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…



The Mumbly-Jumbly Man

People get all jumbled up in my mind. They get all mumbled up. Jumbled up, I mean. Everything gets jumbled – jumbled and mumbled. I’m the Mumbly-Jumbly Man and you can be sure that wherever the wind blows, that’s where I go! I’m the Mumbly-Jumbly Man and there are days when the wind doesn’t blow at all. The sun doesn’t shine and the wind doesn’t blow and wherever the wind doesn’t shine the sun is sure to blow… My mind was entertaining me with stories but the stories weren’t entertaining any more. They weren’t entertaining, they weren’t anything. It was like someone coming up to you on the street and screaming pure nonsense right in your face. The world is full of such magnificently rich entertainment and yet here is my mind barking incoherent inanities. Here is my mind subjecting me to its insufferable bullshit. It’s not even bullshit – at least bullshit pretends to be something and if you want – if you really want – you can make the necessary effort to believe it, to save you from having to witness the lies for what they truly are, but with the out-and-out shyte that my mind was churning out there was no chance of that. There isn’t even the thinnest veneer of pretence. People get all mixed up in my mind – I see someone coming up to me on the street and I don’t know if I know them or not. I don’t know if they are me or not. Maybe they are me pretending not to be. Maybe they aren’t me and they’re saying that they are. Maybe they’re trying to catch me out. I’m the Mumbly-Jumbly Man I shout but then end up taking a wrong turn and find myself walking down a long dark corridor. The air is close and foetid and there is a faint but nevertheless distinct smell of burnt toast, disinfectant and old urine. I know where I am, I think, I’m back in Pagoda Ward, but no sooner had I had this thought then it became quite meaningless to me. I didn’t know what it was that I had just thought. My thoughts were like short-lived subatomic particles I realized. They were like pions and leptons and muons, decaying in a thousand billionth of a second. I knew that if only I could refine my attention enough to appreciate their astonishingly brief lifespan then I would discover a whole world of wonder there – a world where rivers flow upstream and pour into the sky, a world where rainbow fish swim about in the air, a world where invisible soul-birds nest deep underground in the earth’s core, a world where no one has bodies anymore and you only have to think of a place and you’re there…



Art: Fishfood by 13PaVel




In The Lair Of The Lictor

We finally won through to the strong-room to which the Lictor had retreated with his chosen men – the elite of humanity’s warriors, his last bulwark. In order to have got this far we had had to fight our way through an army of android replicants, each one taking on the face and form of someone particularly dear to us. Their cries were all too real as we cut them down, but we did not falter. Our faces were grim masks of stone, our blades blurs of death in the air. We had at last tracked down and cornered our slippery supernatural adversary and we were not about to be put off by any of his wiles.


‘Go not forth when the Lictor passes by’, the future-prophet Zoroaster has warned us in his wisdom but this time that accursed enemy of human kind was going to find the boot on the other foot. I kicked in the reinforced six-inch oak door and we rushed in, careless of what awaited us. The elite warriors were waiting and sprang at us – in hundreds of years, none of them had ever been vanquished in battle. They would taste bitter defeat now however, I promised myself grimly, my sword moving too fast for the human eye to follow, and too fast for any Lictor’s eye to follow either I fancied, as I fought my way through the ring of heroes that surrounded us. I could see the Lictor now, sitting apparently unconcerned in his jewel-encrusted leather seat, watching as his hand-picked men fell one by one, with a bored look on his face.


He laughed mockingly as I approached him, his cold metallic eyes shining with poisonous mirth, “We both know you’re not going to kill me,” he said softly, in those horribly hypnotic liquid tones so characteristic of the Lictor kind, “for do we not both serve the same master?” My companions turned to look at me at this, wondering what the creature meant perhaps. They stood there, waiting to see me dispatch him. The moment had arrived at last – the balance of power on this world and untold reams of its parallels would be changed forever with a single decisive movement of my sword. Unaccountably, I hesitated. I stood there, apparently in a moment of indecision, and I could see that repulsive mocking smile growing slowly wider and wider on the Lictor’s frighteningly unpleasant face…


Then everything suddenly came to an abrupt halt. What had been a living moving unfolding moment that I had been part of had now been turned into a frozen tableau. The Game-Cycle had been interrupted. It is always disconcerting when something you think can’t stop does exactly that. It’s as if the whole world were a moving bus and you didn’t realize it and then the bus suddenly stops dead and then – retrospectively – you do realize it. Or perhaps a better way of describing it would be to say that it is as if time itself suddenly came to a stand-still when you didn’t know that it could, when you had no idea that this was possible, and it was only then you realized that there had never actually been any such thing as time…


The frozen moment then broke up with a soundless crash like a giant pane of glass hit by an immense iron bar wielded by a giant and everything devolved into thousands and thousands of frantic mini-games, all of which are somehow running simultaneously, spinning like little glittering wheels. In one of these fragmented micro-realities I am sitting across from two plainclothes detectives in an interview room in Union Grove Police Station, in South London. I am being questioned in relation to the death of a man in Vauxhall Park the night before. I am not suspected of having anything to do with the death, I am informed, but they want to know if I saw anything unusual that night. They knew I had been in the area – one of their sources had identified me. I told them that I hadn’t seen anything and eventually – reluctantly –  they let me go.


I never talk to the police – it’s a point of honour with me, one of the few I have left. I could tell that they suspected me of knowing more than I was saying however and I also had the distinct feeling that they were – in some way – right in their suspicions. I was hazy on this point because I didn’t have any memory of the evening. There was a nasty gap from six in the evening to when I woke up in the hostel this morning. Feeling sicker and more depressed than I can ever remember having felt before. I had the very unpleasant feeling that this was the type of gap from which anything could emerge. Anything at all. Maybe I had killed someone? And then as soon as I had this worrying thought I immediately had another, far stranger one – maybe this was the afterlife and someone had killed me?