I just recently (a matter of hours to be exact) started reading the novel "The picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde.. I was reading the introduction and I was intrigued by his words regarding art. His view on the inevitable defeasibility of art and its only purpose of being admired... "the only reason one creates something pointless it is to be admired at... art is quite pointless" (or something to that effect), it is quite moving and motivating to read... I have always wanted to be an Artist, I want to make something admirable and something that stirs the soul and intimidates the mind.

The paragraph above this one was written two days ago when I had just started reading the novel, sadly I have not made much progress with that novel. I have only just read 4 chapters since then... reagardless I absolutely adore the effects of a aestheticly written book, the infectious use of smooth and beautiful vocabulary is indescribably refreshing compared to the usual coarse american usage of the language, the english writers and poets really knew how to pamper their tounge and to fortefy it and immortalise it with the pen, multi-production meal for the soul delivered to multi-national plates, fed to the unpainted canvases giving them colors of worlds that never were real and portraits of people who never existed, picture that, everybody is a gallery of their lifes experiences.

Who and what am I? I have often wondered, I am a human, a person, a male (as opposed to being a woman trapped in a mans body), my mothers son and my sisters brother (and as a matter of fact my brothers brother (so nobody will feel left out))... this is all factual and concrete... I know this allthough this does give me a glimpse as to what I am this does not truly answer the question "who am I?". Am I an artist? that is something I really and truly hope I am and what I want to be but I think my lifes experiences have shown me that it is not my true idendity. Am I a Homo?... well yes... but I should hope that my personality has more layers than that.. Am I an Icelander? Yes, this I am quite sure of, because only a true icelander yearns to escape this wreched island as much as I do! *sigh*

I want to make this interjection to express my deepest remorse regarding how incredably horrid my blogs are, I strive to make them an interesting read but more often than not they seem to end up as senseless drivle spurted onto this site in pixel form... I hereby offer my sincerest apologies and remind you that at any time you are free to click the little x in the upper right corner <-- windows users, you mac-ers out there deserve this tornment so I will forgo from oferring instructions on how you can escape this awful... awful horse hooey (for the lack of a better term). With that said let me continue with my bowel movements.

Am I a slut? Well that concerns who you ask, to one I might be a filthy whore of babylon and to someone else I might be the blessed saint of abstynence... allthough I think the former would be the more likely option to be x-ed. Allthough I consider myself refined, once I was fairly scandelous while at the moment I consider myself quite the gentleman. I have not come to any conclusion with maybe the exception that one has not truly become something until he cannot change... meaning that you arent anything unless you are dead... then your personality is edged in stone if you will and what you were and what you did is forever who you are.. doest thou comprehend?

Anyway, I am going to end this post with a question: Is the grass greener one the other side? Is it just another shade of green? and does the grass really have to be greener to taste better? (for example some of the best strawberries I have ever tasted were barely pink, much less crimson red).

ADEU!
~Spooky

p.s. I hope this bull did pull on your mindstrings.