Some more stuff
I’ve seen Batman Begins and it’s good. Maybe not quite as ear-to-ear-smile-inducing fun as Spiderman 2 but still just as good in its own way. I imagine this is what Ang Lee was trying to do with the Hulk except Chris Nolan executed it infinitely better. When Katie Holmes and Liam Neeson’s goatee are the weak links of a movie, you know you have a good movie. Everything was crafted so well. A tight script brought to life by the best quality cast ever assembled for a super hero movie.
What impressed me the most was that almost every ‘problem’ with the story that I was thinking of seemed to be anticipated and addressed by the film. Why does Batman wear a cumbersome cape? How do you explain his reclusive nature? Where does he get all those guests for his party?
Anyway, about the 1989 Tim Burton Batman, I’ve always said that that wasn’t the comic Batman but it was still a great movie. Thinking about it, this new one is something else again. And again, it’s worked. Even better than Tim’s I’d say.
…
Last week I got my guitar modified. With lighter strings and lower action, apparently I now have the ultimate beginner’s guitar. It’s got a slightly tinnier sound but it’s a lot easier to play. Now I can’t blame my guitar anymore for my bad playing. I gotta admit. I’m just bad.
…
Good news: I have Ryan Adams tickets!
Bad news: He has an ear infection and might cancel his tour.
…
I’ve spoken often to people (especially lately for some reason) who say that they could never write a blog because it’s so personal and they couldn’t stand having other people read their stuff, whatever. Why is it always such a big deal? If you don’t like writing to a public audience, then don’t. But don’t say because it’s too personal. You don’t HAVE TO be personal on a blog. I don’t consider my blog very personal at all. I just write things. I first started so I could have a platform to practice my writing skills. Since then, it’s fallen to become something else. But it doesn’t matter. I just say things. Write them down. And others read them. Then inevitably the conversation will shift to be about writing for an audience vs. writing for yourself. This is rubbish. If you’re writing for yourself, you wouldn’t be writing on a site that’s public domain. You just wouldn’t. I personally never write for an audience but I know that’s just me. I don’t see the point, personally. If I wanna be thinking things, that’s what I’ll do. Think them. I don’t need to write them down for myself. To digress, part of why I don’t like to write for myself is because I believe that the written word will always be limited in what it can do. Words cannot possibly transpose a feeling onto a page. The best it can do is a representation of the feeling. This you can share with an audience. So to write something down is always to change it. To create something new. Even the spoken word changes things. As a reminder of memories, it’s limited. As an exercise, try describing a song. If you can make me experience something even remotely close to listening to the actual song, just by reading what you wrote, then I will bow down to your writing might.
As usual, I have strayed from my point…
Now I'll go back to writing more of my witch story. Oh and if anyone can come up with a name for it, please feel free to make suggestions. I tend to come up with really long working titles that sound ridiculous and that eventually fall in love with enough to keep as my real title. Or I plagiarise.
And so it goes.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
A quick glance at stuff
I haven’t written blog-like entries for a while. I have written a bit of prose which I’ve posted and is, at the moment, infinitely more fun to write. Not much has gone on. Inside or out. I’m in slight hibernation mode perhaps. But here are some stuff I did want to mention before my memory fails me and I forget I was ever thinking these thoughts. If you came here looking for the second part of the story, it’s right underneath. If you’re looking for part 3, that’s coming next.
And as usual, ‘quick’ for me doesn’t necessarily mean ‘quick’ for everyone.
Movies
I don’t go the movies much anymore. Here are the last three I’ve seen and what I though of them.
Kingdom of heaven Good. I liked. Great cast, probably the best battle scenes I’ve ever seen in a movie, unfortunately let down by a rather dry and often-clichéd script. Despite some negatives, please don’t compare this to the other post-Gladiator sword epics. KOH is heaps better than any of them. Ridley Scott still does this kind of movie better than anyone else in the business.
Star Wars 3 Good but disappointing. Nothing much new to say here but I’ll say them anyway. Better than 1 and 2. Not as good as 4, 5 or 6. Thing is, for all the flash, these new Star Wars movies lack the charm of the old originals. Where the hell is the humour? The banter? I’ve said before and I’ll say it again – Lucas has some great ideas about movies but he has no idea about making movies great. Please remember that only Ep 4 was written and directed by him. 5 and 6 were directed and even written by others. Joss Whedon could’ve made a better Ep 3. And you’d think after Mark Hamil, he’d pick a better protagonist this time around, so who has he come up with? Bloody Hayden Christensen (can’t be bothered checking the spelling of that), the latest star graduate of the Keanu Reeves School of Dramatic Arts. And what’s worst is that Lucas’ inept script even makes usually stellar actors like Natalie and Ewen and Samuel L look like cardboard cutouts. Palpatine and the computer generated Yoda make up the only two interesting characters in the entire film. Maybe it’s just me but after seeing Matrix Reloaded, great special effects are no longer enough to impress me. SW3 has great only good special effects. Thing is, there’s just too much of it. As my friend Minh said, it’s like watching a cartoon. Especially that stupid lizard thing that Obi Wan rides. The animatronics from the original movies were more convincing. Again, it could be because I play computer games (esp. Star Wars games) and these effects look pretty much like game graphics. The people I’ve spoken to who were impressed by the effects in this movie are mainly non-games players. Don’t get me wrong. SW3 is not a bad movie at all. I enjoyed it. It’s just that it could’ve been so much better. It could’ve been one of the most important movies in history. Seriously, the ingredients are all there. Lucas just couldn’t put it all together. For a better Star Wars experience, play the Knights of the Old Republic games. The story and character development are so much better (although it’s not a fair comparison because compressed to a movie format, the two KOTOR games would make about two 6-7 hour epics).
Mr & Mrs Smith Fun. Not fine cinema by any standards but brings a big fat smile to my face. The story is inconsequential. But the chemistry between the leads is obvious and infectious. Brad Pitt is so underappreciated for his acting skills. He’s good. Don’t even compare him to a Tom Cruise. He’s in a different class, acting-wise. Tom Cruise is just better at picking the right roles. Speaking of Tom, there’s a Freekatie website somewhere out there. It’s funny.
Next movie Batman Begins. If I had a bladder problem, I’d be wetting myself in anticipation.
Save it for Sunday afternoon TV Sisterhood of the travelling pants (is that the right title?) I have no idea what this is about and don’t care. But it has Rory from Gilmore Girls and Joan from Joan of Arcadia. Guilty pleasures… but I can wait.
DVD I got Wonder Boys on DVD for $7. It’s the movie of my favourite book. With a great song by Bob Dylan. Kinda just pleases me in all different ways.
Observation I like good looking male actors who can act (Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp & Co.). Or even good looking male anything who are good at what they do. If they’re nice guys, even better. This isn’t a gay thing where I wish I could sleep with them. It’s a vanity thing, where I wish I could be them. Used to be I was most envious of Andy Roddick because he’s a good-looking tennis player of considerable skill who was dating Mandy Moore. Now I think it’s Tony Parker, who is a good looking basketball player of considerable skill and is dating Eva Langoria. I want to be those people.
Next…
On Sunday I took my family out to Wildfire at the Overseas Passenger Terminal. I liked it. Food was great and it had the feel of casual fine dining… if that makes sense. The occasion… 20 years in Australia for the family. I’m thankful.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Book 1 was good, 2 was great, 3 started to drag and 4 was a bloody romance novel. I haven’t read 5. If you haven’t read these, do. At least the first two. Really funny and clever. Just loses steam over the four books.
It’s late. I’ll write more later if I feel like it.
I haven’t written blog-like entries for a while. I have written a bit of prose which I’ve posted and is, at the moment, infinitely more fun to write. Not much has gone on. Inside or out. I’m in slight hibernation mode perhaps. But here are some stuff I did want to mention before my memory fails me and I forget I was ever thinking these thoughts. If you came here looking for the second part of the story, it’s right underneath. If you’re looking for part 3, that’s coming next.
And as usual, ‘quick’ for me doesn’t necessarily mean ‘quick’ for everyone.
Movies
I don’t go the movies much anymore. Here are the last three I’ve seen and what I though of them.
Kingdom of heaven Good. I liked. Great cast, probably the best battle scenes I’ve ever seen in a movie, unfortunately let down by a rather dry and often-clichéd script. Despite some negatives, please don’t compare this to the other post-Gladiator sword epics. KOH is heaps better than any of them. Ridley Scott still does this kind of movie better than anyone else in the business.
Star Wars 3 Good but disappointing. Nothing much new to say here but I’ll say them anyway. Better than 1 and 2. Not as good as 4, 5 or 6. Thing is, for all the flash, these new Star Wars movies lack the charm of the old originals. Where the hell is the humour? The banter? I’ve said before and I’ll say it again – Lucas has some great ideas about movies but he has no idea about making movies great. Please remember that only Ep 4 was written and directed by him. 5 and 6 were directed and even written by others. Joss Whedon could’ve made a better Ep 3. And you’d think after Mark Hamil, he’d pick a better protagonist this time around, so who has he come up with? Bloody Hayden Christensen (can’t be bothered checking the spelling of that), the latest star graduate of the Keanu Reeves School of Dramatic Arts. And what’s worst is that Lucas’ inept script even makes usually stellar actors like Natalie and Ewen and Samuel L look like cardboard cutouts. Palpatine and the computer generated Yoda make up the only two interesting characters in the entire film. Maybe it’s just me but after seeing Matrix Reloaded, great special effects are no longer enough to impress me. SW3 has great only good special effects. Thing is, there’s just too much of it. As my friend Minh said, it’s like watching a cartoon. Especially that stupid lizard thing that Obi Wan rides. The animatronics from the original movies were more convincing. Again, it could be because I play computer games (esp. Star Wars games) and these effects look pretty much like game graphics. The people I’ve spoken to who were impressed by the effects in this movie are mainly non-games players. Don’t get me wrong. SW3 is not a bad movie at all. I enjoyed it. It’s just that it could’ve been so much better. It could’ve been one of the most important movies in history. Seriously, the ingredients are all there. Lucas just couldn’t put it all together. For a better Star Wars experience, play the Knights of the Old Republic games. The story and character development are so much better (although it’s not a fair comparison because compressed to a movie format, the two KOTOR games would make about two 6-7 hour epics).
Mr & Mrs Smith Fun. Not fine cinema by any standards but brings a big fat smile to my face. The story is inconsequential. But the chemistry between the leads is obvious and infectious. Brad Pitt is so underappreciated for his acting skills. He’s good. Don’t even compare him to a Tom Cruise. He’s in a different class, acting-wise. Tom Cruise is just better at picking the right roles. Speaking of Tom, there’s a Freekatie website somewhere out there. It’s funny.
Next movie Batman Begins. If I had a bladder problem, I’d be wetting myself in anticipation.
Save it for Sunday afternoon TV Sisterhood of the travelling pants (is that the right title?) I have no idea what this is about and don’t care. But it has Rory from Gilmore Girls and Joan from Joan of Arcadia. Guilty pleasures… but I can wait.
DVD I got Wonder Boys on DVD for $7. It’s the movie of my favourite book. With a great song by Bob Dylan. Kinda just pleases me in all different ways.
Observation I like good looking male actors who can act (Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp & Co.). Or even good looking male anything who are good at what they do. If they’re nice guys, even better. This isn’t a gay thing where I wish I could sleep with them. It’s a vanity thing, where I wish I could be them. Used to be I was most envious of Andy Roddick because he’s a good-looking tennis player of considerable skill who was dating Mandy Moore. Now I think it’s Tony Parker, who is a good looking basketball player of considerable skill and is dating Eva Langoria. I want to be those people.
Next…
On Sunday I took my family out to Wildfire at the Overseas Passenger Terminal. I liked it. Food was great and it had the feel of casual fine dining… if that makes sense. The occasion… 20 years in Australia for the family. I’m thankful.
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Book 1 was good, 2 was great, 3 started to drag and 4 was a bloody romance novel. I haven’t read 5. If you haven’t read these, do. At least the first two. Really funny and clever. Just loses steam over the four books.
It’s late. I’ll write more later if I feel like it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
She was twirling in the summer rain, out on the Library lawn. Her arms stretched out. Her head cocked back. Laughing. The sun’s rays broke the clouds and made the air smell like warm dew. As she spins around, she stumbles. Dizzy. From where I was, she looked cute. (This was, of course, quite a while before I ever saw her naked, at which point I reassessed her as more ‘hot’ than ‘cute.)
I remember I walked over to her and offered my umbrella but she just smiled. Wet. She picked up a flower from the grass and offered that to me.
‘I made this,’ she said.
‘The flower?’
‘No, silly. The rain!’
I laughed and she started laughing too, skipping away from me, still twirling. Her eyes, in moments, looked at me, smiled at me, beckoning me to join her.
I just stood there watching. Transfixed. Mesmerised. Bewitched.
I was, then, in my first year at uni. It was by pure chance that I walked past the Library lawn at that very moment. Normally, I would walk behind the library to go down to the lower campus but on that day, the rain had turned that path into a obstacle course of puddles. Chance has a way of smiling upon you when you’re not looking.
It was only much later that I would find out that she actually did make the rain come down that day. It would be even later still before I would find out that she had ritually killed a presumedly harmless and probably cute white rabbit earlier that day for the spell. And it would take her a while longer still to eventually learn that killing the rabbit had been wholly unnecessary.
This was how I met Astrid.
When eventually we got married, it was in my old church, which is actually not very old at all. Barely older than myself, really. I only say ‘old’ because it was the one I grew up with. Next to my school. Whatever I have become, for better or worse, can probably find its roots in this place. It was built in the 70s to be state of the art, which is to say it now looks unmistakeably of poor taste. Tacky is the word I’m looking for.
Both of us having no parents left on this earth, our wedding was small. Just a few friends and random well-wishers. The priest who married us (… married us… I’ve always found that to be an awkward phrasing) was father John Dougall. Father Doogie we used to lovingly call him.
This was the same priest who Baptised me. The same priest who gave me my first Holy Communion and conducted my Confirmation. And it is Father John Dougall who is at the moment looking at me like I just invited him to join me in eating a plate of gold coins.
I am, at this moment, sitting the living room of his house (is there a technical name for a priest’s house?) telling him of my recent frustration that my wife is killing too often for my liking.
‘You mean, she literally kills these men?’ he asks me with equal parts disgust and curiosity.
‘Yes Father. Lots of them.’
‘And you saw her kill each one?’
‘Well I missed one because I had a basketball game on one night, but other than that… yeah.’
He wipes some sweat off his brow and takes a sip of water.
I tell him ‘it does scare me sometimes. I mean, where is she going to draw the line? It’s something like once a month now.’
‘Have you told the police?’ he asks.
‘No. Why would I do that?’ I am surprised by his suggestion. ‘They’d just lock her up. And I can’t let her be locked up. I love my wife, Father.’
‘Well…’ my priest begins, ‘you do know the Church doesn’t condone murder, right?’
‘But it’s her thing. She doesn’t question my taking Communion. Is this any different?’
‘But you always told me she was Catholic.’
‘Me? No Father. You asked me before we were married if she went to church. And I said yes. And she did. And still does. Sure she thinks it’s all crap but she still goes to support me and well… I think I should do the same for her faith, except sometimes, well… it just gets hard.’
‘I… I don’t know what to say. I mean, Astrid always seemed like a very lovely girl, but… but frankly I’m appalled by what you’ve told me.’
‘So what do you think I should do, Father?’
‘If I weren’t a Catholic priest, I’d suggest you divorce her. But since I am… well… frankly I’d still rather you divorce her, even if you have to leave the Church.’
I laugh. That Father Doogie is such a kidder.
‘But I love her, Father. I mean, you should see her…’ I pause, cutting myself off from a potentially embarrassing and inappropriate subject matter to be talking to a priest about.
‘See her what?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Have you told her that killing will get her to Hell?’
‘But she wants to go Hell. Well maybe not really since it’s all hot and fiery and all. And apparently all that brimstone smells like fart gas but…’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘She says she wants to eventually earn some real estate in Hell. Maybe become a mistress of a small house. Serve not too far under one of the big hot shot demons.’
‘And you’re OK with this?’
‘Well you gotta admit, the girl’s got ambition.’
‘And what about when you have children?’
‘We thought we’d cross that bridge when we get to it.’
‘But… but… OK, so haven’t the police been looking for any of these men?’
‘Of course they have. The last guy was all over the papers.’
‘And you’re not afraid of getting caught?’
‘Well that’s the thing, you see, she does this cool cloaking spell to cover up each sacrifice so that no one ever sniffs our way. And any witnesses forget about what they see or hear the second they break contact with us. It’s brilliant! She will never get caught. I just think it’s all too easy and she’s beginning to lose touch with the value of human life.’
‘Of course she’s lost touch with the value of human life. She’s a homicidal maniac for God’s sakes!’
‘Did you just blaspheme, Father?’
‘I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t hear any more of this! What have you become, son? I’ve known you since you were a baby. You were always such a fine soldier of God. And now you’re married to a homicidal Satanist and helping her kill these innocent men…’
‘I don’t think Satan is one of the deities she worships but I’m not sure.’
‘… they probably have families. Wives. Kids…’
‘But I love her, Father. Please try to understand. And let’s face it, I’d say a good eighty percent of them probably came our house looking for adultery.’
‘I can’t. And I must do what’s best for you. I’m going to the police with this whether you like it or not.’
‘But you can’t, Father.’
‘Everything you’re telling me has been outside the church. Strictly speaking, this isn’t really a confession. And I feel it is my moral duty to…’
‘No. You don’t understand. That cloaking spell I told you about… well it affects you too. Anything to do with the rituals I’ve talked to you about today, you’ll forget everything the second I walk out your door.’
‘No it can’t be!’
‘Yes it can. And it is. For example, you think you’re only hearing this all for the first time. But I’ve been coming to you and talking about this every week for the past three months. And every week it’s like the first time to you.’
‘What?!’
‘I’ve been frustrated, Father. In moderation I can live with, but she’s just killing too many. Too often. Sometimes I question if she’s going to burn out too early. Too young… and sometimes I just want to go home and watch TV, you know. So I’ve been coming here every week to vent my frustrations to you. I mean, I love Astrid very much but well…’
He’s starting to cry. I hate this every time. It always ends like this.
‘Sorry Father, I won’t distress you with any more today. It’s alright. The second I leave, you’ll be fine again. I’m hoping one day I’ll tell you about all this and you’ll react… well… differently…’
I sigh. Father Doogie is still crying and he’s shaking. I get up off the armchair and find my own way out the door. He tries to chase me and stop me, crying ‘noooo!’ but he is old and slow and by the time he reaches the door, I’m out near the mailbox. I turn to face him. The pained look on his face slowly turns to confusion and then to a smile as he looks at me. He waves to me and shouts goodbye. I tell him that I’ll see him next week and he nods enthusiastically.
I walk a few metres down the road and I turn around to see his door has already closed. I then walk further down the road to Nick’s fish and chips to buy dinner. This is the shop where Father Doogie once caught me jigging school. But this was a long time ago and I’m sure he’s forgotten.
I remember I walked over to her and offered my umbrella but she just smiled. Wet. She picked up a flower from the grass and offered that to me.
‘I made this,’ she said.
‘The flower?’
‘No, silly. The rain!’
I laughed and she started laughing too, skipping away from me, still twirling. Her eyes, in moments, looked at me, smiled at me, beckoning me to join her.
I just stood there watching. Transfixed. Mesmerised. Bewitched.
I was, then, in my first year at uni. It was by pure chance that I walked past the Library lawn at that very moment. Normally, I would walk behind the library to go down to the lower campus but on that day, the rain had turned that path into a obstacle course of puddles. Chance has a way of smiling upon you when you’re not looking.
It was only much later that I would find out that she actually did make the rain come down that day. It would be even later still before I would find out that she had ritually killed a presumedly harmless and probably cute white rabbit earlier that day for the spell. And it would take her a while longer still to eventually learn that killing the rabbit had been wholly unnecessary.
This was how I met Astrid.
When eventually we got married, it was in my old church, which is actually not very old at all. Barely older than myself, really. I only say ‘old’ because it was the one I grew up with. Next to my school. Whatever I have become, for better or worse, can probably find its roots in this place. It was built in the 70s to be state of the art, which is to say it now looks unmistakeably of poor taste. Tacky is the word I’m looking for.
Both of us having no parents left on this earth, our wedding was small. Just a few friends and random well-wishers. The priest who married us (… married us… I’ve always found that to be an awkward phrasing) was father John Dougall. Father Doogie we used to lovingly call him.
This was the same priest who Baptised me. The same priest who gave me my first Holy Communion and conducted my Confirmation. And it is Father John Dougall who is at the moment looking at me like I just invited him to join me in eating a plate of gold coins.
I am, at this moment, sitting the living room of his house (is there a technical name for a priest’s house?) telling him of my recent frustration that my wife is killing too often for my liking.
‘You mean, she literally kills these men?’ he asks me with equal parts disgust and curiosity.
‘Yes Father. Lots of them.’
‘And you saw her kill each one?’
‘Well I missed one because I had a basketball game on one night, but other than that… yeah.’
He wipes some sweat off his brow and takes a sip of water.
I tell him ‘it does scare me sometimes. I mean, where is she going to draw the line? It’s something like once a month now.’
‘Have you told the police?’ he asks.
‘No. Why would I do that?’ I am surprised by his suggestion. ‘They’d just lock her up. And I can’t let her be locked up. I love my wife, Father.’
‘Well…’ my priest begins, ‘you do know the Church doesn’t condone murder, right?’
‘But it’s her thing. She doesn’t question my taking Communion. Is this any different?’
‘But you always told me she was Catholic.’
‘Me? No Father. You asked me before we were married if she went to church. And I said yes. And she did. And still does. Sure she thinks it’s all crap but she still goes to support me and well… I think I should do the same for her faith, except sometimes, well… it just gets hard.’
‘I… I don’t know what to say. I mean, Astrid always seemed like a very lovely girl, but… but frankly I’m appalled by what you’ve told me.’
‘So what do you think I should do, Father?’
‘If I weren’t a Catholic priest, I’d suggest you divorce her. But since I am… well… frankly I’d still rather you divorce her, even if you have to leave the Church.’
I laugh. That Father Doogie is such a kidder.
‘But I love her, Father. I mean, you should see her…’ I pause, cutting myself off from a potentially embarrassing and inappropriate subject matter to be talking to a priest about.
‘See her what?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Have you told her that killing will get her to Hell?’
‘But she wants to go Hell. Well maybe not really since it’s all hot and fiery and all. And apparently all that brimstone smells like fart gas but…’
‘What are you telling me?’
‘She says she wants to eventually earn some real estate in Hell. Maybe become a mistress of a small house. Serve not too far under one of the big hot shot demons.’
‘And you’re OK with this?’
‘Well you gotta admit, the girl’s got ambition.’
‘And what about when you have children?’
‘We thought we’d cross that bridge when we get to it.’
‘But… but… OK, so haven’t the police been looking for any of these men?’
‘Of course they have. The last guy was all over the papers.’
‘And you’re not afraid of getting caught?’
‘Well that’s the thing, you see, she does this cool cloaking spell to cover up each sacrifice so that no one ever sniffs our way. And any witnesses forget about what they see or hear the second they break contact with us. It’s brilliant! She will never get caught. I just think it’s all too easy and she’s beginning to lose touch with the value of human life.’
‘Of course she’s lost touch with the value of human life. She’s a homicidal maniac for God’s sakes!’
‘Did you just blaspheme, Father?’
‘I can’t handle this anymore. I can’t hear any more of this! What have you become, son? I’ve known you since you were a baby. You were always such a fine soldier of God. And now you’re married to a homicidal Satanist and helping her kill these innocent men…’
‘I don’t think Satan is one of the deities she worships but I’m not sure.’
‘… they probably have families. Wives. Kids…’
‘But I love her, Father. Please try to understand. And let’s face it, I’d say a good eighty percent of them probably came our house looking for adultery.’
‘I can’t. And I must do what’s best for you. I’m going to the police with this whether you like it or not.’
‘But you can’t, Father.’
‘Everything you’re telling me has been outside the church. Strictly speaking, this isn’t really a confession. And I feel it is my moral duty to…’
‘No. You don’t understand. That cloaking spell I told you about… well it affects you too. Anything to do with the rituals I’ve talked to you about today, you’ll forget everything the second I walk out your door.’
‘No it can’t be!’
‘Yes it can. And it is. For example, you think you’re only hearing this all for the first time. But I’ve been coming to you and talking about this every week for the past three months. And every week it’s like the first time to you.’
‘What?!’
‘I’ve been frustrated, Father. In moderation I can live with, but she’s just killing too many. Too often. Sometimes I question if she’s going to burn out too early. Too young… and sometimes I just want to go home and watch TV, you know. So I’ve been coming here every week to vent my frustrations to you. I mean, I love Astrid very much but well…’
He’s starting to cry. I hate this every time. It always ends like this.
‘Sorry Father, I won’t distress you with any more today. It’s alright. The second I leave, you’ll be fine again. I’m hoping one day I’ll tell you about all this and you’ll react… well… differently…’
I sigh. Father Doogie is still crying and he’s shaking. I get up off the armchair and find my own way out the door. He tries to chase me and stop me, crying ‘noooo!’ but he is old and slow and by the time he reaches the door, I’m out near the mailbox. I turn to face him. The pained look on his face slowly turns to confusion and then to a smile as he looks at me. He waves to me and shouts goodbye. I tell him that I’ll see him next week and he nods enthusiastically.
I walk a few metres down the road and I turn around to see his door has already closed. I then walk further down the road to Nick’s fish and chips to buy dinner. This is the shop where Father Doogie once caught me jigging school. But this was a long time ago and I’m sure he’s forgotten.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The rate at which she has been bringing guys home has been alarming. It’s almost once a month now. It’s getting out of hand.
It used to be maybe once per quarter. Around the same time as when the council rates came around, my wife would bring a guy home. Random guys. They wanted anything from a cup of coffee to sex to a simple use of our telephone. But they would all invariably not get whatever it was they came for.
Tonight’s fool is young. Maybe 21 or 23. He’s small, somewhat weaselly. If you asked me for another way to describe him, I would say that he has the look of a guy in a horror movie who talks too much, smiles way too often and dies far too early.
He is shocked to see me come in. Most of them get this way. My wife is holding a glass of champagne in her hand and welcomes me home with open arms. I give her a kiss while leering at the guy. This weasel. This first-to-die-horror-movie guy.
‘Honey’, I tell her, ‘I was hoping we didn’t have to do one tonight. I was hoping to just sit on the couch and watch Desperate Housewives’.
She assures me it’ll be quick tonight.
The weasel asks her who I am. I introduce myself.
I’m the husband, dickwad.
Dickwad. It’s been my favourite phrase (would you call it a phrase?) ever since Arnie used it in Total Recall (was it Total Recall?). He just brings a whole new level of meaning to anything he says.
‘You’re married?!’
‘Oh like you didn’t know’, she says. ‘I didn’t even take off my ring, she says’.
‘But I thought…’ says the weasel.
‘He’ll just watch. Won’t you honey?’
I’m silent and peeling a banana. I don’t like this. Never have. Of course she never pretended to be anything other than what she is. I knew she was a witch when I married her. Knew she was one while we were still just dating. I love her. I really do. With all my heart. I don’t much care for the whole black arts thing. But it could have been worse. She could have been an accountant.
I just want to get on with it tonight. She asks him if he still wants to do this and he says yes. More often then not, they get weirded out and want to leave, so then I’d have to grab the baseball bat and club them over the head. This guy, though, is willing. And he seems groggy. She must have used the elixir of hallucinogenic stupor. That’s a good one.
Orange juice, a sprig of fennel and the bile of a pregnant turtle.
She leads him by the hand down the steps to our basement. He’s mumbling stuff I don’t understand and she keeps telling him yes. Yes. Yes. Sure. Soon. And so on.
I follow them down. She tells him to get on the altar but he’s too far gone to get himself up there. I help him up.
This is the stone altar that I got her for Christmas even though, of course, she doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her old one was wooden and it was starting to wobble a bit. So I got her this stone one. Doesn’t stain, the guy says. One wipe and all bodily fluids are gone. She loved it. Best damn present I ever gave her. Not like the time I got her a giant economy jar of eye of newt. I thought it would be a great present. Witches. Eye of newt. So I went all the way to this magic shop, whose owner was rumoured to be a 400-year-old vampyr (although I did see him in broad daylight unloading a box of six-fingered mummified hand candles off the back of a van, but that’s another story), and he got me a good deal on a three-litre jar. Anyway, when she got it, she gave me this very disappointed look and didn’t talk much to me for three days or so.
'What? Is it because it’s an economy jar?!'
That wasn’t it. Apparently, getting a witch eye of newt is like giving a serious classical pianist a Richard Clayderman CD.
He’s on his back on the altar and she’s taking off his clothes. I hate this part. Why does it have to involve nudity? My wife, a guy and nudity. He’s even more gone by now and is giggling. I’m just standing there watching. I yawn.
'Dear, can you go up and bring me the statue of Baphomet?'
Sure thing. And I get up the steps and go the display case. There are seven different statues for seven different deities in here. I’ve asked why she has to have seven deities in her display case. She says it’s because she has no room to fit eight.
I pick up Baphomet. It’s heavier than it looks. Stone, I think. It’s ugly. Kind of like a man-fish thing. As I’m walking, I’m carrying it some distance away in my outstretched arms as if it were a baby that needed a nappy change.
Downstairs, she’s already naked herself and I look at her. She’s hot. And it hits me every time. No matter how often I’ve seen her naked. I remember the first time I saw her naked I was thinking, ‘she’s hot.’ I’m having a brief moment with myself while I’m looking at her right now.
His hands start to grab at her. He’s still giggling. I really hate this part. Even worse than the last part. Every time. Why can’t she just tie their hands up? I’ve brought this up with her before but she would just gives me the ‘How the hell can you get jealous of a guy I’m about to sacrifice to a demon’ argument and I just end up shrugging my shoulders and turning on the TV. She’s right of course. How can I argue with that?
So now I’m holding up the statue above my head and she’s raised the beautiful gold-hilted and diamond-encrusted ceremonial dagger above her head and the weasel is still grabbing at her breasts. She lifts her head to look at the statue, then lowers the blade, sighs and drops both her shoulders.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘What have you got there?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does that look like?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does it look like?’
‘Er… a fish?’
‘Yes. A fish. Now do we remember which one looks like a fish?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. Try again?’
‘Um…’
‘It’s Dagon. You’re holding Dagon. I asked for Baphomet. I’m doing a head-pop spell. I need Baphomet.’
‘So which one is it?’
‘Try to remember.’
‘The fat guy with the big head?’
‘No. That’s Baal.’
‘The big guy with the fat head?’
‘No. Oh, for crying out loud!’
‘OK, OK, is it the goat guy with the breasts?’
‘Yes, it’s the goat guy with the breasts! Can you at least pretend to take some interest in what’s important to me?’
‘Give me a break! I try, OK?’
‘You try? You mean like the time you got me the newt eyes?’
‘Will you let that go, already? Come on! I said I was sorry!’
‘Just bring me the damn idol!’
‘Hey! Dickwad! Stop touching my wife’s breasts!’
‘He can’t hear you! Now hurry up with the idol. The elixir of hallucinogenic stupor is wearing off. I’ll have to start the blood-letting without the statue.’
‘OK, OK!’
I turn around and march back up. I don’t like it when she uses that tone with me. I go back and put fish-face back in the display case and get the androgynous goat with the titties. On the way back I am momentarily distracted by the television where Desperate Housewives is playing. Susan has tripped over something or other again like she does in every episode. And the plumber is laughing. I think he’s an FBI agent.
I then hear the screams from the basement. She’s made the first cut. Time to go back down, I guess. I’m not in the mood but I go anyway. All this for just a head-pop spell. I’ve seen this spell before. For her to be doing one must mean someone pissed her off at work today.
But anyone would know that a human sacrifice for a head-pop spell is overkill. So someone must have really really pissed her off at work today.
If you're unfamiliar with this spell, let me tell you about it. It is elegant in design. What it does is it plants a seed in the head of the target individual that, in time, will cause his or her head to spontaneously explode. The only problem is that the seed has an incubation period of 40 years. The last time she did it was to her boss. And he was 45 years old. So he would have to live to 85 for his head to explode as intended. She has been telling him to eat healthy and exercise often ever since. Suffice to say, the spell was originally intended to be inflicted upon annoying kids and babies who refused to stop crying. The only reason people use it is because it is one of the simplest of the culling spells to do. A more potent, but less stable, and infinitely more complicated hybrid of this spell is called the head-obliterate spell. Here, the seed only has a 22-day incubation period but is unstable in that, if done wrongly, could present a small (but present) chance that the spellcaster’s head would explode as well.
I’m downstairs again and she’s covered in splashes of blood now. All over her head and chest. I hate this bit too. At least as much as, if not more than, the other bits. The weasel is convulsing and blood is bubbling though his mouth and nose. It’s not a pretty sight. I hold Baphomet up and she starts the spell. It’s in Latin. She repeats the spell over and over until the sacrifice dies.
But he’s not dying yet. Ten minutes later and he still flops around
‘Dear, are you sure you got his heart?’
‘Yes I’m sure.’
‘Well, it’s not that I’m telling you how to do your thing, but… um… well… they don’t usually convulse as much and they die faster than this, don't they?’
‘You think?’
‘Maybe you can give him another poke. With the dagger, I mean. Just to be sure.’
So she does. And I was right. The weasel dies a few moments after the extra stab. She stops the chanting and puts the dagger down. I think the spell is finished.
‘Can I put it down now?’ I asked, referring to the idol statue.
‘Sure. Thanks hon. You can go back up now. I’ll just clean up here and I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
I go back up the steps and watch the ending of Desperate Housewives, except that I don’t really understand what’s going on. Mr Solis is arrested. Why is he being arrested?
‘I’m gonna take a shower now’, calls my wife from the echo of the bathroom.
The show is over and I’m still not too sure what happened. I turn the TV off and I go back down to the basement, grab my shovel and the black bag, and drag it out of the house to the backyard.
My neighbour, old Mr Spence, who, on account of our very low fences can see me from his back porch, waves hello. I stop walking, look to him, and smile.
‘Howdy neighbour.’
‘Howdy Mr Spence. Nice evening.’
‘Yes it is. Now is that a big bag of fertiliser you’re dragging there?’
‘Why yes it is, Mr Spence. It’s an economy pack. Just doing a spot of gardening on such a fine evening.’
‘Well happy gardening to you.’
‘And you have a good night Mr Spence.’
‘You too, young lad.’
I remain unmoved. Still smiling.
‘Well perhaps I best be getting in the house now. It’s getting chilly.’
‘Well goodnight Mr Spence.’
And Mr Spence walks into his house, leaving me to do my spot of gardening underneath a bright new moon and a fairly minor stellar alignment on the Pagan calendar.
It used to be maybe once per quarter. Around the same time as when the council rates came around, my wife would bring a guy home. Random guys. They wanted anything from a cup of coffee to sex to a simple use of our telephone. But they would all invariably not get whatever it was they came for.
Tonight’s fool is young. Maybe 21 or 23. He’s small, somewhat weaselly. If you asked me for another way to describe him, I would say that he has the look of a guy in a horror movie who talks too much, smiles way too often and dies far too early.
He is shocked to see me come in. Most of them get this way. My wife is holding a glass of champagne in her hand and welcomes me home with open arms. I give her a kiss while leering at the guy. This weasel. This first-to-die-horror-movie guy.
‘Honey’, I tell her, ‘I was hoping we didn’t have to do one tonight. I was hoping to just sit on the couch and watch Desperate Housewives’.
She assures me it’ll be quick tonight.
The weasel asks her who I am. I introduce myself.
I’m the husband, dickwad.
Dickwad. It’s been my favourite phrase (would you call it a phrase?) ever since Arnie used it in Total Recall (was it Total Recall?). He just brings a whole new level of meaning to anything he says.
‘You’re married?!’
‘Oh like you didn’t know’, she says. ‘I didn’t even take off my ring, she says’.
‘But I thought…’ says the weasel.
‘He’ll just watch. Won’t you honey?’
I’m silent and peeling a banana. I don’t like this. Never have. Of course she never pretended to be anything other than what she is. I knew she was a witch when I married her. Knew she was one while we were still just dating. I love her. I really do. With all my heart. I don’t much care for the whole black arts thing. But it could have been worse. She could have been an accountant.
I just want to get on with it tonight. She asks him if he still wants to do this and he says yes. More often then not, they get weirded out and want to leave, so then I’d have to grab the baseball bat and club them over the head. This guy, though, is willing. And he seems groggy. She must have used the elixir of hallucinogenic stupor. That’s a good one.
Orange juice, a sprig of fennel and the bile of a pregnant turtle.
She leads him by the hand down the steps to our basement. He’s mumbling stuff I don’t understand and she keeps telling him yes. Yes. Yes. Sure. Soon. And so on.
I follow them down. She tells him to get on the altar but he’s too far gone to get himself up there. I help him up.
This is the stone altar that I got her for Christmas even though, of course, she doesn’t believe in Christmas. Her old one was wooden and it was starting to wobble a bit. So I got her this stone one. Doesn’t stain, the guy says. One wipe and all bodily fluids are gone. She loved it. Best damn present I ever gave her. Not like the time I got her a giant economy jar of eye of newt. I thought it would be a great present. Witches. Eye of newt. So I went all the way to this magic shop, whose owner was rumoured to be a 400-year-old vampyr (although I did see him in broad daylight unloading a box of six-fingered mummified hand candles off the back of a van, but that’s another story), and he got me a good deal on a three-litre jar. Anyway, when she got it, she gave me this very disappointed look and didn’t talk much to me for three days or so.
'What? Is it because it’s an economy jar?!'
That wasn’t it. Apparently, getting a witch eye of newt is like giving a serious classical pianist a Richard Clayderman CD.
He’s on his back on the altar and she’s taking off his clothes. I hate this part. Why does it have to involve nudity? My wife, a guy and nudity. He’s even more gone by now and is giggling. I’m just standing there watching. I yawn.
'Dear, can you go up and bring me the statue of Baphomet?'
Sure thing. And I get up the steps and go the display case. There are seven different statues for seven different deities in here. I’ve asked why she has to have seven deities in her display case. She says it’s because she has no room to fit eight.
I pick up Baphomet. It’s heavier than it looks. Stone, I think. It’s ugly. Kind of like a man-fish thing. As I’m walking, I’m carrying it some distance away in my outstretched arms as if it were a baby that needed a nappy change.
Downstairs, she’s already naked herself and I look at her. She’s hot. And it hits me every time. No matter how often I’ve seen her naked. I remember the first time I saw her naked I was thinking, ‘she’s hot.’ I’m having a brief moment with myself while I’m looking at her right now.
His hands start to grab at her. He’s still giggling. I really hate this part. Even worse than the last part. Every time. Why can’t she just tie their hands up? I’ve brought this up with her before but she would just gives me the ‘How the hell can you get jealous of a guy I’m about to sacrifice to a demon’ argument and I just end up shrugging my shoulders and turning on the TV. She’s right of course. How can I argue with that?
So now I’m holding up the statue above my head and she’s raised the beautiful gold-hilted and diamond-encrusted ceremonial dagger above her head and the weasel is still grabbing at her breasts. She lifts her head to look at the statue, then lowers the blade, sighs and drops both her shoulders.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘What have you got there?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does that look like?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. What does it look like?’
‘Er… a fish?’
‘Yes. A fish. Now do we remember which one looks like a fish?’
‘Baphomet?’
‘No. Try again?’
‘Um…’
‘It’s Dagon. You’re holding Dagon. I asked for Baphomet. I’m doing a head-pop spell. I need Baphomet.’
‘So which one is it?’
‘Try to remember.’
‘The fat guy with the big head?’
‘No. That’s Baal.’
‘The big guy with the fat head?’
‘No. Oh, for crying out loud!’
‘OK, OK, is it the goat guy with the breasts?’
‘Yes, it’s the goat guy with the breasts! Can you at least pretend to take some interest in what’s important to me?’
‘Give me a break! I try, OK?’
‘You try? You mean like the time you got me the newt eyes?’
‘Will you let that go, already? Come on! I said I was sorry!’
‘Just bring me the damn idol!’
‘Hey! Dickwad! Stop touching my wife’s breasts!’
‘He can’t hear you! Now hurry up with the idol. The elixir of hallucinogenic stupor is wearing off. I’ll have to start the blood-letting without the statue.’
‘OK, OK!’
I turn around and march back up. I don’t like it when she uses that tone with me. I go back and put fish-face back in the display case and get the androgynous goat with the titties. On the way back I am momentarily distracted by the television where Desperate Housewives is playing. Susan has tripped over something or other again like she does in every episode. And the plumber is laughing. I think he’s an FBI agent.
I then hear the screams from the basement. She’s made the first cut. Time to go back down, I guess. I’m not in the mood but I go anyway. All this for just a head-pop spell. I’ve seen this spell before. For her to be doing one must mean someone pissed her off at work today.
But anyone would know that a human sacrifice for a head-pop spell is overkill. So someone must have really really pissed her off at work today.
If you're unfamiliar with this spell, let me tell you about it. It is elegant in design. What it does is it plants a seed in the head of the target individual that, in time, will cause his or her head to spontaneously explode. The only problem is that the seed has an incubation period of 40 years. The last time she did it was to her boss. And he was 45 years old. So he would have to live to 85 for his head to explode as intended. She has been telling him to eat healthy and exercise often ever since. Suffice to say, the spell was originally intended to be inflicted upon annoying kids and babies who refused to stop crying. The only reason people use it is because it is one of the simplest of the culling spells to do. A more potent, but less stable, and infinitely more complicated hybrid of this spell is called the head-obliterate spell. Here, the seed only has a 22-day incubation period but is unstable in that, if done wrongly, could present a small (but present) chance that the spellcaster’s head would explode as well.
I’m downstairs again and she’s covered in splashes of blood now. All over her head and chest. I hate this bit too. At least as much as, if not more than, the other bits. The weasel is convulsing and blood is bubbling though his mouth and nose. It’s not a pretty sight. I hold Baphomet up and she starts the spell. It’s in Latin. She repeats the spell over and over until the sacrifice dies.
But he’s not dying yet. Ten minutes later and he still flops around
‘Dear, are you sure you got his heart?’
‘Yes I’m sure.’
‘Well, it’s not that I’m telling you how to do your thing, but… um… well… they don’t usually convulse as much and they die faster than this, don't they?’
‘You think?’
‘Maybe you can give him another poke. With the dagger, I mean. Just to be sure.’
So she does. And I was right. The weasel dies a few moments after the extra stab. She stops the chanting and puts the dagger down. I think the spell is finished.
‘Can I put it down now?’ I asked, referring to the idol statue.
‘Sure. Thanks hon. You can go back up now. I’ll just clean up here and I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
I go back up the steps and watch the ending of Desperate Housewives, except that I don’t really understand what’s going on. Mr Solis is arrested. Why is he being arrested?
‘I’m gonna take a shower now’, calls my wife from the echo of the bathroom.
The show is over and I’m still not too sure what happened. I turn the TV off and I go back down to the basement, grab my shovel and the black bag, and drag it out of the house to the backyard.
My neighbour, old Mr Spence, who, on account of our very low fences can see me from his back porch, waves hello. I stop walking, look to him, and smile.
‘Howdy neighbour.’
‘Howdy Mr Spence. Nice evening.’
‘Yes it is. Now is that a big bag of fertiliser you’re dragging there?’
‘Why yes it is, Mr Spence. It’s an economy pack. Just doing a spot of gardening on such a fine evening.’
‘Well happy gardening to you.’
‘And you have a good night Mr Spence.’
‘You too, young lad.’
I remain unmoved. Still smiling.
‘Well perhaps I best be getting in the house now. It’s getting chilly.’
‘Well goodnight Mr Spence.’
And Mr Spence walks into his house, leaving me to do my spot of gardening underneath a bright new moon and a fairly minor stellar alignment on the Pagan calendar.
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