A View from the tramp

The last notion ever to effervesce

From the non-knowledge of the globe

Consisted of the fact that

I...
Would manage to share your misery.

Wherever I went you were there,

Existing [that is all]...

Through all the small out-of-place things;

An obscenity, an Über-voyeur of anxiety,

Wrapping a world into an innocuous lump,

Waiting to be consumed by that scaly void.

But you don’t laugh or cry,

You just say:

“This is it – reality”, blink... blink.

To me that's just a chug chug of bass,

A dreary half-life dirge:

The soul stultifying fug of a non-

Composition; a No, a NO.

And when I think of you...

It makes me sad...not in a good way.

Memories of my Nervous Illness

A sabbatical from life; that grating, wearing away machine. The propping up of the drooping facial equipment is the carrying of an super-incumbent weight, crushing all torsos without organs; leaving abstract constructions echoing in a cranium, a raw reality, too much, a glossy trail as it soaks in.

The hiding, behind a dark room, where gods appear and steal away the fright imposed by those other lips, but something left behind. Utter indifference is the new world of my nightmares and the walls and the ceiling are all part of it, they seem like a scream that cannot be melted out.

Three weeks in this stasis and the world rolls on with my character following on behind and no one knows of the webbed images hanging  before my eyes.

Then the collapse inwards, an escape contraption thrown into engaged, deeper, deeper and everything vanishes; wallowing in that prickly void that is me, with all the hateful and needy creatures, somewhere there is a laughter, always elsewhere.

A morning and opening lids seem to reveal an impossible unity, its a beginning as there are legs growing from the stumps and standing is more a possibility. Small  steps further from the bed wedded with a dark sway and slowly, with an unsteady hand, the laughter is written with my feet and the bubbling to the surface is everything that matters.

The days come on, all with details slightly eschew, and the weight is a dispersing crowd with an ever subtle commotion. Something slipping by unnoticed then forgotten.

  

To the lady who spoke to me at work.

You were crazy there is no doubt, you accosted me, with my unknowing mind, and relayed your story, with no need to do so, or any motivation for it to be heard. You spoke of torture and scarlet being the colour of your abuse, the evil people that stole the products of your mind and your intention to sue them. To you it was so banal and you relayed it as such, and I listened fascinated at the whole structure of rebellion and willingness to take it to the end; with all those unhampered creations you had within. I was a mere monotony in the spectre of your world that was a reality and an angle of experience that most of us will not achieve. We are trapped in the dream of some nonexistent system called normality, but you broke free, and the terror in your eyes told me it was worth it, and that you walked on the apex between the valleys that the rest of us never dare to look up at because ‘the sun will blind’. 

There was something we shared that revealed you the most and sticks to my consciousness even now. You finished your words, there was nothing left to say and then there was a moment, a short pause in the laborious flow of what everyone else would call time. You looked down, away from me, like a self consciousness, a silence; I guess you weren’t used to people listening to you, responding to the truth you found such a burden and a wonder.  In my role, as the vapid protector of the collective reality maintained by all the peons of the world, all I could say was: ‘thank you’. This is not an appropriate response, but I wasn’t really me and then you were gone as if a wisp of dust through my perception; you did exist and I failed you.

My colleagues responded with the tedious stares and laughing expressions that kept them in the realm of sponsored ‘sanity’, and I laughed with them too because I wasn’t sure, and maybe I didn’t have words for the minds of organisms without a conception of the void quivering just behind their eyes. So I pretended, like I always do, that I was one of them and that you were just another crazy customer that existed beneath ‘our’ grand illusion, propping up the ever wily ego of our reality. I know that's not true and that you knew things that would crack the craniums of those mere mortals.

I experienced something in your being that none of them could comprehend.

I hope we never meet again, but know you are a meaning that has never been revealed to me before and never will again.   

Keep on Lying Baby!

There’s a lot to be said for lying down or indeed reclining, especially in bed; and this is what I have been doing for the last 2 – 3 weeks. Guess what? I feel great, authentic, a full blooded inhuman spirit (oxymoron intended mofo); ready to rage, oh yeah.

My job has gone, my girlfriend has gone*, and only now do I feel real (by real I include all the usual dispensations, ie real in terms of my experience through the Imaginary and Symbolic realms of my perception etc etc). The less I have, the more I feel at home within my offbeat, melancholic cranium; madness feels comforting somehow, rather than a threat.

Anyway, the normal set of circumstances is that a person goes somewhere to either sit or stand all day and stare at something (let’s call it work), and I can see how sitting or standing for short periods of time could be ok, but in terms of hierarchy I guess we could suggest something like this:

1.       Lying (supine/prone)

2.       Reclining/semi supine

3.       Sitting

4.       Standing

Unless you’re a vampire – there seem to be so many around at the moment – I presume that everyone sleeps lying down and what I want to propose is that instead of getting up then sitting or standing all day before coming back and lying down again, why not just stay either lying down or reclining, it cuts out the middle man, cheaper too.

Now I am being jocular of course as there are 2 rather large considerations that will somewhat thwart this utopian ideal I recommend:

1.       Your brain

2.       Money

One thing I have found about lying down and indeed any degree of doing nothing is that it is not that easy and not everyone can do it. Luckily for myself I am trained and so can withstand/enjoy it for extended periods of time.

You see the action of doing nothing/lying down is in fact hard work if you don’t know how. Your brain starts to think, invent inadequacy and guilt; to survive you must travel into the depths of your pointlessness, hold your head under its soapy surface, and say yes.

There is a fairly prevalent cliché, especially in the west that everyone would like to win the lottery and somehow be free from work or oppression; I would suggest that this is the last thing they want to happen; with no oppression there is no enemy and with no enemy you only have yourself to fight. Those demanding voices never go away, they are inside you, better you pretend they come from somewhere else (that twat of a boss, the stupid government, the ignorant lover). To truly be able to lie down you must be able to punch yourself and laugh, and be cleansed by its horror.

Don’t invent enemies, protests, petty injustices, simply start lying down, once you learn to breathe beyond the other side of your brain, there is far more to see.

All I will say about money is if you are worried about it you are too far into the system to be helped, you have a lack of imagination and too much stuff to upkeep (‘yes but I’ve got a mortgage to pay for and kids and...’ please leave me alone).

Basically I have been and will continue to lie down until my madness is all of my reality and the real world has shrunk into a loveable but clumsy puppy that chases its own tail (how cute).

Urg, yes, urg, yes, urh, yes (sorry that’s just me punching myself).

Lie don't lie.

MG

*Piekna is very much still around and in close proximity.

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