My secrets run deep -
Or allegedly so -
An ocean to plummet;
An endless knowledge to know.
What can you promise
A lover
But the key to that door;
The map to that labyrinth -
The depths of the soul?
Here, take this crowbar,
Take this screwdriver,
This clawhammer,
This jimmy, this pick,
And use it to prize
Open my head
Or bust into my heart.
We’ve always been hazy
On where’s best to start.
And here lies my mystery,
Here lies the truth:
My truth is my emptiness,
My truth is my void.
The rhetoric of romance
Is all in my voice;
A slight of the hand,
A castaway glance,
A mirror that of habit
Can’t help but flatter.
I’ll bare your delusions,
I’ll hang on your wall -
Suit any interior; impress all your friends,
I’ll awaken your fantasies,
Embody them all,
But I’ve not the substance
To weather their fall.
For as good as things look,
For all of their promise,
I’m not sure I really
Feel a thing.
My hidden depths
Are on constant display.
There’s not a thing to me
But bone, hair and meat.
No soul, no spirit,
No emotional core here -
Just chemical signals
Encased in a cranium
And balanced by chance
On top of a spine.
Saturday, 3 December 2011
Sunday, 27 November 2011
My Friends, My Grievance
I
It’s funny the relationships
That we carve out.
My best friend Jack
I’ve known since
I don’t know when,
And we’ve been best friends
Since I was nine
And he was eight -
The year behind in school,
Almost but not just quite.
If you asked me what we talked about
Or what we had in common then,
I couldn’t give the vaguest clue.
But I loved him then,
I love him now;
I hear his voice in all I do,
He passes judgement on all I meet -
A brother,
If a brother was a man
Who always lived within your head,
Whilst also out there in the world;
Who you don’t need to hear or see
To feel his friendship constantly.
II
That we carve out.
My best friend Jack
I’ve known since
I don’t know when,
And we’ve been best friends
Since I was nine
And he was eight -
The year behind in school,
Almost but not just quite.
If you asked me what we talked about
Or what we had in common then,
I couldn’t give the vaguest clue.
But I loved him then,
I love him now;
I hear his voice in all I do,
He passes judgement on all I meet -
A brother,
If a brother was a man
Who always lived within your head,
Whilst also out there in the world;
Who you don’t need to hear or see
To feel his friendship constantly.
II
My other friends
(I have a few):
A girl I was in love with,
But couldn’t have;
Another who I thought I was
Who never knew;
A guy I knew for years and years
And never took the time to talk to,
Until our friendship grew and grew -
Grew while others I once had valued
Faded out or I gave up on
As wastes of time or pointless prattle.
The most recent friend that I have made -
If Jack’s the best friend to the child -
He’s the best friend to the adult.
We’ve not been friends that long, I s’pose,
But the history that I share with Jack,
With him lies all up ahead there,
In the future.
So that’s the list - it’s not exhaustive.
I chose the ones I did
Because
There is a link that ties the few
And privileges them to presence
In this poem:
They’re the ones to whom I feel
I don’t need to say a word.
And now we get
Round to my theme:
I love these guys because
It’s words that really busts my gut.
III
(I have a few):
A girl I was in love with,
But couldn’t have;
Another who I thought I was
Who never knew;
A guy I knew for years and years
And never took the time to talk to,
Until our friendship grew and grew -
Grew while others I once had valued
Faded out or I gave up on
As wastes of time or pointless prattle.
The most recent friend that I have made -
If Jack’s the best friend to the child -
He’s the best friend to the adult.
We’ve not been friends that long, I s’pose,
But the history that I share with Jack,
With him lies all up ahead there,
In the future.
So that’s the list - it’s not exhaustive.
I chose the ones I did
Because
There is a link that ties the few
And privileges them to presence
In this poem:
They’re the ones to whom I feel
I don’t need to say a word.
And now we get
Round to my theme:
I love these guys because
It’s words that really busts my gut.
III
It might be me and me alone
(I’m sure it’s not)
But I’m really not that good with words.
I make them do all kinds of things -
I’m pretty good at that, it’s true;
But not even I,
With all those GCEs, those A levels,
AS too, and a degree,
Can make those fuckers
Mean a thing.
I talk to people; tell them things,
But the trouble is
I can’t believe a word I say.
It all sounds great, I know -
It’s fun to make it sound that way.
Some sounds crude and some sounds fancy;
Some even rhymes and some’s romancy.
But what I fear, and sometimes feel
I know is true,
Is that words can never, never
Be sincere.
I feel that I should warn the people
That I know:
All words are poison,
Not just mine,
Yours are too.
IV
(I’m sure it’s not)
But I’m really not that good with words.
I make them do all kinds of things -
I’m pretty good at that, it’s true;
But not even I,
With all those GCEs, those A levels,
AS too, and a degree,
Can make those fuckers
Mean a thing.
I talk to people; tell them things,
But the trouble is
I can’t believe a word I say.
It all sounds great, I know -
It’s fun to make it sound that way.
Some sounds crude and some sounds fancy;
Some even rhymes and some’s romancy.
But what I fear, and sometimes feel
I know is true,
Is that words can never, never
Be sincere.
I feel that I should warn the people
That I know:
All words are poison,
Not just mine,
Yours are too.
IV
The problem is
That words are really all they give you
To reach out there and know a person,
And that seems tragic
If the same is true of you
As what is true of me.
I’m a simpleton;
My mind’s a blank -
My body is the only
Part of me that’s ever frank.
The ones I value,
The ones I truly love,
They know it deep within their core:
I’m not complicated,
Nor are they.
But that’s not something
Most people like to say.
V
That words are really all they give you
To reach out there and know a person,
And that seems tragic
If the same is true of you
As what is true of me.
I’m a simpleton;
My mind’s a blank -
My body is the only
Part of me that’s ever frank.
The ones I value,
The ones I truly love,
They know it deep within their core:
I’m not complicated,
Nor are they.
But that’s not something
Most people like to say.
V
I much prefer your simple side,
Whoever you may be,
And however complicated
You might think you are,
Because I am so simple
I don’t believe a word -
Not one of yours, not one of mine.
So if I could make the world
As I’d like it to be,
I’d flush away complexity
And set the simple free.
Whoever you may be,
And however complicated
You might think you are,
Because I am so simple
I don’t believe a word -
Not one of yours, not one of mine.
So if I could make the world
As I’d like it to be,
I’d flush away complexity
And set the simple free.
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Let's do this Right
I’m not certain and you’re not sure.
We’ve both loved people
We wish we’d never met before.
I’ll try not to be one of them,
But I can’t promise even that,
And what I feel now
May one day be
A memory I’m just angry at.
But sure, why not?
What the hell is there to lose,
But time and patience, self-respect and independence?
Aren’t those things all just second prize
For people with nobody by their sides?
I don’t believe that
But if you do,
I’ll lie and say that I do too.
Let’s do this right or not at all.
Let’s do this right and just admit,
Neither of us think the other is a perfect fit.
We know we could find someone better;
Someone smarter, someone slimmer,
Someone like her from off the telly,
Or like him from in that book I read,
Or maybe just someone who’s not too proud,
To get down there and give me head.
So let’s not feel we have to settle;
If we’re not happy now,
We won’t get more so -
Let’s just not bother after all.
And if perchance you should feel lonely,
Just remember this one thing:
Happiness never was a door
Marked “couples only”.
We’ve both loved people
We wish we’d never met before.
I’ll try not to be one of them,
But I can’t promise even that,
And what I feel now
May one day be
A memory I’m just angry at.
But sure, why not?
What the hell is there to lose,
But time and patience, self-respect and independence?
Aren’t those things all just second prize
For people with nobody by their sides?
I don’t believe that
But if you do,
I’ll lie and say that I do too.
Let’s do this right or not at all.
Let’s do this right and just admit,
Neither of us think the other is a perfect fit.
We know we could find someone better;
Someone smarter, someone slimmer,
Someone like her from off the telly,
Or like him from in that book I read,
Or maybe just someone who’s not too proud,
To get down there and give me head.
So let’s not feel we have to settle;
If we’re not happy now,
We won’t get more so -
Let’s just not bother after all.
And if perchance you should feel lonely,
Just remember this one thing:
Happiness never was a door
Marked “couples only”.
Friday, 22 April 2011
The King
Out for a walk in the woods one day, I heard a peculiar noise coming from the undergrowth. I made my way towards it, and as I grew closer, it became apparent that it was somebody singing. Eventually I saw its source. Nestled amongst a hedge, lay a King. One had just to look at him to know that, just as certainly was it that he was a King, so too was he mad. I’ll not bore you with details of his appearance, but his beard was overgrown with bits of foliage caught in it, and even the odd twig. His missing crown and sceptre were indisputable evidence to the case that he was indeed a mad king.
“Your majesty,” I said, for a king is still a king, no matter how disturbed, “Your majesty, what throne is this for you?” The monarch ceased his song and fixed his fierce black eyes on mine. So terrible was his stare that I felt forced down on to one knee as if by powerful hands. Knelt in a bow, the king would now deign to address me.
Through his deranged mumblings, he told a tale of usurpation and exile; of mutiny and bloodshed, subterfuge and plot. It seemed he had once been the ruler of a small kingdom, just two stops from King’s Cross on the Northern Line, that was most highly revered for its ancient lineage, and for its philosophers and urbanity it was surpassed by Ancient Greece alone. Long had he been a wise and just king over this kingdom until one day a band of vicious troglodytes, tired of the dank of their humble caves, rose up against the king and his people. The troglodytes came fourth in great numbers, driven by envy and greed. The king’s knights fought valiantly, but being all poets and philosophers, their might was that of lame men, and beneath the furious weight of the troglodytes, they fainted all of them away. Those subjects who were not slain by the troglodytes were forced to flee their homes, the king only narrowly avoiding the wrath of the invaders by escaping his besieged palace via a secret passage to the forest where I found him.
“Sire,” I said, “my allegiance is yours, and I would die many deaths to see you restored to your throne and your noble kingdom re-established. I am no knight, yet gladly would I spill blood for you, both my own and that of your enemies.” This pleased the King mightily, I could see, for he sprang up and put his arm about my neck. I thought this behaviour rather low for a King, but he had endured much and I did not begrudge him his excitement. However, his excitement eventually began to chafe my neck and made it difficult for me to breathe.
“Your majesty,” I said, (for to wheeze would have been disrespectful) “your majesty, I cannot breathe. Would you condescend to release one who stands, beneath your glory, a mere peasant?” After some minutes more of troubled breathing, I am delighted to report that he did condescend, though I really feel I was unworthy of the kindness. I commented that exile could not greatly have diminished his kingly strength and his was the might of many men.
And then, glory of glory, honour of honour, that noble monarch proceeded to knight me. Of course, he had no sword to conduct the ceremony as would have been proper at court but, demonstrating the quick-thinking and innovation that come so naturally to one of his grand station, he took a tree branch and laid it upon my shoulders, dubbing me a knight of his realm. Obviously, this ceremony was one he had once much enjoyed and now missed, for he performed it a number of times upon me with increasing enthusiasm and force. Were it not for the slight bruising he had so jovially adorned my neck with earlier, I should not have been at all aware of any discomfort from this repeated ceremony and would have enjoyed it unreservedly, but I must confess that it did cause me some pain after a while. A true knight, I am sure, and not one such as I, should have felt nothing at all, but I felt inclined to beg him to cease this honour and to draw to a close the proudest moment of my life. Oh impudence! How I regret it now. I, unaccustomed then to the conduct appropriate when conversing with royalty, was to learn the consequences of assuming to criticise the way a king carries out his duties. Profuse was my beating, profuse was my bleeding, yet even more profuse than both of these was my pleading for the forgiveness of that monarch whose retribution for my impertinence fell so heavily and so honourably upon my unworthy head and shoulders (unworthy of his presence that is, not the punishment, which I so sorely deserved). When he deigned my sentence served and cast the tree branch away from him, he began to teach me the customs and traditions of his kingdom. He told me that the place in which I had found him was sacred to him and his kind for the great chestnut tree which we stood beneath was something of a deity. He told me that if I wished to serve him and count myself amongst his people, I must climb that tree, hear its voice and learn of its wisdom. This, of course, I did.
Up amongst its branches, I heard many things and learnt much.
-Trust is the key it said trust your fellow man, yet trust him not.
-Truth is the simplest of all things to find. Your search need take you no further than silence. Listen to what the silence of the world has to say, and there will Truth, in soft melodic tones, speak to you.
-There can be no knowledge but the knowledge of ignorance. Learn only from he who preaches ignorance, for his words contain the only wisdom worth having.
-Observe the squirrel. He buries what he treasures and his path home takes him always upwards.
-The owl opens his eyes only in darkness. What use is vision when all is clear as day?
The tree then fell silent. I could tell that it felt it had taught me all it could that day. I showed my gratitude and respect in the manner which the King showed me, which I would record here but do not feel it would be proper to leave such noble traditions and ceremonies open to the ridicule of the ignorant, to whom they may seem absurd. They may once have seemed absurd to me, but that was before I learnt something of what the wise old Chestnut tree had to teach.
Dusk was beginning to fall upon us, so I thought it best to leave the King to his slumber and return home to my bitch of a mother where she would supply me with my supper. I promised the King I would return the next morning, when I would begin in earnest my service to him. He seemed sad, in his noble, reserved way, that I should leave him, and I too felt the pangs of parting and confess I showed them a lot more openly than he. But through my tears I explained that my mother was truly a bitch and that I had no choice but to return home to her, and took my leave.
As soon as I walked through the door, that bitch began with her false affection. She asked me where I had been that day and I perceived immediately that she was in league with the troglodytes and sought to find out my new master, the King, and run him through as he slept. I resisted her interrogation and reminded her of the vast extent to which she was a bitch, and worse besides. When she asked me what had happened to my jacket and shoes, I created an elaborate story about having been robbed rather than tell her the truth that I had presented them as gifts to the King after he had shown a liking for them. I took my supper in my room with a chair against the door so that the bitch would not watch me with her repulsive eyes and then sat up late into the night planning the campaign to take back the King’s lost land.
Early the next morning, I returned to the sacred grove in which I had met the King. He was not there. I climbed the mighty chestnut tree and implored it to tell me where the King had gone, but now it would nothing say. I realised that the reason the tree, which yesterday had treated me as a friend, was silent was because it was suffering from a broken heart. Its heart was broken, you see, because the troglodytes must have found the King in the night and there, beneath the shadow of the tree he loved so well, they had murdered him. Openly I wept and, amidst the torrents of my grief, I told the tree how I wished that I had not left the King so that I might have died along side him in glorious battle. I begged the tree to strike me down then and there as punishment for my desertion, but it answered me in neither word, nor deed. Evidently it intended me for some greater purpose. However, I could neither bare the trees judgement, nor the site of my sovereign’s demise any longer, and, grieving, skipped away.
“Your majesty,” I said, for a king is still a king, no matter how disturbed, “Your majesty, what throne is this for you?” The monarch ceased his song and fixed his fierce black eyes on mine. So terrible was his stare that I felt forced down on to one knee as if by powerful hands. Knelt in a bow, the king would now deign to address me.
Through his deranged mumblings, he told a tale of usurpation and exile; of mutiny and bloodshed, subterfuge and plot. It seemed he had once been the ruler of a small kingdom, just two stops from King’s Cross on the Northern Line, that was most highly revered for its ancient lineage, and for its philosophers and urbanity it was surpassed by Ancient Greece alone. Long had he been a wise and just king over this kingdom until one day a band of vicious troglodytes, tired of the dank of their humble caves, rose up against the king and his people. The troglodytes came fourth in great numbers, driven by envy and greed. The king’s knights fought valiantly, but being all poets and philosophers, their might was that of lame men, and beneath the furious weight of the troglodytes, they fainted all of them away. Those subjects who were not slain by the troglodytes were forced to flee their homes, the king only narrowly avoiding the wrath of the invaders by escaping his besieged palace via a secret passage to the forest where I found him.
“Sire,” I said, “my allegiance is yours, and I would die many deaths to see you restored to your throne and your noble kingdom re-established. I am no knight, yet gladly would I spill blood for you, both my own and that of your enemies.” This pleased the King mightily, I could see, for he sprang up and put his arm about my neck. I thought this behaviour rather low for a King, but he had endured much and I did not begrudge him his excitement. However, his excitement eventually began to chafe my neck and made it difficult for me to breathe.
“Your majesty,” I said, (for to wheeze would have been disrespectful) “your majesty, I cannot breathe. Would you condescend to release one who stands, beneath your glory, a mere peasant?” After some minutes more of troubled breathing, I am delighted to report that he did condescend, though I really feel I was unworthy of the kindness. I commented that exile could not greatly have diminished his kingly strength and his was the might of many men.
And then, glory of glory, honour of honour, that noble monarch proceeded to knight me. Of course, he had no sword to conduct the ceremony as would have been proper at court but, demonstrating the quick-thinking and innovation that come so naturally to one of his grand station, he took a tree branch and laid it upon my shoulders, dubbing me a knight of his realm. Obviously, this ceremony was one he had once much enjoyed and now missed, for he performed it a number of times upon me with increasing enthusiasm and force. Were it not for the slight bruising he had so jovially adorned my neck with earlier, I should not have been at all aware of any discomfort from this repeated ceremony and would have enjoyed it unreservedly, but I must confess that it did cause me some pain after a while. A true knight, I am sure, and not one such as I, should have felt nothing at all, but I felt inclined to beg him to cease this honour and to draw to a close the proudest moment of my life. Oh impudence! How I regret it now. I, unaccustomed then to the conduct appropriate when conversing with royalty, was to learn the consequences of assuming to criticise the way a king carries out his duties. Profuse was my beating, profuse was my bleeding, yet even more profuse than both of these was my pleading for the forgiveness of that monarch whose retribution for my impertinence fell so heavily and so honourably upon my unworthy head and shoulders (unworthy of his presence that is, not the punishment, which I so sorely deserved). When he deigned my sentence served and cast the tree branch away from him, he began to teach me the customs and traditions of his kingdom. He told me that the place in which I had found him was sacred to him and his kind for the great chestnut tree which we stood beneath was something of a deity. He told me that if I wished to serve him and count myself amongst his people, I must climb that tree, hear its voice and learn of its wisdom. This, of course, I did.
Up amongst its branches, I heard many things and learnt much.
-Trust is the key it said trust your fellow man, yet trust him not.
-Truth is the simplest of all things to find. Your search need take you no further than silence. Listen to what the silence of the world has to say, and there will Truth, in soft melodic tones, speak to you.
-There can be no knowledge but the knowledge of ignorance. Learn only from he who preaches ignorance, for his words contain the only wisdom worth having.
-Observe the squirrel. He buries what he treasures and his path home takes him always upwards.
-The owl opens his eyes only in darkness. What use is vision when all is clear as day?
The tree then fell silent. I could tell that it felt it had taught me all it could that day. I showed my gratitude and respect in the manner which the King showed me, which I would record here but do not feel it would be proper to leave such noble traditions and ceremonies open to the ridicule of the ignorant, to whom they may seem absurd. They may once have seemed absurd to me, but that was before I learnt something of what the wise old Chestnut tree had to teach.
Dusk was beginning to fall upon us, so I thought it best to leave the King to his slumber and return home to my bitch of a mother where she would supply me with my supper. I promised the King I would return the next morning, when I would begin in earnest my service to him. He seemed sad, in his noble, reserved way, that I should leave him, and I too felt the pangs of parting and confess I showed them a lot more openly than he. But through my tears I explained that my mother was truly a bitch and that I had no choice but to return home to her, and took my leave.
As soon as I walked through the door, that bitch began with her false affection. She asked me where I had been that day and I perceived immediately that she was in league with the troglodytes and sought to find out my new master, the King, and run him through as he slept. I resisted her interrogation and reminded her of the vast extent to which she was a bitch, and worse besides. When she asked me what had happened to my jacket and shoes, I created an elaborate story about having been robbed rather than tell her the truth that I had presented them as gifts to the King after he had shown a liking for them. I took my supper in my room with a chair against the door so that the bitch would not watch me with her repulsive eyes and then sat up late into the night planning the campaign to take back the King’s lost land.
Early the next morning, I returned to the sacred grove in which I had met the King. He was not there. I climbed the mighty chestnut tree and implored it to tell me where the King had gone, but now it would nothing say. I realised that the reason the tree, which yesterday had treated me as a friend, was silent was because it was suffering from a broken heart. Its heart was broken, you see, because the troglodytes must have found the King in the night and there, beneath the shadow of the tree he loved so well, they had murdered him. Openly I wept and, amidst the torrents of my grief, I told the tree how I wished that I had not left the King so that I might have died along side him in glorious battle. I begged the tree to strike me down then and there as punishment for my desertion, but it answered me in neither word, nor deed. Evidently it intended me for some greater purpose. However, I could neither bare the trees judgement, nor the site of my sovereign’s demise any longer, and, grieving, skipped away.
Friday, 11 March 2011
Current Affairs
It’s pretty rare that something happens in the news that moves me. Usually, I’d write a long list of things from the news that don’t move me, and it would all be controversial stuff that I’d say doesn’t move me - like bombings, paedophiles, natural disasters, rapes, murders, cot-death – and I say it didn’t move me just to seem outrageous and cynical. Well I’m not going to do that this time, because this time I’m being sincere. All that stuff might be moving and it might not be, but it is predictable. But here’s one thing that isn’t and it does move me.
Some time over the last week, I’m not sure when, a seventeen year old jumped off of the Golden Gate Bridge for a dare. He only got a couple of bruises. What are we dealing with here? A pro. What we’re dealing with here is a pro. A lot of people jump off of that bridge – approximately 1500 since 1937 – and 98% of them die when they do it. Sure, this guy’s a pro because he takes on those odds and comes out in the winning 2%, but the main reason the guy’s a pro is because, like I said, he did it for a dare. Here's a some of the media coverage: http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/world/california-teen-survives-school-trip-dare-jump-from-golden-gate-bridge/story-e6frf7lf-1226020123819
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/mar/11/teenager-survives-golden-gate-jump
A lot of people come out of puberty thinking that a dare doesn’t mean anything, that there’s nothing wrong with not doing a dare when you’re dared to do. But if you ignore a dare; if you pretend that you are above a dare, what are you proving? You’re proving that you have no sense of honour, that you have no principles, that you’re afraid you’ll be thought immature. All I can say to people like that is that if they fell off the Golden Gate Bridge, they would be in the 98%. This guy wasn’t because he stood up for something; he proved himself a Man and was rewarded for it. And I’ll bet he didn’t endure the shame of being double-dared to do it either.
This kid’s name doesn’t seem to have been disclosed, but if it is revealed I will remember it in case he runs for president or leads a revolution. This is the kind of guy who should be in charge of things. Maybe you could say that doing a dare is just giving in to peer pressure, and that that kind of person is just a mindless drone, but if you say that then you don’t understand the nature of the dare. A dare is a challenge. There aren’t any consequences to refusing the challenge because if the dare is set by people who respect the dare, a refusal ends the matter as unequivocally as an execution. That’s because a dare is not a test to see whether or not you’re a pussy, but to see whether or not you’re a Man. The only consequences of not proving you are a Man is knowing you are not a Man. The only kind of person I trust to lead me is someone who has proved to himself that he’s a Man. Someone who can honestly say, “Yes. Every dare I ever got dared, I did.” A person’s politics or ideology is of no interest to me if they’re living in fear that their secret will be exposed – the secret that they are not a Man. I don’t know about you, but people like that don’t fool me. I spot them right away. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with not being a Man – for some people, it’s just not their cup of tea – but to try to convince people you are one when you know you’re not…well, that’s as low as you get.
Sometimes though, you will be dared to do something that is beyond your abilities. When we were kids, my brother dared me to look at all the boobies in the world. He might not remember it, but I do, and I’m trying, bro - but that’s a tough dare. I knew it was a tough one at the time, and now I know I’ll never do that dare - and let me tell you, there is no shame greater than the shame of a dare unfulfilled – but I am grateful to my brother for daring me to do that dare, because even though I will carry the shame of the dare not done to my grave, that dare defined me because it made me respect the dare and all the dare stands for. And if I didn’t respect that I may as well have taken that dare to the grave the minute my brother dared it.
So going back to the kid who jumped off that bridge, what is so special about him? The dare he got dared wasn’t a particularly hard dare - pretty much anyone in the world could jump off the Golden Gate Bridge – but that isn’t the point. It doesn’t matter how dangerous, how ridiculous, how pointless the dare; all that matters is that you do that dare. This kid is special, at least to me, because he went ahead and did that dare in an age where people no longer respect the honour of the playground. We believed in it when we were kids - just like we believed in right and wrong when we were kids - so why can’t we believe in it still?
Some time over the last week, I’m not sure when, a seventeen year old jumped off of the Golden Gate Bridge for a dare. He only got a couple of bruises. What are we dealing with here? A pro. What we’re dealing with here is a pro. A lot of people jump off of that bridge – approximately 1500 since 1937 – and 98% of them die when they do it. Sure, this guy’s a pro because he takes on those odds and comes out in the winning 2%, but the main reason the guy’s a pro is because, like I said, he did it for a dare. Here's a some of the media coverage: http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/world/california-teen-survives-school-trip-dare-jump-from-golden-gate-bridge/story-e6frf7lf-1226020123819
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/mar/11/teenager-survives-golden-gate-jump
A lot of people come out of puberty thinking that a dare doesn’t mean anything, that there’s nothing wrong with not doing a dare when you’re dared to do. But if you ignore a dare; if you pretend that you are above a dare, what are you proving? You’re proving that you have no sense of honour, that you have no principles, that you’re afraid you’ll be thought immature. All I can say to people like that is that if they fell off the Golden Gate Bridge, they would be in the 98%. This guy wasn’t because he stood up for something; he proved himself a Man and was rewarded for it. And I’ll bet he didn’t endure the shame of being double-dared to do it either.
This kid’s name doesn’t seem to have been disclosed, but if it is revealed I will remember it in case he runs for president or leads a revolution. This is the kind of guy who should be in charge of things. Maybe you could say that doing a dare is just giving in to peer pressure, and that that kind of person is just a mindless drone, but if you say that then you don’t understand the nature of the dare. A dare is a challenge. There aren’t any consequences to refusing the challenge because if the dare is set by people who respect the dare, a refusal ends the matter as unequivocally as an execution. That’s because a dare is not a test to see whether or not you’re a pussy, but to see whether or not you’re a Man. The only consequences of not proving you are a Man is knowing you are not a Man. The only kind of person I trust to lead me is someone who has proved to himself that he’s a Man. Someone who can honestly say, “Yes. Every dare I ever got dared, I did.” A person’s politics or ideology is of no interest to me if they’re living in fear that their secret will be exposed – the secret that they are not a Man. I don’t know about you, but people like that don’t fool me. I spot them right away. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with not being a Man – for some people, it’s just not their cup of tea – but to try to convince people you are one when you know you’re not…well, that’s as low as you get.
Sometimes though, you will be dared to do something that is beyond your abilities. When we were kids, my brother dared me to look at all the boobies in the world. He might not remember it, but I do, and I’m trying, bro - but that’s a tough dare. I knew it was a tough one at the time, and now I know I’ll never do that dare - and let me tell you, there is no shame greater than the shame of a dare unfulfilled – but I am grateful to my brother for daring me to do that dare, because even though I will carry the shame of the dare not done to my grave, that dare defined me because it made me respect the dare and all the dare stands for. And if I didn’t respect that I may as well have taken that dare to the grave the minute my brother dared it.
So going back to the kid who jumped off that bridge, what is so special about him? The dare he got dared wasn’t a particularly hard dare - pretty much anyone in the world could jump off the Golden Gate Bridge – but that isn’t the point. It doesn’t matter how dangerous, how ridiculous, how pointless the dare; all that matters is that you do that dare. This kid is special, at least to me, because he went ahead and did that dare in an age where people no longer respect the honour of the playground. We believed in it when we were kids - just like we believed in right and wrong when we were kids - so why can’t we believe in it still?
Friday, 25 February 2011
A Day is the Life of a Mayfly
The mayfly awakes. It’s still dark, but he knows he’s got a lot to get through today. His mind says,
-there’s nothing for it. You’ve got to get up. But his body says,
- just sleep. Both are compelling arguments. He sits up in bed and lets them bring their cases. His mind has dozens of very sensible, very sober reasons why it is absolutely necessary to get out of bed right that instant and the mayfly, being a rational sort of guy, can’t help but respect his mind’s proactive attitude and, as far as he can tell, it’s reasoning is flawless. Yet there is something beautifully simple in the body’s argument: just sleep. What could be more perfect in it’s clarity; so direct and, in it’s own way, so absolutely rational?
-Yes, says his mind, I see the body’s point: one is tired so what could be more rational than to sleep? Certainly any other action would seem counter-intuitive. But this is assuming that rationality is objective, whereas I would put it that rationality is simply a means to an end and is therefore situation-dependent. The mayfly finds the phrasing of his mind’s argument a little pompous, but cannot dispute it. Still though, his body counters:
-just sleep, and the concept seems still so beautiful.
-Well, says his mind, beauty is a fluid concept with no useful or satisfactory definition. Quite frankly, I think we are above such sensory indulgences.
In the end, the mayfly gives into his mind, and ironically he does so for the greatest merit of his body’s argument: it’s simplicity. His body continues to say to him just sleep, but his mind has shut up now, and if the mayfly has to put up with one nagging voice all morning, he’d rather it be the uncomplicated, cheerful voice of his body than the sombre, highfalutin voice of his mind. All the debating, sadly, has bitten severely into his morning. A dull terror of being late for work propels him through a hurried wash and a dry, unappetising breakfast.
He works all day, not even stopping for lunch, and drags himself home exhausted. He is far too exhausted to put any kind of thought or care into preparing food and has the first thing he sees in the kitchen for his dinner - this may or may not be the same thing he had for his unrelished breakfast. He hates to give in and let his day be consumed entirely by work, but he has to sleep. He gets into bed, and as he snuggles down in the sheets and begins to fall asleep, he says to himself,
-thank god I don’t have to get up tomorrow.
-there’s nothing for it. You’ve got to get up. But his body says,
- just sleep. Both are compelling arguments. He sits up in bed and lets them bring their cases. His mind has dozens of very sensible, very sober reasons why it is absolutely necessary to get out of bed right that instant and the mayfly, being a rational sort of guy, can’t help but respect his mind’s proactive attitude and, as far as he can tell, it’s reasoning is flawless. Yet there is something beautifully simple in the body’s argument: just sleep. What could be more perfect in it’s clarity; so direct and, in it’s own way, so absolutely rational?
-Yes, says his mind, I see the body’s point: one is tired so what could be more rational than to sleep? Certainly any other action would seem counter-intuitive. But this is assuming that rationality is objective, whereas I would put it that rationality is simply a means to an end and is therefore situation-dependent. The mayfly finds the phrasing of his mind’s argument a little pompous, but cannot dispute it. Still though, his body counters:
-just sleep, and the concept seems still so beautiful.
-Well, says his mind, beauty is a fluid concept with no useful or satisfactory definition. Quite frankly, I think we are above such sensory indulgences.
In the end, the mayfly gives into his mind, and ironically he does so for the greatest merit of his body’s argument: it’s simplicity. His body continues to say to him just sleep, but his mind has shut up now, and if the mayfly has to put up with one nagging voice all morning, he’d rather it be the uncomplicated, cheerful voice of his body than the sombre, highfalutin voice of his mind. All the debating, sadly, has bitten severely into his morning. A dull terror of being late for work propels him through a hurried wash and a dry, unappetising breakfast.
He works all day, not even stopping for lunch, and drags himself home exhausted. He is far too exhausted to put any kind of thought or care into preparing food and has the first thing he sees in the kitchen for his dinner - this may or may not be the same thing he had for his unrelished breakfast. He hates to give in and let his day be consumed entirely by work, but he has to sleep. He gets into bed, and as he snuggles down in the sheets and begins to fall asleep, he says to himself,
-thank god I don’t have to get up tomorrow.
Friday, 10 December 2010
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
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
Friday, 12 November 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
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.
“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.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 4 February 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Ten Points for the Future
At midnight tonight, we enter the future.
You may think that the future is an exciting time to be alive. You are WRONG: the future is a bleak time, and by this time tomorrow, you'll wish you were still in the present where it was okay to be human. In the future you're going to notice all kinds of strange things going on. Here's a list warning you of a few of them.
1. If you have a baby in the future, it will be a mutant. It will be born with tentacles or the tail of a scorpion or the wings of a moth. Don't kill your mutant baby because it will be your most powerful ally against the robots.
2. The polarities of the Earth will be reversed and everyone who is gay will become straight and everyone who is straight will become gay.
3. You will receive a phishing email from the robot people requesting your genetic code. If you supply them with it they will erase that code from Time and you will never have been born.
4. Tony Blair will promote himself from Prime Minister of England to Galactic Emperor.
5. The robots will turn all of the oxygen into electricity so that when humans breathe in they will be electrocuted and when robots breathe in they will be energised.
6. You will have a clone of yourself sent to your door from the CIA. It will murder you and assume your identity.
7. Jesus will come back, but this time he will be a prophet of the robot people. First the angels failed God, then Man failed him; the robots are his final attempt. If you fight the robot uprising, you fight God.
8. John Milton will be resurrected by the robots and will write the final installment of the Paradise Trilogy: Paradise Reprogrammed that will confirm point 7.
9. 75% of all wildlife will be CGI.
10. The remnants of the human race will live on the moon and play low-grav five-a-side football.
Take heed.
You may think that the future is an exciting time to be alive. You are WRONG: the future is a bleak time, and by this time tomorrow, you'll wish you were still in the present where it was okay to be human. In the future you're going to notice all kinds of strange things going on. Here's a list warning you of a few of them.
1. If you have a baby in the future, it will be a mutant. It will be born with tentacles or the tail of a scorpion or the wings of a moth. Don't kill your mutant baby because it will be your most powerful ally against the robots.
2. The polarities of the Earth will be reversed and everyone who is gay will become straight and everyone who is straight will become gay.
3. You will receive a phishing email from the robot people requesting your genetic code. If you supply them with it they will erase that code from Time and you will never have been born.
4. Tony Blair will promote himself from Prime Minister of England to Galactic Emperor.
5. The robots will turn all of the oxygen into electricity so that when humans breathe in they will be electrocuted and when robots breathe in they will be energised.
6. You will have a clone of yourself sent to your door from the CIA. It will murder you and assume your identity.
7. Jesus will come back, but this time he will be a prophet of the robot people. First the angels failed God, then Man failed him; the robots are his final attempt. If you fight the robot uprising, you fight God.
8. John Milton will be resurrected by the robots and will write the final installment of the Paradise Trilogy: Paradise Reprogrammed that will confirm point 7.
9. 75% of all wildlife will be CGI.
10. The remnants of the human race will live on the moon and play low-grav five-a-side football.
Take heed.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Changing Times & the Spirit of the Age
Over the passed few weeks changing times and spirits of ages have occurred again and again in my literary consumption: changing times from Bob Dylan in 1964 and the spirit of the age from a pamphlet published in 1825. I won't go into any historical analysis, because it doesn't particuarly interest me. What interests me is how these terms apply to our temporal environment.
I can't help wondering, when listening to the The Times They Are A-changin', if the times now really are changing. Of course, there are constant changes: science and technology are advancing faster than ever before in our history and, if you care about preserving a human-friendly environment on the planet, such advancement is essential. This is probably the greatest change my generation has experienced and many seem to think the most pivotal ever to human progress. Each succeeding generation is more capable than the last to view things in the long term, and ignorance is no longer accepted as an excuse for the effect we have on our present, cosy, environment. If you care about human progress or entertain a short or long term humanatarianism, you must also care about maintaining the current climate, for we certainly need a suitable environment to thrive and evolve in. The actions of the individual, then, have become more important than ever. For this reason, it seems absurd to me that people, as individuals, have never been so afraid of accepting responsibility for themselves and effecting their environment. To return to technological progression, one of the most sweeping changes we are living through is the ever increasing influence of online social networks, I use Facebook as my template for this as it is the only one I subscribe to. To me Facebook embodies the true Spirit of the Age. In the mildest possible terms, it is one that repulses me: one of contentment and, consequently, apathy. To choose so guardedly what information is communicated to others through a medium, one without any actual physical presence within space, puts immense strain on verbal language and does the body the most grave injustice.
Undoubtedly, language is the greatest and most distinguishing achievement of humanity, but to retain its value and meaning, it must be supported by the physical; by the body. However effective language may be, our only means of truly effecting our environment are through the body. Without the body, we are impotent, and to assume that we can truly communicate the slightest aspect of our charisma (for those of us that have it) through words on a screen, is to accept this impotence. For those who wish to maintain an environment they can thrive and procreate in, the body is essential. Perhaps humanity's defining characteristic is that we have the ability to live almost entirely within the abstractions of our own consciousness. We must still, though, interact with our environment and those others in it: eating; fucking; talking; fighting. To interact without sensual stimulation is not social interaction. When we talk to someone face to face, we absorb the vision of them: their sound; their smell; their taste; their texture. A part from an extremely arbitrary visual stimulation, Facebook allows none of these sensations, so can be nothing but an anti-social network for we are supplied only with what superficial knowledge others choose to disclose.
Not only, then, is the spirit of the age one of apathy, but it is one manifest through people terrified of their own bodies and the bodies of others. Even if we did care, we would be unwilling to affect our environment and change our times through anything other than words saturated to bursting point with connotations. Facebook is a forum of meaningless labels and hollow gestures. How depressing, at least to me, that it should be the defining feature of my generation.
However, this depression has advantages that lead me to a realisation that fully compensates. Placed by coincidence at a point in time that gives me some sway, however miniscule, over the future of humanity, I find that humanity is not actually something I wish to perpetuate. Why should I care if this generation of apathetic pussies lives to spawn yet another generation of apathetic pussies who then do the same again? I would much rather work against it. I take great comfort in balance, and what could then be more comforting than the planet redressing the balance itself disturbed by humanity? Though we might render our environemt unable to support us or any other form of life, there will always be an environment. Up until now, the graph of humanity has shown more or less constant progress. To sustain this progress is, I think, beyond this generation, and in this lies the major change of our time. We move from the age of construction to the age of destruction. Economic globalisation has thrived since the beginnings of the Roman Empire, but what value will currency retain once it can no longer buy drinkable water, and how will we possibly maintain even the slightest unity under these circumstances. The comfort is this: this generation may well witness the most significant and exciting event in human history - the end of human history. If I don't live to see it, I sure hope my kids do.
I can't help wondering, when listening to the The Times They Are A-changin', if the times now really are changing. Of course, there are constant changes: science and technology are advancing faster than ever before in our history and, if you care about preserving a human-friendly environment on the planet, such advancement is essential. This is probably the greatest change my generation has experienced and many seem to think the most pivotal ever to human progress. Each succeeding generation is more capable than the last to view things in the long term, and ignorance is no longer accepted as an excuse for the effect we have on our present, cosy, environment. If you care about human progress or entertain a short or long term humanatarianism, you must also care about maintaining the current climate, for we certainly need a suitable environment to thrive and evolve in. The actions of the individual, then, have become more important than ever. For this reason, it seems absurd to me that people, as individuals, have never been so afraid of accepting responsibility for themselves and effecting their environment. To return to technological progression, one of the most sweeping changes we are living through is the ever increasing influence of online social networks, I use Facebook as my template for this as it is the only one I subscribe to. To me Facebook embodies the true Spirit of the Age. In the mildest possible terms, it is one that repulses me: one of contentment and, consequently, apathy. To choose so guardedly what information is communicated to others through a medium, one without any actual physical presence within space, puts immense strain on verbal language and does the body the most grave injustice.
Undoubtedly, language is the greatest and most distinguishing achievement of humanity, but to retain its value and meaning, it must be supported by the physical; by the body. However effective language may be, our only means of truly effecting our environment are through the body. Without the body, we are impotent, and to assume that we can truly communicate the slightest aspect of our charisma (for those of us that have it) through words on a screen, is to accept this impotence. For those who wish to maintain an environment they can thrive and procreate in, the body is essential. Perhaps humanity's defining characteristic is that we have the ability to live almost entirely within the abstractions of our own consciousness. We must still, though, interact with our environment and those others in it: eating; fucking; talking; fighting. To interact without sensual stimulation is not social interaction. When we talk to someone face to face, we absorb the vision of them: their sound; their smell; their taste; their texture. A part from an extremely arbitrary visual stimulation, Facebook allows none of these sensations, so can be nothing but an anti-social network for we are supplied only with what superficial knowledge others choose to disclose.
Not only, then, is the spirit of the age one of apathy, but it is one manifest through people terrified of their own bodies and the bodies of others. Even if we did care, we would be unwilling to affect our environment and change our times through anything other than words saturated to bursting point with connotations. Facebook is a forum of meaningless labels and hollow gestures. How depressing, at least to me, that it should be the defining feature of my generation.
However, this depression has advantages that lead me to a realisation that fully compensates. Placed by coincidence at a point in time that gives me some sway, however miniscule, over the future of humanity, I find that humanity is not actually something I wish to perpetuate. Why should I care if this generation of apathetic pussies lives to spawn yet another generation of apathetic pussies who then do the same again? I would much rather work against it. I take great comfort in balance, and what could then be more comforting than the planet redressing the balance itself disturbed by humanity? Though we might render our environemt unable to support us or any other form of life, there will always be an environment. Up until now, the graph of humanity has shown more or less constant progress. To sustain this progress is, I think, beyond this generation, and in this lies the major change of our time. We move from the age of construction to the age of destruction. Economic globalisation has thrived since the beginnings of the Roman Empire, but what value will currency retain once it can no longer buy drinkable water, and how will we possibly maintain even the slightest unity under these circumstances. The comfort is this: this generation may well witness the most significant and exciting event in human history - the end of human history. If I don't live to see it, I sure hope my kids do.
Monday, 23 November 2009
This Week's Rhetoric
A week has passed, so maybe now it's time to expand upon the nature of the product I'm selling.
Last week I said that I didn't know what artistic integrity means, but I do know what it is. Artistic integrity is just another form of currency - you just can't buy much with it, so the most practical option is to exchange it on some cash with some real market value. I have a pen and I have a keyboard. Sometimes I use these tools to write things down; things I want to inflict on other people. Rather than sitting around waiting for someone to offer to publish these things, I'm going to do it myself. If you want something to happen in the world, make it, because who else could possibly care enough about you to do it? Your mam, probably, maybe even your dad too, but you can bet you'll outlive them if you haven't already, so why wait around for Tony Blair of the Penguin Publishing Association of Suits and Fucking Dickheads to offer you something? If I can prove that I am creating marketable products, Tony Blair is bound to want a piece of the action and he'll come to me. Maybe I'll cut him in on a slice of the literary pie or maybe I'll give him the option of sucking my balls. That is the meaning of free-will. Grip your life firmly in both hands and wield it like a double-edged sword.
You, then, are being primed to buy my book. Some material already exists for it, and if enough is created before the End in 2012, it will be available for purchase from somewhere in some form. It's a strict time-frame to work within, I know, but it should be long enough to have gathered a following of people all too ready to consume. Maybe you can even expect a sample of fiction in the near-future. I don't know whether or not you do enjoy reading this, but I do know that you'd rather be spending your excess on this miniscule proportion of the mindless shit that the internet has to offer than switching on and actually doing something productive. If I seem resentful, don't be upset, for I truly appreciate you passivity. What hope would any writer have if people weren't so lazy that they'd rather accept the passive role of consumer than the aggressive role of creator?
The writer is the assailant and the reader the victim.
Eyes to the skies and await the next chapter.
Last week I said that I didn't know what artistic integrity means, but I do know what it is. Artistic integrity is just another form of currency - you just can't buy much with it, so the most practical option is to exchange it on some cash with some real market value. I have a pen and I have a keyboard. Sometimes I use these tools to write things down; things I want to inflict on other people. Rather than sitting around waiting for someone to offer to publish these things, I'm going to do it myself. If you want something to happen in the world, make it, because who else could possibly care enough about you to do it? Your mam, probably, maybe even your dad too, but you can bet you'll outlive them if you haven't already, so why wait around for Tony Blair of the Penguin Publishing Association of Suits and Fucking Dickheads to offer you something? If I can prove that I am creating marketable products, Tony Blair is bound to want a piece of the action and he'll come to me. Maybe I'll cut him in on a slice of the literary pie or maybe I'll give him the option of sucking my balls. That is the meaning of free-will. Grip your life firmly in both hands and wield it like a double-edged sword.
You, then, are being primed to buy my book. Some material already exists for it, and if enough is created before the End in 2012, it will be available for purchase from somewhere in some form. It's a strict time-frame to work within, I know, but it should be long enough to have gathered a following of people all too ready to consume. Maybe you can even expect a sample of fiction in the near-future. I don't know whether or not you do enjoy reading this, but I do know that you'd rather be spending your excess on this miniscule proportion of the mindless shit that the internet has to offer than switching on and actually doing something productive. If I seem resentful, don't be upset, for I truly appreciate you passivity. What hope would any writer have if people weren't so lazy that they'd rather accept the passive role of consumer than the aggressive role of creator?
The writer is the assailant and the reader the victim.
Eyes to the skies and await the next chapter.
Synthesise or Liquidise
I don't like that I am writing this blog and I don't like you for reading it. But this is the 21st Century, and if you want to get anywhere in a creative industry, you're an idiot if you don't utilise the internet. The porn industry is the biggest, most financially successful in the world because it sells through the internet. Hollywood fights the internet, which is ironic because if Hollywood has taught us anything it's that you can't beat the machines. I'm not trying to sell anybody a porno but, in the not too distant future, I will be trying to sell you something. Maybe I'm compromising my artistic integrity by writing this blog, but fuck artistic integrity, I don't even know what it means. It's better to form an alliance with the machines now of your own free will than to be crushed by the robot fist for resisting when thy take over in 2012. For now, this is as close as I can get to being part man, part robot. I could get a bionic arm, because they are getting pretty sick these days, better than the real thing in many ways, but I'd be some chump to get another arm when I could just wait for technology to progress far enough for me to upgrade with a robotic scorpion tail. As a wise man once wisely said: "Man and machine getting into things". No, I'll just be patient and post something here now and then, until the day comes when I have produced something existing in space that the following I have amassed through the internet can buy.
Well, that should serve as an introduction to this post and my entire blog. I don't really read blogs, so I'm not sure what people expect from them, maybe emotions and opinions or something. If that's what you want, here you go: I had an emotion today; in my opinion you should do something else.
Prepare for the next installment and may the Gods of Respect and Positivity go with you.
Well, that should serve as an introduction to this post and my entire blog. I don't really read blogs, so I'm not sure what people expect from them, maybe emotions and opinions or something. If that's what you want, here you go: I had an emotion today; in my opinion you should do something else.
Prepare for the next installment and may the Gods of Respect and Positivity go with you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)