I see 2AM every night. Starting to see 3AM too. I lied. I don't speak to the walls. I don't speak at all. Beginning to understand what I've done, and I have no idea what I'm doing. It doesn't matter. The pigeons keep me company.

They told me about eating dinner standing at the kitchen bench, talking to the walls, and the impossibility of a single person filling a dishwasher, but they didn't tell me about the toll on my toes.

My muscles remember the moves of a different furniture-in-the-dark dance. I don't know these steps.

Oh Our Lady of Cardboard Boxes, who watches over those fools who suddenly decided to apply for leases while in the middle of nightshift and then start moving money and paperwork around while out of the country, you have been kind to me in the past week, as I winged my way through process of dismantling my room and activating the apartment. I have yet had no hiccups or major inconveniences, and for that I thank you. Early tomorrow, the movers will arrive, and then I will need your help most. May the transition from true home to new home be smooth. May the truck find a carpark on the street. May the mattress fit in the elevator. May no random passerby grab a box from the back of the truck and leave me without my underwear, for oh Our Lady of Cardboard Boxes, I do need my underwear. May I be able to stand at the end of the day in my new castle, and be triumphant. For your continued favour, I give you the company of my (currently absent) father, the consideration of my mother, the joy of my brother, and the love of two small smelly dogs. They might sound like small things, but they are not. I hope they please you, and you continue to smile on this fool.

Essay question: was traipsing about Japan just a cover to buy music? Discuss.

I found my year 12 shirt while throwing clothes in boxes to act as packing material. It was scrawled with signatures. Some of the names I remember, some I don't. "You are my cumball" made me grin, "can see u doing bondage" made me laugh, and "don't leave me" made the world stop.

I don't know who wrote that.

Who was the bright fucking spark who decided to make books different shapes, huh? Whose bright fucking idea was that? Clearly, not someone who has ever tried to move a whole bunch of different sized books from one home to another. Clearly, not someone who has ever tried to neatly pack said books in boxes, and found the nasty horrible little fuckers are uneven and don't fit together neatly at all. Clearly, a right fucking prick.

And you! You are all (mostly) writers! I SEE YOU. WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?!?!?! FIGHT YOUR FUCKING PUBLISHERS. DEMAND REGULAR BOOK DIMENSIONS.

The Revolution Is Coming.

New Japan post here.
It contains ninjas, and by ninjas, I mean ninjas. It also contains
world heritage listed castles, lovely sculpted gardens and public
masturbation, but we both know you're going for the ninjas.



(If that most kick arse video doesn't work, tell Blogger.)

Out of country. Again. AFK. BBL.

99 life-sized wolves stream up an invisible hill and faceplant into a glass wall.
Visual metaphor.
Cai Guo-Qiang's site for more photos and other art. Found on haha.nu

here's to another year getting accustomed here

Around the age of 10, I realised I would never get to go to the moon.

It was one of those 'oh,' moments full of heart-break, not unlike being dumped, not that I had any idea what it felt like to be dumped when I was 10, but I did have a crush on this boy, who in turn had a crush on my best friend, which is probably a better analogy, because the moon is all about unrequitedness.

It still upsets me, because I'm the broody type.



At least once a week I paw through the gallery at The Deep, looking at the same photos over and over. I love these beasties, I really do. Knowing that they exist gives me that giddy delight that causes me to grin for no obvious reason.

But this act of looking at the photos is really a creepy stalker thing, because I know they're another moon, and I have even less chance of seeing these little fellas in the deep ocean than I do of playing leap-frog on the lunar surface, and looking at these photos is like timing yourself to stand on that certain street corner at a certain time hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who doesn't know you exist, which isn't healthy behaviour at all, but you carry on doing so anyway, and you never see them.

The world needs more ghostly octopuseseses.

Disclaimer: Nightshift, okay? I absolve all responsibility for any peculiar character traits I may be exhibiting. If you mock me, I will cry at you. It will be snotty. Nightshift does that, you know. I cry at the thought of being faced by dinner. Dinner, I can't handle dinner, why would you ask dinner of me? I CAN'T DO THIS.

You have no idea.

Have a not-so-peculiar chaser;

Around 2am I discovered kawaii not, a little webcomic of cute every day items being unsavoury. The following strip made me cackle.



Actually, the whole archive made me cackle. The poor banana dipped in chocolate.

Nightshift.
Sound the air raid sirens.

i'm durnk. that'is all.

Ten years ago today

There's very little difference between a 16 year old Tessa and a 26 year old Tessa. One of them uses a hair dryer because failure to do so results in wet hair till evening. The other uses a hair dryer because she hasn't been able to break that habit, and doing so results in crazy sticky-uppy hair till evening.

The older Tessa has learned a lot since being the younger Tessa, but she hasn't learned how to change.

Here's to secrets you didn't know you kept until you couldn't say them out loud.

EDITED TO ADD: Thanks for the happy happys, but IT IS NOT MY BIRTHDAY. This post is about something that happened that I should probably be over by now, but apparently I'm not. There aren't any happy happys here.

However, if you want to keep going with the birthday thing, chocolate cake is prefered.

EDITED TO ADD SUMOR: See, this post wasn't even supposed to be this post. It was supposed to be another post that is still sitting in my drafts folder, which was much more thought-provoking and made a hell of a lot more sense. Really, it was going to change your world. I thought it was just something that didn't come up in polite conversation, or impolite conversation for that matter. Yet when I went to publish it, I couldn't. Turned out it was a secret.

Which isn't what I want it to be, but oh well.

EDITED TO ADD EVEN MOAR: I've been pondering this birthday that isn't my birthday (being as I'm at work, and thus have plenty of processor space to ponder such things), and I think you guys were onto a good thing. Unexpected birthday wishes are alarming at first, and then kinda warm and fluffy, like getting extra. So here's what I think; everyone should be allowed one day a year to declare birthdayness when there is no birthday, for the sole purpose of reclaiming an otherwise unwonderful date. Does that sound fabulous? I think it sounds fabulous. And since today is my not-birthday, then it is only fitting that I order indian for dinner, and not eat the leftover pasta that has defrosted and been sitting in the fridge for four days, which has nothing to do with my declaring this so. Nothing at all. I swear.

EDITED FOR CULINARY OBSERVATIONS: That chicken tikka misala was the best damn chicken tikka misala in the world. NOMMY. The chook was charcoal grilled, and had a delicate smokey flavour that went wonderfully with the coriander. The appearance of the best damn chicken tikkam misala in the world indicates that I'm right about all this not-birthdayness. There's even enough for dinner tomorrow. Most excellent!

EDITED FOR FURTHER PROOF OF FORESIGHTEDNESS: 'course, you can't have a not-birthday without birthday drinks. Good thing I bought a new bottle of Baileys on the way in. Premonition of alcohol required! Vexedness of lack of durnkness the previous night entirely irrelevent! Of course, I won't be able to touch it till I get home, and that won't be till after midnight, when it will no longer be my not-birthday, but you know what Winston Churchill said about never surrendering.

EDITED FOR SECOND THOUGHTS: The Baileys might not be such a good idea. If the bogans see me sitting on the train with a bottle of booze, they'll mug me. Maybe some creative shuffling will fit it in my bag...

EDITED FOR REASSURANCE: Bogans did not mug me. This not birthday is not over. More shinanigans in the morning.

EDITED FOR CLOSURE: It was only after I'd started on an enormous glass of Baileys, and thus disqualified myself from late night driving, that I realised I had no birthday cake. Calamity! Not that there are any 24-hour supermarkets in this area. I made do with what was to be had: lamingtons.

We didn't have any birthday candles either, so I made do with what was to be had: a box of lantern candles from Malaysia that aren't supposed to drip wax and have been in the kitchen drawer for longer than I can remember.



And then I got a bit carried away with the candles. In my mind, I was constructing a Lamington Fortress.

And then I set it on fire.





Apparently, lantern candles don't drip only if they stand vertically.



And if you stick them in on top of each other, the heat combines and then melt super fast, and thus the Flaming Lamington Fortress was in danger of burning down in a blaze of glory. I huffed, and I puffed, and I saved the Flaming Lamington Fortress.



What does that make me? Big goddamn hero.

Birthday cakes, whether or not it be your not-birthday, whether or not they be Flaming Lamington Fortresses, aren't supposed to be eaten alone. Unfortunately the house had gone to bed hours ago, so I gave in and shared it with Sam, who had been watching the whole mess with the intense focus of a Dog Who Has Maybe Noticed Food And Is Being A Very Good Boy. He was quite pleased to take part in the Flaming Lamington Fortress, and afterwards did this;



Can't argue with that.

Properly inebriated and caked, I spent the small hours watching bad movies, and failed to become maudlin, and didn't brood even once. That right there is an enormous and out-of-character accomplishment.

Now that this post has stretched over 24 hours, I think it's time to let it rest. Thank you, the three gentlemen who wished me happy birthday, and spawned it all.

I consider this not-birthday a raging success. Same time next year?

Is that issue #2 of Sword of Lies, the latest installment of The Red Star? Why, I believe it is!

When did issue #1 come out? Oh, October last year.

This comic series, it tests my patience. I vow, each time I remember to check up on it and discover that NO the next issue isn't out yet, to forget about it, and just buy the collected book when it comes out. Which, at this pace, will be when I'm wrinkled and shriveled and too blind to read it.

But I'm weak, and when I saw this on the shelf, I snatched up and clutched it, yes preciouses, it is ours now, preciouses.

The Red Star is a retro-futuristic industry-punk story about ghost possees and pseudo-Soviet Russian states tearing themselves apart in a revolution full of enormous clunky machines and cyber-sorcery. I've said before that it is a body of work that isn't derivative, but will be derived from, and I still stand by that.

The last few issues, however, haven't been great. The plot has been bogged down by action. The artwork for said action is amazing, but enough already! Get on with the siege of soul cages and sky furnaces and end of the world!

Sword of Lies #2 leaves all that behind. That was great. The balance has been restored between art, action and story, and I popped out the last page feeling satisfied and excited, as opposed to incredibly fucking frustrated.

It also has the potential to stand alone, so anyone of you who have considered sticking your nose in this series, Sword of Lies #2 is a good litmus test.

I love the ninja turtles. I buy every issue, and then I go buy the collected books of all the issues I've already bought. I eyeball the toys, and sometimes end up with them too. I eat the DVDs (the current cartoon series is surprisingly good). It's that childhood love that won't die a dignified death.

That said, I think I've discovered my limit.

Lifted from the official site:

Edible Arrangements just signed a deal to produce TMNT-themed fresh fruit bouquets! The next time you want to express your love to someone, send 'em a kick-butt (and highly nutritious) Ninja Turtles fruit basket - and everyone wins!

...I don't think they're taking the whole walking, talking, butt-kicking neenja reptiles thing seriously.

It's Ugly! It's Slimy! It's 2 cm long!

The internet is being present-giving on this fine Saturday morning.

Most of you have probably already seen the Promachoteuthis sulcus posted on boingboing. Ignoring the fact that the scientific drawings make the little beastie look like a the devil's gonads, and that the little beastie is only a couple of centimetres big, and we are left with the fact that the little beastie is goddamn freaky.



Fangs are for making nervous. Human teeth where there should be no human teeth are for making screaming and running away actions. And then coming back to oggle the photo again, and again. That's fabulous. Why are all these monsters tiny? They should be the size of fat cats! WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD.

And now look at this:

From JAMSTEC: Scaly foot--a spiral gastropod clad in iron sulfide scales. Found only in an extremely limited region of hyrdothermal areas within the Indian Ocean, which is called "Kairei Field". As the name suggests, this creature is covered in rugged scales that protect it from predators. How it actually creates its iron sulfide scales, however, is not yet fully understood. A JAMSTEC research team succeeded in observing the creature in an onboard tank for the first time in February 2006.

It isn't a snail with a house, it's a snail with a fortress. How very rocking is that? Said snail doesn't have a name yet, and is also only a centimetre big (WHY? WHYYYY?). This popped up in the gears_and_steam LJ community, of all places. Scienceblogs.com has a deep! sea! news! blog, and I never knew! Oh frabjous day, callooh, callay! She chortled in her joy.

Of all the stories, photos and stuff I brough back from Japan, Mum and my bro decided that this was The Best Thing Evah;



It's a sponge I found in my hotel at Kamakura. On the package is written the following-

I glad and was in high spirits forever in sun-traps
I watched your smile
All too soon from a heart to you
This feeling that light is full of
I love you

If that sponge isn't destined to wash Venus's toosh with strawberry cordial, then I don't know what is.

Last night, I read a book in bed.

I can't remember the last time I did. Sometime before Japan. I'd finished one book and hadn't picked up another, not wanting to take any with me. It's a lovely way to cap the day. I missed it.

Tonight, I will not read a book in bed.

This full time job thing, this not sleeping before a 5 o'clock alarm thing, this suddenly having ten hours less in the day in which to Get Stuff Done; all sorts of suckitude.

Suckitude alleviated by coming home to find this waiting for me;



Daikaiju 3: Giant Monsters vs the World has landed. It only took two and a half years, but finally that bloody giant crab story is in print. There are some towering authors around my little name. I'll link the hardcover version when it appears on amazon, and then I shall be able to live my life without the shadow of this ruddy giant crab story looming over my shoulder.

Never did think of a good title.

Home is what you know.

(I know difficult things. I had forgotten the impact of difficult things. I find myself at a loss of how to deal with these difficult things.)

(Traveling alone through a strange land and an unknown language is not difficult. Challenging and confusing, but never, at any point, difficult.)

(One difficult thing I know is that I cannot fix these difficult things. I know I no longer have the freedom to come and go as I please. I know I cannot do as I want. I know I must do as I should.)

I am home.