The Good The Bad and Us

I think that Adler, Nietzsche and Foucault where right when they posited that all human behaviour is governed by the will to power. This may appear to be a purely Machiavellian outlook on humanity but would disagree. In fact there is great space for exploring ethics, construction of identity and social behaviour in such a framework. As a child I noticed that the Bad Guy was, as an individual, more powerful than the lead protagonist. However, through the support of friends (something the antagonist did not have) the ‘good guys always won’. Hence power itself is not per say a bad thing, though through its application one can evaluate the ethical direction of a person. This results in two opposing poles in the continuum morally accountable application of power. The one is ‘power for oneself’; the other is ‘power for others’. In the former, one aspires to acquire power so that one’s station and capacity are improved to the benefit of oneself. The latter, however, is when power is ostensibly shared, in that when one has more power, one is then more capable or aiding others in their acquisition of power. Naturally the former excels far faster than the latter, where as the latter has close connections that provide aid for them in the same way they would for others. We call it Ubuntu. As a modern and rapidly expanding civilisation there is a general tendency towards the former, but very often at the expense of the social body. As a result I have constructed a means by which to measure my life, and that is by a simple question, “are the people I have known better or worse because of me”. I am rather fond of it for it appeases both a categorical imperative and a utilitarian interpretation of morality. Ostensibly it is something both Kant and Mills would agree upon, a rarity indeed.

Reload and Take Aim

Fine then, although submission is so close to self-forgiveness that it leaves a bad taste in my mouth I will at the very least allow for the disarming of one of the many rifles I have left loaded and pointing at my face. I think I labelled it, “it’s all you fault”. There may have been a few adjectives scribbled on afterwards for effect but I believe you get the gist of its purpose. Now before hordes of smiling faced chimps start flinging self-righteous faeces at me with the type of fervour often seen displayed by pro-lifers during the burning of an abortion clinic, with everyone still inside, I have one little side note I think is of absolute importance in this instance. I am not touching the neighbouring rifle entitled “this one is totally your fault”, AKA, “You could have stopped this”. Under the guise of such slogans as “it’s not your responsibility” and “take care of yourself first” we endure ourselves to the type of apathy that could very well leave us emotionally stranded with nothing to hump except a cactus, which is bad. We are the keepers of our brothers and sisters. We do exist with an imperative to aid others. Even though I am a firm believer in the ‘will to power’ as an a priori for human behaviour, it is the manner in which it manifests that makes it open to ethical scrutiny. The notion of sacrifice is not to be taken to the extreme of martyrdom, for in that instance, the act of self detriment diminishes one’s capacity to help in the future. Life is a balancing act of living for oneself and living for others. If too much is sacrificed then you have nothing to give, which makes the entire act self defeating. Helping should be done in a sustainable manner. If you life is lived purely at the expense of others, then you are a massive douche. I know it’s not a very sound philosophical argument but to quote Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw, “shut up it works”.

I'd Like To Make A Sandwich

I have this friend, at least that’s what he introduces himself as, that has taken to playing tricks with my sense of self control to the point I swear that my friend is steadily changing the colour of the night sky, for his amusement and my distress. Some days I find myself in his/her (an indecisive mid-op transsexual who’s not sure in which direction the process is going to go) belongings searching for a lithium prescription. Aside from the mood swings, substance abuse, pending trail for indecent expose to a minor and a few petty assault charges, my friend can be a real hand full. Most of the time I think my friend doesn’t even care about me, often due to months of blatant neglect. Despite all the Ills I have endured at the hands of this fickle friend of mine, I have to give credit where it is due, no matter how much it irks me to do so. Of all my friends it s/he is one of the most generous and has been instrumental in my meeting the many friends I have today, that’s aside from all the awesome things/moments/lesbians my eyes have beheld alongside my friend.

Hence, I dedicate this hang over to you, Dearest fucking ‘Life’

To Port My Son

So this is the moment. Skin of satin and will of barbs, so much like my own mind that the reflection frightens the scars to bleed with fervour. Would I give my hands grievance, it would be to deny them the warmth of your scorn in the fickle hope of momentary embrace. So upon the hardened discontent of my anguish I sharpen the digits so they may clench between fists, shield and blanket. So intent leads the means of design and fear impedes action, we will bear silent witness to the mangled visage of fickle desire as it claws its place in the fleeting flesh. Burn as the tendons may, the forge rages to procure the steel to coat what was left of the cadaver I call my heart and parade as my soul. Though beyond the gilded winds that trickle from my quivering lips, sleep instances of shattered sight and misread scripts, in which no part has yet been heralded to hold my vocation. Too blunt now is the shovel that builds and buries what is, was and could be the child I knew to be me. Morn this as you would the limbs of a crippled dreamer.

The Smell in My Mouth

What is that, I do believe I smell a gun? Perhaps it’s not so much the machine but its intent. The promise is that of a clean repositioning of one’s mortality in a far more manageable state. That is unless you miss. Even if your aim is steady and oh so very true, I must enquire as to the elegance of aftermath. Life in itself is a tricky mess of desire and expectation with subjectivity playing with the circuitry. When your world goes from cacophony to quite, outside the eight inches of dead space, chaos ensues as every ugly part of those who supposed themselves close to you starts eating its surroundings. What then do we do with this mangled memory of a body that at one time could live in and through us. To whom do we turn too to find the finger that pulled the trigger, for lord known’s we need one to make us, the left behind, feel sain, if only for a moment.

Dominus Thanos

“I suppose”, said the shadow when I asked about my heart. As you may not know, I have found some holes that I supposed it would like fill. I know which tools carved these internal chasms; I dare say I sharpened them myself. Though the last time I tried to fill them, I took away pieces from someone else. Now something needs to take up residence, lest the emptiness decides to grow. I fear a dream would not fair me well as they so seldom reflect, let alone represent, the truth of life and love. Besides, there are enough dreams in me to disappoint my soul; I need not add to my masquerade in the hopes of feeling whole. As for a new desire, I dare say it would come to naught, for as it stands I struggle to satisfy the desires I have already caught. Far too long has hope prolonged this most decrepit state, I dare not allow more to take hold lest I believe in fate. The tenant I fear most of all is most certainly my hate. It’s far too unstable, unruly, malicious and unkind. Were I to allow it in my chambers, I am certain that soon after, there would be even more missing parts that I would find. So I opted to for the shadow, so complacent and clam. Its presence infers there’s a light that I could find. So I waited for a long time after its first response, for I was in dire need of something, with which I could be close. Then it shifted and then it asked of me “have you considered love?”

In My Room I Found You

I arrived to find something new in my room. Amongst the pieces of my past, tokens and weapons lay a new doll. It was worn by the many miles it had traveled before this moment. It lay amongst many well know items of mine. They must have brought it along to keep them company. I found myself drawn to its imperfections and marks. Slowly many of my other possessions became trifle besides the time I spend engorged in the world amidst our play. Steadily the doll started to become imbued with meaning. No longer could I hold it in my arms and eyes as a meager representation of life. It had become real, alive and closer now than I thought it would when first I saw it. At first I delighted by the life it had acquired and hastily made it fine lodging in my heart. I had forgotten why I had vacated live from my room so long ago. Now alive, what was once a doll now was now subject to the imperfections of life. These were unlike the tatters that had drawn me to it. No, these were the barbs of individuality and agency. As sweet as its ability to choose me could be, as bitter was its capacity to scorn me. As the blood started to clot, and the wounds sporadically close, I found it inconceivable to recant the life that looked back at me from behind the eyes that were once so vacant. I tried, that I cannot deny. Alas it no longer resided outside of me, but in its being lay a part of my own reflection. I had lost control of yet another part of myself. I am now too afraid to open the door to my heart, for I fear the condition it has been left in

These Sheets Have Monsters

She lies naked in my arms, her hair in my face, annoying me. Exposed I try to cover myself with her skin, clothed in warm contact. Though the closer I move into to her shape, the more difficult it becomes to find a comfortable position. Either my head is too high up on her shoulder or her hair creeps into every orifice in my face. Now disgruntled, I move away into my own space and press gently on her shoulder. She buckles and stares closed-eyed at the ceiling. So, bored and disenchanted, I pull the covers down to her navel, like unwrapping a present you wanted two years before you got it. Unlike Jeannette Winterson’s romanticism, I did not look upon her like young explorer in an uncharted exotic world. Instead, her body was a minefield that threatened to; piece by piece, violently dismantle the serine ideal I made in passion and intoxication. I feel more like a veteran of ugly conflicts, which in their heat drowned my mind and body with adrenalin and fear. She still smiles when I touch her, even though she is not completely here with me. I know I should be flattered. But I am not.

Coming down

Torn between the craft and cast of the ideals I molded from the cooled steel that dripped from my eyes when the heat of your heart turned their fires into streams of incomprehension. What am I now to call shuddering moments of certainty that felt so warm within you? The door, whose key should never have been mine, but in the fleeting moments in which it was, it gifted me entrance to a place, space and sensation I cannot call anything less than the home I was always certain to be mine. Were I to wish any other moment above it, I would be lying to the deepest cove of my being.

Carving, From Fallen Rocks, a Face To Strange To Love

The weight of its features and the taste of dust

are the prices I pay for a face that won’t rust

But also my back buckles and my waking is strained

Still, this face is impervious to the wind and the rain

when I came to the river, I was so scared I’d drown

So I sat by the water, at home with the ground

till I met a man with a face made of skin

He jumped in the river and started to swim

Every road he had taken was carved on his brow

The scars of his travels he wore like a crown

The madness of him, to live so unguarded

was juxtaposed to the life he had fathered

So alone I sat, as even more passed me by

If my eyes were like their’s I think I would cry

From Page to Person

In terms external to you, your life was unpacked before us. With cold and careful surgical precision, your mind was made bare for us to see. A mannequin of symptoms, of signs painted on your lips and limbs. Twined between criterions was a narrative of you, though that was held in question by many a varying view. So stroke by stoke I recorded the unfolding image in black ink. I underlined the headings and made my points succinct. There was process, pace and structure in the discerning what did cause your mind and heart to rupture. Graphs and tables were set, and its cutlery polished. Every meal was served concisely so that uncertainty could be abolished. Behind my eyes you were pages, a process, and a diagnosis. I could not have foreseen the face that induced that construction’s necrosis.

Something soft and broken had been festering beneath the skin and smile you wore to help remind you of a lie, though you clothed yourself in a weakness and the need to be held high. I have loved many like you; perhaps I’ve saved a few. I know those eyes, that walk and bleeding, it has stained this skin before. I know the road before you, and it will tear your bare feet raw. For heavy are the arms that heave the longing for a dream, for as my pages do not reflect your face, nothing is as it seems. The tearing of the tendons from the thorns coiling beneath your skin, are whimpering then crying to be reconciled with any type of kin. Their seeds have all but withered in the recesses within, and soon they will start flailing as the death of them begins.

Though set aside the sorrows, the scars and hurt; for beyond our norms and wedded dysfunctions lie the individual as vast. I cannot help but wonder, how much of her suffering is hers, and how much is the cast.

So Then...

Despite our resolve, the embers of our convictions will not allow themselves to simply be shrugged off our shoulders. We fan them as we pace towards the shade. All we can try do is ignore the smell and pray the scars fade soon. To the simmering of our skin we drawn into the arena of reflection. There logic as hard as lead is sharpened and brandished against the certainty our past projects with shields of hearts and tears. One can seldom hail a victor until the final blow is swung, but never is there an encounter where no blood is spilt or no eulogy sung.

Procrastination

Oh how she temps me with naps and episodes i have already watched as she whispers “in fifteen minutes” into my ear and I relax as the sun starts to rise, and just like any tease I end up in bed, alone, unsatisfied and full of regret

Object

In our daily experiences we observe, interpret and construct meaning around objects. They may be as mundane as rocks or cars. An object may even manifest as a person, a situation or a feeling. It can be any ‘thing’ to which one attributes meaning and can desire or reject as abject. So here are a few facets to consider when considering the implications of the ‘object’

It Is Subject To Personal Perspective

· Its discursive position

· Cultural interpretation

· Relation to concept of abject

· Place in personal narrative

· Value to personal construct

o Validate

o Strengthen

o Negate

o Oppose

· Ornamental attributes

o Contribution to aesthetics

o Economic implications

o Peer appraisal

o Correlation to personal construct of value

Negotiating Implication of Value

· What fears of possible attributes will it negate

· What constructs of self will be validated or dismissed if the object is not attained/ avoided

· What actions/choices/sacrifices are needed to attain the object

o Weight of attempt VS degree of possible gain

· Which desire(s) does it relate to

· Who in one’s life is affected by the object

o Degree of affect and value of individual are to be noted

· To whom and to what degree is it valued

· What has been express by other regarding the object

· What cultural/sub-cultural implications does the object have

· Has this object, or a simular one, already been in one’s possession

o If so:

§ For how long

§ Why did one loose possession

§ How did one attain it

§ What was the initial motivation for attaining it

§ How did it affect one’s life/relations/perspective/behaviour

Possible Reasons for Perceiving It As Abject

· Cultural norms/morays/taboos

· Cost too great, therefore reject instead of experiencing loss

· Associated with dystopic elements of self

· Fear of confronting its unattainability

· Tied to negative schema/ invokes a negative construct

o Linked to traumatic experience

o Discursive constitution of self/object results in tension/anxiety

Sandbox

You may not know this, but I can see the flickering reflections that dance behind your eyes. I know them because you and I play together. We sit in the same sand box. We have the same toys. They were lonely till we found them beside the refuse. We saw the same beauty in their stains and fractured frames. Together they dance in our hands. We share each other’s stories as though we too could be the hero. They skate between bedtime tales and accounts of horror’s agony. They are not puzzle pieces searching for solitary safety, but tainted cloth torn from the same painting. Their colours run and fade between them, blurring their place in an inconsistent image. We compare scars. Together we revel in the blood we have shed, whilst watering the thorny bushes that are stained red from writhing. We laugh at the parts we’ve clothed and cringe and the garbs of others. In this sand box we do not build castles or dig holes. In the sand we right stories in a language we cannot speak and draw images we have never seen, only to have them lost to the wind. You may not see this behind the cataracts, but I have not played with one of you before. As with the others, even with all my toys in the sand, there remain some games we cannot play. But this is our box, our toys, our colours and scars, our parts and garbs, this is our sand. I will stay and play with you in our sand box, for despite all that I see in your depths, they are still only flickering reflections dancing behind your eyes.

An Aid to Constructing Self in Relation to the Other

Fluidity of perspective does not exist outside of external influence. An individual, as a member of a social body, feeding on positive regard, will construct and writhe within their personality in an effort to negotiate their identity with the expectations of others. This has been perpetuated an endorsed by certain social structures as it lubricates interactions and promotes focused productivity. Yet is results in certain inter and intra personal conflicts. This is especially pronounced in cultures that promote individuality and the importance it has been imbued with in disciplinary society. Now that we have a culture of individuals who struggle to negotiate the implications of their relatively new found fear of loss. A useful approach to cope with this by steadily gaining a better understanding of that which it one may lose. In other words, the thoughts and feelings one attributes to and uses to construct their sense of self. With an improved grasp of who a person is to themselves, the implications can be better explored. An uninformed expectation of others can be socially hazardous. Though understanding without communication is masturbation, as it feels good and has many personal rewards, it is incomplete. When one is able to convey an informed view of one’s ‘self’, expectations, boundaries and perceptions of others, it offers those with whom one relates a better basis upon which to plan social behaviour and the implications of their identity upon it. Without that we have little choice but to act blind and wonder why we’re bruised. Life, love, and identity are responsibilities. Work must be done to maintain them. If one does not, then they have no right to rage when they break

The Room

“Welcome” they said as I entered through the doorway. I would have laughed, but they were too well armed and my armour was in dire need of reconditioning. It took a few too many moments to find a place to sit. If you were to ask me then why I had arrived, I might have been able to compile a seemingly coherent justification. Upon reflection, the price I paid for avoiding memories seems steep in relation to my dreams. Though without them I doubt my dreams would contain the menagerie of colours it does today, were it not for the misappropriated hours of my life. That room was filled with all the means to delay my life. In all fairness I did gain the odd reinterpretation of events and a pair of new perspectives. But I was a child there. The strengths I had toiled for were beyond my capacity to recall. Though now the moments in which I can exhale into my skin the fires of certainty have become so much the sweeter. Reclining into myself, at piece, in power, lies the prologue to a dream that seemed so far from my moments. The room looks so much different now. I know were to sit. Still I knock before entering.

We Should Lie

The idyllic notion that truth should be revered is a shallow one. It does not consider the social ramifications our thoughts could have. Through our omissions and our concealing of emotional machinations we spare our beloved ones the barbs of our hearts and minds. Even the assumption that what we think and feel are true reflections of our being is dangerous. It implies that our souls are placid and the all things that enter and leave it do so without breaking its surface. Things seldom ripple us, but surge within our raging currents and breaking in the futile search for the shore. Upon such a turbulent surface one will seldom find a clear reflection. There are times when the waters are calmer than usual and the image it allows seems more consistent; but those are fleeting moments. How can one be expected to present a truth amidst the chaos of a new arrival? Strangely though, the more traumatic the experience and the more perplexing the resulting emotion, the more we are pressed to communicate a coherent comprehension. We cannot do so with honesty for it hardly exists yet for its bearer. So what is done is a social dance amidst introspective dressage. We take what we can and weight it up against the possible responses to a multitude of interpretations and select the one that suits the manner of its owner. We cannot be expected to open ourselves to others without reservation. Communicated truth is predominantly a staged presentation, scripted to induce the most favourable future, reduce harm and maintain one’s social station. When this process is not adhered to and our guard does not prevent the uncensored reflection of our tempestuous hearts from spilling out; we are deemed insensitive, uncaring or immature. We do not want the truth

So what is it that we base our lives on?

A High Res Goddess

I just realized that if the internet were to have a religion, it would be porn, and once again women would be its goddesses. And this makes sense. We have shifted from goddess worship, to god worship, and have come full circle, once again focusing on big breasted and voluptuse women and famine, whilst creating multiple sub genres and cults that cater to the individual ideals of beauty and sexuality.

Before Zeus punched big old Coronus in the belly, forcing him to throw up his own incestuous brood, Gaea was the birth giver to the heavens. The very basis of our modern religious beliefs can be dated back to ancient astrological concepts which the Greeks attributed to as the child and mate of the great mother Gaea.
Women, I have always believed, were proficient at being worshiped and adorned, were as men have been highly skilled acolytes. Man, however is a hungry beast. Our temples were build bigger, our swords sharper and our armor harder. Now the power to build, destroy and write really cool sounding stories, seemed to pale in comparison to making babies (which might I remind you is a lot more impressive than we give it credit, unless you live in a trailer park). And so women sat in their sufficiently shorter chair at the dinner table for a few hundred years, with the odd bump here or there which aren’t as funny as what I’m about to talk about so I’ll write about it later.

Now, however, they have once again risen to the highest peak of worship since, well never really. The way you make a god is simple. First create a disenfranchised workforce (see the medieval surfs for historical bonus points). Then take something they what but cannot have, and show them what it looks like till they drools so hard they drown (see gothic cathedrals for even more historical bonus points). If you don’t think this is true, then turn to your nearest geek, preferably one his calluses on his palms, and look at his expression every time a beautiful, sparsely clad woman walks past. Oh he is thinking dirty things, very dirty, but he worships her. By her simply existing, he is humbled, and that’s the whole point of worship.

The problem is that while prostrating himself before her unattainable grandeur is two-fold. Firstly, the act of worship; this is done by masturbating to large amounts of porn. This has many effects which I will touch myself on later… okay I’ll run with that joke. The second problem is the measure by which women are worshiped. We do not love them for their compaction, there humorous ways or how they can comfort us even when our beryl man-shell cracks and we feel weak and vulnerable. No, we love them for the amount of beads they can fit in their ass, or the amounts of seamen they are prepared to swallow. Even though they are gods to some, women are not gods, they are people, and just like in any religion, they are getting fucked over by their high priests.