today, I must end the blog here.
so.... take it ease.
Jamersoid
posted by J-kash at 6:39 PM
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