Kthaahthikha
One man, a word-processor, and too much free time.
15 August, 2005
Shout-out
I'd like to send a big shout-out to my estranged brother Robert, who should come along and read this some time in the next few days (I hope). I love you, Robbie, and I hope you find some of the ridiculous thing available via this site entertaining. Yours is pretty neat, too. To see my other site just click here
I have also composed a discriptive vignette.
Imagine a man, as broad as he is tall, seated in a high-backed leather anachronism behind a mahogany bureau. He is dressed in a grey suit that fits him like a second skin, with a brown felt vest, the brass buttons of which gleam from careful polishing. The man’s face is broad and bloated, the eyes hidden amidst Byzantine folds of flesh. The body squirms from time to time, as though something were pushing at the fabric which constitutes this grotesquely-expansive form.
The man reaches to the buttons of his vest and begins to undo them. The head tilts-up, the chin lifted from the creature’s chest as the face on the back of its neck crumples into folds reminiscent of a foreskin. Thin, bluish-grey arms reach out from beneath the vest, clutching at the fabric and drawing it tight as though a dressing-gown. Through the cracks, one catches glimpses of ribs that fray and jut outwards from a body like that of a skinless whippet.
The eyes are yellowish-white with lavender irises, smallish globes set in broad oval fields of exposed red flesh. The mouth is broad, rubbery, too wide for the face it serves, the lips thick, the nose a plunging column of bone with splaying nostrils. The cheeks are hollow and striated, the bones like stubby wings. Creases run about the too-small eyes and the too-large mouth, a complex maze of wrinkling as folds overlap folds of loose, foundationless skin. Spittle and mucus course sluggishly through the runnels.
‘Mr Blasko,’ says Sisterre, ‘lovely to meet you.’
I have also been listening to a lot of late-sixties Psychadelia lately, and was ecstatic when I finally found the song from The Game's soundtrack that I've had in my head for six years (it was White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane).
To finish this off, I must say that Sgt Pepper's is arguably the most overrated album in the history of time. It's a good album, yes. Even a brilliant album. It is not the best album that I have ever heard.
On an unrelated note, Human After All was very underrated, but the Peaches remix of Technologic leaves the original for dead. I'm also both delighted and distressed that Sigur Ros' new single is onyl available via paid download. I must engage in felony, it seems, due to my lack of cards.
So, yes, little but a few musical notes, a vignette, and me telling my brother I love him. Sorry.
I have also composed a discriptive vignette.
Imagine a man, as broad as he is tall, seated in a high-backed leather anachronism behind a mahogany bureau. He is dressed in a grey suit that fits him like a second skin, with a brown felt vest, the brass buttons of which gleam from careful polishing. The man’s face is broad and bloated, the eyes hidden amidst Byzantine folds of flesh. The body squirms from time to time, as though something were pushing at the fabric which constitutes this grotesquely-expansive form.
The man reaches to the buttons of his vest and begins to undo them. The head tilts-up, the chin lifted from the creature’s chest as the face on the back of its neck crumples into folds reminiscent of a foreskin. Thin, bluish-grey arms reach out from beneath the vest, clutching at the fabric and drawing it tight as though a dressing-gown. Through the cracks, one catches glimpses of ribs that fray and jut outwards from a body like that of a skinless whippet.
The eyes are yellowish-white with lavender irises, smallish globes set in broad oval fields of exposed red flesh. The mouth is broad, rubbery, too wide for the face it serves, the lips thick, the nose a plunging column of bone with splaying nostrils. The cheeks are hollow and striated, the bones like stubby wings. Creases run about the too-small eyes and the too-large mouth, a complex maze of wrinkling as folds overlap folds of loose, foundationless skin. Spittle and mucus course sluggishly through the runnels.
‘Mr Blasko,’ says Sisterre, ‘lovely to meet you.’
I have also been listening to a lot of late-sixties Psychadelia lately, and was ecstatic when I finally found the song from The Game's soundtrack that I've had in my head for six years (it was White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane).
To finish this off, I must say that Sgt Pepper's is arguably the most overrated album in the history of time. It's a good album, yes. Even a brilliant album. It is not the best album that I have ever heard.
On an unrelated note, Human After All was very underrated, but the Peaches remix of Technologic leaves the original for dead. I'm also both delighted and distressed that Sigur Ros' new single is onyl available via paid download. I must engage in felony, it seems, due to my lack of cards.
So, yes, little but a few musical notes, a vignette, and me telling my brother I love him. Sorry.
Tom Meade, 7:18 pm
3 Comments:
You have an estranged brother? Cool!
And 60's psychedelia rules! I'd suggest you check out some early Gong!
And 60's psychedelia rules! I'd suggest you check out some early Gong!
yup. jeff airplane is pretty neat.
i have just discovered Cake. not the kind u eat... the BAND CAKE. they're hilarious... kinda puts them in the Barret 'i got a bike u can ride it if u like' slot.
i have just discovered Cake. not the kind u eat... the BAND CAKE. they're hilarious... kinda puts them in the Barret 'i got a bike u can ride it if u like' slot.
Gong, eh?
And Cake are good, what I've heard of them. I am currently on a quest to find some Can, when possible. For such a well-known band this is surprisingly-hard.
And Cake are good, what I've heard of them. I am currently on a quest to find some Can, when possible. For such a well-known band this is surprisingly-hard.
