Wednesday, December 8, 2010


William’s maxillae clicked nervously. He often dealt with collectives, but beehives were always daunting. Their disdain for singulars was never completely veiled, but with their stranglehold on the nectar economy and influence over the earthworking guilds (fellow collectives) their support for the project was essential.

Beside him lay a large lockshell, as long at 70cm as William was tall. It hadn’t left his sight in weeks of travelling from the vast northern wastelands, on foot initially and then (from the frontiers of southern civilization, as close to the poisonous northern soils as the arachnids dared to settle) by silk-sailer. He sniffed the lock obsessively although he could sense from arms length that his marker was uncontaminated. It held the most valuable component of his presentation: rock hard evidence that would shake the foundations of science, and society itself.

William was admitted unceremoniously. The bees must have set aside their usual prejudices because he was ushered directly into a royal chamber, accompanied by a minimally intimidating pair of drones, and into the presence of six unaccompanied queens. They waggled rapidly among themselves but regarded William with pheromonal signals of receptivity. William had only ever seen one queen although he had heard of them consulting in pairs or triads on matters of state significance; even when gene-kin, they were never known to consort without protective ranks of drones and workers.

“Begin,” they condescended in William’s native tongue, leaning closer as William nervously manipulated the lock. In agitation his tactile glands barely secreted enough to work the mechanism but, after a nervous moment, the trunk lid raised easily – the chitin being deceptively lightweight for its size and strength.

Inside lay the culmination of William’s life’s work: a portable fragment of a larger discovery that, as William would now explain to his attentive audience, would dispel their core beliefs about geological time, the reality of the endoskeleton myth, and, most shockingly, the order arthropodea’s eternal unquestioned primacy in the tree of life. Although he had a different, unpronounceable, name for it, William was presenting them with a fossilized human femur.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Single Serving Thoughts

The United Airlines safety video guy is Black Billy Bob Thornton. That’s what friends are for lyrics. Minerals, silicon and oxygen, stars are mostly hydrogen which may someday fill your car
Carbon nitrogen hydrogen oxygen.
The ones they call the elements.
The person beside me is filling in a big-5 psychology self report style questionnaire for indoctrination into a church. How about arming them with all the info they need on your way in? Why would you do that?
Now she is totalling her own scores on the back page. So they don't even have to do the data entry. There is some seriously evil shit in the world.
In-flighted Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek in Badlands. Now I know they never needed to make Natural Born Killers. There is nothing new under the sun.
Ghetto boys: every 20 seconds I be peeking out the window.
I spent the previous week in blue situation rooms punctuated by sports bars and grill meals.
Come in America and sit down. What are the ubiquitous sports screens telling us? Relax, everything is fine, drink up. Look left: football, look right: baseball, look left again: an ad for Geico. No wait, it’s football again.
Then there was a priceline negotiator ad, starring Good William Shatner and Evil William Shatner. Evil William Shatner has a goatee.
1. Super awesome, I get it.
2. But, at first take, I thought that Evil William Shatner was actually Rip Torn
3. How much awesomer would that ad have been if it really were Rip Torn vs William Shatner: THAT episode of Star Trek (or Boston Legal, or whatever he is in now, Shit My Dad Says?) needs to be made.

Monday, November 22, 2010


I only listen to music which has been imprinted live on the short term memories of newborn infants whose temporal lobes have then been liquefied and drained out through holes drilled in through their fontanelles - I cook the unadulterated sound experience brain jelly down in a solution of colloidal gold and monkeyfuck heroin and mainline the resulting hash using a nineteenth century veterinarians cattle doping hypodermic that my stepfather poozled from an abandoned central otago miners hut in 1982. So you and your sennheiser noise canceling headphones can go fuck yourselves.

Saturday, October 30, 2010


You lie quiet and indifferent to us beneath the inversion layer at the foot of Mount Iron
We wait for the sun to break through and lick away the June-hardened dew
By the time it does you will be gone, beyond the reach of any frosty morning breath-held air or our numb fingers
We'll hold you warm in our hearts
Although it is more for our comfort than for yours

Friday, July 16, 2010

What's Wrong With

Dunedin weather
Hailstones battle their conscience
To become snowflakes

Dunedin Ice Stadium, formerly just Dunedin Stadium. They turned the heaters off.


There is a silence that pervades a Philosophy seminar room before a lecture begins. Normal people have at least some friends to talk to. People who progress to fourth year philosophy seem to do it… alone.

The Artists Wank and every other NLP FITH-Syndrome POS self-help-fuckery out there:

Violence begets violence, crap begets crap. It’s the actualisation of aggression.
You can’t “do extra poo” every morning in order to have less shit in your life overall.
You can’t give your pimples a fucken’ good squeeze in the hope that they don’t come back.
Your mind will behave the way you train it to: do you want to “actualise” negative crap for a compulsory part of every day, forever?
It’s the thin edge of the Christian wedge.
“Okay, so you don’t have to call it God, just pray to it, every day, like we do…”
It’s brainwashing, routine. It’s learning a new skill.
Your mind will do what you train it to do. It will physically reorganise itself into something stupider.
It’s called “use-dependant organisation”

“I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided I’ll give it a miss” – Frank Murphy
“Fuck dying” – Ice Cube
At my funeral I want them to play “Uncle Remus’ by Frank Zappa, and some Mr. Bungle. Close it on Dead Goon.
I want them to play “time” by Tom Waits.


poor little rat(3) bashes away on her levers to get some sweetened condensed milk goodness. She has 9:45 minutes:seconds
My rat(3) is figuring out that she can clean up the VI60 reinforcers by just checking every now and then… smart little fucker. Still seems to think the payout on VI20 is effort related, though. Dumb little fucker. It must suck being a rat for a living. I hope I get a job making the world a better place for people, not a worse place for rats.

There is a model of speech perception, and indeed consciousness itself, called TRACE, wherein “the most activated neural network will send inhibitory signals to its competitors”
There you go – a biological basis for totalitarianism

Bonus tracks:
Sometimes I forget that endless nameless is even there… I’m just trucking along, doing whatever it was I was doing before with the music playing real loud, only it’s gone dead quiet. It’s been dead quiet for nearly 10 minutes, and I didn’t notice. And then the next thing you know…

Paranoia. Paranoia doesn’t reduce.
(This paragraph has been heavily redacted, still makes the same point though).

Teddy bears:
The cost of teddy bear repairs is prohibitive. These bears are not for children… Teddy’s stitches will leave scars. Not fine enough. No health plan. The cotton is the wrong colour, the joints won’t articulate properly.

High school:
All the things I wish I’d said. All the things I wish I’d learned.
Things I wish I’d learned?
What might make the world a better place is if people didn’t leave school with a list of things they wished they’d learned.

Sensing Murder:
The numerologist who keeps having break-downs. Now, if you're going to pursue talking to the dead for a living, you might need to harden up a little. Go find some people who died nicely to talk to and calm the fuck down. It's like a person who is oversensitive to animal cruelty insisting on being a butcher at the abattoir. “*sobbing* Oh my god, they all died so horribly... what happened here? Jesus they cut them into little pieces... Stop filming me for a minute...”

Rock Ballads:

Sequels. I’m looking at you, Unforgiven II

Freezing works:
Desensitised? Don’t make me laugh. And then something about about cows. Zap, thud, slit throat, hooves off then head, hanging from the roof by ankles, skin comes off then guts tumble out into the offal chute… Mince pie for lunch.

Vampires are retarded.

Coming Next Update: What’s Wrong With YOU?

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Whining about wine.

Responding to

Another night, another two or three casks of red ridge claret. They do drag on, these tuesday-thursday evenings, squirting $12 boxes into $36 dollar decanters for $6 undergraduate political phillosophy majors out to impress their design-studies delittentes. Suppress a sigh and move on. The less they know about the anti-freeze infused fermented grape juice the more they might wax lyrical about the dirty cafe ambience, the deeper meaning they might inscribe to the artsy flickering-crucifix-filament electric candles that adorn the walls and the table-top electric candelabrae. It's not really a post-Nietzchean commentary on the withering lens of ecclesiatical judaism turned in upon itself, pal. I happen to know the guy that makes them for two bucks apiece out of his girlfriend's parent's unused basement workshop to support himself through the harsher winter months. If the poppies grew wild at the roadside all year round, he probably woudn't even bother.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Which nut are you?

The great thing is I think we can and have all been at various times:

The first shirtless nut, the first follower, or any one of the gathering multitide.

It works as a model of fire evolution. Keep lookin' while you're cookin'.

I also have a nagging doubt that I have often been the first shirtless guy with _no_ first follower...

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Whining About Mining - Reflections from the edge of an East Otago open pit gold mine

The Pit
It’s an open wound. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe because it’s not a metaphor - it really is an open wound. What are they doing down there? Hard to say if it’s infection or surgery: it’s metallic, mechanical, an automated surgical procedure. But it’s also yellow like pus, like infection; and so small from here, on the lip of the wound. They’re bacteria, crawling around in the heart of the wound.

It’s enormous. That’s the second thing that comes to mind. Why the second? Because it is so big, from here on the edge, that you can’t even take it all in. You only look at little parts, far away. A yellow truck lumbers along in the distance. You could fit a modest house in the back of it.

The Mound
It’s a lake. A poisonous dry lake. As large as the pit, and as deep, but completely flat; filled in. When you stand on the edge of it you are close to the action. There's a crackly electrical energy, like standing under high load pylons, an imminent death. You could dip your toes in, if it were water. If it is a lake the water is tan, like dirt. It’s really a fine sediment, like the mudflats just an hour downstream from here, where you might find flounder and skates. But nothing lives here. This mudflat is washed by a cyanide tide. Possum poison, infused with the soil, and poured into a natural fissure in the landscape. We are ever hopeful it won’t go anywhere from here: it looks so sluggish. Hard to imagine it could escape. Especially if you don’t try.

Friday, March 5, 2010


we studied the process of writing in primary school
first giraffe, second giraffe, third giraffe, final copy
manky old bits of brown paper, maybe newsprint
will become final copy on cartridge paper, put in
some pictures
to get a stamp

I couldn’t be happier to have no unit standards

now Ches and Dale meet in the supermarket
I feel old and stupid, telling my child where I first
met these unemployed icons, restructured
farm labourers
are they in this commercial for penance? work for the dole
I wonder what they did to deserve that
hit by a drought, choked by a bloated dollar

still their kid, like mine, seems to like the cheese
it’s finest cheddar... by-products