Good at Last

The security guard had exforces and bitter about the discharge scrawled all over him. His overweight frame seemed to consume his desk, chewing up the chipboard and formaica in rolls of fat. The tips of his fingers we're yellowed from a cigaret addiction crafted to a point two tugs from heart failure, and they drummed a death march on the counter top as he looked everywhere but at me. He coughed once before he spoke, a hard echo; a sound like an acid heads dream or a bursting eardrum; "I'm sorry, I don't understand you." And why should he? After that night, I didnt understand me either. It was Evan. It was always Evan. Every social event he would just waltz in like the Queen of fucking everything, pushing his thick blond curls from his face and smiling like a movie star. His slender hands would dive into pockets stuffed with zipper bags full of dirty yellow whizz and crystal White MDMA, sticky marijuana and caustic cocaine. The man was a walking Pez dispenser of narcotics. This particular night I was sat with Jennifer in the Mothers Ruin; the sort of modern bar that works hard to cultivate a seedy rock attitude. Jennifer was an eighteen year old relapse fuck I had shamelessly frequented over the past three years, plying her attachment for profit when there was no one else. We were busy with our usual foreplay of self pitty, rejection, and faux hostility when Evan stumbled in carrying a suit case. His entrance was a releaf from the guilt and disappointment I always got with Jen, so I pounced a question on him with a nod to the case "where you going?" He was already chewing his own lip involenteraly, and his answer fell out of his mouth in a hurry to be there, "nowhere man, just fucking nowhere." Now, this kind of misery was unlike Evan, and I'd never know a man to be down when he was up, so I tried some ill fitting simpathy and pushed a little harder, "what's with the case then?" His eyes rolled to the shabby, brown leather suitcase in his hand as if by mistake, where they shook from side to side for a second before he carried on, "oh, I've decided to kill myself, you know, for awhile. Travel. This is full of the reaper. You know, the reaper; bones and a cloak." This response was more in with my expectations; Evan was the kind of post university waister who had read Burrows and Leary and thought each line bought him closer to... Whatever. Before I had a chance to quiz him more, the statutory heavily tattooed, anarexic, pierced bar girl wandered up and pointed to the door, "he is out of his tree so he is out of this pub", she spoke with the authority of the bruiser bar keep leaning against the beer tap behind her, so I said, "this place is a shit hole anyway." and gathered Jennifer and Evan out on to the street. We moved through the city centre and reached Jenifers place above the coffee shop. She had set up there last year since she decided she was to cool to live with her parents and the rest of us had used it as a convenient hub ever since. Once inside Evan dumped the case on the sofa and fell into a distant misery next to it, whilst Jennifer started to dig around in the kitchen for clean glasses and something to drink. I was left in the armchair opposite the couch clearing the tray with the edge of a credit card and staring at the suitcase, trying to see through it; that's always been my problem, curiosity. I didn't have to wait long, as when Evan resurfaced from where ever he was he caught my eye, "you wanna meet death?" How do you answer a question like that? I nodded. He swung the case up on the coffee table and undid the fastenings with a dramatic click before pausing, looking up at me and grinning ruthlessly. "Michael, meet Death." he said and spun the case round to face me, flipping the lid open to reveal the contence. In the centre of the case was a petrified human hand, stuck in place with four strips of blue electrical tape. It held a wrap of Aztec patterned fabric that had been rolled around something cylindrical. I looked up at a Evan in shock who was still grinning like the devil, and he motioned for me to take out the object. I slid it from the solid grip of the hand and unravelled it in my sweating palms. Inside were, in fact, two things; a small glass vaporiser and a stoppered vial of a thin, yellow, crystallised substance I didn't recognise. I held it up to the light, and squinted at it, not wanting to admit my ignorance to Evan, who was, at least, finally enjoying himself. "what is it?" I asked eventually. "That," said Evan, still loving the drama, "is DMT." and it all made sense. I'd heard of this stuff before. It was a natural triptomine made from the bark of the Acer tree, and, allegedly, was the last neural chemical released into the brain before death. This was the stuff of OBE's, tunnels of light, and visions of hell. The stuff was apparently so powerfull that you had to take it turns; your co-psychonaught would catch the pipe as you went under and punch you in the chest if you forgot to exhale. Of course, I did it. My last memory was lying on the sofa with the glass pipe in my mouth and Evans grinning face saying "I'll miss you", as he kicked the heal of the lighter under the bowl and I took a long breath. What happened seconds later you wouldn't believe, or would render ridiculous anyhow. Perhaps my imagination was overactive - probably no one would care as we'd gotten off on these crazy chemicals reserved only for the dying or the insane, but It's best kept to myself anyway. I, and I alone know why I came back laughing. All of that was twenty-four hours before me and the security guard had our little meeting in the foyer of my office. Him looking nervous and pressing the panic switch, me bollock naked and still smiling. - P. Peasey

Location:Denbigh St,Bristol,United Kingdom

A Confession

To whom it may concern; I have been, and continue to be far less than I could be, want to be and should be. This is not an apology, neither is it a form of request for guidance, help or even simple conversation. Its not a promise to do better, I have learnt not to make such whimsical declarations. It is simply what it is. A statement. And, as with all these posts, a one way conversation. It is perhaps a statement that you have made yourself, though probably not, and I would usually avoid such observations myself. After all it is usually best to try and view the more constructive, positive and developmental parts of ones self apposed to seeing your flaws. But they don't go away and living in denial is like pretending your someone else. I'm not, though i may not be me either. I should further clarify; i don't want to lead you to believe that I am failing to earn enough money, or get the right job. I am not drawn to assess my moral choices by comparing my actions, feelings, thoughts, and emotions with others or their given methods of judgement or frames of reference; i have no desire to improve the standing of my immortal soul in either the eye's of God or anyone who may claim too know him/her/it better than I do myself. I also don't want you too think that I wish to tone muscle, pluck hair, alter bone structure, buy better, smarter fitting more shapely clothes, or anything else that will better package something I regard considerably more holy than a product. No none of that, or perhaps all of that. I, like you, perhaps, have an obligation to for fill. If God is omni present and potent, my hands are those of God. My eyes are those of God. He See's and feels through me. Too an extent. I am a learning creature. A developing creature. So is the world, and universe in which we all live. Even if God is more than the sum of its parts (which is another world of thought), that is all of creation, this expanding, developing, evolving, learning element must form part of its personality; just as it forms part of us, or as the fact just because I enjoy learning, dose not mean I never play. Perhaps the reason we don't have any answers is because neither does it. We and God do everything together, even understand and create. That's the only way we could ever be truly be one with God. It is my obligation to live and experience. God granted me an aspect of its self from which to see back into the mirror. I simply have to cram in more before he calls in the favour.

SELF DELETION: A GUIDED TOUR

(with notes)

SUBTITLED:

ANOTHER RUBBER BULLET FOR AN IRON BABOON

a totally unrelated introduction

In short this a fart in a calender, yes, calender. Don't read this. Its in poor taste and probably aims to offend you; to upset what you have firmly established as your apple cart, and probably try and aid the further tipping of my own.

Seriously, you have some better shit to do. Hows your wallet? Hows your groin? Hows your soul, your spirituality? Do you relate to them more than you relate to your husband, wife, "partner"? Do they mean more to you than the death of someone you don't know? What about some one you do know?....Good I too am scared of not knowing where these things are, as they and i are inseparable.

Yes, i know that's obvious with the groin, and the wallet is a nice comment on possession of self by material things and you have heard all this before and, furthermore, have totally assimilated it into your "being", hence freeing your perception.

Bull.

And neither have I.

However, I, or rather we (yep, that book has been read...), and quite possibly you have already successfully managed to loosen ourselves a little....haven't we?

We are GOOD children, Aren't we.

Do you ever write things on your blog and imagine the news announcing;

"S/he wrote dark and disturbing material on the web."

Do you reckon they say that even if all you publish is pictures of your cat doing hilarious things with a ball of twine, and pictures of your demented, worthless, and oh so spectacular off-spring?

Wouldn't it then be appropriate?

"Hir online log contained pictures of no meaning or relevance to her actual cognition or emotional state. This could be because s/he was in a form of denial..."

HAVE YOU STOPPED READING YET?

GOOD

1. BE HONEST..... AND REALLY HONEST WITH YOURSELF. Yes, it is understood that this ethos is generally regarded as being a good method of achieving some form of "goodness" in ones character. Indeed, it is an attribute we often (or not) think we perceive in others, and some of you may even believe that you are in possession of it. Perhaps you are...in fact i think you are THE exception... It is a founding concept to be discovered in almost every religion the race has choked forth, but i stipulate that this perception does not adhere to the reality of it at all. How can any faith that with one breath states honesty to be essential, and with the next deems certain things wrong to think or do ever be taken seriously? What if that is not the way you honestly feel? What hope of redemption is there in the eyes of any gOD with an inescapable bind like that. How, prithee, may the same book say, earnestly and with good reason "know thy self" and also say that you MUST NOT do or think certain things? Where was the continuity editor, he should have been nailed to the cross!....So let's start with a gentle notion for today's metro-sexual, oh so liberated, "its cool to be Bi" western society - you and i have thought about fucking some one of our own sex. Easy, see? Possibly to easy for some of you....You have at least one thing that turns you on that you would feel humiliated if someone else knew, in fact you are so disgusted that if you think that way at all that you push the thought away...Christ, we are making really healthy monkeys in your name....sorry. Being honest with yourself and admitting that you really want to sleep with X even though your in a "relationship" with Y, or that you don't like going to church because its just dull is hard, and these are a few of the easier ones, so from time to time you will fuck up. When you do maybe you will say "Ah well its a pile of shit anyway! Its thinking to much...i want to be free, man" or some other such justification.....but hang on, be honest. This is a step toward self deletion, if you can't see why then you need it more than most and your mountain is a tad steeper; get climbing.
2. Embarrass YOURSELF. Not by mistake, that's to easy, purposefully. I couldn't give a fuck if your Gandhi or the like, you need this. And no getting off with coy "this embarrassment makes me sexy" bullshit; speaking from experience that fucks up the entire experiment. If you do his immediately admit that this was your intention and hence succeed through your failure two-fold. Over time this practice, and it should be a practice, will become harder as you will have to constantly raise your own game....think about it, (here's what i thought) Isn't it amazing that you can improve your confidence simply by taking ownership of the embarrassment you feel? Suddenly embarrassment is self inflicted and you are in control and its improving you. Put that in yourself help pipe, and toke hard. You can easily combine this concept with the previous one.
3. REAPPLY TO MANY OTHERS. As above but to guilt (you feel it about something, why not feel it about many things, at your own discretion) envy, loneliness, pain...the list ends where you feel it should, take your pick, but think about it first. The objective is take things that "happen to you" and change them into something you happen to do, whilst using them as a tool for personal deletion. The objective is not to end up a gibbering wreck in the corner. Be patient; a new-be body builder doesn't go for the heaviest bar first, they would fuck themselves up, so start small.

There will be more of these in the future so please do drop by.

I apologise for how this must sound like some form of, from a mountain top preaching pretension. It is exactly that. I have a messiah complex and this is my exercise yard so that it doesn't keep spilling into the rest of my life where i didn't invite it and screw with my sex life and the production of less pretentious work.

I should probably get a life and stop doing shit like this in the small hours of the morning, but there, my loneliness compels me to seek genuine relation to people, not some pretense of self.

I'm so full of shit.

(see its easy when you try)

A note of assisstance with death and change.

It was not more than five years since he died. It took an indefinite period of time too stop crying, to stop feeling guilty, to try too regain that ever elusive notion of equilibrium between events and understanding. A little history here is necessary to help the reader relate, at this point. Father was 53 when he died. At first all the normal, evaisive terms of reference appeared liberally, such as, "passed away", "passed on", even during some periods of attempted joviality, "pushing up daises". It seemed to take a life time to say dead. But he was. It seemed obvious. This fabulous man, all ceremony, "misapplied" intelligences, all duty and strength, lay strewn between the bathroom and the hallway, wearing nothing but his pyjama bottoms and a vague look of pained surprise. On his cheek, running from his mouth, a small dribble of vomit punctuated the death of his dignity. The effects cast shock waves through the writers mind like no other experience ever had, or has since. The absolute assault on reality was so unimaginably vast, somehow, although his death seemed inevitable, (as some would all of ours do), the actuality of the event jarred so fully with normality that all things came into question. No certainty appeared to be left free of doubt after his death. At this point a stern warning should be issued. During these periods of utter emotional and interlectual insicurity the individual is unpresidently open to sugestion. At that point the writer, up until then a hardened atheist, would have embraced any religious notion that had seemingly proved irrevocably that Dad's "soul" or "personality" would endure beyond the grave, or even merely given reason to his life. Fortune would have it that a preist or some such "representative" was not on hand, instead a marvelously cunning exponent of that ever so blind "operation mind fuck" manifested its selves. Regardless we wonder from the point. A personal truth is to be made apparent. Since his death, life has been interesting. Never, before then, could any of life's "cruel" experiences be properly assimilated. Issues from the past, having endured an abusive childhood, failing to achieve life goals, hurting others and the guilt this encored, excessive drink and drug use, the estrangement from mother, childish anger, hatred, desire, all the stress and fear, and every other medal had allways governed life and permitted the development and perpetuation of a weighty victim mentality. Now they are beautiful mealy because they are. It would appear that the differentiation between "good/positive/constructive" experience and "bad/negative/de-constructive" experience, can only be reconciled, that is to say, return to its base or route form, "experience", when the end of the acquisition of experience can be conceived. Only when death is encountered, when ones one demise can be felt and considered can life can be appreciated mealy for its own sake. With out death life seems sterile, or infected depending on which seems less appealing to you. With out death life tastes like shit or mashed potato depending on your taste. And conversely the same can be said. It seems so beautiful that this was the last insight in a long list that strong, weak, and beautiful man donated. Many thanks for all Sarge, even for the bad bits. x x

Direction for Our 90’s/00’s “Counter Culture”

The following was originally written and delivered as a sarcastic request for funding from a "liberal" "community" orientated arts and development funding body. Today’s culture often appears to me, more than mildly apathetic. Even our modern youth culture seems comfortable. Happily lounging in voyeurism and self indulgence, throwing back larger and drugs, going to clubs and avoiding feelings of social responsibility. number of them that are capable of conceiving of the idea of community work without either the word “Service” replacing “work”, or a flash back image of the Salvation Army banging out “Come all ye faithful” whilst hand backing cakes and knitting appalling baby grows for the local maternity ward is nil.

But wait! All is SAVED!! The counter culture is here!!

A massively diverse group of people, from a multitude of different ethnic, cultural, an social backgrounds, an astounding myriad of 60s, Hippy throwbacks, 70s, Punk throwbacks 80s, New Romantic throwbacks, 90’s Rave throwbacks, and just plain strange people, that share common goals in their political dissent and cultural evolutionism.

However, even a scant glance at this massive body of people, (Bristol having way more than the average city), will quickly burn through the lie and clearly display the truth.

They happily lounge in voyeuristic tendencies and self indulgence, throwing back larger and drugs, going to clubs and TALKING about their social responsibility’s, political views and idealistic concepts of cultural evolutionism.

For god sake their even exists a “counter culture” market niche! And when such an appalling state of apathy is reached to ALLOW new look, next, and top shop selling you, your Hip/Dark/Sick/Weird threads carefully sown by the hands of a starving four year old, without raising a “political” or “ethical” eye brow, the counter culture is no more than a new wardrobe.*

So spot the difference, uh, man?

They talk about it! They think about it the seed is there it merely needs propagating, cultivating, and growing!

Now before you reach to set fire to that funding check, to the imagined sounds of your legal team nagging a merry nag in your ear lobe allow one to reassure you.

I’m not talking about organizing protests and anarchist riots, (I’ll aim for that as a personal development in my own free, i.e. unfunded time), I'm talking about gathering groups of young people and cutting through this farce that fits so poorly and giving them a means to make a difference.

Can you imagine how many people we can inoculate against our nations biggest killer, (of others), apathy, when a whole room of people are forced to see how ridiculous the observation or perhaps excuse, “but what can I do” sounds when every one says it in unison.

After studying the “Mission” section of your main website I think that this would not only help send more people in your direction, but also inspire a shade more proactive view of how to bend our beloved truly totalitarian democratic system to the will of the people.

Again much like your selves I see people, especially the youth culture, as a dragon with its head cut off.

The generation X dragon, if you will.

Hell, theirs a lot of dragon muscle their, tons of political weight, (every one knows how notoriously powerful a youth vote is), and a hell of a lot of flames in the form of anger and political mistrust.

But the dragon, alack, has no head. No where to pool its collective thoughts, to figure how best to utilize its muscle and weight, and no method of venting its flame.

What it needs is its head.

What it needs is a place and some gentle encouragement.

Grate huh?

So how the hell do we make such a thing come about?

When the dragon can’t fight St. George, let’s see if we can’t talk the feller into stabbing himself with his sword.

I’m talking advertising. Or rather subvertising with out the criminal damage charge.

There is only one way the youth of the day trust a sales pitch.

With a hefty roll of tongue in cheek.

Think the last time you saw a music flyer with an amusing message, or, dare I say, spoke to street fundraiser. Comedy as well as empowerment attracts youths to a concept.

So some cohesion to my ramble.

ACTION PLAN

· Flyer the world, inform your body of youth in the most trusted of ways, the flyer!! These distributed in “Youth Culture Hubs” around the city. These will promote the events and meetings.

· Write somefing smart, like, perhaps publish material in a small volume, (that’s book size, and production volume), partly to propagate these thoughts, partly to promote these events but mostly to allow a vent for my oh so self righteous sarcasm and wit.

· Set up a Website, for all of the above and more, like online meets and community discussions.

· Have something to say, plan the meetings and encourage a dialog or group interaction and self governance dynamic

· All action starts at home, As many problems as there are in the world try and keep these meetings concentrated on the local area if not on local issues. I.e. the stone you chuck in the water sends out far reaching ripples. And other such cliechaied energy/information/ entropy focused proverbs

· Make a Difference a Month, with mind bogglingly short attention spans only perpetuating the issue of apathy, not to mention the benefits of positive reinforcement through success to add momentum and gain support to a project such as this could be. Also this sets attainable goals.

ISSUES

· Sorry, how much?, How dose one maintain or find a constant sources of funds for such a project?

· DUDE!! Nice van! What about these guys? Getting the right venue size with out throwing people out or cramming people in, or, worse case giving a nasty echo to my lone murmurings

· SHUT UP!!! Although I feel reasonably capable a controlling groups of people some more group work skills would stop me killing people.

· What dose THAT say? I am dyslexic, (or dislemsip as I prefer), this means that my writing, though I feel reasonably creative, (all right! At least accredit some spirit to it. That’s ambiguous enough that it could mean “good effort”), may need some development to utilize it fully.

· Look how thin I am!! How the hell dose one stay alive whilst running a project of this magnitude.

· I Wanna take over the world!! The only problem with the concept of meetings run to the beat of a socially democratic drum is that some bugger may not keep pace with everyone else. How do you keep control over such a beast with out the some what dictatorial notion of executive veto? Or do you just let go of the rains and hope?

Attempting just the literary side of the above rant would be like a dream come true for me.

So if all that sounded a shade “Full On” or little/stupendously over ambitious/idealistic/

Implausible, try some of my other potential uses for your money.

• Street theatre- I have previous experience in this and find it tons of fun
• Poetry- possibly coalitions with others, though most of our poetry is highly political, poorly, (i.e. non conventionally), constructed, and, in some places inspired by existentialism and extreme drug consumption
• I want to WRITE! Any form of interaction with this medium is a joy for me, though subject matter may return to its source mind bogglingly altered
• I also paint and draw- the former to some reasonable caliber the prior, at present, poorly.

Many thanks on your continued interest with my possibilities, even though I, too, suffer with that laziness that personifies my generation.

Hey! Thanks for the interest!

TI, i,e, I ME is on its side, oh yes it isnt!

And now. The end is clear. Like the spot on my helmets visor cleaned by a chance encounter with spilt coffee what seemed around midnight whilst reaching for the state meant in mind. At present it is crystal. Drawn only with the fractures of uncertainty that linger around such un-calculated foresight. But like the sticky mess left by the spill, the eventual image is left blurry and dangerous to pear through, should it effect the distances perceived or the presence of unforeseen objects in the path ahead. Still. for now. Certain. And it is I that demand certain tea served in a silver cup, with Diejestives on the side to mop the dregs of chance and nonconformist occasionings from the all producing cup. Would I not be served its Normal I tea then the fit and stopstarting to that church on the edge of that sinking place would surely ensue. And has before, but not for I. I retain dignity in the caddy ready for the next brew to boil, yet no pride of self can be held, as to make more socially stimulating beverages, one to often looks for the Percs-to-come-later. Rush for ward, slippers and pipe in tow, or livivnig now without looking to Penned eon's ahead, for the sake of their betterment and so that they may be trusted funding for the past to come. Why? In the name of recording do we caddy our truest absence of progression to make the present more palatable. With past cups well documented the real tea tastes much sweeter, but not when we always wish for the last cup or hunger more for the next. So Spill Real tea in the I, and let it wince at its freshly empty cup, only to learn its nearly time for a Refill.