Anxious About Reality

I was trying to guess the login details for reality. Please understand, I wasn’t trying to remember it; it was nothing like that – I didn’t have a clue where I was going with my guessing, I didn’t know if I was in the right ballpark or if I was even in the right continent. I was desperately hoping for some sort of inspiration, I was hoping for inspiration because that’s what I would have needed but underneath it all I knew I was shooting in the dark. It’s even harder than you might imagine because – don’t forget – this is reality we’re talking about here. So the fact that I was trying to guess the login code shows that I wasn’t actually in reality and this is the point that I’m trying to get across. I was on the outside of reality trying to get in and this is a bad place to be. Always a bad place. It’s a bad place to be – needless to say – because when you’re on the outside of reality then you don’t have a clue as to what reality might actually pan out to be; all guesses are equally stupid (equally embarrassingly stupid in fact) because you don’t even know what sort of thing it is that you are trying to find out. You’re the biggest fool in the world! ‘Guessing’ isn’t really the right word therefore; it’s not really the right word because when you’re guessing you always at least know the type of thing that you’re guessing at; we have in this case at least some sort of a chance in other words, no matter how remote that chance might be. It’s a all rather pathetic really you see – how vast a territory this is! You’re trying to imagine what type of thing reality might be when it’s at home but you’ve got nothing to go on, nothing at all. I know I’m going on a bit here; I know I’m banging on and on about the same old point but this is no ‘one-off’ incident I’m talking about here, even though that is I know how I originally presented the issue. That was merely a ‘literary device’ you see and in the end what do we have but our ‘literary devices’? The nature of reality, the nature of reality – how I wonder about the nature of reality and the kind of thing it might turn out to be. If indeed we can ever know that. It’s an exercise in ‘doomed futile puzzling’ that I’m talking about here though and not any kind of noble philosophical quest, which is what it tends to sound like. This goes back as far as I can remember – it’s my theme song, if you like. Maybe that’s not unusual either; I don’t know, maybe it’s like that for everybody – although I doubt it. In my experience people just get on with their lives, they’re not desperately trying to second-guess reality. People are just getting on with their lives  – for the most part – and who can blame them for that? There are a number of different types of anxiety in life; some more legitimate than others, I imagine some people might say, however wrongly or rightly. The form of anxiety I’m speaking of here isn’t the regular old type; the regular old type of anxiety is (let us say) where deep-down you know you’re an idiot and you are trying to pass yourself off as not being one. A stressful situation but not an uncommon one, I would imagine. That’s why we are always looking for a fall guy – someone we can catch out for being a stupid dumbshit and then call them out on it and get a right good laugh at their expense. Everyone else will jump on the bandwagon then you see; they’ll start taking the piss too because everyone else is the same as you are – everyone’s trying to distract attention away from themselves, just like you are. Just like you are. Looking for a stooge, looking for a fall guy. That’s human nature for you – no one is exempt from it. The other type of anxiety isn’t like that, the other type of anxiety is where you’re that afraid that people will find out that you don’t know what reality is and laugh at you on that account. Public humiliation, the usual thing. It always comes down to public humiliation in the end doesn’t it? Is that a crime, not knowing what reality is? I don’t suppose it is. It’s not anyone’s idea of a crime, generally speaking. Peculiar perhaps, but not a crime. Incomprehensible to many perhaps, but not exactly a felony. This painful situation has resolved somewhat in recent years however; the situation has resolved because I have come to realise that no one knows what reality is. Nobody. No one knows and – furthermore – no one cares.








Memories of Fentiman Road

When I wrote my first Training Manual entitled ‘Dealing with Demons’ it was an instant success. I was catapulted to fame. It was an instant success only it wasn’t because I immediately found myself being possessed by hordes of demons – they moved in en masse and took me over completely. They were in my hair, up my nose, in my fingernails, in my ears, everywhere. I became the dwelling place for umpteen thousand demons – never (to my knowledge anyway) had so many demons lived in one body. Not since biblical times, anyway.


So that wasn’t so great I suppose. I suppose it would be fair enough to say that that wasn’t particularly great. There would be days when I’d catch sight of myself in the mirror even years later and yet still see the signs of it. Days when I’d notice a certain greyness to my face and a certain haunted look in the eyes. That sort of thing. Reminders – you might say – of the days when I was acting as unwitting host to a horde of voracious demons that massed in unbelievable numbers within my body. They even inhabited my clothing, believe it or not – they were in my socks, in my shoes and even in that dreadful crumpled brown corduroy jacket that for some reason I used to wear back then. They liked to live in the pockets of that jacket – at least a dozen of them, maybe more. The ‘dirty dozen’ I used to call them. They loved that old corduroy jacket of mine and in the end I had to throw it away. I eventually chucked it in a skip.


I don’t want to make too much of those demons. I don’t want to build them up too much – they’re stupid things really. No personality to them. It’s a mug’s game being a demon and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s a mug’s game being possessed by the bastards too – I’d smoke a joint and they’d get stoned instead of me! Or maybe it was the shit dope that I was smoking – Moroccan slate at twelve pounds a quarter. Can you believe that? That was a long time ago now course – that was back when I lived in the Ashmole estate just off the South Lambeth Rd in Southwark. Happy days! Or maybe not – it’s hard to know you see. It’s hard to know because of the nostalgia that overcomes me whenever I think of the old days. When I think about the life I had back then and the mates I used to hang around with. Mates like Speedy Frank, Tony and Adam. Those were good days and I’ll never see their like again. I know that beyond any shadow of a doubt – I’ll never see the likes of those days again…


Looking back on them it seems like every moment was precious. That’s how it is in my memory, anyway. That’s what it’s like in my memory. Every moment of those days was like a glass of very fine old wine. Not that I actually like wine mind you – I can’t stand the stuff and never could – but that’s the only analogy that comes to mind. Every moment was golden, every moment was golden. I guess it didn’t seem like it at the time – I can’t imagine what those moments did feel like, actually. Obviously enough. I can’t actually remember much about it, come to think of it. I haven’t the faintest idea what it actually felt like at the time. Maybe I was bored, maybe I was preoccupied. Maybe I was feeling miserable – I don’t know. Oddly enough, it hardly seems to matter now. It hardly seems to matter now and I shan’t bother about it. Who cares anyway? Who cares if I was bored or miserable or distracted with some bullshit or other. Certainly not me and if I’m not bothered then I don’t see how anyone else is going to give a damn!


Memories of the past, memories of the past. It sounds stupid saying that I know – what else would my memories be of? Memories of the future? Memories of an alternative reality? I don’t care if it sounds stupid though – I just like the sound of the words. I like the way they trickle off my tongue. It’s curious why the past often presents itself, in our possibly faulty memories, as being so golden. I wonder why that is? One answer that comes to me is that what I’m really doing here is mourning the passing of my youth. Particularly since I didn’t really appreciate that the time. Which I didn’t. That idea somehow fails to ring true – it’s too intellectual, too analytical. That was first thought that I had, the first thought that occurred to me, but then moments later another possibility came to mind, a much more poignant one. It occurred to me that when I think back to my old haunts such as the SLR and the Ashmole estate and Fentiman Road and  Dorset Rd and Vauxhall Park, and so on, and it seems to me that I had the privilege of living in some sort of magical world, some sort of earthly paradise, then this isn’t the result of me wearing ‘rose-tinted spectacles’ or any crap like that. The real reason – it occurs to me – is that we can never appreciate our life, or where we’re living, at the time because our heads are too full of garbage, too full of rubbish. We are perennially distracted with inane nonsense you see. We’re too distracted. It’s only when we look back – after 30 or 40 years – that we remember things truly. So that would explain why everything seems like rubbish to me at the moment, in the current crappy phase of my life. It seems like rubbish to me because I’m just not able to appreciate it. I won’t appreciate it until I’m dead. So that’s a rather depressing thought, wouldn’t you say?








Days Of Anger

The queen of patio plants is what they call it. The queen of patio plants is a phrase I have heard used. I don’t know what I think about that, to be honest. I have no way of knowing what I think about that. Religious folk are only here to help after all, I realise. Only here to help, only here to help. That’s how come they are religious folk you see, because they are here to help. That’s why it is always good to meet them and ask for their guidance. Because of their gentle wisdom and the kindness of their hearts, and all that. Because of their gentle and non-judgemental nature. That’s why we love them so much of course – because of their gentle and non-judgemental nature.


There was a time I found life exciting, but now I’m merely sour. Maybe you can tell that. I’m as sour as sour could be – I’m sour all the way through. Even as I write these words I feel sour; I’m doubly sour because I feel sour about myself for being so sour. That’s what happens when negativity goes beyond a certain point you see – it starts to feed upon itself. When negativity starts to feed upon itself then there’s no stopping it – it doesn’t need any external situations to feed on once it passes the all-important ‘threshold value’ and this means that no matter what anyone else says or does you’re still going to be wallowing in negativity, and not just wallowing in it but actually thriving. Doing well. In my case I can say that no matter what happens in my life I’m still going to be sour. It’s too late for me now. That’s just the way it works – it’s a natural law, a natural principle, as we all know very well.


Where will it all end – that’s what I want to know. Once negativity starts feeding voraciously on itself and becomes its own fuel source in this way then where there is this process going to go? What are we looking at here? We’re talking about something that is gone beyond its natural limits you see and once something has gone beyond its natural limits then all bets are off. There’s nothing we can do in this case. You are going to be taken to a place, the existence of which you cannot even begin to imagine. The only thing to say under the particular circumstances that we are referring to here is that you are in for a real ‘eye-opener’. You’re in for a bit of an eye-opener because when your personal negativity goes beyond its natural limits and starts to feed on itself then this is going to take you to a very special place indeed! We could make up little song about this, couldn’t we? A lovely little song about how we all love going to the special, special place…


I was hallucinating my own ego. I was caught in a tight little loop – the very tightest of all possible loops in fact. The very tightest. The experience is one of the purest horror, as I need hardly say. Obviously the experiences one of the purest horror – what else could it be? I was hallucinating my own ego and I couldn’t stop doing it. I couldn’t ever stop doing it. I was doomed to keep on hallucinating my own ego for all of eternity. Just me and my ego, each hallucinating the other. My ego was grinning like a fool, needless to say. He is always grinning like a fool, that’s what he does best. He might be a bit of an idiot but he really does know how to grin like a fool. You bet he does. And I’m condemned to be sitting here for all eternity, looking at this moron ego of mine. Enjoying his company. Can you imagine anything worse? If you can then you’ve got a pretty sick imagination, that’s all I can say…


The tightest of loops, the tightest of loops. Loop the loop, loop the loop. ‘How are you doing old chap?’ I call out cordially, ‘how’s your day going mate?’ I was being cheeky and I knew that it would come back on me sooner or later. I knew that there would be a backlash but all the same I couldn’t resist the temptation to take the piss. Days of anger, days of rage. Days of anger, days of rage. Rage like you’ve never before imagined – rage the like of which you couldn’t imagine. Days of anger, days of incalculable rage – that’s all that lies in front of me. Plenty to look forward to there, anyway! It’s a treat that’s being laid out for you and so now all you have to do is just go right ahead and enjoy it. Just get right stuck into it my friend! There’s plenty there for everybody. No need to push, no need to get impatient or worried that you won’t get your share. You’ll get your share, no problem there! That’s one thing I can promise you. You’ll get your share for sure…









King Mumblehead

‘I am Lord of the Seven Different Types of Stuff,’ I told my devoted band of followers, only they didn’t really want to have anything to do with me. I had my own YouTube channel with no likes. I had very few views and no likes. One person liked me but they changed their mind later on. ‘I am The Lord of the Seven Different Types of Stuff,’ I repeated, mumbling incoherently to myself. I was the Mumbler, mumbling words for the General Benefit of Mankind. I was the sleeping god – ‘the One Who Must Not Be Woken’. I had hung a ‘Do not disturb sign’ on my hotel room door. I was the Dreamer of the Forgotten Dream, I was the Filius Philosophorum. Men came to me looking for answers but by the time I responded they had forgotten their own questions. ‘I am the Mumbler’, I repeated, more loudly this time, but no one was listening to me. I was the role model for generations upon generations of psychic parasites. Frozen forever in my own personal time-trap, I was forever capitulating events that never should have happened in the first place. If I had a sense of humour I would laugh, but I don’t. Slumbering fitfully, I dreamt my own existence but it wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on. It wasn’t worth a damn. I am the insane god and not only am I insane, I am utterly impotent – a dog on the street has more power, more self-determination than I do. And yet at the same time I know things no other human being knows, I know things no other human being would want to know. That’s why I started my own YouTube channel – so I could tell people about these things. To tell them about the things. That’s also why no one has why no one has ever viewed what I have to say on the matter, but I’m okay about that. Or maybe I’m not okay about that, I don’t know – I’ve never played a straight game with myself and I’m not about to start now. I don’t know how to start. ‘I am Lord of the Special World that only I know about’ I declare grandly, but it wasn’t actually a real world at all and I knew that. I knew that only too well. What happens when you spend your whole life trying to make things be a certain  sort of way and creating havoc in the process and spoiling everybody’s day, including your own, and yet you never even existed anyway? What kind of karma would that create, I wondered? What kind of karma would that create and who would it belong to? That’s a question we all want an answer to, of course. What happens when you spend your whole damn life frantically fretting and obsessing over getting things to be a certain specific way and it turns out that you never even existed in the first place? Where would that type of business leave you? What type of bad taste would that leave in your mouth, and whose mouth would it be anyway? To tell the truth, I am utterly worn out by wondering about all these things. I am frankly exhausted. I am wandering in my mind, imagining things that make no sense at all. ‘I am the Mumbler,’ I cry out hoarsely, in awe at my own magnificence. ‘I am King Mumblehead and I am the Lord all of All I Survey. Only I know the things that I know. No other can… My elation knows no bounds and the depths of my despair cannot ever be plumbed!’








The Dark Force Of Time

‘Give yourself up to time,’ the voices in my head told me, ‘abandon yourself to the dark force of time and let it take you where it will.’


I had been having what I call ‘bad egg burps’ all morning and I didn’t know what was wrong with me. They were the really bad kind – the kind that leaves a particularly foul taste in the mouth. Smelly too, although it’s only me that smells them, I suppose. The burps are very stinky however, very unpleasant.


I find myself marvelling (and not in a good way) how quickly my life is over. It went in a flash, it really did. I know I’m not dead yet of course but I also know that most of my life is over at this point. That’s inarguable. It is over before I even got to know what was happening – I still don’t know what is happening, can you believe that? I still haven’t caught on yet, and I suspect that time is running out. I know time is running out…


‘Give yourself up to time,’ the voices have advised me, ‘and see where it takes you…’ Well that’s funny advice if you ask me. Not exactly the most helpful type of advice a person could ever receive, I wouldn’t have thought. But then again, what do I know? Let time take you where it will. Well  – look where it took me! What am I supposed to make of this? Is there something I’m not getting here? Am I missing something?


It’s probably some kind of stomach bug that I have picked up, some kind of bacterium that produces hydrogen sulphide as part of its metabolism. That’s my guess. ‘Are people alive?’ I wonder, ‘are human beings real?’ At times they don’t seem very real, you see. At times it all seems like some sort of ridiculous fiction that we are supposed to just believe in. It’s like a kind of conspiracy theory – I feel sticking up a poster in the front window of my house saying ‘Human beings aren’t real – don’t buy into the lies!’ I keep feeling that this is some sort of government plot – they’ll be making us wear microchips next. Multiple corporations always warp reality to suit themselves. They warp reality and then we have to live in it. We have to conform to the distortion.


There was a lot more badness around in the old days than there is now and the reason for this has to do with the Satanic Origins of the world. As the teachings tell us, Satan created the world but then as time goes on more and more goodness is the able to enter the picture to counter the malign influence of the original dark matter that we were all created from and this is how God saves us. It’s a fine line however, there’s always a chance that God will not prevail against the forces that are acting against Him. Everything depends upon how many humans decide to be saved – salvation means losing the human form after all and that is a price some of us are never going to be willing to pay. Each time the universe is created the outcome hangs in the balance and this is the way it was always meant to be – our allegiance to our Lord Satan is being tested and we are required to betray him.


Do illnesses come from God or from Satan, I wonder? Are they part of the test we have to endure? What is bad in this world is good in the next, as it is said. All thoughts in this world come from Satan, or so we are told. The mind is Satan’s instrument and that is written in the ancient texts. The mind is the seat of his malign power and we are urged by the Scriptures never to forget this. Satan is the Prince of this world – how often do we read this in the Holy Book? Everything has its origin in Evil, as we know, but who is to say that redemption cannot still be found, against all the odds? Against all the odds…


Another day is done now and as I write these words I am painfully aware that I do not know whether I have served God or Satan in my actions. Have I been walking the True Path or the False? Perhaps the voices in my head are right after all, perhaps only time will tell…







Joe Ego Here

Alright guys. How are you doing? This is the story of my life, right? I am an ego and I want to be great. No point beating about the bush, right? No point in being shy or embarrassed or anything like that, right? I’m an ego and I want to be great. Say it like it is, yeah? Say it like it is good buddy and you won’t go too far wrong. No sir you won’t – just trust me when I say that. I’m saying the good stuff here, not saying the shit stuff. Too many people around saying the shit stuff, don’t you agree with me on that? Too many people mouthing off shit stuff all day long because that’s what they do. That’s surely what they do so don’t let’s make any mistake about that. Too many people, too many people. Saying this shit stuff all day long. Story of my life, the story of my life. An ego’s tale, you might say. The story of an ordinary everyday ego and let’s face it – did you meet an ego that wasn’t ordinary and everyday? Did you ever meet an ego that didn’t bore the arse of you? No you didn’t because that’s never going to happen. Other people have real names but not me. Egos like to have names because that gives them the feeling that they aren’t egos – no ego wants to feel that it’s just an ego, right? No one wants to feel that because that’s just not cool, so instead every self-respecting ego you meet is going to have a name, a name like James or Joe or Geraldine. Hi there you guys, Joe the ego here. How often you hear that? Not so often right? Not so often at all. Joe the ego here folks, how are you doing? Joe Ego here guys just checking in with you. How’s your day going, huh? A day in the life of an ego, a day in the life of an ego. Every day is the same day when you’re an ego, right? Every day is a day for trying to be great. You’ve gotta set the bar high where you’re an ego, you’ve gotta go for greatness. That’s what it’s all about – that’s really what it’s all about. It surely isn’t about anything else, that’s for sure. No sir it’s not about anything else. No sir, no sir, no sir. There’s never any question on the mind of an ego except ‘How can I be great?’ How can I be great? That’s the question of the hour, the question we egos ask ourselves every single day. Every day without fail. I can tell you one thing for sure and that’s that nothing ever matters to an ego other than being great. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The rest of it really doesn’t matter and you can take that from me. Straight out of the horse’s mouth and it doesn’t get any straighter than that. No sir doesn’t. Tell it like it is, that’s my motto. Tell the truth and shame the devil. No need to feel bad about it, right? Every day is the same – I go around straining to be great and then the next day I do the same thing all over again. Yes sir I do. No rest for the wicked, huh? How are you doing folks, Joe Ego here. Joe Ego here. Joe Ego here. Story of my life, story of my life. Yearning for greatness, yearning for greatness. Yearning, yearning, yearning. Doing all the great stuff in order to be great. It doesn’t come easy you know. Sometimes it doesn’t come at all. Well, most days it doesn’t. I don’t know when it does come to be honest but that doesn’t mean you can ever give up straining for it, does it? Can’t lie down on the job. Can’t take a day off. Doing all the great staff and talking about the great stuff and when you run out of great stuff to be talking about then you know you’re having a sad day. Having a sad, sad day. That’s the day it all comes back at you like egg on your face or shit on your shoe. Oh dear  – you’ve got shit on your shoe and you’ve been walking it all around the house. You didn’t realise because you were too busy trying to be great. Then you start to smell it. You start to smell that bad old shit. That’s what you call a ‘shit on your shoe’ day. That’ll bring you back down to earth in a hurry. A bad day and a sad day. Shit everywhere. Shit all over the shop. You never saw so much of it. You can’t believe there could be so much shit. ‘All I wanted was to be great’, you whimper pathetically. Sad loser that you are. No one wants to talk to you because of all the shit you put everywhere. The smell of shit clings to you and you can’t get rid of it. That old shit smell, that old smell of shit. No one wants to know you then, right? They avoid you like the plague. You’re not exactly ‘flavour of the month’. Joe Ego here folks – Joe Ego. Every day is the same day, right? Every day is the same day but you just have to keep trying. Story of my life. Story of my life. No one wants to be an ego, right? No one wants that. No one wants to be the generic self…







My Great Life

For many years I believed myself to be a reasonably decent human being – I liked people, or at least if not exactly fond of them then I was at least tolerant of them in a good-natured way, which is almost the same thing. As I’m concerned it’s very nearly the same thing. I’ve come to realise now however that I have no feelings towards my fellow human beings at all – none that is apart from complete irritation. I had been advised by my psychotherapist to write about my childhood but this is not something that I was able to do. I always experience lots of resistance whenever I’m asked to do something and this was no exception. That’s a number of years ago – coming up to 10 years, I’d say – and just in the last week or so I’ve come back to the idea. I have decided to write the story of my life up to this point, although not necessarily starting at the beginning. I can’t remember the beginning anyway so there’s no fear of that! There are numerous styles of writing an autobiography of course – there is a self-congratulatory style, which is more common than you might imagine, but I don’t think I’ll be trying that one. It wouldn’t wash. Then there is the supposedly impartial and objective style, which simply never works so we’ll forget about that. And then there’s the humorous style which is fine if you can pull it off but the plain fact of the matter is that very few of us can pull it off and to try to be witty or humorous without pulling it off is of course worst disaster going in the world of writing. With the exception of the ‘let me tell you about my great life’ type of disaster. My great life, my great life. It’s so damn great that I have to tell you about all about it; it’s so great that I want to write a book about it. I don’t think I’ll going down that road however as I have said – I feel sick in thinking about it. I look upon my life up to this point is a type of accident. Not a particularly pretty accident either. More of an exercise in awkwardness is how I would describe it. Life was a thing that I did know how to do, I’m afraid. I still don’t although possibly it’s true that I don’t care quite so much about it anymore. Although now that I happen to be thinking about it I realise that I wouldn’t mind writing about my life in a more heroic mode, mainly because I’m fascinated to find out what it might feel like to buy into the story that you are doing stuff on purpose, because you want to, and then actually achieving whatever it was that you were aiming at. The two things I find difficult in this scheme are: firstly, that it might be possible to actually know what you wants in life and secondly, that you might be able to deliberately bring it about. Apart from those two things, I rather think that I might be able to get the hang of writing a heroic autobiography. Imagine what that must feel like – believing with every bit of you that you are in charge of your own destiny, that you are driving the train! You’re driving it and you know when you’re going – you know exactly where you going. You are determined too – you are determined to get where you’re going. Your chin is sticking out in that superbly determined sort of a way. Leading with the chin, leading with the chin. That’s one tough chin you’ve got there my friend – like the prow of an icebreaker. It’s as if the whole of your identity is based upon this promise that you have made yourself. ‘I’ll show them!’ you are saying, ‘watch and learn buddy. I’ll show you how it’s done…’ Confidence like this is a wonderful thing of course; it’s a truly splendid thing. A many-splendoured thing. This is how I would like to write the story of my life I think, in exactly this vein. A heroic vein. A ‘go-getter’ type of vein, a ‘can-do’ type of vein. This is the type of thing that everyone admires so much, of course. Can you blame them for their childishly naïve adulation? It must seem like such a truly magnificent accomplishment to one who is hopelessly naïve about such matters, and I’m afraid that must encompass most of humanity. We have such charming little delusions about life don’t we? Obviously these delusions have never been examined to any appreciable extent – that’s not really ‘the done thing’ as far as delusions are concerned after all – but that simply makes them all the quainter. It’s like believing in tooth fairies, or like believing that heaven is a place in the sky, a place very much like where we are right now, only it’s up in the sky, or up in space somewhere. That’s what makes it so special you see, because it’s a place that is right up in the sky. How quaint is that? And so our delusion – that quaint little delusion which we so very naïvely believe in – is the delusion of ourselves.