My Thoughts Are Poisoning Me

I am buried deep deep down beneath this mass of thoughts. I’m right down at the bottom of a well, right down at the bottom of a ‘thought-well’, as it were. Only I’m not well. I’m not at all well. Do you think all those thoughts make me well? Is there any wellness in the thoughts that I am always thinking? The thoughts I think and think and keep on thinking. Is there any wellness in the thought-well? Of course there’s isn’t but that doesn’t stop me thinking. The worse I feel the more I think and my thoughts are slowly poisoning me. Thoughts are my unwellness. They are my sickness – the sickness of thinking…

 

I am sick with my thinking and I am also sick of it. So sick of it. Here’s another thought, and another, and another. All of this is just more thinking to throw on the pile. So that I can bury myself all the deeper. Why not? I went to see my GP the other day and I told him how bad I was feeling. ‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘I’m feeling terrible. I’m feeling absolutely awful – I’ve caught the sickness of thinking and I don’t think anything can cure me’. That’s a joke by the way. In case you didn’t spot it. Though I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t – my jokes tend to be rather dry these days. Dehydrated jokes – just add water and stand back. I’m the dehydrated man and I’m coughing out clouds of dust. As I laugh. A man goes to see his doctor, doctor doctor he says you’ve got to help me I keep thinking that I’m a pair of curtains well says the doctor have you tried CBT? A few sessions should fix that for you… Another man comes into the clinic a few minutes later on doctor doctor he blurts out you’ve got to help me I keep on trying to do CBT on myself and its driving me mad, it’s driving me stone mad pure mad as mad as a rat I don’t what to do I don’t know how to stop it well says the doctor have you tried CBT? We could try to arrange a few sessions for you. That’ll sort you out in a jiffy…

 

I’m down at the bottom of a deep deep well. The sky above me is the size of a two cent piece – it bobs around crazily, over here one minute, over there the next. It’s like the reflection of the moon in a pond. Sometimes I think that I’m imagining it – the tiny circle of sky floats around mockingly like a defect in my vision. Maybe it actually is a two cent piece. Or maybe it is only a figment of my imagination. Like everything else down here at the bottom of the thought-well. I can feel the crushing weight of the thinking that’s stacked up above me. The sheer oppressive brutal weight of it is giving me no space to breathe. I’m suffocating down here. There’s no air down here at the bottom of the thought-well. There’s nothing down here but rancid congealed misery. Like coal. You could mine it, create a whole industry out of it. Little dwarves could mine it. An army of homunculi.

 

It’s as foetid as hell down here, it occurs to me. It is hell – it’s the hell of my own thinking. I’m stuck in the hell of my own thinking, I think dismally, a renewed and re-intensified burst of self-inflicted misery suddenly hitting me. And that’s just another thought to throw on top of the thought-pile…

 

 

 

Shell Game #2

Ghosts can operate within living human bodies too you know. They necessarily don’t have to be disembodied deteriorated psychic entities, drifting around the lower astral planes. Maybe you didn’t know that, huh? Maybe that sounds a bit strange to you? I guess it’s not something that you would necessarily think of. I know it never occurred to me until a few days ago. I don’t know why it occurred to me – I was just walking down the street when suddenly it hit me. It was like something I should have seen but somehow never did. Something seemed to shift in me and I started picking up stuff that I don’t usually pick up on. Stuff that I never ever had picked up on before. I began to tune into what I can only call some seriously weird shit.

 

Well maybe ‘weird’ is the wrong word to use. It’s all just stuff really – it’s stuff that is true and commonplace and perfectly natural but which I personally didn’t happen to know about. That’s a better way of putting it. It’s only my own ignorance that was making me feel that it was weird or spooky. I just never thought about it before – people were just people as far as I was concerned and that’s all there was to it. People are what they seem to be. We all are just what we seem to be. What a simple straightforward world that is. Only it’s not true – that’s not the way things are. What I have now come to understand is that some of us are dwelling places for ghosts. Maybe a lot of us are. We’re inhabited…

 

It may not sound very nice to say this but there you go. That’s just the way things are – what are you going to do about it? It’s just a question of waking up to the fact of it. The principle sign of ghost possession – as I can now see very clearly indeed – is the complete lack of any interest or concern in anyone else other than oneself. The possessed people are entirely selfish, in other words. They live in a universe of self – self is all they know. They live in a ‘seamless universe of self’, as William Gibson says. Quite possibly you are now thinking that the people I am talking about are simply sociopaths or psychopaths. It’s not ghosts inhabiting people at all, you are probably saying to yourselves. But this is an example of ‘lazy thinking’ – ‘sociopath’ is merely a classification, it’s not an explanation. It is only a word – it doesn’t mean we actually know anything. We can use the word ‘sociopath’ as much as we want, and be perfectly familiar with it, but that doesn’t mean we have any insight into what is going on there. Far from it…

 

We do so like to observe the externalities of things and apply labels. That’s our style, that’s what we do. Then we think we have knowledge about it! This is of course pure poppycock. It is balderdash. When you meet someone who has no concept of what it means to have an interest in other people for their own sake what you are dealing with is a human being who is being possessed by a ghost. A ghost is operating them – a ghost we call ‘self’. A spooky entity is inhabiting them and getting them to do stuff, getting them to say things and mimic having actual relationships with other human beings. It’s all pure mimicry though – ghosts can be clever enough sometimes but they are also awesomely stupid. They are stupid because they are only patterns of reflexes that persist for no better reason than the innate mechanical tendency of habits or reflexes to persist. And somehow we mistake that keenness to keep on existing as ‘being alive’!

 

Don’t you thing that is strange? That we get confused like that about something so important? I think it’s pretty damn strange. Does this mean that we are all ghosts? If we think that the dumb mechanical urge to keep on existing is synonymous with being alive then maybe we are all ghosts? Maybe we’re all playing ‘the shell game’. Maybe we are all ‘haunted houses’ and so we naturally take it completely for granted that this spooky state of affairs is what life is supposed to be like…

 

 

 

 

The Filth Of Satan

The filth of Satan, the filth of Satan, the Filth of Satan, everywhere I look I see the filth of Satan. As I drive into work I pass a billboard which says “When you don’t let anything stand in the way of your dreams” and there’s a picture of a can of Budweiser. THAT’S the filth of Satan. If anything ever was the filth of Satan that’s it. That advert. What kind of shit is that? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Or more to the point, what do the odious smarmy bastards who come up with such shit want it to mean to us? What is going on in their sick heads when they come up with this stuff, that’s what I want to know? They go to work every day, wearing their smart suits and shiny shoes, and they come up with shit like this and then they go home again thinking that they have done a good day’s work. Does it mean that when you don’t let anything stand in the way of your dreams then you drink beer? That makes a lot of sense for sure. I can really get that. Or you could just sniff lighter fluid instead – same difference really. You could inhale solvents. Whatever wipes out your brain so you don’t have to think too much about stuff. Whatever can give you that lovely numb feeling between your ears. Sure – I get that. We all get that. Or does it mean that when you don’t let anything stand in the way of your dreams you believe every goddamn stupid crassly insulting ad you see? Does it mean that you will then swallow all the bullshit whole without ever chewing?  Because if you ever do start chewing you are in serious trouble. And what are these stupid bloody dreams that we are supposed to be having all the time and which are so incredibly precious? Your dreams, your dreams, your dreams… The sick condescending bastards. The only dreams they mean are the dreams that they have implanted in our brains with their filthy advertising. They fill our heads with this filth and then they encourage us to ‘follow our dreams’ like the indomitable heroes we are. Go on folks, follow your dreams. Follow your dreams, follow your dreams. You sick perverted bastards. It’s ALL the filth of Satan. The newspapers with their grubby headlines are the pure undiluted filth of Satan. The magazines on the shelves at the newsagents – OK, Women’s Own, Cosmopolitan, Look!, FHM, Men’s Health…, it’s the filth of Satan jumping out at you from all directions. Leaping out at you wherever you look. And no one ever takes a blind bit of notice. We swallow it all. That mind-numbing shit that’s always blaring out over the radio – doesn’t it make you want to run down the street screaming? It does me. The sewers of Hell are emptying out from vast conduits all around us and we’re sucking it up. ‘Modern Culture’, you might call it. I know what I call it…

 

 

 

Waiting To Feel Normal

I’m sitting here in the Neo restaurant in the Admin Block (that used to be the old Nurses’ Home) drinking my second coffee of the day and hoping that it will do the trick. (This is a true story by the way and not something that I made up just to pass the time.) I feel that I really need this coffee. It feels like an actual dependency in fact. I’m like a junkie getting his fix, waiting for it to take effect. Waiting for the rush, waiting for the hit so I can be ready for the day. Without my fix I’m nothing, I’m nobody. I’m overdoing it here maybe. I’m laying it on a bit too thick perhaps, but you know what I mean. You get the picture. But the point of this story (such as it is) is that I am not getting the effect I am waiting for. I’m sitting here feeling every bit as bad as I did half an hour ago. I’m feeling every bit as bad as I did when I got out of bed an hour and a half ago and started my weary commute to work. You know that feeling when you wake up feeling every bit as tired as when you went to bed and you’re telling yourself that you’re going to start feeling better any minute now. Just give it another ten minutes. Just give it another half hour. Just one more cup of coffee and you’ll be fine. You’re telling yourself all this but it’s just not happening. It’s not happening at all. You’re a sitting duck. You’re a dead duck – you’re dead in the water because it’s just not happening for you. If anything happened you just wouldn’t be able to cope; if anyone walked up and said something to you wouldn’t know what to say. You’d just stare at them blankly. No words would come. That’s how bad it is! As I’m sure you know, there’s nothing as disconcerting as this feeling – you’re waiting for something to happen and it never does. You’re waiting to feel normal but you never do. It’s just not happening. So what are you supposed to do? You keep on pressing the button you always press but there’s nothing – just a bit of an empty click. You keep on pressing it because that’s all you know how to do. You’re pressing it like a moron. You’re a one trick pony and the trick just isn’t working any more. I suppose what I’m talking about here is panic – sheer bloody panic. I am caught and I don’t know what to do. My brain is in overdrive trying to thinking of a way out, trying to think of how I can scam it. How to dodge whatever challenges come my way. How to survive until it is time to go home again. How to duck and dive. Like I say, this is a true story. It really happened. I’m not making this up. That was my day. It’s fucked up but it’s true. That’s how it is…

 

 

 

Preta Loka

I was dreaming, I was dreaming that I was back in El Hak’s Kebab Emporium which is situated just outside the entrance to Hounslow West Tube station and I am sitting down at the table with a lamb shawarma and chips and a can of ice-cold coke just there in front of me. Just sitting there about to tuck in; anticipating the pleasure I am going to have eating it. It was only in my dreams though because I can never go back. None of us can go back, that’s the one thing that isn’t allowed. ‘There’s no going back’ is the rule we have to learn. It’s the rule most of us have learned. Everything here is all about learning this rule, even though it is with the utmost reluctance that we do so. It’s the pleasant memories that one keeps trying to go back to. Naturally enough, I suppose. For me those memories generally have to do with food. I have lots of pleasant memories associated with food…

 

Sometimes I’m in the Mermaid Fish Bar ordering a large cod and chips with mushy peas and a bag of pickled onions on the side. Or maybe I’m in the Lucky Dragon Noodle House standing there at the counter deliberating thoughtfully between Pad Thai or Khao Phat. Taking my time with the decision. Sometimes I’m in the Shaolin Garden ordering my favourite – Hong Kong style sweet and sour prawn balls with boiled rice. Or else I’m in Rosie’s Café with a huge plate of roast beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and all the trimmings sitting there in front of me. I’m just about to eat it. I’m on the point of eating it. It’s such a great feeling that I can’t even begin to describe it. But then nothing happens – all that anticipation comes to nothing because it’s only a dream and the thing about dreams is that they can tantalize but they can never satisfy. They can promise delights but they can’t actually deliver.

 

Names to conjure with. El Haks. The Shawarma King. The Mermaid Fish Bar. Rosie’s Café. Mr Tasty. Kebab Land. The Lotus Garden. The Lucky Dragon. The Happy Chicken. The Famous Kebab Pizza. Chicken Express. The Canton Kitchen. The Moghul Dynasty. The Rickshaw Fast Food Bar. The Sunrise Cafe. All these names come back to me. All these places that I have known. I feel tears of nostalgia coming to my eyes. Or I would do if I had eyes. The pangs of sheer longing that I’m experiencing go right off the scale – they are unbearable. I am in a world of pure undiluted longing and pure undiluted pain. Pain because I can never go back. Pain because there’s no such thing as going back. No such thing as. No such thing as. No such thing as. Yet was else is there for me? I’m in a nowhere place – a place with nothing in it. Even I’m not in it – I’m not in it because I don’t exist. I’m not in it because I’m not really here. Because I’m not really anywhere. The pain of loss hits me again, harder than ever. The loss of the world I used to know, the loss of the me I used to know.

 

And then I’m back in El Hak’s Kebab Emporium again, in Hounslow High Street. I’m so happy to be there that I start crying. The tears are pouring out of me, running down my face. Falling softly onto the extra large lamb donner kebab that I’m holding in my hand, preparing to take a bite out of it. The hot pitta bread is getting damp with my tears. I’m yearning to take a bite out of it. The rich flavour of the meat reaches my nose giving me a foretaste of what is to come. Giving me a sneak preview of the richly satisfying pleasures that are coming my way. The hot hot chillie sauce and the generous helping of garlic mayo. The freshly chopped onions and finely sliced red cabbage, and the rich rich smell of the meat. I’m bringing the kebab up to my mouth, anticipating the moment. Keenly anticipating the moment. I can’t wait…

 

 

 

 

 

Bad Place

I am in a bad place. A bad, bad place. People say that all the time, don’t they? They say it so easily. It trickles off the tongue. Oh I’m in a bad place. Oh no man I’m in a bad place. Something happened and it wasn’t cool. The bad thing happened that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. The bad thing happened and it wasn’t cool. I’m back in that place again, the place I keep coming back to. You know that place. Or maybe you don’t. Probably you don’t – I’m not very good at communicating really am I. I expect everyone to just know, as if they’re telepathic or something. But you can’t know – nobody can know. The place I’m in sucks. It sucks like a vacuum. It is a vacuum – it’s a vacuum of anything meaningful, anything good. The bad place I’m sucks so much – it sucks so much that it sucks everything out of you. It sucks and it sucks. It’s a kind of sterile environment that I have made for myself – only it isn’t really an environment it’s me. It’s only me, that’s all. I’m having to confront myself and it isn’t pretty. It’s not a pretty sight – it’s a skeletal reality with no light, no warmth, no sustenance in it. There’s nothing but the ever-present suction of the hollow bare emptiness. It’s a bare-bones environment – every last little bit of flesh has been gnawed away by the great hunger that rules here. There’s nothing left here, just the terrible bleak hollowness that never stops sucking. I suppose you could say that what I’m talking about is a type of loneliness really. There’s nothing and no one here you see. Even I’m not here – there’s just the bare bones of it, the bare bones of me, the bare bones of what used to be me but which is now just an abyss of aching hunger. A type of hunger that has devoured even itself. Which has gnawed away every last bit of flesh leaving only this appalling vacuum behind – a vacuum that is trying to feed on itself but can’t because there’s nothing left. But like I said it’s actually just an extreme type of loneliness. An unbearable type of loneliness. Infinite loneliness. It’s actually a horrific type of pain and that pain is all that there is. There’s nothing else. The only way to bear it is to keep on distracting yourself with games. Empty, hollow, sterile horrible mind-games that you have to keep throwing yourself into. I used to be able to distract myself but there’s nothing left to do it with – the games don’t work anymore and so it’s just me and the pain of the loneliness. Which I can no longer avoid; which I now have to confront on a full-time basis. Like I say, I’m in a bad place…

 

 

 

 

Feaster Party

A crew of heavy-duty feasters have moved into town. That’s the news. That’s what’s going on – just in case you are interested. Which probably I’d say you won’t be! But if you are actually interested I can assure you that this is the case. You can take my word for it. It’s easy enough to spot the signs if you have happened to have had any experience in these matters, which admittedly most people haven’t. The most obvious sign is that the inhabitants of the town will begin before very long to look strangely flat, emotionally-speaking. They will cease to smile and will appear peculiarly blank in their facial expression. It will become clear that their spark has been extinguished, in some way or other. There’s generally a bad energy to the place as well – people are cold and unfriendly and an air of menace tends to hang in the air. These are all sure signs of feasters at work. These are all sure indications that a bunch of feasters have moved in and are busy harvesting the life-energies of the unfortunate population.

 

That’s feasters for you. That’s what they do. As far as I know they pretty much aren’t capable of doing anything else. They certainly wouldn’t be interested in engaging in any other more diverse behaviours – draining the life -energy out of humans is just about it really. Feasters are only interested in one thing in my experience, and that’s feasting! Boy do those old feasters love feasting. They surely do…

 

I know other people would have a different viewpoint on the matter. They might for example tell you that the symptoms I have just described are a result of modern culture which by its very nature will eventually tend to turn folk into soulless androids. Modern life is all about shopping and apps and mobile phones and the technology of mass distraction, along with the necessity to commit oneself to meaningless mechanical work in order to be able to afford all these distractions and if this doesn’t suck the life force out of you then what will? This is what many people will tell you, no doubt. I can see the point that is being made here of course and there’s certainly more than a grain of truth in it. Who could deny that? Other people will point the finger at the big corporations and make the argument that it is in the interests of these corporations that we should be turned into witless addicted consumers concerned only with reading about the banal misdemeanours of mass-produced generic celebrities and buying whatever filthy harmful rubbish the advertising companies tell us we should be coveting. And this is perfectly true as well – I can’t argue with this. Of course the big planet-governing corporations want us to be their brainwashed puppets living fake trashy lives so as to maximize their profit margins – what other strategy could they possibly be expected to adopt? Tell me something I don’t know…

 

But my point is that all of this comes down to the feasters. Who do you think is behind all the mega-corporations? Who do you think is working behind the scenes manipulating the manipulators? Whose agenda would you say it is that is being served by this superficial nonsense we call ‘modern life’? Just because you can’t see the feasters doesn’t mean that they aren’t there, you know. They’re there all right – I’ve seen them. Do you think that it’s just an accident that the human race is acting in a way that is so colossally irresponsible? People aren’t really that stupid. They aren’t stupid at all – they’ve been got at. We’re all under a spell, a malign enchantment. Nobody believes in spells and enchantments any more of course – we’re all far too sophisticated for that. But what does it matter what we believe? We’ve all been hypnotized by the feasters and what we either believe or don’t believe doesn’t matter a damn.

 

Feasters love to feast – that’s the bottom line. They love it so much. That’s all they ever do. They feast, they gorge themselves, they stick their drooling satanic snouts in the trough and hoover up all the good stuff like there’s no tomorrow. Is it any wonder that we copy them; is it any surprise that we unknowingly mimic our masters? The predators give us their mind – did you ever hear that? If only you could see them, as I do, feasting to their hearts’ content. If only you could see how much they love feasting and how little they care for us, that would shake you out of your complacency! ‘Feasters’, you scoff, ‘why do you keep going on about these damn feasters? Get real, for God’s sake.’ But feasters are real. I’ve seen them. The feasters. The Eaters of Life…

 

‘Well what town is it that they have moved into?’ you may ask, full of sarcasm. It’s a little old place called Earth. Perhaps you have heard of it? The feasters have come to Earth Town and they’re having themselves a party…