Flu (swine)

There we have it, I'm a victim of my complaints, I sit on my bed looking out on to a dreary morning, and I'm on the last legs of flu! Missed work, work's missed me, work's still there but my health is struggling. May be tomorrow I'll be much better. I have a lot to catch on.

Hypochondriacal media

Have we really given into symptons of flu to diagnose ourselves with swine flu? What's the difference anyway, from swine to normal. Maybe doctors and media representives should be educating the people on that, and not publishing swine flu as 'flu'. Or maybe there's no difference at all.

I realise this post comes a bit late, but I felt the need.

Social malnourishment

You're ignorant, sorry you're obtuse, sorry you're a hypocrite? It's incredilby enlightening to see other people (work colleagues) stumble over their own stupidly inept social competency. Sorry I digress, and I know that for a fact other people (work colleagues) don't mean this by way of their own simple nature, but when you are named after your mug it's hilarious.

The main point of this post was meerly to fill a gap between drying myself and driving to blockbusters, but today was a pinnacle for miserable hypocracy.

Thanks

Rambling along my keys, between the T and the U

Not entirely true. The next morning after writing my last post, that's right all of two sentences, I'm thinking about my blog in ways I never have. Just after eating my breakfast is one, and I compare my blog to the works of my colleagues, online and in paper.

Over one year a lot does happen, and a lot of both the meaningless and pivotal. If a blog is a muse, a diary, or a record, where does it lie in literature. This is what I mull over most days. It has no standing in financial terms, though self-recognition of literary aptitude is one thing to take away. (I'm rambling on my keyboard, and if you're reading this you're probably not listening. I don't blame you, so don't let my impulsive brunch-time post bore your intellect.)

I've come across many (some) blogs over the past year and thought of my own, wondering if it is the right time to make an entry about one not involving my discontent for what I'm trying to get my head around.

And so they lived.

That's what I adore about blogs, you can write what you like and for some reason people (me) read on. Honesty comes in brackets, and I love the abstract to the hypothetical to the review.

Time for a break

So it's been over a year since I had made my last post, and in one year of thought nothing has been important enough to write about. Still turning Thoreau.

Random musings

Books to newspapers, pens to baguettes, wallets, phones, and Thoreau. I say 'tomato', you say 'tomato', screensavers to phonecalls, shorthand sentences and longhand sentences. Musings take you abroad and back, in moments shorter than seconds. Time travel is only a theory though thoughts can say otherwise. No money to travel, too much money to share. These are my musings, thanks for listening...

Damien Rice, O (2003) - is its music colourless like its cover?

This debut album from Damien Rice is certainly out to make a lasting impression. 'O' will leave you clenching onto fractured emotions as you gaze with a pensive and contemplative stare. As the acoustic tension peeks, it is released at moments of extreme suspense.

Damien's acoustic guitar quietly opens the album's first track, Delicate, and initially hopes are somewhat subdued. Very little is revealed about his style of music in the opening track. The gentle strums from his acoustic guitar hides any room for direct criticism. The smooth cello of Vyvienne Long consistently provides streams of warming melodies against the sustained chord progressions from Damien's acoustic guitar.

Damien's folk style, laced with an Irish accent, tells a less obvious tale. The words "What am I... darling," bellowed on Cheers Darlin' portrays a harrowing fable of a man love-struck, lonely and drunk.

I Remember gives the album an epic overtone in contrast to an overall mellow distinction; a 'must see' live performance. The deathly slow Eskimo closes the album and acts as a pleasant relaxant from some spin chilling moments experienced in previous numbers.