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Writer, Arthur, Venture, Drawing, Philosophy
 I can't understand some people. I try to act with dignity and respect, but get taken for arrogant. Then when I attempt to make some form of apology, for my actions may have been misread, I am shrugged off inconsequentially. If the person was so concerned about my actions, why did they bother making public statements, vehemently claiming to be offended? To then turn around and pretend not to care? It brings me to my wits end.

Perhaps I am too sensitive to other people - concern is what I like to call it. I care about how my friends are feeling, and in turn, how they think of me. I know I probably shouldn't, but I can't help it; who are we, but the friends we keep? Some individuals are flaky, and hard to read. I tend to get along with these people the least. I wish they could express themselves to a degree that I might hope to understand their viewpoint. But if they do not, who am I to blame when they care less to tell me, so that I may change my method of interaction with them?

I engage strongly with the more emotional type of person, those who shut off their feelings, and have no concern to express themselves I find the hardest to associate with. Do not sit there in silence. Tell me what's on your mind. But please, do not be blunt, take your time. Express yourself in the way in which you want to be understood. It takes many years of practice, and for some it is subconscious.

I accept all people for who they are, and not a person I know has evidence to prove otherwise. I would wish, that I would be accepted for who I am, and treated with enough respect to be spoken to directly. I abhor drama and rumors. It sets into motion my anxiety and depression, and we all know that these emotions are undesirable and not wanted. So if you have something to say, say it. This applies to everyone you know. Using my reasoning, it shouldn't be too difficult explaining your intentions for wanting to find the truth.

Time, like Forgiveness, heals all wounds.
Writer, Arthur, Venture, Drawing, Philosophy
 Why do we fear Heartbreak? When we know that Time heals all wounds. Is it an instinct? do we fear it not because we feel like we can never love again, but because it's a feeling of broken trust? But why do we call it heartbreak, if it's really the trust that has been broken? We fear the rejection, the rejection of who we are, that the person we have entrusted our heart and all that we are, has thrown away. Cast into the gutter of memory, which destroys even the fondest of recollections. To me, this is no excuse to feel downtrodden, when life gets hard, we get back up again. We fight these emotions, it's only natural to. To give into despair is weakness. It instigates horrible thoughts that we must banish from ourselves.

I am told that it drains more energy to be depressed than it does to be happy. It seems a somewhat insensitive commentary on the human condition. Depression happens for various reasons, most prominently Loss - whether that is loss of a loved one, loss of your job, loss of respect, loss of admiration and even loss of possessions. The human mind (as a concept) goes through it's ups and downs, some say it's necessary to feel sadness in order to feel happiness. It feels like an excuse, but sometimes I wish I could disagree with the statement, if I didn't see the grain of truth inside of it. It's the same when it comes to heartbreak, we feel broken inside, yet that sets us up to feel incredible once we come upon the moments of either needing no one, or being rescued from ourselves.

Heartbreak need not be feared, it's an endless cycle that needs to be accepted for what it is. It builds character - by character I mean it makes one stronger willed. You learn from your mistakes, however long that may take, and for suffering the loss of a loved one, whether permanently or not, your heart grows for it and learns to let the right ones in. Do not obsess over the past, it is folly. It is wise to look upon the past with fondness, and move on. Fondness, for to brood over events which brought you down, can come back to haunt you, and never leave. Acceptance of who you are, how you were wronged, and learning to forgive, is the healthiest way of dealing with heartbreak. Love and be loved, but expect nothing from anyone. You will be surprised when you gain anything, if you never expected it.

The House Mates.
Writer, Arthur, Venture, Drawing, Philosophy
 There once was a scrupulously clean man named Rupert. He was so clean, that his fingernails were never ever dirty, and his feet never smelled, and his coat was washed once a day. Then came the day that filthy Theodore came to town to live with Rupert, he had leased out a room in his house so that he could save for his own personal dry cleaner. Anyway, so Theodore packed all of his stuff up from his cottage in Oxford and made his way to London, to live with Mr Rupert.

Suffice to say that they didn't get along in the very least, Theodore would wear his clothes for weeks at a time, and had this strange pungent scent which Rupert found to be quite sickening. In an attempt to get Theodore to move from his apartment, the crotchety old Rupert devised a most diabolical plan. He would up the rent to such extreme amounts, that Theodore would assuredly 'have' to move. Or so he thought.

Turns out that the messy young scamp came from an incredibly well to do family of merchant bankers, the kind with those stuffy coats and elbow patches, worn away at the sides. They wanted nothing to do with Theodore also! So they paid exorbitant amounts to Rupert for him to keep young Theodore in his home. Rupert, not one to let an opportunity pass him by, cogitated on an even greater plan than the one previously mentioned. He would use the money being paid by Theodores parents and family to build a granny flat for his stinking house mate, but as the suburb that Rupert lived in was a built up area he knew he wouldn't be able to build it in his incredibly tiny yard.

Using his foundation knowledge of architecture, he constructed a blue print for a sky box, a large flat house that would 'float' above his own! Using the money he paid for cranes and builders and everything you could possibly think of needed to build this architectural wonderment. He made it very clear, that there would need to be an elevator down the side of his house that would lead up to the sky house. A couple of agonising months passed for Rupert and Theodore, having to be graced with each others conflicting personalities and living habits the entire season.

Upon completion of the sky house, Rupert arranged for an unveiling of his latest construction. Led by the old architect, Theodore took the second elevator up to the house, Rupert very clearly stating he would not be cramped into the same elevator as the stinking, dirty young man he had to live with for so long. This was the first time either of them had seen the inside of the house

Rupert was amazed!

He then became jealous of Theodore’s new establishment, and decided he would keep it for himself and make Theodore live in the old house underneath. Theodore, saddened by the sudden swiftness of his expulsion from his lofty dream house, made his way back down the elevator. It was then, that he suddenly heard splintering noises coming from the roof of the ground level building. Slowly, in a dream like trance, Theodore stared as he witnessed the sky house begin to tilt ever more to the left!

Oh no, he thought to himself, poor Rupert is still up there!

He'll be killed!

So he quickly dialled 999 and had the fire brigade come post haste! The fire brigade arrive just in time to see the Jetson's style home fall to the ground, LUCKILY, landing in a large lake situated in a local park. Fortunately for Rupert, he was unscathed, and the house floated atop the waters surface long enough for him to make his escape from the slowly sinking house.

Rupert learned a harsh lesson that by being so incredibly greedy and insensitive to other peoples differences, he in turn caused trouble for himself and almost killed a completely innocent person, one that he was paid to mind. Rupert felt such remorse, that he changed his ways, sold his house and opened a homeless shelter, so that he may make amends for his intolerance of stinky people. Theodore moved back with his parents, who realised that they should be responsible for his safety, and that throwing money at a situation doesn't fix things.


[I wrote this story off the top of my head during an MSN conversation with a dear friend of mine. - Arthur Venture]

Mad Hatter's Lament
Writer, Arthur, Venture, Drawing, Philosophy
 “Death frights us. Death is a perpetual torment, for which there is no sort of consolation. There is no way by which it may not reach us. We may continually turn our heads this way and that, as if in a suspected country, but we can't forget death.”

Montaigne, 1533-1592

The time was a quarter past midnight in the train yard of the North Loop. It was the Summer of 1967, the town was rife with crime as vandals ran the street gangs, and prostitutes lined the streets of the cities northern business districts. It was in a tiny Warehouse off one of the side alleys of First Avenue North that it happened. It was there that I, tied to a chair, staples in my hands and face, cheaply made electrodes strapped to my wrists, would make a discovery; learn the mistakes of my actions. But let's take it back a bit first why don't we? Find out how I, our hapless hero, wound up in such a predicament.

12th November 1966. I'm leaving a bar, I'm an indistinguishable type, kinda plain looking, brown Driza-Bone, ratty Fedora, and cocky swagger. Simon Hatter. Mad as a hatter they liked to call me. It wasn't my fault I was born to cause trouble. Growing up in a poor family in the down town ghettos, I was bound for mischief. I joined my first gang at thirteen, knocking off letterboxes and harassing the elderly. By the time I was twenty I was committing armed robberies with my buddies, and sometimes, murdering snitches for the mob. I was ruthless, had a real knack for crime. My best friend Robert on the other hand, didn't like what I was up to. I would tell Robert of all my escapades for the big bosses of the mob, the people I whacked, the drugs I'd run from one side of town to the other. It was this friendship that got me into the most amount of trouble. Robert was the weak link in my loyalty, or so Ivan Lucky thought. He was the big cheese Mr. Nimble's right hand man.

“Hey Simon, I really don't know about this”, spoke Robert, spectacled face half hidden in the shade of the red brick building they were hiding behind, the alleyway they had chosen as their hit point disguising them in the dead of night.

“What are you worrying about? You're not even supposed to do anything, just leave everything to me”, I answered calmly, in an attempt to placate my childhood friend.

“This is 'illegal' Simon!” emphasised Robert, in a hushed tone, “We could get caught!”

“Relax! It'll be dead easy. Man walks past, I grab him, pull him into alleyway, you hold that knife- No not like that! You gotta hold it threatening like, like this”, I grabbed the knife and held it so that the blade pointed sharply away from my face, “Y'see?”

“I got it.”

“Good, here he comes.”

The man staggered out of the club and began sauntering down the street, evidently drunk, and reeking of the sour mash he had consumed over the course of the night. I dashed quickly out of the corridor and grabbed the man by the scruff, pulling him deftly into the alleyway and slamming him into the wall. The drunk groaned.

“Look here pal, you give us all you've got, or my friend here gives you the knife,” I threatened, pointing at Robert who, maintaining a calm expression held the blade firmly in his hand, his countenance while oddly serene caused the victim to feel incredibly uneasy. He lashed out at Robert. Pulling from my grip he dashed at the young would-be mugger. Robert freaked, closing his eyes and throwing the blade in front of him. He didn't expect the impact as the knife sunk into the drunkard's chest, pushing him backward. The man dropped to the floor wheezing. Eyes wide with terror, the boy opened his mouth to scream, but couldn't muster any sound from his throat. He dropped the knife, and silently, ran as fast as he could from the alleyway, forever scarred by the evil deed he had just committed.

“Damn... Kids...”, the stabbed man coughed.

Casually I breathed a sigh, and smiled one of my half smiles,”Ah well, looks like I'll have to finish the job,” I muttered, looking sideways at the dying man. As he leant to pick up the freshly used blade, a shimmer of light reflected in the moonlight, the man seeing my intention moved to grab my ankle.

“Ah! Now now!” I spoke, deftly moving out of the way and stomping my boot onto the man's knuckles, causing him to cry out. Blade now in hand, I moved toward the struggling to breathe drunk. The victim looked up into my murderous eyes, while I, hovering over him like a vulture over it's prey swiftly passed the knife from one hand to the other, all the while smiling a maniacal grin. The moon glinted strangely in the poor man's eyes as if silently pleading for mercy, but there was to be none, as I jumped behind the man onto his shoulders; passing the blade from ear to ear under the drunk's jaw, I sliced open the main artery, spraying thick warm blood all over the alleyway floor.

I searched the man's pockets and came up with fifty bucks. Not bad for a man who'd spent his entire night gallivanting with the whores in the club. Most of these types are pretty dry. With professionalism in mind, I disposed of the body and made my way home.

The next few months went smoothly, job to job I did for the mob earned me more respect, and a higher pay. Robert swore he wouldn't say anything, and I believed him, why would he? We're best buds after all. Sure it was a dodge job, certainly didn't want to kill the guy, but it was his first, and only, time out. I covered for him, he covered for me. At least that's what I thought. Turns out the mob got to my good buddy. As it happens the guy we whacked was a very important figure to the mob, and they were pretty damn pissed that he was found dead, face half eaten by maggots but still recognisable, in a dumpster in south Minneapolis. They came for me. Jack Swift rolled around in his old Mercedes and picked me up at about half past eleven, Summer had just rolled around and it was beginning to heat up pretty bad. I wiped the sweat from my brow and turned to Jack, who always had something witty to say. Today he was in one of his rare humourless moods. Something wasn't right, and I knew it. My mind kept turning to the man in the alleyway, the look on his face before I ended his life. Something wasn't right about that night.

“You done goofed Simon,” Jack turned to me, a severe expression on his otherwise handsome face. “There was a body found in the trash down on the south side – you know anything 'bout it?” he asked out of courtesy. I eventually found my voice, “I'm not sure man, I'd have to look at the guy, I whack a lotta people, and y-you know I do”, I stammered. The rest of the trip we remained silent and I couldn't help thinking that I was in deep shit. We arrived without ceremony at the hideout, a nickname I used for the house of operations, walking inside I felt the air thicken and suffocate me. A great sense of foreboding found it's way into my soul and wouldn't leave.

We walked through the last door and the first thing I noticed was the smoke in the air, and then Ivan leaning against a heavy wooden desk. Behind the desk sat Mr Nimble himself. Taken aback I looked nervously around the place.

“Sit down,” spoke Ivan, in a gruff voice.

I did as I was told and found the nearest chair in front of the desk, all the while my stomach was doing somersaults.

“We have a witness that places you at the location of a certain mugging that took place a few months ago, this mugging didn't end well,” said Mr Nimble, steepled fingers in front of his face causing his white suit and swept back hair look ever the more menacingly calculated.

“Y-you do?”

“Yes, I believe you know him, a mister Robert Forrester”


“Oh indeed Mr Hatter, for you see, that man you mugged was of high importance to me... You see, he was my cousin...,” He allowed the sentence to hang in the air for a while before giving a nod just past my shoulder. Everything suddenly went black as I was pulled from my chair and a hood was thrown over my face. A sharp sensation was the last thing I felt as I slipped into unconsciousness.

“Do you fear Death..?”

I tried to focus my eyes, and gain an understanding of where the voice came from, and where I was. As vision returned I went to move my arm to my eyes to shield them from the harsh light, but found that they were bound to my side, my arms strapped to the chair.

“Wha- What's going on?” I mumbled to the voice. I started thinking that maybe no-one had said it, maybe it was all in my head.

I was suddenly jolted awake, my body convulsing as shocks ran through me. I widened my eyes, and they finally saw their surroundings. I was in a warehouse. This strange man with stapler in hand was bent over me, and I could make out another figure strapped to a chair opposite to where I was bound. “Robert?” I whispered.

“That's right!” The torturer exclaimed with unsurpassable glee. “And it's up to me to give YOU a compromise!” he chuckled madly to himself. “You have a choice, either he dies... or you die!” at that he burst into a fit of giggles. I felt another course of electricity run through me and I screamed.

“Now what will it be sonny Jim?”

“I... I have to choose... Him... Or me?”

“Don't repeat what I said!” the torturer screamed, as he rammed the stapler onto my hands three times each. “And one for that oh so pretty face,” he said sweetly as he pressed the stapler to my forehead. My heart began racing, waiting for him to push down. A sharp pain ran through my head. Please, I thought, why. As more electricity ran through me I looked at my friend, convulsing in time to me. He didn't deserve this. It was all my fault. I cried in agony. The pain suddenly ceased.

“Well?” asked the man, raised eyebrow and confused expression crossing his face.

“I choose... I choose...” I thought about my life up to that point and how cruel I had been to so many people, ending lives here and there, taking pleasure out of it. It was like a giant machine. They didn't care about the work I did. I was just a cog. Just another chump they had trained to kill, but didn't give a rats to maintain. Robert didn't deserve to die for my sins.

“You're taking too long!” cackled the torturer, as he turned up the electrodes and continued to staple my hands and face. He turned and began doing the same to poor Robert. It was then that Robert woke up, eyes rolling in his head; he focused on me. He saw what was going on, and tried to scream, but the gag they had in place prevented it, and all that came out were muffled pleas.

“I choose Death!” I cried. Unavoidable I prepared myself for the great beyond, what was to come, if I would go to heaven, or hell. I begged for forgiveness from any higher power that I may be granted mercy as the hot lead entered my chest. I slipped out of consciousness for the final time, like a great weight was being pushed on my back, I fell... And never woke up.


(c) Arthur Venture 2010

Relationships Pt 1
Writer, Arthur, Venture, Drawing, Philosophy
 My take on relationships at the moment.

I suppose this could suit a more in depth blog, but for now I am too intoxicated and do not wish to waste the opportunity to post about this. This is in response to people's comments on my facebook status about realizing recently that my recent adulthood had been devoted to being 'what women want'. After some conversation, this is the best response I could come up with, in my intoxicated state, and I think I am quite happy with it:

"Well firstly, as a male we try to act to how a girl we are wooing (for lack of a better term) prefers so that we may.. attract her I suppose. And although that was my way of thinking before, it has since shifted recently to one of a more self building nature. These days I think it's up to me to build myself up to the person I want to be, before pursuing the 'girl of my dreams' I suppose you might say. Untypical of male fashion. Which is one of a more, "find the girl, she turns me into someone else" scenario. Which is so frequently seen in our society.

I think that an equal tolerance of the shifting in personal growth between individuals is essential for growth in a relationship. Everyone learns at their own pace, and grows accordingly - being impatient to that is the biggest turn off a person can endure. While we desire affection from our opposite sex, we also choose the person we wish to receive these effects from. Through instinct and passion we form bonds that science can 'possibly' examine and isolate, but which we do not want to know. We would rather blindly thrust ourselves into situations which our hearts are unprepared (or are) for, awaiting the response of our chosen 'mate'.

But this is not to trivialize the opposite sex. I believe that although until recently my life has been devoted to finding that 'special someone', I need to focus on being the best person I can be, for now. If that person falls into my lap in the meantime, I will consider myself lucky. Until then, I will study, be myself (because that's all I can be), and continue my life's journey in a fashion to how I want to live it. If anyone has a problem with it, then they can exist in someone else's life. Not mine."

And that's it. Although I think that people need standards to live up to, I think it is up to the individual to create those standards for ourselves to reach. Until we find someone who has an equal opinion of those standards, we constantly build ourselves until we are the person we want someone to love.

We Are Nothing But the Emotions We Allow Ourselves to Feel.
Writer, Arthur, Venture, Drawing, Philosophy
 I wrote this before going on medication a couple of months ago. I have since stopped the meds, but have considered going back on them. This was written the day before I started them:

"Mood is kinda low. Brain feels suffocated by outside noise. Outside is not a place, it's a state of mind. The drugs start tomorrow, I'm very apprehensive. Everyone around seems happy, though maybe they aren't. I can't trust my judgement anymore. I spend so much time talking online, it becomes difficult discerning people's intentions in real life. Doctor says I should watch things that make me laugh, but I've tried that and it only lasts as long as I'm watching.

Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety.

Twitches are frequent, I hope the drugs get rid of it.

I'm a backseat driver to my own life, hell, I'm not even steering. It's like looking into someone else's life; I don't feel welcome in my own body. Eyes glazed over, I don't feel me. I've told a million stories, but none of them about myself. My position is not one of power, and it never will be. Constantly drained, I take my solace in writing. Something I never had the patience to do before."...

The drugs didn't get rid of the twitches like I had hoped, strength of will and a determination to stop twitching, stopped the twitches. The drugs allowed me to distance myself from my emotions however, which I feared, but needed. I was able to analyze my individual thoughts, when I had them. Which was so rare in that cloudy haze. For what they were worth, I think they helped me get over the things that were stressing me out so much at the time. Unfortunately other pressures have reared their ugly heads, and like the Hydra, I must cut them down, only to face multiples of them. But I guess that is life, and while I attempt to learn to love myself for who I am, I have to just get back up and continue on my treacherous path of life, unknowing where it will lead me.

I will not blanket my emotions - do not tell me to harden up. I am a vessel for which life has chosen to pour this creative spark, this essence of mental clarity (or lack thereof) - into which I must discover it's purpose. The purpose of feelings, it's effects and impact on our lives. I study myself, to know myself, and to make myself a better person. I do so publicly so that other's may feel inspired to do the same. There is nothing wrong with feeling, but dwelling and not doing anything about it, is a weakness we must not tolerate in ourselves. Be strong, feel, inspire, and become what you want to be. Only you can do it. My time on medication has given me perspective, and although I get down from time to time, I am on the right track. At least I hope so. If not, then I will correct it, and move on. We are what we feel.

-Arthur Venture.

Boundless - Everyone Experiences Differently.
Writer, Arthur, Venture, Drawing, Philosophy
 There is nothing sadder to me than Suicide. And not pathetic sad, I mean sad, sad. I’ve been close. Quite a few times, but I found my solace in writing. That’s why I’m open with how I feel now, I never used to be. I used to hide my emotions, I never cut myself. That would be too obvious. The damage I would do to myself was psychological. I’ve only really stopped recently - once it became worse a few months ago. I would go out of my way to test my psychological barriers. I would do things I feel uncomfortable writing about. But I write about my feelings now, and it’s started helping to piece together some kind of person I want to be happy living with. It is hard to open up sometimes, but I like to think I’m an open book. I think I’m getting better, I’ve become less obsessive about being this dark evil person, and am accepting of my good side, letting it outshine my dark one, when I can… I still get depressed.

Everyone has a dark side. Some people are just very good at hiding it. I say we do because it’s human. Thousands of years of philosophy and studying of human behavior make it so. At some point, in everyone’s lives, they question themselves, everyone does it. Some more than others. I don’t have facts, or things written down in books to prove my theories. These are just things I’ve observed over the years. I form my own philosophies, and do not strictly study any ‘one’ train of thought. It’s up to me to describe life the way that I feel it. If it resonates within anyone else, then all the better, as it means my observations have at least ‘some’ basis in reality. I could never call myself a philosopher, for while I seek knowledge, what I seek is some arbitrary way of thinking, unlocking the kinds of things that are too difficult to explain. Philosophy is the pursuit of knowledge. To me it is too rigid. It just makes me think ‘books’ ‘facts’.

I like to think I’m more of an existentialist. That there is rationalism in existentialism is true, but I think it exceeds those bounds. It’s about pursuing the answers to the things that rationalising can’t explain, questioning the human condition, - “this can’t just be it.”


“philosophia - “love of knowledge, wisdom,” from philo- “loving” + sophia “knowledge, wisdom,” from sophis “wise, learned.”

These are the reasons I don’t strictly like philosophy, by it’s definition. I love knowledge, I just don’t think it has any part in my philosophy beyond what I experience and observe for myself. I think it’s great to study, but I don’t think you can really say you know something based on what a philosopher has said, simply because everyone’s experiences are different. I think that my philosophy works for me in my mental capacity, but that it isn’t true to everyone else’s, not “everyone” and certainly not in every situation, some things do require more methodical thinking. But applying that scientific type of thinking to how your mind operates can be fatal, humans aren’t machines to be ‘fixed’. If it’s true to yourself, who can deny it?

It’s your mind, and no one elses.

That is to say, I don’t think that my philosophy isn’t subject to change as I do. My method of thinking could shift in the years to come, but that doesn’t change the trueness of the thoughts that I have now…

Arthur Venture (Possibly my worst written blog)