It's really quiet now. Very quiet. All I can hear is the clatter and squeak of my keys, the chair complaining and the computer's fan going. Today when I napped it was noisy again. I'm pretty sure the pounding sound they have coming from next door is them drilling for bore water to keep their expensive garden alive. I laid there listening to the tone of the pounding changed. I think they're in sand now, or at least softer rock. I have no idea if that means they're getting closer to the bore or not.

So there I was, wiping down the espresso machine. It'd been fairly quiet that morning, barely anyone on the early train when I'd come in, and the second barista hadn't arrived when they were supposed to. But like I said, quiet, so I wasn't worried when I couldn't reach them on their mobile. No fuss. I hate fuss.
I was wiping down the espresso bar when the first customer came in, about an hour after we'd opened. I was looking down, refusing to look up, because the customer was shuffling. I hate customers shuffling, strolling, sauntering. It means they're not in a hurry and they're unsure what they want. They usually stand there a good minute or two staring at the menu before saying "Latte?" with the conviction of a child that knows it's somewhere it shouldn't be.
Another few started shuffling in behind the first, and I decided I'd let them stew enough. I looked up.
The first guy was missing his jaw and one of the arms of his business suit was empty, the other hanging loose from its seams. Behind him was a bloated woman in a running clothes, behind her a girl in a grayed security officer uniform. All of them had cyanotic skin and missing soft tissue. Doing six months of a nursing degree makes you think like that sometimes. It also helps dealing with the compulsion to gag at the sight of that sort of thing.
They weren't doing anything, just sort of standing there, swaying, the bloated woman dripping bile onto the floor. I looked to the back room, could hear being dishes being done and hoped the barista would stay out there.
I did the only thing I could think of: "So uh, three cappuccinos?" They each groaned then moved to where the drinks are served, each leaving a trail of whatever fluids they were leaking. I thought about how that'd all just been mopped and how it'd have to be done again, then suppressed a mad giggle. If I didn't keep control now I wouldn't get it back.
"Yeah, on the house this morning." I marked each cup like normal and lined them up on the bar, started making the drinks. After the milk stopped steaming I heard the barista had stopped working on the dishes. The back door slammed, which meant she was onto garbage now, still keeping her out back. Good.
The filters we use are pretty heavy, I'd joked about how mace-like they were to someone who'd understand, but now I looked at one, weighed it in my hand, then looked at the corpses waiting for their drinks and decided against it. Fighting would probably mean losing.
I was just finishing the drinks when the barista stomped out onto the floor. She looked at the drinks, saw I was nearly done, looked at the bin, saw it was nearly empty, then turned and stomped her way out back without looking directly at the people waiting. The 'customers' watched her but didn't follow. I exhaled and started serving up their cups.
"Allright, I've got a tall cappuccino, a tall cappuccino and a tall cappuccino." They didn't move. "We call our small cups the tall. You know, just to be confusing."
That got them moving. With dexterity I thought would be lacking in a walking corpse, the first two picked up their drinks and started shuffling towards the door. The last one, the security guard, stopped, looking at the drink. I recognised her. When she'd been alive I'd thought she was kind of cute, but severe. I guess that's what happens when you have to deal with male security guards all day. Anyway, she finally reached out her hand just short of the drink, made a grasping gesture and waved her hand up and down. I bit back a smart comment.
"Oh, sure," I said and placed a cardboard sleeve around the drink. That satisfied her, apparently, because she picked the cup up and started toward the door. I waited, watching her. She took a mouthful while she was walking, drink spilling out of what looked like a bite through her throat. Once she was out the door I ran as fast as I could, leaping the trails of slime, and slid it shut behind her, locking it.
I tried not to look out at the street and scampered back across the store, found the barista struggling with some garbage bags by the back door. It lead deeper into the building. She looked at me, and I must have been pulling some kind of face because she asked me what was wrong.
"Look, you'll see for yourself soon enough. Uh, do you know where the emergency exit for this place is?"

Pretty good day today. Sat in the cafe for about an hour just talking crap with Nik. It's something we're both pretty decent at. The barista there likes us a lot for some reason and she told us funny bits and pieces between coffees and food. She burnt my croissant too but I'm not one to complain about stuff like that. It was still edible.
After that did some laundry, fiddled around online, this and that, nothing special but just right nonetheless. Work again in the morning. Five hour shift. Can do that shit standing on my head, although that would be revolting considering the floors we have.

NOISE

It's noise day in the suburbs. That thing cat photoed the other day is clacking and clunking away next door and I have no idea why it'd do such a thing. I could go look at it but workmen are vaguely scary with their hairy legs and fat guts. And it's the nicest day since last week so the cicadas are going now to catch up for lost time. Unless it's a different species than the ones that scream in the evening. I dunno. Might go out and see if I can find one.

So yeah, we've got ourselves a new Labor government, with a new senate next July that gives balance of power to the Greens, which is honestly the best thing to come of this. Otherwise it's just a different flavour of conservatives. It's all kinda meh, like we've got the lesser of two evils. But that's democracy.

So I'm listening to this Sunset Rubdown cd I've got a lot lately, the last song is bloody brilliant. Got me curious to what's going on with the new Wolf Parade album that was supposed to be out already, and it's been put back to sometime next year. Which isn't surprising since the main guy, Spencer Krug, has put out at least five cds with other projects in the time since Apologies to the Queen Mary was released. Which is okay because it's honestly all good stuff.
But the last song on this, 'Shut Up I Am Dreaming Of Places Where Lovers Have Wings' is just bloody amazing. It's the sort of song I want to force people to listen to, but I don't want to face the disappointment when they don't hear it how I hear it, so I'm gonna keep it to myself. Unless I can find somewhere to upload it.

Okay so the short story I've had sitting around unfinished for the past twelve months, I've decided it needs a slight refocus. Honestly, when I actually try the biggest strength of my writing is the voice. If I'm writing in first person I get to play around with words more, be a bit silly and sound like a real person instead of the VOICE OF GOD which is what you're supposed to do with third person stuff. Really. That's what you're supposed to be. When we were learning writing the teacher told us if you use third person, don't use contractions because god doesn't use them. Whatever.
So yeah, I'm going to have to convert the whole deal over to the point of view of the narrator. Maybe I'll even do it in a classic envelope, like Marlowe dictating his love affair with Kurtz. Which I guess is kind of what this story is about. Except not.

Blarg. I feel like someone's wrapped my head in a sack of slow. Why is waking up so hard? I need coffee.

So I've been biding my time for a long, uh, time. I hate cliches. I really do. A cliche is sort of like an old friend you've got hanging around and you can't figure out what the smell is then one day you turn around and realise it's them. And you say to them, 'Everyone thinks I smell and it's because of you'. And they say 'yeah but we're friends'.

Where was I? Oh yes, I'd been biding. Abiding. The days have been getting hotter recently so my cover job was getting more and more difficult. I've never been good at this hiding stuff. My scene is always bigger, louder, more bloody impressive to look at, you know? And here I am expected to cower before cattle, cattle that was lining up in larger and larger groups. Well, I decided. Well. Enough of this nonsense! Didn't they know who I was? No of course they didn't, that being the point of having a cover identity. But that was all about to change!

I leaped to the top of the hand-off plane, spilling a few drinks that had either been forgotten or perhaps the owners were expecting some feat of teleportation to make the drinks arrive at their table. That was academic though as the contents of the cups were now puddling at my boots.

Everyone in the place looked up at me. Silence reigned except for a bad cover of a John Lennon song coming through the speakers. And then they went back to talking about how much they could get for a baby's corpse on the open market and how much they'd force-fed themselves over the weekend or whatever that lot talk about. I've never understood them. Some woman tried to look past my legs to make sure her drink was being made correctly. Well this all had to stop, I decided.

I called for my second, Eeni the Dread, but then remembered she wasn't there that day due to something or other. I'm sure she told me why but I'm very bad at listening to people when they're not talking about me. Oh well. Being alone makes improvisation easier.

I drew my cutlass and with the same movement decapitated the closest customer. In the time it took for his head to hit the floor the place fell silent enough for me to hear the hollow thud of it hitting the tiles. Faces looked up in horror, some in indignation that one of my number would attack one of theirs. No one moved. But just in case I drew one of my throwing knives and threw it so it felled the person second closest to the exit. I was aiming for the one right near the door but you take what you can get, really. I mean I got the effect I was after, right?

"Anyone so much as moves towards that door will share the same fate!" I bellowed. Of all my obvious strengths I've always found my voice my favourite. "I am the pirate known as The Oates. Some of you made have heard of me, and to that I say all of the goddamn stories are true. If you don't hold your places you'll find that I lie not! Uh. Double negative, sorry. Look, just stand still!"

I leaped down from the from the bar and swaggered through the crowd. Even though I was shorter than most of the people standing around you could tell where I was by how everyone got out of my way. Sharp pointy things have their advantages. When I got to the door I kicked it shut, spun around and faced the crowd once more.

"If you do exactly as I say all of you will live. Except... except the ones I've already killed, but I am sorry about that, really. But except for those there will be no other casualties, you have my word as a... as a... dastardly bandit and pirate, yes."

I could see I was losing them at this point so I pulled out my musket and shot at the ceiling. Not right above me, that would be silly. No, I made sure the plaster and paint showered some others, but not me. I do know what I'm doing.

"Right! I need all your jewelry, all your cash. And especially all your credit cards. Silver, gold, platinum, I don't care! Form a queue to the registers and deposit everything in the tip jar. Once I'm convinced you're sufficiently lightened, out you go."

They started shuffling about placing the things I'd asked for into the tip jar, then onto the pile over the tip jar that formed as it filled. Then the formed another queue at the door and I started prodding them out with the tip of my cutlass.

"And damn your eyes, if anyone cancels their bloody credit cards just remember they've got your damned names on them. I'll find out where you live and then you'll find out just why they call me The Oates."

And then there was the getaway. Which I won't go into any detail with due to chase scenes being boring as hell.

Feeling pretty good right now. Had a decent night of sleep, just went out for coffee now I'm chomping on a muesli bar. I'm gonna stick some music on then get to some writing. It's a good day for it.

Home from work. Work was dumb. Damn dumb. Damn dumb work. Be less dumb. Damn.

Tired. Too damned tired. Nothing's making sense. Going to sleep.

My latest project has been to set up ropes between the various parts of the broken hulk. They'll help the whole thing stay together and give me an easier, safer way of moving about. It's not much but it keeps me busy.
After I'm satisfied with that, and it won't be long now, I plan on setting a trap for my visitor, my shadow. I'm either losing my mind through solitude or there really is someone on board. It's quick and able, faster than me, and as far as I can see they have their own supplies. I've got to keep close track of what I find in my foraging and there is nothing missing from my stash. Maybe it's something that lives out here. I don't know. Whatever it is seems intelligent, seems to be playing a game with me, nearly revealing itself to me on several occasions but fading once I give chase.
But I have a plan, and soon I'll know what the hell is going on. Maybe I am just bloody crazy. I dunno. It's something to do, something to keep me sane out here.

Very very tall. Tallest in the world. So high up here I can barely breathe, looking down on everyone else, occasionally waving at birds, wondering what everyone is doing down there but it's okay I have a scarf and a warm coat but it's still cold and I have to knock the icicles off sometimes and I wonder why I'm so tall. Very very tall.

My poor bag. I had to get a lot of change for work today and dang, 150 dollars in coins is heavy. I thought the arse was gonna fall outta the old thing but it held out until I got to back to the shop. It's lasted a damned long time, easily past the supposed four years the warranty gave it. But now the zippers are all broke, the material's gone thin and I don't think it's much longer of this world. Replacing it's gonna require at least an expedition. Maybe even an adventure.

I got outta bed before I absolutely had to this morning. That's a first in a damned long time for me. Sitting here and resisting putting on smelly barista clothes, and oh crap it's bright red shirt day for me. I would have forgotten if I hadn't gotten up early. Go me.
But yeah with summer coming up there's a lot more flies around. It's annoying enough normally, and I gotta stop eating outside at cafes because that's just gross, but I noticed on the way home from work yesterday that the flies absolutely love all the syrups and chocolate and rancid milk that accumulates on my boots. I think next time one of the guys mops I'll have to get them to wash my boots. Because that's not completely humiliating at all.

Imagine spending two months living in the same clothes. Now imagine those clothes are a restrictive suit that's intended to provide heat and cover for most of your body. And most of your days are spend in fairly strenuous labour, such as moving various objects around in zero gravity. That's actually harder than it sounds.
It's good I don't actually notice the smell unless I stop and concentrate. It doesn't even smell that bad. Sort of like an animal, or strangely, spiced meat. Whoever finds me once the tweenship orbits into the lanes is going to locate me by my odour. They'll probably run away thinking I'm some kind of tweenjunk predator. So I've gotta put up signs, something saying 'survivor on board'. Yeah. That's yet another goddamn project I've gotta get going.
Actually now I think of it, my smell is probably what tips the squids off to where I am. Huh.

I guess with the writers strike in the States Ze suddenly has a lot more time on his hands because he's making shows again. Like, I understand why he stopped making the show, but I think pretty much every skill he used in the year making the show came along so much it's a waste for him to just drop the talking head thing. And this just makes me happy. Suddenly I know what I'm gunna do with today.

Craps. Fucken Dwarf Fortress crashed again. Guess that's the last I'm playing of that for a while, at least until the new version comes out on Friday. I'll start a new fortress, this time with the work and sleeping areas separated so the dwarves can get sleep, and warehouses either dug in stoneless areas or placed in buildings on the surface.
But since I'm not playing for a while that gives me time to do other things. I'm looking into sorting out my old game cds and I'm definitely installing Arcanum. My character this time is going to be a half orc big game hunter, so big guns and hunting type weapons like knives and whips. He's going to be a bit of a swashbuckler, bit of a cad. Probably get him addicted to drugs if that's in the game, I can't remember. So yeah. Now I really wanna play this. Time to go digging for cds, I guess.

Journal Entry

Outpost Asttitthal
10th Malachite, 1060
Dear Damn Diary
They voted me Mayor again. Idiot bloody dwarves. Can't they see I hate this damned job? I've got a bunch of humans dogging me about something I can't really understand. They want to buy something off us for some reason. I don't know. They seem to interchange between sign language and speaking really slowly. I need a drink.
Which is one thing: the bloody drink has run out. How the hell can that happen? We've got enough mushrooms to flood the entire kingdom with booze yet someone let the woodcutters sleep in and now we don't have barrels to put it in. No barrels means thirty damned dwarves standing in a stream up to their knees while sucking water. That's just asking for something to eat you. I don't bloody trust water.
Meanwhile through an accident of chaos someone built a mess of workshops under the housing. Or someone built housing over the workshops, depending on which idiot you listen to. Personally I don't listen to either of them, but damned if anyone can get any sleep with all that racket beneath them.
And I ask for one damned thing, one goddamn thing, just a few helms made because I'm partial to them. And do I get my wish? We've got so much iron ore you can't walk without tripping over it, yet no one's thought to have a forge built. That's dwarves for you. Bloody idiots.
I need a goddamn drink.
Yours Sincerely
Ilral Kubukdesis

Hurr. Awake. Grrr. Need coffee. Blah. Coffee outside. Here's where I open the curtains slightly and peek outside. Meh bleh blah. It's all outsidey out there. Damnit. Looks like I need to put some shoes on and face the day.

Blah blah blah work. So tired. Opened this morning with my favourite so even when I got grumpy it didn't last long. It's not hard to get grumpy at work. People are dumb.
But now! Now I uninstall World of Warcraft. So I can install a bunch of other stuff. Mainly the old rpgs I mentioned some time back.

First step to defeating insomnia without chemicals: staying awake. Yes, lets teach ourselves to sleep by not sleeping. Sigh. It's not that I don't have anything to do, I've got plenty of toys and such to distract me, it's just sitting up when I really, really want to sleep is painful. It'll be worth it in the long run, but right now I feel like a sack of skin around a blob of mismatched parts.

So yeah, Faye has quit drinking. She's fictional, okay, but if she can quit drinking maybe so can I. Although it'd probably make a better story in the long run if she lapsed now and then, but anyway, yeah, seriously thinking about this.
Note that this doesn't mean I'm handing in my monster membership card. For instance today I'm going to work with twine for shoe laces. Thanks Nik.

A helicopter just flew over. I love when they do that. It doesn't make me worry at all. Okay so it doesn't really worry me but it makes me wonder sometimes. Anyway, have a swimming cat!

They'd called around to the others, rounded them up as the sun was setting and gathered them in the vacant block down the street. A house had burnt down and been knocked down and the council had said something about turning the block into a playground but it had never happened. The weeds took over and kids from the highschool sometimes came by to smoke, drink or fuck, hidden by the weeds.

Slater’s ute sat in the long grass with its doors open, music playing out of the bad speakers. They’d gotten some wood from somewhere, a shovel and some petrol.

"Don’t use petrol to start a fire, it burns too quickly."

"Shut the fuck up, Roachy. It’s all we got, you got any better ideas?"

They turned over a patch of dirt in the centre of the block and set about starting a bonfire, drinking beer they kept in an old washtub full of ice in the back of the ute. By the time it was dark, and after some arguments on the best way to start the fire, it was lit. Some of the local kids came around and they were given a beer each and told to shut the fuck up and not tell anyone.

"Look at that, man." Roach was lying on his back, away from the fire, pointing up at the sky. No one had been speaking so everyone’s attention was on him.

"Look at what?" said one of the others.

"That. Those stars up there. Just fucken look at them."

"What about them, Roachy?"

"You know once I had some kid tell me there are as many stars in the Universe as we got neurons in our brains. You heard that one?"

"I think you better slow down, mate. How many you had?" Slater was standing with his back to the fire, his back to everyone and watching the street.

"Less than you, man. Nah listen, that's bullshit. There's fucken, you know, infinite stars. More than you can fucken count to if you’d been sittin there countin since time began, right? That shits all over how many fucken atoms we got in our heads, more or less the cells that make it up, right?"

"Roach... mate."

Roach sat up, got to his feet, stumbled a little away from the fire.

"Nah, listen. Right. Each one of those stars is a billion times bigger than you are. Or somethin like that. Fucken huge. We’re all so fucken infinitesimal compared to them. You look up there and they’re tiny, but really they’re so massive you can’t think about how big they are. And you and me, we’re made up of stuff that’s been, you know, shat outta the fucken things."

There were a few moments where no one spoke, except Bon Scott yelling something muffled from the car’s tape deck.

"Look mate, I get what you’re sayin. I mean, I’m not bloody stupid. But why say it? No one wants to fucken hear it."

"I dunno. Just sometimes I can’t fucken deal with it, ya know? Everything seems so pointless. We’re just star farts. The scale’s all wrong."

Again, no one said anything. The music had stopped and the speakers hissed with the silence of empty tape. One of the kids muttered something to another and they all giggled softly. Slater span around, crushed the tinny in his hand and threw it on the bonfire.

"Look what’d I fucken say to you lot? You can hang around if you shut the fuck up. That didn’t sound like you were shuttin the fuck up."

They looked at each other as he stalked over to them, then one, the eldest and biggest, spoke.

"Aw fuck off Slater, your friend’s a fucken retard."

"Don’t you fucken swear at me ya little cunt. I didn’t have to give you the fucken beer. I’ll tell ya fucken uncle what ya been up to, how’d ya like that? Ya mum might not give a shit, but he finds out so will ya Dad, allright? You got it?"

The kid held his gaze for a moment before looking down.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry man. We’ll shut up."

"Yeah."

Slater walked over to the back of the ute to fish around in the tub for a beer. The tape playing in the cab clicked off. Roach, the others and the kids all seemed to be waiting for something. The fire was starting to burn down and someone kicked at it a few times, turned over some logs with a burning branch and threw some more wood on. The tape started up again, something that sounded like Metallica choked through a wet sock and two walls and Slater came back to the fire, glaring at everyone, as if daring someone to speak.

"Slater."

"Roach. Mate. I don’t wanna fucken hear it."

"Nah, Slater. The cops are here."

Writing my Nanowrimo. I'd apologise for all the swearing in it, but this is how people actually talk. Really. When I finish this bit I'll post it up here.

Blah. Time to sort the shelf for a while. I'm nearly out of fiction, then onto the comics and the non fiction. Lets see how far I get tonight.

Can't sleep. Took the bins out wearing my robe and nothing else. Got something stuck in my foot then hopped around for a while then walked for some more then decided to get it out. Put some cardboard out beside the bin to see if they'll take it with them. I wonder if the big robot arm can handle it. They have big robot arms to empty rubbish bins these days. We truly do live in the future.

Gonna go to bed and listen to those whacky Canadian bands I love with the fun noises and the interchangeable members. Lets see how long it takes me to pass out.

Another day grinding. My life is simple. Things come down the chute, I put them in the mill, I grind them up and the continue on down the tunnel. That's my life. My life is simple.
But it's a life and that's all you can hope for. At least I wasn't born broken or basic. So I turn the mill all day, stealing what I can get away with and using what I can. Depending on what I get I use some of the things that come down, things to make me awake during the day and I set aside some things to help me sleep at night. Apart from that the staff here feed me and it's warm enough here.
Another day grinding. What else can you hope for?

These words will save your life.

Wasted another day. You can't waste days. All days are experience you can draw on, regardless of how they were spent. But I wasted it anyway. I decided to waste it as thoroughly as I could, got myself a some special equipment needed for destroying time. I did that a few days ago so today I wouldn't be doing anything useful. Truly destructive destruction has to be planned.
I slept in, right in, waking up several times and going to sleep again without needing it. Once I woke up I put on yesterday's clothes, didn't shower, didn't shave, then set to the front yard grinding. The grinder is pewter, tiny, like something old used to mill spices. You turn the handle and it reduces time, destroying the day and making it to a powder that looks like flour. I wonder what the bread would taste like. Maybe another time, but today time's for the wasting.
With the day ground I went out to the street and started spreading it out, spreading it thin, like feed for chickens. For some reason there was no one around today, so no one saw me wasting time.

One of the things I like to do when I've got insomnia is sort my bookshelf. It's a simple exercise that takes my mind off whatever's bothering me. Last night it was a stupid nightmare, one of those ones where I'm trying to do things but they keep fucking up and everything just keeps getting worse and worse. Like seriously, the building I was in was falling apart, demons coming out of the walls, throwing fire around and shit. Too much imagination and too much stress.
Anyway, arranging my bookshelf. It's starting to look a bit impressive. But if I buy much more Moorcock he's gonna end up with a shelf to himself.

Insomnia is a killer. It kills your vocabulary, it kills any social skills you might have carefully manufactured, it totally does in my ability to count. It kills concentration. I don't know where I was going with this. I like beer. Hooray!

Fallout. It's important to understand Fallout.

Damnit. Trapped inside a goddamn wall. I'm gunna pretend I don't know how this happened. I remember something about being hungry, very hungry. Back then I was thin enough to slip between all the cracks, all the damned cracks in the world. It's fun and convenient, no one can touch you, know one knows you and people don't believe you when you say who you are. 'Didn't you die years ago?' they say when you're that thin. When you turn up in officially mandated places of placeness they turn you away, say come back when you can prove you're someone. You say, but I'm here so I must be someone. But you're standing side-on so they don't see you anymore and just look confused.
So I got hungry and clever. Once you start to eat it's not so easy slipping by. And once you eat some you get used to it. You can't stop. The little brothers and sisters here in the wall were easy food and eager to breed and be eaten some more. I ate so much I got trapped in this damned wall and now I gotta wait until the place crumbles or I starve enough to escape. Stupid spiders, stupid wall.

Boop a doop

Boop a doop. I let the spiders live with me. They seem to eat each other. I guess that's what they do because there's not much else to eat in here. Just me and spiders. Inside the wall where the big grilled air vents are there's a big spider, the biggest spider. He's big enough to eat me and I hear him mumbling about it at night. Sitting there grumbling about me and humans and walls and other spiders, because that's his whole world. Sometimes he pokes at the vent but he can't get in or out. And he eats the other spiders. Boop a doop.

So I'm typing away on my story then notice 'Damn... there are a lot of swearwords in this.' Then I think about the goal, think about what I doing. Then I think 'I think i can fit a few more in here and there.' Anyway the 'novel' is called 'Dirty Old Town'. Have some Pogues.

Bleh. I'm leaving for work in half an hour, and now I get sleepy. Now! Fanfuckingtastic. Here's Tom Waits impersonating a devil woman and not wanting to go to work.

Awake before I need to be. It's the first here so I could technically start the Nanowrimos now. But I won't because I need to get ready for work. And I need to read comics for a little while.