Here You Will Find…

A mind in which a decision was made,

today

in the faces framed and hidden by tint

speeding by, expressionless,

only hints

perhaps of a life lived, perhaps of an existence.

May not the worth

save that which entertainment gives,

be all that ties us to this earth.

May not the price,

save that which being takes,

be all that others know of our quarrels,

for in those reflexions that pass we see,

our essence in vicarious triviality.

NS

This poem was written in the wake of a strange day sat aside a freeway being watched by thousands of uncaring, unhelpful eyes (save for six, the owners of which I thank dearly and endlessly!). It inspired me to do something that feels – and you’ll attest to this if you’ve ever tried it – quite strange. To write and then read about yourself in the third person. This is where I’m reading it: http://closedencountersofthe3rdperson.blogspot.com

Regards,

Nathan Charlton-Salwowski.

Thatching the Abbott - A Major Brown K. Rudd

I've decided to loosen my grip on my dignity, and start posting everything. Everything including silly little dittys like this...

A short ode to uncomfortably unwelcome change:

Welcome to bizarro world my friends and fellow apes,
I'm afraid this scent wont clear any time soon,
...
Here, shit smells Lilac lovely and you remember the future,
uncanny?
you know what passing that felt like before
only no more enema, just this;
a nice,
long,
Good Book

Noah's unwelcome this year,
Father A's made some revisions,
he's no fan of boats,
...
This brings one to wonder, though
what the runner thinks of swimmers?
for they're who he'll get, along with his sinners.
He dislikes fibre optics,
and wants to outlaw chopsticks,
with bright lights and tax hikes,
big wheels digging yet bigger holes.
...
Let's all sigh as one,
...and hope this will all blow over.

The Picture of Dorian Gray: Surprised to see books still being burned.

Woe is me, and a day defining discomfort is the one that settles in my stomach having seen this trailer. It would seem, while Oscar Wildes' "The Picture of Dorian Gray" is a novel undoubtedly worthy of a film adaptation, that an entirely unsuited team of producers has sunk their greasy and prodigal claws into this; such a richly written piece of literature of unfading philosphical relevence.

It took only a 'teaser' of two and a half minutes to discourage me from ever seeing it, I say teaser, but it felt more like a slow witted bully pummelling my literary heart of beloved hearts with stone fists of contemporary idiom and jargon carved by unimaginative egoistic corporate hands. I may be wrong, as it has been more than a year since I've read the book, but I challenge you to find the lines "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" when Dorian is referring to the secret behind his apparent immortality, nor "Let's raise some hell", spoken by Lord Henry. Now in most book to film adaptations this would only present a very minor nuance, but when the adapted book is a work of one of the greatest and most respected orators, conversationalists and raconteurs to have ever lived, on both page and in person, well, I hope you might see my problem with deviation from the archetype.

There is, I admit, small praise to be bestowed. Though only to the casting crew of this travesty, I'm afraid. Ben Barnes (Gray) is, I suppose suitably attractive, though I always pictured Dorian to have been fairer haired, and Colin Firth as Lord Henry was a respectable choice. We can be thankful at least, that they're actually English, this time.

So, if any of you who read this, few though you may be, are a fan and humbled worm of Wildes' works like myself deem this watchable, let me know. Help mend my confounded heart.

NS

Browsers, perusers, fellow bloggers and users, I greet you all with the warmest of salutations.


I, a definitive 'noob' to the world of blogging, would first like to point out that I have very little experience as a writer, aside from my own introverted rants, scrawled hap-handedly through the pages of a few exercise books. Those all but forgotten ventilatory-chronicles that are now scattered about both continents of Oceanic and Brittanic antipodes (and are more than likely looking noteably haggard). Aside from the uninspired essays that I submitted in my school days -the ones that always seemed to recieve higher or lower marks than I thought they deserved- and maybe one or two letters to expectant but more-often-than-not unendowed friends or family members around the world, I am, in my own opinion at least, a relatively 'virgin' wordsmith. That having been said, I've recently come to the conclusion that I've been, by some means or another, afflicted with an unquashable desire to write.

This was of course induced by my affair with the written word, the inspiration of Tolkein and Pratchett, Dostoyevski and Banks, Hunter S. Thompson, Neitzsche, Dante effing Alighieri! It's had nothing to do with any 'hereditary dispositions', so what if I was "born of creative blood", as I've been reminded on many occassions, in perhaps slightly less resolute words of family members. Son of an artist and a poetic social analyst, I shudder to think I'm living up to expectations! ... even if it might explain a lot. How could I have inherited a creative and/or literary flair, when I've known nothing but writers block since coming to terms with my ambition?

A point which brings me, after what even I think is a bit too much verbose and narcisstically evaluative speel, to the point of this, my first (second really) ever blog! Readers (if you're there), I have a favour to ask, and that favour is this: It's impossible these days, as I'm sure most of you know, for a sceptic (as I regard myself to be) to take anything they see or hear in the media on face value. In some ways a depressing but forthrightly discernable truth I've lived with for some years now. Though from this anthropic doubt, I've somehow derived inspiration. After realising that with nearly every news story I've heard or read that caught my interest, I've made sure I've digested ten versions of before deciding upon what of it I believe, still usually taking any conclusions with a pinch of salt (save for those of New Scientist). That coupled with this unprecedented desire to write I've recently experienced, I've become intent on pursuing a career as a writer, a vocation I wish to begin to scratch the surface of, by entering the paradoxical world of humble oblation and shrewd tenacity that is journalism. (Suggestions pertaining to this new aspiration are very welcome). For anything to eventuate of this though, I realise I need practice. While I intend to engage in some kind of official study on the industries finer points some time in the future, mostly for the sake of gaining credentials and an understanding of journalisms business side, I still want to write, to practice, now!
... that is where the favour comes in. I've started this blog with an ardent mind to write about anything and more than likely everything I find interesting, provocative, evocative or existentially efficacious. Anything I or others deem to be a catalyst to change in all three tiers of world. Mine, ours and theirs. All I ask of you, anybody who feels a benevolent inclination when reading this, my plea, the articles I post henceforth, all of which I imagine will be on this blog under this alias. Scrutinise, criticise, pick apart everything I write, be argus-eyed and vigilantly evaluative and above all; let me know where I can improve, where I need to re-check my facts. That is, with everything I post after these introductory terms. This is just a bit of banter to get the ball rolling, hopefully get some... invigilators, on board. My first 'article' will be on here in a week, maybe two. Give or take a few days (more than likely give), me being a natural procastinator and all, a habit I'm currently in the midst of kicking. That and still being undecided as to what my first 'article' will be about. Maybe an excursive on that little rant about "being born of creative blood", a laymans venture into the facts and theories of hereditary genetics, perhaps? Who knows! So, my latent readers, for now, a la prochaine'!

P.s. Any suggestions for subject matter are more than welcome. In fact, any feedback of any kind is.

NCGS