Ego Destroyed

I went away on a human holiday, distant from London's broken smiling slabs. The shore I washed up on was a different world, a silent, night time place, uncluttered, unfiltered.
The place I went has a name but this label chokes in my throat, hardly a representation of the rich picturesque void that now exists in my mind; I shall rename it the blissoramic expanse; a parallel world hidden from the London consciousness, not good/ bad, urban/rural, profit/loss; but a different way of seeing, a suit of different colours, shades and style.
I shrank in its bosom and found myself covered in folds of a gentle unknown skin; the night joined me and my companions down a shadowy road as we walked to a pub 2 miles in the distance. The Drunken Duck Inn has a name and story only real life can create; later that night on the return journey I found myself shouting at the gloom: ‘Who shaved me? Why am I wearing a cardigan?’ in tribute to those legendary ducks.  London was long gone, the darkness the expanse and the audible characters from behind the hedge were all.
As I walked along the empty road I remembered, not an event or a place but a feeling, a solitary fullness, I looked up into dusky sky and it was there, like a warm fleece enfolding. The hills and the trees huddled round and joined my conspiracy. The thrill of being a lone figure in the night, a silhouette, no people for miles around, technology seeming like a strange dream, invisible.
The cool air at my face created energy for the nothingness. The absence of people, judging things, pressuring things, gave everything more life. I saw images in the gloom, shadows come to life, traders, highway men, families heading for the Inn; a timeless invisible history coming from the hedgerows. Everything was smooth and mysterious.
I became childlike, full of inspiration and hope. It wasn’t an epiphany; there weren’t any ecstatic moments, just a long drawn out feeling; no threatening presence, just the wilderness and its dark beyond.
This is the point, as always, that words fail and I have no reason to care, for they are part of the problem. I sank into the rustling, groaning, singing void of the no-thing.
I laughed and slipped between my companions, but, with London, they were long gone, whether they had joined me I’ll never know, but I will follow that path to the pub to the end of the sunset. Ego Destroyed.

Sat in the waiting hour

I'm sat in the slow waiting hour until the distant 02:30 digitally appears; it's not for myself I linger, Piekna is set to fly and the alarm is set within me, a buzzing and a ringing held tight until the time to awake arrives. 

The time is not my time, someone else’s time I inhabit and live with like shrapnel lodged in my inner realm; the hour is wheezing, laborious, but I endure it for her.

Last week I was in Berlin, another melancholy spectre, full of it’s own trauma; a place struggling with a guilty ego hiding it’s crimes in full view of the tourist in the hope they will disappear. We all hope ‘it’s different now’ but there is still a bitter frisson that follows down the throat. People wherever they are will torment and destroy each other and Berlin is the airbrushed representative, bikini clad but with impenetrable sorrow etched on it’s old man face. Berlin cannot escape its distress and thus I loved it purely. 

My whole experience was crystallised in a statue in one of the museums; it changed me somewhat, creating a subtle divergence in my consciousness; it was a sow, looking up morosely, clutching pathetically at her belly. My only thought was: yes, it’s true, the misery lives, beautifully, terribly. Then I stared and stared with a blankness that only a touch beyond our imagined reality can feel...

I still feel it somehow in my bones as they breathe in it’s menthol glow.

Pig Woman is my Goddess 

She gazes into that night where inspiration lives and my life as an Office Manager is shattered and consumed by a million hysterical lips, my lips.

There is still 3 waiting hours to live until the time, I will sit with the silence and learn from it’s face the way to exist without words, without noise, without people.  I dread my return...

MG

The Insanity that I Love.

I'm gonna try and write about something I witnessed rather than cripple us all with solipsistic  non-events. Once upon a time in a train station on the mainline to London Victoria I stood waiting, platform 1, I won't go into the reasons I was waiting for a train at 10:30 at night on a Sunday evening to central London, but lets just say it was a last minute decision prompted by a phone call from a paraletic Piekna, which included long interludes of the traffic symphony in between her slurred utterances. I stood on the platform alone, listening to the distant shouts of revealers in the pub nearby, a train pulled up on the platform opposite, then once again disappeared. The echo of the last carriage left a singularity staggering towards the exit. The consciousness, fogged and inebriated, made its way to the machine, oyster card in hand. Legs positioned, held in place by an arm clasped around the metal casing, the card was pressed against the yellow pad; a loud resounding bleep ensued, the wrong kind. Something within ruptured, appendages flail, feet kick and clatter against the machine, words lash out, vulgar, curling up into the quiet night. Now I don't know why this individual decided an inanimate object was the reason for all his life's woes but it was something beautiful to feed my melancholy lacquered mind. He kicked, shouted, punched, abused the machine; the device used innocently by thousands of people a day, but this guy instantly saw it's guilt, it's unwholesome statute, that which is too visible is beyond suspicion, the truth is hidden in the light. He finished his assault and disappeared around the corner, but that wasn't the work of a genius, I went back to wandering up and down the platform, glancing at the electronic board to see if time had become subordinated to my will, always no. Then I heard a noise, a resonance of purity and hate. He was back, he had bought a can of drink, he opened it, let it's contents violate and infect the crime of his isolation, covering the machine, shouting and laughing, two more kicks to the metal and he was gone. This insanity...

jhdgfvkjxd,kvxhkfh

You know, I don't really hate my colleague, she is not my enemy; I am, with my stupid, fractious, recalcitrant head. If the world would disappear, or at least hide, my head would become unmanageable, a light too bright to envisage. No longer tempered by the disgusting corporeal, fettered slick of actuality, it will sink and collapse inwards. So you see my self hatred is my reason for living, writing and loving. Love in reality must contain the facets of laughter, pain and a willed destruction of the Other, you will disagree and necessarily so do I, but that doesn't hide your/my true desire. We exist only in antagonism to things that threaten, without which we/I lose. I lose. Draw them close, breathe their used up particles,  lash out, embrace, cry, love. Pretend it never happened.

To think too much and to think too much of what you think (necessarily, tragically)

Where is beginning and where is end? She said this like that which means this... why is that dread always rolling in the pit of my stomach? Is all this worth it or should I walk out of the door now and never come back ..."I'm not much on looks, I'm just the guy with the crooked tie"...does my hair look greasy today, this angle, this angle, this angle? If I stepped forward now would I bounce off the front of the train and land by the side of the track or would I be carried along stuck by G force to the front of the carriage? That girl smiled at me, do I have her objet petit a? The Thing, The Thing, Das Ding?..."the gentleman needs to shave"...
Criticism
Critisism
So I work with a person, unwittingly she has become my new hate object (everyone should have one, a person or thing you enjoy hating). She is one of those insipid plebeians, that sucks the passion and fun out of everyone in the room, she sits there in the corner, with her ever fluctuating moods, complaining when people sing, barking when innocent mistakes are made, basically being generally arrogant, sending me emails of criticisms, that are overblown, poorly expressed and badly edited. Now what is my problem? How can I be so adverse to this ignorant cretin, she's just as loving, sensitive and valid as I am?
She has dared to try and draw me into the game, she is the game, there is nothing beyond it for her, she lacks the capacity to view her own inevitable failure and enjoy it. When she sends me these emails, my first reaction is laughter, then inevitably hate, she sits opposite me and can't say these things to my face. She did do Hotel Management at university which obviously taught her to lack humanity. She wants money, career, the perfect boyfriend, she is my enemy. I am allergic to the game, the work, colleague game; I know the script, the tired hackneyed diatribe.
Constraints
Constarints
The truth is I feel weak and she is a reminder of my impotence, where do I go? What is my response?
To destroy and create anew?
Her tensed jaw and harsh tones are the very fullness of her lack which infects me drawing my being downwards to a quivering point, a taut inflexible band. My words echo too loud, and cause vibrations that resonate around the room with an unpleasant pitch. Her criticisms, her words will only ever stand for the fact that she doesn't possess the things she craves, and her demands to me to provide them are futile. We are all trying to give people things we don't have; she lipsticks her mouth to look like the girl in his dream, he comforts her when she's upset, because he saw it in a film.  This is the game: to appear, to seem. I know not 'seems'. Pretending you are able to fill the void in the Other is not big and not clever. Failure, this is what I teach, heroic, perpetual, ecstatic failure; the Uberfailure if you will.
So, yes, I know all the answers, all I have to do is sit her down, look her straight in the eye with all my flammable charisma and explain this to her, at which point she will drop to her knees cry, then thank me for my profound knowledge.  Herein lies the second facet of my tragedy: the fact that I have the arrogance to presume to know, while at the same time feeling the pure futility and blindness of my words. Am I not writing this piece to seem like I can fill that aperture in your belly? Why is my view more valid and correct than that of that scrawny spiritually dead imbecile? It's not, but it is, my head and every fibre of my being says so, here is the necessity, here is the tragedy, here is the failure.

I want to fail, it is mandatory, but it must be fought with this in mind.

MG   

Jump

Loneliness of the white roof
Cut lines of the city overlooking the movement
Sat together watching the ghost
Worship looks like stripes on the existence of air

Hangover

Sat on his face fatigue,
After day of shadowing,
By the house representatives,
Ears, mouth fell to visual illusions,
Of licks of love that move bodies.

Float

Float this way brethren, for I have wonderful teeth and my spectre is of milky sheets, clean against your skin, reality is elsewhere, this childish frippery is an illusion, calm, calm yourselves, you are not a hollow mechanical machine empty of organs and cold, that is everybody else, you are different, like a Christ shaped pattern.
Float around this dead star of my shadowy blot, in your dreams I murdered your future with my imagination and your head contained my fame that wasn't even your intention, because there was no motive, but the crime was so perfect, that you killed me with my own imagination and after that you died from reality.
Float towards naked when you wear it all, that's the way it is now, gone, gone, you have gone, your flesh is what you wear, everyday, you were inside, somewhere, before, but you're teeth are wonderful and your dress sense always followed by a tick, as your network connects and your wireless world follows your name like an apparition.
Float to where you have too much, you are not a reflection, but a screen splaying outwards octopus like, you are homogeneous and I am your receptacle, the city is your facial expression creating new paths and disputes of ownership, there is nothing and you are the buildings shaking on the water.   

Freedom

There's a freedom somewhere that needs an invitation to my soul, because at present there is nothing, an empty bowl, a room bereft of guests; even silence stays away. Tonight I'm not drunk, but the words are stuck regardless; there's no one to tell you how to live but that voice inside which belongs to someone else and laughs at your actions when your back is turned. So it carries on, I carry on, sleep, wake, boredom, lethargy, sleep, wake, boredom, lethargy, sleep... Yes folks, I've learnt an important lesson, I'm now one of you and I know why you're scared, I know why you do it, why you showed such awe when I used to announce my bohemian status at parties before the change occurred. I know, but I still feel the disgust, for you fear losing something, letting go to the thing that you will never get back. 'I would but, but, but...money, money, money', the joke is that thing you are so scared of losing or leaving behind, is something you don't have anyway, you cling to nothing; pleasure awaits and that scares you more than the trudge through your lonely days, your moaning, your petty annoyances are the stilts that hold your world in place, so live on my friends, keep balancing on those struts because I'm there with you for now.  Will I be there for long? who knows, but there is a scream within me that says not much longer, but maybe you are the same.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother..."

How to escape, this is my question? I feel the fear, but I know, above all else, I must break out.

 

...and then my friend, you die...

Yes, it's six months later, yes, I have some vapid full time job, yes I'm growing fonder of whisky and less of people, yes the person I am now is a black stain of the former bright smear that I was becoming. What more do you want to know? Have I given up, fettered myself  to a suit, handcuffed myself to a desk, plastered on a fake smile, started drinking from the milky bowl of subordination? Have I?
I heard frantic screams today, noises from the throat that were beyond the human through which they were passing. I stood at the window watching a man that was watching events unfold, couldn't see anything else except another man kneeling down on my side of the street being ambiguous, at the same time related to but bored of the action. The howling continued, male, female, male, female wailing, until it became entwined and indecipherable; they gist of it was 'stop it, stop it, don't don't' then I swear I hear something about a gun, there was some thuds and only the woman's tones remained. Piekna came in from the other room and looked for a while, until we both grew bored and went to cook boiled eggs.
When I sit at my desk at work I feel so in between, clogged betwixt power and laughter. You see I'm in charge; I'm not sure how that happened either. Their heads flick around and they curse me with their eyes: questions, questions, questions, pointless, banal questions, and herein lies my problem: I don't care. As a mere peon in this clouded malaise of existence, I am the oracle, the one who has responsibility over the lives and choices of my underlings; and with every turned head and dribbled question, my mind is shouting, 'no no no no no, it's you, it's you, YOU who should decide, grab your face in your hand and steer it, I don't know the answers, any of the answers, you are your God, don't live in Bad Faith'. The consequence of this is twofold:  firstly my colleagues think I'm insane (ha ha the Irony ;-)) and secondly it makes me consider the fact that I may not be a natural leader, I just don't care enough; these minor work concerns mean nothing compared to the things that go on in my head, not in any sort of grand transcendental way, but in the most mundane way possible, if I find planning my own suicide boring how can I care about an IT issue or a customer complaint?
But hey, it's a new year right, maybe this will be the year that I will be able to stifle my natural inclinations and stuff them through the narrow vein of work and convention like the rest of you.

MG