When Your Mind Turns Against You

The mind is a funny thing so they say, although that’s as maybe. That’s as maybe. My mind has turned against me and that’s a problem I don’t like to talk about. Other people’s minds are working against them too and they don’t like to talk about it either. No one does. So all is fine and dandy apart from this one small and rather insignificant detail. Our minds have created society and so that’s alright. That’s a prison. Society’s a prison. But what a wonderfully civilised prison it is! It’s a prison but it’s one that we are all very grateful for. What a fantastic prison – it’s something else, isn’t it? Society is a prison we can be comfortable in, when we’re not being uncomfortable that is. We fight for our comforts as best we can.

 

 

I am afraid of the frightening thing, I am hungry for the tasty thing, joyful about the joyful thing and I’m angry about the annoying thing. I am very angry about the annoying thing. My anger is legendary. I am furthermore convinced by the convincing thing, worried by the worrying thing and very disturbed by the very disturbing thing. All is as it should be therefore, all is exactly as it was always meant to be. Why argue with the way the world always was? What benefit can there possibly be in rashly interfering with the primordial order of things? Even if this were possible, which of course it isn’t. This whole line of discussion is entirely futile, therefore. We would have been better off saying nothing at all, but such is often the way. We only know afterwards.

 

 

We say what we’re supposed to say and there is great merit in this. We speak the words that our friends expect us to speak and there is general agreement all around. How sacred this agreement is! How splendid and how sacred. What peace it brings! None may describe that peace; none may say what things it might possibly be similar to. All we can do is wait with bated breath, waiting for the Great Event that has been foretold. They say that the Great Event might turn out to be very great. Who knows, after all? They say that it might be, they say that it might be. Outspoken critics have made cynical remarks of course – we all know that, we’re all perfectly aware of that. ‘How dare they disparaged the foretold event’, you cry out, genuinely horrified. You are right to feel horror my friends – you are dead right. Your horror does you credit – you are horrified by the horrifying thing are you not? You are rightly enraged by the outrageous antics of your detractors. How could you be otherwise? It was foretold that things should be this way. It was foretold from the very beginning.

 

 

‘How dare they detract from the seriousness of the occasion,’ you murmur absentmindedly, going through the motions of a very old conversation. You are no longer concerned for that moment has already passed. It’s time to move on to other things. ‘Forget the past’, you say portentously (although no one is listening), ‘it is time to let go of all of that. All of that is water under the bridge now – all of that is water. The past never existed and the future is an illusion. You have returned from a long, long journey and you have many a strange tale to tell. None of them are true of course but they make for good entertainment all the same. If you happen to like that sort of thing, that is.

 

 

We forget what we are supposed to forget, and I’d say that we deserve credit for that. I’d say we deserve plenty of credit for that. We’ve played our part – we were supposed to forget and so we did, we forgot bang on cue. We are following the script down to the last letter. The stink of forgetfulness surrounds us on all sides and that’s a stink like no other. We are under the aegis of Hypnos here you understand – Hypnos the great, Hypnos the magnificent. ‘Roll up, roll up folks’, the barker barks, ‘roll up and see the great Hypnos demonstrate his magnificent powers’. Folk turned up in their millions, as we know. They came from all over. The shame of it is though that no one ever remembers the show…

 

 

 

 

 

Pay Undivided Attention…

‘Pay undivided attention to the lie that defines you’, I proclaim grandiosely. I’m being grandiose even by my standards! That is my mantra, you see – that’s my good old mantra. I’m always repeating it to myself and it doesn’t matter whether it’s day or night. That doesn’t matter at all. Only it isn’t my mantra, not really. I never repeat it in the day and I never repeat it in the night either. Not even once in my life did I ever repeat that mantra to myself.

 

‘Exceptional days bring forth exceptional events’, I always say, and today has proven to be no exception. Today has proven itself to be no exception at all! ‘Exceptional events are often very exceptional, I enthuse enthusiastically, a great big maniacal grin spreading infectiously across my grotesquely swollen face. My infectious good humour is infectious only to me however – no one else can catch it. It’s a closed circuit – I’m in a self-infector you could say, and everyone else remains unaffected. I’m a carrier but not a spreader, in other words.

 

My eyes are bigger than my ears and that is very fortunate since where I am there is no sound, never any sound. You never heard the like of the silence down here. I live deep under the earth’s crust you see, miles and miles beneath the surface of the planet and everything is inky silent down here. Everything is total inky silence. All around me the prey move silently hither and thither, impossible to detect with the everyday senses but very tasty all the same. As tasty as fried bubble-gum, as tasty as last week’s shepherd pie…

 

‘Pay unbroken attention to the lie that defines you’, I whisper to myself, ‘and mayhap the dire illusion of existence will dissolve…’ I speak cheerily, and with great confidence, but many are the ones who doubt my words. Many are the doubters we might say, and on those who doubt there falls a terrible affliction. On those who do not doubt there falls a terrible affliction too of course. On those who believe there also falls an affliction. We’re afflicted whichever way we turn, I’m afraid. There isn’t a thing any of us can do to avert the disaster. Small wonder we’re all so ratty! Small wonder we’re all such bad losers…

 

‘We are the afflicted ones / and no hope remains for the likes of us’, as the line in the famous song goes. That good, good song. That good, good song that I love so much. That good, good song that doesn’t actually exist. We are the unfortunate afflicted ones. We are the afflicted ones and hard indeed is our affliction to bear. I see you nodding your head wisely in agreement. You always nod your head wisely in agreement – in my mind you do anyway. In my mind you always do. You recognise the burden just as much as I do, after all. You too are aware of the dreadful, dreadful burden that we all have to bear – you are all too aware! I speak here of the dire affliction of existence, as you know. No one else knows of this affliction, but we do…

 

 

 

 

 

Bakers And Fakers

In the Kingdom of Unspeakable Body Odour the person who only smells half-bad is Lord and Master. Only not really of course. Not really. Only kidding, fellas. I’m just messing. It’s just a little joke of mine. He who only smells half-bad, he who only smells half-bad. That’s if you’re in the Kingdom of course; that’s only if you’re in the Kingdom. It doesn’t count otherwise. You are stuck in a dream and you can’t ever get out of it, you’re dreaming yourself and you just can’t stop. It’s a bad dream. It’s also completely involuntary – we do it in inadvertently, unbeknownst to ourselves. Only there is no ‘ourselves’ and that’s the whole point. You love talking so much but at the same time you’ve got nothing to say. Words can’t describe it anyway. Words can never describe it.

 

We all adhere to the equilibrium values of yore and that’s the mark of our respect, that’s the mark of our respect and deference. It’s a mark of our dedication to the cause – it’s the thing to do, of course. There are medals to be won as well you know; honours will be bestowed. It’s called having a sense of duty and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s called ticking the box and we’ve all got plenty to say on that subject. Plenty to say, plenty to say. You’re rubbing shoulders with the makers and the shakers, the bakers and the fakers. You are being seen in all the right places and tongues are wagging. Tongues are always wagging. Comments are being made. You’re suffering from low grade anxiety and fatigue – you’ve been pushing the boat out too far you see. You have been burning the candle in the middle and that is the worst thing you could ever do. You’ve made mistakes the same as everyone else but all you want is another chance. Is that too much to ask, you wonder?

 

We adhere scrupulously, if not reverentially, to the equilibrium values. We revere the equilibrium values and all credit is due to us for that. We are utterly scrupulous in our observation of these meaningless old equilibrium values and there’s nothing more deserving of credit than this. None can reproach us and none shall reproach us. Those days are over. The days of being reproached are over and done with and the days of glory have arrived. Do not be embarrassed to accept your prize – it is only right that you should ascend the podium and graciously accept (as is your right) the marvellous stupendous honours that are being bestowed upon you. It’s only right and only fitting. Events happen and then mere moments later they un-happen again leaving all of us confused and upset. Is someone playing tricks on us or what? Is someone – some shadowy mocking figure – having a laugh at our expense? If so they must surely be laughing long and loud. Their unkind laughter resonates nastily throughout the length and breadth of the Great Hall of Judgement…

 

‘I have taken my place amongst the ranks of the justified,’ you protest strenuously, ‘and I do not deserve this uncalled for mockery. I have observed the sacred days and seasons’. You’re right to protest, of course – you have every right to do so. I support you all the way in your impassioned quest for fairness. Fairness and decency. Fairness is so important, isn’t it? It’s very important indeed, but only in a subjective kind of a way. Only in a subjective kind of a way since – as we all know only too well – it doesn’t really exist. You’re angry and aggrieved and I can understand that. Why wouldn’t you be? You did everything you were supposed to do, and you said everything you were supposed to say. You thought the correct thoughts. You lead the life that everyone said you should lead and yet all you get for it is cruel mockery! How deep that must cut, how deep that must cut.

 

In the Kingdom of Cruel and Unforgiving Body Odour he who smells only half-bad is Lord and Master of all he surveys and that’s my situation exactly. That’s how it is. That’s my situation in a nutshell. Or at least that’s how it seems to me. That’s how things strikes me at the moment, although that could of course change in a second. My thinking is stale, ponderous and self-defeating and yet it’s all I have. It’s all I have and I have to make do with it…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Days Are Long And Fruitful And The Nights Are Full Of Fear

They have won, you know. I wouldn’t like you to be in any doubt about that. They’ve won so completely that – now – we actually think that we are them. Can you believe that? Everything’s been erased, everything has been rewritten and we are the World’s Greatest Dummies. We are recipients of the prize for Outstanding Gullibility in the Face of All The Odds. Medals have been won in other words; medals have been won and a good time was had by all. ‘It’s all good’, your friend tells you cheerily, ‘life’s never been better and all that kind of stuff’.

 

 

Your friend is full of crap though – you do know that don’t you? That old friend of yours is so full of crap. Whenever crap wants to come into existence in this oh-so-well-regulated little world of ours it simply has to use this friend of yours as a conduit. What could be easier? That’s as much convenience has anyone has a right to expect, in my book. Medals have never been won so easily and that’s got to be worth something. Everything’s got to be worth something, surely? Apart from a few things I suppose – apart from the odd thing here and there. Such as the crappy old world that I have built in my head…

 

 

What a crappy world that is, huh? You’d wonder what I get out of it. You would wonder why I bother. ‘Well’, you say wisely, after a respectful interval, ‘you bother because it’s meaningful to you. It’s meaningless for anyone else it’s true, but as far as you’re concerned it’s all good!’ Your point is a good one and I will concede it. I’m obliged to concede it  – I could hardly do otherwise! The days are long and fruitful and the nights are full of fear. The nights are always full of fear, aren’t they? Full of fear and trepidation, full of barely repressed horror. The Landscape of Fear. The Territory of Unbridled Terror. We all know that territory, don’t we? Tell me about it! We all know that landscape – it is etched forever in our brains, is it not?

 

 

What a crappy world, what a crappy world this invented world of mine is. What a wretched charade, fooling no one but myself. Not even fooling myself. Not fooling myself. So bloody awful – shocking really. Can you imagine? Of course you can, of course you can. I’m insulting your intelligence there and I must ask you to forgive me for that. The days are bountiful but the nights are barren, as we all know. Rich are the days and frighteningly impoverished are the nights. ‘Save us from the terrors of the night’, we pray. Such is the way of things – the days are lush and the nights are arid. Such was ever the way, such was ever the way.

 

 

Bees buzz from here to there in the sunlit meadows, badgers gamble in their dens. It is day, and all is well. All is ever well. It is Day and the day is full of glory. Ra ascends on his Sektet boat – he sails the Solar Barque in a great arc over the splendour of all existence. The great dome of the sky is intense blue and everything is as vivid as a dream. You don’t know whether reality happened or whether it didn’t happen. Dead things squirm on the ground around your feet; the withered hands of the dead rise from their shallow graves and pluck grimly at the seams of your jeans. The serpent stirs uneasily within the dark earth and then sprouts wings. The phoenix rises from the toxic smoke of the Underworld. The resplendent hawk swoops up into the air. The cicadas sing in unison in the sunlit meadow.

 

 

 

 

Rage Control

Putting the ‘fuck’ back in ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Smiling even though you don’t know what’s going on; having serious problems but not wanting to admit to it and then losing it completely when people innocently suggest that you might have issues with the rage control. Issues with rage control, huh? That obviously hit a nerve! It hits a very sensitive nerve, as you might imagine. ‘Ouch!’ you say. ‘Oh dear me, that’s rather painful…’ Deep down in the cold reptilian core of your brain your rage is uncoiling in its characteristic serpentine fashion. Words are your putty and you’re playing with them for all you’re worth. You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. When you were an awkward, ill-adapted teenager the other kids used to bully you mercilessly – they mocked your every gesture and now you’re ready to pay them back. You’re ready to make someone else suffer for a change. Inside you there’s nothing but surreal fluorescent rage – your body is weak and puny but your rage is a ravening demon out of all proportion. It can’t be contained any longer. A kind-hearted stranger touches your shoulder – he’s noticed your distress. ‘I see you’re having difficulties with rage control,’ he comments softly, ‘perhaps I could offer you a few tips?’ It turns out he’s an anger manager specialist. You look at him dumbfounded – it’s as if he seen right into your very soul. You wonder what he’s seen there, you are vaguely embarrassed but also strangely touched. Human kindness is something completely unfamiliar to you and you don’t know how to respond. You make a retching sound at the back of your throat and your hands form into claws. Your eyes narrow into twin slits. You don’t mind doing time, you’ve never minded doing time – it’s being misunderstood that really gets your goat. You’re running down the street screaming ‘I’m not a bad person’ at the top of your voice. Everyone has their own thing however and there’s no point in being embarrassed by it. That’s what I tell myself anyway. Everyone has something, everyone has ‘a thing’, shall we say. Putting the ‘fuck’ back in ‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ As always, I’m playing to the gallery. As always, I’m looking for validation from the crowd – it’s a trick I learned when I was only a little ‘un. Say what the crowd loves to hear and then listen to their roar of approval. That full, deep-throated roar. The malignant leering faces of your tormentors are pressing in on you from all sides now. Even when you close your eyes they’re still there. Everything will come out right in the end, however. You realise this and straightaway that puts the smile back on your face. A big smile. A great big old shit-eating smile. You can afford to bide your time…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Readings From The Book Of Fate

Never repeat a tired old formula, isn’t that what they say? Keep it fresh. Resist the urge to repeat the tired old formula because that way leads only to despair. Never repeat an old formula because this can only ever lead to despair, and yet that tired old formula is all I’ve got. You see my predicament, of course.

 

What happens when we worship the mechanical mode of existence, the miraculous mechanical surrogate for existence? What happens when we worship the Pain-Filled Analogue? What would be the outcome if we were to take it into our heads to do this? And – needless to say – we all do worship the mechanical manifestation (or pseudo manifestation) of existence.  We’re mad for worshipping it. Saying how good it is. Saying that it’s brilliant. ‘It’s great it’s great it’s great,’ we say. ‘It’s great and I’ll beat the crap out of you if you disagree. I’ll beat the head off you…’

 

Who needs existence when you can have the mechanical surrogate thereof? Let us all pray my friends, let us pray to the Principle of Mechanicity and implore it to save us. Save us from what, I don’t know – but save us all the same! Save us from the Weevils. Save us from the lion which roars. Let us pray to the machine and beg for his blessing. Or beg for its curse. Bestow upon us your curse, oh Great Machine – bestow upon us the curse of mechanical being. The blessing / curse – you don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Talk about confusing! Put up your hands if you’re confused. Pray you maggots, pray. Give thanks for the abuse that you receive every day, give thanks and praise for your daily abuse.

 

We are all very obsessed with the outcome of course, we all want the good outcome – we’re panting like dogs, we’re thirsting for the wonderful, wonderful outcome. ‘Oh Great Outcome’, we cry out, ‘You are so great…’ The uplifted voices of the faithful. ‘Give us this day our daily nonsense’. We are longing for the splendid, delightful outcome. The splendid, delightful outcome will make everything okay! Just give the Machine what it wants. The Machine always knows what it wants, after all. It knows what it wants alright – there’s no confusion there! When the wonderful, splendid outcome comes to pass then all will be well in the world and we’ll have the Machine to thank for that. That bloody old machine…

 

‘Give praise, give praise, give praise, show some gratitude you dogs’, bark the high priests of evil. ‘Wag your godamn tails and look pleased.’ All I’ve got to my name is this bloody old second-hand formula – I use it all the time and it never works. Perhaps one day someone will award me a prize for persistence! ‘Keep on doing the thing,’ my mind tells me, ‘keep on doing the thing so that the wonderful outcome can happen’. My mind is Satan, my mind is Satan in disguise. It’s a crime to stop doing the thing, you know. It’s a sin – you’re obstructing the good thing from happening and everyone will be very angry with you. They will blame you for the Great Pestilence, they’ll say that it’s your fault. ‘Why didn’t you put in the proper effort into doing the thing?’ your friends will ask you, ‘now you’ve ruined it for everyone…’ It’s the law you know. It’s the law and you’ve broken it. Satan is going to punish you severely for that, you realize.

 

‘Satan save me, Satan save me, Satan save me’ you cry out in your anguish. Your unspeakable anguish. ‘I promise to keep on doing the thing and I promise to be properly grateful this time’. If we keep on doing the thing then the great and wonderful outcome will happen – that’s what I was always taught at school, anyway. That’s what the priest says at the pulpit. A Nameless Evil stalks this land, you know. No one knows where it came from. A Nameless Evil stalks this land and yet it has a name all the same! It has a name just the same as you and I do. Its name is the Truth. A Nameless Evil stalks this land and one day it will destroy us all. It has been foretold. It has been inscribed in the Book of Fate and there’s nothing any of us can do about it…

 

 

 

 

 

The Unspeakable Dross Of Everyday Life

 

We queued obediently for hours, waiting to be turned into egos. A minor god, a minor deity presided over the sacred but somewhat monotonous process. ‘You be ego, you be ego, you be ego…’ the deity in question  (we’re not allowed to know his name) intoned continuously. It was an assembly-line business and it generally worked like clockwork – every now and again an ego would form incorrectly and would then be duly rejected by the system. No one wants a defective ego, after all. The muffled refrain, ‘You be ego, you be ego, you be ego,’ echoed its way to the back of the Great Hall, where crowds of new, hitherto unseen people were gathering all the time. A minor ego was presiding over the ceremony. Evil was being placated.

 

We queued obediently for years, waiting for the allocated event. The allocated event was officially declared to be a good and proper thing and we all rejoiced accordingly. We all rejoiced obediently. Folk don’t remember those early days, but I do. I remember them all – although I wish I didn’t. It is forbidden knowledge, you see – none are permitted to lift that veil. Fear rears its ugly face again, as it always does. But I speak here of prototime, the time which comes before time, so to speak. There really is a time that comes before time you know, only it’s not time as you or I know it. Some things we would be better off not knowing about and – as our wise men have repeatedly said over the ages – what you don’t know can’t hurt you!

 

Once the time stream has been started then there’s no stopping it. It should never have happened but there’s little enough point in us regretting it now. Can there be anything more futile than those regrets that come thick and fast once the event has already happened and the torrent has been unleashed? We’re caught in that torment, you and I, and wishful thinking isn’t going to help us any. Wishful thinking isn’t going to help us in this situation. It should never have happened, we say, and yet it is only because it has happened that we are in a position to make that comment. The time torrent sweeps us on and on and yet it’s not taking it anywhere. The time torrent never existed in the first place and yet there’s absolutely no escaping it, not ever. We’re trapped like wasps in amber.

 

The sacred machinery is always at work, it never stops turning. The cycle can never be broken. Its function is to convert – it is a converter, an automated conversion system. It converts the pig into sausages, the lamb into donna kebabs. It converts chickens into chicken nuggets. Conversion is the law that none may disobey, conversion is what the whole damn show is all about. You don’t believe me? Just look around you, for God’s sake! What do you think this charade is all about? It’s about all sorts of excellent stuff, you answer, it’s about giant whoopee cushions, it’s about Zoom Meetings, it’s about fried chicken and Diet Coke, it’s about the glorious progress of the human race. It’s about our wonderful time-saving inventions. But no – don’t fall for that formulaic bullshit, I beg of you. It’s all about converting us into egos. It’s all about the downwards conversion of consciousness into the unspeakable appalling dross of everyday life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not As Strange As You

Suppose you threw an apocalypse and nobody came? Suppose you did, suppose you did. Just suppose. Can you imagine the humiliation? Awkward moments come and go, but some awkward moments and last a lifetime! You can trust me on that one, I promise. Please take my word for it – I know what I’m talking about here. I always know what I’m talking about – even when I don’t. Especially when I don’t.

 

‘Life is full of awkward moments but awkward moments aren’t always full of life’ – that’s another of my sayings. You can quote me on that one if you like. I spent many long years – many decades in fact – waiting for some kind of significant mental event to occur in my mind and after many, many years of fruitless waiting I notice to my amazement something starting to happen, something that actually seemed to mean something. To say that I felt vindicated would have been an extraordinary understatement but then the next thing was that it turned out to be a false alarm. It was nothing. It had definitely looked like something – no doubt about that – but closer scrutiny revealed that it was no more than what we experimental scientists like to call an ‘artefact’ – a piece of random fly-shit on the microscope slide of my mind, so to speak. Nothing to get too excited about, basically. Nothing that’s going to earn you a Nobel Prize in physics.

 

Can you imagine that? Over twenty thousand years waiting with bated breath, and nothing ever actually happening? And nothing ever did. Can you imagine the frustration of all those years? The thankless millenia, I call them. Those thankless millenia spent waiting for something interesting to happen in your life and nothing ever does. What a frickin disaster. Imagine if you were the Illuminati and you threw an apocalypse and nobody came? Can you imagine what that would feel like? Talk about awkward. Nostalgia is a funny thing isn’t it? What I find funny about nostalgia is how you can get really, really nostalgic about things that you didn’t even like at the time. What in God’s name is all that about? The mind is a strange thing, as people frequently say. A strange, strange thing. Everything’s a strange thing really, though – that’s what folk don’t generally focus on. The strangeness or otherwise of the mind is the least of it. The very least of it.

 

Awkward moments, huh? Awkward moments can be so damn awkward, can’t they? They can be embarrassing. They can make you feel bad. Like when you talk casually and frankly about something that you do that you think is normal and then it turns out that it isn’t. It turns out to be anything but. The mind’s a strange thing, folk always say, tapping the sides of their heads with their extended forefingers and nodding wisely as they do so. As if they are communicating some deep esoteric truth that has never been heard before. ‘But not as strange as you buddy boy’, you feel like saying, ‘not as strange as you…’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Facts Of Life

I was trying to recapture past glories. This was difficult since I couldn’t really remember any. ‘Curse my lousy memory’, I yelled bad-temperedly, but deep down of course I suspected that this was not so much the deficiency in my memory as it was a problem with my general level of attainment in life. I was deficient in attainments, sadly lacking in them, and this singularly uncompromising fact spelled out a message to me that I wasn’t in the least bit willing to hear. ‘Never shall I hear a message that I am not willing to hear!’ I shouted out heroically, but the problem was that I had heard it already. I had heard it already – inadvertently, shall we say – and it had sunk in. It had sunk in good and proper.

 

The facts of life can spell out messages to us all, if we listen. If we are willing to listen, which were not. Not that there is any such thing as ‘the facts of life’, of course. It’s hopelessly naive to be thinking in such terms, as most of us probably realise at this point in human history. That represents a hopelessly outmoded way of thinking, as anyone who has kept abreast of scientific progress will be aware. It’s like people who think that Jesus spoke English or who think – I don’t know – that governments actually know what they’re doing. That kind of thing. Comforting illusions, I suppose you could call them. What we’re looking at here is the comforting illusion that there are these things called facts in life and that we can rely on them. ‘These are the plain and simple facts of life, my boy,’ I scream hysterically, stabbing with my long bony finger at a pile of A-4 sheets heaped up untidily on my desk, ‘I’ve written all about them here!’

 

The facts of life will let you down, however.  They will let you down every time – that’s all they’re good for really. The facts of life can’t spell out any messages to us for the simple reason that there aren’t any such things. ‘That’s a fact’, I roar incoherently, working myself up into an apoplexy. It’s not though – it’s just something I made up. I’m blowing shit out of my arse. I lost my cool all of a sudden; I invented myself in a fit of pique. I constructed myself when really (as I can now see only too clearly) I shouldn’t have done. Not that there’s any ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ about it, when it comes down to it – who gives a damn, after all? In my youth some thought that I had a promising future ahead of me. Events have proven otherwise however. Events have proven otherwise…

 

Events always prove otherwise in the end of course. Events always prove us wrong. Show me a man or woman – however eminent in their field – who hasn’t been proven wrong in the end. We make a stand, mustering whatever a bravery and sang-froid we can, but it always comes to nothing in the end. It’s a vain gesture and that’s all we human beings are ever capable of. I thought about making a stand but as it turned out I never did. I thought long and hard about it and – in the end – I decided against the idea. We all go our own ways in the end, don’t we? Although – then again – maybe we don’t. Maybe there’s no free will. Maybe we get co-opted by impersonal mechanical forces which cause us to twitch and jump about the place like puppets for a while and then which – in due course – summarily destroy us. ‘Dance puppet dance!’ say the impersonal mechanical forces, and then – moments later – ‘Die puppets die!’ That’s the life of a puppet, as you are doubtless aware. We try to make a stand but then, a few years later, we sell out and become the cruel-hearted and avaricious  stooges of a vilely corrupt social system.

 

I can’t work out whether life has made a fool of me or whether it is I who have made a fool of myself! Some would say that life has given me plenty of chances, I suppose. I imagine that that’s what they would say. ‘Life has given you ample opportunities to prove your worth’, these people will tell me with a wag of their fingers, ‘and you fluffed every single one. You screwed up. You made a right pig’s ear of it…’ Everyone always likes to compare their attainments with those of other people of course – that’s only natural. Some people have a list of attainments as long as your arm. Some people manage to attain a worthwhile goal every single day of their lives! A successful ego is a happy ego, after all. Isn’t that what they say? I succeed therefore I am, whatever that would be in Latin. I can always Google it, of course. Supero ergo sum’ – ‘I prevail therefore I am’. The trouble is that we never do prevail however, and that’s a bitter pill to swallow…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bardo Racing

Race from one end of the bardo to the other, collect prizes. Collect lots of prizes. You’ll get your very own little racing cart, coloured bright blue. All the carts are painted bright blue here you see – it saves people wasting their time trying to decide what colour they should go for. If you happen to be the indecisive type, that is. If you happen to be the type of person who has difficulty making up their mind about things.

 

Your very own little blue racing cart for racing from one end of that bardo to the other. You’ll be pelting along, you’ll see. You’ll love every minute of it – thrills and spills all the way! Thrills and spills for all the family… And don’t forget all those wonderful prizes you will be collecting. All those wonderful, wonderful prizes – guaranteed to make your trip to the bardo especially memorable. You’ll be making memories that you can enjoy forever…

 

‘I used to be just one more run-of-the-mill everyday crappy old ego just like you’, I boast, ‘but now I’m enlightened. I’ve experienced multi-dimensional awakening as a result of my esoteric practices and so I’m no longer a total twat any more…’ It’s all lies of course – filthy disgusting lies from beginning to end. Did you ever hear such terrible lies? We’re in the Kingdom of Lies now you see and so you will just have to learn to cope with that. You will have to learn to cope with all that non-stop bullshit, with those the awful never-ending falsehoods. ‘Welcome my good friends,’ you say, full of your natural overflowing ebullience, ‘welcome to the Kingdom of Lies. I just know you’re going to be very happy here. You’ll be so happy about making the right choice because everything’s about making the right choice. You know it is…

 

We are always exhorted by our fellow human beings not to lie our heads off, but what choice do we have? We’re set up to lie right from the very beginning; no matter what we say we are always going to be lying, we can’t help it. To speak is to lie, to think is to deceive oneself and existence itself is a sin. That’s one hell of a thing isn’t it? It really is. Just what in the name of God are we supposed to do in a situation like that this? They tell us that it’s very bad to lie and yet we live in a world that is itself a lie from beginning to end. They made us live in the Fake Creation and give thanks daily for it.

 

Achieving creates a healthy and robust ego, as we all know. Achieving, achieving, achieving. To be in the world and to be achieving all the time, to be achieving constantly – it doesn’t get any better than that, as well as we all know, as well we all know. If I were to achieve any more I think I’d burst! Healthy, happy, robust little egos; squawking and carrying on like so many chickens; just like a bunch of chickens that have escaped the coop and are now running frantically all over the yard. That’s the ticket now isn’t it? That is what we like to see. That’s the ticket boys, that’s the ticket. Yes, yes, yes! Achieving, achieving, achieving – keep on achieving otherwise who knows what might happen to you. You won’t be bursting yourself crowing out your glory to the world then, that’s for sure. No sir you won’t. You’ll be feeling distinctly crest-fallen and not at all robust, not at all robust. You’ll be feeling damn sorry for yourself so you will… You’ll be looking at all the other successful egos who are of course super-busy crowing their damn rotten  heads off and you’ll wish a hole would come along and swallow you up. You can take my word for that my friends. I’m not messing when I say that – I’ve seen it happen time and time again.

 

There’s a thousand ways to celebrate and none of them mean a damn thing, isn’t that what they say? Isn’t that the way of it? There are a thousand different ways to say ‘thank you’ when you don’t mean a word of it. ‘I lived on a strict diet of radishes and truffle skins for six long years and it never did me any harm’, I shout out pointlessly, as I so often do, but no one pays me any heed. I’m trying to fill a void, that’s all. I’m only a copy of a copy after all, a degenerate analogue of a degenerate analogue, and that’s as good as it gets I’m afraid. It’s the Kali Yuga come at last kids’, the voice on the radio tells us excitedly, ‘I wonder if any of you can actually dig that?’