Author Archives: zippypinhead1

Robot Boy

It’s about a robot boy who wants to be a human, I said. It’s about a robot boy. Who wants to be human. Who wants to be. Wants to be. Wants to. The words died on my lips – they were not meant to be. They were never meant to be. They fall like autumn leaves, making their fluttering way to the floor. Forming neat little piles on the carpet. Little piles of old dry words – the life gone out of them, the juice gone out of them. They’re so very dry now – like yellowing scraps of ancient parchment.


All my words are like this now – they turn into lead leaves as I speak them and fall to the floor immediately. They turn into dust on my lips, I practically have to spit them out. It’s the blight – the word blight. It’s the blight that gets us all in the end. The decay of words as we speak them, the decay of thoughts as we think them. The faster I speak the faster my mouth fills up with dead words. I’m nearly choking on them – it would be better not to talk at all. What have I got to say, anyway? What have I got to say…


My words are no good to me and they’re no good to anyone else. They sit on the carpet all around me in neat piles. I sit here looking at them, looking glumly at all the neat piles of dead words. Waiting for them to do something even though I know that they’re not going to. What am I waiting for? I don’t know what I expect of them – they’re not going to do anything for me. I sit here glumly staring at them and they sit there doing nothing. They’re never going to do anything because there’s no life in them. They won’t ever do anything – they belong to the world of dead things, the world of decayed things.


I might as well be sitting in the graveyard staring at the tombstones, waiting to hear from the dead. Waiting for their comments. Waiting to hear what they have to say. There is a pause in the conversation and the conversation never even got started – it never got that far. The conversation died at birth. It’s what you might call ‘a very long expectant pause’ – the kind of expectant pause that goes on forever. It’s a pause that will never have any resolution. You’re expecting something to happen and yet it never will happen. You’re expecting something to happen and yet you also know that it never could happen. You always knew it never could happen. You always knew that. It never was going to happen and you always always always knew that.


I wonder what the matter with me is, I wonder. I wonder why I keep expecting something to happen I wonder why I’m sitting here waiting all this time. I wonder what it IS that I am expecting. What could these dead words ever do for me?  I don’t know what I want from them. I know perfectly well that they can’t do anything for me and yet I sit here waiting, waiting for something that will never happen. I’ve got the word-decay, which is something much worse than tooth-decay… My words are dying on my lips, they turn to bitter dust and the dust is filling my mouth. I’m choking on my words. I’m spitting them out on the carpet.


It’s about a robot boy who wants to be human, I begin to say. It’s about a robot boy who wants. It’s about a robot boy. Who wants. Wants to be. Wants…



Art: Robot Boy. Enrico Albanese. Freelance 3D Artist






Day By Day The Sadness Grows

I had evolved a machine-like way of being in the world and it was pretty neat, it was pretty snazzy. It was pretty great altogether. And yet at the same time it made me feel so sad. So very sad. It actually made me feel unspeakably sad – there was a sadness in me that I simply couldn’t articulate. I couldn’t even articulate it to myself. I couldn’t articulate my sadness to myself or anyone else because the machine which I had become had no language for it. The machine which I had become had no way of feeling the sadness, no way of relating to it. How can a machine know sadness, after all? Sadness is meaningless to a machine.


A machine can only react. It can only react in one way or the other – it can either react on the one hand with violent approval, or on the other hand with equally violent disapproval. Everything’s violent when you’re a machine; there’s no way you can do or say or think anything except in a violent way. Your very being is violence, your very being is a reaction. To feel sadness is not a reaction however – to feel sadness is not a violent act and consequently a machine cannot do this. A machine cannot feel sad. A machine can react to sadness, or against it, but this is only more of its violence…


‘I’ve got the depression and it’s worse I’m gettin…’ as the man sang. Only depression isn’t sadness either – depression is when you finally realize that you’re a machine, when it finally sinks in… People tell me I’m a liar when I say this but I’m only saying what I know. I know what it’s like to be a machine! I know because I am one. I’ve learned this lesson myself and I’ve learnt it the hard way. What other way is there? What other way is there other than the hard way? Do you really think there’s another way? Do you really think there could be another way?


Day by day the sadness grows, my friends. Day by day, week by week, year by year it grows until it fills a vast underground reservoir, a vast underground ocean. No sun ever shines on this subterranean ocean of sorrow. No rainbows ever form in the mist it gives off, no light glints off its waves.  No awareness comes here. This is a sadness that no one ever feels – no one has the language to catch its nuances. We don’t have the necessary poetry to do it justice. It’s not just that we don’t have the ‘necessary’ poetry – we don’t have any poetry. Not one single stray atom of poetry do we have – not one iota of it.


Day by day the sadness grows, and how could it not? I know you don’t want to hear this, my friends. I know this doesn’t exactly come as music to your ears, but what do we know of music anyway? What can a mere machine know of music? A machine only knows one thing my friends; it only knows one thing and that thing is reacting. A machine knows how to recoil violently from what it hates and how to lunge forward greedily for what it loves. This a machine knows well. A machine knows the crude and violent logic of success versus failure, gain versus loss, hit versus miss, good versus bad, but where’s the music in this? Where’s the poetry in pushing violently towards the desired goal or recoiling equally violently away from the unwanted outcome, the hated outcome, the feared outcome? There’s no music, no poetry here.


Wouldn’t knowing this make you sad? Doesn’t knowing this make you sad?









Negative Energy

I was imagining that people were going to do bad things to me and then getting cross and bothered as a result. ‘Cross and bothered’ is something of an understatement – I was hopping, I was livid, I had lost the plot entirely! Malignant spirits were being attracted to me – they were scuttling towards me in their hundreds like crabs from all direction. Where did they all come from? It appeared to me that they were coming out of the woodwork – I was amazed that the world held so many dark corners from which these evil beings could pour were they to be attracted by the right sort of psychic scent. Who would have guessed? I was imagining that people were saying bad thing about me and this was annoying me. It wasn’t just annoying me – I was fuming! I was more than just fuming – I was raging, I was going pure psycho. Unwholesome entities from the lower astral levels were materializing all around me, drawn by the sheer intensity of the negative energy that I was producing, like sharks from the uncharted ocean depths are drawn by several buckets of fresh blood being dumped off the side of a fishing boat into the sea. You’d never know that the ocean held so many sharks until you start spilling a bit of blood and then they will appear before you like a multitude of silent ghosts, each taking their place in the great circle of predators that are moving slowly in on you. So it was with these creatures from the lower astral planes, all manner of blighted unfortunate deteriorated entities, each hoping for a chance to suck on some negative energy, each drawn by their insatiable need to feed on the fear and anger of deeply disturbed living beings such as myself. I was imagining that people were thinking bad things about me and I was peeved. More than just peeved, I was seething with self-righteous indignation. ‘How dare they,’ I thought to myself, twisted with anger and resentment, ‘what gives them the right to judge me?’ My negativity was summoning demons from the nether worlds, from the hell worlds, from the infra-dimensions. and they were growing increasingly interested in me, seeing their opportunity to channel dark energies through me from the hell-worlds and into the world of men. I was a potential doorway for them, a means for them to extend their realm of evil and contaminate the earthly realm. They were excited by this possibility and sought therefore to bend me to their will. I did not require much bending as it happened – I was as twisted as a corkscrew already and that’s putting it mildly. I was to be a portal – the sewers of hell were to pour out through me. I was to be a conduit and infernal reservoirs of satanic malice were to pour through me to spread hideous contagion throughout the world. Oceans of psychic sewage were to be rerouted through me; I was the chosen one, the vessel – I was to be the very mouth of hell itself.








I am The Deteriorated Man

I am the deteriorated man. I really am the deteriorated man – there’s no doubt about it. A walking talking breathing deteriorated man, capable of reflecting (to a certain limited extent, at least) on his condition but not capable of actually doing anything about it. Not capable of that at all.


The little crystal quantum AIs fly in circles around my head, busily calculating the probability that this isn’t the real universe but a copy. They are in other words busily calculating the probability that they aren’t real AIs, but just virtual models of AIs in some kind of simplified format. The AI’s look to me as if they’re caught up in some kind of infinite regression which they can’t spot, trying diligently to calculate the probability of them being a simulation nested in a simulation nested in a simulation nested in a simulation which is in turn nested in a simulation of a simulation that is nested in a simulation, and so on…


I suffer from this condition called ‘collapsing categories’ – that’s what I call it anyway. I don’t know what anyone else calls it – probably they don’t call it anything. I’m actually sure that they don’t call it anything. People aren’t very good at understanding this sort of thing in my experience! It’s the type of problem they just don’t want to hear about. What happens to you when you get this condition is that your categories start to merge, with the result that you end up with less and less of them, obviously. It’s like a TV screen that keeps getting degraded so that it has less and less pixels in it to make up the picture. The end point is where you have only the one pixel and so no matter what the TV is trying to show you, it always looks the same. It doesn’t just look the same either, it IS the same – the same display for everything, eventually leaving just the one big fat stupid ugly old pixel to stand for everything…


That’s what happens to someone with the collapsing categories syndrome, only it’s affecting your mental categories rather than your pixels, obviously. Because you don’t actually have any pixels, as such. Your model or theory of the world gets progressively degraded; the nuances of it get insidiously leeched out bit by bit until there’s none left. None at all. You have a completely non-nuanced view of the world – you could be a civil servant or the minster of some evangelical church. That’s just my little joke – it’s good to hang on to some form or variant of humour if you can. However dark it may be. However unfunny it might be. I would certainly advise you to try to do that – especially if you find yourself in my situation…


So what I’m banging on about here is the fact that when you contract the collapsing categories syndrome certain key mental categories become overvalent and swallow up all the other categories, all the less aggressive ones. An overvalent category eats everything in sight – it feasts on its unfortunate neighbours and becomes fat. It becomes fat and ugly and evil. It bloats out and it no longer means what it used to mean either. It no longer means what it used to mean because by greedily subsuming too much meaning it actually becomes meaningless  – it becomes stupid, ugly and meaningless and yet it nevertheless continues to rule the roost! It absolutely insists on ruling the roost – it won’t stand for any competition. Sounds familiar? I rather think it ought to!


These are what I call ‘demon-categories’. They’re demonic because they no longer do what they’re supposed to do, because they no longer stand for what they’re supposed to stand for. They originally stood for something, in some kind of a way, before they got too greedy and tried to stand for everything. By trying to represent everything they end up representing nothing and yet they’ll never admit that! Or rather they’ll never let you know that – they won’t let you know that because they control your thinking. What am I saying, they don’t control your thinking – they ARE your thinking! The demon categories have eaten your mind like maggots eating up an apple from the inside (whilst leaving the skin intact) and this is how the disease runs its course. Eventually there’s nothing else. Eventually all that’s left is the biggest fattest greediest ugliest most bloated ‘demon category’ of all, which is you….






Mercurial Man

The Transhuman came at me out of nowhere, wildly waving the fossilized jawbone of a giant prehistoric Homo mercurius, the so-called ‘mercurial man’. The jawbone in question was huge and yellow and heavily encrusted with nanites capable of infesting anyone who came in contact with them with virally-reproducing alternative realities of a highly entropic nature. Anyone having any contact at all with a nanite cluster of this type would immediately find themselves randomly distributed throughout a theoretically limitless probability smear of alternative futures and alternative pasts. He or she would be reduced to a partial imprint of themselves – a mere cipher utterly incapable of independent thought. Such partial beings fervently believe themselves to be free but notwithstanding this belief they are immediately swallowed up without a residue by the endlessly proliferating viral pseudo-realities which determine everything about them. Free will is an illusion in such worlds. When a person is entombed in such a world all their efforts will always come to nothing because all their efforts are determined by the rules governing the simulation they are unknowingly trapped in. The victim is now a slave of the nullity, therefore. This is a typical attack strategy of the Transhumans but in this particular case my attacker had swung just a little bit too wildly and the weaponized prehistoric jawbone missed the top of my head by a narrow margin. I could see the blue-white nanite clusters twinkling menacingly as the jawbone continued in its arc past my head, apparently in extreme slow-motion. The whole scene seemed to slow down after this and I started to worry that a stray nanite crystal might have come loose from the mother-lode and got into my system. Seizing the opportunity that the subjective time-dilation had provided me with I extended my right leg behind me and pivoted on my left, bringing my right leg around in a circular high kick aimed at the temporal region of the Transhuman’s skull as he helplessly followed through with the extravagant momentum of his swing. This is a vulnerable spot for a TH because it’s where they keep their ports. There was a satisfying crack as my shin bone connected hard with his temporal bone and the TH went down like a sack of potatoes on the floor. Already the remaining six Transhumans were scrambling as fast as they could towards me, assorted weapons clutched in their hands. They had lost the element of surprise however and the advantage was mine – carefully picking up the Homo mercurius jawbone from the floor I sent it skimming towards the rapidly approaching Transhumans, putting a bit of a spin on it. As it flew through the air towards them I could see it shedding nanites in a deadly silvery cloud. The horrified look on their faces as they perceived their doom approaching was immensely satisfying to me – the boot was now on the other foot and no mistake, I told myself. This particular crew of Transhumans had been pursuing me for weeks through this alternative version of 22nd Century London and I had found myself unable to shake them off. This ought to do the trick however, I said to myself with grim humour – they would be going nowhere very fast for a very long time after this, I fancied. They vanished without a trace, dispersed irreversibly into decaying probability space. The staff in this place frequently try to tell me that this is all in my mind and that the Transhumans aren’t really out to get me. They even try to tell me that there’s ‘no such thing’ as Transhumans and that there’s only one version of the past, only one permitted time-line. This is the type of degraded over-simplified version of reality that they want me to accept. They repeat it over and over again – confident that if they keep on saying it I will eventually come to believe what they say, confident that if they keep repeating their key stock phrases the lie will eventually become true. They all speak with the same tongue – certain that their consistency will make me doubt my own grasp on what is true or not. This convinces me all the more that the staff here in the rehab centre must be aligned with the Transhuman agenda; that’s how the TH operate after all – their aim is always to restrict reality, always to close everything down. They delight in restriction, they rejoice in limitation. Such was always the way with the Transhumans.





The Shouter

We love our dank and dreary little equilibrium zones don’t we? Love them love them love them love them love them. We love them so much. Mind you if you say that to someone they’ll probably spit in your eye. You must hear about Jesus, read about Jesus, smell Jesus and taste Jesus, says the man with the microphone. No matter where you go you can hear him shouting, even right at the other end of the square. You can hear him shouting about Jesus. Shouting about being born again. He shouts so loud, doesn’t he? He wants everyone to hear him and that’s why he is shouting so very loud. But he’s dead inside, for all his talk about being born again. He needs to be born the first time, never mind ‘again’. Don’t talk to me about ‘again’. He shouts so loud and that’s how I know that he’s dead inside.  Don’t let his smart suit fool you – smart clothes don’t mean a damn thing. People who are dead inside often wear very smart clothes, that’s their compensation. People in positions of power, people who have achieved high social status, that’s their compensation. For being dead inside. And the shouters, let’s not forget about the shouters. Let’s not forget our friend walking up and down with the microphone attached to his jacket and the big speakers. No need to ask what his ‘compensatory activity’ is, is there? Shouting about Jesus is a great compensatory device, isn’t it? A great way of compensating for the fact that you’re dead inside. Did Jesus go around shouting about Jesus? I don’t think so. I don’t think Jesus was a shouter. Shouters are always dead inside – it’s a dead give-away! If you’ll forgive the pun. He’s shouting about Eternal Life now, can you hear him? How ironic is that? A shouter shouting about Eternal Life because he’s trying to compensate for the fact that he’s dead inside. The world is full of shouters, shouting for all they’re worth. Even if this one calls it a day and shuts up there will be another one along soon. They’ll be another one along in a minute to shout in my face. “I’m dead inside, I’m dead inside, I’m dead inside…” they’re saying with their shouting. Although they don’t know that they’re saying this. And we don’t know it either. We don’t realize. They’re looking for help – they’re crying out in their distress. Letting the world know. Transmitting their pain as we all do. It’s not nice being dead inside and they’re telling us about it. It’s a torment no one can endure and that’s why there always has to be some sort of compensatory activity. Be it religion, or politics, or sport, or modern society with all its vulgar toxicity. I wonder what he feels like after he’s done with all his shouting, I find myself asking. Does he feel all hollow and eerie inside? Does he go home and make himself a cup of coffee and sit there in his kitchen feeling all empty and spooky and echoey inside after all those hours of shouting in the street? I try to find some compassion in me for him because I know that he’s a tormented ghost, because I know that he’s dead inside and crying out in his distress. I try but fail. I’ve set the bar too high – I can’t feel compassion for shouters who shout in the street about Jesus. I freely admit that – I’m not a big enough man to do that. Religion always brings out a lot of bitterness in me.





For whatever reason, I knew that the other men in the hostel didn’t respect me. They didn’t respect me as a man – or as anything else, for that matter. They didn’t respect me full stop. I say ‘for whatever reason’ but the truth is that I know only too well why they don’t respect me – I just don’t want to talk about it. I get angry when I think people want ask me about it, I get all blustery and shouty, but other people never do want to ask me about it, not really. They don’t care less, they really haven’t the slightest interest. They might only be inadvertently be looking in my direction, for example, and that would set me off. They might not even be looking at me at all. I lose the head then. I get upset. I throw a wobbler. I flip out big time. You can always feel it when people don’t respect you, can’t you? No one actually has to walk up to you and tell you to your face, although of course I’d hate it if they did this too. I’d hate that equally as much. ‘Create your own personal comfort zone!’ breathed the woman’s voice on the advertisement, in tones that were obviously supposed to convey the wonderfully delightful pleasure of having your own custom-made comfort zone to be residing in when things got tough and you needed a bit of a break. From the torture of life. The pain and anguish I felt in listening to her voice was excruciating, obviously. How else was it supposed to make me feel? I wanted to serve a useful function, I wanted to be of service to society, but I just couldn’t because I was a glitch in the system. I was a real glitchy glitch – the type of glitch nobody likes. Obviously I don’t want people to like me for no reason – that would be unrealistic. I want people to respect and like me because I serve a useful function in society but obviously – as a glitch – there was never any question of that. It’s a non-starter. The only useful thing that a glitch in the system can do is to bow out gracefully. The only thing you can helpfully do – as a glitch – is to permanently eliminate yourself from the situation, which is something a glitch can never do. Glitches are always inherently self-serving in their nature – they are self-serving to the detriment of everything and everyone else and this is why ‘serving a useful function’ isn’t really on the cards. Being useful is an out-and-out impossibility for a glitch– the harder you try to be useful the more you screw things up. That’s kind of the way of it. That’s kind of what it means to be a glitch, I’m afraid. Of course, when I say that I want to serve a useful function and help people and all of that, I have to admit that I don’t really know if there is actually any truth in this! Do I really want to help or is this just another part of my glitchy thought process? If I really wanted to serve society and help people and serve a genuinely useful function then what I would have to do is simply leave everyone alone to get on with it without me and my perpetual pernicious interference, as I have already said, and you can be sure that I’m not about to do that! That’s actually the last thing I want to do and so where does that leave me? I find it hard to respect myself when it comes down to it – it’s no wonder that I’m always having such a bad time. What exactly am I suppose to do anyway? I feel like life’s playing a nasty trick on me…