The Necessary Enemy

There is no more immediacy in life, no more joy, no more spontaneity. That’s what I have come to notice. ‘Why is there no more immediacy in life, why is there no more spontaneity?’ I raged. I wish to blame the Others for this you see, those sinister, shadowy, semi-fictional presences whose existence and malign intent I sometimes suspect. The ‘Others’ – the very mention of them is sufficient to cause chills run up my spine. The Outsiders, the Strange Ones, the ‘ones who are not me’. ‘Maybe they don’t exist at all’, I comforted myself – how could they, anyway?’ Logic told me they were no ‘Others’. Logic tells me that there can’t be any such thing. But then again, I philosophised, if there were no others then it would be necessary to invent them. Who else could I blame for the unholy mess, the unholy misery that was my life? My anger knows no bounds, of course. My anger never knows any bounds. I rage without cease.

 

But aside from that, things aren’t so bad, I tell myself. Things were never better in fact. When I was at school the teacher informed me that I was totally lacking in moral fibre, that I had no team spirit, and that I would never come to any good. The educational psychologist said that I was a narcissist and incapable of empathy. But then again, I never did go to school – not really. That was just a myth I created in order to explain the riddle of my own existence. I have a supremely important role to play in this cosmic existence of ours you see – that has been foretold in the legends – but many difficulties lie in my path. Chief amongst those difficulties are the Others, who plot against me and yearn for my destruction. Why did the Others hate me so very much, I often wonder? How monstrously unjust it is. How monstrously unjust. How wrong it is to persecute an innocent person, how very wrong…

 

Is it any wonder that I hate the Others so much? Even though I don’t really believe in them I hate them – if the enemy didn’t exist then it would be necessary to invent them, didn’t someone say that? Maybe I said that – quite possibly it was me who said it. It sounds like something I might say. When I was doing time in Feltham Young Offenders Institute the psychologist there said that I was a psychopath, incapable of feeling remorse. I proved them all wrong in the end of course – I proved them all wrong in the end. Not that any of that ever actually happened of course – as I have already pointed out. This is just a myth I created in order to explain the riddle of my existence, such as it is. Such as it is. The myth is that I cannot truly realise my destiny and become who I meant to be because I am constantly being undermined by those who are jealous of my potential greatness. That is why I am as enfeebled as I am, as diminished as I am – the butt of every joke, the fall guy who every stranger in town feels perfectly at liberty to come up to and piss upon. ‘It will not always be thus, however’, I counsel myself. ‘It will not always be thus…’

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dial N For Necromancy

Hosts of failed and defeated egos make their way – against their will – to the place they call Hades, the Grey Kingdom where no smiles are ever seen. What have they – they who dwell here – to smile about? Each day is like all the rest in the Grey Kingdom – empty of cheer.

 

It is impossible to behold this sight without becoming overwhelmed with sorrow at the fate of these unfortunate egos. I saw one of this host fleeing to its doom and heard quite plainly the words it uttered in its flight: ‘Alas for me,’ it cried out, ‘my fate is sealed – my doom is upon me and I am beyond all help.’ These words resounded piteously in my ears as the poor unfortunate ego was whisked away at tremendous speed to the bleak and colourless Hell Realm that was its inevitable destination. I cannot forget the horror of that moment.

 

I was that ego of course. I was that ego of which I am speaking so sorrowfully. I’m tempted to add ‘and I was all of these egos’ but that would be a mere empty philosophical flourish. I wasn’t all of those egos, I was only me. I didn’t care about the others, I could not relate to them. They were exactly the same as me it was true, but they were not me. ‘Alone in a crowd’, they call it, don’t they? ‘All alone in the ego swarm’.

 

When I notice myself I don’t like myself. I don’t like myself at all. On those rare occasions when I actually notice myself I am repelled and sickened and that’s why I don’t make a habit of it. I don’t make a habit of introspection, if that’s the right word. I don’t make a habit of ‘self observation’ – you can be sure I don’t. That just goes to a bad place; it goes to a bad place every time.

 

We’re all the same that way so maybe I don’t have to feel too bad about myself on that score. We are all alike in that way – no one actually wants to take a closer look at themselves do they? Dear me no. You bet we don’t. Why would you want to do that? Asking for trouble, that is. It’s asking for trouble and those that ask for trouble invariably get it, I think you’ll find.

 

We have to sympathise with the plight of the doomed ego though, that’s the point I was originally making. Or rather, we have to sympathise with the plight of the doomed ego which suddenly realises that it is doomed, the doomed ego that understands full well, with no mistake at all, in total clarity, that it absolutely is doomed. That’s a nasty moment. That’s a nasty moment for sure.

 

I was going to say, ‘We’ve all been there…’ in the same way I always do say ‘we’ve all been there’, which is more than just a little bit ridiculous of me, I know. We haven’t all been there. Of course we haven’t. That’s the whole point after all – the whole point is that we haven’t all been there. No indeed. You can take my word for it though, you surely can: the moment the doomed ego perceives clearly and without any doubt the absolute and irrevocable veracity of its doom then that is a nasty moment. It’s up there with the best of them, it really is. Is it ever up there.

 

I have actually thought about this rather a lot, you see. I have thought about it a hell of a lot. You could call me a bit of an expert, if you like. If you were to call me an expert I wouldn’t object. I’d accept that designation. I have thought about this kind of stuff – i.e. the doomed ego contemplating its doom, and the very particular psychological states that come about as a result of this contemplation – a hell of a lot. And I’m willing to bet that most ordinary respectable folks never do think about this subject. They don’t think that it will ever happen to them, most probably. That’s a bit of a laugh itself of course. Even though I know this is no laughing matter. It surely isn’t.

 

What we’re talking about here is the ‘negative revelation’ you see – the revelation of unutterable horror that none may speak of. The dawning of the fearful truth that we have fought against for so long. Well you can speak of it I suppose. If you want to. There’s no law against that after all, but there doesn’t need to be a law forbidding this sort of thing. This is forbidden territory all the same and we all know it. It surely is forbidden territory. Who amongst us wants to plumb the dreadful despair of the despairing ego? Who amongst us wishes to hear the piteously hopeless cries that issue forth day and night from the depths of Hades?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Human Gherkin

They call him ‘the Human Gherkin’ because he’s green and bumpy all over and because there’s just the faintest smell of vinegar when you get up close to him. Clouds pass across the sky as if by magic and night follows day with never a break. My mind is not my own, I realise. My mind was never my own…

 

They call him the Human Gherkin, I told myself. They call him the Human Gherkin. There was comfort for me in saying this. There was a quality of comfort that was otherwise so very lacking in my life. I was clutching at straws of course – forever clutching at straws! First I see the straw, and then I clutch at it. That’s generally how it works.

 

Was my life a waste, I wondered? Am I a failure as a human being? Did I get it all wrong? Was I only fooling myself the whole time that I was important and clever and all the rest? Was that just my pitiful ego trying to sustain itself, trying to maintain itself? Trying to bolster itself up against all the odds, against all the odds. Against insurmountable odds…

 

Through the kitchen window I can see white fluffy clouds chasing each other across the vast blue dome of the sky. I am transfixed watching them. My tea goes cold, and I have forgotten that it’s there. I was feeling somewhat worried that I taken too much LSD – I had licked all the dust from the bottom of the plastic bag, greedy as usual. There had been at least five hundred microdots in that bag, it occurred to me. Possibly more. Little crumbly ones. Little crumbly pink ones. I have probably taken too much LSD, I thought to myself. I probably took the equivalent to thirty whole microdots. Dust can be deceptive, after all. ‘The weight of dust exceeds the weight of settled objects,’ as Robert Wyatt says.

 

You’re dreaming your dreams and I’m dreaming mine, isn’t that the way it is? Dreaming the days away, dreaming the nights years away. Dreaming fit to burst. Dreaming for all you’re worth. Suppose you get stuck in the Dream Machine and you can’t ever get out, I wondered? What could you do then? You’d be dreaming your head off and you wouldn’t be able to stop. Dreaming fit to burst, dreaming non-stop, dreaming from morning till night. Dreaming that bad things are going to happen. Always dreaming that bad things are going to happen.

 

My mind was never my own – I can see that clearly now. I had thought that it was but that had been a mistake. It had been lent to me for a while, to do with whatever I wished. To use as I saw fit. That’s the Principle of Freedom, they said. ‘There’s no obligation at all,’ they said. ‘Use this mind however you see fit. See how it goes and we’ll get back to you…’ It had all turned very dark after that of course. The Darkness had come and it had settled on me; it had settled on me the way the Darkness always does.

 

When the Darkness comes it never wants to leave, does it? It wants to stay forever. That’s why the Darkness always makes us so sad – because we know it’s going to stay forever. There’s nothing as bad as knowing that, is there? There’s nothing as bad as when the darkness comes and you know that it’s never going to leave. They couldn’t ever be anything as bad as that.

 

They call him the Human Gherkin, I told myself. They call him the Human Gherkin because he’s green and bumpy all over. Bright green, he is. They made a film of him too. They made a film that told the story of his life. I’m sitting here and my tea has gone stone cold in front of me. There’s a dead fly floating around in it, a big one  – nearly the size of a sultana – and there’s another one that’s still alive and busily swimming around. It’s doing the backstroke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hanging Out In The Kudos Bar

First they make a world out of their damn so-called ‘products’ and then they trick us into living in it! Can you believe that such shit is even possible? It sounds too surreal to be true, too ludicrous to be taken seriously. Maybe that’s their trick, though – maybe that’s how they pull it off? Maybe that’s how they are able to do it, and not only do they do it but they get away with it too. We mustn’t forget that! Not only do they do it but they get away with it as well, and so now that’s the only world there is – the filthy old Product World. The Garbage World, the Joke World…

 

I was driving beautifully. As soon as I thought of a place I drove there – it was as if I was in a dream or some refined and exalted state of consciousness. First I thought of a place and then I drove there. I wasn’t driving in my car though – I was driving in my Dream Body. Wherever I thought of I went and wherever I went I was driving so beautifully. Not on the ground on roads but in the air, travelling serenely above the world. Travelling so effortlessly. There were no obstacles, there was nothing that could stop me, nothing to stand in my way. From time to time I would feel strange and wonder about what I was doing but then I’d get back into the groove again and resume my driving. Time doesn’t exist for me when I am travelling in my Dream Body; restrictions don’t exist for me.

 

It’s so very cool when cool things happen, I thought to myself. So very cool, so incredibly cool. Who would believe it? Not that anything cool ever happens to me, mind you. That’s not what I’m saying here. That’s what not what I’m saying here at all. How is it possible that some egos have lots of mojo whilst others don’t? I wondered. How is that possible? Why is it that some egos never have any mojo and are unable therefore to obtain a high ‘Kudos Score’ or indeed any kudos at all? Why is it that some egos have to go around the place grey and flat and listless and never really make any contribution to the world or have anything to say? These egos have to live with the curse of negative kudos and everyone looks down on them. Everyone sneers at them. What enables one ego to obtain a high Kudos Score and get on well in the world when other egos never enjoy this validation and are forever downtrodden?

 

‘Cool things are very cool,’ I thought to myself. ‘Cool things are super-cool and that is such a cool thing!’ I was drinking alcohol-free beer in my favourite bar, the Kudos Bar in the Clarion Hotel. Sitting at my favourite table having the craic with all the people coming in, enjoying life to the full. Having a bit of good old banter with the other guys there. As we fellas do. A bit of the old banter, the way you do. The way you do. Relaxed and at ease, enjoying my beer, enjoying my Bud Light. Life is good, it occurred to me. Lots of very cool things were happening. And there was me sitting at my favourite table in my all-time favourite bar enjoying the craic. You couldn’t beat it.

 

Only the Kudos Bar isn’t real of course. There’s nothing real about it at all. It was a Third Bardo hallucination that I was unable to recognise as such. It was a Third Bardot projection that I believed to be an actual reality. It was a thought-form that had hypnotised my consciousness. The Kudos Bar – what I took to be the Kudos Bar – was just my own confused mind, only I didn’t know it. It was just my own mixed-up confusion and I wasn’t able to realise it because I was too stuck. The time had come for me to move on but I couldn’t…

 

‘Move on, move on,’ the voices were telling me. ‘Recognise the Third Bardo hallucinations for what they are – projections of your own mind. Let go of your attachment to these illusory thought-forms.’ I wasn’t able to, though. I didn’t want to hear what the voices were telling me. I just did my best to blank them out. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening. I understood what the voices were saying alright but I just didn’t want to know. I was too frightened to take it on. I was pretending as hard as I could that it was just wasn’t true. That’s pretty much what I’ve been doing my whole life after all and so it comes quite naturally to me. It comes quite naturally to me to do what I’ve been doing my whole life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Great Would It Be?

How great would everything be if there were nothing to stop it, if there were nothing to stop it from being great? How great would everything be if there were nothing to prevent or restrict or obstruct it from being great? We are of course talking about that shadow which hangs over the whole world, the grim and unsavoury force of oppression that leans down on us all, and keeps us all in our allotted place.

 

We might think that there is no shadow; we might think that there is no repression and that everything is fine and just as it is supposed to be, and if we did think that then we wouldn’t be alone! We wouldn’t be alone to think that; it’s usual to think that, normal to think that, natural to think that. We all think that.

 

We all think that – we don’t go around all day long thinking that our reality is restricted in some grotesque or sinister way, after all. No one knows. We just think that things are as they should be and we also think that they are the only way they ever could be. We think that there is no restriction, that there is no oppression. We think that there is no shadow.

 

This is only to be expected of course. We wouldn’t expect things to be otherwise. This is of course how things are – we could hardly expect them to be otherwise – what kind of restriction announces itself as such? What would be the point of that? What sort of deception draws our attention to the fact that we are being deceived? What sort of a lie comes with a bright shiny sticker saying ‘This is a Lie,’ or ‘Contents: One Lie’? What sort of lie comes with a label which reads: ‘Ingredients: One Big Fat Dirty Lie. To be taken as prescribed by your doctor…’?

 

This is the very nature of the game, you see. The very nature. The game wouldn’t be right otherwise. The game wouldn’t be the game otherwise. It would be something else – it would simply be part of the Landscape of Truth. The Landscape of Truth – how that phrase resounds! What does the Landscape of Truth look like, you might ask? Who knows? None of us know. I don’t know. I don’t have a clue…

 

But the game is the game of course – of course the game is the game. The game is always the game. The game is All; the game is the Beginning of it and the End of it. The game is the beginning and the end of our experience and all the bits in between. We are required to pray to the game, to thank it for what it provides. Unworthy though we are to receive it. Unworthy, unworthy – always unworthy. Wretchedly unworthy.

 

The game is the game and that’s all there is to it. The game is great and we have to praise it, we have to be grateful to it. Praise be to the game, praise be to the game. Only we don’t call it that of course. We don’t call it by its name. We don’t know anything about the game. We don’t know anything about the game and that is the game!

 

How great would it be if things were allowed to be as great as they would be? How great would things be if there was nothing stopping them from being great? How great would that be? Who can tell? Who can know? Who can say? These are the questions we never ask, you see. These are the questions we don’t know to ask, the questions we aren’t able to ask! These are the questions that don’t ever get asked. How would we ever know to ask them?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Human Beanz

We’re always in such a hurry, we human beanz. Isn’t that the way with us? Always in such a damn hurry. We are in a hurry to get where we’re going but just what the hell are we going to do when we get there, that’s what I want to know. We didn’t really think that one out properly, did we? We think something great will happen when we get there of course – that’s the notion we have in our little heads. We’re wrong though. We’re wrong about that one. We are always in a hurry, but we don’t really know why – that’s the story with us human beanz sure enough. We think we know why were in such a hurry alright but we don’t really. We think the good thing’s going to happen and so that’s got us all worked up. ‘The good thing’s gonna happen’ – ever heard that one before? I expect you’re familiar with that formula. Hurry, hurry, hurry! Hurry up because the good thing’s gonna happen. You don’t want to miss the boat. That’s what we’ve been told, anyway. That’s human beanz for you. Always in a frigging hurry…

 

What does it mean to be human bean, huh? That’s the big question we all keep asking ourselves for sure. What’s it mean, what’s it mean? How to figure it out, how to figure it out? What’s the angle we need to take here? How do we play this? That’s what we’re all wondering, right? What’s the trick? What’s this ‘human bean business’ all about? Does it mean hurrying up so that we can get the prize? Maybe that’s what it means? Sounds like a good angle to take, wouldn’t you say? We can’t go wrong with that one… We are in a big hurry to go where life is taking us and is there anything so very wrong with that? Why do you think they call it ‘the human race’, after all?

 

Sometimes (perhaps) some bit of you, some deep-down bit, may not be working for your whole life and you might never know it. You’d just carry on as if everything was normal, for all the world as if everything was perfectly okay. You’d think you were normal. That’s a thought I had this morning. It’s not an original thought – I read it in a book probably – but all the same it came to me full force this morning. It came out of nowhere, it came out of the blue. I’m worried now though. If this situation happens to be true for you, does this means that you’re a bad person? Does this mean that you need to be punished? Does it mean that suffering is good? And if you are suffering but don’t know it, does that mean that you haven’t been punished properly yet? Maybe all the good times you thought you’d had weren’t really good times at all and one day you’ll find that out? What will you be left with to hang onto then? How will you validate yourself when your whole life you’ve been living an illusion? What could possibly make that OK? Nothing could make that OK.

 

It’s frightening trying to validate yourself when you can’t ever be validated, when you can’t ever be valid, when that’s an impossible job. That’s an obvious statement I know but it just burst out of me. It came from an inner fear of mine which momentarily rose to the surface, as inner fears often do. Of course that’s outrageous heresy for the positive thinkers or the self-affirmers – it actually makes me laugh when I think about how a self-righteous self-affirmer would react to that. Well, not so much ‘laugh’ perhaps. It makes me snigger nastily, but that’s almost the same thing. Very nearly the same thing. How can you validate something which never existed? I don’t care how smart you are – you can’t get around that one! It doesn’t stop us trying though does it? It certainly doesn’t. Nothing could stop us trying. What else do we ever do in fact? What else do we ever do? Of all the things we could possibly do – and some of them very good things, I have no doubt – we opt to do this one. Of all the great and worthy projects that we could devote ourselves to, we choose the project of ‘perpetually validating the unreal self’! That’s smart of us, wouldn’t you say? Let no one say that we human beanz are stupid, right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When The Cat’s Away

When the cat’s away the mice will play, isn’t that what they say? Damn right that’s what they say and the very same goes for egos – when consciousness is away then the little egos will play. Sure they will. Just watch – can’t you see them playing? Playing about, playing about. Doing this and doing that. Messing about, messing about, the way they do. The way those old egos do. They’re a laugh aren’t they, those old egos? Although at the same time they’re frighteningly tedious too as we all know very well. You’d go mad with boredom watching them really wouldn’t you? Can you imagine anything worse? Anything more appalling? Than those bloody old egos and their ceaseless carry-on. It’s meaningful to them of course – it’s meaningful to them I know. They’re at it all the bloody time after all. They can’t get enough of it. Whatever ‘it’ is. Whenever their special ego-type ‘business’ is. Playing about, playing about. Scurrying here and scurrying there. They’ll run away quick enough when the cat comes along though, I’ll tell you that! By Jingo that’ll put a stop to their damnable scampering. They’ll disappear fast enough then that’s for sure. They don’t like that old cat you see. No sir they don’t! They don’t like him at all. Not that the cat ever does show itself though, and I guess that’s something we have to bear in mind. It never does show itself and as a result those bloody old mice are everywhere. Wherever you look there’s mice, isn’t that right? Climbing up the curtains, climbing down the curtains, running out from under the fridge, running around like crazy little bastards all over the lino floor, crapping in the carpet, partying like there’s no tomorrow, in fact. It’s alright if you like mice I suppose. All right if you like mice. What happened to the fricking cat, you might ask? What’s that cat fricking playing at? Only it’s not the cat that’s playing it’s those bastard mice, of course. Which is to say, the jolly old egos. All right if you like egos of course, but who does? Let’s face it, who likes bloody egos? They haven’t exactly got a lot to recommend them, after all – they haven’t exactly got a lot of good qualities. Are they loyal and trustworthy like a Labrador or Golden Retriever, for example? No they’re certainly not – they’re treacherous little bastards and you can’t trust them an inch. Are they clean in their habits, like a well-trained family pet? No they’re not. Needless to say they’ll shit anywhere – they’re famous for shitting on their own doorstep. They’re famous for fouling their own nests. They’ll foul your nest too course. They’ll foul it good and proper, for sure they will. The stink will kill you, so it will. Do they perhaps sing sweetly like songbirds do, we might innocently ask? The answer is of course ‘No, certainly not!’ They moan and complain and gripe and grumble from morning till night. And even when they’re in good form they will still annoy you with the garbage they come out. Twisted little fuckers that they are. Who likes them? They don’t even like themselves. They don’t even like themselves because they’re always fighting and feuding and squabbling and backbiting. Isn’t that true? Little bastards that they are. ‘Whatever happened to the old cat?’ – that’s what I want to know…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having A Happy Moment

I was creating happy times in my own mind. Create the happy times, create the happy times, create the happy times, I warbled away to myself. Everything was so happy. It was as if I’d gone to the shopping centre and bought myself a happy product. Buy the happy product, buy the happy product, buy the happy product, I chortled happily. I had a whole trolley full of happy; I was shopping away in the supermarket of my own mind. I decided after a while to create some good friends to have happy times with. They didn’t have to be real. I didn’t care a damn about reality, you see.

 

I didn’t care about reality, all I cared about was having a happy time in the special happy world that I had created in my mind. Make the happy thoughts, make the happy thoughts, make the happy thoughts, I chanted away to myself. I was a positive thinker, you see. Positive thoughts are good, positive thoughts are good, positive thoughts are good, I intoned in reverent tones, as smug as a bug in a rug. I was being profound, you see. It was as if I was buying the happy product in a special shop. It’s an important thing to be a positive thinker, I told myself. I’m doing the right thing here and so that’s good. That’s very good. It’s good that I’m doing the right thing.

 

I was saying the magical words to make the magical things happen. ‘Happen, you magical things, happen…’ I chanted. Making all the magical things happen only they weren’t really magical of course – it was only my mind doing it, as usual. My mind was the supermarket and it was all the products and it was also me shopping for the products. My mind was the product and it was selling the products to the product. We have to keep it in the family, after all. Buy the happy product, went the little advertising jingle, buy the happy product and you will have such a lovely happy day. Everyone else will wish that they could be happy just like you…

 

‘The happy thing is going to happen right now,’ I shouted, unable to contain my excitement any longer, ‘let’s all let out a big cheer for the happy thing!’ Everyone cheered enthusiastically. All my made up friends cheered. Everyone was keen to enter into the spirit of things; no one wanted to be a party pooper. No one likes a party pooper. How wonderful life can be, I said to myself, when the happy thing happens dead on cue and everyone starts cheering fit to burst. I realise that I’m having such a very happy time and that I’m feeling great. I take a moment or two to feel gratitude for all the good things that have happened to me. Yes, this is such a wonderful moment, I say solemnly, let’s take a moment or two to appreciate it. Everyone is silent.

 

I have to appreciate the very special gratitude moment I realise, I mustn’t let it slip away unnoticed. Let us all have a moment of appreciation for the gratitude moment, I say and everyone breaks out cheering again. They’re confused you see and somehow that spoils the mood. I’m annoyed and no matter how I try to recover that precious moment of solemn gratitude I can’t. Instead, everything takes on a sinister, mocking, echoey quality. When I speak the proper and appropriate words, the words that fit the occasion, they refuse to come out right – they come out sounding ominous and unpleasant as if they don’t actually mean what they’re supposed to mean. There’s an insolent, vile, jeering quality to them. I am trying my best to be grateful for the moment but it’s just not working out too well. I realise that the present moment is actually a device to torment me. It’s a device invented by the Devil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ocean Of Lies [Part 2]

Bullshit is a way of life – I understand that. I understand that very well indeed – please believe me when I say that! I most certainly do understand that. Bullshit is all, bullshit is God – I get that. Please don’t think I don’t. To speak is to bullshit, to think is to bullshit, and this is the sacred lore of our forefathers. No one wants to disrespect the sacred law of their forefathers after all and that’s very understandable. There is such a thing as loyalty after all. We may not know that we are being loyal to our forefathers and we may not like to hear this, but all the same we can’t get away from it. It’s unconscious loyalty – we are loyal by blind instinct, we blindly honour those who came before us by being just as  pigheadedly stupid as they were. We follow in their footsteps.

 

I call that ‘Adapting to the Perverted Macro-state’. I’ve done a fair bit of research into it you see. I’ve actually done rather a lot of research into it. I’m not trying to say that I’m great or anything like that, mind you. I’ve spent a lot of time making a complete knob-end of myself too, the same as everyone else. I put my hands up to that – ‘Yes, that was me!’ says I proudly. Wasting my time; making a complete and utter dickhead of myself. I’m not going to deny it. Far from it – I’m owning up to it straightaway. I’m owning up to it and I make no excuses either. ‘Say it like it is!’ – that’s my motto!

 

Instead of talking in terms of ‘Adapting to the Perverted Macro-State’ I sometimes like to use the alternative phrase ‘Pledging our undying loyalty and obedience to the Great Unspeakable Malignancy’ – it’s another way of saying the same thing, you see. The point is that if we weren’t so full of bullshit then that’s what we’d all say. We’d all say ‘I have pledged my allegiance to the Great Malignancy’ or ‘I have opted to serve the Supremely Mendacious One in all things’ or some such formula. Call a spade a spade, right? Say it like it is. Put your cards face up on the table and let’s all have a good look at them. No one’s going to judge you, after all. No one is going to say that you’re a bad person. We’re all the same in that respect you know – we’ve all sworn to serve and obey the Great Unspeakable Malignancy (or GUM, as I like to call him) so why be so ridiculously coy about it? That to me is being rather immature.

 

Bullshit is a way of life though, as I believe I have already said. It’s the air we breathe, it’s the ground under our feet. It’s the fragrance in our nostrils. Bullshit is the sea we swim in and yet never see. Like little fishes we are, swimming this way and that in the Great Ocean of Lies. What are we looking for in this Ocean of lies, what do we seek? What benefits are we pursuing, in our remarkably single-minded (if not to say stubborn) fashion? Like little fishes in the sea are we, lunging after the microscopic particles of imaginary sustenance, squabbling bad-temperedly over hallucinatory advantages. What a farce it all is, wouldn’t you say? What a dreadful farce. Such is the nature of the ignominy that we have called down upon our own heads. Such is our unfortunate fate.

 

We expected a better deal than this of course – we had some half-baked idea in our heads that we were in a better bargaining position than we actually were. ‘We’ll swear allegiance to you, you Great Unspeakable Malignancy, and then you – for your part – will give us some of the good stuff.’ That’s the deal we thought we were cutting, like the clever little businessmen and businesswomen we are. Did we really expect the GUM to play fair and square with us? Surely not! Surely we couldn’t have been that stupid?

 

 

 

 

 

Wanting The Big Tasty

I was dreaming, as usual. I was in my own private mind-created dream. In my dream I was standing at the counter of my local burger bar. I was going to order a Super Whopper. I was paying my respects to the King.  ‘I’ll have a Super Triple Stack Whopper,’ I say, but the words don’t come out right. They’re all slowed down and echoey, it’s as if the world had suddenly started running at one quarter speed.

 

‘What must consciousness be like?’ I asked sadly. What must it be like, what must it be like? All I know is this terrible trudging about in the mechanical realm. I’ve got my Velcro boots on and I’m walking on an endless Velcro carpet. Down an endless corridor. All that exists is this terrible plonking of one foot in front of the other and the horrible sticky sound it makes. ‘That other world,’ I said to myself, ‘that inner world of consciousness. What must it be like to live in that world?’ That was a world I knew nothing about, I reflected sadly. All I knew was the harsh mechanical world of force and counter-forces, the world of crushing hammer blows that come out of the blue, the world of unrelenting fear, the world of cruelty and need.

 

‘You should let the demon gnaw your head off,’ the voice told me, ‘it’s good for them.’ We do owe a debt of allegiance to the demons after all. Let the demon gnaw your head off, let the demon gnaw your head off, let the demon gnaw your head off,’ the voice instructed me, only it wasn’t so much a voice as a reverberation that was happening deep in my bones. I call it ‘the Reverberation Factor’. Even when you deliberately don’t focus on what the voice is telling you can still feel it – it’s a very physical communication. It’s as if your molecules are vibrating in time to the instructions of the voice. The demons demand your obedience – you owe it to them after all. It’s not as if there could be any other purpose to your life.

 

The dreams are coming thick and fast now; it’s as if I am being continuously pelted with soft clumps of dream-material. Every time one hits me I forget everything and the dream takes me over for a minute or two. Waking up briefly from each dream, I can’t know what was in it. I can’t know what it was that I’d been dreaming about. All that remains is the faint flavour of small, musty spaces and a faint residual sense of frantic, futile activity. My own frantic, futile activity. The futile struggling to be free, perhaps. Free from the claustrophobic clutches of the dream, free from the sense of deeply-ingrained worry that will never let you go. Free from the terrible oppression of all that confused sense of need. Need is all you know in this realm, it occurs to me. Need drives everything, need is all there is. Need and the constant futile struggle to escape that need.

 

‘What makes up your existence?’ someone might ask me. ‘Need and the constant futile struggle to escape that need.’ I would reply. That’s the curse of the mechanical life, after all; that’s the treadmill we all have to keep treading. It’s all about maintaining productivity, that’s the all-important thing. Producing the product is very important. No one knows what the product is of course – that’s not for us to know. Our lot is simply to keep on trudging and not asking why. Our lot is to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Only I do know what the mysterious product is – don’t ask me how I know but I do. The product is food for the Great Parasite, the Great Parasite to whom we all owe our allegiance.

 

Walking up to the bar. A bit of a swagger to my step. ‘I’m here to see my mate Ronnie,’ says I. I’m in my own private dream, which is all going on in my head, nowhere else. Nowhere else. All in my head. Everything is going fine, everything is going swimmingly. I was purchasing some of the Product. This was all going to plan; it was all going the way I intended. ‘Can I have a Big Tasty,’ I ask, in a relaxed and casual fashion, as if I’ve been doing this my whole life. ‘I’ll have a Big Tasty please.’ I’ll have a Big Tasty, I’ll have a Big Tasty, I’ll have a Big Tasty… The words are all turning to mush in my mouth however. The words don’t mean anything anymore.