Its a little obvious that I'm just talking to myself here. Oh well. Couldn't wish for better company. So I found this writing excercise yesterday, 300-500 words on a view through a window. Sounded good. Took me a coupla hours to write 80 words, but I'll fix it to me blog for safe keeping later me thinks.
[...Insert meaning here...]
Friday, 14 September 2007
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Fractured
(bad poetry)
Its a fully automatic, locked and loaded, rapid firing of associations,
People and signs round corners through time
A super-impositions of inquisitions born of the mind;
Walking through the town I know where I'm going
Until I watch where the others go and know we are following
Convictions, disjointed and fractured, the division of thought sought in matter
Defending all the while our idea of individuality
With its purposes, missions, dualities and intermissions
When we can't find a way to fit what we thought we was when we were in it
Because we never left everywhere;
How lonely are my footsteps, everyone unsure of its significance,
A single note sounded in the chambers of oblivion
And my lonely ears look for the song my sounds might make;
Then between the footsteps a choir of angels speak
As the gods live their silent dreams
Spun of automatic, locked and loaded, rapid firing of associations,
And everyone thinks "its only me".
A homeless man with a homeless mind wandering the memories and histories of "I" -
I am a fantasy, a philosophy, an ontology of a litany of dreams;
Do you have the secret? Will you lend it to me?
The sun shines on my bare feet signifying nothing
And I am empty.
I crave a distraction, an entertainment, and create a need
Give me a meaning so I can go back to sleep.
Its a fully automatic, locked and loaded, rapid firing of associations,
People and signs round corners through time
A super-impositions of inquisitions born of the mind;
Walking through the town I know where I'm going
Until I watch where the others go and know we are following
Convictions, disjointed and fractured, the division of thought sought in matter
Defending all the while our idea of individuality
With its purposes, missions, dualities and intermissions
When we can't find a way to fit what we thought we was when we were in it
Because we never left everywhere;
How lonely are my footsteps, everyone unsure of its significance,
A single note sounded in the chambers of oblivion
And my lonely ears look for the song my sounds might make;
Then between the footsteps a choir of angels speak
As the gods live their silent dreams
Spun of automatic, locked and loaded, rapid firing of associations,
And everyone thinks "its only me".
A homeless man with a homeless mind wandering the memories and histories of "I" -
I am a fantasy, a philosophy, an ontology of a litany of dreams;
Do you have the secret? Will you lend it to me?
The sun shines on my bare feet signifying nothing
And I am empty.
I crave a distraction, an entertainment, and create a need
Give me a meaning so I can go back to sleep.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Love is hard
Who, what, why, where, when, how?
These are thee components ov Astory; thee contractions.
WHAT is thee most important; WHAT is thee vision;
E must maintain integrity to thee vision in addressing thee other components.
E beleif that thee components are autonomous spirits not created by E, but channeled by E.
For this reason E is adopting thee identity of thee vessel ov thee vision (E) and not the identity ov its master.
E's autonomy is ov greatest significance when surrending to thee autonomy ov thee vision.
E is thee artist, vessel of thee muse. E does not see succes ov thee project as attainment of thee goal, but as surrender to thee autonomy ov thee vision and thee finer forces ov its creation.
E cannot stop writing nor cease thee exploration; E is in labour, E is obsessive. E must commit to thee creation above all else.
E struggled to create thee identity ov thee normal man, but succeeded only in Es surrender to thee vision.
There is a popular post-modern idea that there is not one self, but multiple selfs. E sees this as a lie - self is a force, not an object. E is thee force ov thee vision, and E's selfs are simply thee direction of force. Only false selfs need multiple selfs, in order to excuse their falsehoods. E knows no other identity, no bounds, but thee perameters ov thee vision. This is E's self-imposed incarceration, and exile. E's identity is not a mask, but an acceptance.
WHAT then? Astory ov thee shattered self; disadvantage, disillusion, disenfranchisement, thee gods of thee expanding reality, thee great liberators.
E is at war with thee lore of majority, with thee 'Slavish Imposition'. E hides the debris of E's life to avoid thee persecution and indoctrination ov thee "normal" "people" who surround E. E is a writer, living a solitary life, and does not connect to thee desires ov others so easily. E respect little but artistic integrity, in a time when conformity, status and property is most respected. Worse, E feels reluctant to reveal Es artistic identity because it will not earn these things. E looks to thee future and does not see security but a community ov like minded individuals with limitless identity, explorers and visionaries.
E was born when thee Clash died, when Punkism died as a fashion, and thee rave scene was born. E grew as thee counter-cultures died. And E remembers.....thee Falklands war and thee collapse ov industry saw thee birth ov thee National Front, and the Iraq war and thee collapse ov welfare has seen thee birth of the BNP. E knows well the reactionary hate ov resenting thee fortune ov others. E knows hate is easy, and love is hard.
Disillusion, disadvantage, disenfranchisement, these are thee cradle ov E's love. These are thee tutors and thee guardians ov freedom. "Abandon hope all who enter here" is carved upon E's heart, and thee image is carved upon E's chest. Those that cannot abide these harsh lessons seek thee greater good; thee Nationality, thee Race, thee Culture. Those that have been awakened by them turn to thee human spirit for guidance, to themselves, to thee heart. To thee inner eye that see's beyond promise, and language, and control. To thee heart that breaks thee shelves ov ones own library, and writers upon thee walls ov ones own home.
E's identity is self-serving. E beleif in self-sufficiency, self love, and thee rejection of all other philosophy; as a matter of strategy E rejects thee importance ov material possessions and honors thee extension ov love. To feel others as self, and be felt by others as self.
Those that forget thee past are doomed to repeate it; E has been angered by it, and E repeates its anger. E has been sorrowed by it, and in Es heart carries this sorrow as E's gift. E know that E must never forget its darkness, but illuminate it.
Dark times grow darker; oil will run out before we can confront thee foolishness of "climate change"; government will fall apart before it can finish fighting its independent terrorists. Thee greater goods will all be graced by thee gods of disillusionment as every E must find their own ethic, their own politic, their own code, for thee sake ov their own love for thee whirld. There will be no direction but thee direction ov ones own heart.
E has been argueing for some time with a learned friend about politics. E has never voted because E beleif that thee politics of life are universal, and so does not comprehend thee politics of different parties. E knows, however, that one party controlled by those in power would be totalitarian. Nevertheless, only 24% of thee country votes, and thee largeest party is thee party ov non-voters. Everyone is becoming disillusioned, and distrustful. Thee new prime-minister, Gordon Brown, recently revealed that he will be appointing members of other parties as his advisors, demonstrating a "new style ov government". Thee government is weak, and is working together to bolster its strength.
E thinks that these advisors are thee way forward - unity, collaboration.
But E sticks to E's guns, and E's motto:
Every act with intent
E does not trust thee actions ov thee new government, as E sees them as life support for a dieing paradigm, and reactionary in nature.
On a personal level, E's attempt to become stronger through dedication to work and fitness, while done with intent, were also reactionary. E's intent was fuelled by rage, a powerful force, but they obscured E's pain. E cannot remember who E is beyond this pain, and it seems obvious that most peope spend their lives obscuring theirs. E's intent is to act with love, out ov pleasure. Browns intent is to act with fear, out ov fear. We may yet see more ov thee totalitarian influence in our governing.
These are thee components ov Astory; thee contractions.
WHAT is thee most important; WHAT is thee vision;
E must maintain integrity to thee vision in addressing thee other components.
E beleif that thee components are autonomous spirits not created by E, but channeled by E.
For this reason E is adopting thee identity of thee vessel ov thee vision (E) and not the identity ov its master.
E's autonomy is ov greatest significance when surrending to thee autonomy ov thee vision.
E is thee artist, vessel of thee muse. E does not see succes ov thee project as attainment of thee goal, but as surrender to thee autonomy ov thee vision and thee finer forces ov its creation.
E cannot stop writing nor cease thee exploration; E is in labour, E is obsessive. E must commit to thee creation above all else.
E struggled to create thee identity ov thee normal man, but succeeded only in Es surrender to thee vision.
There is a popular post-modern idea that there is not one self, but multiple selfs. E sees this as a lie - self is a force, not an object. E is thee force ov thee vision, and E's selfs are simply thee direction of force. Only false selfs need multiple selfs, in order to excuse their falsehoods. E knows no other identity, no bounds, but thee perameters ov thee vision. This is E's self-imposed incarceration, and exile. E's identity is not a mask, but an acceptance.
WHAT then? Astory ov thee shattered self; disadvantage, disillusion, disenfranchisement, thee gods of thee expanding reality, thee great liberators.
E is at war with thee lore of majority, with thee 'Slavish Imposition'. E hides the debris of E's life to avoid thee persecution and indoctrination ov thee "normal" "people" who surround E. E is a writer, living a solitary life, and does not connect to thee desires ov others so easily. E respect little but artistic integrity, in a time when conformity, status and property is most respected. Worse, E feels reluctant to reveal Es artistic identity because it will not earn these things. E looks to thee future and does not see security but a community ov like minded individuals with limitless identity, explorers and visionaries.
E was born when thee Clash died, when Punkism died as a fashion, and thee rave scene was born. E grew as thee counter-cultures died. And E remembers.....thee Falklands war and thee collapse ov industry saw thee birth ov thee National Front, and the Iraq war and thee collapse ov welfare has seen thee birth of the BNP. E knows well the reactionary hate ov resenting thee fortune ov others. E knows hate is easy, and love is hard.
Disillusion, disadvantage, disenfranchisement, these are thee cradle ov E's love. These are thee tutors and thee guardians ov freedom. "Abandon hope all who enter here" is carved upon E's heart, and thee image is carved upon E's chest. Those that cannot abide these harsh lessons seek thee greater good; thee Nationality, thee Race, thee Culture. Those that have been awakened by them turn to thee human spirit for guidance, to themselves, to thee heart. To thee inner eye that see's beyond promise, and language, and control. To thee heart that breaks thee shelves ov ones own library, and writers upon thee walls ov ones own home.
E's identity is self-serving. E beleif in self-sufficiency, self love, and thee rejection of all other philosophy; as a matter of strategy E rejects thee importance ov material possessions and honors thee extension ov love. To feel others as self, and be felt by others as self.
Those that forget thee past are doomed to repeate it; E has been angered by it, and E repeates its anger. E has been sorrowed by it, and in Es heart carries this sorrow as E's gift. E know that E must never forget its darkness, but illuminate it.
Dark times grow darker; oil will run out before we can confront thee foolishness of "climate change"; government will fall apart before it can finish fighting its independent terrorists. Thee greater goods will all be graced by thee gods of disillusionment as every E must find their own ethic, their own politic, their own code, for thee sake ov their own love for thee whirld. There will be no direction but thee direction ov ones own heart.
E has been argueing for some time with a learned friend about politics. E has never voted because E beleif that thee politics of life are universal, and so does not comprehend thee politics of different parties. E knows, however, that one party controlled by those in power would be totalitarian. Nevertheless, only 24% of thee country votes, and thee largeest party is thee party ov non-voters. Everyone is becoming disillusioned, and distrustful. Thee new prime-minister, Gordon Brown, recently revealed that he will be appointing members of other parties as his advisors, demonstrating a "new style ov government". Thee government is weak, and is working together to bolster its strength.
E thinks that these advisors are thee way forward - unity, collaboration.
But E sticks to E's guns, and E's motto:
Every act with intent
E does not trust thee actions ov thee new government, as E sees them as life support for a dieing paradigm, and reactionary in nature.
On a personal level, E's attempt to become stronger through dedication to work and fitness, while done with intent, were also reactionary. E's intent was fuelled by rage, a powerful force, but they obscured E's pain. E cannot remember who E is beyond this pain, and it seems obvious that most peope spend their lives obscuring theirs. E's intent is to act with love, out ov pleasure. Browns intent is to act with fear, out ov fear. We may yet see more ov thee totalitarian influence in our governing.
Monday, 3 September 2007
Covetting Freedom
When Obligation
Becomes a burden
And Affection
Turns to lust;
When Duty
Becomes an obstacle
And Loyalty
Becomes expendible,
So does freedom begin
Its journey
Back
To dust.
Becomes a burden
And Affection
Turns to lust;
When Duty
Becomes an obstacle
And Loyalty
Becomes expendible,
So does freedom begin
Its journey
Back
To dust.
Premise
Adam Hart has been eating me alive. Need to re-affirm the premise of the "Accidental Man".
1. The mind is an accident, imprinted haphazardly and by chance. Those with power over us have more say in what has been imprinted in the social conditioned humanimal than the humanimal does themselves.
2. ACCIDENTS: Thids component of the story needs more attention.
Perhaps:
Adam has ana ccident in which he loses not his memory but his identity.
There is an opinion in conventional circles that we are our memories. I want to challenge this. I want the character, in realising the automatic nature of his mind, to discover the possibility of
Being anything
Anyone
Anytime
Anywhere
And to fall at first into a world where anything goes.
Having loosened his attachment to his accidental identity, he then begins to carve a real one through methods known only to initiates. This, as a writer, will be the hard part, because I want to demystify everything and make such transformation a matter of necessity rather than something "special".
At first his impetus was going to be a traumatic past that informs his present decisions and behaviours, but now I think perhaps it will be because he has lost his identity due to an accident that he has to make a new one, while all those around him are trying to persuade him to revert back t his old one. That would be "healing", that would make him "better", but despite his accident he doesn't regard himself as sick.
His symtpoms include a lack of value for the greater social good, and an inability to look after himself in the normal ways. For this reason he will go on his own odyssey, having discovered that he is in fact a cynic. He will live on the streets for some time, i think, though it will be difficult not to be melodramatic or a premadona about this. Again, necessity rather than virtue.
The second part of the story will come after he discovers that rather than being anything, anyone, anywhere, anytime, he is in fact
Everything
Everywhere
Everytime
And in his homelessness he begins to feel the sorrows of the world. He feels everything, and returns to the hospital that originally treated him looking for help.
Then I dont know what happens.
1. The mind is an accident, imprinted haphazardly and by chance. Those with power over us have more say in what has been imprinted in the social conditioned humanimal than the humanimal does themselves.
2. ACCIDENTS: Thids component of the story needs more attention.
Perhaps:
Adam has ana ccident in which he loses not his memory but his identity.
There is an opinion in conventional circles that we are our memories. I want to challenge this. I want the character, in realising the automatic nature of his mind, to discover the possibility of
Being anything
Anyone
Anytime
Anywhere
And to fall at first into a world where anything goes.
Having loosened his attachment to his accidental identity, he then begins to carve a real one through methods known only to initiates. This, as a writer, will be the hard part, because I want to demystify everything and make such transformation a matter of necessity rather than something "special".
At first his impetus was going to be a traumatic past that informs his present decisions and behaviours, but now I think perhaps it will be because he has lost his identity due to an accident that he has to make a new one, while all those around him are trying to persuade him to revert back t his old one. That would be "healing", that would make him "better", but despite his accident he doesn't regard himself as sick.
His symtpoms include a lack of value for the greater social good, and an inability to look after himself in the normal ways. For this reason he will go on his own odyssey, having discovered that he is in fact a cynic. He will live on the streets for some time, i think, though it will be difficult not to be melodramatic or a premadona about this. Again, necessity rather than virtue.
The second part of the story will come after he discovers that rather than being anything, anyone, anywhere, anytime, he is in fact
Everything
Everywhere
Everytime
And in his homelessness he begins to feel the sorrows of the world. He feels everything, and returns to the hospital that originally treated him looking for help.
Then I dont know what happens.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
No Fear? No Life!!
I almost looked for a book today, or a website, something that would tell me the "do's and don'ts" of writing. Can you imagine how many books would never have been written if the authors had done that? I'm thinking Joyce, Kerouac, P-Orridge and Burroughs, and definatly HS Thompson.
I was dissatisfied with what I'd done and I hadn't really done much, a sure road to nowhere, and the only answer was to have faith in my project. Yes, I found thee faith! I've never been able to have faith, not since the Church stole it.
An aquaintance of mine, Seonaid, told me recently about how when she sees her future all she sees is herself running around randomly and being happy, jumping and skipping. Great. Good for you. Enjoy that. Personally I'm more concerned with finding out what I actually want, and thats VERY DAMN SCARY!. No skipping is involved. I want to know my deepest, darkest self, not my no-self, but my true-self, my libido, my fire, my inspiration, my muse, in detail, intimatly.
I woke up this morning with the lines from Lincoln Parks "crawling" in my head, which i havn't heard since it was released really = "fear is how I know beleif in what is real".
The difference between running and skipping randomly and knowing ones muse is in a)meditation upon what one actually wants as opposed to empty fantasy, and b) making decisions.
Part B) is the scary part, because when acting in your own best interests it often takes you away from the comfort and security of the known, it will make you leave previous patterns of behaviour behind so that you cannot predict whats coming next and thus you are living!! Yes, you've made a choice and everything might go horribly fucking wrong and you'd simultaneously have to accept responsibility while not knowing the outcome and staring starry eyed into the great void. No fear? Dont make me laugh.
What inspires me about the writers I've mentioned is that they all wrote from their own experience, and experimentation. They had the balls to actually experiment with their lives, and to break free from the controlling influence of conventional thought and consensus reality. After all, who's reality is it anyway?
However, I am now riding moments of fear for the simple reason that, while I have never been able to fit in, follow or respect consensus realities or conventional thought, I've never decided to live that way. Secretly I've been trying to tailor my reality to fit in with consensus reality. Being unconventional and deciding, making a commitment, to being unconventional are two very different things, especially when deciding to do something that has caused a lot of pain in the past.
The Accidental Man:
Part 1, Draft 2
Nb~ Bare bones slowly fleshing out, story writing itself but wants to go everywhere, trying to reign it in, give it structure, make it less self-indulgent. Now feeling mired in this beginning, re-writing the same scenes, want it to move on, argh. The beginning is the hardest part; all hell and no biscuits. This is not a book, it is a trip pretending to be a book, a seed waiting to germinate in the hungry hearts of the doomed and disilluisoned.
OK, right, bollocks, I shouldnae hae stopped to rewrite, gotta finish the story even if it looks shit, then edit. Gotta get the story down....
6.15 Adam wakes alone, tired eyes taking in the scene of his empty room, just a couple of boxes and a matress. Lights a fag, fumbles with a spliff and takes a line; he can't remember how long he's been living like this, only why, a man educated for success he's tired with the monotenous daily grind, unquestioned, unnecessary, easy, bland. The drugs are an excercise, a test of strength - he only ever feels alive on the days he quits and starts again. But thats how it is, born on the wrong side of the tracks, dissatisfied, pissed off, chaos in the flesh.
Work starts at eight; five minutes to wash of the cold sweat and carefully disinfect the latest series of sores - where was he last night? He crawls from his matress placed deliberatly on the floor, with the furniture gone he's space to lie, sprawled, and breathe, taking in the sequence of last nights disjointed dreams.
The water splutters cold from the communal shower, but thats how he likes it, so he thinks, so he says, and soon he's before the dusty mildewed mirror rehersing his uasual script: "Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's doing fine, always on time, an ambitious, conscientious go-getter of a man, man with a plan".
"get out of the bathroom, twat!" erupts a disembodied voice from the hall, and its time to leave.
He shaves in his room and dons a suit, trail mix and flapjack for breakfast, but at least he's clean. His colleagues never suspect a thing, but just in case he indulges in a final preparation of B vitamins and 5-HTP before heading for the door and more monoteny.
The long march down pre-fab streets is hardly inspiring, all grey buildings, grey faces and grey suits, but sharp as a raz`or he cuts a path through the faces he meets, a twang of pity for those that sup lattes and brandish muffins for kicks and status trips, safe in the greater good of contracts and dealerships, then too quickly he's moving through the bleach white corridors, bleach scented, stark and half-lit all at once, into the office he's picking up forms, smiles and greetings from colleagues he mimicks but mostly ignoresIts a sales job, keeps the bastard wolf from the door while he bites down on his restless dissappointment and carries on.
The day seems to die before it has been born. He knows most of his colleagues have been waiting for it to simply end.
Nb~ Bare bones slowly fleshing out, story writing itself but wants to go everywhere, trying to reign it in, give it structure, make it less self-indulgent. Now feeling mired in this beginning, re-writing the same scenes, want it to move on, argh. The beginning is the hardest part; all hell and no biscuits. This is not a book, it is a trip pretending to be a book, a seed waiting to germinate in the hungry hearts of the doomed and disilluisoned.
OK, right, bollocks, I shouldnae hae stopped to rewrite, gotta finish the story even if it looks shit, then edit. Gotta get the story down....
6.15 Adam wakes alone, tired eyes taking in the scene of his empty room, just a couple of boxes and a matress. Lights a fag, fumbles with a spliff and takes a line; he can't remember how long he's been living like this, only why, a man educated for success he's tired with the monotenous daily grind, unquestioned, unnecessary, easy, bland. The drugs are an excercise, a test of strength - he only ever feels alive on the days he quits and starts again. But thats how it is, born on the wrong side of the tracks, dissatisfied, pissed off, chaos in the flesh.
Work starts at eight; five minutes to wash of the cold sweat and carefully disinfect the latest series of sores - where was he last night? He crawls from his matress placed deliberatly on the floor, with the furniture gone he's space to lie, sprawled, and breathe, taking in the sequence of last nights disjointed dreams.
The water splutters cold from the communal shower, but thats how he likes it, so he thinks, so he says, and soon he's before the dusty mildewed mirror rehersing his uasual script: "Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's doing fine, always on time, an ambitious, conscientious go-getter of a man, man with a plan".
"get out of the bathroom, twat!" erupts a disembodied voice from the hall, and its time to leave.
He shaves in his room and dons a suit, trail mix and flapjack for breakfast, but at least he's clean. His colleagues never suspect a thing, but just in case he indulges in a final preparation of B vitamins and 5-HTP before heading for the door and more monoteny.
The long march down pre-fab streets is hardly inspiring, all grey buildings, grey faces and grey suits, but sharp as a raz`or he cuts a path through the faces he meets, a twang of pity for those that sup lattes and brandish muffins for kicks and status trips, safe in the greater good of contracts and dealerships, then too quickly he's moving through the bleach white corridors, bleach scented, stark and half-lit all at once, into the office he's picking up forms, smiles and greetings from colleagues he mimicks but mostly ignoresIts a sales job, keeps the bastard wolf from the door while he bites down on his restless dissappointment and carries on.
The day seems to die before it has been born. He knows most of his colleagues have been waiting for it to simply end.
Saturday, 1 September 2007
Thee Temple Ov Psychick Youth
(Italics from TOPY.net)
T.O.P.Y. is action against dissatisfaction
in a society that is passive not peaceful
(aiming for the throat)
From the Institute Of Positive Pagan Nihilism
to the passionate process that enfolds
(but does not control)
there is hope through energy.
Energies directed and multiplied,
energies conformed then deformed
energies facilitating psychick enemas.
To purge and purify,
to pain and putrefy.
To communicate is to cure.
Thee Temple ov Psychick Youth is a collective body ov Individuals, all working together towards a common goal. It is about thinking deeply about oneself, questioning one's role in a so-called free society.
Man is essentially a robot: he has set programmes imposed on his life, even before he is born. Whatever Man does he should do with passion. He should rise above thee imposed trappings ov society. Involvement with thee Temple is purely active and positive, thee bottom line being: "I don't want to lead a pointless existence, following and accepting thee indoctrination ov a worthless society.
"O.K. Crazy? To change thee world we live in, yes.
Power hungry? For power over our own lives and destiny.
Ego-maniacs? Yes, if as usual their definition ov an ego-maniac is someone
who wants to achieve, grow, change and progress. Yes - WE DO THINGS!
Perverse? Yes, and proud. Thee rational ov thee world is no rationale.
Sense? Right? Normal?
Whose sense? Whose right? Whose normal? No sense makes sense.
Our sexuality is our own. If you don't like it, leave it.
Money hungry? Sure. Money is but a way to get things done. Not thee only way, but a way.
Freaks? Oh yes! No, we do not fit in, we never fit in, and we choose it that
way, thank you. Fashion, morals, duty: they are yours not ours. YOU keep
them. A freak is someone with individual motivation, separate from thee
dictates ov past, present and future."
TOPY attempts to wake people up to thee fact that they are controlled, socially programmed to suit those with an interest in control, and that guilt and fear are weapons employed to suppress natural advancement. Preconceptions must be swept aside and a de-programming occur until fearless and guiltless sexuality is mastered. Thee Temple embraces suitable forms ov technology to support its aims for collective advancement. Methods ov information access include PTV recordings, booklists, video deprogramming transmissions. These are all designed to surprise, even shock, but with a view to expansion, thee removal ov limitation.
Note: I am not going through a phase, on a downward spiral or damaged, I'm simply unique, and growing in my own way. Being a Cynic during the week and a Sileni on the weekends, while trying to retain my psychick integrity, I encounter these labels quite a lot. Often they are simply the result of people misunderstanding my nature, people who, in their naivity or innocence, mistake the security of re-indoctrination for the peace of liberation.
In a stable society no one would undergo de-programming of any kind, as de-programming is a drastically unstable process. A stable society is not human in nature, but mechanical - as humans we live in flux and phases, in moods and magicks. Well, thats my excuse.
I am about to go back into University, next month, and am remembering that in the gluttenous group-think of the maturing herd humanimal, especially the territorial male with its posturing and vaccuous ideas of itself, what is praised most highly is stability and continuity. Those who "fall-apart", feel too deeply or are too aware of why others arm themselves with scripts and masks - the ones that NEEEEED to fit in, at ANY COST, even if that cost is their lives - are seen as a threat to the stability of the hive. In other words they pose a threat of injecting some real life into the group.
For this reason I have also been labelled a bad influence, been expelled from school, and had people try to - in a most miserably hysterical manner - section me at times. Admitedly during those times I am acting as if I'd just swallowed a fish tank of LSD, which is a symptom of truly being myself.
To any one who has felt less than human because they can't fit in, I salute you, and suggest you take advantage. Wakefulness is thee aim, thee enemy is dreamless sleep.
Adam Hart: Form and Content
Notes on content:
Something of a speed freak, a runaway train, the pace of this story is furious, reflecting the nature of Adam. Its all about racing to the next moment and eating it alive; as the story develops i intend to show more of an obsessive nature, without purpose at first;
Adam is just a working name; he will have to fall eventually to find a more rewarding purpsoe; so far he's just beating his own demons for want of something better to do. He loathes his work colleagues for their denial of their demons, for living under them, while he bootstaps his own in private.
He is a cynic, but he doesn't yet know it.
He's a private character. From personal experience I know that cynicism is often seen as something undesirable, and until he bootstraps the philosophy itself he will keep his own counsel.
He will cotinue to eat life like an insatiable beast until he has a moment of satori, during which he will realise that he is not simply racing from moment to moment for the sheer hell of it, but that there is a deeper philosophy to it. At this point he will calm a little, and step back. New characters will be introduced shortly before or shortly after this event.
The reason for this is that Adam starts off as cynics often do, resenting imposed thought and action to such a degree that he fights it in all corners of his life. He rants and raves, not because he is sick, but because he is at odds with his true identity. Not knowing what his true identity is, he is, as the story starts, engaged simply in the destruction of his imposed identity - the career man, the hotshot.
His moment of Satori will reveal to him that his mind is simply a freeform series of associations imprinted haphazardly and by chance - with no intent, good or bad - and that in destroying his attachment to these parts of himself, he has only just begun in his quest for a true identity, not created one as he so thinks. Nevertheless, this furious adventure he finds himself on (he is about to become homeless "voluntarily") is his Genesis.
In the second part of the story he will begin his Exodus, in which his self-sufficient mind will begin to look for ways to form a relationship with the society he has rejected not out of a need for security or stability - he will always reject those things - but because he realises that he will never be free of it. He is part of something larger than himself. His mind, the mind so grossly endorsed by a disfunctional society, is no longer in charge. He sees it for what it is, but now he must put consciousness to use. This is where he begins to find his true identity, and reconcile it with his nature.
As first steps towards change, we attempt to cultivate an awareness ov thee consequences ov our thoughts and actions, and to direct our energies in constructive directions. All this is done on thee understanding that our thoughts and behaviour form thee interface between our lives and thee lives ov others, and their repercussions are therefore endlessly returning. - TOPY.net
Notes on Form
Obviously the story rhymes, in order to give it a racing pace and suck the reader in.
I want to avoid turning the dark edge of the story into something easy to digest by turning it into a nursery rhyme - I want to use more half rhymes but keep the pace, like one word automatically generates the next. Moment to moment, wor(l)ds within wor(l)ds.
The times used will be uniform: 6.15am and 6.15pm, 7.30am and 7.30pm, for example, to give an element of continuity and of mundane routine to the life of Adam, while his mind remains furious and untamed. As an obsessive with an mind beyond the scope of most of society, in its raw form able to free itself from addictions at will and function while under the influence, a great control juxtapositioned with a lack of value for the greater social goods such as stability and security, he remains covert, although at points in the story he will be told he is having a break down and on a downward spiral as he changes tack, and lives, too quickly for people to understand, and often in "undesirable" ways.
There will also be an element of continuity in his rehearsing his lines, which will be a device used at the beginning of each new development or change in character. I havn't written these yet either, but they will be something like "Adam Hart, 29 born in London, he's on time and he's feeling fine" but with subtle changes throughout, and leading to completly different situations in which, at times, he is not fine.
The juxtapositioning of a furious mind with an external routine betrays the presence of an underlying, yet unconscious, philosophy, as does the "Adam Hart, 29" device.
The Story so far:
The Sad Story of Adam Hart:
first sketch, first draft
6:15Wakes, lights a fag, fumbles with a spliff and takes a line, he's doing fine, on time - work starts at 8, but first to wash off the cold sweat, disinfect another series of sores - who's blood is that? - he crawls from his mattress place deliberatly on the floor. With the furniture gone he's space to lie, sprawled, and breathe, going over the nightmare visions of last nights dreams. These days these dreams are all that offer any sembalance of continuity to his fragile identity and ramshackle beliefs.
The waters cold as it splutters from the communal shower, but he likes it. How long has this madness been going on, with what precident? How long has this single room been his home, he was no longer sure - the drugs had given him an appetite but little more.
Before the dusty mildewed mirror he rehearses his lines; Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's on time. Doing fine. He brushes his teeth with a little charlie, sighs and eats a mint.
"Get out of the bathroom, twat! My wifes preggers and she needs the sink!"
Time to leave. He shaves in his room and dons a suit. Two boxes for clothes, one clean, the other anybodies guess. Destressed, a little more time to breathe, the standard flapjack and trail mix for breakfast, but at least he's clean. His colleagues know the score, he lives for work but little more, or so they think; between 9-5 he's clena cut and enthusiastic, carefully compassionate, never drinks.
7.15 He's out the door nd down the prefab streets, sharp as a razor he cuts past the tired faces he meets, a slight twang of pity for those that sup lattes for kicks, and he's at the bus stop. Then too quickly he's moving through the bleached white corridors, bleach scented and half lit, into the office and picking up forms, smiles and greetings from colleagues he mimicks but mostly ignores. Its a sales job, keeps the bastard wolf from the door while he tests his strength and wages his very private, very personal war.
The day comes and goes.
5.30 And he stops to reminisce, while his colleagues get pissed and talk office in their local; Sallys got her BMW, Kev hates the Euro, Bens got a new guest house and all are wondering how the MDs enjoying his chartered flight to Morrocco; Buts he's rolling a phatty, alone, sitting atop a grave in Park Hill cemetary, taking stock and thinking about how soon he'll be with Abbey.
The most potent drug of them all was Love, and he didn't trust it at all! The only dream more powerful than Nirvana was the sweet embrace of Abbey and the promise of their future.
In the mad world of Adam, there's no telling what dreams may come.
6.15 And Adam decides its time to stop encouraging this particular demon; his nose itches, his fingers a twitching, the sweat is perfuse, but somewhere behind these symptoms this man is enjoying is a heart within reason - this is why he lives, and why he'll ride it. Another shower and a bee-line to the communal kitchen, his hunger raging, a packet of eggs and a packet of bacon and he's out the door, then too quickly to the office once more.
7.30am for an early start, accosted already by the office flirt; she mistakes for mystery what happens to be a careful guile. He can't tell sometimes whether he's dead in side as all the while these simple rituals of the herd make him rile, and writhe inwardly - its an affront to his sensibilities! He's a bastard, he knows it, but impulse is his enemy; he abstains for powers sake and to live more deliberatly.
The day dies quickly.
7.30pm Takes his running shoes from their in-box hybernation, hits the road. He's already decided he can't stand this job, its time to move. There's enough money in his bank for his next transition; without fail he's made his mundane life an adventure, the good grades and good degree, the good references and the good opportunities all traded like commodities, while in private he lives like a monster. Its Jekyll and Hyde, driven not by foolish pride but by a biting emptiness. He values nothing of the greater good, its all come to easy, easier than it should.
6.15am And Adam wakes with a start, he's only eight this morning, a small boy in the big world of his family, its sharpe teeth grimly emerging; his first impressions of this new day are coloured by the barbs and blood of his parents cries, harsh words the meanings of which are lost between walls but the tension of which is carried in his heart and, in his innocence, amplified. He is afraid, but his first thought is to fight, put hesitation aside and reign in his feelings, if only to walk down the stairs and ask for some silence;
"Mum, Dad, I can't go to school this morning"
They understand better than Adam does, send him upstairs and quietly resume their argument.
7.30am Sees Adam in the office - Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's doing fine, he's been clean and working out for three weeks now and the change is showing - working on a little personal business, ready to and in his resignation at 8, right on time.
"Morning Adam - busy weekend?"
Its Sally, Ms BMW, and in 30 minutes he'll be but a memory, so why pretend?
"Yes, Sally, I'm quitting - doing this job should be a crime! You rob single mothers under the guise of health insurance they'll never use and spend their money on flash cars ad a new kitchen appliance. God, where's your sense of decency, your compassion?"
Already bent back over his piece of paper, Adam misses the tear forming in the corner of Sallys eye as she turns to walk away, stifling her reaction. She really like Adam, he'd always been so nice.
7.30pm Over a drink, aloe, Adam is priding himself on his new freedom, and on the eloquence and originality of his resignation; a short letter it simply read
My Dear Crapulous Contemporaries,
Sorry it had to end this way, but it is evident that your existence is no longer required.
The age of capitalist industrialism has expired. This Earth no longer needs a workforce of the greatest possible number, with its drone likes yourself blindly following social convention and orders - no, its time for educated individuals, and for this reason I fear it is time for me to leave.
I intend to discover my own style of living, and my own method of education, and nature shall offer me patronage, not the economy.
Good bye, good riddance, and thanks for all the fish. Your inanities really have been amusing, but now its time for something fresh.
Enjoy your slow and miserable deaths,
All best,
A.H.
He was right, he knew he was….
Something of a speed freak, a runaway train, the pace of this story is furious, reflecting the nature of Adam. Its all about racing to the next moment and eating it alive; as the story develops i intend to show more of an obsessive nature, without purpose at first;
Adam is just a working name; he will have to fall eventually to find a more rewarding purpsoe; so far he's just beating his own demons for want of something better to do. He loathes his work colleagues for their denial of their demons, for living under them, while he bootstaps his own in private.
He is a cynic, but he doesn't yet know it.
He's a private character. From personal experience I know that cynicism is often seen as something undesirable, and until he bootstraps the philosophy itself he will keep his own counsel.
He will cotinue to eat life like an insatiable beast until he has a moment of satori, during which he will realise that he is not simply racing from moment to moment for the sheer hell of it, but that there is a deeper philosophy to it. At this point he will calm a little, and step back. New characters will be introduced shortly before or shortly after this event.
The reason for this is that Adam starts off as cynics often do, resenting imposed thought and action to such a degree that he fights it in all corners of his life. He rants and raves, not because he is sick, but because he is at odds with his true identity. Not knowing what his true identity is, he is, as the story starts, engaged simply in the destruction of his imposed identity - the career man, the hotshot.
His moment of Satori will reveal to him that his mind is simply a freeform series of associations imprinted haphazardly and by chance - with no intent, good or bad - and that in destroying his attachment to these parts of himself, he has only just begun in his quest for a true identity, not created one as he so thinks. Nevertheless, this furious adventure he finds himself on (he is about to become homeless "voluntarily") is his Genesis.
In the second part of the story he will begin his Exodus, in which his self-sufficient mind will begin to look for ways to form a relationship with the society he has rejected not out of a need for security or stability - he will always reject those things - but because he realises that he will never be free of it. He is part of something larger than himself. His mind, the mind so grossly endorsed by a disfunctional society, is no longer in charge. He sees it for what it is, but now he must put consciousness to use. This is where he begins to find his true identity, and reconcile it with his nature.
As first steps towards change, we attempt to cultivate an awareness ov thee consequences ov our thoughts and actions, and to direct our energies in constructive directions. All this is done on thee understanding that our thoughts and behaviour form thee interface between our lives and thee lives ov others, and their repercussions are therefore endlessly returning. - TOPY.net
Notes on Form
Obviously the story rhymes, in order to give it a racing pace and suck the reader in.
I want to avoid turning the dark edge of the story into something easy to digest by turning it into a nursery rhyme - I want to use more half rhymes but keep the pace, like one word automatically generates the next. Moment to moment, wor(l)ds within wor(l)ds.
The times used will be uniform: 6.15am and 6.15pm, 7.30am and 7.30pm, for example, to give an element of continuity and of mundane routine to the life of Adam, while his mind remains furious and untamed. As an obsessive with an mind beyond the scope of most of society, in its raw form able to free itself from addictions at will and function while under the influence, a great control juxtapositioned with a lack of value for the greater social goods such as stability and security, he remains covert, although at points in the story he will be told he is having a break down and on a downward spiral as he changes tack, and lives, too quickly for people to understand, and often in "undesirable" ways.
There will also be an element of continuity in his rehearsing his lines, which will be a device used at the beginning of each new development or change in character. I havn't written these yet either, but they will be something like "Adam Hart, 29 born in London, he's on time and he's feeling fine" but with subtle changes throughout, and leading to completly different situations in which, at times, he is not fine.
The juxtapositioning of a furious mind with an external routine betrays the presence of an underlying, yet unconscious, philosophy, as does the "Adam Hart, 29" device.
The Story so far:
The Sad Story of Adam Hart:
first sketch, first draft
6:15Wakes, lights a fag, fumbles with a spliff and takes a line, he's doing fine, on time - work starts at 8, but first to wash off the cold sweat, disinfect another series of sores - who's blood is that? - he crawls from his mattress place deliberatly on the floor. With the furniture gone he's space to lie, sprawled, and breathe, going over the nightmare visions of last nights dreams. These days these dreams are all that offer any sembalance of continuity to his fragile identity and ramshackle beliefs.
The waters cold as it splutters from the communal shower, but he likes it. How long has this madness been going on, with what precident? How long has this single room been his home, he was no longer sure - the drugs had given him an appetite but little more.
Before the dusty mildewed mirror he rehearses his lines; Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's on time. Doing fine. He brushes his teeth with a little charlie, sighs and eats a mint.
"Get out of the bathroom, twat! My wifes preggers and she needs the sink!"
Time to leave. He shaves in his room and dons a suit. Two boxes for clothes, one clean, the other anybodies guess. Destressed, a little more time to breathe, the standard flapjack and trail mix for breakfast, but at least he's clean. His colleagues know the score, he lives for work but little more, or so they think; between 9-5 he's clena cut and enthusiastic, carefully compassionate, never drinks.
7.15 He's out the door nd down the prefab streets, sharp as a razor he cuts past the tired faces he meets, a slight twang of pity for those that sup lattes for kicks, and he's at the bus stop. Then too quickly he's moving through the bleached white corridors, bleach scented and half lit, into the office and picking up forms, smiles and greetings from colleagues he mimicks but mostly ignores. Its a sales job, keeps the bastard wolf from the door while he tests his strength and wages his very private, very personal war.
The day comes and goes.
5.30 And he stops to reminisce, while his colleagues get pissed and talk office in their local; Sallys got her BMW, Kev hates the Euro, Bens got a new guest house and all are wondering how the MDs enjoying his chartered flight to Morrocco; Buts he's rolling a phatty, alone, sitting atop a grave in Park Hill cemetary, taking stock and thinking about how soon he'll be with Abbey.
The most potent drug of them all was Love, and he didn't trust it at all! The only dream more powerful than Nirvana was the sweet embrace of Abbey and the promise of their future.
In the mad world of Adam, there's no telling what dreams may come.
6.15 And Adam decides its time to stop encouraging this particular demon; his nose itches, his fingers a twitching, the sweat is perfuse, but somewhere behind these symptoms this man is enjoying is a heart within reason - this is why he lives, and why he'll ride it. Another shower and a bee-line to the communal kitchen, his hunger raging, a packet of eggs and a packet of bacon and he's out the door, then too quickly to the office once more.
7.30am for an early start, accosted already by the office flirt; she mistakes for mystery what happens to be a careful guile. He can't tell sometimes whether he's dead in side as all the while these simple rituals of the herd make him rile, and writhe inwardly - its an affront to his sensibilities! He's a bastard, he knows it, but impulse is his enemy; he abstains for powers sake and to live more deliberatly.
The day dies quickly.
7.30pm Takes his running shoes from their in-box hybernation, hits the road. He's already decided he can't stand this job, its time to move. There's enough money in his bank for his next transition; without fail he's made his mundane life an adventure, the good grades and good degree, the good references and the good opportunities all traded like commodities, while in private he lives like a monster. Its Jekyll and Hyde, driven not by foolish pride but by a biting emptiness. He values nothing of the greater good, its all come to easy, easier than it should.
6.15am And Adam wakes with a start, he's only eight this morning, a small boy in the big world of his family, its sharpe teeth grimly emerging; his first impressions of this new day are coloured by the barbs and blood of his parents cries, harsh words the meanings of which are lost between walls but the tension of which is carried in his heart and, in his innocence, amplified. He is afraid, but his first thought is to fight, put hesitation aside and reign in his feelings, if only to walk down the stairs and ask for some silence;
"Mum, Dad, I can't go to school this morning"
They understand better than Adam does, send him upstairs and quietly resume their argument.
7.30am Sees Adam in the office - Adam Hart, 29, born in London and he's doing fine, he's been clean and working out for three weeks now and the change is showing - working on a little personal business, ready to and in his resignation at 8, right on time.
"Morning Adam - busy weekend?"
Its Sally, Ms BMW, and in 30 minutes he'll be but a memory, so why pretend?
"Yes, Sally, I'm quitting - doing this job should be a crime! You rob single mothers under the guise of health insurance they'll never use and spend their money on flash cars ad a new kitchen appliance. God, where's your sense of decency, your compassion?"
Already bent back over his piece of paper, Adam misses the tear forming in the corner of Sallys eye as she turns to walk away, stifling her reaction. She really like Adam, he'd always been so nice.
7.30pm Over a drink, aloe, Adam is priding himself on his new freedom, and on the eloquence and originality of his resignation; a short letter it simply read
My Dear Crapulous Contemporaries,
Sorry it had to end this way, but it is evident that your existence is no longer required.
The age of capitalist industrialism has expired. This Earth no longer needs a workforce of the greatest possible number, with its drone likes yourself blindly following social convention and orders - no, its time for educated individuals, and for this reason I fear it is time for me to leave.
I intend to discover my own style of living, and my own method of education, and nature shall offer me patronage, not the economy.
Good bye, good riddance, and thanks for all the fish. Your inanities really have been amusing, but now its time for something fresh.
Enjoy your slow and miserable deaths,
All best,
A.H.
He was right, he knew he was….
Cynics
Cynics were unconventional thinkers, who were more individually focused than concerned with the greater good. Cynics eschewed materialism and the conventions of society and marriage (including where marriage was consummated), and were known for their shocking behaviors and shamelessness when it came to demonstrating their philosophical views.
Unfortunatly Cynics often offend people unintentionally. When I sent this card i thought the joke would be appreciated. What an idiot. My intent was never to offend, just to illuminate an unspoken current of action - it was my weakness also that I could not illuminate this current through direct communication. I wasn't aware enough:
From topy.net:
As first steps towards change, we attempt to cultivate an awareness ov thee consequences ov our thoughts and actions, and to direct our energies in constructive directions. All this is done on thee understanding that our thoughts and behaviour form thee interface between our lives and thee lives ov others, and their repercussions are therefore endlessly returning.
One of the most notorious Cynics was Diogenes:
The Greek philosopher Diogenes of Sinope (c. 412-c. 323 B.C.) was a Cynic -- that is, a practitioner of the philosophy of Cynicism. Diogenes is said to have been homeless, to have begged or stolen what he needed to survive, and to have preferred to live without any luxuries.
One of the many anecdotes about Diogenes the Cynic is that when the philosopher was rude to Alexander the Great, Alexander responded by saying that if he weren't Alexander, he would want to be Diogenes. Diogenes and Alexander the Great are said to have died on the same day. Diogenes is depicted in art carrying a lantern with which he is said to have vainly hunted by daylight for an honest man.
The classical school of cynicism has several tenents that are presently reflected in absolutely every fucking thing that I write, albeit without intention. Its just who I am. Its my nature.
1. Self-sufficiency (ataraxia)
2. Living by personal example
3. Exposing the falsehood of conventional thinking
4. Exposing vice and conceit
5. Living according to nature.
Being a Cynic is not quite as fun as being a Sileni, but its cheaper.
Unlike the cynics of old, I reject the conceptual importance of philsophies rather than the material importance of possessions, which makes me a humungous pain in the arse.
Of the Sileni, Wikipedia offers the following:
"The Sileni were followers of Dionysus. They were drunks, and were usually bald and fat with thick lips and squat noses, and had the legs of a human."
A Silenus: I think I know this guy from somewhere....
Unfortunatly Cynics often offend people unintentionally. When I sent this card i thought the joke would be appreciated. What an idiot. My intent was never to offend, just to illuminate an unspoken current of action - it was my weakness also that I could not illuminate this current through direct communication. I wasn't aware enough:
From topy.net:
As first steps towards change, we attempt to cultivate an awareness ov thee consequences ov our thoughts and actions, and to direct our energies in constructive directions. All this is done on thee understanding that our thoughts and behaviour form thee interface between our lives and thee lives ov others, and their repercussions are therefore endlessly returning.
One of the most notorious Cynics was Diogenes:
The Greek philosopher Diogenes of Sinope (c. 412-c. 323 B.C.) was a Cynic -- that is, a practitioner of the philosophy of Cynicism. Diogenes is said to have been homeless, to have begged or stolen what he needed to survive, and to have preferred to live without any luxuries.
One of the many anecdotes about Diogenes the Cynic is that when the philosopher was rude to Alexander the Great, Alexander responded by saying that if he weren't Alexander, he would want to be Diogenes. Diogenes and Alexander the Great are said to have died on the same day. Diogenes is depicted in art carrying a lantern with which he is said to have vainly hunted by daylight for an honest man.
The classical school of cynicism has several tenents that are presently reflected in absolutely every fucking thing that I write, albeit without intention. Its just who I am. Its my nature.
1. Self-sufficiency (ataraxia)
2. Living by personal example
3. Exposing the falsehood of conventional thinking
4. Exposing vice and conceit
5. Living according to nature.
Being a Cynic is not quite as fun as being a Sileni, but its cheaper.
Unlike the cynics of old, I reject the conceptual importance of philsophies rather than the material importance of possessions, which makes me a humungous pain in the arse.
Of the Sileni, Wikipedia offers the following:
"The Sileni were followers of Dionysus. They were drunks, and were usually bald and fat with thick lips and squat noses, and had the legs of a human."
A Silenus: I think I know this guy from somewhere....
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