Crippling creep and the creaking of joints suffers a pain through the entire body. Aftermath of a weekend's jolly run of paintball amidst scrappy bushland and spitting dirt in the eyes of the enemy.
Movement in any direction and at any speed loses seconds of the mind as the pain runs constant.
Fetching orders and waters for the bottle takes an age. Breathing is a hard battle against the straining muscles. Quality assurance is questionable. Juicing up the agony is beautiful.
Saturday, 31 July 2004
Friday, 30 July 2004
"Huh," he guffed, clamouring to upright himself after falling over from the strain of attempting to sit down, "Surely I wasn't hit that bad compared to the others."
From underneath the temporarily assigned desk he managed climb out and power through the pain of both legs rendered much like as though they never knew the wonder of fully working knees and thigh muscles.
Minutes later the results would crinkle that particular concern but rise forth to bring up another.
"Wow," he cracked, hunching forward to intensify the hammered feeling of a back hit with full force, "Guess there's a reason why the group ain't too keen to ever do this again."
One on the skull, three down the right leg, one on the left, one on each arm and six craters of pain in the back. Thirteen strikes all up.
Tuesday, 27 July 2004
Ten minutes in a rush of style and with that, an escape from a warehouse and into a corporate building of suits and pant suits. Overlooking such a darling harbour, the kitchen is a spanking room of air that breathes a fresh openness to it. Windows are full and open as they are locked down. The very location of the entire building is nothing short of smart.
Raw and eager moves to speed through the work brings about much trepidation and fear. Corrections are constantly being brought up. Confidence dribbles away at each passing look over formatting marks.
Two days straight late start off the week and assignment period. Nerves are on edge and nothing is certain.
Saturday, 24 July 2004
Wandering without a sense of direction, Bits and Bytes, a weekly running column of sorts at Vibewire looks toward a change again in its direction.
Bits and Bytes is essentially a summation of headlines from press and news releases from the game developers and distributors of the past week.
Under this plain text format, there is nothing close to bringing it ahead. No direction or reason to continue the pain of a weekly deadline, or even that of a promise land in the form of an ending.
Blending a narration style not unlike Grand Theft Auto with Max Payne, the new incarnation will attempt to bring a new sense of life toward the column's mission. To seeing the evolution of the writing develop a sort of madness.
Guided by numbers toward a designated end, an underlying story will now drive a sense of reason behind the experiment and exercise.
Question now is, will this be easy enough to hide in plain sight?
Thursday, 22 July 2004
Close to closing an hour, standing and sifting through the varieties and brands of Rebel Sports. Toward the end the golf gloves register as being largely right-handed. Few are left handed. Even less come in pairs.
Scoring a pair requires the location of both a left and right hand of the same stitching build and mark. Double the cost of one, naturally.
Inquisitive salesman asking for a reason finds driving as an excuse. Certainly not the reveal of skin that sheds layers upon layers at certain times and temperatures of the year.
Walking around in boxing gloves is out of the question.
Tuesday, 20 July 2004
No more hauling of twenty kilogram boxes. No more suffering in the damp and cold shivering conditions of a warehouse. No more to the feeling of exhaustion by noon after an extensive run up and down along scattering through collecting hand towels and bath robes.
No more brainless work collecting the highest pay of the other workers on the floor. No more riding the mountain bike to work along a track behind brushes and trees of a spooky field.
No more. Done and dusted. Free and gone.
Saturday, 17 July 2004
Choking through the billowing fumes from cars and trucks chugging past, Red Rooster and Hungry Jack's restaurants resting on a highway. Out of the way and right on the sidelines, fighting for taste over the excoriating wafts of car exhaust. No doubt in mounds of mayonnaise under the employ to cover the distaste of nothing short of salty.
Wednesday, 14 July 2004
A fractured week, the days were dropped here and there, filled with holes and stocked with apathy. Knocking off the week, a nook was spotted and an upright nap taken between big boxes wrapped heavily in packing plastic. News was passed around of the next week being the last. The payroll girl thought this news to be severely out of left-field. Apparently they were expecting a stay of thirteen weeks, no matter how badly the job was taken to. Suspicions confirmed that they were getting kickbacks for the misery.
Saturday, 10 July 2004
Earlier in the day, a hippie-type talked about a possible editor position that might be waiting two months down the line should a certain contract be made solid. Expecting the contract in the mail yesterday, this new meeting might not have been were it not for the fear of battling another week lugging thirty kilo boxes around in a warehouse.
By the afternoon, stopping briefly before heading on to earn some unappreciated dollars, nothing but dismay sat waiting in the mailbox. A glimmer of hope flickered in the neighbourhood's also empty mailboxes.
Racing home after putting in a few hours at the warehouse, carried by tired and blasted thighs, an Express Paid envelope jammed into the mouth was a joyous sight. Frantic signing of the contract raced against the wall clock, still ever unsure of the correct time. The deposit box sat in the next suburb over and should the time draw to a close, the contract would most certainly be rendered null and void.
Fear provided the energy needed for legs wasted and dead for the month. Fear cranked out a high speed on the eighteen click mountain bike to burn a thirteen minute ride in eight minutes.
Skidding on damp rocks wobbled alongside a potential traffic slam. Horns went wild and fists shook from within car windows. Minutes past dusk and with no head or tail lights, the bike was a ghost for cars that weren't concerned. The muscles felt like they were being shredded on each pedal, temples gripped tight and the lungs were failing.
Taking out a pedestrian's shoe, the beat was bested and there, emptying out the red box was a postman. The yellow box was still ready for the picking and with time spared before the other's arrival, the envelope found its place ahead of the deadline.
Friday, 9 July 2004
Riding the mountain bike to the warehouse has fallen back onto the weight-lifting gloves. Gloves with meshed backing and knuckles to tips exposed to the chill of the early morning and evening air. Handing back the comfy BMX mongoose gloves for an exchange that turned into a refund was not the best of plans. The KMart only ever had one pair in stock and they were the ones returned for another. The checkout chick went all grabby with the helmet in hand thinking that that was the reason for the coupon. A mean grasp set her straight.
After a planned brief stopover at the Church of Scientology—which bled into two hours and started by smelling like peanut butter—for possible inspiration in a future assignment, the hunt was on for a replacement pair.
First stop, after making frantic calls to referees, The Clarence Street Cyclery on Clarence Street. Down on the lower level, the gloves were of the usual specialty price, well bracing the $60 region and looking rather flimsy. Most of these were also knuckle length.
Next, Grace Bros., though now known better as a Myer store. Couldn't spot any Spider-Man toys featuring Doc Ock or anyone other than Spider-Man and their gloves section wasn't at all.
Gowings, on another sale, followed but they too turned out with nothing. As did Mick Simmons, years ago a place where weight-lifting gloves were found. Paul's Warehouse underneath the Sydney Tower directed the attention back to Mick Simmons. And to Rebel Sport.
Rebel Sport did have a few, but again, knuckles for the length. They did have a golf section though. Gloves all covering to the tips. And at $20. If no other BMX gloves are found, these are going to be the next in the series. Yes, that'll be the plan, instead of walking around wearing BMX gloves, walk around wearing golf gloves. Like a lost golfer looking vainly for the next green.
Wednesday, 7 July 2004
Leaving an interview which ended with talk about dorky haircuts and the excision of sideburns rampant, the task at hand was to venture into the much noted Books Kinokuniya. Their graphic novel and trade paperback section were often cited as being a great wall. People would say its location was at the Galeries Victoria, but walking around on the lower levels doesn't reach up to the second without direction. Riding all the escalators on offer finally presented a new book store in the City.
Borders has nothing on Kino's selection. Comic Kingdom and Kings Comics have nothing on their price. But damn it, freeloaders thumbing heavily through are always there. Staring at them and their actions shifted them a few steps to either side. They didn't get the hint, but at least they were out of the way.
Hard as it was to find a copy of anything that wasn't marred by oily thumbs or dented by haphazard shoving, faint glimmers were found. Wading through the chipped one of three copies, Invincible Volume 1: Family Matters and The Walking Dead Volume 1: Days Gone By. Both written by Robert Kirkman, a man only 25 years old and already known as a writing powerhouse in comicbooks. Minutes later, they were riding in a plastic bag rescued from the warping nature of in store readers with no intention of buying.
Wednesday, 7 July 2004
Printed on the ticket stub, The Amazing Spider-Man. Posters, advertisements and all sorts of junk were plastered with Spider-Man 2 with no indication of a subtitle. By the rating next to the title, what might have been labelled for the M crowd didn't match the audience feasting on their fists and the squeaky popcorn of another Greater Union cinema complex.
All the noise these beasts were generating were rivaled against the near constant bombardment of the film itself. Through the sound effects, manic soundtrack and incidental music, their noise was taken down a few, but only a few and not all the way.
For those who came in late and know how to eat in snapshots of major events, Alex Ross does some beautiful painted work rehashing Spider-Man for those moments beefing the opening sequence.
Spider-Man, while a whole lot more comfortable in his role as the friendly neighbourhood webslinger, doesn't give it up much in terms of sparring quips and lines of wit. Scant liners in the first half are washed away by the whole emotional drain from the rest of the film. Tobey Maguire even looks like he hadn't taken any sleep prepping for the role. His face and entire body looks devastatingly wracked and wrought.
J. Jonah Jameson (J.K. Simmons) really lets rip, tearing up, chewing on spitting out every line and gesture given.
Sunday, 4 July 2004
Expecting the nectar of termination, it was not to be. The manager was out of the country and the Friday's workload—tagging hundreds and hundreds of bath towels and face washers—needed the extra labour. Everybody, even new faces hired just for the day, watched the late arrival. Fixing the time sheet for the hours worked was put under much scrutiny. Working for the other weeks, it just didn't fly this time. Luckily this meant that another worker escaped the same, netting himself a couple of extra billing hours. Ending the week having to face another ruined the plans and aim for dismissal by the end of a month.
Saturday, 3 July 2004
Salvation seems near at hand. Boiling over with rage, the manager handed down a few stern words, their intention driven through near breaking spectacles. Clearly on the edge, he fought back readied fists as everyone within earshot leant in to hear the ramblings. Those outside were briefed later on.
He wanted to know about whether or not happiness was a state and put forth feelings of not being comfortable of being comfortable being paid a pittance working most arduous labour.
The breaking point? Most likely being spotted sitting atop a metre high stack of flattened boxes. Perfectly timed without the manager's knowing, the work had already been completed and there was absolutely nothing to do. He didn't see it that way. Compounding matters was the sighting of one side of a box ready for dispatch. Covering half of the cardboard, eyes all googly, wobbly and haphazard-like. Some rant about showing respect to the clients was followed by pleads to cover up the "offending" material.
Exasperated and sorely out of breath, he started with, "You know, you don't have to be here if you don't want to. We can just always hire someone else."
And no doubt under pay them too.
Stopping just short of the sweet words needed, he walked off in a huff, sorely defeated by a worker without a single care in the warehouse.
Friday, 2 July 2004
That actor what portrays IRS Agent Jim Prufrock looks like a softer faced Chris Isaak. One odd framed show this. Filters and angles all over the place with sudden zooms hitting the point. Characters seem to hold a fixation with many seemingly insignificant objects. Must have been that interactive show Matt Damon and Ben Affleck were trying to push. Almost feels like it was tasting the blood of Twin Peaks. Never saw the Peaks, cancelled before the late night was on. This is what's taking away the new.
Thursday, 1 July 2004
Elemunk scrambles the loose connections bouncing about the mind of Soon Van.
Feel free to ask questions on any topic. Or spend some quality killswitch time poking about reading the vintage synapses
Or maybe a torrid trail of job interviews?
Elementary Funk by Soon Van is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Feel free to read up on the scope of the copyright over the posts and photos.
To leave enlightened is to arrive delusional