I found this link via Slashdot, so I hope Angelfire doesn't buckle under the strain and become yet another statistic of the slashdot bohemouth.

Motorcycling through Chernobyl

Anyway, I'll give you a run down just in case the site has gone belly up:

Russian chicky, loves riding her 1100cc touring Kawasaki bike through the wastelands of Chernobyl. Long quiet roads, abandoned cities. No 'rush hour' traffic, no speed limits, no police!

From the photos and her descriptions in broken english, this place sounds surreal and wild. It's like nature has struck back into the concrete jungles and reclaimed some of the territory despite the mad clicking on the Geiger counter.

Go clickit and see for yourself.

I dont have the capacity to fully relate my last few days, so I'll try and descripe my time with Haiku.

Friday:

Code! Run! Stop! Fix! Ring!
Entirely exhausted.
Ending with bulk beer.

Saturday:

Pounding head, much pain.
Hangover festers inside.
Cold body recovers.

Sunday:

Sunlight and kindness,
Warm cuddles, cushion, a film.
Smiling while asleep.

Monday:

Grey station, leaving,
Fuckwit and his soccer talk
Silence with sadness.

Today:

Quick zombie mornings,
Website template, hurry on up.
Sad thoughts, ignoring.

More writing.
I really need to find a hobby. This piece a little bit based on reality, but mostly based on the fact that I was listening to some weird music while I was writing. Dont blame me. Blame Gershwin, or Janis Joplin.

I dont think its finished, but I thought I'd post it anyhow.

Keeping really busy at work... SUPER busy, in fact. Having a great deal of fun doing it though, which is the most important point.

Hope you all have a brilliant easter, too. I'm off to Peterborough on the weekend, to spend some down-time away from the House of Hell. Discovered that Mr Not-A-Rocket-Scientist had dried up all the dishes that I had washed, but put away everything except the two dishes of mine. Never mind the fact that I was kind enough to wash his breakfast bowl in the first place.

See if I ever wash anything of his ever again.

Sick of complaining.
New personal resolution: Whinge about other things for a change.

Jac.

Was this it? Was this being ‘grown up’? Was this what it was all about?

And her fingers suddenly stopped. Here frown was worn not on her mouth but in her eyes. A curious blend of child and adult, without the weight of time and without the innocence of youth. She glanced about the room, still frowning at nothing. Perfume and papers now had their place amongst the dolls and stuffed toys. One mankey bear peered out of button eyes, faded and torn with a lopsided smile. He looked out of place sitting amongst the tax forms and bank receipts. He was carrying on the fight against time, never willing to let go of the girl he once knew so well.

When had that all changed? When had she stopped needing him in her arms at night, to protect her from the nightmares that lived in the wardrobe? When had that happened?

Her eyes rested on him a moment longer, before lingering on a dusty frame, filled with smiling faces of the past. Three carefree kids with long arms and big smiles. Waves stopped thrashing the beach, caught in that split second of happiness. Sunlight poured from the image bringing with it memories from a different time and a different place. She longed to speak to the others in the frame, wondered where they were now. The same faded cotton shirt still hung in her cupboard.

An angular stereo pumped in music, downloaded with new technology, listened to with the same sense of enjoyment. The sounds played over her thoughts, each new song bringing back other faded memories. The notes and melodies captured some personal fragment, held a small memory. One song swept her back to childhood, another back merely a week. Remembering how a friend laughed at her jokes and recalling how her first hangover felt, like a bassbeat in her head. A knot formed in her chest, as she recalled the way arms had held her against the tears that had fallen in the past. Remembering what it had felt like to dance on the beach, when nobody else was watching. Her fingers tapped the beat upon the keys. She continued typing.

Was this it? Was she an adult now?
She shook her head, unable to decide, not really caring anyway. Her fingers made a familiar sound as they bounced off the keys, her words and thoughts poured onto the screen.

Spent the past weekend in Wales with my surrogate family. It was good to go home, despite the vast quantites of vegetables that I had to eat. Saturday I was in a bit of a funk, trying to sort out a lot of things and get myself back on track.

I was sitting in the back room, chilling to music when "Word" just happened to open itself, and my fingers just started typing of their own accord. That may be a really geeky alternative to unconscious scribbling...

This is what happened:

The blue skies are deceiving.
The spring flowers hide something deeper beneath their riot of colours. The birds keep singing a familiar song; A song I had almost forgotten the words to. Dusk seems more like a gentle sigh, rather than an irritated farewell. Life exists in a different dimension here.

I cant really decide what it is about Wales that gets me, but every time I’m here, I feel like I’m breathing again for the first time in weeks. I know that I cant stay here, so perhaps that’s why I’m feeling so many things all at once. I could be walking through Trafalgar Square, Hyde Park or Bond Street. I could be walking the high streets, watching other people fight through city life. I could be fighting through city life, too. Instead, I’m here. Sitting alone in the back room of a house, tucked away in the corner of the country watching the skies as dusk changes the blues to dusky purples, and finally into darkness.

London is more about the external. The job. The rush. The money. Going somewhere. The race to keep everybody happy. Silence filled with everybody else’s noise.

Here, life is more about living. Smiling because your happy. Keeping silent because words say more but mean less.

I know I’m happy here. I guess that’s why there’s tears in my eyes. I never thought it would be this hard to live away from home. Somebody else's home, in fact.

I could have grown up here. I could have been living here my whole life, not just an accidental month. It’s like I’ve found something I never knew I’d lost.

I know I’m not making any damn sense. I know I should be in the other room, sharing time with those that I love. I cant bring myself to do it. It’s almost like I’m feeling too much, having trouble keeping my head above water.

I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to know…. Can I buy a clue? Is it possible to feel so upside-down?

Topics: Computers, Birds, Laughter, Personal Experiences.
Timeframe: 30 minutes.
Task: Write something about given topics.

So... Here goes!!

Untilted - Written by Jacqui Doyle.

I wasn’t really sure where I was going. I was on a bus. One of those big monstrous red things, with two floors, three doors, and a walk-in robe. I watched silently as the city streets zoomed past me, watchful and ancient. It seemed like everything in the city had an age to it that commanded respect. These buildings had seen generations of people walk by, millions of nameless tourists had stopped to stare. They’d stand here tomorrow. They’d stand here even after I’m dead and gone. I suppose I was just another one of the million faces staring up at their impossible height. I felt tiny. Insignificant.
A couple stood and inched their way past me, and all of the other sardines that occupied the bus. She laughed over her shoulder as she stepped from the door, smiling a photo-shoot smile. It was odd to hear her laughter amid the constant chaotic drone. It rang clearly over the toneless conversations of the whole city. The sound of her voice was whipped away as the automatic doors closed and the engine pushed us back into the heavy tide of traffic. She was just another face amid even more faces, more silent buildings.
More spikes drilled into ledges to stop birds from perching. The barbs looked like thorns on a rose. Out of place but somehow a part of the charm. Nelson on his column had several spikes through his head. Queen Victoria even had a spike through her nose. They marred the classical forms and turned Roman Gods and Historical figures into neo-modern punk sculptures. All they needed was a safety pin through their nose and a “fuck off you nazi pigeon bastards” scrawled across them. In red paint.

Despite the spikes and the neo-punk outlook on life, Nelson wore a spadge of pigeon shit across his temple. A big “take that” from the most humble of creatures.
I smiled. We can develop self-guided missiles and beam live satalite pictures across the globe but even in the greatest city on the planet, with all the most advanced technology in the world, pigeons still had the power to crap on the mighty.

I smiled. I still wasn’t sure where I was headed but I now faced the uncertainty with a sense of proportion. I was only one face but I had freedom. The spikes didn’t stop me, neither did the overwhelming size of the buildings. If I was a pigeon, I’d be lost amid a vast sky full of identical pigeons. But at least I would be able to fly. And shit on celebrities.

I got off and smiled.
It was my stop.

Now, I'm sure everybody has met at least one person during their lives when it feels like you're skin is trying to crawl away on its own accord. Each time they look at you, you just want to go and clean yourself... and each time they speak to you, you wish you were bold enough to punch them square in the mouth.

But what, exactly, defines a sleaze?
Is it their own attitudes toward you, or does your own attitude have an effect? What is it about them, that makes you feel like you're drowning in an oil slick just by being near them?

MissC and I wondered out loud, what it was that could possibly cause such a profound psychological effect, the instant that you meet somebody. How is it, that our subconscious can judge a person within three milliseconds after meeting them for the very first time? Could it be that it has something to do with their aura's? or perhaps past lives? What about Extra Sensory Perception?

I would probably try to stick to more generally accepted ideas, such as percieved intent, and personal situation. Where the person's eyes rest, is also a big factor.

For instance, when Mr Yellow comes up to me, smacks me on the ass and wraps his arms around me, asking if he can sleep in my bed with me, I have the following reaction:
* Laugh
* Ruffle Mr Yellow's Hair
* Tell him "Sure Babycakes!"
* Give him a big loud smooch on the cheek,
* Disentangle myself, and continue with the conversation as if nothing had happened...

However, if Mr Green walked up to me, and said something bland and innocent like:
"Hi Jacqui! How are you going on your ~assignment~?"
My shoulders instantly clench, my hackles rise. Its like somebody has beaten me over the head with a mouldy chunk of flesh, as I have to fight not to make obscene facial expressions, and I'm often caught making stupid excuses like...
"Oooh, Um, y'know, I think I forgot my floppy disk..."
And I make a sonic boom as I break the Land Speed record, fleeing the scene.

I'm not talking about personal hygene, as I know some very very grubby genuine people, while also knowing alot of well bread, highly groomed sleazes. For me, personally, Kevin Bacon is probably the poster-boy for well groomed sleaziness, while Smudgy is probably the grottiest person I know, and yet, he's the very opposite of sleaze.

Nor is sleazyness specifically related to the little smile, and the roving eyes. While on some people (say... Dominic Monaghan, and Heath Ledger) it looks adorable, cheeky and oh-so-sexy, on the Sleaze it is both repulsive, and frightening. It causes what is locally known as the "SAVE ME! Glance" between individuals that is a clear request to be aided in conversation termination.

Nor is it the the lingering touch thoughout a conversation. Whenever Sleazoid contact is made, it triggers an unnatrual desire to go and disinfect the contaminated area with vast quantities of soap and water, whereas, contact with any other human being is seen as either affection, or body language - just a natural form of communication.

I dont understand it.
Is it a sunconscious primal reaction to those with a certain incompatible gene? Or is it simply due to our own perception of others? I'd challenge anybody to come up with a defining list of personal traits that define a sleazeoid. Or even a well documented list on who is sleazy, and what makes them so.

Jacqui... pondering the Sleaze.

Butter Knives, and Black Hawks.
Sometimes, I feel like I want to stick my head in a microwave, and blott out all the bad thoughts with one rapid bang. I'm sure I could do it, if only I could shut the bloody door.

Some thoughts hang around like pesky flies, or that really bad pair of socks that you've been meaning to throw away for the past 2 years. They haunt you at odd times, and threaten your sanity when you're half conscious.

I'm talking about those thoughts that you think... and then regret. Kinda like the mental image when somebody talks about naked old people playing volleyball... or what horribly icky things that Haskell programmers have to do on a daily basis to survive. Personally, I'd sooner rent myself out by the hour, than program in Haskell.

And then, there's those thoughts that have physical effect. The kind of physical effect that slaps you in the head and says "what the hell were you thinking?". The kind of thought you wish you could just scratch out, or press Ctrl+Z and undo the whole bloody thing. These thoughts are often associated with crushes, or looking back at past relationships, or trying to remember what you did the night before.

For example:
Did I really start singing at the top of my lungs at 3am? *slap*
Did I really expect that I could finish this assignment in 3 days? *slap*
Did I really try to eat that leaf? *slap*
Did Howard really walk in and find me singing into my hairbrush along with Kylie Minogue? *slap* *slap* *slap*
Did I really kiss that person? *punch* *belt* *whap* *crash*

I never feel like I want the world to open up and swallow me, however, some times I wish that my head would self combust, and that I'd simply evaporate instead. Evaporation is so much more dignified than falling down a dirty great big hole. There's less chance for survival.

I have all of these half-memories from previous drunken escapades, and... well... they're simply dangerous. Each time I stop and consider them, I have to restrain myself from beating my head into a bloody pulp. They are my sole reason why I don't drink vast quantities of alcohol. I have more than enough painful thoughts to last me well into the next lifetime. In fact, I'm sure I could provide a lifetimes worth of stupid thoughts and memories to make up for a small Pygmy tribe.

Regardless, today the microwave was in serious jeopardy of being used for a method of personal memory removal. I got hooked with some fan fiction that I didn't really want to read. It was the type of fan fiction that should have had a big red "R" plastered across it, with Health Warnings labeled all around it. This stuff was detrimental to my fragile state of mind... yet... I was hooked. I was addicted like some paint sniffing clown.

I was so taken in, that even massive shock treatment, and rapid recovery drugs wouldn't have snapped the habit. I just had to read it. I just had to gross myself out. There I was, sitting all alone, reading about things that just shouldn't be considered by decent people.

What's he doing with Elijah's feet? Oh god no....
THATS A HOBBIT YOU SICKO!!!
How can anybody think about this shit, and have indecency to write it down?
A banana? Oh god no. I'll never eat fruit again.
If they're gunna.... Oh god! They are! They did!
That just has to be illegal.
You're kidding me... There's no way! He cant possib.... I was wrong.

Some times I wish I could microzapp those memories right out of my head.
These aren't the "slap yourself, you fool" thoughts, these are several magnitudes of violence greater. They're more like "use a can-opener and perform a self lobotomy, fish around in your head for a while, and cut out the mouldy bits with a butter knife" thoughts.
Never again. Never... never ever. I'm going to have to design a hand held microwave, because this just isn't cricket. Life will never be the same.

I've run out of trashy fan-fiction.

Hot and bothered.
I think I've crossed over to the dark side.