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      "body": "I liked it! Maybe my posts could be useful for you since you're a writer :) Hope you can check out my profile. \n\nGreetings and keep writing!",
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      "body": "![image](https://img.esteem.ws/sevxqicbhc.jpg)\nLife is interesting when you’re interested. The easy part is finding something to be interested in, the hard part is life.\n  Pink cherry blossom patterned wallpaper peels from the wall all scarred from fingernails picking at it’s edges during bouts of insomnia and idle evenings. There’s a scattering of thin pin tip black holes from old wall hangings and then white framed double glazed smudge stained plexiglass French-doors. I can’t see them for the silken drapery decorated with geometric patterns that covers  them. I assume they still exist behind the curtain, though I can never be sure. The air-conditioner is ‘silent’. The top corner of the mattress says ‘winter-side’. There should be sheets on here but there are none, and who flips their mattress with the seasons anyway? It makes sense to keep it on the winter side anyway. You sweat into the mattress twice as much during summer. Does that make sense? Mid-January in New Zealand is all damp sheet silhouettes, sellotape thighs, and oil glazed perineums.  \n  Uncle Amos was right, there is a lot to take in at any given moment. Life is in the details. Life is interesting when you’re interested. \n  I hold my arm extended above my body, flexing and turning my meat machinery. There are hundreds of tiny triangles all over my knuckles and along the back of my hand. There is an old Buddhist story about perception flitting about my neurones somewhere. Three blind men all grab different parts of an elephant’s body and are told to describe the animal, all giving widely different answers. If someone asked me right now what people are made of, I’d be convinced to tell them that people are made up of millions of tiny triangles. \nthin lines of light stab from the edges of the curtains like hands clawing to get in. \n  Is it the sun or streetlights? \n  Sun? No, it looks like there is a hint of white in the beams, the kind you get coming through those cloudy glass covers on street-lamps. It has to be the evening. Streetlights then. Wait, is that birdsong? Who am I kidding, I’m in the middle of the city. Streetlights. Is that your final answer? Yes, that is my final answer. Lock it in for two thousand. Drumroll please, pull the curtain back.\nStreetlights.\n  It’s either dusk or dawn, the horizon has a halo of fire light, pink and orange burning the clouds. The sky above is deep ocean blue and empty. Its impossible to see the stars in the middle of the city. I assume at one point you could. There are only one or two that manage to sneak past the great anthropogenic forcefield of humanity but none of the great constellations that you get down South show through. The starry dynamo in the machinery of night. The buildings conspire to break gravity by getting taller every year. Every side alley, street corner, and park bench buzzes with neon lit billboards, endless rows of road lamps, and kids high on cyberdelics. All around me are squares of light arranged in rows along the sides of square buildings, where inside, square people sit in their square boxes staring at their square boxes emitting square lights recorded through square boxes. We the triangles trying to fit ourselves into a square world.\n  “Some keep loneliness a companion because constants become comforts. Comfort is familiar and what’s familiar is safe and whats safe is good, good in the sense that it is safe and familiar, and whats safe and familiar is best kept constant to be comfortable.” My grandfather speaks through my tongue.\n  It’s too cliché to roll, or drag, myself out of bed. I slither and squirm from the mattress. A dried up slug of a man slapping the ground with a dull thud which pisses off the neighbours below me watching their smart-screens and masturbating. \n  I inch my way into the bathroom opposite the bed. \nIt’s easy to despise oneself with reflective surfaces everywhere. Splash your face with cool water and examine the new lines. Strain your neck to look at your bleeding gums and blackened second premolar. Your stink breath fogs the mirror, and your rotting insides which are even more putrid than that, fog your mind till all you see is a blurred mess staring back. In the shower you run the water as hot as you can, if only to feel something else for a time, something on the edge of burning, a little piece of Carpe Diem for the morning. Imagine all of your bones turn to jelly and your internal organs pop like water balloons. Your sickly looking goo sack body collapses on the mildew carpeted tiles. Your liquified insides leak from every orifice. This puddle person slips between the slits in the drain cover, down the pipes and into the plumbing, surfs the sewage line to freedom and flows into the ocean, a swamp of skin free from the vicissitudes of blood and bone extinction.\n  It’s not all bad though. There is food and music and good views if you can wipe the fog screen from your eyes for a while. There are ways to override biological shortcomings, to reprogram regrets. Chemical closure. Open the drawer under the sink and pull out the MemorySticks©. \nOutside the bathroom window, a light mist that turns to rain starts falling.\n  It’s been decided that memories are not frozen in time. Memories are not stored neatly in our brains like books on library shelves. They are not neatly sorted into individual manilla coloured folders and arranged chronologically in a filing cabinet somewhere deep in the administration office of our brains. No, they are disparate elements which our thoughts pull together from wherever and whatever they can. To recall something is to imagine it. All thats left after any moment is a vague image imprinted on the mind, a collage of impressionistic paintings, the edges blurred and indistinct. All memories are lies. All memories can be changed, forgotten, tampered with, forged and reforged, over and over. \n  “All memories are lies,” Amos says.\nI swallow the tiny purple pill, lie back and close my eyes to imagine moments of my life over again. \n\n\n§\nI woke in the morning and my lips were stained and caked with the white of her foundation. It lay like scar tissue along the creases of my mouth, grafting itself to me after hours of trading skin. Her makeup marking my lips and the perfume on my sheets and fingertips were the only proofs I had that I had been satiated for a time. \nElise had left only minutes ago, hugging me goodbye with one arm limp at her side, the other wrapped loosely about my waist, her cheek on my chest, her eyes turned away from me, my chin on her crown and my arms locked around her shoulders, one hand clutching the forearm of the other trying desperately to hold myself together.\nWe had stayed inside and locked the doors of that room for two days. We shared those kinds of nights where the conversations last until the sun reminds you that time exists and then afterwards when you try to remember what was said it’s impossible to recall any details and it melts into a big mess of contradictory feelings and fleeting sensations, alive in a wordless sense, like a photo exhibition of the same scene from a hundred different cameras.\n  The smoke scent of the plum coloured candle, the taste of merlot on her purpled tongue now on my purpled tongue, the gentle excess of her skin on mine. There was a low lighted bathtub and two puzzle piece people arranged legs and liquid, settled across from one another and shared long held looks over a porcelain ringed ocean. \nThe water cooled and I wondered if it was a single drop that had changed everything. I said something about an old Japanese poet who said the taste of tea is always in the last drop. You laughed and looked at me strangely and I said I probably hadn’t explained it properly.\nYou towelled off in the mirror and I watched the light create rainbows in the water droplets across your prickling skin. I held my head under and pretended to be drowning. You offered me your hand to pull me from the water, and then wrapped me in your towel and your skin and rested your cheek on my chest.\n\n∆\n\n  My eyes sting with the light. They’re ringed red, damp and puffy. My forehead throbs. How many times have I altered these memories? Once they’re changed I can only remember them changed. They had to have been real for me to remember in the first place, right? Though, I don’t know how often my imagination plays with my memory. How long ago did she leave? It could have been months. I could have changed her name, her face, her eyes, her height. Everything I remember now could be the end result of erasure. I’m the writer of the mythology of my life.\nThere’s no use worrying about regrets and wishing you could change things. You can’t change anything, you can only change yourself. MemorySticks simply help push the process of change along.\n  I leave the bathroom and head to the kitchen. On the wall, my slate sits charging. I order a cooked dinner through the menu, and the bell on the food chute sounds a few minutes later. Grilled tarakihi on white rice with soy sauce and a side of steamed vegetables with a chilli dip. It’s a simple meal, nourishing and wholesome. I eat slowly, wondering if the fish came from the ocean or one of the labs. It’s impossible to tell the difference, and there isn’t really one. A technical one at the least. After dinner, I decide to practice piano. \n  The grand piano sits in the room connecting the library and bedroom at the end of the hallway. I run my hands over the golden Steinway lettering and open the fall-board to show yellowing ivory keys. Often I feel the only thing I own that’s worth keeping is this piano. Waltz of Rainbow Coloured Roses by Takashi Yoshimatsu is the first thing on my fingers and I let the music sift through the room.\n  The piano stool looks onto the sliding balcony door which frames the city below and around me. Through the filter of rain on the glass-panes, the view becomes a pointillist painting. Paul Signac paints the city lights in spots of red and yellow bruising, outlines vague buildings with grey and uniform lines, and the occasional streak of cobalt blue and royal plum across the cloudless night.\nYoshimatsu’s waltz fills the room and the raindrops falling down the glass become his rainbow coloured roses, becomes Elise’s prickling skin and then the city reflected in those droplet universes. I shift my perspective back and forth between Yoshimatsu’s roses, Elise’s skin, and Signacs cityscape as I play.\n  I relax as much as possible, but tension is inherent. Without it there is no music. There is a constant trade of tension and relaxation. The keys resist my fingers and I feel the vibrations through the joints of my knuckles as the hammers strike the taught strings, each pulled to the perfect tensile strain to keep tune. The pedal sinks under my foot, and yields insofar much as I depress or relax. Too many people attempt to eradicate every tension within themselves. All we need is the trade, one becomes the other. How should we begin to tune ourselves and know that some tension is the only way to allow for the music of our lives? Uncle Amos had always spoken like this when we’d played piano together. It’s some sort of conditioning in me that my words sound like his when I sit down to practice.\n  “Play for me from Satie’s Gnossiennes. Number one, if you will.” I hear him say. “We are in the mood for a waltz aren’t we? What is it with popular music today and only understanding the four count? Life is never as even as it is odd, ay?” He laughs. “Satie may not have been hugely technical, nor highly talented, but his penchant for coaxing emotion out of the depths of ones most inner sanctum is another story entirely. You could be fooled into thinking your emotional state is in a place of equilibrium and upon hearing the lilt and cascade of Satie’s melodies you discover an emptiness within, paradoxically filled with conflicting humanness; yearning, rejection, ennui, and this insatiable desire to hold onto your own tiny piece of drab reality composed of blood and bone extinction but knowing it’s futility. This divide is not to be ignored but explored. Will you remember that when you play for me? Hear how it has moments of resolve, and hear that it dissolves again. Feel the tension and feel it relax again. Feel the trade of emotions, revolving and rarely static.”\nSatie’s waltz sits calmly in the air. Le musique d’ameublement. I play it to the end, the final chord fading into nothing. \n   The rain patter taps a thousand rounds of applause on the window sill. I crawl under the piano, lie on my back and stare at the unpainted underside. Reaching up, I run my fingers along the names signed in blue marker pen, his and mine. \n   The front door bell rings through the speakers in the roof. My slate vibrates and it tells me a mail-drone is at the door. I use the thumbprint reader on the screen to unlock the door and hear the muffled whir of the drone’s rotors as it flies towards the slate signal. People on the Archive Forums warn about letting drones into your house because of all the terrorist attacks. I figure, if someone is going to go through all the trouble of making a bomb out of a drone to blow me into meaty shrapnel and then I don’t open the door, they’ll find another way to kill me. The whir becomes less muffled as the drone manoeuvres itself through the rooms. It flies around the door and lowers itself below the piano, parking itself beside me. The thumb panel on top of the chassis lights up and I authorise my print. The panel opens to show a small package wrapped in brown paper tied with a twine ribbon.\n  I take the package and the drone lets itself out. Only my Uncle gave me gifts wrapped like this. The paper rustles under my fingers as I pull the tag from the ribbon. It is from him, “Happy Birthday, know that I think of you.”  \nIs it already my birthday? I always forget.",
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      "body": "![image](https://img.esteem.ws/sevxqicbhc.jpg)\nLife is interesting when you’re interested. The easy part is finding something to be interested in, the hard part is life.\n  Pink cherry blossom patterned wallpaper peels from the wall all scarred from fingernails picking at it’s edges during bouts of insomnia and idle evenings. There’s a scattering of thin pin tip black holes from old wall hangings and then white framed double glazed smudge stained plexiglass French-doors. I can’t see them for the silken drapery decorated with geometric patterns that covers  them. I assume they still exist behind the curtain, though I can never be sure. The air-conditioner is ‘silent’. The top corner of the mattress says ‘winter-side’. There should be sheets on here but there are none, and who flips their mattress with the seasons anyway? It makes sense to keep it on the winter side anyway. You sweat into the mattress twice as much during summer. Does that make sense? Mid-January in New Zealand is all damp sheet silhouettes, sellotape thighs, and oil glazed perineums.  \n  Uncle Amos was right, there is a lot to take in at any given moment. Life is in the details. Life is interesting when you’re interested. \n  I hold my arm extended above my body, flexing and turning my meat machinery. There are hundreds of tiny triangles all over my knuckles and along the back of my hand. There is an old Buddhist story about perception flitting about my neurones somewhere. Three blind men all grab different parts of an elephant’s body and are told to describe the animal, all giving widely different answers. If someone asked me right now what people are made of, I’d be convinced to tell them that people are made up of millions of tiny triangles. \nthin lines of light stab from the edges of the curtains like hands clawing to get in. \n  Is it the sun or streetlights? \n  Sun? No, it looks like there is a hint of white in the beams, the kind you get coming through those cloudy glass covers on street-lamps. It has to be the evening. Streetlights then. Wait, is that birdsong? Who am I kidding, I’m in the middle of the city. Streetlights. Is that your final answer? Yes, that is my final answer. Lock it in for two thousand. Drumroll please, pull the curtain back.\nStreetlights.\n  It’s either dusk or dawn, the horizon has a halo of fire light, pink and orange burning the clouds. The sky above is deep ocean blue and empty. Its impossible to see the stars in the middle of the city. I assume at one point you could. There are only one or two that manage to sneak past the great anthropogenic forcefield of humanity but none of the great constellations that you get down South show through. The starry dynamo in the machinery of night. The buildings conspire to break gravity by getting taller every year. Every side alley, street corner, and park bench buzzes with neon lit billboards, endless rows of road lamps, and kids high on cyberdelics. All around me are squares of light arranged in rows along the sides of square buildings, where inside, square people sit in their square boxes staring at their square boxes emitting square lights recorded through square boxes. We the triangles trying to fit ourselves into a square world.\n  “Some keep loneliness a companion because constants become comforts. Comfort is familiar and what’s familiar is safe and whats safe is good, good in the sense that it is safe and familiar, and whats safe and familiar is best kept constant to be comfortable.” My grandfather speaks through my tongue.\n  It’s too cliché to roll, or drag, myself out of bed. I slither and squirm from the mattress. A dried up slug of a man slapping the ground with a dull thud which pisses off the neighbours below me watching their smart-screens and masturbating. \n  I inch my way into the bathroom opposite the bed. \nIt’s easy to despise oneself with reflective surfaces everywhere. Splash your face with cool water and examine the new lines. Strain your neck to look at your bleeding gums and blackened second premolar. Your stink breath fogs the mirror, and your rotting insides which are even more putrid than that, fog your mind till all you see is a blurred mess staring back. In the shower you run the water as hot as you can, if only to feel something else for a time, something on the edge of burning, a little piece of Carpe Diem for the morning. Imagine all of your bones turn to jelly and your internal organs pop like water balloons. Your sickly looking goo sack body collapses on the mildew carpeted tiles. Your liquified insides leak from every orifice. This puddle person slips between the slits in the drain cover, down the pipes and into the plumbing, surfs the sewage line to freedom and flows into the ocean, a swamp of skin free from the vicissitudes of blood and bone extinction.\n  It’s not all bad though. There is food and music and good views if you can wipe the fog screen from your eyes for a while. There are ways to override biological shortcomings, to reprogram regrets. Chemical closure. Open the drawer under the sink and pull out the MemorySticks©. \nOutside the bathroom window, a light mist that turns to rain starts falling.\n  It’s been decided that memories are not frozen in time. Memories are not stored neatly in our brains like books on library shelves. They are not neatly sorted into individual manilla coloured folders and arranged chronologically in a filing cabinet somewhere deep in the administration office of our brains. No, they are disparate elements which our thoughts pull together from wherever and whatever they can. To recall something is to imagine it. All thats left after any moment is a vague image imprinted on the mind, a collage of impressionistic paintings, the edges blurred and indistinct. All memories are lies. All memories can be changed, forgotten, tampered with, forged and reforged, over and over. \n  “All memories are lies,” Amos says.\nI swallow the tiny purple pill, lie back and close my eyes to imagine moments of my life over again. \n\n\n§\nI woke in the morning and my lips were stained and caked with the white of her foundation. It lay like scar tissue along the creases of my mouth, grafting itself to me after hours of trading skin. Her makeup marking my lips and the perfume on my sheets and fingertips were the only proofs I had that I had been satiated for a time. \nElise had left only minutes ago, hugging me goodbye with one arm limp at her side, the other wrapped loosely about my waist, her cheek on my chest, her eyes turned away from me, my chin on her crown and my arms locked around her shoulders, one hand clutching the forearm of the other trying desperately to hold myself together.\nWe had stayed inside and locked the doors of that room for two days. We shared those kinds of nights where the conversations last until the sun reminds you that time exists and then afterwards when you try to remember what was said it’s impossible to recall any details and it melts into a big mess of contradictory feelings and fleeting sensations, alive in a wordless sense, like a photo exhibition of the same scene from a hundred different cameras.\n  The smoke scent of the plum coloured candle, the taste of merlot on her purpled tongue now on my purpled tongue, the gentle excess of her skin on mine. There was a low lighted bathtub and two puzzle piece people arranged legs and liquid, settled across from one another and shared long held looks over a porcelain ringed ocean. \nThe water cooled and I wondered if it was a single drop that had changed everything. I said something about an old Japanese poet who said the taste of tea is always in the last drop. You laughed and looked at me strangely and I said I probably hadn’t explained it properly.\nYou towelled off in the mirror and I watched the light create rainbows in the water droplets across your prickling skin. I held my head under and pretended to be drowning. You offered me your hand to pull me from the water, and then wrapped me in your towel and your skin and rested your cheek on my chest.\n\n∆\n\n  My eyes sting with the light. They’re ringed red, damp and puffy. My forehead throbs. How many times have I altered these memories? Once they’re changed I can only remember them changed. They had to have been real for me to remember in the first place, right? Though, I don’t know how often my imagination plays with my memory. How long ago did she leave? It could have been months. I could have changed her name, her face, her eyes, her height. Everything I remember now could be the end result of erasure. I’m the writer of the mythology of my life.\nThere’s no use worrying about regrets and wishing you could change things. You can’t change anything, you can only change yourself. MemorySticks simply help push the process of change along.\n  I leave the bathroom and head to the kitchen. On the wall, my slate sits charging. I order a cooked dinner through the menu, and the bell on the food chute sounds a few minutes later. Grilled tarakihi on white rice with soy sauce and a side of steamed vegetables with a chilli dip. It’s a simple meal, nourishing and wholesome. I eat slowly, wondering if the fish came from the ocean or one of the labs. It’s impossible to tell the difference, and there isn’t really one. A technical one at the least. After dinner, I decide to practice piano. \n  The grand piano sits in the room connecting the library and bedroom at the end of the hallway. I run my hands over the golden Steinway lettering and open the fall-board to show yellowing ivory keys. Often I feel the only thing I own that’s worth keeping is this piano. Waltz of Rainbow Coloured Roses by Takashi Yoshimatsu is the first thing on my fingers and I let the music sift through the room.\n  The piano stool looks onto the sliding balcony door which frames the city below and around me. Through the filter of rain on the glass-panes, the view becomes a pointillist painting. Paul Signac paints the city lights in spots of red and yellow bruising, outlines vague buildings with grey and uniform lines, and the occasional streak of cobalt blue and royal plum across the cloudless night.\nYoshimatsu’s waltz fills the room and the raindrops falling down the glass become his rainbow coloured roses, becomes Elise’s prickling skin and then the city reflected in those droplet universes. I shift my perspective back and forth between Yoshimatsu’s roses, Elise’s skin, and Signacs cityscape as I play.\n  I relax as much as possible, but tension is inherent. Without it there is no music. There is a constant trade of tension and relaxation. The keys resist my fingers and I feel the vibrations through the joints of my knuckles as the hammers strike the taught strings, each pulled to the perfect tensile strain to keep tune. The pedal sinks under my foot, and yields insofar much as I depress or relax. Too many people attempt to eradicate every tension within themselves. All we need is the trade, one becomes the other. How should we begin to tune ourselves and know that some tension is the only way to allow for the music of our lives? Uncle Amos had always spoken like this when we’d played piano together. It’s some sort of conditioning in me that my words sound like his when I sit down to practice.\n  “Play for me from Satie’s Gnossiennes. Number one, if you will.” I hear him say. “We are in the mood for a waltz aren’t we? What is it with popular music today and only understanding the four count? Life is never as even as it is odd, ay?” He laughs. “Satie may not have been hugely technical, nor highly talented, but his penchant for coaxing emotion out of the depths of ones most inner sanctum is another story entirely. You could be fooled into thinking your emotional state is in a place of equilibrium and upon hearing the lilt and cascade of Satie’s melodies you discover an emptiness within, paradoxically filled with conflicting humanness; yearning, rejection, ennui, and this insatiable desire to hold onto your own tiny piece of drab reality composed of blood and bone extinction but knowing it’s futility. This divide is not to be ignored but explored. Will you remember that when you play for me? Hear how it has moments of resolve, and hear that it dissolves again. Feel the tension and feel it relax again. Feel the trade of emotions, revolving and rarely static.”\nSatie’s waltz sits calmly in the air. Le musique d’ameublement. I play it to the end, the final chord fading into nothing. \n   The rain patter taps a thousand rounds of applause on the window sill. I crawl under the piano, lie on my back and stare at the unpainted underside. Reaching up, I run my fingers along the names signed in blue marker pen, his and mine. \n   The front door bell rings through the speakers in the roof. My slate vibrates and it tells me a mail-drone is at the door. I use the thumbprint reader on the screen to unlock the door and hear the muffled whir of the drone’s rotors as it flies towards the slate signal. People on the Archive Forums warn about letting drones into your house because of all the terrorist attacks. I figure, if someone is going to go through all the trouble of making a bomb out of a drone to blow me into meaty shrapnel and then I don’t open the door, they’ll find another way to kill me. The whir becomes less muffled as the drone manoeuvres itself through the rooms. 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      "body": "Hello, Steemit.\n\nIt seems the hip thing to do is #introduceyourself, even those of us who avoid our own identities in favour of an internet moniker. I am the smoothbuddha. Chance bought me here, the name Steemit mentioned in passing conversation with my picking partner at the cherry orchard in Cromwell, New Zealand. I had mentioned my love of writing and creating, and like any good cliché, struggling to find an outlet that would support it. Here though it seems we have something to redeem all of us who accidentally fell into anonymity with our crafts, when we were sure that they would have had us recognised by now. \n As any good dating profile reads, my interests are whatever’s good, whatever’s going, and whatever will take me there, the ephemeral There, capitalised T so we know its significance as the Platonic location of Out There, never reachable but still searched for by all of us with outstretched hands.\n  I plan to bring weekly or twice-weekly, or how-ever-many-I-feel-weekly, entries in the form of short-fiction, chapters from my novel in progress, poetry, music, travel-blogs, essays on current interests of mine and an open-ended podcast where the goal is exploring ideas and culture and all those good things that keep life interesting. Topics would include Futurism, Transhumanism, Psychedelic drugs, Music, Philosophy, Theology, Psychology, Literature, and whatever else gets brought to the show by guests and current events. \n What to look forward to in the very near future will be my three week trip across Japan in February, which will be full of hot-spring bathing snow monkeys, robot restaurants, and strolls through temple gardens blanketed with snow. \nI’ve also got entires in progress from the last four months of living in my van on the edges of voluntary poverty in New Zealand.  \n There is potential here for something great, but potential is nothing without people willing to work with it.\n You will be reading and seeing a lot more from me, Steemit. \n\nGo well, \nSB",
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