I Can't Think of a Title

I have decided to write normal blogs in between posts of Collide-o-scope Eyes. Don't worry though, consider it a break in the routine. Besides, writing fiction is hard business, so writing non-fiction gives me a breather.


Fiction mainly revolves around making shit up (obviously), and making "good" shit up is a hard thing to do if you're stressed. Or tired. Or uninspired. Or bored. Or disturbed (not crazy/disturbed, but pestered/disturbed). Or angry.
Non-fiction on the other hand, is a bit fairly easier to write. One reason: it's real, and you can't make reality stuff up (unless you work for reality shows). Just honesty, that's all. I have one problem though, my reality and fiction usually get mixed up. I'm not even sure if this is real.

That is all.

The Ghostwriter

Collide-o-scope Eyes part 5

This is a part of the Collide-o-scope Eyes series. Click here if to read part 1

Wednesday morning at 5 o'clock as the day begins. Woke up, fell out of bed. Dragged a comb across my head. Went downstairs and had a cup. Looking up, i noticed i was late. Late for what?
I forgot i was out of the case. I need to do something to let the time pass. I shot my wall. Why the fuck did i do that?
I was fixing a hole where the bullet went in to stop my mind from wandering. Boredom can make a man mad. The idle mind is the devil's playground, and all that jazzy shit. It doesn't really matter when i'm wrong, i know i'm right. That Lady Madonna was behind all this. Shit.
My mobile rang. Unknown number. Let me guess, the Walrus?
"Hello? Walrus? Is that you?"
"No. It's me, Mr. Kite."
"My mistake. What is it? For you to know, i'm out of the case, so don't bother me with anything related to it."
"Oh, it's nothing about that. I don't really care about the money. It can't buy me love. Lady Madonna proved to me that."
"Heh." That was all i could say.
"Cheeky bastard. Get over here, i've got something to show you."
"You're going nowhere, man. What are you talking about?"
"Something."
"I'll be on my way."
He hung up.

Okey, what the fuck was that all about? I'm sick and tired of riddles. I don't want to look through a glass onion again. FUCK. My mind was a mess.

Found my coat and grabbed my hat. Good thing i caught the bus. My car had a flat.
This is gonna be a long and winding road.

to be continued

Music and Me

I like music. Who doesn't? Well, maybe that douchebag thinks that music is a waste of time, but that's beside the point.
When i was just in first grade, my first instrument was a tremelo harmonica. A Hero Harmonica with 32 holes(16 double reed). I lost interest, and playing was forgotten for a while.
In fourth grade, i still didn't know much about bands and rock and roll. My dad turned on the radio one sunday, and the DJ played A Hard Days Night. That's when i discovered the Beatles for the very first time. As i grew older, my love for music grew.
High School. I started to listen to The Cure. And Nirvana. And Metallica. And Oasis. Even listened to the occasional hip-hop track. Basically, i was into rock. I discovered Daft Punk, Bloc Party, Radioactive Sago Project, and Eraserheads. Basically, i liked stuff kids at my school would never listen to. I never did like pop. Pop will always be low-brow. I hated Aqua. I loathed the sound of Rap-metal. It was the bastard child of two great music genres. FUCK YOU LIMP BIZKIT. I AM DISGUSTED BY YOUR MUSIC.
College. My Beatles obsession took over me. Sported a moptop (an "Arthur", if you will), and made it grow long. When it was the right length, i backcombed it. I started to resemble Robert Smith. Music took over my fashion sense. Wore nothing but black, but i stayed away from make up. I already look naturally pale.
Now, i'm beginning to learn guitar and bass guitar, and bought myself a new harmonica (another tremelo. a diatonic is hard to find in my area). Might start a band soon, once i master my instruments.
Until then, i'll be creating poems and songs.

Collide-o-scope Eyes part 4

this is part 4 of Collide-o-scope Eyes. To read the beginning, click here.

I woke up in a hospital bed. The pretty nurse was selling poppies from a tray. Why the fuck was she doing that anyway?
Aside from the nurse, no one else was there. The nurse went out of the room. I'm all alone now. I really need some Coca-cola right now.

Sgt. Pepper entered the room, with a basket of green apples in hand. The damn blue meanie, he knows i fucking hate green apples. Fuckwit.
"I read the news today."
"Oh boy." I knew he was joking. He NEVER reads the newspaper. He'd rather hear it from the barber on Penny Lane.
"So, how are Hal?"
"I'm in a damn hospital bed, damn it. Isn't it obvious? I'M HAVING THE TIME OF MY DAMN BLOODY LIFE!" No, i wasn't using sarcasm in that remark. I really was enjoying myself in the hospital bed. Gotta get myself some relaxation. Might even start a revolution from here.
"Fuck you. Well, any developments on the Mr. Kite case?"
"Lady Madonna. That's what. Go after her. She confessed."
"On record?"
"N-no." SHIT!
"We've got nothing then. You're out of the case. Get well soon." He left the room. I couldn't say anything after that. Shit.

*****

After a week in the hospital, i went straight home. It's been a hard days night, and i've been working like a bitch. Shit shit shit shit shit.
I lay in bed again. I give up.

to be continued.

I'm Back. (i think)

Ladies and gentlemen, i apologize for my long absence from the blogosphere. This is due to a number of reasons too many to enumerate, such as lack of proper web access and being very busy.
Do not worry dear readers, i WILL and MUST continue Collide-o-scope Eyes, as soon as i further fix things. Excited, aren't ya?
Well, i believe that is all. Everything is said, and i now bid you all farewell for now.

The Ghostwriter