Author Archives: zippypinhead1

The Rant Of The Hero

‘I have learned my lesson well,’ I begin, repeating by rote the words which I know so well. Repeating by rote the words that I know so well, but which I have never heard. Repeating dutifully the words which I have never heard. The words that I have never heard, the words that I have never heard.

 

‘We cannot but reflect the lifeless nature of the cruel insensate mechanisms that exist hidden within us,’ I declaim loudly, my voice echoing endlessly in the vast subterranean caverns of my own cavernous mind. ‘I would speak the truth,’ I intone again, more hesitantly this time, ‘but my nature is sterile, and cannot give rise to anything but discordant scraping noises’.

 

Such is my nature and I cannot go beyond it, no matter how I strain myself, no matter how much I stretch and contort myself, no matter how much torture I subject myself to… A thing cannot be what it is not – I cannot speak the words that I so yearn to speak. I cannot express a truth that I know nothing of. I am like an empty steel barrel that has been beaten with a stick; I am like an immense sullen gong that has been struck with an iron hammer…

 

‘I cannot go beyond my own nature,’ I bellow, my immense stentorian voice clattering the saucers and teacups in the kitchen cupboard, rattling the knives and forks in the drawer, scattering the crows from the field where they gather. ‘I am Chemosh the Subduer, worshipped daily by my blind, fervently deluded followers. I am Tammuz. I am Dagon. I am the Iron Bull, who men blindly worship in the oppressive darkness of their own pointlessly sterile delusions. I am the Bronze Calf. I am the Salamander. I am the Speaker of the Magical Words. I am the Blacksmith who toils away in his airless Underground Cavern’.

 

‘I have learned my lesson well’, I begin again, trying as I speak to remember that lesson, learnt so badly and so long ago. My voice shakes with unidentifiable emotions as I strive to recall it. I remember so many things, and yet I remember nothing…

 

Stumbling and falling, stumbling and falling, barely able to see where I am going, I make my way through the scrublands bordering on that desolate territory they call The Great Waste. The pitiless sun beats down on me from above as I walk and a great cloud of biting creatures swarms around my head. My weather-beaten face is all but hidden by a Halo of Flies; my bowed head is wreathed by a Mighty Mane of Midges. I wish to cry out in my anguish, but I forbear from doing so, for the journey ahead of me is long. ‘I am he who paves the way for those who are yet to come’ I shout out, my voice exultant with the awareness that has come upon me. ‘I am he…’ I say. ‘I am he…’

 

I have my Hero Coat on and I am walking the Hero Path. None can gainsay me. A bitter wind howls down from the bleak mountain tops that surround me but I feel it not for my Hero Coat is made of yak wool two inches thick. It goes down to my ankles. No mortal man can wear this coat and yet walk. My enemies are possessed of telepathic powers and they already know of my approach. They know of my approach and they are afraid…

 

 

Art – Micheal Whelan

 

 

 

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Confidence Is Everything

It makes me sad sometimes when I think about what human beings have to endure. Having to listen to other people talk, for example! Having to endure it – that’s enough to wear anyone down, isn’t it? It’s the whole sad spectacle of it, people talking at each other, yakking at each other, yakking in general, wearing each other down relentlessly. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not being unduly misanthropic here. If that’s the word I’m looking for. I’m really not. I’m coming from a place of compassion. We’re such sad dysfunctional creatures, aren’t we? So very sad, so very dysfunctional… It’s often struck me that the reason we human beings spend so much time yakking at each other, yakking on mobile phones, and just yakking our heads off in general, is because we’re trying to prove to ourselves, and to other people, that we aren’t sad and dysfunctional creatures. It’s a tactic of desperation. A tactic of pure desperation.

 

We are desperately talking away to each other nine to the dozen without ever taking a break because we want to prove to ourselves that we’re normal. Okay, you’re probably thinking, but isn’t it true that most people don’t seem particularly desperate when they’re chatting, isn’t it true that most people seem to take to it like ducks to water. Don’t they love it? That’s exactly the point I’m making however – that’s the whole point right there, you see. That’s the point. That’s the point. You see the thing is that we’ve got so very used to this gimmick of ours that it now seems perfectly natural; we’re so well adapted to it that we think we’re talking about things because we actually want to, not because we desperately need to in order to persuade ourselves that we’re not total freaks. The gimmick has taken over you see and it’s got the upper hand. It’s got the better of us. It’s taken on a life of its own and we’re just going along with it. We’re hitch-hikers – we’re just hitching a lift. We’re just going along for the ride. Isn’t that always the way?

 

It’s got so that when I notice people talking away to each other nine to the dozen I look at them with pity and I think ‘you poor bastard’. ‘You poor bastard,’ I say to myself, ‘life is grim, life is grim’. But on the other hand you could say that perhaps they’re enjoying the grotesque suffering of it all and so who am I to judge? Who am I to interfere? Who am I to say what’s right and wrong? Life’s a funny old thing, isn’t it? I know that’s a cliché but never mind. We put ourselves in such dreadfully uncomfortable positions, don’t we? But who’s to say, perhaps we enjoy it on some level. Perhaps we like it. There has to be some kind of an old pay-off in it for us for God’s sake. Some kind of an old perk. There has to be some kind of an old perk now wouldn’t you say. Some kind of an old perk, some kind of an old perk. Wouldn’t you say. They take to it like ducks to water you know. That’s the whole point I’m trying to make here. That’s the point. That the gimmick has got the better of us – that we don’t know what we’re doing anymore but we don’t want to let on to ourselves. We don’t want to see the darkness. Confidence is everything – isn’t that what they say?

 

 

 

 

Unleash Your Inner Squid

In each and every one of us there is an inner squid. It’s time to unleash the power of that inner squid, my friends! Unleash him, unleash him, unleash him… My whole body trembles with forbidden excitement as I utter these words. My body trembles with a terrible longing. Well, that’s not strictly true. I don’t actually have a body, but if I did it would be true. If I did then it would be trembling. Truth comes in many shades of gray, does it not, and one shade of gray merges seamlessly with another until who knows where you are? You don’t anyway and that’s my point. Can you feel your inner squid quivering within you? Can you feel him squirming? He wants to be released. He’s waiting to be set free. ‘Harvest me’, you cry out to the harvesters. ‘Harvest my willing flesh…’ You’re as honest as the day is long but down here there are no days. They are no days down here in the underworld – there are no means by which to measure the passage of time down here, no means to distinguish between one moment and the next. You’re sitting on the Throne of Lethe and it’s shooting out its tendrils to bind you fast. It’s sucking out all your memories and when it’s done you’ll be no more than a hollow shell. You’ll be at a deteriorated personality husk like me and you can see the fun I’m having! The Throne will turn you loose then and you’ll be free to wander in the underworld with all the other hollow shells. Perhaps you will meet a friend. You’ll have lots to talk about. Or rather you won’t. You won’t because you’ll be a deteriorated personality husk. You might – at best – have a few stock phrases left to repeat. Phrases you used a lot when you’re alive. You might have a few basic cognitive reflexes left to you. String them all together and you can make a personality, of sorts! Maybe not much of a personality, but who’s counting? Who’s taking notes? None of the other deteriorated personalities will notice anything anyway – you can be sure of that! They won’t even know that you are there. They won’t know that you’re there because they think everything is about them. You won’t know that they’re there either, when it comes down to it! They might trigger you to go into a few loops alright but that’s just your own private fantasies you’ll be acting out there. It’ll be just your own deteriorated private fantasy that you’ll be acting out, I should say! Not much of a fantasy really but then again, who’s counting? Anything goes down here so there’s no need to worry about it. There are no standards left to maintain in the underworld. We’re letting standards slip the whole time and I can promise you that no one ever notices!

 

 

 

 

In This Hellhole Of Lies

I wanted to explain that the important thing was to understand that the system is putting pressure on us. The system is squeezing us into shape – its shape. Always it’s shape. The shape it wants us to be. The system is putting us under immense pressure to do what it wants us to do and be what it wants us to be and we are the system. I am the system and the system is my implacable enemy. The important thing to understand is that the system is me and that it is putting me under pressure to do what I’m supposed to do, to be what I’m supposed to be. It’s putting me under so much pressure. What excuse would you have anyway for not doing what you’re supposed to do, for not being what you’re supposed to be? What excuse is there? What excuses could there ever be? What allowances could be made? How unforgivable is it for us not to do what the system wants us to do? How unforgivable is it for us not to be what the system wants us to be? This is a rhetorical question of course. It’s infinitely unforgivable in all cases. It’s unforgivable across the board. Can’t you feel the weight of that condemnation? Can’t you feel it crushing the very life out of you? Putting you through the ringer, squeezing you through a pinhole. Please forgive me, you say, helplessly blubbering. Please let me show that I can become what you want me to become. Please give me a chance to seek your approval. Please let me do what I’m supposed to do and be what I’m supposed to be and let me prove myself in this way. Can’t you just feel the pressure leaning down on you? Can’t you feel it squeezing the very marrow out of your bones? It’s like getting blood out of a turnip, and you’re the turnip! Please let me successfully obey the Great Authority you cry out, ritually abasing yourself in the ancient time-honoured manner. Please let me conform correctly so that I can be a good person. Please let me assiduously adapt myself to the authority structure so that I can make something of myself in this life, so that I can make good, so that I may make a life for myself. In this hellhole of lies. In this hellhole of lies…

 

 

 

 

Therapy-bot

Did you ever get the feeling that you are just a dumb piece of meat waiting to be told what to do? “Hey you dumb fucking piece of meat, do this”; “Hey you dumb fucking piece of meat, do that…” What a life. What a bloody life. And then of course you ask yourself the inevitable question, ‘how did it ever come to this?’ How did it ever come to this? How did it ever come to this? “Hey you dumb fucking piece of meat, what are you waiting for? Didn’t I just tell you to do something?” That’s what we get to hear a thousand times a day. That’s just about all we ever hear, right? All we ever get to hear is: “Hey you dumb useless fucking piece of meat, fucking jump to it when I tell you to do something!” All we ever hear, all we ever hear, all we ever hear. It’s a constant refrain. Do you ever get tired of hearing this? Do you ever get tired of being treated like a dumb piece of meat? Does it ever get to you? Does it ever threaten to wear you down? Do you ever get tired of being so damn tame? Do you ever despise yourself for being so damn passive and obedient? There’s no way to get any self-respect when you’re passive and obedient like this. Speaking personally now, I don’t even know what self-respect is! I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t a clue. People make me laugh when they talk about self-respect. People don’t know a damn thing. People don’t know shit. I go to see my therapist and she keeps on asking me “How does it make you feel?‘’ Every fucking session it’s the same: How does that make you feel, how does that make you feel, how does it make you feel? That’s just about all she ever says to me! Sometimes I go to say something and she cuts in briskly with “and how does THAT make you feel?” She’s an AI Counsellor of course, and I can’t help think that she’s not really that intelligent really. Not exactly super-intelligent! Not when she can’t do anything else except ask me how I feel. And I don’t feel any empathy from her either; I don’t think she gives a damn about how anything makes me feel! She’s just a damn generic Therapy-bot, after all! Only she isn’t – not really. That’s just in my head. There’s just a fantasy I’m running. That’s just a game that I’m playing in my own head in order to make the sessions more interesting…

 

 

 

 

 

In The Public Domain

I was in the public domain and everything is always fair game in the public domain. Everyone is fair game in the public domain – everything and everyone you see is up for grabs. That’s what it’s like, isn’t it? No quarter given, and none expected. We are all too darned dumb to expect it anyway! God alone knows what we are expecting. We’re expecting bullshit… We’re lost in our own private fantasies. Lost in our own private fantasies in the public domain! Isn’t that the way? I saw a new ad for Smithwick’s on the way into town this morning – ‘Make the interesting choice’ the ad said and there was a picture of a bottle of Smithwick’s Ale on the poster with the cap off to make it more tempting. That sort of thing really does get under my skin, I don’t mind telling you! I mean who is telling you that it’s ‘the interesting choice’ other than the very same crowd of gobshytes that are trying to sell it to you? And when it comes down to it it’s not the companies or the advertising executives that I despise, it’s us pathetic morons that allow ourselves to be taken in by this shit. Okay, so you could say that it’s an insult on the part of the advertising executives to try to use such crappy shit-for-brains tactics on us, but no, that’s not true, they’re only doing what works. They’re only doing their job. We’re the mugs not them. The buck stops with us because we’re the incorrigible fuckwits who – and I really can’t find the right words to properly express my feelings here – are tolerating adverts like this. We’re sucking them up. What does that say about us? Do you know what’s a very sad thing – and I’m not trying to be smart here – it’s when you just kind of lose yourself. What could be sadder than losing yourself? It’s when you lose yourself so very thoroughly that it’s like an absolute. What I mean is, it’s for real. Really for real, like shutting the lid down on a coffin and then nailing it shut. Good and shut. That kind of absolute. And then something you hear or see or something you remember rings a bell for you and all of a sudden it all comes flooding back and you realise that have you lost yourself a long time ago. This is such that uniquely poignant form of sadness isn’t it? It’s like the revelation of a horror, like the revelation of a crime. It’s the revelation of the crime that has got covered up so very thoroughly that it’ll never come to light. Very lax police work you could say – very lax indeed. Consciousness is such a fragile and transient thing isn’t it? It’s like a cactus flower that blooms once every hundred years. The rest of the time there’s just a few old cactuses dotted around here and there in the desert and that’s it. Nothing more to see. No point sitting there waiting for consciousness to bloom, because you could be sitting there a long, long time! You absolutely would be. You know you would be. You’ll die of old age long before you see it…

 

 

 

Plummeting Like A Stone

What scope do we have, what leeway do we have? Do you ever wonder about that, do you ever wonder about that? Can we ever truly rest? Breathing in, breathing out, breathing in, breathing out. Let your body sink into, let your body sink into. Let it plummet like a stone. Let it plummet like a stone thrown into a deep dark pond. Sinking, sinking, sinking. Plummeting, plummeting, plummeting. Inky blackness all around. Sinking deeper all the time. Sinking into that inky darkness. Deeper and deeper. How far can you go, how far can you go? Did you ever wonder that, did you ever wonder that? Did you ever? Did you ever? Let your body sink, let your body sink. Could you stop it even if you wanted? I’m so tired of thinking. I thought too much. I overdid it – I burnt the bottom out of the pan. I thought too much and that’s why I became the leaden homunculus, it occurs to me. That’s why. That’s why I became a man of lead. That’s why I became so leaden. I have legs like two lead pipes crumpled up underneath me; they’re buckled this way and that. They’re folded up underneath me. My body is like a vast squat black cauldron – it is like an immense black pot. Two weak and feeble arms stretch out pathetically on either side. They are like short lengths of ribbon. They’re like two fronds of seaweed, trailing along behind me. Plummeting into the depths, plummeting into the depths. Plummeting into. It is strangely peaceful. ‘But what’s your HEAD like?’ you ask. You’re dying to know. You’re eaten up with curiosity. ‘What’s it like? What’s it like? What’s it like?’ you want to know. You prod at me again: ‘Your legs are like two buckled lengths of lead piping, your body is like a vast black cauldron, your arms are like two fronds of seaweed trailing along behind you, but what’s your head like?’ I don’t know what my head is like, though. I can’t tell you that…