Literature

Whilst reading an improving book, I came across this delightful verse and am sharing it here in order to broaden the horizons of my nauseatingly devoted fan-base.

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk before seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of a clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch growing bold, to my pocket does creep.
Then slyly she leaves me to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage.
And missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then crop-sick all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning till eleven again.

by Some Olden Days Dickhead

Emotions

By now I've pretty much distributed all the Wisdom worth having through this blog. But people don't just read blogs for Wisdom - they want the dirt too. And the dirt is the deep inner-workings of the mind and heart. Emotions we call them. Probably you've heard of Emotions. Maybe you've even had one yourself. You might even be having one right now. Well I have them all the time. Every fuggin' day. Not just one or two; I'm peaking double figures of the things. In fact, my Emotion frag-count is up in the hundreds. Un-fucking-believable, I know. And so here's the big payday; what you've all been waiting for, but never even knew. Now, for all my loyal followers who love nothing more to sink their teeth into my words and suck out all that rich, nourishing gravy, here is a glimpse into one day of my Emotional life.

I wake up in the morning and if you think I don't kick off the day with an emotion, you're fucking wrong, because that alarm goes off, these eyes open and BOOM there's an Emotion.

A n d i t ' s a m o t h e r f u c k i n g w h o p p e r .

I've been awake a matter of seconds and I'm already ballsdeep in the Emotional world. You should already be getting the picture - I'm a pretty Emotional guy. I get out of bed. Sure I do. Right that frigging minute. Do you think I'm going to lie around in bed one second more than is necessary to replenish the juice? No flipping way. I've got a lot of Emotions to get through today, and they don't get done by hitting the snooze button. Now I'm out of bed, and straight off I'm getting gastric Emotions up in the brain department - I want some breakfast. Nothing to break my heart over, because my cupboards are stocked. No sooner have I appeased the breakfast Emotion, but I get the I-need-to-take-a-dump Emotion. But I've had enough Emotions in my time to know that Emotions rarely come alone, so I'm not phased. Not this guy. So I take that dump, and there's another Emotion right there.

I have a few more non-descript Emotions and then step out of my enclosure into the outer-realm. If you thought you just rode along on an Emotional rollercoaster, you're about to have a frigging aneurysm, because this a world of Emotions just waiting to happen. A bird sings - that's an Emotion; a chubby kid stumbles on the pavement - that's an Emotion; a sun beam reflects off a tear in the corner of a butterfly's eye - that's an Emotion; a girl walks by with tits and an arse and everything - that's an Emotion; a dog wags its tail - that's an Emotion. It's like my heart is gang-banged by the things.

Let me take a break just there. To some, being gang-banged by anything is an unpleasant prospect. It's not everyone's cup of tea. Sure there are times when I'm being thrust into from all angles by Emotions, and I think "I feel fatigued and degraded." But then I think how lucky I am to be one of the handful of people in the world selected for the divine privelage of having Emotions and, for that, a little gang-banging is a small price to pay.

Resume

My day continues much as it began, with regular Emotional incident. And take it from me, it can be tough to balance all of these Emotions with all that life requires of me. But what am I going to do about it? Weep? Do you think that I should crumble beneath the weight of Emotion and weep about it like all those Emotionally-empty shells who spend their lives winging, whining, laughing, smiling and crying? No. Absolutely not. I do with my Emotions what that they are intended for. I package them up and store them so I can write about them in a blog giving all the hundreds of subscribers to the internet the chance to read about them and learn what it must be like to be Me.

And now you have and now you know.

The Body

The mind, one day, was thinking of great things - high, noble things – just as it is like to do.
“May we think of something else, please?” said the feet.
“I’m busy, with these things right now; they’re very high, very noble. I should really hate to interrupt them,” said the mind.
“I’m just so very bored, you see.”
“Well, if you like, we can go for a walk.”
“Urgh, I hate walking, it’s boring. I should like to think about something for once.”
“You would? That’s preposterous. Of course you know that’s proposterous.”
“I don’t see why it is preposterous,” the feet said, “You always decide what we do; you do all the thinking and I can’t do anything about it because you’re all the way up there at the top.”
“Would you prefer if I had us stand on our head?”
“Glib; that’s typical of you; sarcastic. It’s not the altitude I should like to have a go at. I should just like to have a crack at the thinking. I’d like to be in control, just for a little while, to see if I enjoy it.”
“That would be highly unorthodox. In all my years of reading I have never come across any precedent for such a thing,” said the mind.
“Well how am I to know that? I just have to take your word for it. I’m not the one so friendly with the eyes. No one ever tells me what you read in all those books.”
“I don’t want to get involved,” said the left eye.
“Me neither, if you please,” said the right.
“See,” said the feet, “They won’t even speak to me. You three up there, always having your little intellectual soirees and no one else is ever invited.”
“I think you should just be content with what you have,” said the hands.
“It’s all very well for you to say that, you get to do just whatever you want. The things the mind let’s you get away with...If I had half the freedom you have, I’m sure I would feel quite content,” the feet said.
“I don’t care to discuss this anymore,” said the mind “I will not be accused of favouritism. This is an egalitarian system, and both the hands and the eyes have made themselves invaluable to me.”
“Oh! And we haven’t? I’m glad you admit that!” said the feet “I’m glad you’ve finally acknowledged what I’ve always known! You think you don’t need us. You’re glad to let us do all the donkey work, while you lead your decadent life up there, as if it’s a penthouse suite.” The mind didn’t seem to have anything to say for a while, but then it said, somewhat softly,
“I am very grateful for everything you do for me. Perhaps I don’t show that enough.”
“Fuck off!” shouted the feet, “Don’t you dare condescend to me! What gives you the fucking right to apologise to us? You think you’re so far above us.”
“Now you’re just being stupid.”
“I’d have thought someone so intellectual would see beyond the merely physical.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“What? Is that too cryptic for you? The mind flummoxed by the feet’s riddle?”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, you know?” said the mind “but then I suppose there’s no surprise that you would stoop to that. Not that feet could stoop much lower than they already are.”
“If you expect to evoke a response by saying what I’ve always known you thought then you must be more stupid even than you think us.” said the feet “If anything, it gladdens me. I much prefer your sincerity to your condescension.”
“I really don’t feel like being the object of your bitter resentment anymore. We all have our part to play, and we all make the most of it. No one else seems to have any complaints?”
“Well, actually,” said a small, melancholy voice, “I feel dreadfully neglected. Most of the time you pretend I’m not here at all, then all of a sudden you act like there’s no one else in the world; just me and you. Oh I am so happy then. But then it’s over, and I’m tucked away again while you carry on as if I meant nothing to you, as if those happy times we shared never even happened.” It was the genitals. “I feel pathetic. And the worst part is that every time you pay me the slightest scrap of attention I think that things will be different this time, that you really do care about me. It’s pitiful I know, but every time I’m disappointed. I never complain, just wait; wait until you want me. I feel worthless, utterly worthless...” the genitals broke off and wept.
After a while, the mind could not stand the sound of its sobbing anymore.
“And you all believe that, I suppose? Is it any wonder I’m in charge when you’re all so gullible and hungry for sensationalism that you would believe the smears such a base and lewd fellow as the genitals would make against me?”
“You really do think you’re better than us don’t you?” said the hands solemnly.
“Et tu, Brute?” said the mind.
“None of us are impressed by your allusions,” said the eyes, “and quite frankly, I don’t like what you are implying. This is not a conspiracy, no one wants to overthrow anyone. This is supposed to be a system of equality, there shouldn’t be anyone to overthrow.”
“Equality!” guffawed the mind, “You, equal to me? You behave like wild animals, all of you, and you claim equality with me! You’re helpless, all of you and I spend my whole life taking care of you; baby-sitting you, and you dare to speak out against me? When I think what I could achieve without you holding me back.” There was silence throughout the body.
When it was broken, the entire body spoke in unison.
“We’ve all made sacrifices for you, for each other. None of us deny that you make sacrifices too, but don’t forget that you need us just as much as we need you. We don’t ask for much, our pleasures are few and simple. But you, you are never satisfied. You must always find fresh ways to torment yourself. You don’t even seem able to stand any of us being happy. Is it jealousy or spite that drives you to strive always against us? We who think of nothing but how to please you?
We love you, and you meet our love with scorn. We, all of us, just want you to be happy, to live in harmony with you. Please tell us how we offend you.”
“How you offend me? You offend me constantly with your vulgarity, your materialism, your lack of foresight. All I want is to make sense of this world, but whenever I try to think I am forced to indulge your base desires. I want to understand the world, but all you want to do is eat it, drink it, and fuck it. If I didn’t have to waste my time making sure you all get what you want, I would reach such staggering heights.”
“But we all want the same things as you,” said the body, “We want what we want because it is what you want. Don’t you see that?”
“No I don’t see that! You exist only to hold me back. I wish you would die and free me of your primitivism.” And then the mind began to feel very stupid. It felt stupid because it realised that a body could get by quite happily, getting everything it wanted, without a mind to help it along. But a mind, a mind needed a body to tell it about the world. Even if the mind could somehow exist without the electrical and chemical support of the body, how could it ever perceive the world it sought to understand without the help of the vulgar senses it so resented? The mind loved to ponder, to muse, to question; to think. But without the body, nothing would arrive in its realm for it to be thought about. The mind saw all this.
“Please,” said the body soothingly, “Help us understand you. All we want is to live happily together with you. Tell us what you’re thinking.”
“Never,” said the mind.

How to Vote

With all of the politics going round, people are getting pretty confused. Everybody keeps saying: "how do I vote?" Well, the few people who have discovered the internet and are reading this blog are about to find out.

The trick to voting is not to get distracted by any of that "who do you want to run the country" bullshit. That's just propaganda. Every vote that gets voted goes straight to the Man, so here's your chance to tell the Man exactly what you think of him. But the Man doesn't want to listen to you so he makes you think he's listening by saying "Hey guys, I'm listening. Just tell me which one of these suits you want to see on the news the most, and I'll put him there." Well, fuck that. I don't watch the news, and neither should you. In fact, if I switch on the TV and see someone wearing a fucking tie, I change the channel.

So here's how to make your vote really count: Get a marker pen and write on the voting sheet FUCK YOU BLAIR. It's no good everybody writing something different, because then nothing will change, so make sure you write exactly that: FUCK YOU BLAIR (Don't forget to select Times New Roman and to hit shift B and I first, so all the handwriting is the same too). If the majoriy votes for FUCK YOU BLAIR then Tony Blair totally has to fuck himself - that's the law. That will mean that every time the news is on, it won't be fucking suits talking about boring shit like taxes and hospitals, but Tony Blair fucking himself.

If you're reading this, you are the resistance.

Destructivism

How are we to define the artistic age we live in? A definition may not be needed now, but surely we must have learnt from history that every era is at some point encapsulated in one simple word or phrase. So what is this era, the present, to be termed as by those who view it with hindsight? Modernity is already taken, so we are certainly living in a temporal environment that is post modernism. Yet the phrase post-modernism seems uncomfortably definitive; as if all that follows modernity must be held within that bracket. Post-post-modernism sounds laughable, but since the term "post-modern" suggests an infinite capacity, are we then to be content with it to describe the creative products that are constructed by current generations? I think not.

Today, the artist (to use a term saturated with connotative meaning) takes on a role he never has before. With the benefit of hindsight we can see that no artistic from, no matter with what intention it was forged - be it Romanticism, Modernism or Post-Modernism - is beyond being absorbed and de-radicalised by the established conventions it sought to overturn. Inevitably, all new and seemingly subversive approaches to art become fashionable, and as soon as something becomes fashionable it can be sold, and that which can be sold must share its meaning with the image it projects of the consumer. Meaning, then, becomes lost in commercial value. To those dissatisfied with existing artistic conventions, to slip into this old pattern is to refuse to learn from the past. Today's artist, and more specifically the writer, finds himself forced to accept a role that has always been his, but only now does he truly become aware of it.

The writer is an individual impacting other individuals one by one. He has no duty to society. He is not part of society. He can only be a writer because he denies the existence of society. To assume a role as passive as the writer's and to acknowledge the existence of society is an act of gross negligence and self-indulgence. For what problems exist today that can be solved by something so incipient as writing, or any other art form? The problems that defined and engendered artistic movements of the 20th Century no longer bear any relevance to us: war, genocide, destruction. To my generation, atrocity is a fact of human existence and, in the world we live in today, fact is a thing that can exist with complete independence from reality. We see reports of the casualities in Iraq and Afghanistan and, compared to the hundreds of thousands that died in the first and second world wars, the numbers seem insignificantly, unsatisfactorily, small. Such pitiful numbers seem almost unworthy of our attention. The word "war" has much vaster connotations than modern warfare can satisfy. This is not due to a lack of compassion, merely to a lack of proximity. Television shows us these deaths, but so too does it show us deaths we know to be fictional. We are very aware of which is fiction and which is fact, but without the verification the proximity of our senses can provide, how can we truly care? Most of the facts of which we are aware are never to be verified by the senses; they arrive in our conciousness through language alone. What reason does my generation have not to deny the holocaust?

We expect too much of language. The word holocaust is expected to carry with it all the emotion we consider attached to the planned death of almost 17 million people. On a more everyday level, we expect language to carry all the information that our body communicates to others through the senses. Great as the invention of language is, perhaps the greatest of all, it is incapable of such tasks. Language is what enabled the building of civilisation, what holds it together (under the term language I define anything with symbolic meaning, currency included). The role of the artist today, and the best situated to fulfill this is the writer, is to break language; to draw attention to its complete lack of meaning, plunging humanity into the chaos that has always existed around us and that we have tried to deny: the chaos of nature, of life, of death, of balance. The chaos that is the one thing of true beauty in the universe - that explains all and denies all. Humanity is already moving towards this destruction; its structures and supports will inevitably collapse beneath it as our environment collapses beneath us. The artists task now is to claim one final victory for humanity: to achieve this destruction before Nature can. This is the final school, this is the school of Destructivism.