Author Archives: zippypinhead1

Dabblers In Unreality

We’re all dabblers in unreality. Each in our own way, each in our own particular fashion. Each to their own, each to their own. Everyone needs to have  a hobby, after all. Do you dabble? I dabble a bit myself. I dabble a lot actually – I’m always dabbling. I’m hooked on dabbling. I’ve always got my finger in that old pie. The pie of unreality, that is…

 

Now I know it’s not going to make me very popular saying stuff like this, saying this old kind of stuff. No one wants to hear that they’re dabbling in unreality. It doesn’t sound good, it doesn’t sound positive. There’s no kudos in that; there’s no kudos in being a dabbler in unreality. Kudos comes from doing cool stuff as everyone knows, not from playing stupid never-ending games with unreality. That’s just lame! That’s just kind of sad.

 

Normality is a hallucination. There’s no such thing as it and we only think that there is because we’re hallucinating. We’re hallucinating that there’s such a thing as normality. When we come across something strange, something weird, something that doesn’t fit with what we think is real then we routinely accuse that strangeness of being a hallucination. We write it off as a mental aberration. We look in our textbooks of pathology and find it listed there under some fancy name. We can then reach for the appropriate medication for it. But the point is that we’ve got it the wrong way around – it’s our so-called ‘normality’ that’s the hallucination. It’s our pernicious normality that’s unreal! We’re deliberately misrepresenting the whole thing. We’ve turned everything on its head. We’re living in Topsy-Turvy Land and everything we know is a lie…

 

That’s why we need so many antidepressants. The reason we need so many antidepressants is because the hallucination of normality is a fake. It’s a fake and there’s nothing in it. It’s a like a cake make of cardboard that you can’t really eat – you can only look at it. You can try to eat it alright but you’ll be chewing away forever at rotten old sodden cardboard. Chewing away like a good ‘un. Having a good chomp. You’ll have to spit it out in the end. There’s no vitamins in the old hallucination of normality and that’s a fact! You’ll get scurvy for sure and then the doctor will have to be giving you the antidepressants. Big buckets of them. Lorry-loads of them. You’ll be on Effexor for Evermore and I’m not joking you. Or if it is a joke then it’s not one that you will be laughing at…

 

The lie backfires on us, you see. It turns on us just when we think we can trust us. Just when we think we have it eating out of our hand it takes our whole arm off! How do you like that behaviour? That’s not nice. And that’s just for starters – it’ll have the rest of us later on. Such a clever idea, isn’t it – to turn things around so that the hallucination gets to be the real thing and the real thing gets to be the hallucination. It’s downright ingenious. Just one little problem that we overlooked – you can’t live in a hallucination! Or maybe you could – just change you name to Halucinathan or Halucinda and rent yourself a nice flat. Move into a condominium.

 

The perennial fascination of the hallucination. That’s the thing, isn’t it? We just can’t get enough of it. Yet why do we find it so fascinating? Isn’t it because we think that there’s something in it that isn’t in it? Isn’t it because we’re looking for something there that is actually somewhere else? We’re looking for reality. We’re looking for reality in a hallucination and we’re sure we’ll find it if we keep on looking long enough. Don’t give up hope, right? Stay positive….

 

We each have our little projects to keep us busy. Dabbling away in the old unreality, hoping to pull something out of it. Hoping to pull out the plum. Keeping the faith. There’s something in that old normality somewhere boys don’t you worry. I’m telling you. Plenty of good stuff there and you have my personal guarantee on that. Why – I liked it so much that I bought the company! We’re all dabbling away, dabbling away, playing out little games. We’re dabblers, we’re gabblers, we’re big-headed babblers. We’re drifters and we’re grifters. We’re waiting for the big score. We’re shifters and we’re sifters. We’re sifting away. Sifting away, sifting away, sifting away. Sifting away in the Great Desert, hoping to find that old good stuff…

 

 

 

 

 

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Something Snapped Inside Me

Toxic hell beings were afflicting me. Get away from me you filthy dirty toxic hell beings I yelled, full of indignation, but do you think they took any notice of me? Did they hell! That’s not really their style. You dirty toxic bastards I screamed get away from me if you know what’s good for you. I was getting pretty toxic myself at this stage, more than a match for the hell beings who were afflicting me so sorely I fancied. They were going to get more than they had bargained for. They’d be sorry they ever decided to tangle with me I told myself. They’d be very sorry. Something snapped inside me then and before I knew it I was roaring and screaming and thrashing around like a wild animal not even making the slightest bit of sense. I was making a holy show of myself. I was actually frightening myself. I wasn’t just enraged, I was psychotically enraged. I was incandescent with rage like a light bulb. It was as if a flash-gun had gone off inside me flooding the room with horribly intense white light, the type of light that would give you a splitting head ache instantaneously. I was no longer human, I was no longer a person. I was a caricature of myself – I was a freak, a freakazoid. If anyone had seen me then they would have known me as freak straightaway. They would have known me as a freakishly freaky freaked-out freak that had escaped from a dimension of pure laughable absurdity. The psychotic rage attack had distorted me out of all recognition – it had turned me into something no one could ever take seriously. I was zipping madly around the room like a crudely sketched character in a stupid cartoon show with slow-motion speech bubbles coming out of my head; my absurd crudely-drawn cartoon body was coloured in with a colour no one had ever seen before, a colour that existed only for this one occasion. It was a colour that existed only in the cartoon freakazoid universe that had been created by my psychotic rage. I was screaming all sorts of insane gibberish and running from one side of the room to the other so fast that all you could see was a streak of fluorescent squiggles and even though I was screaming at the top of my voice the actual words were emerging out of my mouth in immense slow-motion and tumbling one after another onto the floor. It was as if I was living in two worlds at the same time – one world where time was accelerated beyond all recognition and I was bouncing around the place like a crazy-ball of multicoloured squiggles and the other world where everything had been slowed down so very much that you couldn’t actually tell what was happening. And I couldn’t see how the two joined up even though they obviously had to in some way. I was trying to figure it out. I was trying to find some space there in-between the very fast world and the very slow one so that I could make sense of myself in it, but there was none there. Everything was either much too fast to make sense of or much too slow. And yet at the same time it was nevertheless all happening, whether I liked it or not. That’s when I realized that I had lost my human form and become a toxic hell being too…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Manifesting Demons

Lesser demons were trying to jump out of my head. The way they do. They were trying to show themselves, manifest themselves, let everyone know that they were there. They were trying to show ME up really. Trying to make a holy show of me…

 

It’s bad when they do that. It’s very freakish. You feel freakish, you feel like a total freak when that happens. If there was anyone around and they actually saw the demons coming out of my head that would gross them out big time. To put it mildly! God alone know what people would think. When the demons start with this kind of business you have to go off somewhere where you will be on your own, somewhere where there’s no risk of anyone seeing you. You have to go and hide out somewhere until their vile activity subsides.

 

Lesser demons are what you might also call ‘scumbag demons’, ‘vermin demons’, or ‘rabble demons’. You know the type, I’m sure. I call them garbage demons because that’s all they are – they’re the lowest of the low. They are pure psychic effluence. Well, they might be the lowest of the low but they are there in MY head which I suppose doesn’t really say much for me! If they’re the lowest of the low then what does that make me? That doesn’t exactly portray me in a good light, does it?

 

You know that feeling when for some completely unknown reason you come out with something in public that is so very much the wrong thing to say? It’s not that you mean to say it but just that, somehow, you do. You inexplicably come out with it. Well you know how embarrassing that is, I’m sure! We’ve all done that. It’s no good pretending that it hasn’t. We’ve all been there. Well anyway when those demons start jumping out of your head it’s like that, only indescribably worse. It’s like a full-on panic attack as compared to a moment of feeling a bit worried. It’s the type of thing you can’t imagine unless it’s happened to you.

 

It’s not so much embarrassing when it happens as deeply, deeply disturbing. It’s embarrassing as well of course but abnormally so, surreally so. When it happens there’s nothing you can do except quicken your pace and try to put some distance between yourself and anyone else you might also happen to be walking down the street. So they can’t see the expression on your face, the look of horror and shame that you can’t help manifesting. If there’s a quiet side-alley you will quickly turn down it and hide out in the shadows, if you can.

 

The other thing is of course, would anyone actually notice? Obviously they wouldn’t see the actual demons themselves because demons are invisible, as everyone knows. They’re not physical beings. They’re ethereal. No one’s going to stop me in the street to tell me that I’ve got an obscene rabble of demons bursting out of my head. I won’t find myself up in court over it. There’s no charge associated with manifesting demons; it’s not a public order offense. You can’t do time for it. But all the same having these obscene unholy things jumping out of your head like so many grinning jack-in-the-boxes just isn’t right. No way is it right. It’s actually very wrong. You don’t need me to tell you that! And perhaps I’m wrong, perhaps people can see them…

 

I’m not actually sure where I’m going with all this, by the way! I just have it in my head to talk about it. It’s in my head. In my head. In my head. In my head. Like the demons! I’ve got to let it out. I can’t help musing over it, puzzling over it, obsessing over it. I’m perplexed. I don’t know what to make of this business with the demons coming out of my head like that. I don’t know what to say about it. Does the fact that this happens to me mean that I’m a bad person? Would I perhaps be better off not talking about it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s No Fun Being Me

I used to think that I had an ego and that was bad enough, but now I’ve come to understand that it’s not that I have an ego but that I am an ego, and that’s not an easy thing to come to terms with. I used to think that I had a bit of an ego problem, that I had a bit of a problem with my ego because it kept putting me into awkward and humiliating situations. That’s not something that is easy to live with, it’s actually something that’s very hard to live with, but at least it was something that could be worked with. Therapy can help with that, for example. By gaining an awareness of ourselves – and particularly those aspects of ourselves that are not so agreeable to look at – we can change the dynamics of our situation and free ourselves up from all those negative, self-sabotaging behaviours. Awareness can change everything. I really do believe this. Or at least I used to.

 

The theory that I have just outlined used to make sense to me, and be a comfort to me, but not anymore. All of this fine talk quickly becomes quite meaningless if I actually am an ego, rather than just having one. It makes a mockery of everything, a pure farce of everything. Here’s me pretending to be working away doing all the stuff to free myself from the negative malignant influence of my shadow-self and become more enlightened and self-aware and ultimately free myself from from this dark and heavy ego of mine (which is the proverbial ‘millstone around my neck’) and yet the whole time I AM that ego which I am trying so hard to get rid of! What a pack of nonsense, what a vile charade! I haven’t got an ego problem I’ve got an honesty problem. I’m an unhappy self-sabotaging self-deceiving ego with a complete inability to be honest about the fact that I have zero prospects of ever changing my situation.

 

What’s to feel good about there? It’s a total joke – but not a funny one. It’s a joke you don’t actually laugh at because the joke’s on you. This doesn’t mean that nobody gets to laugh at the joke though – there’s lots of laughter going on out there. Plenty of laughs to be had but they’re all at your expense. You’re paying for it. You’re providing the entertainment. Everyone’s laughing – the whole world is convulsed with laughter. It’s such a great joke. You’re such a great joke. You can kind of get the joke but only in an inverted way – you can get the joke in terms of pain and humiliation because that’s what it’s like being an ego. You’re the butt. Being an ego means that you get everything backwards – God laughs at you. You’re even a joke to God. You’re outside everything; you’re on the wrong side of everything. You’re permanently excluded from everything. You’re permanently excluded from any fun that’s going on. You’re looking in at the proceedings from the other side of the Great Divide and when you see other people being happy that makes you sad because it’s not you. Their happiness cuts you like a knife…

 

That’s what it’s like being an ego. It’s no fun at all – it’s the very opposite of fun. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. No one respects you and you can’t even respect yourself because you know – deep down – that you’re a total dickhead. Take it from me, it’s not good. The only possible way I can ever get to feel hopeful about things is if I tell outright lies to myself, but somehow I’ve lost that all-important ability. People go on about ‘bad situations’ and ‘being in a bad place’ and so on but they really don’t know what they’re talking about. They should try being me for a change and then they’d know!

 

 

 

 

 

The Spamuloid Universe

In the Spamuloid Universe spam no longer exists, it can no longer be isolated or identified. It can no longer even be conceived of! This is the essential paradox of the Spamuloid Universe. Spam is everything in this world and there is nothing that isn’t spam; spam is the basic substrate and that’s why there is no longer any such thing as it. This doesn’t mean that there is any actual value or substance in the SU however because there isn’t. The SU is a fundamentally dead or sterile universe but we just can’t see it as such; we can’t see it as such because we have nothing else to go on…

 

The astonishing thing here however is that we manage to find a way to live in it all the same. We somehow adapt to it, we someone manage to make a go of it. We do what we have to do in order to eke out some sort of an existence, no matter how meagre. But what a dire form of existence it is! It’s an existence that is no existence, it’s a life that is no life. It’s a phantom existence, a phantom life. It’s a fundamental law of the cosmos that nothing can come out of spam except more spam: spam gives rise to more spam, the spam universe generates yet more universes of spam, like so much toxic candyfloss. It costs nothing to manufacture spam. From spam you come and to spam shall ye return… It is but a short journey, when all is said and done; it is but a short hop from where we started to where we’re going and actually it’s no hop at all because it only takes place in the imagination! It’s an imaginary hop, an imaginary journey…

 

So what kind of a half-baked pseudo-existence is this? We’re forever on the hop and it’s not even a real hop. No sooner do we touch ground than we have to hop right up again and we not really hopping anyway – we just think we are. We’re hopping in our imaginations. We’re merrily hopping into unreality the whole time; we’re hopping into unreality because that’s where we think our salvation lies. That’s where we’re wrong though – wherever our salvation is to be found it certainly isn’t in the Spamuloid Universe! There’s no salvation to be had in the SU, there’s no salvation in spam. Nothing can ever come out of spam except for more spam, as we have said. This is the Cosmic Principle known as ‘the Irreversibility of Spam’. The SU is the most degraded universe there ever could be – there is  no state more degraded than this. It’s the end of the road. This is the ‘End Point’; this is the ultimate equilibrium state. This is the Graveyard of all Information….

 

Suppose it were possible to (inadvertently) create a waste product, a waste product so inert and so non-biodegradable that it ends up becoming the whole world for us. We have inadvertently created a Garbage World, in other words. Suppose that this outcome happened to be feasible, just for the sake of the argument. This what you might call a little ‘thought experiment’. No harm in it at all, no reason why we shouldn’t try it out and see where it leads. So then the next stage is to wake up and smell the roses and realize that this has already happened. We live in just such a world, just such a universe. There’s no need to imagine it – we have already reached this Entropic End Point. We’re already there, as safe as houses in the Spamuloid Universe…

 

You think I’m joking. Not so. I spam you not, my friends. I hate to be the bearer of bad news and all that but there’s no sense in trying to put a favourable spin on this. There’s no point trying to put a favourable slant on it because there isn’t one. We always think we’re so damn smart, don’t we? So bloody smart. We have smartness coming out of our ears. But what’s so smart about living in the Spamuloid Universe? What’s so smart about living in the SU without even knowing it? Do we want a medal for this spectacular feat? This spectacular feat of ours that requires no effort and no awareness on our part, but only dumb self-congratulatory compliance to the Law of Entropy? All it requires to live in the SU is the absence of effort, the absence of awareness. All it requires is that we obediently hand over all responsibility to the process of spamification. All it requires is that we become willing little spambots, ludicrously eager to do our bit for the cause!

 

Our thoughts are the spam and we are the spammers. We’re spamming our little hearts out – we’re spamming for Queen and Country, we’re spamming for the good old USA, we’re spamming for Jesus. We’re spamming for whatever. Spam me again why don’t you? You little beauty…. Spam is everywhere, spam is all around us but we never see it because we think it’s normal. Spam is our whole world. Thought is our whole world. We don’t think that it is, but it is. Only a fool would deny it. The Thought World is the only world we’ll ever know – it’s a seamless structure and there’s no getting out of it. It’s the Hotel California. You’ve heard the song so now buy the tee shirt! Nothing ever comes out of thoughts except more thoughts – that’s a Cosmic Principle, after all…

 

 

 

 

Mighty Is Their Stride

The three friends are walking down the street – Doldaur, Doldaur Doldaur, and Doldaur Doldaur Doldaur.  Mighty is their stride. Steadfast is their pace. Invulnerable are they to earthly, material weapons. In a world devoid of heroes they are an anathema. In a world devoid of honour, they are a conundrum. In an age where the micro-man is King, they are an anachronism. The three friends have no place here – they have no relation to this time that they have entered. They have no relationship to the Weltanschauung of this age and so why are they here?

 

Ours is a corrupt world, a worm-infested world, a maggoty world, a world within which any semblance of Glory is unknown. Instead of glory there is merely fame – one insect is worshipped by untold billions of other insects. None of us ever raise our heads from the data-feeds which we are tasked with monitoring. None of us ever look up from the office desks to which we are so ignominiously yoked. We perform our allotted functions – if not tirelessly and uncomplainingly, then at least unquestioningly. Ours is not to question why. We fulfil our routine obligations; we fulfil the role for which we have been trained. If there is Greatness in the world then it is no concern of ours. Our concern is to fulfil the routine operations for which we were bred. Greatness is not in our DNA. Our synthetic genes bear the corporate stamp; our nucleic acids have been copywrited.

 

Our age is an age that is not worthy of any name. Why name it? Why bother – it won’t go down in any legends. It’s all too tiresome, too tawdry, too tedious and too third-rate. Ours is not an age one can sing ballads about or tell epic tales about. Nothing ever happens here. Nothing is allowed to happen – the policies are too strict for that, the bureaucracies too thorough. What else are bureaucracies for, other than making sure that nothing ever happens? We are of course told that Great Things are going to happen – it’s just that we have to fill in the correct forms first. We have to make sure that everything goes through the proper channels; we have to do it by the book and then the Great Thing can happen. We’re all in favour of the Great Thing. We’re very much in favour of it – we just want to make sure that it happens in accordance with the official rules and regulations…

 

Nothing ever will happen here. This is the Maggot Realm. This is the Insect Realm. This is the Termite Realm – any rebel will be instantly set upon and torn apart by its fellows. To be different is to be destroyed here – the two things are synonymous. Any rebel will be instantly dismembered and devoured, its nutrients recycled and put to better use. It’s a long, long time since anyone thought for themselves in the Insect Realm. Group Think closes in on us before we are even out of kindergarten. It closes in like a shark and once it does there’s no getting away from those terrible jaws, no escaping that terrible Crescent Moon of Death.

 

And yet the three friends are walking down the street together, their weapons ready in their hands, fiery determination blazing from their eyes. They come from another age, another world, another dimension of being. They have stepped right out of the Mythic Realm of our Long-Forgotten Dreams. They come to avenge humanity – a humanity that doesn’t even know it needs avenging. They have come to challenge the dark power of the Controllers. They have come to deregulate the Regulators. They have come to smite Old Greyface right where it hurts…

 

 

 

Art: Broken Hero by R. Borstelman

 

 

 

 

Thinking The Special Thoughts

I was thinking the special thoughts that I think when I want to make myself feel happy thinking the special thoughts getting them out of the top drawer of the cabinet where I keep them dusting them off and putting them on the mantelpiece. Thinking the thoughts thinking the thoughts thinking the special thoughts. Opening the drawer in the cabinet and getting them out. Shining them up, polishing them up real good. I want them to look their best, after all. I want to showcase them; I want them up on a stand against a backdrop of black velvet with a few spotlights tastefully trained on them. Thinking the thoughts thinking the thoughts thinking the special thoughts only this time they don’t seem to be polishing up so well this time they’re looking rather shabby rather shabby. Not so special. Usually I get this nice warm feeling in the pit of my stomach and then radiating out suffusing my body with the good good feeling thinking the special thoughts feeling the special feeling only this time there’s nothing. There’s just an awkward embarrassed silence like when you tell a joke and no one laughs everyone just stands around looking at you blankly embarrassed for you because it was a bad joke and even if it hadn’t been you’d have ruined it anyway because you always do. I’m waiting for the good good feeling that comes when I think those good good special thoughts but nothing’s happening I’m turning the key in the ignition but the engine’s dead not even a flicker nothing at all the silence is absolute it’s so thick you could cut it with a knife you could carve off big meaty slices from it and serve them up on a plate. With a good dollop of cold lumpy gravy and cold stewed cabbage sitting in a pool of stagnant cabbage water. I keep on thinking the thoughts, thinking the thoughts, thinking the thoughts, turning them over and over in my mind, weaving them into that very special story that means so very much to me, but it’s like a decomposing corpse at this stage, it’s hideous, it’s a horrible dead thing coming apart in my hands. Well this party isn’t exactly going with a bang I say to myself trying to be upbeat trying to laugh it off I’m sitting there all alone with a nearly empty bottle of Thunderbird wine in one hand and a disintegrating haystack joint in the other. There’s a record playing somewhere in the background but there’s a scratch on it and it’s sticking I’m stuck in the moment but it’s a bad one I try to get up but my legs fold up underneath me useless like wet cardboard the combination of Tuinal and green hash-oil isn’t working for me I realized and the Thunderbird wine is only making things worse the room is starting to spin now and I’m aware that I’m not having a good time there’s no one here except for me and my mind and my mind is thinking the special thoughts thinking the special thoughts thinking the special thoughts only it’s just not working for me I’m flogging a dead horse only my arm is getting so tired that I can barely raise it anymore and as I go through the special thoughts one more time I realize that I’m not having a good time I really do want to have a good time but it’s just not happening…