Tag Archives: morals

MENTAL HYPERTENSION: IN WHICH YOU ARE YOU AS MUCH AS YOU WANT TO BE YOU OR CAN BE YOU OR ARE ACTUALLY REALLY YOU

Posted on by
Reply

No one likes You. They like the You you present to them. Hell, even You don’t like you[1].

This is not going to be a depressing diatribe trying to state “no one understands me” or “if only they knew” or anything Sylvia Plath-ish at all. Really what it is is that these days there is a need to create an ‘other’ to deal with the day in day out of life, to handle the horrific falsities, transgressions and incongruence of modern life that would otherwise forbid you (the actual real You) from making any kind if nine to five money at all. These shadow monstrosities are perpetrated by humans (who are also pretending, acting, behaving) along with your own ‘other’ self and then, much more problematically, your ‘other’ self is to then go on and re-perpetrate atrocities onto other (hopefully also pretending) non-human ‘other’ types. The major problem with relying on us all to be on the same page with this terrible falsity is that not everyone is on the same page, some of us are actually really real (Them) humans and they are taking these blows quite personally and doing these horrible acts quite honestly. They are not pretending, this is their real actual self. They really think and feel the things they say out of their mouth and behind their eyes when you see them crushed a little or sad or depressed or worried about their position or the light in their eyes when they are rewarded for a mediocre achievement. All real. Sometimes the ‘you’ that they present is actually their real Them. The problem is that their reality is derived from the expectations of society, from role and behaviour. Yet, and here’s where it gets weird, that even though there are these precepts, and one could say clearly observable, recognisable and understood observable clichés, the majority actually strive to mimic and what’s more become these expected invented paid for humans, and even try hard to achieve the fulfilment of this goal by ticking every box that would make the, admittedly, poor assumption truer and truer as time goes on. Yet they continue in their endeavour to achieve the fulfilment of a ridiculed socio economic version of greatness that in their mind was assigned to them (and that they deserve). Class structure not withstanding, this self-perpetuating phenomena means that if you are within it you cannot see it, and, if you are criticised for being ‘within’ it, your innate sense of protection of it makes you forcibly sink deeper within as if the mere, actual honest helpful observation of the fact could make it worse (an affront/attack). I could say for example “do you really think you should give your four year old coca cola?” and they would say “fuck off cunt” which would actually in some twisted way in their minds confirm that giving coca cola to their kid is good because they would never want their kid to turn into a ‘cunt’ like I am for pointing that out. Here’s the conundrum, do they really think that or are they innately jealous of my schooling and advantages in life and, in being violently aggressive, show that they want their son/daughter to get out of the “shit” life they have?

Conundrum 1: do they think they have a shit life even thought they say all the time “out life is shit”?
Conundrum 2: do they want their child to have better schooling than they did i.e. do they admit that their schooling was bad?
Conundrum 3: do they admit that they do not have the means to raise a child ‘ideally’
Conundrum 4: do children who haven’t been to kindergarten understand ‘cunt’ ‘shit’ ‘fuck’ ‘asshole’?

What we have now is people striving to achieve the fulfilment of the false Them, mainly in order to gain financial rewards or any mix of power, responsibility or control (money basically, let’s face it). Trying to make it work, assembling a demi-god to aspire to, an epitome of what they know (at the start of this process) to be a false version of themselves or that this created person should want to be (outside of their own instinctive and initial values and beliefs, or worse, it then of course becomes their values and beliefs, replaces the original ingénue). Then, of course, judging themselves against this created-for-the-sake-of-getting-SOMETHING ‘straw man’ persona; am I behaving in accordance to the purposed entity I have created, and, how much of my real self, my reflection, my emotional response, is hindering my progression…that is, how much of my humanity (remember before the You you) is willing to die, be left behind or never existed in the first place. Now you may think this whole concept of You is laughable. When, for instance I ask; what about you? The only answer possible can be from the created You.

How do we now go with dualism? Namely: paid persona vs real persona. Mostly it’s fine, no one has a purpose, they post on facebook and twitter and everywhere because they are really the person they say they are, they really are one dimensional normal good proper society based controlled part-of-the-system types. Pejoratively there is a different kind of existent. Sure we are on the networks, sure we have jobs. Sure we are participating (because otherwise oh my god the world would be horrified or scared or curious to the degree that we may be reported for incongruent behaviour or more simply be de-integrated from the system! Luckily there is still a cultivation of admiration for outsiders as interesting or independent…) but the ways in which we do so are careful, sickeningly careful, even straight out false. In noticing the manufacture of a human and their instantaneous willingness to give away all semblance of ‘self’ to a process and procedure with real basic checks and follow ups and stalking and cross-checking, some have become naturally, um, suspicious? Jesus, yes! Suspicious. In the age of hyped schizophrenia and pervasive social media, we have forced well-thought, balance and aware humans to persist with a dual humanism. To create a hated twin. To live as that hated twin for certain times and in certain spaces.

Complete transparency is ok for those who are willing to be entirely, utterly and wholly (tautology aside) one dimensional. The breadth required for a working ‘person’ (remember, not really You) has grown to include all social engagements, all relationships, all family ties, all social movements full stop. Laying it all out, ‘becoming’ we will call it. It is known by many names within the world of laundered professionalism: achieving, progressing, promotion, growing etc[2]. The become the thing you are instructed to be, or, to become the thing that most benefits you financially, is to become a thing you have created, is to become the ideal that you have been paid to be externally. The ideal Person for the Job. Imagine spending hours honing your outwardly available persona in order to maximise the positive flow on effect that colleagues reading this so called ‘truth’ of your actual life just to get paid more or at least get more lee way in your nine to five day. The worse part is when you stop pretending or manipulating your supposed online persona, you start actually really being that. Another type of suicide, paid for this time, but worse than losing a real friend.

[1] It’s in the grammar.
[2] I need now to make it clear this is not some anti-establishment “the illuminati are in control” “banks are evil” or generally Marxist dogmatic fear-based reaction to a clear and obvious philosophical problem.
Share

Modern Couple

Posted on by
Reply

She bumps her can of coke into the back of a thin guy getting on to the train. Pushing against the people who are dressed and smell like they are ready to work eight hours, her and him, they don’t look like they are plausibly together, perhaps they think it too but there they are stuck together like that. Bound by an unseen thing, dependencies, clutching at each other for the very simple things that are needs. Is this so different from a successful neat clean union, is this more romantic, is this base need a proper strange strong reason to keep entwined? They smell like cigarettes already, wet clothes and stale cigarettes, the smell of old clothes that already smell like cigarettes and that usual smell of people who just have to smoke the cigarette right down to the butt seconds before getting on pubic transport. The threat of being imprisoned within public transport with its smoking restrictions is so hard to bear that in the outside world they must take every last type of freedom left and get that detested illegal cigarette in and out. When you have nothing these simple freedoms become everything. Your rights, your ability to choose, do what thou whilst. They sit there, staring, just staring at nothing and no one, open mouths. They have a backpack they seem to depend on. The guy goes straight to opening it and pulling out a jumper and reshuffling the contents and says something she doesn’t hear and she says “what” loudly, too loudly, open mouth and leans in and he says it right into her ear and she responds loudly again and he says something else right into her ear and goes back to the back. She says “yeah but that because we needed two fives remember that was the ten we had” and he ignores her and she says “remember?” then goes back to staring at nothing, mouth open. They are on a journey, they are starting a journey, they are together and going somewhere, he is still trying to be a man in control, panicked like a man on a mission, with tasks and responsibilities, she is trying to be damsel in distress with the crutch of a good man. They are lost souls struggling to regain the sentiment of the classic male female role of safety and purpose and life.

Two hours ago they woke up next to each other on a mattress in a corner of a room with two other mattresses one empty, the other with a half naked thin man covered in contusions with shoes on and a bunch of clothes next to his bed. They woke up again at the same time and looked at each other sober and waking up, the pains coming on straight away, the reality of their day flooding back. The child-like innocence of waking lasting only twenty seconds. Get up get dressed get out get money get back to Tom get some H. Get up first. He says something to her this morning that is new, not that he hasn’t said that type of thing every morning, or that she has cried at night saying the same thing but this morning he says it differently, he says “no more” and that’s all he says and he says something else “get dressed we are done. You know. We are done. Ok. Let’s get the fuck out of here” and she may be smiling but she doesn’t know because it hurts in her gut in her arms in her bones in her veins and her head and she may be smiling but she says ‘ok’ but she says it like a scream, like “yes!” but she can’t say that word. He is on his hands and knees pulling things from the floor into a backpack and she is trying to get her clothes on and the thin man with bruises doesn’t move. He goes over to the pile next to the half naked not moving bruised man and goes through his stuff and it is nothing but clothes and underwear and pieces of paper and nothing. “Fuck” he says for no reason or mainly because there is no money there and she is dressed now in jeans and a hoodie and sneakers with no socks and she is smoking half a cigarette she found there next to the bed. That’s all they do they have that and they walk down the stairs and out into the street and it’s daylight, around six in the morning and there are people and life and they are sick and in pain. They stand there a minute and he takes the cigarette from her and takes the last few drags. “Let’s go upstairs” he says and they do go back upstairs and sit back on the mattress. “Ok, let’s do this one last hit and we’ll go ok?” and she has heard it before but she doesn’t hear the promise of the plan, she just wants that shot now in the morning, the fact that they have something to shoot makes her fall in love with this guy straight away, just like that, this man who can manage things like two people. He pours the rest of the H into a blackened spoon (next to the mattress), puts a drop of water from a nearby bottle in and heats it up, drops a small piece of filter from a cigarette in, draws it all up into a fix and gets it ready. She holds his arm tight and he pumps his fist, pricks in the needle and starts injecting the light brown liquid. “Hey hey hey, stop” she says. He does and pulls it out, says “quick” and holds her bicep with his hand, “quick” he says again. She pumps her first twice and pricks the needle in “oh baby yess…come on” and she pulls the plunger back, the flash of blood, pushes it all the way in fast. “Damn baby you’re….haaaa…” and they relax and let it work in their body, no more headache.

They wake up too fast. It’s not enough, or not good enough. It’s all they have and it will do for now. He gets up slowly and kicks her and she rolls over and he says “get up lets go” and she does, after a while, after a few minutes after saying incoherent things and saying she wants a cigarette and a coke and he says  “I’ll get you a coke”. Back down the stairs again, a backpack, a cigarette lit, in the street, maybe seven am this time, same types of people, less pain, more people. They are walking, trudging really, sliding their feet together, holding onto one another. Walking it’s called. Walking. “Hey, hold this” he says, giving her the bag. “Where you going?” she yells too loudly, he swings around and says shhhh also too loudly. People look and keep moving, used to it, seen it or even them before. Same two, in the morning, will they ask me for money again? She sits down on the street, opens the bag and gets the cigarettes out, lights one, picks at her face and the black stuff under her nails. Spits. Feels bad about it, feels like she should be in a hole. Feels safe in the hole, starts dreaming about being away in a hole and alone, feels her eyes shutting and her body falling back, resting on the stone wall behind her, a shop front. She open her eyes to hear him yelling and pulling her arm, pulling her onto her feet and swinging the backpack over his shoulder. “Lets go Christ come on man lets get the fuck to the station we gotta go” “huh?” “come on babe I just got money from that newsagent there come on we gotta go come on” and they are running sort of now, he has his arm under her and he is like a hero with his heroine, running and bumping through the people and getting them out of there, getting them away from the police sounds and the yelling and that bad feeling inside. Getting them down the stairs to the train station, being proper and buying tickets, real full priced tickets, getting her under his arm again and down to the train. Standing there and giving her another cigarette and lighting one for each. Smoking and watching and holding each other up and he is telling her to be quiet and all the other people, moral people, working people are looking at them and he is resisting the urge to yell at them like he normally would because his heart is beating fast and she is staring at the train tracks.

No one is following, no one is calling out to stop them. He has about eight hundred bucks in his pocket, a backpack full of clothes, half a packet of cigarettes, no more H and a girl he needs to take care of. He leaves here there and buys two cans of coke from the machine. He opens one for her and she takes it and drinks. They both do. Breakfast. He lets himself breath and relax, drinks a lot more. The train comes at last. The longest two minutes. She has forgotten what she is doing, she has started to think about getting the next fix. She is staring at nothing. He is starting to think about the next fix. Where the hell can you get it from? Immediately the list of places comes in his mind. He wants to kill those places, kill that knowledge. She looks at him and the train pulls up and the workers gather closer to the doors getting their position. The workers pile in, they finish their cigarettes and flick them in between the train carriage onto the tracks, pushing in against the other passengers and make their way downstairs. They sit for a moment not doing anything. The train tries to take them away.

Share

MENTAL HYPERTENSION FURTHER EXTENDED; IN WHICH NOTHING SAID IS POSSSIBLE OR IN ANY WAY SURFACE TRUE

Posted on by
Reply

Take any given sentence at all, given I mean as in gave to you; delivered, directed, offered to ‘convey a message’ (stay with me)[1]. There is always a purpose in someone telling you something, there is always something behind the words. Think of words as ancillary mechanisms that deliver what is already known, expected, understood and is deemed to be acceptable. We encapsulate speech so well now that we have unconsciously made this the raison d’être of language: to package[2] and deliver phrases in terse unequivocal terms that allude to truthfulness, and, in deliberately delivering such undebatable antonyms, we seek to hide a meaning within a message that is supposed to be the real honest one, the reason, the purpose.
Ok, listen to this:
I am aware that you are listening to me so with the next thing I say to you I expect a certain response (because I know you in some ways) BUT NOW, say, I want you to have the response I want (from you, based on knowing who you are and what motivates you etc) so I edit my sentence in order to facilitate the desired response from you and so after delivering that sentence I watch for your reaction and if it is the expected one then, okay, I can go on progressing my story but if it is unexpected then I know that either (a) my telling hasn’t worked or (b) I have misinterpreted or misunderstood you and so I need to factor that into the next sentence if I am to get you BACK on my planned trajectory and feel comfortable enough to appreciate and interpret your responses, whether fictional or otherwise.
And so then now:
Imagine all one-on-one interactions have this undercurrent. You can quickly see how malevolent and insane most simple back and forth’s are, not withstanding the huge political and social economic demographic/psychographic stuff that exists in society, and then how not straightforward life is or worse how those who are presenting to you that it all really is straightforward are pretending to operate on a very basic level, and essentially are insulting you, are whole-heartedly knowing that they are insulting you, and have assumed you are a stage 1 type of person who believes barefacedly that all of this back and forth stuff is true and real and honest and direct and real and in-the-now and that the things that come out of mouths are real and honest and are actually the things that humans who allow these words to escape their lips really believe and think exactly the same way as their clearly practised, written responses suggest.
Not enough, not enough, let’s go:
Keep in mind that every sentence you hear is charged with purpose, is in some (maybe poorly) way designed, invented, brought to life in order to make you think, respond, feel, react or otherwise process in some desired way, and in the format, delivery[3], circumstance, situation, moment is always[4] trying to make you do the next thing, urging, persuading, directing you to do the next thing, and, if you are feeble or uncaring or unaware then you will then, yes, go along and do that next thing that you were directed, told, in most ways, forced or expected, assumed to do, and you will smile and feel good because they will accept that response instantly, welcomingly, and you will have thought that you are individually, honestly and of your own volition done the very thing you are meant to now, what you set out to do. The fact is that you would not have responded as was directed or else you don’t care that you were directed or else you truly were correct and expected and all of this in now meaningless because you have been triggered and your response mechanism is on and true and actually happening because…because…because you trust the person who told you what they presented as actually happening alive and real.
But that’s…that’s not normal, stuff:
I want to tell you something, but I know that if I do it will change everything about our relationship. So I want to (a) make it clear that by telling you I am letting you in on a thing that would make you incredibly more close to me and (b) say that if I tell you this thing it will change how you feel about me because it is so crazy and strange and unimaginably horrible.
In then getting though these words, these words that make sentences that describe events you are being told things, a life, that is coming into existence with all the careful trips and triggers allayed for your benefit. And even though you seek a full and human disclosure, the very purpose of this purported openness is based on a precept of becoming closer, becoming more open and together but this care and love is impossible under this grand scheme of transparency because if it was to be all said and done then there would be a new slant, a slant that would kill your love because you would always and forever be horrified every time you saw their eyes or every time you touched them or every time you saw them crying because you would always think “is it related to that thing they told me that was so horrible” or else you would be smug and think “well, at least what I did was no where near as horrible as what other things happened to them” and the result is that you would be incredibly caring but also incredibly curious as to the pain threshold of this person and the niggling desire to ‘try that stuff’ because your understanding of them now would urge you to at least want to ‘go there’ in order to experience at least what they had already experienced and worse the urge to go further, the urge to be the one who did the ‘most’, who made the mark, who was the one or is the one “on top” of it all.

[1] I get it, okay. I am not for one second being overly analytical because that is gross and intelligent for the sake of intelligence and not really that, it’s dull, unimportant and inconsequential, like analysing animals to see what they do and then simply recording it in a notebook. That is not awareness, that is note taking.

[2] i.e. to make what I am saying acceptable to you, digestible, lovable…able to be swallowed. Can you imagine? That’s how media is presented to us. Swallowable. We feel sick, mostly, when we see it.

[3] Are they touching you, are they looking into your eyes, are they wearing their ‘best clothes’

[4] always

Share

Adam and Eve (no escape)

Posted on by
Reply

The snake curled it’s tail in a way that it flicked just the tip on her clit and she felt that laser shoot up inside her a little bit and she squirmed back away from it and the snake curled up into a ring and, sleeping, let the sun bathe on its skin. She closed her eyes and laid back, wanting to sleep or just at least dazed off and let her hand come down and gently touch on the hood of the clit and move over the soft flesh there up and down and it felt good and pure and the sun was just like a soft warm blanket that meant she could feel happy there. God killed a lamb and it was horrific, it was screaming and half dead and it’s stomach was open and her and the snake stood up and looked at that fluffy body writhing and crying and they had never seen that before and it wasn’t horrific because they hadn’t seen it before and it was just strange and confusing. The young naked man came back then at this time to see it all and saw the snake and stepped on the snake’s back and the snake flipped around and curled up and extended and bit the man on the leg but the man just watched it happen and looked over at the half-blood half-white wool mess that God had made and pressed down harder on the snake’s back, raising his other foot and really pushing down in a  half jumping way on the snake until the snake stopped squirming and the lamb was still and not crying and the woman looked up at the man and saw him changed, different, but the man was as blank as ever, smiling, holding out his hand to her.

In the afternoon he sat in the office kitchen, drinking his coffee, eating a biscuit and she comes in and she is wearing a tight skirt and an even tighter blouse, makes a green tea and looks over at him. He watches her eat the biscuit, watched her lipsticked lips close over the cookie and all but suck off the edge of the biscuit she takes into her mouth and then her closed small lips moving up and down slightly as her small teeth chew the small piece of hard biscuit she’s managed to pry of with those succulent, decorated lips. She almost looks over and he averts his eyes back to the table, finds a magazine there and pulls it closer, flicks it open and almost as quickly looks back at her body, the outline of her figure simplistically available, imagining her naked isn’t hard, her ass and legs, her waist, her breasts and neck and face all stand there and he looks back to the page again, mainly looking at words and reading them over and over. She finishing dipping the tea bag in the hot water, takes it and drops the finished tea bag in the bin, then a smile at him and leaves. He sips his coffee, tastes bad, looks back at the page, reads that line, over and over.

She was washing away the blood between her legs, she hadn’t ever had this happen before and she thought she was dying. For three days she washed away the blood, in the stream and each time he came close she told him to go away. She lay on the grass beside the stream and waiting for more blood to come, closing her eyes and listening to the water to soothe her mind. On the fifth day the blood stopped, she finished washing herself and cried out to God to save her life. God said that now that you have had the pleasure of the flesh, you will now know the changing of the season, and every month you will know this, like the changing of the seasons, you are now unto the Earth. She was happy because she felt closer to the world she loved, the dirt the grass the sun and the animals, she collapsed sighing and feeling all of nature now inside her and without. God became furious, and so condemned her to feel an unnatural pain in childbirth.

Her father comes home, closes the door, hasn’t seen them all sitting there together on the lounge room floor yet, her and her sisters and her mother, playing a card game and they were laughing and playing. They all watch him walk over to the table they have near the door and empty his pockets like he does every night and the mother says “your turn” to her little sister and they all look back at the game and are aware that they are pretending now, not playing like they were but playing now as an exhibition, as a way of telling the father that they are happy and have a life too. He walks over and kisses the mother and they all savour that smell, the smell of their father coming home, like wood and smoke and old clothes, sweat they don’t know about yet but it is his sweat and the three beers he had after work with his co-workers. They try not to stare too long at him kiss their mother’s cheek but they love seeing it and he smiles at them and silently disappears into the kitchen and the younger one throws down a card that matches the one underneath and the mother looks back from her husband and says “Snap!”.

In the beginning Lucifer Morning Star was the first Angel, with the unwitting power of a true God, and as such the ever loving God who created him became scared of his creation and cast him down to the world of the mortals and so then Lucifer taught the mortals fire, life, love and companionship and told them that one day they would be like God himself and when he was finished instructing them God in his anger made Lucifer King of Hell where he was told to punish all those who did not heed The Word and when hell was overwhelmed God came down himself in the flesh of a man named Yeshua and felt the painful sting of humanity and hence forth changed what it was to be saved or condemned and so Lucifer, now righteous, holds his place by Gods side as a saviour of human souls.

Around the table in this meeting we talked about how having these poor sales performance figures was most likely related to how our sales people were getting old and they kept having things happen to them like heart attacks or hip replacements or sick children and how we could directly see their ailments reflected in our figures and we decided really quickly that we needed newer younger sales people and we discussed how that having the younger ones coming in would yeah sure take them a while to catch up to the expertise and capability of the older ones that in the ling run we would as a company be better off by having these fumbling, learning, need-to-be-hand-held new ones come on would actually in the long run be way better to the bottom line because, hell, surely these older ones would get worse and worse, right, I mean, this is symptomatic of having an ageing sales team, I mean like what’s next, you know: cancer, Alzheimer’s, liver failure, you know, what else kinds of old age stuff would we have to deal with, I mean, they need to use a computer at least and Christ like osteoporosis would mean soon we’d need to give them , what, aides and things to help them do their job and we’re not a charity I mean we need to let them go right? A young bright executive discovered a good way we could legally pay them out.

Adam was so in love that he cut off all his hair and, crying, told God that he hated him and thought he was an insane lunatic who didn’t care for anything other than to be blindly worshipped. God asked Adam where he got his ideas from and Adam said “from you, you heartless monster!”. God knew it was the snake who had filled his mind with sick thoughts and so madeEdena horrible place to live which of course only made Adam hate him even more. God was confused and asked Adam after a thousand years why he did not hate the snake instead and Adam replied “what snake?” and God told him the story and Adam knew then it was hopeless: God created the snake.

He had her head in his hands, lying on top of her with both his hands under her head and she was crying and they hadn’t finished making love and he said “what’s wrong?” and she said nothing in that half true way women say it and she had her eyes shut tight from the crying and he let his penis slip out of her, losing the erection anyway. He stayed there like that holding her and kissing her cheek, feeling with his lips how hot her cheeks were and looking at her clenched eyes. He started massaging her hair and kissing her cheeks more but she shook her head to brush him off so he moves off her and lays beside her, both naked and she rolled into a ball and cried harder and harder. “What’s wrong?” he asked but she didn’t say anything, just lay there sobbing. He stood up and put his pants back on, walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His face seemed wrong, not his. He wondered if he had raped that girl or did something wrong. He smiled at himself in the mirror, just to see if his own face was still there. He washed his hands and went back into the room. She had a blanket pulled over her and wasn’t moving.

Share

WHAT DOES THE TRUTH TASTE LIKE? WHAT DOES THE TRUTH FEEL LIKE?

Posted on by
Reply

It is the hope inside that wants a child, maybe not the birth or the responsibility, but the end that is something grand. The flavour of mud, or sickness or human saliva breath in the morning is truth. What it wants to tell you really are things you will hate instantly. There is no sense but the sun still shines and you all live together.

There is a deep unfulfilled sadness that, through being ignored, manifests (festers) as malice, complacency, indiscretion, blandness, moroseness, suicide, false-happiness, acceptance, malignancy and that thing where you can just go on living and living until you die no matter what happens or what sickness comes or how alone you are or how much you are missing and how removed you are from what you yourself consider life based on your dreams and how you see others your age living those (or even other fantasy now) dreams and your wishing that everything could be different and it’s not actually regret because you never did anything in the first place to deserve or even expect that outcome but it’s more that you never could have had those things you wanted in the first place because now that you are ‘getting on’ it has become clear that you are not one of ‘them’ or are even going to be that thing you imagined ever so now it’s set in that your life is this, just this, no more dreams, no more hope, and now it’s also no more lying to yourself that you can still achieve this.[1]

The ability (propensity?) to behave given any number of social situations that, including any hardcore punk or other such anti-normality types, force us to act in a desired expected manner. Mainly the ‘big ones’ Funerals, Weddings (they can get avant-garde but even then there is a certain ‘respect’ for the bride/groom/widow/children’s wishes…their aesthetic permeates), but also even just waiting on line at the supermarket. We all look forward or around, we shuffle, we look at our groceries, we know how to act/behave/appear. We know what to do at any given social moment. Is the goal of truth then a separation from the norm into a kind of laissez-faire democracy type thing whereby our instantaneous feelings come to bear or is there supposed to be  such a thing as deserved communal reverence, respect, appropriateness and all the trappings of the (essentially) class system? Do I want some young idiot wrecking my mother’s funeral with his boom box and his lack of shutting-the-fuck-up-about-how-we-all-gotta-die?[2]

Seeing something that’s wrong (not actually wrong wrong, like evil or unjust or against love or anything) and deliberately not doing anything about it because, in the grand-scheme of things, it is very unimportant (usual) and pointless and basically just seeing the way in which you could fix something that doesn’t actually benefit you but it would, in some respects, make the world a better place or at least resolve this issue at hand and perhaps advance this or that person or company policy or deal or whatever. Now, the next level is telling the truth in this scenario to your personal detriment. What does that feel like, or, what are the reasons anyone does this? Social altruism, for an inner sense of peace (resolution, victim is no longer a victim (and remember, not a real victim, just a made-up work-based life-scenario type of victim), a general want for the right thing (in your assessment) to prevail, a real urge to contribute where you see you can contribute), or perhaps a dream that you will be rewarded (eventually). In place of this, for the majority they play by the rules we created in this western (and eastern too, so) culture where shutting up and doing nothing are lauded in place of controversy, individualism, contesting, questioning. In fact, the better you perfect those abhorrent servile traits to more likely you will succeed. So in this sense any act of dissention or suggestion of personal motif for the ‘right’ is punished in one way or another.

The ability to deliberately hold information, important information no less, in your head, conceptually ‘away’ from someone you actually care about because (a) it would hurt them (simple and honest enough) (b) it would destroy what they think of you for no real-world purpose or reason that needs to be considered for the moment as it were; out of context; theoretically (c) you do not want them to hold this in their head as well, you like seeing them not knowing it whilst you do (perverse but like a serial killer who cherishes the sweet moments of freedom following his murderous act up until they are discovered) (d) there is no conceivable reason to tell them because I has nothing to do with anything yet it bears down on you for not telling it for no other reason than the desire for complete transparent honest i.e. unburdening or the fact that you have tried to build your relationship on the precept of pure honesty (in that as you get older and have many many failed long term serious relationships the prospect of transparent honesty becomes for you the thing that really is the only thing that is important anymore, to the point that saying “I want to fuck someone else” is allowed because it was spoken truthfully out in the open and so then when you do it although it hurts the honesty aspect is revered above this carnal act thing that happened as a result.[3]

Now we’ve cultivated the insane idea of ‘personal truth’…”what’s right for me” etc. This concept allows you to consciously exist inside someone else’s truth and, understanding them as such, where they are in a  fantasy that has no real walls, which through using careful analysis and understanding are able to be moved, in and out, their fears heightened, their perceptions sharpened closer to the devils they have invented as inhabitants; the backstabber; the cheat; the false-prophet; the supposed friend etc until of course their own truth (which they think is real don’t forget, really real) is nothing but a fragmented strange and externally incoherent mess of half-truths, phantoms and unstructured feelings based observations made under misinformation that are tentatively held together under the one notion: that because they have created it it must be true. Such a feeble instance of reality, and such a scary prospect for the person trapped inside this prism where any one sentence from an imagined trusted source can dispel and enhance so many other aspects of their ‘truth’.[4]

[1] There was a show on TV today and it was horrific in it’s honesty (people now want to see other people on screen, and, most people aren’t equipped to understand that although, yes, it’s a ‘real’ person, they are acting and behaving in a way fit to be displayed and have learned that ways in which to behave on camera and if that’s not enough have even been told/prompted/directed by trained TV producers who know what they want out of the very expensive and critical shoot they are ‘starring’ in so are guided towards an end but, yes, the viewers are to feel that they are watching someone ‘real’, like them, the closest they get to feeling warmth towards the cold TV they have become used to getting all their emotions from.

[2] The problem here really is one of acceptance. We are so careful to accept others yet so self aware of external judgment. The problem is that in order to ‘improve’ ourselves we need to become more accepting, but, in becoming more accepting, we are better able to ignore, I guess, all the transgressions of others who aren’t so ‘improved’. Yet, by becoming more accepting, that is, working hard at achieving this, we are to then accept others who don’t bother to do the work of becoming accepting, thereby negating, basically, the whole endeavour to become understanding and accepting and what people would call ‘enlightened’. So what s the point of seeking such enlightenment anyway, if the goal of this is to accept all anyway (that is, the base unenlightened). Do we condescend to help them or be so perfectly attuned that we understand and accept?

[3] And of course the confusion in thinking “if we didn’t instigate this honest policy, perhaps we would have curtailed or otherwise managed our base instinctual urges and not simply blurted it all out to each other in order to get away with fucking right in front of our eyes and then sort of feel as though we love them each other more because we have this true true honest one to one bond thing.”

[4] What if you didn’t actually care about people’s unique truths? What would the truth look like to you? Well, it would appear as an ether cloud, a fake thing, a huge mess of versions and beliefs and ‘grasps’ and perceptions and up-to-the-minute understandings. Worse is, because you don’t care, these gasps of life, although spoken in all earnestness by others, were incomplete, funny, strange, pitiful, unaware and basically full of thousands of holes and gaps because through these gaps, you see, form a regular ‘complete’ honest person. Someone who believes, who strives for an ideal, someone who actually thinks they are what they are, really. And though the ways in which you treat them by, say, pointing out a massive inconsistency in their Themness has absolutely no impact on them whatsoever, because it is not within their power or desire to either update or fundamentally change their Themness, their own unique truths that gives them the real stamina to persest, to believe in something, to go after something, to go on, although subconsciously pretending to themselves and the word that what they are is 100% real and solid. This insane destructiveness is what permeates all facets of the human condition, this bold, seeking triumph essence to be something, to choose as it were against all the available knowledge, to stop and stay and be that thing. To just say “I know what you are trying to do but stop it”.

Share

Goldilocks and the three Bears

Posted on by
Reply

Her parents didn’t believe in schooling, proper schooling, because they knew that all those teachers and priests were rapist sodomites and when they read and reread those passages in Ezekiel they got so angry and started yelling at their eight year old child about how they wanted to put their penis in her asshole she got scared and cried and so during the day they told her to go out and live, and learn from the world, from nature and they let her run off and they went back into their field and toiled to make vegetables and feed cattle to slaughter.
She ran through the forest, testing what hurts her skin or tastes bad, poking sticks into dead poisoned fox carcasses and shitting into holes and wiping her ass with leaves and running along and drinking from creeks. This day she ran over a large hill and down into a valley and saw a house she’d never seen before and approached it like a curious dog, circling this way and that to see if anything was moving before inching closer, the learning her parents wanted taking hold, the natural curiosity and fear of anyone other than her parents.
She eventually made it to the window and looked in, no one inside, just a small house sitting there so still and empty. She tried the door but it was locked, she tried a window but it was locked and in her rampant enthusiasm took a rock and smashed in a window pane, opened the latch and climbed in. The house was empty except for a large chest of drawers, a dining table and a few wooden chairs arranged in a semi circle around a large metal pot. She smelt burnt hair and burnt wood, and looked around but saw nothing but for a pot sitting on the ground behind the chairs. She walked over, quietly, and peered into the pot, seeing a thick grey mash in there. She dipped her finger in and tasted the mixture, a warm if not too hot porridge that tasted like sugar and grain, the kind she has for breakfast but with a strong acidic aftertaste. She thought it was wonderful but needed to wait until it cooled a bit so she looked in the drawers first, thinking because of the hot food that whoever lives there must have just left and won’t be back for a while.
In the first drawer were a load of papers and candles, nothing in order just stacked in there, so she opened the second drawer and it was full of knives and tools and bits of rubber and leather and stuff like that. The third drawer had baby clothes and bonnets and little containers of powder and soaps and she stuffed some soap into her pocket and closed the drawer, not wanting to open the fourth one. She walked around the house, getting used to the dead smell of hair and wood and opened the door connected to these living areas to see a room with three single beds in it. She jumped onto the first one but it was as though it’s just a blanket covering wood panels and then the second one was like a pile of feathers lumped under a thin sheet but the last bed felt like her own so she ran back into the main room, piled a load of the grey meal into a bowl and took it back into the bedroom with her, eating it with her fingers and letting her body relax on the bed, trying to imagine what the people who live here look like or if she has seen them before in town and remembering how strange all the people in town look and how strange it would be to know any of them at all and the thoughts like this and eating the thick porridge and praying to god to bless her mother and father and keep her safe in his arms like she’s been taught sent her to sleep.

 
She woke to the sound of a door slamming shut, remembering where she was and that she was alone in someone’s house. She sat straight up in the bed and pulled the blankets up, panicking.

“Someone’s smashed in the window!” Mr Bear yells out.

“Someone’s had their gut full from the lunch pot” cries Mrs Bear.

“Someone gone and got in our house Pa” says kid Bear, going over his chest and flinging it open to see what’s missing. “They ain’t taken any of my stuff Pa!”

“Ma! Go check the bedroom will ya. I’m gonna get me rifle, go on now”

Goldilocks hears them moving about, hears what they say and hides herself under the bed, seeing there’s no windows in the room and the only way out is the door she came in. The door to the bedroom swings open and she hears the feet coming across the room.

“Pa! Someone’s been messin’ with Junior’s bed, look” and the Bears all pile into the room, walking over to the bed she was sleeping in. Pa Bear puts his hand on the mattress and feels it’s warm.

“Go damn there’s been someone in this bed” and his face appears under the bed, looking Goldilocks straight in the face.

“Well well, look at what we have here” and she squirms away but Ma Bear is on her, pulling her out from under the bed by her thin wrist and dragging her over into the corner of the room.

“What you doin’ in here little girl?” asks Pa Bear

“Nothing, I..I…I was just, exploring, ’cause, my mumma says, to…to, go out and…”

“You exploring in our house cutie pie?” says Ma Bear.

“I saw, that…no one was in her so I”

“You busted by damn wind-a that’s what” says Pa bear, resting the rifle on his hip.

“She’s pretty” says Junior, walking over to her.

“Now. Don’t you go touching her son, that there’s a devil woman” says Pa Bear, holding his son by the arm “see, we gotta get that devil outta her”

“Oh no Pa, nah we ain’t. She just a little thing with, look at her Pa, that golden hair, like, like an angel”

“Ain’t no angel son, you’ll see. Ma, pick her up”

And Ma Bear picks the girl up and places her on the bed, Pa Bear takes his pants off and moves over to her, Goldilocks stares at the man, stares at the boy and waits, terrified.

“See son, she just a lil rabbit, ain’t cha?” and Pa moves closer, gets to her, pulls her shorts down and opens her legs. Goldilocks, crying, thrashing, Ma holding her wrists down, Junior tugging at his father undershirt to let her go, crying too but Pa heaves into her and Ma laughs revealing her teeth and Pa grunting like a bear; “urgh urgh urgh eee-urgh” and Junior crying now and Goldilocks screaming out but soon Junior comes and puts his hand over Goldilocks’ mouth saying “sssshhhhh” and trying to get her to relax, soothing back her hair and she locks her eyes onto his and he says softly “it’s ok…it’s ok” and they stay like that her moving in that jolting way as Junior looks into her eyes and keeps saying “it’s okay it’s okay” and when it’s done they put her dress back on and she is crying and running into the forest hearing their laughter getting softer and softer.

Share

Red Riding Hood

Posted on by
Reply

She was on her way somewhere, had a bag stuffed with bread and cheese and these cliché elements of French/Italian life are enough to see you live through all kinds of atrocities; starvation, sudden snow, and when the moon comes out and you are barely clothed in the forest. The food of both world wars in your pack, the smell of the earth rising up between the curling ferns, the young ferns, growing now just months after the Great Fire, their soft furry brown tendrils barely unravelled, pornographic, easy to touch and she forces them to unravel, teases them out to fulfil their plan, ‘come on’ she teases, but they aren’t ready and curl back. Her fingers have the moist dew on them and some of the red-brown hairs. She brushes them off and runs deeper into the forest, letting the leaves touch her bare arms with their collected water. Fresh and cold but with a warm torso, she breathes out into the empty quiet space in a two metre by two metre clearing, her breath steam filling up the air. Sitting down there she takes the loaf of bread she stole from the middle of her family table and bites right into it, her favourite part, the hard crust on the end, no actual bread just the taste of vinegar and coal and then the crunch of the hard crust. She is smiling and she can feel it. She puts the bread back into her bag and takes out some cheese. It’s a hard block of parmesan, the wrong kind of cheese, her favourite. She takes a bite, half cheese half rind. Her father will be furious when he notices it’s gone. It costs him half a day’s wages to buy it. It tastes better than she remembers, sitting there on old firm pine needles and feeling the ants nosing under her skirt. She gets up and runs, blandly, into the bushes, leaping over rocks and trunks, falling at times, sometimes breaking her knees or hands open on the crisp bare naked elements, letting the dirt in, rubbing it into herself – the mix of blood and dew and earth – and running some more, feeling those open wounds sting but stinging properly, like she is alive and cold and warm all at once. It isn’t long until she sees the house over in the next clearing. Out of the woods now, running through plain soft grass to her grandmother’s house. She can see the delicious thick grey smoke pouring from the chimney, which means it will be warm and sweet inside, knowing there will be a cake or some pancakes ready when she gets though the door. The field is long and sloping, about twenty metres down and another thirteen metres back up again, she does it so swiftly that the animals barely notice her passing, the cows have their faces down and the old pony she used to ride is standing still, looking out across the field remembering what it was like to be young and playful and be ridden by little girls. She lets herself in with no announcement, and indeed the house is warm and fragrant, but it smells more of meat and potato stew and a harsh burnt wood she hasn’t smelt before. Her grandmother is under a pile of blankets in her bed, her body only moving with the in and out of her breath. ‘Grandmamma, I’ve brought you some bread and cheese’ she says, throwing her bag on the ground and opening the lid of the pot on the hearth ‘what is this you are cooking?’. She looks over and the heap still heaves in and out. ‘Grandmamma can I have some?’ Her grandma makes a sound like ‘eeee?…oohhrr’ and she thinks that the poor old lady is so exhausted today, like she can get, so she takes her bread from her bag and dips it in the stew. It is a dark red-brown gravy, and there are little vegetables in it, just large chucks of meat that haven’t really been cooked properly for a goulash ‘grandmamma is it ready yet?’ but no answer, so she tastes the gravy from the bread and finds it bitter and very much too salty. ‘Grandmamma this is terrible! What are you cooking?’. Again no answer from the breathing pile. ‘Grandmamma what is it? Are you ok? Are you happy to see me?’ ‘Yessssss’ she hears ‘oh grandmamma…’ says the girl, kicking of her dirty boots and climbing into bed, burying under the many covers until she reaches the warm centre. Her grandmother is covered in a soft fur, warm and beating with a strong heart, the girl cuddles in and begins talking about how she escaped from her house and took some delicious bread and parmesan cheese and wants to share it and as she is talking the furry mass turns over, pushing the girl over onto her back and envelopes her, now they are one warm mess and breathing together, her grandmother smelling unusually of meat and earth. ‘Grandmamma are you ok?” asks the girl, but she gets no answer, only a fur covered arm over the top that pulls her in closer. ‘Hurrmmmm’ says the furry pile and holds the girl tighter, moving all of its force closer and closer to the girl. Now she feels it rubbing between her legs, lifting her dress up slowly as it begins to caress her body with that warm moist fur, starting to drift off to sleep under the power of the soft slow movements, the fur caressing her legs and back and buttocks, the girl relaxing and pressing her body back into it, moving as one as the girl feels the pleasure roll over her, spreading her legs to let more fur touch her skin. Soon they are rocking together and she can hear a soft growl-like ‘huurrrmmmhurrrm’ from the pile, and with her eyes closed she forgets everything, why she is hear, the bread, the goulash and lets her mind wander. Soon she feels a sharp pain in her vagina, something is trying to get inside and she tries to close her legs but it keeps pushing and pushing and she feels her arms pinned down and the fun surrounding her head and she is pressed down into her face and the thing is pushing deeper into her and she tries to scream but she is covered in the furry rug and the thing pushes in and out in and out inside of her and after a while she feels a hot stream fill her inside and she is crying and the thing gets out of her and she struggles away, tangled in the fur and blankets and after she throws them all off sees a man standing near the fire, opening the lid and dipping some bread into the stew. ‘Wh-wh-who are you?” “No one. I hunt around here, that’s all. I came across this cabin this morning and I thought, I thought I’d stop in and say hello” “Where’s my grandma?” “Your grandma? Well, darling, your grandma is…” and he laughs and takes some of the bread and gravy into his mouth, the juice staying on most of his thick beard “your grandma is right here in this pot”.

Share

We had a child

Posted on by
Reply

We had a child
That died
But that was so long ago
It now feels like
We had a life
That will never exist.
“Why don’t we have another baby?”
“Because you are so upset.”
“I think I am ready.”
“But you will always have lost a child
Forever
And the personality,
Our hope for this child,
Will be always
An imagination.”

Share

There is only a viscousness left

Posted on by
Reply

I had her by the cunt you could say because we didn’t fuck anymore but she wouldn’t leave me because I got the money, I went out at 8 ah em and I came back there 7 pee em and that suited her just fine. I come home to her half pissed, half naked in clothes as impossible as that sounds:

“Did you leave the house today” I yell, first thing, spitting.

“No I didn’t fucking leave the house why the fuck would I leave the house, nothing out there nothing in her it’s all shit”

“You wouldn’t leave the house because where the fuck would you go. There is no place for you to go. Where you gonna go?”

“I’m not going anywhere. You get some smokes?”

And I did and I throw them at her and I take a cigarette from my own pack and we are in the place we live moving around smoking and not talking. I get a beer from the fridge, the last one and I open it a drink half of it and I open the fridge looking for another one that isn’t there.

“You can’t keep some fucking beer in here at least!” I yell across our home.

“What?” she yells back.

I walk back into the room, she is exhaling a plume into the open space.

“You are fucking useless”

“And who the fuck are you, huh? You walk in, throw my some cigarettes at me, now you’re gonna call me a piece of shit. Go get your own fucking beer you piece of shit”

“And what the fuck have you been drinking huh? You’re pissed already”

“Yeah well I’ve been drinking with Tommy today”

“Tommy is another fucking loser. You fuckers know how to get your hands on alcohol, right. You know what? Fuck this. Get the fuck out of there. Get your skanky ass clothes, shove them in a bunch of plastic bags and fuck off!”

“Yeah? Yeah? You want me to go? I will go if you want me to go”

“Get the fuck out!”

 

x                              x                              x

 

He was trying to get some work done after work, you know, real work. The stuff that keeps him going; to know He is still a person who has something beautiful to give that’s not bought and paid for by a bunch of moronic assholes (etc etc). Staring at the computer screen and the keyboard, screaming at him to create, make something, do something. The fucking world wide web has all of this shit on there come on and add to it. And then he added to it and it’s just some more shit into the pool.

 

x                              x                              x

 

There is no advertisement that can persuade you to purchase anything anymore. They all have the evil stink of self-interest. Worse; the advertising industry know this and have employed teams to get you to recommend products to your real-true-friends so that they buy what you have been convinced (by some means) to buy already. The fact that you genuinely tell someone about a product or service these days has been carefully calculated by ad agencies so that you are equipped to deliver the one line benefits straight to your nearest and dearest so that they too become purchasers (read: lifelong customers) of a particular brand or product (synonymous).

 

x                              x                              x

 

“Ah fuck you know I’m sixty now, sixty! and you know what I did love this girl, this one girl and she married my best friend, you know, what forty, fuck, forty years ago and, christ I was their first born’s godfather. And I still loved her. And I went there and did the thing in the church and I helped them paint their first house and still, still I loved her and I just wanted to be near her so I said ‘yes’ to being their kids godfather and I bought him presents and I was there on his birthdays and, and when he was a child they put him to bed so we stayed up drinking and it was always so close, the more I got drunk, so close to me telling her I loved her but that husband, my best friend, was there and it was so strange because I loved them both and I didn’t know how to say it and after more drinks it went away and it came to that thing again where I just talked about my life and how shit it was and they laughed because it was funny, really, and I made it all a joke but what I was really saying was how bad my life is because I was in love with a woman who was married and had kids and how fucking strange it is that I am one of those kids’ godfather, I mean go damn what the fuck happened to my life that this kind of shit would happen?”

 

x                              x                              x

 

I shouldn’t have given her my number, fuck, so I hang the phone up thinking thank fuck I have a phone you can hang up hard a proper with a handle not just a button. It rings again, so lovely to know someone wants you, or wants to tell you something that they have burning in their belly. I do it, I do, I pick it up.

“Fuck you don’t you fucking hang up on me”

“Sorry, ok? Sorry. But man you were talking all kings of made up imaginary bullshit there”

“What?! Yeah because you’ve worked it all out right, you already now what I’m gong to say”

“No, no I don’t but guess what I can probably work out why you’re bothering to say it”

“Oh fuck you”

“And, so, what’s up then? Hm?”

“I can’t event talk to you anymore”

“Really…really? And here we are on the phone. You know what I’m doing? Hm? I’m staring at a plain white wall, a cigarette in hand waiting to go outside and smoke it. That’s all. That’s what I can see and feel and I have a voice, you, on this thing. Okay? Too literal?”

“Christ you’re annoying”

“And you still aren’t saying anything interesting”

“I…I don’t want to see you this weekend. And…” long pause, me sitting there staring, holding back the urge to say anything, impatient, sure, “and I don’t want….this, anymore, this, thing we do, over the phone, this bullshit, text and call and…” and she exhales in an ‘urgh’ like that

“I get it ok, I get it. Guess what? That’s why we don’t talk. What are you bothering for?”

“Goodnight then”

“Okay”

And I hang up and get to feel horrible and cruel for the rest of the evening.

 

x                              x                              x

 

We, I, well we, I mean. Okay. It was one in the night and there was only that orange light that the council set up two weeks ago to stop all those junkies breaking into cars but what it did was give them all night to work and bathe our apartment in a sick glow that made us mad and crazy and awake too long. The baby was crying. We had a baby, we did that. We had a baby and it was weird. We didn’t really want a baby but we wanted a kid and we talked about how good it would be to have a good one, like, have a good kid that would grow up and be better than what we were and could be the best person ever and we talked about it and talked about what type and all of that and started having sex where I’d have to come inside of her to make a kid. It was funny because I’d say “what if I didn’t like it” or she’d say “what if it didn’t like us” and in these ways we’d laugh but now she was full of the thing and it was six months going and you could see it kicking and see its footprints pushing against her stomach skin and it’s like ‘whoa’ and I go back to my job and miss all those things and come home and want to watch TV but she wants a back rub and holy fuck of course there’s a thing inside you. I need to stop talking about it sooner or later. Can I skip ahead? We had the baby out of her and into our life and we did so well for so long, I mean we had a room next to ours, fuck the ‘lounge room” we never had a lounge anyway.

 

Share

The War

Posted on by
Reply

The witch lifted up her gown to reveal a horrid stench the likes of which I’d never smelt and it wasn’t what was under her skirt, she released a little creature hunched over, like a half baby thing with a thin white skin and she said “so now you see what there is” and I had my hand to my mouth, or more, I had my shirt over my mouth and nose. “I wanted you to give me what I wanted not give me this, thing”. The thing as it was fell over and hugged itself, like it was dying and I moved over to it but the witch hissed at me and said “don’t you dare touch it!” and I stopped there and asked “what is it?” and she said “This thing came from me because of you”. I moved back, put my clothes back in place, looked at the thing and then back to the witch. “Do I need to do anything with it?”. “No” she answered. “You gave me nothing”. “I can only give you what they give”. “They?” There is nothing for me here, only waste and disease. I give her the five hundred dollars, collect the little dying thing in my arms, against her screams for me to leave it alone, I push her over onto her bed and get the hell out of there.
 

Antoine calls and tells me a name. I barely get to say anything back, really, I say ‘ok’ and that’s it. The thing squirms next to me in the passenger seat. I don’t know whether to clothe it or kill it. It has the face of a man but the body of an infant platypus, that’s the best way to describe it. It has the essence of wings and the legs of a chicken. Perhaps it is a child angel? Who knows what she is capable of producing. She brought Angela back to life, her rotten corpse giving me a few more lines from her dead carcass, her jaw barely able to make the sounds needed to tell me who her killer was. She was yelling for most part, screaming about how the afterlife is so horrible and all that hate inside coming out in a gross guttural blathering until she gave up a name and we could let her soul rest and her body went limp as soon as I called it off and snuffed the blood candles. Fucking witchcraft.

 

I don’t know why but I wake up and have to vomit. I can only get as far as the sink and it comes out, it’s yellow and black and blood. Christ what the fuck is happening, these black magic arseholes getting inside me. I go back to bed and the thing is there, already bigger, about two feet now, its wings growing and its face more beautiful than you could imagine, I start crying and holding my stomach, something is wrong. I move it over and there is mucus or whatever it is on the mattress. I try to pick it up but it starts to beat around like a wounded bird so I leave it. I get my phone and call the witch that gave it to me but she doesn’t pick up so I call Damien instead. He answers straight away and I tell him what I’ve got. He laughs and tells me to feed it fruit and I ask him what to do and he tells me to wait until it’s bigger and moving and I ask “then what” and he says “just call me”.

 

Days pass, I leave strawberries near its face and watch it grow and shed its soft early feathers and grow proper limbs and more and more it smells of flowers and not the gross death smell the witch had. I decide to leave it in my apartment and go out. It’s not five minutes after I get a coffee that an old man in a brown suit stops me and says “Do you know of the Christ Saviour” and I tell him I do and he says “He knows about you too” and I say “I know” and he holds my arm and says “He wants to love you” and I let him go and know that he is both right and assuredly has no idea what he is talking about. I have a new born angel of god in my bed. If I told him that he would try and give it to a priest or someone or else he’d have a half alive child thing in his hands and he would be killed by a demon as soon as he left his domicile. The people do not know about the war but some of them can feel it.

 

It’s a child now, what looks like a ten year old boy but it’s not a boy, it has large wings and thin legs and a face that looks like a Botticelli painting and makes a soft lyrical sound like a woodwind instrument coming from a soprano. It hums a faint melody that makes me cry again. I cry as I make a pot of coffee and roll a cigarette and finish my coffee and pour myself a scotch and want it to stop this crying/singing/soulful lament thing but I go back in the room and see it’s even bigger and I put a few apples and half a watermelon near its face and it looks at me and I cry harder. I leave and smoke my cigarette in the kitchen. As I finish my cigarette, dousing it under the tap and throwing it into the trash it appears in the door frame, full, glowing, looking right at me with its soft wings loosely spread. “Hello” I say and it sings again and I can do nothing but cry.

 

“It’s here” I tell Antoine and he tells me “Ok good. Did you call Damien?” “Yes I called him, maybe two weeks ago”. “And?” “And? What do you mean…um, yeah, he told me to feed it fruit”. “Ok good. And you did and now you need to call him again”. “Christ Antoine, this thing, I…I can’t fucking look at it….every time it’s like…fuck”. “Ok ok calm down. Call Damien right now ok?”. “Sure”. I call Damien of course and he tells me to wait, that it’s not the time yet and that he doesn’t know what he wants to do yet. I tell him “Great! What the fuck do I do in the meantime?” and he tells me to put handcuffs on it and I explain there are no hands anymore and he says “well lock it the fuck up somehow” and I say I will. I walk into the room and it is perched on my lounge and I gesture for it to move but it actually speaks now and says “you are a child of Yeshua” and I know what it is saying and I rush over to it but it moves so softly and quietly that I am crying again as if its movements sung to me and it says “Your soul wants love, not this” and it moves again, this time next to me and it lets me know it is okay for me to lock it in the basement so it follows me down and lets me close the door on it.

 

It is the morning and I open the door to the basement and bring Damien down with me and his eyes roll back and his fingers become like daggers and his voice, deeper than always tells me “is this the place Jeremy” and I am scared and say “yes” and he moves past me into the darkness and I scramble back up the stairs and turn on the lights and he is on the bird creature and they are struggling and its feathers are coming off and Damien’s claws are going into it but it looks like the white creature moving under him rises over him and it’s singing a soft song and now it has its feet on Damien’s neck and is standing over him and breaking his body into two pieces and when it is done it rushes up from the basement and past me and out through the front door and as it does it changes into something I have never seen and it disappears so fast, leaving me with a warmth I’ve never felt and the heat becomes hotter and hotter and in my chest I feel it hard until I can’t stand up anymore.

 

Share