Yesterday before sleep I was inches from provoked while I came to sleep, and resolved the internal dispute that psyche spewed onto conscience and conscience administrated with sleep.
Malik will forever be in psyche while I never allowed conscience to be destructive for his demented sake.
Within an hour on 11:30 p.m. I had an earlier sleep, satisfied and primed.
Shadowed By Malik
Nine and a half hours later on 9:00 a.m. I awoke in a superior mood.
Malik seemed to do the same.
As usual he coughs and flushes once I have woken up, behavior I am inured to, while he never rushed around the corner or for the mailbox.
He obeys the deadlock door, while when I had a bath and brushed teeth, he woke up and in stealth did the same.
When I towelled down, in the silence before I commenced on duties.
Working On The Diary
The remainder of hours were allocated to the reunion menial rescue resumed. I had added ammunition when the issues on Malik were written, while I was never contaminated from his earlier message. In some disbelief how I have been occupied on a menial for four consecutive days, several scenes were proportioned into place and fleshed.
Three and a half motivated hours were dedicated before Malik was heard to leave for a dip around the corner.
I paused the menial rescue on 1:45 p.m. five minutes later.
Sorry, Wrong Number
Meanwhile the home telephone rang.
Sceptical with the absence of Malik I strode over. “Yo,” I stridently picked up.
“Sorry wrong number,” was the immediate response of some dude who sounded to be on a poor mobile phone with heaps of air circulation.
This was the all.
The noise of the security doors downstairs were heard and the ominous return of Malik back with his groceries surfaced.
Making Preparations For Printer Shops
His return allowed me to make a salad while I wrote down some details for printers around the area, packed the knapsack with the customized book cover printed and chopped to size, as well as printed information to help with inquiries, as well as the William Shakespeare paperback book as an example in case I came across someone.
I prepared for a walk down the road.
A spontaneous idea was to visit Eric Hanson the bookbinder down the road, while this never approved within too much.
When Lauryn Hill finished up, on 2:40 p.m. off I departed on an enterprise walk.
The Petrol Station
In frigid chills I approached the sun with a walk around the corner to the petrol station.
There I purchased chewing gum and came across the same ethnic chick who looks sexy, while she never registered on the radar. She looks more like a waitress clad in laborer clothes so her looks are concealed well, as personality is too behind her nonchalance.
She sensed this today, as with no conscious qualms, when she handed me back some requested coins for the phone, she brushed her hand on mine even to where the tips of our fingers grasped touched.
Neither the chick nor I flinched, as I attempted to read her name label.
You could see she was real and never concentrated on fashion or trends, rather on her identity as someone perhaps religious or practical.
I kind of discovered her, then fucked off.
Darko On The Walk Home
The walk back up our road saw either Darko or someone with an unmarked white mini coach parked on the curb had reversed into our car park entrance area, then up the road.
This kind of placed me on an awkward edge because I had no idea in the initial instance whether he was in the car and in the second instance whether I should assume he is the driver and approach him.
Ambivalence for a couple of seconds had me walk onto the footpath and then like I was headed back into our block when he drove up the road. I never wanted to continue up the road as he looked to turn onto the road I would walk on, which would be even more awkward were he the driver, so I paced the walk until he turned the corner, to maneuver back onto the initial route.
Calling Printers From A Payphone
Three calls were made once I reached the public telephone. Each call was to a printer selected from the Yellow Pages.
The initial number called was a full conversation. The man complied as I asked for quotes on one or three books, mentioned the number of pages, discussed the option of two-color printing and had him write my details down. I was in control with him, as his willingness to oblige the customer also helped.
We spoke of the kind of paper. I asked him to wheedle down administration costs and inform me of them in the quote.
“It’ll be a two-step process as well,” I said to him.
“I have to measure the proportions to calculate the size of the spine to be the same size as the printed inner cor.”
he said yes and understood.
“And then I was thinking of having the cover printed in-house before I come here to finish off the job.”
He said he would call back tomorrow.
I liked his style.
The second phone call was made to a printer in Alexandria. Unfortunately the man was on the phone and asked whether I could call back or email the information to him.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized how he had a customer with him.
“Nah, business is business. You’re fine,” I said. I had him mention an email address I pretended to write down because I had no pen. I said I would follow up.
The third phone call was to a commercial printer I knew would cause a bone of contention. Pink Panthers was phoned up. With some momentum behind me, I mentioned the usual specifications of the book and the needs I had, and asked for a loose quote.
“We are unable to provide quotes over the phone,” he was of no use already.
Information from him was like blood from a stone.
I ascertained a ridiculous round of fees forever. “Do you charge administration fees,”
I knew these commercial printers had inflated charges. I wanted to email the file to be printed and was informed this involved an administration fee.
“The file is fifty megabytes,” I asked how much the fee would be.
He said around a hundred dollars.
So for each megabyte uploaded the business charged two dollars.
I basically told him to fuck off and moved on.
Visiting The Bookbinder
The move from here was another one of ambivalence. I turned to walk home while seconds later turned back in uncomfortable reservation as I headed towards the bookbinder store.
I had no real purpose to be there other than to parade the progress made, while I was led because the idea of a massage parlor around the corner had a semblance of ulterior purpose.
I was anxious when there, which showed.
The exchanges were smooth, as I showed him the size of the William Shakespeare paperback and asked whether the size would be a problem.
There would be no problem.
I hung around.
The Bookbinding Process
I hastened speech because I loathe the initial dip into the water.
Once we have established ourselves I will be fine while nerves were palpable and he saw them and coughed once.
I am a handful.
Eric nonetheless heard how I had been hulled in the pad for a couple of minutes to have finished proofreads, to mention the couple of printers phoned before the walk down. He introduced the idea for me to show him the book cover I wanted printed, which when shown, he commented beholden in a stunned fashion.
I liked this.
Discourse with Eric was around how all I had to do now was find content to place on the back flap.
“Acknowledgements, like where the book was bound,” I smiled.
The onion started to feel layers while I remained anxious, to chill when I mentioned I was on the pension and needed a printer service, which was inexpensive, and how I would do the covers in-house then come down with the whole process.
Eric showed me a book someone had published, a local printer in Riverwood he said charged the lady no more than thirty dollars for the book.
When he saw how for real I was he brushed on how a decade or so back he published a couple of books as well, I liked the book, explained the kind of paper I desired and asked him for a piece of paper, borrowed his pencil and wrote the printer address.
Discussing A Literary Agent
When I glossed over how proofreads were so strenuous to tax me while the creative process with the covers was such a relief, brief talk of a step towards a literary agent was considered.
Eric surprised me when he said he knew of a literary agent. Moderate ears popped up. He was never a registered member while he had links with two renowned publisher houses, which enticed me.
“He helped have that book published as well,” he remarked.
“Well what we’ll do is have this book bound in a week. If you reckon we would suit each other then by all means,” I remarked.
I finished up with one of those lame lines of how I would be back for sure, one of those indebted amateur promises.
Another form of ambivalence dogged me as I headed in towards town and then found onto a path toward the massage parlor.
I knocked and was shown inside to become seated in a confidential area.
One lady was on, and yes, I was up for a massage while I also had severe conditions. I would have parted with sixty dollars had some dolled-up fantasy walked in so I could use sexual solicitation for its intended purpose, for fantasies. The jaunt was designed more to prove I would withstand sucker hormones, regain command of loose faculties, dominate weak conscience and regain the lead… in a dressed-up venal den.
I was above mediocre chicks or broads with unpalatable service, so when the lady pulled open the screen and said hello, even while she had nice silver eyes, was tall and dressed in black, she never appealed to libido.
I had her whisper in my ear, gained an erection then used the credit card as an excuse to leave.
As I did, I had a look back and brushed my hand over her cleavage.
She flinched, “Ah-ah. No mon, no fun,” which summed up the whole reason to never be there.
I already had mine, and was off.
The Sanctity Of Home
Back to the pad I returned on 4:00 p.m. somewhat abraded while inside, nerves now subsided.
My conscience pulse while outside was the initial lack of purpose, and how Eric was the fallback, which mind envisioned would be awkward, and was.
The remainder of hours since back however were inspired to view the end half of Romeo and Juliet in full cinematic experience, then commence on the back flap of the book cover.
This was incentive enough to with a concoction of music and television, commence work.
Designing A Book Cover
I love creation.
I love this printer combined with photo paper, which creates such awesome quality prints. I suspected the black dye ink was due to seize up and demand to be replaced soon.
The format was seamless with space enough to include a Mad Chaos trademark, while perhaps some blank space keeps the aesthetics beautiful.
A Blurb Written In Latin
I was more surprised how I was able to tabulate a back flap in purple, to create a third version of the paperback book in full size.
The purple flap impressed me.
I collated personal creeds, generic information and researched the slogan “ego degero, ego perscribo, ego abeo,” to paste a selection of sentences so a blurb could be written.
The blurb epitomized the whole intention of the memoir and made me feel again, so proud.
The marrow of the whole memoir was in those words – the purple flap – with as much class as the cover.
I love Latin.
Printing The PhotoShop Design
I have time to formalize this as my intent to contact literary agents becomes more serious, but for now it was worthwhile to have discovered the words that epitomize my life.
This is my forte.
I am a powerful visual producer as well as an established writer, so when married together I make some fucken masterpieces.
I printed the purple flaps to conserve on black ink as much as I could, used up the photo paper and cut the flaps to size so I could size the font sizes of one to another to pass on subtle differences and endorse others.
This is how perfection forms.
I will tinker with the design and extend revisions to a fourth or fifth so I can refer back to older revisions in case some ideas were back there I liked.
A Profitable Day
Malik meanwhile sounds real uncomfortable when I persevere with life and command a role.
Profitable was the day as the day was good. A line for you Elizabethan fanatics to end on.
“Do you know men ill that make graves fonder? Have them to me.”
Using Lauryn Hill To Irk Malik
The hellish altered ego was a minor bump in the driven cruise towards overall fruition. I made leaps, and ones to surpass the façade (quote unquote) Malik is led to believe.
His hustle is passé, so as the memoir proper on 10:10 p.m. complete carried on the soul of Lauryn Hill came a positive development.
The mobile phone was stocked up, and despite how mind told me to avoid his false kindness, I responded to Malik to make me feel clean.
I listened to Lauryn Hill repeated on the headphones as I picked quotes from one of her tracks. Sounds like plagiarism but she summed up how I feel and also would have been an unexpected response for Malik to field, so I would have psyched him out.
“Beware the false motives of others. Be careful of those who pretend to be brothers. Like Cain and Abel, Caesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas, backstabbers do this. Men who lack conscience will even lie to themselves. Forgive them father for they know not what they do. Forgive them.”
Like now, the headphones were on as I messaged Malik.
Rolling Marbles Upstairs
The headphones were soon replaced with the speakers on low volume, which frustrated me to within a minute hear the person upstairs drop some marble and allow this to roll, which is similar to noises mum made.
People around here have such low tolerance. I mean Malik is unable to hack however I do. When he hears music he taps. Whenever he hears silence he coughs. He wakes up minutes after I do and while he has given up his chase to see me in the flesh since too much time has passed, his bizarre behavior continues.
Pissed off to hear when their deliberate acts of frustration occurs, an angered cycle occurs.
So riled up from the message received earlier, I walked outside onto the balcony and simmered there for some wisp of noise, some fucken person who dared.
I acted normal, looked across the panned areas and on occasion, up. The person upstairs could have been asleep and rolled some prepared device onto the floor as behooves their irritation when music is heard.
Get a life people. You never hear the same reaction to the television.
I was irritated, while I settled down.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until 2018, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.