sentient letters (bonesmanbible) wrote,
sentient letters
bonesmanbible

I don't believe I will ever learn how to write journals anymore. They seem so irrelevant to my life, that has no permanency. What I etch in these pages only serve to highlight certain aspects I find amusing and they do not offer any glimpse into something that's never there to begin with. The Melbourne climate took a turn this week, the constant drizzle does not provide much comfort for any form of walking. It is the warmth that I miss in this capriocious weather. Like this pattern of the clouds, and rain and season that I grew up listening to on the dinner table, I don't feel I ever recognise myself anymore. Perhaps I only hope for some form of kindness that will light my way - something perhaps found in every individual that can be polished by art, culture, religion. I am glad that Jvstine and Chs both agree why Hannibal killed and those victims do deserve death like how God will just smite all of us insignificant morons out of sight. Basically when an angel of death is unleashed there is no second chance. It is brutal.

The Impressionist exhibition down at the gallery was quite a satisfactory one, especially when one is humbled by such beautiful art forms. The evening was spent entertaining very amusing English things, such as fish and chips with tea and a BBC video 'Enchanted April'  featuring a frumpy old woman with a pouting lips declaring everything to be 'highly improper' at every occasion that she could summon so. We camped out the night over at Jvstine and spent the next day window shopping for antiques along High St. Armadale. The evening so far has been disappointing. The perfunctory of meeting up with a friend turned out to be such a bore and offence to anyone with proper sensibilities. The reason why I can't stand hippies so much is because they never learn how to respect and expect the love-all rainbow dotted pink shaped heart to travel to the nether-regions of the world. How is that possible. How highly disrespectful to have your leg on the chair when one is eating one's dinner in a restaurant. Not to mention that Westeners should never dabble with the sitar, it makes the whole dim-lit bohemian atmosphere of a vegetarian restaurant highly drabby. And how dare my company even provoke that I'm too dependent on my parents for allowing them to pay for my education and living expenses over seas. The ignorance of Australians are quite appalling. As Jvstine happily quotes, 'the white trash' of society leaves so little to be desired of the city. The painful expense of society is that when you're there, you can't go any further, but one must always hope for the better. As much as I enjoy Melbourne, I find it disturbing how left wing the city can be. I don't believe I'm ever an idealogue, nor am I conservative, but I do sincerely hope that Western society should never abandon the archetypal role of a gentleman.

It's disturbing how we come to forget these virtues of kindness, generosity, humility that is exemplified in the gentlemen, rather these so called 'anarchist' and 'rebels' attempt to paint an image of the snooty old man who is filled to the brim with arrogance. Well, so far I've never met the latter. They must be abound but those that I have considered gentlemanly figures are all wonderful people. Rather I find it difficult to buy into the books of socialism when they command such pretentiousness that their attempt at 'converting' the masses makes me very sick at times. I basically ask for courtesy and respect, and an opportunity to get to know each other, closing this door with attitude or behaviour means closing the door to possible friendship. I'm just waiting to leave Melbourne now, it is quite a squalid place and I don't seem to be taking the city in very well. The drinks and fun and sex is all good as temporal enjoyment but I do yearn for a more peaceful atmosphere. I read about the desert fathers and their little cells in natural caves. At night I dream of these strange visitations. I need to cleanse myself once more from all these putrid accumulations. In dream or wake, they say 'the sabbat is the true paradise'.
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