Visual Representation of Book | Part |-

Method: Book | Part |-

God if you’re going to make mistakes why not have multiple attempts? Time is a completely personal construct – it is not universal. Therefore it should be possible to control one’s own construction of time.

The anomaly of controlling time can be felt in near death experiences – time slows down and sometimes reverses. But it is only after death that time can be controlled effectively, human bodies are very much restricted by time – they age/de-age.

φ

Oddly enough Ferrí encountered the phenomenon of de-ageing when she landed in New England. It was on the first day after having a particularly emotional and turbulent plane flight that she met up with one of America’s famous holiday traditions – Halloween.

Though Halloween has pretty much lost all its religious overtones it is still a highly spiritual time of year – especially for the satanists. It still holds all the naive concepts that conservative Americans like to cherish so much – hell, monsters that come out at ‘night’ and the eradication of things that are different in everyday society by prescribing them one time a year of acceptance.

Ferrí was staying with a family. There were two girls, both around Ferrí’s age and a boy who was younger but had a crush on Ferrí as soon as he met her. The two girls and boy chattered feverishly as they told Ferrí all about Halloween – she was a Halloween virgin. Dressing up as pimps and prostitutes was the latest trend – a new approach to the ghosts and ghouls of Halloweens past. Ferrí dressed up as a fifties housewife (not quite a prostitute), she wore a nineteen fifties amber dress and drew freckles on her cheeks with a marker.

They went out into the street and made their way to a cornfield where the celebrations were. A bonfire was being lit and the celebrations were in motion – children were screaming and scaring each other, and the quasi-liberal parents drank apple cider in plastic cups. Overhead the light was fading into an orange glow as the sun hid away and the street lights flickered on. Ferrí looked around wide-eyed at the happenings around her; she drank it all in then closed her eyes to galvanise it.
"Boo!"
Ferrí screamed. A boy had leapt out of a hedge; he was wearing a demented bunny mask of the likes of ‘Donnie Darko’.
"Ferrí!" the boy shouted hugging her. He took off his mask and Ferrí recognised him at once, it was someone she knew. It was Method.

φ

Of all the names in the world the most common names for a builder are the ones beginning with ‘J’.

Through the centuries names have become synonymous with jobs. As surnames were slowly introduced and eventually made mandatory by the various state governments of the world, people were forced to add themselves another name, so mostly they called themselves by their job description. That is why it’s not surprising that people with the same last name are similar, as it is most likely their ancestors were in the same business.

First names are different - they are randomly appointed. There is some order; parents tend to name their children after someone meaningful to them. However one would think that a name should have no major effect on how one turns out (unless you named your child Jesus of course).

Method had noticed a trend in his relationships to people and their names. His relationships seemed to follow these rules: If the person’s name started with an E then they will have a crush on him. If their name started with a C or a K then Method will have a crush on them and if their name ended with an I they would sleep together. It seemed like there was some higher meaning to the uncanniness of people with similar names having the same kind of involvement in Method’s life… game theory probably had something to do with it.

φ

Down to his boxers and a shirt, Method was playing poker with some friends. They weren’t playing strip poker – as much as Method pleaded them to – but ‘real’ poker with real money. He had decided to take his pants off to put them off the game but that hadn’t seemed to work. He was still loosing money, money that he needed to last him the rest of the year (he only had two hundred left in the bank). His only consolation was the quick glances from the females – he liked catching them perving on him.

Di was there, but not with him (she was definitely not perving on him). She had decided that somehow dating his friend would help patch up their friendship. Strangely it did. At least she was sleeping with someone who he knew would be good to her. The only reason he had been hostile towards her when she was interested in other guys was that he knew they wouldn’t treat her right – good girls always fall in love with the bad boy. Laurel wasn’t a bad guy he was a good guy, plus there was a bonus to their infatuation for each other – they were losing the poker game worse than Method.

φ

Later that night Method broke and weary, made his way back home. The poker had been at one of his female friend’s house – it wasn’t that far from his house but it was an uphill walk all the way. He stumbled along – he was fairly drunk – he had been mixing cocktails. Passing his old high school he stared at the fluorescent lights that he could see lighting the corridors – what a waste of electricity. He stopped and swayed there was nothing but emptiness all around him. Method looked down at his watch – it was big blue and ugly – but he didn’t care because it was a symbol of his hate towards organised fashion – no one else would be seen dead wearing this watch. It wasn’t on his wrist.
Where the hell is it? He must of left it at home. No he never left it at home. Method scanned the concrete around him fixing his gaze on a bubbler; it’ll turn up. Staring at the bubbler he realised he really needed to piss. He found a nearby tree or bush – it was dark he couldn’t tell – and released the liquid from his bladder. He shook his penis dry – it grew. Method cupped his penis in his hand, it was warm and the night was cold. He looked over his shoulder – the night was still empty. He began walking home again; he closed his eyes and began stroking it, counting the number of steps he could make before he was forced to open his eyes. Method moved his hand faster the higher the counting got. He stumbled from the footpath onto the road a couple of times but was vigil to not opening his eyes.

Two hundred and thirty-four… he was wet and slippery
Thirty-five… the ground roughened
Thirty-six… the ground smoothed out
Thirty-seven… the pressure built up
Thirty-eight… he was coming he was coming!
Thirty-nineeeee… he walked into a pole.

Method opened his eyes; the sticky white slime was all over the ground. He buttoned up and went home.

φ

Underwear goes through a lot of rough treatment. It encounters piss, shit, blood and various other bodily juices. And still it remains the least washed piece of clothing – for guys at least. But somehow in some mysterious way it is also the sexiest piece of clothing.

The only time Method had bought underwear it had been for someone else – Di. For her eighteenth he had bought and made her eighteen presents – a bit overwhelming – she never wore the underwear but the book he gave her, Wuthering Heights, became her favourite.

φ

Click-click, click-click, in his bed Method listened to his clock. It was an analog clock in the shape of a sailing boat given to him by Juxta’s mother. He listened again; there was a click but not a clock. He turned and his eyes blurred into focus - it was four forty-six. The second-hand remained motionless. Why is it that clocks seem to freeze whenever you look at them? Method thought, waiting for it to move. Finally the second-hand moved but then fell back to where it had been – a feeble effort on the clock’s behalf – he would have to get some batteries. Method reached down to scratch his leg – it had been irritating him all night. There he found his wristwatch – it was wrapped around the ankle. He took it off.

φ

Ken was Method’s best friend. They had been friends since year one. Even though they had both gone to different schools from year three onwards they had stayed in touch - mostly from Ken’s efforts – and it was high time they went and did something together.

It was tight-ass Tuesday at the movies, which meant cheap tickets so they organised to see a post-modern noir. Ken picked him up in his Mack-daddy mobile and they drove together into town – it was dead like always. Inside the theatre complex it was bustling – the premiere of a local film – it seemed more like the premiere of a major attraction than an Indy film.
"I can see why it’s so dead outside – everyone’s in here!" Method said his face glazed for no apparent reason.
"So why did Di break up with you?" Ken said, he was a little out of the loop and was eager to get back in.
"Huh?.. That was a little while ago and it’s all fixed now – she’s going out with Laurel!"
"What when did that happen?!"
"I don’t know, when she stopped talking to me…"
"I still don’t know why she stopped talking to you."
"Well… It happened like this: I decided to make a pact so we would stay close. I suggested that we tell each other a secret that no one else knows."
"How does that make you stay close?"
"I don’t know… anyway I was talking to her over the phone. So I told her my secret and she told me hers. She told me she liked someone else, which kind of stabbed me in the heart because we hadn’t officially broken up." Method watched the line slowly move forward. "Anyway it still had nothing on mine – she was speechless when I told her. But what made her not speak to me was that I said I kind of did something to her that was like the secret I told her."
"What was the secret?"
"I can’t really tell you, there’s too many people around…"
"Come on it can’t be that bad."
"It involves a cousin and a sexual act."
"Oh… you probably shouldn’t then," Ken said looking down at some excited children.
"She still doesn’t know what I did."
"What do you mean?"
"I just told her that I did something to her like what I did to the cousin - she wouldn’t let me tell her what I actually did."
"Why not?"
"I was too embarrassed to tell her over the phone and when I saw her in public she just ran away saying she already knew and she didn’t want to know – all I got was the letter."
"So she wasn’t going to speak to you because you did something to her and she doesn’t know what it is"
"She has a good idea"
"Still…"
They went inside the theatre and watched the film – it was a good film.

After the film, they went back to Method’s house and talked. Method told the secret – he had watched his cousin changing and jerked off while doing it.
"What did you do to Di then?"
"I…" Method stalled, he felt so bad for having done it and it was weird telling Ken – usually he kept his sexual forays private from him.
"…"
"We were on the phone and I was watching TV and something raunchy came on and I jerked off." Method said quickly.
"What? Is that it? I thought it was going to be much worse than that."
"Really?"
"Yeah – she’s just a drama queen."
"I guess she is," said Method, relieved at Ken’s ambivalence towards Method’s exploits. They talked on through the night. It was the best conversation Method had ever had with Ken. Ken claimed he understood most people’s id - he really did.

φ

Smells subtly manipulate one’s emotions. Pheromones whisk people in and out of love - they are the base attraction overriding looks and personality. Method once had strong feelings whenever the smell of Di wafted by – usually it was in the oddest of places; a bus stop perhaps. But as time went on and her aroma diluted so did his feelings and his memory of her essence – he was only fond of her by the time Laurel intervened. Ferrí on the other hand had left his room drenched in her odour. It was so overpowering that when his room had finally absorbed it he couldn’t tell if it smelt like him, her or some kind of invisible hybrid lovechild.

The lovechild’s presence overcame him as he slept, forcing its way into his dreams. He woke lucidly into a world of erotic phantasms that manifested themselves from chimeras that hid in the grey shadows of his peripheral vision. The sounds of a hundred voices echoed in his brain, their burbling matched the jungle of entities that assaulted his eyes. They exposed themselves then mutated into one another, creeping towards and through him. He hid his face under his arm and began making out with the flesh that engulfed him. When he was exhausted of the flesh he looked up to see the ceiling endlessly falling away and his body turning and twisting – tumbling. He was a doll he was loved and hated and used.

Water ran down Method’s face washing away the stale scent of life from his body. The sounds of ghosts called out to him from down the drain. He couldn’t make out the words but they seemed desperate and longing like sailors drowning in a submarine. He looked down. There was his penis. He started crying. There was nothing wrong with it – it was a good size, perhaps a little lopsided, but overall a fine organ. The bottom of the tub turned rosé as the water mixed with blood and poured down the drain – his eyes were crying blood. Method sobbed and ran his fingers through his hair – they turned bloody red too. Then Method realised that it wasn’t blood – yesterday he had tried to dye his hair red. It hadn’t turned red though; it had stayed its wet black, dry brown colour. Method laughed maniacally – his life was so melodramatic.

φ

Hours later incense burnt in his room. He lay on his bed reading ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ – the incense licked him into a state of forgotten euphoria, brining back a time lost but encapsulated in the collective memories of a hundred million lives - kimonos, tea ceremonies and miso-soup swam in his mind. His pocket vibrated - a blue light glowed through his jeans. Method answered.
"Hello?"
"Why do people answer the phone with Hello?" The voice down the line sounded like they were inside a fridge covered with kitsch magnets of American states.
"I don’t know – they say Mushi Mushi in Japan." Method said, unsure whom he was speaking to.
"Mmm they do don’t they…"
"Who is this?"
"Ferrí!"
"Oh, hey, wow, I wasn’t expecting you."
"Yeah I was just ringing my mum and I thought I’d ring you too."
"Isn’t this costing you heaps?"
"Nah, I have a phone card its like five cents a minute."
"Oh ok," method was the semi-unintentional master at killing conversations. Silence.
"So what are you doing?" She said, too fast for Methods silence to take effect.
"Talking to you."
"Besides that."
"Well I had a shower before and I was just reading then."
"What were you reading?"
"Memoirs of a Geisha – it’s pretty good. It’s about this girl growing up and becoming a geisha."
"Is that the book with the red lips with the white on the front?"
"Yeah."
"I haven’t read it."
"You should."
"I’ve got so many books I should read. I was reading this book on the plane over about this girl who fell in love with this swimming coach guy called Yves but then she has an accident and only remembered this other guy Jake who’s a chef. It’s really interesting, I can really relate to the girl – she’s called Ferrí too."
They spoke for several more minutes until Ferrí said,
"You have the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard."
"Why thank you very much," Method said with a bad Elvis voice.
Ferrí giggled and then said something like ‘I love you’ (it could have been ‘I love rugby’) quickly hanging up before Method could click.

"Clock" went his sailing boat clock.

φ

Origami: the art of folding paper – square paper that is. Method remembered a story he’d read or heard about a girl folding a thousand paper cranes to protest about the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima. Method decided that he wanted to do something ‘arty’. He had one of his mother’s old magazines lying on top of a dead turntable - he had been saving it for an artistic urge just like this. He cut out all the pages into six by six centimetre squares, found an old origami book his grandmother had given his sister but had somehow found its way into his cupboard and followed the instructions on how to make paper cranes. He made about five thousand of them. They were colourful and trashy, and shimmered with a glossy beauty that only a consumer could truly appreciate. By the end of the creative purge his room was swamped in silent birds. He then let them be free and they flew to Ferrí.

φ

Random numbers picked by a computer and then printed in size ten font onto a receipt like strip of paper. Method bought the lottery ticket to give to his mother. She had been in hospital for about a week now. A back pain had turned potentially fatal causing her to almost lose nerve sensation in the lower part of her body. She deserved some luck Method figured, after the trauma she’d been through – the loss of Juxta and now this, the near loss of her ability to walk. In a way it was serendipitous that she got into hospital so soon. Even though her back problem was extreme there was still a six-month waiting list for an operation. And the only reason she got to bypass the six-month waiting list was because of a severe allergic reaction that she had to the pain-killers the callous doctors had prescribed her.

Method took the elevator up to floor six – the neurosurgery ward – he walked to her room – she was sharing it with a motorcycle accident victim. There was a screen like a shower curtain that blocked their view of each other but Method could hear the other patient’s TV – a garble of game-show bells and deep soapy voices declaring their undying love for thirteen-year-old boys. His mother was completely zoned-out on morphine. He held her hand and she opened her eyes.
"Hello," she said in a slow distant voice.
"Hi mum… you’re looking out of it"
"I feel great… and tired… Juxta came by." Poor woman, she was completely delirious.
"Did he now," Method said, "I brought you a lottery ticket"
"Aww thankyou."
"No problems – I figured it’s about time you had some luck."
"It is… ha ha ha," her laughter gurgled out of her throat.
He stayed a few more minutes then said his goodbyes. As he walked down the hall he could hear numbers being called out from a TV at the nurses station.
"You’ve won!" shouted a man who sounded familiar.
Method turned around but it was no one he knew, just one of the nurses.

φ

Elevators go up and elevators go down. When they’re stuck in the middle they cause a frown. Not unless you’d taken the trip with a girl – that was the excitement for Method’s pearl. She knew him and he knew her, they went to university together. And to his surprise she liked him, she was hot and he was in. She pulled down her pants and they both went down. And separately they left when they reached the ground. Into the brilliance Method went, and back inside his mother slept.

Visual Representation of Book | Part \

Method: Book | Part \

I, Juxta, declare that I have no prohibited articles of clothing or jewellery and NO items that could give an indication of time or place on my person.
Signed Juxta

φ

To do list:
milk
blank CDs
phone credit $20
bar book $16
waiter’s friend?

Method was doing a bar course at CIT. CIT was the Canberra Institute of Technology. Canberra was the capital of Australia. Australia was the largest island on Earth. Earth was the third rock from the sun. The sun was one star of billions on the outer edge of the Milky Way. The Milky Way was a glorified collection of atoms arranged in such a way that it was evolving into a living entity. A living entity was what it became - Juxta’s return was a kick-start to its premature existence and the cause of Method’s trip as he walked upstairs to the bar course.

φ

Must have been the sushi I ate, Method thought as his legs flew away beneath him. He fell on his hands and got up quickly looking around to see if anybody had noticed, he laughed to himself – there was no one around.
He eventually found the class at the end of a long white corridor. There were two other people in the room when he arrived. One was leaning against a wall with his chair and the other was trying very hard not to make eye contact with the other - she had her eyes closed. The tables were arranged into what resembled a horseshoe. Method found a spot to sit, he looked at the other two and then began to flick through the textbook or at least he would have if he had one. Instead he stared blankly at the empty bottles on a small bar that was at one end of the room. And after he exhausted that visual treat he gazed at the old prints that were against all the walls except one, the wall behind him – it was a floor to ceiling window. He was just beginning to think he should say something when the teacher, a young woman, entered the room. If this teacher were in a book she would’ve warranted a description. But if Method were the person writing the book the description would be wholly personal, in other words completely pointless unless you knew Method very well. All that can be said is she had an attractive accent. Method only thought about the accent in retrospect, as right behind this young teaching woman was Di.

φ

Uluru is a long, long way away from the moon. But it was on top of this monolith that the first person noticed the moon’s difference, or perceptive difference as it wasn’t different at all, it had just turned around.

It wasn’t surprising that the first person to notice the moon’s difference was an aboriginal as the religion of the Australian aborigines is the closest to the ‘truth’ of any religion. They’re still a long way off of the ‘universal truth’ but a hell of a lot closer than the other human faiths. This particular aboriginal was an atheist though.

φ

Shit, was the first word that was uttered as the teacher found her place. The word wasn’t uttered by the teacher or by Method but by the guy who had been leaning his chair against the wall. He had slipped and knocked his head. It started bleeding, the teacher rushed over pulling a long white piece of green fabric out of her purse. The fabric was both white and green because of the way it shimmered under the fireworks that were exploding outside the window.

There was a flash and somehow Di found her way into Method’s arms. He kissed her on the forehead. She looked up into his eyes in shock. Her eyes were cold like she was looking straight through him and into a bucket of something cold… a bucket of frozen cherries perhaps. He let her go and she fled out the door. He chased after her; the chaos behind him burned through the walls and gave him speed – before he knew it he was next to her trying desperately to form words that would stop her running.
"Why are you running?" Method puffed
"I’m not running, just leave me alone."
"I’m sorry for what happened just then"
"Oh that’s fine, I just really need to go to the toilet – I’ll see you back in class."

That’s how it would’ve gone if it had gone that way, but it didn’t go that way so that’s not how it went.

φ

Tungsten lights lit the room – they flickered every now and then. Method downed his fourteenth cup of coffee.
"I can’t believe you just did that," Di said, shaking her head.
Method wiped his lips with his thumb.
"So you forgive me?"
"Of course I forgive you. How can I not forgive a guy stupid enough to drink fourteen cups of badly made coffee"
Method and Di were friends again – they had to be if they were going to do the course together.

The fireworks and bleeding where quite an opening to the course. Method had been fast to react; he had done first aid when he was about twelve. But that was not the reason for his quick reactions, nor did it help him in any way. It just so happened that he had put some bandaids in his bag and he instantly remembered this as he heard the word ‘shit’. So he was the first to do something about it, he said "holy fuck," but that didn’t help much.

It had taken one night of awkwardness, one night of profusely apologising, and one night of wanting to discus the uncanniness of the moon’s current events for Di to come around. And the same time for the guy who hit his head to realise he was in the wrong class.

φ

Bé thought she had the answer – she did in a sense – she said that the cause was human.
"What, someone just put their hand up and spun it around?"
"No Method, this is proof of time travel!"
"Time Travel?" Method was lying down on her green sofa. It was in her office, it was a nice office – lots of light – Method had been coming there for a little while now, ever since he had become her ‘understudy’. Bé was sitting at her desk filling out some papers.
"How does it ‘prove’ time trave?" Method asked.
"Well the only way that the moon could ever possibly appear the other way round – remember that none of the scientific instruments trained on it recorded it spinning – would be if someone went back in time and turned it around."
Method got up onto his elbow, "But if someone did that then why hasn’t it always been the ‘other’ way round for us? We wouldn’t have noticed its change because the way it is now would have always been the right way around to us."
She stopped writing and looked at him over her glasses, "I’m not saying someone from our time went back in time and turned it around, I’m saying someone from the future came back to this time and turned it around."
"Still, wouldn’t we have noticed it spin?"
"Not if time has multiple dimensions we wouldn’t." Bé had crossed the room to close the door. It was at this point that Method realised she wasn’t wearing a bra – wait – she was, her nipples were just hard. "If time could flow multiple directions simultaneously – well actually simultaneously is a funny word because there needs to be time for something to happen simultaneously but anyway…"
"You just like saying the word simultaneously don’t you" Method interrupted.
"Shut up!.. Where was I?"
"You were at the door and then you walked back to your desk and that’s where you are now."
"God you’re annoying sometimes"
"What’s god got to do with it?.." She looked at him with a face that read ‘don’t push me’.
"…Back to the dimension thing." Method said, knowing when to stop.
"Well, there’s multiple times all existing at the same time, kind of like other dimensions but they’re just variations on a theme. So anyway what has happened is that somehow the moon is the other way round in another time, which is very similar to ours and we’ve kind of crossed paths or something and switched moons. Think of time as not just a straight line but with an x, y and z axis…"
Method cut her off. "Nice theory but your just applying your own philosophies vicariously onto this problem. It’s as bad as the newspapers’."
Bé shook her head "You don’t even know what vicarious means," at that she walked out the door. Method slowly sat upright on the couch and looked out the window at a kite that floated past.
"I’m getting a coffee." He heard her say.

φ

Energy: the lifeblood of the universe, a transfer of power and information through one-dimensional strings. All the energy that has ever existed and that ever will exist was created at the beginning of the universe. It comes in many different forms but the most powerful is the coercive energy force of the mind or more precisely the sub-subconscious mind.

Though unrecorded and dismissed as coincidences and deja vu coercive energy is real. It is the energy used to manipulate events around one’s self, it is below subconscious (and is not really part of the mind at all) but is very powerful as it creates one’s self-interpretation of reality. Using this energy one can and constantly does, coerce visible/tangible objects to do what the viewer/sensor would like them to do. Every living thing has this energy, it is described as Chi in Chinese philosophy, but Chi is only a rough conceptualisation of it. Some entities have more control over the energy than others do, but practicing Tai Chi and other forms of meditative techniques will not increase your energy control, it will only increase your perception of it.

Humans only have a very small fraction of control when alive, but when dead their soul (for want of a word that doesn’t exist) experiences more control of coercive energy, as they no longer have a mass of cells to control. When dead the human’s memory and experience as a human are completely lost. Except for in exceptional circumstances, if one has enough control, one can use the coercive energy to mould their reality into anything, they have control over love and hate, life and death, the universe and anti-universe; any entity with complete control of the energy would be omnipotent.

φ

Listen to shells and you will hear the sea.

No one smiles in supermarkets – they are one of the most depressing places in the world. It was in a supermarket – the one that Method had had an interview for, but never found himself working at – that Method was shopping for much needed food. The trolley squealed as he manhandled it through the aisles. The other shoppers manifested themselves into queer niches that they hoped were the locations of rice and tomato sauce. The centre reminded him of a body organ – the stomach perhaps – the food is brought in, the customers and workers - like the stomach’s bacteria - process the food and then it is excreted out the checkout.

There was a deafening background noise of beeps, children crying and the morose shuffle of feet - it numbed Method’s senses. Too light lights, vapid smells and the cold crisp stale air, forced method to rely on his sense of proprioception to navigate. Doing this he could sense his own body movement through the massive yet confined space. The close proximity to other people made his brain focus on calculating the complex arithmetic of vector matrices that allowed him to predict where they were moving. It was during an exercise of these vector matrices over an encounter with a young couple that were getting a little too physical in aisle eight, that Method suddenly realised that something was out of place… the music.

It was no normal pop song playing over the loudspeaker - god was speaking. No words were spoken, just the sound of horns, violins, and organised cacophony, an incredibly beautiful and impassioned piece. It brought up a forgotten emotion - It was surreal. It was like stopping next to a hotted-up sports car driven by drunk rowdy youths and hearing classical music coming out – at first sense it seems out of place but at further reception it is unusually suitable.

Method couldn’t pick the music, all he knew was that he felt like a bug in a field of poppies lifting his antennas to heaven.

φ

On the walk home Method found that he was following someone. At first he thought that they were following him but he realised it would be incredibly hard for them to follow him as he was walking behind them. Method sped up to overtake them but they sped up too, so he walked a little faster and so did she (their hair was fairly long so I must have been a she). This sequence followed for about a block before method finally gave up and let the girl lead him home.

Following the girl reminded him of doing ‘King of the Mountain’ at high school. King of the Mountain was a race from the bottom of Mount Ainslie to the top. Like running up a wall the track was notorious for its steepness, it usually took about twenty minutes but Method did it in seventeen. The first time he did it was in year seven or eight, he remembered he was at the front of the race with another couple guys, but as they got closer to the top the field spread out and Method was running by himself. He heard feet coming up behind him; they overtook him he watched as the gluteus in front of him giggled with each footfall. He wanted to overtake but was mesmerised; it took him away from the race into his own fantasy world – how could he pass something that made him tingle with pleasure? When he reached the end he saw who he was following - a girl – and she had beaten him with her hypnotic butt.

Method walked up his driveway; the girl looked over her shoulder suspiciously, watching him as he went to the letterbox. He reached in and paused, she looked back around, he watched her as she walked up her driveway a few houses up. They both knew where each other lived, but neither knew who the other was.

Method had to do something it was just too strange to follow someone to his or her home, even if it is near by, and not introduce yourself. He got out his writing pad and wrote a letter. Dear girl next door, I don’t normally do this kind of thing… was how his introduction went; he continued on to say who he was and invited her to the play he was doing music for. He quickly burnt a cd of some music he’d made and as the moon rose, dropped it in her letterbox.
"What are you doing!?"
"Ahhh" Method jumped as the words swept out of the darkness. He looked in the direction of the question and saw two eyes like white pebbles gazing at him from the shadows.
"I was just dropping off a letter," Method said kind of shakily.
The figure stepped into the moonlight; it was a girl probably about his age. She was wearing tracksuit pants and had her hair tied back – it looked like she had been running as her forehead glistened. She walked up to Method stuck out her hand and said,
"Hi I’m Ferrí."
"Hi I’m Method," Method replied, stunned at her confidence.
"You’re that guy who followed me home aren’t you."
"I guess, but I wasn’t following you, well I was, but only because you were walking the same way home as I do."
"Ok, see ya" She turned around and started walking up towards her house then paused for a moment and turned back towards Method. "Can’t forget the letter can I." She walked over to the letterbox and took out the letter, "And a CD too – lucky Me."
She turned around again and this time went into the house. The last he saw of her was the closing of the security-screen door as she went inside – she had a nice bum.

φ

Vanished - gone were the days of straightforward black and white views. Method used to think he had the world worked out but recent events had thrown him into a spin – he now saw the colours of ‘real life’. Or at least the colours of real emotion, he had denied his emotions – bottled them up - they went into a frenzy as Ferrí came to his bedroom’s back door.

There was a noise at first, Method had been watching ‘the glass house’, and as Wil made yet another joke about the Prime Minister a tapping came from his window. He muted the television and listened – the tapping came again. He slowly got out of bed and pushed aside the curtains, jumping as he saw Ferrí looking in. He opened the door.
"Hey" she said, softly and casually.
"Err… hey… what are you doing here?"
"This must seem kind of weird – well it is for me… I read your letter and listened to your CD – I love it. Well anyway I’m leaving for America tomorrow and I thought I might say goodbye. I know it’s weird and that we don’t know each other but you seem nice and…"
"Come in"
She sat on his bed and looked at him, her eyes followed him as he closed the door and turned on his globe lamp. He turned off the TV and they stared at each other awkwardly.
"So… why are you going to America?" Method asked leaning on the backdoor, the door was cold so he sat in the chair at his desk.
"Well I’m going to a flying school over there…"
"You’re a pilot?" Method interrupted.
"No, I don’t fly a plane, I just glide in the clouds – I don’t even use a parachute…" It looked like her body wasn’t the only thing that flew. "I’m going to New England for their winter – clouds are their best in winter and it’s better flying conditions there than here."
"What do you wear?" Method asked, he was really interested.
Ferrí ignored the question; "The school I’m going to has some of the best fliers in the world." She paused and lifted up his bed sheets, "I’m cold can I get under your covers?"
"Sure…" Method said hesitantly.
She took off her shoes and left on her socks.
"You’re shaking – you must be cold too"
Method looked down at his arms – they were shaking – he was only wearing his boxers, it was a bit nippy, but he wasn’t shaking from the cold.
"Why don’t you come get in bed"
Method’s heart stopped, it wasn’t until he was lying next to her that it started beating again.
"How old are you?" he asked. Their faces were close – he could hear her eyelashes brushing against the pillow.
"Fifteen" she answered. He would never have guessed – she looked so much older. As he opened his mouth to say something her lips enclosed around his and they kissed. Her tongue was frantic, but so was his so it didn’t matter. The kiss lasted for an eternity. He slipped his had behind her back to find her bra clip – she was wearing a sports bra so there was nothing to unclip - he went back to her front and eventually found the way to her breast.
"Hehehe" she started giggling, he removed his hand.
"Sorry."
"No, I’m ticklish, do it harder."
He fondled harder, circling his fingers around her nipples – he wasn’t sure if he should just fondle the one breast so he swapped intermediately between the two. His other hand slipped down her back and rested on her bottom he stroked it pushing her forwards against his groin. She arched and his penis slipped out of his boxers and rubbed against her jeans – it was rough but he wasn’t going to let the moment be lost. They kept rubbing against each other getting faster and more forceful until the rubbing on his penis got too painful - so he stopped.
"What?" she said, looking worried.
"I just need to readjust" He took his had off her breast and reached down to put his penis in a more comfortable position, "Do you want a feel?" he asked her.
She gave a little half shrug, half nod and said ok. Her hand crept down, it rested in his pubic hairs for a second then it took hold of his cock and started pumping. Her hand moved erratically - like her tongue the movement was unpredictable. He wasn’t much better as he put his hands down her pants and started fingering her - it was squishy, it didn’t feel like he had imagined fingering a girl would feel - he wasn’t sure where his fingers were going. They both eventually gave up having no success at making the other cum.
"Have you ever had an orgasm?" Method asked.
"No, but I’ve cumed before" she said shyly.
"How can a girl cum without having an orgasm? Like, I can see how it would work with a guy but how does it work with a girl? – Nothing comes out."
"I don’t know."
"Do you want me to go down on you?" He said, the words sliding out before he even knew what they meant. She gave the half shrug, half nod again – it was so sexy – he took it for a yes. She took off her jeans and threw them on the floor.
"You do the rest," She said, laying back on the bed and closing her eyes.
He moved to the end of the bed and pulled down her 70’s wallpaper styled underpants – she spread her legs – for some reason he didn’t expect to see pubic hairs, probably because they’re always shaved in porn. He didn’t care though.
"This is the first time I’ve done this so you may have to instruct me." Method said nervously. He inserted his tongue – she was tight.
"Lower" she breathed.
He went lower; felt around with his tongue until he found what he assumed was the clitoris and started licking. He focused on it, massaging slowly, getting deeper and deeper he was finding it hard to breathe; she stopped him – he had been enjoying it. She sat up and he rested his head in her lap.
"Did it taste bad?" she asked, stroking his hair.
"No, it was fine. I just couldn’t breath."
"Do you want me to go down on you?"
He looked up into her eyes, "Only if you want to."
The half shrug, half nod came again, "I don’t mind."
They both heard a noise from somewhere in the house. Method got up and went to check it out – there was no one there. He returned back – Ferrí had put her clothes back on.
"I better go – I can’t sleep here," she said, tying up her laces.
"Are you sure? Because you can stay here if you want."
"Nah, I have to go. My parents would freak if they new I was here." She opened the backdoor and went out – Method followed.
"Wait…" Method half yelled half whispered. She stood in front of him and they kissed briefly.
"I have to go," she turned and spoke goodbye as she ran off down the street.
"Bye," Method said under his breath. She melted into the darkness.

φ

Eternal darkness – the losses of sight, sound, taste, smell, touch and place - it is better than any drug. The experiencer, if willing, can call up anything to this blank world – their subconscious can be externalised and they can be free.

Red Concept Album

These are just some ideas for the cover of an album that I am in the process of making. I was thinking of using the hairy one on the front of the album and the hairless one on the back. The genre is intended to be electro-indie-goth-collage (if that's at all possible). I'm working on the actual music now (thanks Rhiannon for re-inspiring me :D) I'll keep you (the imaginary audience I am now speaking to in my head) posted.

I've used the base images of these two images in my myspace many a time before but this is the first time i've tried to use them in a piece of work. I think they look pretty sweet!

Visual Representation of Book | Part /

Method: Book | Part /

Di was alone. Surrounded by friends but alone. Everybody loved her but only a select few ‘loved’ her. For the majority of her friends they enjoyed her company, but none of them would throw themselves in front of a bus for her. They hugged and kissed her but they were only temporary cures for her loneliness. The loneliness wasn’t just being alone it was an emptiness - a void. A longing for something that was missing from her soul - but that wasn’t really missing – just never there to begin with. Di tried to surround herself with people to compensate for the void, she liked the people that she surrounded herself by, but only a select few knew and actively tried to help to fill the hole. What could they really do to help? Where could they get the shovels? Where could they get the fill? Di didn’t know and neither did they, they just tried.

Di had gone to an art-crazed school. Every student tried to be more eccentric than every other student, that, or they were so introverted that they were regarded as muses because they were ‘deep’. Di was closer to the first type but quite normal almost banal compared to some of them.

She worked during the day and in the evenings she studied or went to friends or watched TV or wrote. Writing was a release, on paper she could be who ever she wanted, write to whoever she wanted, create places that had never existed before. She was the god of her own world.

φ

Radio waves were thought to be the discovery that would change the world. Their discovery in 1888, led to the invention of the radio transmitter, which was thought to be the ‘tool of the future’. It would vastly improve lives and every 20th century man wouldn’t be able to live without one. This can be compared to the invention of fibre optics, almost one hundred years later. Fibre optics lead to the invention of the Internet, which is also thought to be the ‘tool of the future’. And yet again it’s thought that it will vastly improve lives. Every 21st century person won’t be able live without it.

φ

Even with the Internet Method couldn’t find the meaning of life. All he got was various sites about the number 42. Forty-two? Was there some meaning behind this? What was he missing out on? He brought it up in one of his tutorials.
"DNA" one of his fellow students said, with a smugness that suggested that it was as simple as the amino acids that made up life.
"Wow some theory that forty-two is the divine number that effects the building blocks of life" Method thought as the smug student went on.
"Douglas Adams, or DNA as some of his greater fans call him, wrote a book called the hitchhikers guide to the galaxy where in the book some alien civilisation tries to find out the meaning of life by making the universe’s greatest super computer. The answer the computer came up with was forty-two."
"Has anyone seen the movie?" asked the tutor.
"Yeah did you spot the old Marvin"
"I didn’t like the movie I thought it lacked the British humour of the book"
"I thought the movie was great, that guy from The Office was cast well"
"So it’s just a number from a book, it has no real meaning. There is no meaning of life, it’s like the Holy Grail, it doesn’t exist" thought Method.

Method walked away from the tute feeling humiliated. Just a number, no real meaning. That was his last contact of the day so he started walking towards the civic bus interchange. He came to the corner of the street theatre. Stopped at the road as a yellow Porche went passed. Method had a habit of looking at the numberplate of cars. When he was younger he kept a large red book in which he wrote the number plates of all the cars he saw in a day. Car parks were a bit overwhelming as they held perhaps forty to fifty cars in line of sight so he eventually gave up. He had written down so many numberplates for so long that ever since he would instinctively look at the numberplate of cars. This yellow porches numberplate was 42. "Ha" Method thought to himself, "What a coincidence."

φ

Attention to detail can bring about very surprising nuances in ones everyday world. On his way home Method passed forty-two things relating to the number forty-two. It was forty-two minutes to five when he saw the Porche. There were forty-two clouds in the sky. Method crossed the street and walked up the path; the path was made up of forty-two slabs of cement and on the forty second one there were forty-two ants crawling out of a crack. Method walked into a bus-depo there were forty-two white lines that made up the parking spots. He crossed the depo and traffic lights passing an IGA store, which cheapest item, a chupa chup, cost forty-two cents – there were forty-two chupa chups left. He crossed Marcus Clarke Street, which was named after Marcus Clarke who died when he was forty-two. Method went into a newsagents and asked for a lotto ticket,
"How many chances would you like? You can get four chances for two bucks, that’s a lot more money for your buck than a scratchy. The most anyone that I’ve known that’s won from a two-dollar scratchy is forty-two hundred dollars. Where’s my friend’s aunty won forty-two thousand dollars from the lotto - that means you have ten times more chance of winning the lotto than from a scratchy." Said the woman behind the counter.
"I’ll take four for two then," said Method.
He had a one in 4.2 billion chance of winning. Behind him there were forty magazines with women on the front and only two with men. He left the newsagents and passed a café, which had forty-two sashes of sugar on the tables outside. He walked up to the traffic lights on Northborn Avenue and waited forty-two seconds before the lights went green, there were forty-two pigeons on the ground outside of building number forty-two of that street. He walked pass the pancake parlour, which was designed like a nightclub it had forty-two steps down to its level. Method was now in London Circuit where the civic bus interchange was located in the day and the Canberra club scene was located at night. In all there were forty-two nightclubs located in Canberra – four of which Method had been to the previous night and two of which he would go to that night. He still had time for the bus to arrive so he went to JB Hi-Fi there was an advertisement out the front for the DVD release of 42nd St also advertised was a sale of any two DVDs for forty dollars. He went downstairs into the yellow coloured money hole that was JB – Method could never leave without buying something. There were forty-two people in the store. Four of them were aboriginal and being heavily watched, for no good reason, by two security guards. Method went up and down the aisles of CDs, DVDs, and other electric gadgetry finally coming across a Pink Floyd album that he didn’t have yet – it went for forty-two minutes. Method left as the new Bright Eyes single - It takes forty-two muscles to frown - came on. He walked down into Garema Place to the giant chessboard. There were large black and white plastic chess pieces on the board black was winning it had taken seven pieces, white had only taken three – there were forty-two squares unoccupied by pieces. After watching the game for 42 beats of the bongo drum a busker was playing near by, he walked over to Red Path a shoe store that he had got his K-Swiss shoes from. There were forty-two shoes in window. He noticed a clean version of his shoes, they were only 125 dollars, and 42% off what his mother had paid for them. He walked down to the merry-go-round; it was closed for the day. Method remembered when he was a kid he loved riding on the horses - up and down and around – then it had cost him 80 cents or four twenty cent coins as he rarely had any larger domination. Now it cost two dollars fifty for one child or four dollars for two – what a rip. The merry-go-round was next to a big department store called David Jones, a sign out the front proudly announced that they had forty-two stores nation wide. Method walked away from the department store and merry-go-round back to the interchange. He sat on a bench made of forty-two metal slats. His bus rolled up, he got on, put his bus card in the machine and sat down on the right hand side of the middle of the bus. They passed forty-two cars on the way home. He got of the bus and walked down his street doing some maths in his head.
"Wait a second if you add up all the numbers in my phone number you get forty-two" he said out loud scaring an elderly couple he was passing by (They had been married for forty-two years).
"And my birthday is in forty-two days, and the longest I’ve gone with out sleeping is forty-two hours, so many coincidences." it was 42 minutes past four when he arrived home.
"That’s five things to do with forty-two" Method said, adding "I wonder if it’s a sign" when he noticed a sixth thing - forty-two pink flowers in a bouquet.

Outside Thom York rode past on a bicycle.

φ

Music soothes the body and soul. It can give as much, if not more, emotion to a person than images can. Whenever something especially emotional happened in Method’s life he would always listen to the same thing - Pink Floyd. He would listen to each one of their best albums in chronological order from beginning to end. And after that he would feel fine. This time no amount of Pink Floyd could make him feel fine. He walked from the forty-two pink flowers into the bathroom. A bottle of wine lay on the ground next to the bath also next to it was a glass full of what looked like water with lemon slices and besides that was another glass, empty, but caked in something. In the bath laid his stepfather. Two drops of water fell from the tap.

φ

Could it have been real? That night as he lay in bed his phone buzzed. It was Di. She couldn’t sleep and decided to message him - of all people. How did she get his number? It soon turned from idle "How was your day" to "Should I fuck him?" Life was just all to confusing for Method to try and be involved.

φ

Over time the midnight phone calls increased and the conversations soon got into a pattern that went like this:
D: How was your day
M: Ok
D: Just ok!
M: Actually it was good
D: Well that’s good; what did you do?
M: Nothing much – sat around
D: Same here
And on and on for about 4 hours each night. They would talk about their crushes, their potential boyfriends and girlfriends; it was unusual how open they were – seeing as they had only just met. Their friendship went on for about a month. There were casual meetings in the city centre – they did the rounds of all the cafes, which were all located within a ten-meter radius of each other. And at night they would do the rounds of the pubs and clubs, which were all in a five-meter radius and were completely identical to each other right down to the number of facial hairs on the DJ. They were a semi-couple until one night when they were waiting in a line at Moosheads.
"I want to have sex with you right now" Method said with one eye checking out another girl who he thought he knew.
"…" Di didn’t move.
"I’m going to go home" Method left the line and stumbled into a girl he knew.
He went home.

φ

Morning brought nothing. Method’s mind was a blank. After six minutes of staring at the wall: What the hell happened last night? After a further 10 minutes: Where the hell am I? The room was a slight blur and from what he could make out it wasn’t his. All the furniture and nick-knacks were his, but the walls… since when were his walls white? They were yellow and his bed… since when did he have a double bed? It was his bed but his sister was borrowing this bed – and it wasn’t his sister’s room either. He looked around starting to get worried. This was definitely his doona cover and his books and his CDs and his computer but this was not his room! He looked for his pants and found them hanging over his chair. He fumbled through the pockets and found a wallet – it wasn’t his wallet! He looked through it anyway – it had his drivers licence! He put the wallet back in the pocket and put on his pants and shirt – they smelt of cigarettes.
He opened the door of the room into a corridor it was long and had a wood panel ceiling. There were two doors on each side of the corridor – all of them were made of wood and closed. The corridor ended with a closed door identical to the others this opened out into a kitchen on one side and a kind of study/sun room on the other. The kitchen was yellow and had low over head cupboards. Method noticed a note on the bench. He picked it up and read it.

Thankyou Method for all your love and support over the last few days, Love Juxta :-)

It all came flooding back, Juxta his stepfather was dead, and because of this they had moved house. Method cried – he hadn’t cried for three years. The tears seemed to be like taps on high pressure the salty drops more like a spray of acid stinging his tear ducts then a gentle flow of sorrow. He fled to his bedroom and flew onto his bed with its light blue cover on one side and apple green on the other. As the tears moistened the sheets he felt something under his arm. It was an envelope. He opened the envelope and was all alone.

φ

Eulogies are the second hardest thing to write. The first hardest thing to write is a reply to a break up letter. Method wrote both on the same day, he wrote the reply first and the eulogy second – it was the worst day of his life. Di wrote him a letter saying that things were not working out with them and that she never wanted to see or hear from him again. He replied even though she asked not to – he felt he couldn’t just end a relationship without a rebuttal – especially one that he thought had been going so good.

She started her letter with "You probably think it’s odd that I’m writing you a letter". He ended it with "see you on the dark side of the moon." Ironically he would.

φ

Tuesday the 3rd of May was the day of the funeral. Method had been to funerals before but they had been for a distant aunt or an acutance, not a person he had seen every day – not a person who should have lived to they were eighty but for some reason found it sensible to end their life at forty.

As he walked up the steps to the funeral hall he could hear hushed voices, they weighed down his throat. The words were getting sucked into him and forming clumps of what seemed like other people’s phlegm. He wanted to cry but felt he had to be strong – his mother was doing all the crying for him. His tears just sat like honey behind his eyes.

When Method was called up to say a few words he looked down at what he had prepared and forgot how to read. The letters blurred and he could only think of one thing to say.

"My last few days with Juxta were the best days I’d ever spent with him. I wish they never ended"

God Speed You Black Emperor played over speakers as the funeral drew to an end - the end of a life and the end of a man.

φ

Reticent was how someone would describe Method at this point in his life. Method didn’t know what reticent meant but it was apt for this time of confusion – he was starting to wonder if he ever knew what anything meant. It felt like he had forgotten things, basic things, like the number of days in a year or someone’s birthday or who Nelson Mandala is. Surely he was too young to be getting alzhimers so it must just be stress or laziness – he needed to think more.

φ

Understudying was Method’s subconscious solution to his stepfather’s death - not that death needs a solution; most often it is one.

It was the second semester of his first year at uni. Method went to his first class cold and tired – it was the first time he had a class before eleven. The first class was ‘My Generation’, he wondered how long the unit would last, a generation perhaps. He smiled to himself as the thought crossed his mind and sat in one of the seats at the back of the room – Method followed it. It was funny how they were seated at school desks as opposed to the lecture desks that were being phased in – it reminded him of high school – something he didn’t want to be reminded of.

A tall slim woman aged about forty-fifty with blonde greying hair walked into the room. She stood at the front of the class facing the white board and wrote in big letters these words: ‘Here we are now entertain us’
"Who said these words?" she asked, there was a silence, she looked around at her students – most of them still hadn’t found a seat. She turned back around and wrote another set of words ‘Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be, as a friend’. She turned around again facing the now intimidated students.
"I’m so happy cause today I found some friends – they’re in my head". Everyone in the group looked at each other – some of them with raised eyebrows.
"Curt Cobain" Method blurted out, making the person in front of him jump.
"I see someone’s in the right class" she said.

Her name was Bé.

φ

Everything’s in its right place. That is how it was and that is how it is… until the universe is disrupted.