Dear Esmeralda…Revenge of the Toad People

April 29, 2008

Dear Esmeralda,

The dark cloud of vultures, swooping high over my head, biding their time before attacking the carcass below, has grown in volume and impatience. They have combined to become one huge vulture cloud. A storm of flesh eating beasts looming ever larger on the horizon of my existence…It could soon be time to begin The Countdown. activate the Escape Plan. All signs point to that. But part of me, the same part of me that gets sucked into the teachings of Society’s Guide Book, longs to stay put and save the day to continue, indefinitely, embracing this ugly sense of security in a dead realm…Nope. I must leave, with swiftness and Style. As to When, and Where, I will probably end up narrowing down the six most Appealing and Viable options, then roll a dice. Several times until I like what I see.

Despite the threatening nature of the vulture cloud, I remain upbeat. Because I know It is nothing more Heavy than a sign, in a palpable but indescribable plane of existence, that my time as King of Fish must soon come to an End. And from the ashes of the inferno, that will surely rage when I am finally dislodged from my throne, a phoenix will rise far above the charred remains to carry me yonder to more fertile pastures, where I will be replanted in fresh earth and allowed to grow, for a while, into something else entirely…

This town homes many interesting characters with good hearts and good heads. It also, unfortunately, homes far too many cold souls, looking out of cold eyes, wading their way through the shit-swamp of Life with cold hearts bared only to themselves…I like people who speak, and act, from the chest, not from the head. Which is a microcosm of my Main Problem with The System here in the F.U.K….

In a World in which Feelings are Everything, we encourage each other from an early age to hide and mask our feelings. Because showing them, Society preaches and proves, will get you into Trouble. Image has overtaken substance as the most valuable commodity. We barter ourselves, our identities, our desires, for beautiful lies… A sense of security rooted in shit-soil has been driven into the People so fiercely that most lives are spent playing The Game, hiding away from True Desire of The Heart, using our Minds to get Ahead, not our Hearts…It’s bullshit.

I try to share much of my time with creatures who communicate to me from the chest, not just the head. An adequately capable mind with an open heart is a more enjoyable creature, with whom to exchange energy, than a creature with a cold heart and phenomenal mind. In between those two extremes there are creatures who are driven by a warm, good natured heart, but who, through life’s bittersweet lessons and chaotic trauma, have felt driven to close off their hearts to the world…A broken neck can kill a man instantly. A broken mind can render a life ruined. A broken Heart can also kill a man, but not with the guillotine cut quickness of a hammer to the neck, but slowly, profoundly painfully, the disease biting it’s teeth into every feeling of every second of every day and night until the emotional and spiritual horror starts showing itself in the Body and in the Mind. Total Torment…Because Feelings are Everything, that is a harsher way to Leave the Scene.

Most people, as they approach death, get upset because of Feelings, not of Thought. It is also mainly Feelings that are affected in others, when someone close to them dies.

To put all those peas into one pod of Wisdom:
We are all Lonely Souls trying to get Home.
Home is where the Heart is, not the Mind.
Wise men say that Happiness is a state of Mind, but I know, I feel, that Happiness is a state of Heart.

We should be following our hearts, looking for whatever makes our hearts happy. Because a Heart which feels at Home makes the Soul feel less lonely…

Ahhh….That will do for now, Madam Medusa.

As for a snapshot of News in Other Areas-
The Chinese have joined forces with the Venetians and are marching thoughout Asia, cannibalizing anyone they come across who refuses to swear allegiance to The New Order, enslaving the rest, most of whom will be used as fuel for the Venetian SpaceShips, with the remainder reprogrammed in Fascism…I am spotting unsurprisingly high amounts of Sick People. It is Spring but the common cold remains a common problem. Could be the first un-missable signal that Humanity is becoming so artificial, plastic, inorganic, in action, thought and behaviour, that our natural defences to ward off Nature’s basic attacks, are weakening…Whilst walking home from work this evening I almost stood on what I think was a toad, sitting in the shadows. Upon further examination I noted that it was mother toad carrying child toad on her back. Of the gender, or even age, I cannot be sure, but that was how my head made Sense of the Scene…As the little blighters seemed hell-bent on heading into the road, where I doubted their chances of survival would be maximized, I rushed home, grabbed a plastic bag, then returned to the slime merchants, snapped a branch of a nearby tree, then coerced the quarry into the trap…I flew home like an artic wind, picked up a torch from my cave, then crept into the garden, stopping next to the pond. The sound of other toads (or frogs) croaking confirmed that I was doing the Right Thing. Depositing a few lost travelers into the welcome flippers of a safe amphibian environment…I put the bag on a section of the tiles which surround the pond, then took a closer peek at a toad who seemed to be staring at me with a gaze I swear was indignation…’fuck’ I thought…’perhaps this chap is going to muller the new arrivals…he doesn’t look too kindly to Outsiders’….alas The damage was already done. There was nowhere else to take the hostages. They didn’t seem to want to leave the apparent safety of the plastic bag, so I helped them along their way, like pushing a child into a classroom on his first day at playschool, slanting the bag until they slid out into their new home…Before I fled, I had a brief word with the cocky looking toad who had continued to gaze daggers of contempt and baleful fury into my being whilst I worked the bag…I asked him to Play Nice. And I am confident that he understood me…I took a few photographs of the fugitives, for the records, and will perhaps check on them tomorrow night…

Stay Strong, comrade…A bird whispered in my ear that your leash might get extended before the year is out, lengthened enough to allow you to live like a slave in your dear sister’s house. I wish you Irish luck with that venture. There are many far more seriously dangerous to society, lawbreakers, who should be Inside in your place. Of that, I have little doubt…That can be said about most the people I have known, who have spent time in the Tombs…all but one of them, whose crime was sadistic and in some ways, unforgivable.

Send word by rat or flea,
Until then,
I remain,
Full of fire,
With nobody to burn but myself.

The New Arrivals

The Sheriff of Toadland

A cantankerous but inqusitive crow I tried to befriend at Devil’s Dyke last Monday afternoon.

The toad killer lies patiently in wait for the Right Time to Attack
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Natural Capital

April 29, 2008

We are all blessed or cursed with natural capital in vital areas. Capital which can be used as a form of currency…In the larval stage we are no more than the sum of the parts that have joined to create a new life. I don’t mean just the parts of our parents, I mean the actual bloodlines of our parents which have been mixing and evolving over the generations with certain elements contained therein, becoming more dominant and evident in the creatures born of the blood, and certain elements becoming weaker and less evident under the fierce gaze of Existence…

After we have exited the womb, Experience comes into play, in delineating our Natural capital. Experience encourages the capital to grow and develop, though it can also crush and destroy it…However, I should add, that the line between Larval and Womb Exit is fuzzy. Because I suspect that a creature in the womb is subject to Experience of the mother, and to energy absorbed from the outside world into the spirit, and the soul, of the new being. So effects on the raw building blocks of a Life begin to be felt straight after the point of conception*****…

Strengthening the magnification of this first attempt to find a starting point for my investigation into the idea of Natural Capital…It follows, that the mental, spiritual and emotional states of our Creators(mother and father) at the time of conception produce a powerful effect on us AS we are created. Intercourse can be simplified as a sperm and an egg, but this world is governed by complex Feelings and Thoughts which drive us, weigh us down…they combine to carve out the shape of our lives….After survival needs are met, most creatures seek happiness and happiness IS a state of mind and heart…Indeed. I am sure that in the least, traumatic events affecting a carrying mother( and possibly also the father) have a traumatic effect on the carried.

The son born of a rape has a stain on his soul before he has taken his first breath of Earth air. A daughter born of a devoted couple, conceived through making love…making life through Love…what a beautiful concept…that girl has already tasted Love and her soul will know Love before she pops out….These are extreme examples, which I am using to illustrate in perceptible definition, my suggestions about the Importance of the Point of Conception. Unfortunately, the current aeon shows countless more incidents of children born of Hate, of Darkness, than children born of any connection between people which is remotely approaching a semblance of Love….but where was I***….Capital…natural capital…

Our society gives value to three elements above all else.
1. Beauty combined with Sexual Allure.
2. Intelligence.
3. Braun mixed with bravery.

An unnaturally large showing of one of those Key elements of natural capital gives the bearer the potential to be a Success in the eyes of society. There needs to be at minimum, a little of all three. A brain dead hulk is of no use to anyone. But a dumb but salaciously alluring Beauty can take the World by storm, in financial terms…The higher the mix of those three Key elements, the easier it is to be a success in Society.
Beauty, Intelligence and Braun can all be used for Intense Good or Intense Evil. Depends on the soul and situation of the bearer. They can be increased in size and potency, through Experience and, or, conscious effort and training…..It literally pays in this world to take advantage of possession of superior values of the three Keys…

To end this first stab into the darkness of the spiritual snapshot of what we Are, I will mention briefly the Element I value above all others. An element which society does not value highly, it does not reward it, in fact, it tries to mock it, to stomp it out of this realm…This element is Heart.

Enough. But more will follow…


The GuideBook

April 29, 2008

There’s the LAW,
And then,
There’s the GUIDEBOOK.

The LAW protects us,
but also prohibits,
and regulates,
our potential to LIVE as WE choose.

Break the LAW,
and we are punished,
financially,
for lesser offences.
For more serious episodes,
of taking the LAW into our own hands,
and GETTING CAUGHT,
there is Prison.

GETTING CAUGHT.
is the operative phrase,
when it comes,
to fucking with the LAW.

The LAW is written,
It underpins our social structure.
And while in theory,
not the words,
but the Real Threat of Punishment,
deters a large number of instinctive killers,
rapists,
violent thugs,
from letting the steam from their hot blood,
metamorphosis,
from larval vital pulse,
to In The Flesh Carnage,
many of the LAWS,
decide for Us,
what we can do to OURSELVES.

Also,
The LAW,
is not ALL SEEING,
ALL PERVASIVE,
Yet…

It could,
and probably will happen…
Every action recorded,
processed,
judged,
punished…

The complete sterilization of VITALITY.

The LAW isn’t fair,
it’s judgment is not JUST,
or indifferent,
to the character,
status,
Image,
of the ACCUSED.

the GUIDEBOOK,
is not written,
or enforced,
by CCTV cameras,
by megalomaniacs in uniforms,
by pompous snobs in Wigs.

It is spoken,
as if it is a LAW.
It is enforced,
by weak minds,
by sheep,
unwilling to question the wisdom and agenda,
of the Shepherds..

‘they can have our wool,
in return,
they will look after us,
supply food,
shelter,
protect us from evil,
protect US from US’

The GUIDEBOOK tells what we are SUPPOSED to do,
with our lives,
with each other.

It isn’t spiritual,
moral,
legal.

It is a formula for a secure existence,
a notion of normality to be followed and passed on to our children…

‘WORK HARD AT SCHOOL,
COMPETE AGAINST YOUR BRETHREN,
BECAUSE WHEN YOU ARE BRANDED AN ADULT,
CHUCKED IN AT THE DEEP END,
THE WORLD WILL COMPETE WITH YOU…

DONT TALK TO STRANGERS,
THEY PROBABLY MEAN YOU HARM,
DOT GET TOO CLOSE TO ANYONE OUTSIDE YOUR AGE GROUP.
STICK WITH YOUR OWN.
HIDE YOUR FEELINGS.
TRUST NOONE’

Teach the babies DISTRUST.
Teach the babies to COMPETE.
WE make this society,
competitive and distrusting…
Heartless.

Who wrote the GUIDEBOOK****


supermarket disciplinarians

April 29, 2008

Why cant they just leave me alone,
Let me do the job,
THEY pay me to do*

Let me sell their fish,
With a smile on my face,
That I share,
With THEIR customers,
Who pay THEIR wages.

Its not enough,
For me to dress THEIR way,
For me to shave THEIR way,
For me to arrive,
And depart,
When THEY say.

For a spot above MINIMUM wage,
I give THEM my time,
But I wont give THEM my respect,
Because THEY don’t deserve it.

THEY are turning the screw,
Backing me into a corner,
Forcing me to bare my teeth and claws,
Even though,
I’m damn good at the job,
THEY pay me to do…

By being Myself,
I keep THEIR customers happy,
By being Myself,
I make enemies,
Out of human shaped,
Power hungry pigs,
Who see me as…
TROUBLE,
Even though,
I make more than satisfied,
The source of THEIR income…

I’m close to exploding with profanity,
I’m close to giving THEM,
The reason THEY crave,
To show me the door…

It’s just a matter of time…

And Maybe,
It’s a blessing in disguise,
Because I’ve become too cozy,
Too blinkered,
With the vision of an ugly security in a dead place.

One of THEM has my respect,
Because he is real,
He is alive,
The Rest,
Are a cackle of failed people,
Who have found their calling as supermarket disciplinarians,
Spending their well paid hours making sure,
The grunts keep grinding…

The Lone Wolf amongst the Hyenas,
John,
Wears their clothes,
But there is a sparkle of vitality in his eyes.
The Rest,
Really,
I wouldn’t care if they burned…

I’m on my way out,
But I’ll go when I decide,
Not THEM.
Until that point,
All I gotta do,
Is try lay low,
‘Cos I know,
For a glare,
For a smile,
For disobedience of bullshit orders,
They can’t fire me…

Still,
My card is well marked,
It’s too late,
Too pointless,
To retreat my SELF,
To start buttering Their bread,
To offer TOTAL ALLEGIANCE,
To Dirty Rotten Scoundrels…

I’m on my Way Out,
But I won’t be pushed….


Scrambled Transmission from Planet COd(2):Genuinely Happy

April 29, 2008

There used to be an order to things. A savage line that could be drawn from town to town, country, tribe to tribe.

Fuck this civility.
Fuck this Honesty.

There is nothing to be gained from bearing my heart to a heartless world.
There is nothing to be gained from meaning what I say.

I can only hope that the obvious futility, even ignorance, of my written record of being, is preserved for future generations which know Right from Wrong…Future generations which can hold up to the light, my work, examine as contemporary Man examines an ancient script of papyrus, and they can say…He Tried, He Persevered, He refused to give in…And He Was Crushed.

It’s a dog eat dog world and I’m a sick fucking puppy whose meek barks are drowned out by a symphony of dishonour, by calculating coldness held in the highest rapture by the Mob…

How I long for apocalypse…Destruction of all they have created, all their plastic, inorganic fakeness….This world is governed by nothing but chaotic brutality.

—————————————————————————————–

We are all connected.
We are all of one flesh,
One heart,
One soul….

I see it,
I know it,
But I can’t feel it…

Because most people,
Are so closed,
To the Outside.

Covered in character clothes,
Which are chopped and changed,
According to Company,
And Situation.

——————————————————————————————-

YOU WILL BE ASSESSED TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE GENUINELY HAPPY.

GENUINELY HAPPY. What the fuck is that*

They tell me: My conversation is inappropriate….

I’m sorry for being human****
No I am not.

————————————————————————————–
I curse the luck that has brought me under the loving embrace of so many wonderful people who I turn to in times of need, in times of desperation, screaming HELP ME, PLEASE….

They are responsible, on countless occasions, for soothing my puppy dog heart when it has been wounded. Were it not for them…I would have sunk, or grown stronger, more resilient, more closed off…But alas…they have served to prolong THE PROBLEM.

My mother. She is different. Her love is deep but she isn’t one to mollycoddle, or hold back on hard words that need saying…

I remember last Summer…whilst walking along a street I had last visited with a doting fiancée by my side. The emotional remnants of just being in the same place, but this time without Her, cut at me like a chainsaw on a naked, proud but utterly defenseless Oak Tree…Tears bursting free, the body’s desperate attempt to rid the spirit of it’s pain…Mum’s reaction was:
‘stop crying. You are being pathetic’
I needed that, more of that, from others, during my other times of Horror.

A baby cries for attention, and though I was crying not for attention, but out of instinct, soothing words were akin to giving the baby attention NOT solving the problem.

GROW UP. HIDE YOUR HEART. TELL ONLY BEAUTFUL LIES. AND YOU WILL SUCCEED.

But succeed in what* as What*

I have never wanted that kind of SUCCESS…
I don’t deal in the currency of Beautiful Lies.
That is the currency of Swine.

————————————————————————————
It’s a cold world. We all know that. We all live that. We all feel that. But there is also Warmth…It is easy to forget that, to get so consumed with satisfying the guide book, with doing what we are supposed to do.

Maintain control. Maintain direction. But towards what*…who wrote the fucking guide book…*

Nobody writes my Story but me. I don’t live to satisfy others, to maintain the status quo, to succeed in the eyes of a Society whose roots dig deep into dead soil. I live to Experience, to Learn, to find moments of bliss and beauty. For Myself…She gives me those moments of bliss and beauty. Albeit in flashes, glimpses of what could be a prolonged exchange of mutual release from the hollowness and cruelty of Existence…

I cannot find adequate diction to explain the feeling she produces within me, deep down at the core of my essence, when she is in my arms, looking into my eyes, delving into Me with her gaze…But I will try. Because there is poetry in her embrace and I am a Poet…

I have loved several women. All of them have loved me in return…Only one of this illustrious group is of ill character. The other two are angels. This new solar flare sending light and heat through my atmosphere, through the land and oceans which cover my molten middle, is different to anything I have hitherto felt. There is Mental Chemistry between us. Sparks fly between our minds, and increasingly between our hearts, whenever we are together, locked in embrace, in my tidy cave.

For those moments I am holding her, and she is returning my glare with Interest, I am in Heaven. A cliché, but true…


Better a Mother Loves

April 29, 2008

I am,
The result of a coital connection,
Between a saint,
And a demon.

It happened in 1978,
The Chinese year of the goblin…

…When it became clear to Her,
Around 1982, I guess…
That my father,
Was not man,
But a human shaped hellhound,
The saint gathered her little ones,
My sister and I,
Then fled,
Far way…

From sunshine,
Beaches,
Ocean,
And Matrimonial Suffering…

To bracken,
Grey skies,
Adders,
Refuge…
A chance to breathe,
Recover,
Regroup and restart…

She had wanted to lose her husband,
But not her friends,
Her house,
Her life,
In a country where she had really felt at home…

Her sacrifice was immense.

Before her own desires,
Came the well being of her little ones..

These last 29 years,
She has caught me when I have fallen,
Forgiven me when I have sinned,
Sometimes wretchedly…
She has supported every twisted plan I have chased,
with my often demented, invariably unreasonable will.
She has always,
Just been There.

Such is the power,
The ferocity,
Of Her maternal instincts,
I know,
That She would lay down her own life,
Before any real threat,
To her younger flesh and blood.
It has always been like this…

And it is Wrong,
For anyone,
Myself included,
To say ‘She cares too much’…

For She is me,
And I am her.

Better a mother loves,
Than not………………..


Swann’s Way- Proust

April 29, 2008

This is not the kind of narrative which will grab you by the jugular and drag you, at breakneck speed, from Start to End. So if you are looking for that kind of ride, avoid this, or dare I say, any other offering from the cerebral Frenchman, much as you would be advised to flee, with haste, from confrontation with a family of ravenous cannibals.

However, if you can gleam satisfaction from wading slowly through 500 pages of magically florid, intellectually proud, slow paced description of the aesthetic nature of Mother Earth and it’s evil cousin, Man Made Earth, and a painfully- for anyone who has been through the Mincer and learned not from the words of others but from the rollercoaster experience firsthand- the sensation, the cycle, the glory and futility of Love; then, and only then, perhaps this novel may prove to you, a Classic.

Proust appears unwilling, or at best unable, to leave one blade of grass, one cracked window pane, one crease in a dress obscured from the intense gaze of his mind’s eye; which is the driving force of the story. For example, to describe the seemingly mundane, routine act of emerging from his slumber, Proust takes 10 pages to lead the reader along a voyage charting the bays, canals, rivers and oceans of his Psyche, all of which need to be negotiated for his awareness to understand fully, and progress between, Sleep and Wake.

Essentially, Swanns Way is a beautifully rendered poem connecting childhood memories, observations, dreams and depression with a powerful long exposure literal photograph of the rise and fall of one man’s deep desire, need to possess and love,for a woman of an inglorious past and dubious Present.

Proust’s Way is an almost obstinate over elaboration of detail. I didn’t enjoy the lengthy soliloquies of chaotic joy which were inspired by visual stimulation but when the author aims his 10 million Mega Pixel focus onto human behaviour I was beguiled, truly marveling at the mind which could delve so deep into the Human Psyche, Spirit and Heart, with such regal elegance and honesty…


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