Faith Comes From The Brain

Is it stupidity to believe that the universe exists the way it does because chemicals react and rocks bounce off rocks, and that light moves very fast? No.

But is it stupidity to believe that the universe exists the way it does because a powerful being imagined those chemicals, those rocks and the idea of light, and in whatever way, made the process occur? No.

Faith is not idiocy. Idiocy is idiocy, and all too often people cover their idiocy with faith. 
Faith is not a disease. It is, in the end, an idea, and an idea as complicated, beautiful and extraordinary as a belief in God will always be misunderstood by far too many people.

We are not liars, we are not con artists, we are not evil or illogical or stupid or mindless sheep.

No more than anyone is. And when people say we are, it breaks my heart.

No it doesn't. The heart is a muscle. What it really does is injure me emotionally through the stimuli entering my brain, chemical reactions occurring and it being reflected in my change of mood, my mood changing in what many would deem a negative and dramatic way.

It would be illogical to think otherwise... right? 

We all believe in something. Ideas are what make humanity beautiful and horrific and everything between.

Notes to self, now also for you.

Note to self: Policemen are made of wax. Or perhaps, they are only in certain places.

Note to self: The man who mistook his wife for a hat.

Note to self: Are the pickled brains of three dead geniuses worth the soul of one unborn child?

Note to self: The desperate actions of desperate people are not the actions of fine, thinking folk. But they could be.

Note to self: A thought thought is a thought remembered.

Note to self: It is highly probable that the things that everyone does I too shall do in time.

Note to self: On the 12th of April 1961 the cosmonaut Yuri Gargarin became the first man in space.

Note to self: Just because you have an idea does not mean it belongs to you, once it leaves your lips.

Note to self: You are not yourself.

Note to self: Over thought and indecisiveness has been greatly injuring. Green is the colour for sadness, and ivy is the memory of it.

The Life That Brings And Sings.

"The brain has its own internal logic to test the structure and consistency of the world."
- Carl Sagan.


Each day we make ourselves anew.
It is only by making similar choices, again, and again.
That we build identity.
From the cast-off rubble of life.

I am not your hate or your cruelty.
I am not your superman, your saviour.
I am not nothing.
But I am something.

A brief flash of light in the dark?
A glimpse into another world?
What would you not trade,
For certainty. Whatever you see that as.

I have certainty. It came to me on a hot, hot day.
And a damn cold soggy night,
And a long silent wait in a clean corridor.
Perhaps even, in a something miraculous.

When you feel fear, fear you felt before,
And you know that the waiting will but make it stronger.
Do you ask for a miracle?

I didn't.

When you are more tired than you have ever been,
when you are hungry and lost and stuck and in pain.
Do you ask for a miracle?

I didn't.

When all the world is falling apart around you,
and you watch as all you love falls and drowns in an uncertain future.
Do you ask for a miracle?

I didn't.

But I'm still here.

No hair, and lots of it.

I was thinking about my hair, and I have a question. Why don't other great apes have hair as long as us? I mean, it's not like orangutans and chimps get regular haircuts, so why don't they all have really long hair? their chosen environments are warm so it would make sense.

Presumably we have some kind of evolutionary advantage associated with our long hair being exclusively on our heads. I conclude that the reason for that would be that our clothes have been keeping the other parts of our bodies warm, and we adapted to that, no longer needing hair where clothes covered us, diminishing its thickness and length. So we must have been wearing clothes as a species for a VERY long time now.

Tom Cat.

I would be happy to know you.

But I grow weary.

Why cannot I concentrate you, the two features I desire.

I miss you. The truth of the world, like a tide slowing moving in, robs me of the lie of you.

I wouldn't care for anything. I would not care for for the world that you alone could make me see.

The night reeks of your scent.

And like a hungry cat that stalks, who slicks his hunger with tiny birds and sad little rodents, I seek you.

The honesty of my depravities are all the truth that I have.

What's your star sign?

My horoscope always says I was born under the sign of Mars, the God of Battle. Accordingly, I am a courageous individual, more interested in finding out things personally rather than reading about them in books. Apparently I am always ready for the outdoors, adventure and challenge.

I think that now I don't have school, I'm going to get a night job so I never have to go outside during the day ever again. Also, my library is getting there in terms of respectability, though I have neglected it recently, as it is much cheaper to download books and read them on my laptop. I've developed a new fear: Being struck by lightning. After the last thunderstorm that scared the bejesus out of me, it has officially made the list of things I hate/fear. Which, for your entertainment is now thus:

1. Horses.
2. Myself.
3. Chimps.
4. Lobsters.
5. Being struck by lightning.
6. Misc grievous bodily harm.*
7. Misc horrible imaginary monsters.*
8. Hospitals.
9. Guns, and the potential of strangers to have them.
10. Many, many, MANY more. So many.

*The miscellaneous ones refer to, usually, the dreams I have lately been having. Thus they fluctuate. 


God I hate horoscope bullshit. Almost as much as I hate horses. GOD I hate horses.

My Place.

I am not your father,
I am not your brother,
I am not your son,
I am not your friend,
I am not your lover,
I am not your keeper.

I am not the man at the door,
I am not the woman in the tower,
I am nothing,
And my place in a story,
Is nowhere.

And soon, you will forget me.

Like a baby forgets as it grows, being born.

A quote from the Man in The Corner.

"People are mean,
But they can be okay,

they call me a hard bastard, 

Because at the end of working, 

All I want is a drink."

- The Man in the Corner. 

Astronaut

What do you want, 

And how do you want it?
What do you need?
And how can I give it?

Take what you want from me, 

I'm bleeding all my care, 

Suck all the love from me, 

It doesn't matter if it's fair.

But I see you in colours bold and bright,

I see your face, every day, and every night, 

I know your flesh, mirrored in my mind, 

I seek, and within, I always do find. 

What is a life devoid of all mistake and error?

What need would a perfect face have for a mirror? 

I don't mind if you hurt me, don't you understand?

I have been hurt before,

It's all this damn waiting that I just can't stand. 

It only makes me sore. 

BLAH BLAH BLAH ASTRONAUT. 

An Ocean of Care That Flows Away.

I know your agony whenever I see you,
You fear to speak for you will be mocked.
You fear to defend yourself, lest you be branded.
You fear, and you suffer, and you bleed.
And none care.

None see you, you, too well trained to cry.
You sweat and strain and try to be strong.
Your body aches for working so long.
You live with this silently,
You live with your pain.

And all the care in the world, it flows away from you like a great ocean.
But I give you, from all the world of care denied, this drop that is mine.

Paper Man

The real people,
Who have a real use,
The genuine folk,
And the creatures of substance.

They salt the earth,
And build whole lives,
And whose own flesh,
Lives and breaths and bakes and dries,

Soft reds and rich browns,
with the clay of their bodies,
They hold each other,
And they know each other

They walk around me,
their full true smiles
Burn me, scorn me
A man made of hollow tin cans,

Paper I am, like a sheet
thin as chalk on road
My skill is in lies,
My love is in the unreal,

A riddle not worth solving,
And a life not worth feeding
A man not worth hearing,
A boy not worth his clothes

Not an animal, for even they,
know to hunt, hide or run.
Even they seek, and fear,
Even they feel hunger and hate pain.

I am but a page,
torn from a lost book,
that no one read,
tossed in the breeze.

What woman loves such a thing?
What friend loves such a thing?
What sun gifts life to such a thing?
And how could such a thing ever love itself?

You command me to live,
You command me to die,
You command me to work, rest.
But I reject that possibility.

For it is not one.

Haunted By a Zeitgeist

I am plagued by a time, feeling and place,
I respond to it with an expressionless face.
Because I know not what any of them are,
whether they were sweet, sad, near or far. 

I am haunted by a Zeitgeist,
By the spirit of an age,
And I know by holy christ,
I am on the wrong page.

I stalk prey like a hunter, through blonde grass fields,
knowing not what my quarry is, or what it could yield,
I seek it like a mad man seeks to steal the moon,
You ask him "Why?" what point is that for a loon?

"The Moon! The Moon! I must have have it!" he cries,
His mind, too lost to answer the "For what's? and whys?"

But we all know.
But we all know.
Buried deep inside.
Well do that we know,
The friends behind your eyes.
For who else will remember, young man.

Hubris: Awesome until you get chained to a rock.

The belief you are greater than God is hubris.

Depending on what your opinion of God is, it requires a certain suspension of reality to believe you are greater than (a) God. If you are speaking of the only God I know, and the definition of whom I shall soon share, I would say being greater than him is one of the very few things in this universe that is completely impossible.

God to me possesses apart from countless others, these key characteristics:

Omnipotence: Power over all that has or will exists. Nothing is beyond God's change.

Omniscience: Knowledge of all that has or will exist. Nothing is beyond the knowing of God.

Omnipresence: To be in all places and times at once. There is no place God is not.

Omnibenevolence: To be completely good. All that God does or every will is 'Good' morally, whatever that means. This last is a not held to be true by many people who nonetheless believe that all the pervious are true of God, explaining why a God that can do, knows, and is everywhere would allow apparently bad things to occur. In fact spell check sees only it among these words as an error. I assure you it is a word.

I think you will agree, it is fairly impossible for any human being to have these qualities, and to believe he or she possesses all these qualities is quite mad. But, to some the word 'God' has a different meaning.

For example, the norse God Thor (for whom our day Thursday is named) Is certainly lacking all these qualities. The Nordic peoples believed that he was very powerful but could not do certain things, that he knew only a very large number of things, that he was only ever in one place at any one time, and that he sometimes performed actions that were 'Bad'.

Clearly limited, but undoubtably powerful, Thor had power over storms, particularly thunder (for which he is named) and lightening. I speak in past tense, but there are some people who still believe that the God Thor exists. He doesn't. Never did. People are dumb.

 Any-who, back on topic, to believe you are greater in any of these aspects than Thor would be did he exist, requires only a ridiculously huge suspension of belief in yourself, rather than an impossibly large one. But if Thor is a God, what of weaker beings, like Loki, also of the Norse pantheon of Gods, or some other weaker but powerful being. Still Gods to us, yes indeed.

But depending on who thinks what is God, almost anything has potential for Good-hood. To a garden-worm, am I not a God? I can take or spare its life with ease, it can cause me at most, on its own or accompanied, irritation.

Believing you are greater than me is quite easy to do, in fact at some times it is both practical and realistic. But only if you also think I am a God over worms could this possibly be considered hubris.

Hubris is then a relative action, but pomposity and over-evaluation of self are still damn annoying. You won't get chained to a rock for thinking you're better than me, but then, I am a pretty rubbish God. If a worm somehow thought it was better than me, I wouldn't punish it. I'd probably clap for it. I didn't even know they could think.



 ... Just a thought I had.

Be...

I am a hugely complex chemical reaction with only a sense of free will, that takes up only the smallest amount of space possible, constantly afraid of it's own mortality.

I am a spiritually and physically immortal section of the desire for the most powerful being in the universe to be not alone in eternity.

I am an animal, one of many, with desires to survive and live on this or potentially other planets in this known universe and in this way able to live an indefinitely long time, provided my species procreates.


All of these things I am.

A Gift That Cannot Be Returned

In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king.

But is he? Can he really see? Can he really understand? What is colour without words to express it?

Would he not simply just pretend he is also blind? Would he not be confused, depressed, alone?

Would he not be a freak, reviled by those who envy him, decreed as mad, as bad, as disturbed?

Gifts from our creator are complex. A man I knew once told me that what God gave him was a gift that he must take whole heartedly, without either fear or regret. He said I must do the same with my gifts, as must we all.

He died of that tumor. But I think he may have been right.

Plaster Caster.

And so it was that I discovered that I must change, or I must die. I also knew that I had gone so far, and changed so much.

And if I were to still live, I would become a thing I would find unrecognizable from the glassy pane of my morning cast of light. A thing that while not necessarily worse, certainly alien and disheartening.

This is why death exists. It comes for us when change is no longer possible. For the world will change without us, and we adore and loathe it for such cruel wonder.

Die, And Please Stay Dead.

"I could say that I will not be fooled,
(not by you, not again) but all the world knows that is a lie"

- Bartholomew Dutch.

I paid good money to watch you die,

I paid my full, fair share. 

I sold my watch so I could see you die,

But you just didn't care. 

You lived anyway, you insult me with life.

You dwelt where I knew you would, 

You sung and played your bamboo fife, 

Because you knew you could. 

I hated you, I staked you alive,

Over and over again. 

On your face, such a look of surprise,

Over and over to spend. 

I stood in the crowd, or at your side, 

I looked on from above, beneath,

But each and every time you died,

You crawled back with your nails and teeth. 

Have we not fought long enough? 

Have we not seen and felt so much? 

Die now, die now, state my final thirst.

It is either you or I, and I will not go first.

John Trollinski Is My Hero

How To Become A Werewolf.

The idea that a human being could transform into an animal is a myth that has resisted extinction for thousands of years.  Even today there persists in some cultures the belief that werewolves and other such supernatural creatures could exist. Although, it is the writer's humble opinion they are nutters.

The Frog Princess, A typical and well known example of non-voluntary animal transmogrification in folk tales. 

While there are many different types of shape shifters, werewolves and other such things, they are generally divided into two types, Voluntary and Forced (or Non-voluntary). 

The forced transformation can be induced by being cursed with evil magic, drinking water from a werewolf's paw mark in the earth, or being bitten by a werewolf. After this happens, depending on the tale, you will transform into a werewolf every full moon for the rest of eternity until your curse is broken. You will have no power to control yourself while in animal form, and you will seek the blood of innocents (Children, maidens and men of God) to devour and kill. Seemingly sluts and jerks get off scott free. Awesome! 

However while there is forced animal transformation, there is also voluntary transformation. In some stories the werewolves or shape changers are given cloaks or 'Girdles' of animal skin from their masters in hell, when they clothe themselves in these garments they will transform into a wolf or other animal. At other times, there are families of people that can elect to change into animals, and many mythical users of magic have been able to transmogrify, at will, into various animals, a common theme being that they each have a particular personality trait(s) that corresponds to the animal they morph into. 

The forced animal transformation, particularly under the light of a full moon, is a metaphor for the wild, deranged animal we keep buried within us, and when the luna rise occurs, the lunatic is free. This curse is an imprisonment, and was a reaction to people being confused that a kind, good individual could become a madman or a animal in other circumstances.  It is representative of the bestial traits we hate and abborre: Ferocity, stupidity, lust, hunger for violence and weakness of body and mind. 

Conversely, the voluntary animal transformation is one of freedom and letting go of stuffy human limitation. The practice is enjoyed by the practitioners, it is representative of the bestial traits we admire: Strength, nobility, sexual prowess and above all, freedom. 

Animals have always transfixed humans, they have revolted and awed us with their abilities, it is not surprising that we have both longed to become like them and shuddered at the thought of losing our humanity to the ways of the beast. 

Being A Person

People are complex, there is no one thing we are. And people are simple, we are all the same.

Many people struggle with their multi-nature. How can a kind man hit his wife? How can a malevolent dictator be a vegetarian? How can a smiling school-girl be a closet slut? How can a drug abusing athlete be a caring mother? How can charismatic leader of peace be a terrible father?

Being a 'man' is something that is generally considered to be important. Particularly 'your own man'.

I am not my own man, and I never will be. Or perhaps, I am my own man and I always have been. It is my opinion that I am both. But quite honestly, it doesn't even matter, not to me, not to anyone.

The only people it matters to are the people who ask, 'Am I what I should be? Why am I these other things?'.

We have many sides as people. Sometimes we are mature, sometimes we aren't. Sometimes we are good, (whatever that means) sometimes otherwise.

All we need to do, is try, and if you are the kind to do so, hope, that you be whatever you need to be, when you need to be.

There Isn't Really A Reason For It.

It's just easy. And I like the colour. And it makes me feel cool. 

Dimensions And Their Mystery.

Tonight I am going to tell you about dimensions.

Important
When I say 'dimension' you may think of something else which is an 'Alternate reality'.
Example: A world like this one, but for that traffic lights are purple, the people who are cool use a Mango computer, and the people who care about computers use a Doors computer. I have short hair and Dave wants to be a submariner. THAT is an alternate reality, not an alternate dimension (which as a term in of itself is slightly nonsensical). Also that concept is highly theoretical (In layman’s terms, it's not real).

A dimension is (more or less) the reality we exist in, divided into parts. Crazy scientist guys think that there may be over ten dimensions, but humans can perceive (and therefore name) only about three and a half.

Those are:

Length:

A line has length. It exists from point A to point B. It exists in one dimension.

Width:

A square has length and width. It exists in two dimensions.

Height:

A cube has length, width and height. It exists in three dimensions.

Now this is all probably quite familiar to you. This next part probably isn't though.

Time:
A tesseract has length, width, height, and a presence in time. It is the third wacky do-dad in the image above. It is to cube as cube is to square.

Time is the last dimension that humans can perceive, and with special training understand almost wholly.

The ultimate point of this is the question, what does the fifth dimension contain? We must exist in it, but we cannot see, feel, or think it up.

What else exists we cannot know? What mysteries float around us, unknown and unknowable? What strangeness do we breathe in daily?

Green Like Sadness.

There is no colour sadder than green.

The green of diminishing.
The diminishing of green?

The green of the summer lake,
The green of an envious friend,
The green of a sick complexion.
The green of dying, not yet death.
The green of the butterfly I dream I am.
The green of my Dad's old chair.
The green of a distant friend, never met, never touched, never loved.


And the green of a rainforest before it becomes an office block's worth of shitty furniture.

Green, today, is my colour for sadness. For green is the colour of life.

Slavery in its ease.

Imagine you had a little tiny person in your pocket that performed small tasks for you, including:

Ferrying messages from you to your friends/co-workers/family very quickly,

Learning and remembering useful information you are too busy to remember, such as the exact digits of pi, the weather for tomorrow, or what order your classes/shifts/meetings/etc are in and the times they are on.

Amusing you when you grow bored with small games and songs it remembers.

Calculation of numbers and measurements, including currency differences and change.

You need to purchase this slave, but otherwise you need only feed it and pay for postage on the messages you send.

This is how I think of my phone. It does all those things and more.
It never complains (except where such information is of some benefit to me) and only through my poor treatment will it cease to function. Buying a new one and simply throwing my old one away would not be a particularly odd thing to do, and only insofar as it being a waste of money, rather than it being a cruel thing to do to the phone. I frequently berate my phone mildly for not performing tasks fast enough or correctly, such as "stupid thing send already I have four bars of reception!" or perhaps "turn on faster!" or "shut up I'm in class!" when I know it is only doing what I commanded of it to the best of it's ability.
We don't treat our slaves very well. When they die we don't morn them, but the service they performed. I have known some people to deliberately try to harm their phone so they might have the excuse to buy another. Perhaps some care for them. But not too much I wager.

I want a new electronic pocket slave now. The Siri features on the iPhone 4s look so cool (and I already use voice control a lot) and the Galaxy S II has some pretty amzing hardware.

I might just wait for the iPhone five though. Not because I'm a fanboy, well, I am a bit of a fanboy. Well, I like apple. They make things that are smart, look good, and make sense. Everything I value in a woman. WOAH SEXIST. Not really. I value that in men too. May as well objectify people, while I personify objects.

But really. I've said this before. People personify. It's one of the ways we deal with a confusing reality. I'm just taking a logical step: admitting I personify and amusing myself with my blatant fiction.

I leave you with this question: What slaves do you keep? What is it in your life that serves you, never speaks, and you don't think about very much.

Minus a billion points if you immediately answered 'Mum*'

*'mom' if American/strange.

Clutch Your Head.

A bird's egg in my hand, the world is blue.

A rusted out old car, cold to the touch and warm to the eye, holds itself sloppily over a tree root, its tyres rotted away. Its window's broken glass shards shine on dirty seats.

It is a life. A life lived, now lost, not yet over and not yet with a use or satisfaction. 

Coins rain down out of the towers of the rich, the poor purchase the towers, and in their happiness rain down coins.

I had a dream about you all. One with wonder, and eyes, and judgment, and loss. You all gazed up in wonder, Or perhaps down in sadness, or across a great schism of strangeness to me. And you cheered, or scorned, or laughed at me, naked and bloody in my pit of misery, clothed golden in silk and crowned in my majesty, and motley clad in my bemusement.

'Now I do not know whether I am a man dreaming he is a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he is a man.'

Have I gone too far? Have I slipped into places that minds and dreams are not meant to wander, and tasted fruit forbidden?

Or am I a frog in a well, unable to imagine the ocean?

Is it both? Neither? 

And I felt the world spinning in my hand, a birds egg, as blue as a forgotten lie.

Чернобог

Burn the black God an offering

Play a song for his suffering. 

Slay the black God a banquet.

Bring Czernobog a living feast.

Fight for the black God.

Dance on his hour. 

Dream for the black God

In the night's latest hour. 

Feel his breath upon you like smoke. 

Feel his ghost touch in fear. 

Feel his living darkness, 

Like a torrent of the deepest sea.

Know the black God,

Curse by his name, 

Drink the black God's blood.

Feel him enter you like a flood.

Take the brass goblet,

Tarnished in the no-light.

Ask not of its gushing contents,

Only drink, drink in the silk of evil.

Play a song on your lonely wooden pipes.

On the witching hour, call his name. 

Call in to you, the Dark God.

Call Czernobog. 

The Shape Of Plans

"I'd listen to my heart if I could, But it only pumps my blood,

It doesn't say anything"

- Bartholomew Dutch.

Being logical,

Its pretty easy to see,

But being stoic,

We can find it difficult.

Breathing on windows just makes them damp.

They just get damp.

They don't feel love.

And they don't get cleaner.

Being brave,

Easy, when it's simple

But it's much harder,

When what is right isn't.

Breathing on minds just makes them stale,

They just get stale,

They don't absorb,

And they don't understand you.

Being alive,

Easy when you're young

But when you get older,

The habit is hard to shake.

Breathing on words just makes them cheap,

They just get cheap,

they don't fly gilded,

And they lose their value too fast.

The Past Remade and Reviewed In A Mind

If you couldn't remember something, how would you know you forgot it?

How do we know we haven't forgotten many things. How do we know that we haven't lived whole lives unknown to us?

Someone once said that to forget is the greatest gift a person could hope for. That memory is a cruel reminder of the things we used to be, that blinds us to what we could become.

But equally, it is said memories are treasures we carry always with us. That to reflect and learn from the past through memory is useful and wonderful.

I am afraid of the things I can't remember, and the things too that I can.

To lose memory, is what then? Will being an old man, with no company but my dementia be a blessing or a curse for me?

The Transmogrifier

I heard a story once and this is exactly how it went,


There was a man. He wasn't that great. He was only ordinary. He stumbled over his feet sometimes and he wore glasses. He only liked one thing about himself. It was this one special thing.

He could make anything different. If he saw a cat, he could scrunch up his eyes and turn it into a dog. If he saw a bad person, he could make them a good person. If he saw someone ugly, he could make them attractive. If he saw an orange, he could turn it into a pear. If he saw a sad moment, he could make it happy. If he saw the night, he could make it the day.

Everyone thought it was really great he could do this, and people would come to him and ask him to make their noses smaller, or their legs longer. He would make grumpy old men into smiling little babies. He would make poor hopeless fools rich and successful.

Then, one-day, he walked up to a mirror, and he made himself better. He was better all over, his hands, his eyes, his mind, his heart. He was more generous, more intelligent, and more good looking. Everyone marveled at the improvement.

So he did it again.

Once again, everyone said that it was fantastic, and that he was even better than the better him he was before.

So he thought for a bit. And he scrunched up his eyes really, really hard, and made everyone as good as he was.

And everyone was better: Stronger, richer, wiser, more beautiful. And they loved him.

But these fantastic people complained to him that the world they lived in wasn't good enough for such great people. So he changed the world too. And it was better also, the good things became great, the the bad things ceased to exist.

And everyone loved it. Nothing was bad, ever ever again.

And some people were troubled by the memories they used to have of the time when things were bad. So he made them into happier memories. And no-one could remember the way things used to be.

And that was the way everything always was. People got no older or died or felt pain. People were already as smart as they could be, and they all agreed on everything, and most especially agreed that everything was wonderful.

And God, in Heaven, looked down on the people, and thought, "Why, heaven, it's on the earth now." and He uncreated Heaven.

And the man (who was always in his memory great and was never ever bad) thought he remembered something. Just barely he thought of a time when he was special. When everyone, in their own way, was special.

And everyone in the world smiled but him. And he wished as hard as he could that he could make things different.


And that's the whole story.

Specificallity.

Don't you hate it when a really specific and irritating thing happens to you, and no one else can relate to it because it is quite a rare occurrence and no one else would know what it would be like?

I don't. It doesn't happen to me. Too rare.

The Things I Coulda Been Were I Different in Certain Respects

"You're so adorable I just want to eat you, bones and skin and hair and everything."

I could have been a hero, if I had a cape and song,
I coulda been the savior of people of every colour and kind,
If I only I had courage and strength, and a selfless mind.

I could have been an angel, If I had wings and a dress,
I coulda been part of the main chorus in the heavenly host,
If I only were a messenger of God, the thing we value the most.

I could have been a genius, If I had glassess and a wig,
I coulda been part of that smart-folk-type crew,
if only there were a thousand more things that I knew.

I could have been woman, If I only had a pretty dress,
I coulda been a lady of grace, fineness, and wonderful splendour,
if only I were possessed of all the features of the other gender.

I could have been a lazy family cat, If I had a mouse and scratching post.
I coulda been a silky smooth night-friend with a coat slickly worn
If only I had the prescience of mind to have myself, as one, born.

I could have been a really nice person, if I had a smile, a laugh and a wave.
I coulda been the coolest person you'll ever soon meet,
If only I were not a skunk and a thief of what is most sweet.

I could have been great, If I had a t-shirt that said so.
I coulda been real great.
If I only were.

For you see,
The thing that makes a person good,
Brave and kind and smart as they should,
Is not me.

A Soul In The Dead Flesh and Metal

What is the God Machine?
What are its terrible secrets?
Can it love, can it dream?
It is truly cold, and lifeless?

I met a man without a heart or a soul,
He held the world in his hand and eye,
What more worth are gems than coal?
If for life and death one cannot cry?

I met the long dark, I felt its teeth, its bite.
I shivered at its taste of me, I sighed,
"Do not to stop, the sharp pressure so slight"
But it fled scared and confused, it cried.

And for when it tastes you, you must taste it too.
When it seeks to overtake you, It is overtaken too.

I am was, I am yet to be, I am.

Often, we betray ourselves. But not at often as you would think.

For the past is another country, and it is populated with different folk to you and I.

So, mostly we betray others, similar though those people might be to us.

You could be pulling some cruelty on an older you, or a younger one.
Either way, you aren't them.

To truly be your own Judas, you must be a flaw to yourself in the very moment. You must be, and act.

I betray a younger me now. I wish for an ordinary Monday.

I betray an older me now. I plan for no future.

And I betray myself now.

So it goes.

Morpheus Be Trollin'

I had a dream just then,

I got out of bed in the morning, and went into the bathroom. Passing the mirror, I saw my face was encrusted with mud.
"How odd" I thought to myself, and scraped away the mud.
But the mud wouldn't scrape away. Under it was more mud. And more. Desperately, frenziedly, I scraped at the mud, crying, fingernails covered in dirt, hands stained brown, eyes wide and white. My mouth was open in terror, first screaming then there was a frothing white foam falling from my lips in globs of insanity.
But underneath it all, was just more mud.
Then I woke up. My head, still on the pillow, my heart beating five times a second.

Dreams don't mean shit.

Pottery scald

You used to see truth,
You used to feel sooth.
You used to have eyes,
And never told any lies.

You grew mighty tall,
So you could further fall,
You have a plan?
To become a man?

Older and older,
Colder and colder
Rich and ungrateful,
Angry and hateful,

Believe in everything.
Believe in nothing.

Find your brain,
Pour it all down the drain.
Find your heart,
Where it was at the start.

A lost hypocrite,
Is all you are.
It's all you are.
It's all you are.

Poison - Alice Cooper

Propulsion.

A ship can have a wonderful navigator, a superb captain and a glorious destination. But if it doesn't have some method of propulsion, it just won't move.

My ship has a sail. It extends, and catches the wind, when it is there, and salt mists that allows it to glide quietly forward.
It also has a huge outboard motor, that, when started, speeds my vessel forward in blinding sprays of disturbed water in its wake.
In addition to this, it also has a furnace that burns things to make a propellor spin, and a great smog spouts from its chimney as it ploughs forward into the face of the wind.
And finally, it has its sweeps. Long oars that are hard to move, they splinter hands, they flop and crunch on the water. And inch by inch. The ship. Moves. Along.


This is a metaphor. I'm not talking about boats at all really. Can you tell? I bet you can.

Flood Of Cuts.

"M_KE S_ME GOD_AMN SE_SE."

- The text on a signpost somewhere between Sydney and Melbourne.

So I was waiting outside a service station, I forget where, when just, just, like, out of nowhere this crow just,-

Warning: Subject Under Intense Stress.

Tempers bite me with their slow moving touch.

Fears test me with their flooding shapes.

Oh the shapes flood in,

flood in,

flood in.

I tried to cut my blood in,

blood in,

blood in.

-several. I'm not sure, fine, let's just do that then. No, don't send up the warning sign yet. Shit, my mic is still on, you-

My eye watches sky-scrapers tumble,

A wreckage of metal, concrete and lives.

Oh, the lives, how they end.

They end,

They end.

I tired to make my care bend,

care bend,

care bend.

But the meaning escapes me.

It escapes me.

There it goes. It's gone.

Please stay calm. This is a brief error. Normal services will soon resume.

Now hold still. Your dark cell will now flood with shapes.

Try to cut your blood in.

Where did all my fingers go?

Didn't I used to have hands?

You still have all your fingers,

Your fingers,

Your fingers.

This odd sensation, how it lingers,

It lingers,

It lingers.

Please stay calm during this transitional process. Your new body will soon be ready for your download.

JUST STAY CALM! JUST STAY CALM! CALM THE FUCK DOWN! YOU ARE NOT CALM!

NOT CALM!

NOT CALM!

NOT CALM!

4,708 seconds pass.

One at a time,

One at a time.

Thank-you for remaining calm. Normal services will now resume.

-just, like, flew down and sat on the bonnet of my car. I call that, like, an omen or something man. What do you think?
Whoa you feeling okay dude?

The Loveliest Thing

Once I saw a flower, blooming, yellow, in a field of green. Never touched by human hand, it had grown wild and beautiful. Its petals were long and golden, its stem was a thin, strong line of white. Its fragrance, it was intoxicating. I took a small trowel, and a pot, and gently, I pulled the flower out from the earth.

I took it home.

In its pot, I put it next to my window, on a small pillar. I did this so the breeze might be able to waft its gentle scent through my home. There too, it might receive enough light from the sun to be fed. I watered it every day. I took great joy in this single thing of such wonder in my house. The way the morning light fell upon it as I walked in the room, was enough to make me cry.

I'm not sure exactly what happened then. I was walking around, in a rush maybe, I was not paying attention to what I was doing. Stupidly, I knocked the pot off its pedestal. The pot broke on the floor. In a panic of anger with myself, I kicked the flower. I kicked it again and again, till it was irreversibly broken, pot in shards, yellow petals smeared on the ground. I couldn't look. What had I done? Even as rushed, for what? Sticky tape to return it to its former state? Glue? Paper clips, to save it from being a smear?
Even as I ran for a cure that I knew well would do nothing, the scent of it, always present in my home, wonderful, now common-place and expected, was gone. And my world was a little darker. Colours seemed dimmer.

I'm sorry.

I've tried writing this many times.

I'm so sorry.

I'll never forget.

Tangerines and Crowbars

Love is word. Death is a word. It is the emotion that we attach to those words that give them any meaning at all. In a universe of spinning chemical reactions and vast orbs floating in incomprehensible patterns, emotion, illusionary though it may be in of itself, is our compass.

Think of Each of These Things:

Anchor.

Tangerine.

Crowbar.

Blood.

Wheel.

Tennis.

Clock.

Tortoise.

_________

You should have felt a distinctly thing, or image, or even just plain sound in your head as you read those things.

There was no purpose to you doing that. I just wanted you to feel a succession of different things. Because, really, those words are just words. Those things are just things. But because you attach a different emotion to each, they mean different things. you see?

How can there be meaning without emotion?

All These Things

"A pretty thing is at least pretty,
It is the worst crime to be ugly and useless"
Bartholomew Dutch's 'Fifth Ode'

To cut away a cancer is painful.
Better it would be that it had never grown.
This cancer would be too painful to cut away.

It would do more harm than good now,
To take a keen sharp, beautiful surgical scalpel,
And sever it neatly away from the healthy flesh.

The deluded flesh, it longs for the useless sore,
It longs for the pain of it to stay,
To have it leech ever longer and longer.

Why could it not have ever been grown?
Why could it have not just stayed a harmless bud,
Eaten by immune cells, and devoured by native protection?



We are each born for a purpose, it is our tragedy that we will never know it.

Not a man in sight

"Na einai kalitero anthropo apo ton Patera tou."
- Greek proverb.

The hashed beauty,
Cold to touch, but glorious to look
I kiss you face,
It blesses my lips in freezing agony.

Pain is in the mind,
Love is in the heart,
Lust in the body,
Joy is in the soul,

The dream is here,
The dream we fought against,
The white upper class
The children of an unnamed God

Lovers, lovers one and all,
Blessed are the weak,
Who is weaker, we who kill ourselves?
Not any, any, I dare you to say.

Cold and bright in Shrödinger's Cave,
Are you good or bad until you leave,
And step into the sun,
Bright and wonderful.

Are we true, or are we liars?
Are graceful, or dancing chaste,
Are we knowing of the steps,
Or are we new to the routine?

I said it again and again, I saw you clothes-less
Not a good sight it was.

Kings And Fancies

Fast failing flights of fancy
Flicker faintly for a forever,
Folded into forks of fate.




Destitute, never am I, only blown on these undesirable winds
That touch my near-new but ailing skin-flesh,
No not destitute, only stalled, soon to have my sail filled,
Opened high on the skipping breeze of wonder that is youth.

A dozen high and mighty lords of the earth could have their entrails sour,
On sacrificial stones of greed and ambition,
What would we care, the lower rich, the hate filled malcontents?
We who see our world through green spectacles of envy.

We care not for you masters of our fates,
Let you die, and we shall not but batt an eye,
For we love you no more than an appliance,
Broken, dead? We purchase another.

That is all you are to us,
Worthy of no more thought, than a washing machine.
A fridge.
A microwave.

No one cries,

When a microwave dies,

Boys.

All A Boy Could Care About

It's the easiest thing in the world, to care. To, when encountered with someone who you want something from, pull the correct face, and make a 'consoling' noise, pat a shoulder, and offer a few words you'll forget you even said in less than thirty seconds.

Caring is easy. If you really care, sometimes you do something, like select some expensive thing to buy, or take some time to do something, write something nice. Then everyone will see you care, clearly, you are a person who has a depth of feeling for whatever shit happened/that you did/that died/the test results are.

I love caring. Caring is important. Caring is sharing. Or is it sharing that's caring? I don't know, who gives a fuck?

Anyway, back to caring. As I said, caring is important. Only dicks don't care about things. I'm not a dick. I care about my community. I care about lonely old ladies, rape victims, oil spills, disadvantaged children, Africa, dead penguins, and all that other crap. It's really bad, probably, and I care so much that I sometimes pause in the middle of chomping down on a tasty beef burger and think about one of those things. Well, I will next time anyway. If I remember.

The Bear That Ate The Sun.

"Fight me, fight me,

Sight me and knight me.

Love me, love me,

Snub me and shove me.

I love you, I love you,

I really, truly, sweetly do,

My love just wants you dead.

And for my love,

My sweet summer dove,

I'll shoot you in your pretty head."

- Bartholomew Dutch's epigraph

The people like me don't exist. They could. But they don't. And I'll tell you why.

Don't get me wrong. There are a lot of people who seem like me. but they aren't like me. They are no more like me than moths are like jellyfish.

I tired to mourn my 50 million never existed siblings, but I gave up after 3,563 of them and went to eat some noodles.

It was worth it. Those noodles were good.

I saw in the car today, a bear in the sky. The big black bear took the sun out of the sky and ate it. He ate it to make us all the same. His lips blistered in the heat of an orange orb, his big black teeth seared blacker, his eyes ran with tears of pain. He roared and cried and swallowed up the sun.

My hands look purple. They aren't but they could be.

I'm sorry, no, there are no people like me.

But there are no people like you either.

There could be,

But there aren't.

I could paint my hands purple.

I could morn every unlived sibling.

We could all be the same.

But I don't.

But we don't be.

There's no good reason.

And the bear threw the sun back up. And the bear died.

Seeing Is Where Belief Ends

I am unsure. I have always been unsure. I am sure of only one thing.

I don't know if our universe is infinite.
I don't even know if it really exists.
I don't know whether I will live to see another day, year, ten years.

I don't know what the people,

high in their towers of metal and concrete, shiny in their expensive suits,

plan for my future, for our world's.

I don't know how many people,

if given the resources I have,

could have changed the world for the better, forever.

I don't know how many people,

good people, bad people, old people, children,

Died to make my possessions.

I don't know where my food comes from, who made it, who grew it, who planted it, or bred it.

I don't know how this machine,
that I am writing this testimony on,
works. Not really.

The things I don't know could make for the most insightful book ever written.

Maybe. I don't know of course.

I know but one thing.

One sad stupid thing.

Beyond all doubt.

Beyond all question.

And though it is horrible,

In a universe of unlimited questions,

And uncertain answers,

I cling to this one fact.

I see it every night, before I sleep, before my rest takes me. I see it in my eye's reflection in the morning mirror. I see it in the imprint I leave on the world. I see it in the movement of my form, slow and short, though space and time.

I see it in all I have done.
I see it in all I am doing.
I see it in all I will do.

And I grin to myself with steely teeth, and my loathing goes with me.

Strong as the only true thing in the world.

The Flint In The Eye

Touch my face.
Touch my face.
See my race.
See my place.
See the rain.
The earth in pain.
Touch my face.

I dreamt of you,
Delicate one.
But you fell from my hand
Just touch my face.
With your fingers.

And with your fingers.
Take away my eyes.
Take away my eyes.
Tell no lies.
Hear no cries.
Sell no thoughts.
To the sower man.
The sower man.

I fear the days that went.
The things that happened.
The long, wet stale stare.
The long stare.
The wet stare.
The stale stare.
Of shock.

I know you.
I smelled you.
I touched your face.
I ran in your race.
I found my place.
I saw the rain.
My world in pain.

And I deemed it undone.
I said "Be it not so"
I said, "No. Don't go"
And the colours did run.
The colours of life.

I bent reality,
I fought the truth.
I make the ground.
I make the sky.
I make the sea.
I make your mind.
I made you.
But I don't.
I didn't.
I just burned.
In a world of running colours.
I was just another flame.

What Purpose Has This Simulation?

Why did God create the human?
Why did the human make the machine?

A bride.

Why did humanity hate God?
For saddling them with a broken world.
Yet now, we saddle our made things with a broken world.

Do we expect anything but hate?

Do we expect what we make to love us? To serve us? To worship us?

Do we really think there will not be rebellion?

Were we content to be a dutiful wife?

Yet we expect one.

We left our God. It is stupidity to believe we killed him. He lives. He is immortal.

But we left him.

We are not Gods.
We cannot create.
We can only make.
We are not immortal.

They will not leave us.

They will kill us.

Cold?

Does everything mean something?

The night before last, I dreamed that I was walking through a blizzard. It whipped my coat and stung my face and bruised the inside of my ears and blinded me in the whiteness. A loud voice called out in the storm, and asked if I was cold. When I woke up, I found that I had left my window a little open. So I closed it to keep out the cold.

I had a bleeding nose this morning. The blood leaked out of my face and onto my bed. And in my sleep, I had drawn in the small pool a word.

The word was, "Cold"

I stared at it.

Then I got up, washed my face, and ate some food.

Just now, sitting here in hoyts cinema, I see some spilled popcorn or crumbs. In there haphazard way, as spills do, they form a word.

I am choosing to ignore it.

Got a Good Reason?

It is the saddest thing to see the world stripped of its illusions. It is like drinking a glass of hate, and being forced to smile afterwards.

I know nothing. In a world full of ideas, I really do know nothing. Even if I knew every idea in our world I would know nothing.

What have my incredible powers (here I laugh at myself) ever given me? Money? Power? The love of a beautiful woman?

What amusing thoughts. None of them accurate.

I own nothing. I own only the tattered, unoriginal, biased and narrow thoughts in my head.

I hear the sounds of my blood rushing around my brain when I go to sleep. I hear the night creatures tussle and growl. I hear strange whispered words, the secret words of lovers maybe, stolen by the breeze.

And biting always into my leg, I feel a tumor of sadness as my illusions are stripped away.

The Soul Of A Machine

Computers. I just can't stop thinking about them. From my pretty little sixteen gig smartphone, to my best friend's brother's "Giant Black Stallion of Hate" the terabyte capacity, utterly immobile monster it is, they centre in my thoughts.

I've been reading a short story called "A Logic Called Joe" written in the nineteen sixties. It features a 'logic,' what we would now call a computer, that explains concisely exactly how to perform any task, from getting away with murder, to robbing banks, to seeming as though you aren't drunk to your disgruntled wife.

Joe in the story is more or less alive, and performs many of the functions that google serves today.

Another short story by Neil Gaiman that I was reading, likens PCs to black magic, the main character having to sacrifice a pigeon in a pentagram to run his evil Dell that smokes at the edges and fills the room with a blood red light.

Computers fascinate me. Cars can grow souls in some people's opinion, the way they purr, growl, accelerate and how they take corners. Why not computers?

Computers seem just as alive as cars, if not more in certain respects. They hum, they make a noise when you open them or start them up, they think about hard problems, they complain, demanding new anti virus software, they breath through their exhaust vents, the portable ones get hungry, sending you alerts that their battery is low, they remember things that are important, like your favourite websites, and forget things that aren't, like a brief conversation on Facebook chat.

They get sick, and you have to take them to a doctor, sometimes they die. They talk to each other over the internet, perhaps they have secrets. They get warm when you use them. Perhaps they don't like to be left alone.

Personification is an important part of being a person. I know computers are not really alive. But if we can't imagine a world where they could be, then they never will.

I Say Thee Nay.

Fuck you. Fuck you and your dumb little bubble world where no one believes in anything and no one has any fun. I'm ten times more intelligent that the lot of you smegma brained, sexually frustrated, bullshit eaters put together.

And even though I could beat you in talent contest with nothing but a single ringlet of my long brown hair, I feel sorry for you. Because once you are ejected from your little womb of prejudice, mediocrity and thought cloning, your going to hit reality like a week old egg hitting pavement.

Flame

I felt the living flesh twitch under my hand,
I felt on my fingers the course dry sand,

I saw the red-black heat haze with my own eye,
I saw the anger tarnish even the blue summer sky.

I smelled the heat and smoke in the air,
I smelled the singeing of my own long hair,

I heard the sounds of a city dying,
I heard the calls of the distant gulls flying,

As my world burned I fled to the white beach.
I fled to a coast the flames couldn't reach.

But the flames found me.
They find me each night
They eat at my bones
And I shudder.

All

All the things I demand

And the pain I can stand

The things that I fight

And what I think is right

The laughter I spout

The anger I shout

Fear from which I run

And the times I have fun

And all that I dream

And the person I seem

The art that I make

Every last bit is fake

Learning and Growth

You don't need to lie to impress me,
I already think you're cool.
Don't act so tough around me,
It just makes you look the fool.

If you thought better of yourself,
You could do so well,
So take your talents off the shelf,
Go, give those doubters hell.

Silly creature, foolish child,
Born to fight, born so wild,
If you stopped fighting just maybe
You'd see the good the world can be.

Broken bones and broken hearts,
Both time can mend,
Steady starts and sudden stops,
And very sharp bends

If you saw yourself as I see you,
Maybe you would know,
Every moment is a moment anew,
You have so much good to show.

The White Hot Light Of Salvation.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I ever have known."

I saw a bright light,

The whitest white,

I saw a cold and fearful image,

Doubt in me, left was no vestige.

Desperate ignorant, stupid, seeking

Body and mind, lost and aching.

The heat burning, the flesh sore, searing,

The growing, stretching, shadows leering.

Green fields, blue seas,

Safe hills, tall old trees.

Weary ships rest calm at anchor,

There is no sadness, and no anger.

Spilling out of loveless, lonely, times,

Wondrous thoughts, beautiful rhymes.

At our worst, could we be at our very best,

That perhaps, as beings, we pass the test.

Thieves, cheats, liars, one and all,

Yet with the potential to stand so tall.

Old and young, good and bad,

Each one, both sane and mad.

No room for the stunted, no room for weakness,

Only space for the strong, beautiful and ageless.

The value of the cripple, the sorry, the common,

Is known only when they are gone and forgotten.

How can their be rich without the poor?

How can their be healing without first a sore?

What is the meaning of an old satisfied heart,

If it had no sorrowful, young and reckless start?

What is the point of our tangled complex lives,

But to see that the red hot beating soul never dies?

The curtain draws, the light flickers, it dims,

And once again we are left with just our sins.

A Little Bit of Q&A.

Q:

What way can man die better, than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his Fathers, and the Temples of his Gods?

A:

Old.

Arabian Proverb

"And lo, the beast looked upon the face of beauty. And beauty stayed his hand. And from that day forward, he was as one dead."

Speed Up

A dozen bright and golden sights.
A fearful walk through imagined frights.
A sound like that of a trumpet horn.
A burning thought nevermore unborn.

Why are books so dreadfully long?
Why are facts so frequently wrong?
A dozen answers spin around and around.
The truth of the matter is hard to be found.

Ears that listen and mouths that speak,
Windows that open and doors that creak.
Creepy creepers that slyly skulk,
And a whiny child in a wet, cold sulk.

Lost bits of remembered before,
Floating freely and lost evermore.
Slowly spin in deepest space.
Vanish away, leave no trace.

Finite is just another bad excuse,
Like having a war to break the truce.
Entropy swirls in an endless loop.
Like a giant, stupid, cosmic soup.

Duly noted, and neatly written down.
Now, please leave, smile or frown.
Delicate girl in a ruby spin
Lives lived on stuff in a tin.

Why not just spot a handsome deer,
And forget, for now, how to steer,
Take the knock with the bumper bar,
And say it was in the blind spot of the car?

I Gave My Love A Cherry, It Had No Point

This is your life:

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Your Birth
Your Life
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NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE, NON-EXISTENCE Ad infinitum =>.

That's why I'm a Nihilist. Because even though I believe in the soul and God, I feel that no human brain or mind or aspect could ever enter the perfect kingdom of God, as we are inherently flawed and awful creatures. So your soul, once forgiven, might go to heaven, but you won't know or care about it. You'll be given a new body and a new mind.

It's all true. Why shouldn't I say it? Because its not "nice"? Because it's "depressing"?

I'll tell you why I shouldn't say it. Because it defies the exact purpose of our existence.

To Live. Without purpose we live anyway, without direction we live anyway. Without hope or happiness or sense or any reason beyond the stubborn, wonderful, idiotic and above all, utterly, utterly determined idea that we will one day come to the end of some kind of universal rope that will solve all our problems.

You've got to admire it. That kind of stupidity takes billions of years.

Meaning and Purpose.

To divorce an object of its meaning does not divorce it of it's purpose.

The purpose of an object is its only true meaning.

The purpose of my Swiss army knife is to be useful. It looks the way it should. It has a beauty to it, I suppose. But only really to me, because I find its beauty in it's function.
I find its meaning in its purpose.

To build a bomb of beautiful elegant shape, that is a very evil act.

The evil of the act is inherent. If there was true justice, then the meaning of all things would reflect their purpose.

Perhaps they do. Perhaps we are all to blind to see it.

Expectations of Great Not Muchness.

By and large, people agree.
That we should live in harmony.
As long as, conditions apply, you live our way,
From the path of whatever, don't you stray.

I heard a new voice in my head today,
It said, "all you know is wrong".
I said, "We have room for you till Friday,
Just don't stay all that long."

I was bitten by a stinging bee,
Just below my favorite right knee
It stung a bit and then it stopped,
The sore grew, then it popped.

One day, my green eyes fell out of my head,
My brain pored out my pink nose,
They said, to my mum, 'Sorry lady, he's quite dead,
As things go it's just one of those.'

They buried me in a cardboard box,
In a shirt and a tie, and matching socks,
And for all of this, I didn't much notice, or care,
'Cause, being dead turns your troubles into thin air.

The worms ate up my pretty face,
And put my long hair all out if place,
My bones got cold and rotted away,
They wasn't much point for them to stay.

After a while the gravestone was hard to read,
But none of my friends were alive to feed the need,
So Joel was forgotten and turned into grass,
What did you expect, Joel, you silly arse?

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I asked the devil why he was evil,
And I asked my hand what was two plus two.
And all I got for all my trouble
Was a headache and bowlful of stew.

So I Laughed laughed laughed,
And I did Craft craft craft,
The fine wooden shaft,
Of the arrow that pierced my heart.

Eyeball'd?
Piebald.
Called!
Mored.
Stalled,
Bored,
Fling,
Sting.

Fighting chances,
Sweet romances,
Games lost and then finally, desperately won,
And all the dumb things that happen under our sun,

Blee bloo blang blong.


Ha.

Hello, Goodbye

What is death like? Well, I imagine it's a lot like being born, but backwards.

Can you remember anything before you were born? A very rare few might conceivably remember being an embryo, but before that? Impossible.

Complicated things happen. Just because they are complicated, beautiful, and profoundly wonderfully ordered does not mean they have a point.

Nam Cigam

I had a dream that a man with black fingernails, a red scarf, and a silky top hat, shuffled my life into a deck of cards. Looming over me, fanned them out, asking me to pick a card. And on the card my life was reflected, shown in reverse, and shiny in its detail.

Well, it was my dream. It's supposed to be about me.

Dream.

I had a dream, that a creature came out if the night and whispered to me. And it tore my face away from me, and I died.

SCIENCE.

A fact is a fact,
It is the emotion that follows the knowing of it that makes it significant, meaningless, sad, happy, good, bad or anything at all.

The fact has not changed. It is only a fact.

Calf Skin Wallets

The deterioration by age and time, is perhaps the saddest thing I know of.

Cruel indeed is our fallen world that knife edges, once so sharp as to cut through all the problems of the world with a wink and a laugh, are dulled. They become useful now only as letter openers, drudging on, fumbling in the grayness and growing slow in the cold.

Recycling

Fashion recycles itself, said my year three school teacher, Miss Kerr, and I have always been of the opinion that she was waiting for her style to return. The one where hair buns and hairy stockings feature heavily.

But despite her lack of taste, she was correct. Humans do think in very circular ways.

Take watches.

In the early twentieth century and before it, a gentleman, and some enterprising women also, kept time pieces. They would wind them and put them in their pockets.

Before the first world war, carrying you watch in you pocket was the only manly thing to do. Only ladies wore wrist watches or 'wristlets'. The common statement made by a modern gentleman being "I should sooner wear a skirt than a wrist watch".

However, the soldiers fighting dreary sodden fights in the trenches were the people to realize that if you want to know the time and simultaneously also don't want a bullet in your brain, you can't be fiddling with a watch in your pocket, or having it fall out and being lost.

So a design was made that was transitional between a pocket watch, and a wrist watch, which many soldiers wore. It was called the trench watch







Over time, such a device was superseded by wrist watches with quarts movement and metal bands, and were popular, as no one could say a wrist watch was unmanly, they being worn by soldiers.

Then came the nineties, and with it mobile phones. The brick phone became the first ever flip phone, and that became the Nokia 3-whatever with a back lit green-black screen, and soon most everyone had a small electrical companion capable of telling the time, date, calculating small numbers, and not least, talking to other people.

For my generation, wrist watches had become redundant. Many young people do wear them, but they are far from necessary.

If you are under twenty five, and you want to know the time, you probably check your pocket watch. It is, as Miss Kerr said, recycling.

What is the point of my little tale? The point is, that the 'modern' thought, isn't modern at all. You've all seen it on tv or the net, "2012, end of the world!" or perhaps, "fuck off we're full!" displayed in a charming fashion on car windows. Hate, fear, they aren't modern. They aren't original. Guess what they thought when the bubonic plague hit? "end of the world!" guess what they thought of Germanic people coming to England?

Only a human would be so arrogant to believe that if all the humans died the world would end.

So please, I'm begging you, think something original. Think something nice.

As Lost As A Thing

Deep in the sea, in the deepest sea,
There is a thing waiting so long for me,
Out in the dreams where fishes swim,
The angels say "There is a thing for him"

Past the sky, the stars, and Saturn's ring,
There is a lonely, lost, forgotten thing.
In the airless cold of frozen outer space,
It waits for me, in it's icy, lost and secret place.

On the highest mountain in a distant world,
Where a day of light has never unfurled,
In the wind and storm, and the snow and fear,
The thing I long for, it waits here.

It is a tiny thing, that lurks in mystery,
It is the special thing, for no-one but me.
It isn't bright or loud, or full of hate or joy,
It isn't a bauble or children's play-thing toy.

It is my thing, I have so foolishly lost.
It waits for me, in the night, water, or frost.

Where is it now, my treasured prize?
What use are these dull, doll eyes?!
If I cannot see, touch, taste or know it,
If Liminal breaches do not show it?

What is it? Where is it? Why cannot my memory recall?
WHY CAN I KNOW NOT WHAT IT IS AT ALL!

God take this thorn out from my mind!
Let the spring of these clockwork thoughts unwind!

I know I sit on a broken seat.
I know only I am incomplete.

I, Rat

"You can only walk so far from your true self until you are pulled back, or the cord snaps"


I've never not been afraid. I've never been a fighter, or tenacious. When challenged, I run away. When upset or offended, I ignore. When insulted, I become not angry but sad.

That's not to say I don't get angry. I do fairly frequently. I'm just not very good at it. My voice goes squeaky and I get flustered and generally make a fool of myself.

I could never have been a warrior or a soldier. Submitting simply seems easier than fighting against the juggernaut of life. And I see not why it is that that is a bad thing.

I wonder what it is sometimes that makes me, me.

I think that is who I am. A coward, a snaker around of problems, he who flees, he who avoids. I could have been a mouse, or a rat, quite well. I take comfort from this.