Continued from a few days ago.

Capitalism disgusts me.

I can claim steady ownership if this phrase, for it suits me, and marks me. Other humans, usually ones in my circle chastise me for it. I don’t mind. It’s difficult to live on an axis when most of the world only thinks in extremes. Clarification: Absolute capitalism disgusts me. The need to monetise practically every pursuit in life disgusts me. Perhaps disgusts is a hash word, as plenty of my friends are wont to this failing. It may be easier on the universe if I just leave them in shallow graves to fertilise the upcoming weed revolution. I’ll consider it.

A more suave point of view that I do now, to an extent, practise, is to be exhausted by excessive talk of monetisation of every activity instead of outright nastiness. The inborn fingernails of buisnesspeople shall not deter their bloody crawl to the apex of humanity. Though their phalanges protrude grotesquely, they conduct the new world order even without batons. The choir is the mass that hope to scale their heights. The orchestra sees Steve Reich walk out of the back of the auditorium but still plays on. No modulation.

I enjoy a good discussion with my fellow compatriots of this planet well enough to entertain their ideas to an extent. It ends badly at times when they refuse to rise from the bog into sparkling noontime. At times, my callousness is overreaching and I clutch at the only straw left - the demise of humanity for reasons of its greed. Scientific evidence cannot be denied, and even I have researched what more similar compatriots in the mathematical realm have proven. Mass extinction is no joke. And capitalism is directly to blame. This is no fucking abstraction.

On the other hand, I am a fan of chaos, and, as I once told Jennifer as she gaped at me. We strolled Zilker Park. I believe our intent want to either fly kites or bury her recently deceased hedgehogs. That last sentence was an outright lie, well, at least the second half of it. I told Jen that the purpose of humanity was to cleanse the world once more, to let it be reborn again by fire or plague or some other undoing of civilisation by our hand. She was repulsed. I don’t really blame her. She was even lovely enough that I’d have assembled her scorched bones myself into my final hovel.

Capitalism bites me in the rectum! So perhaps, beginning with the industrial revolution, our species found its purpose. History is slow. It doesn’t outmatch geological creeping in that respect, but comes close.

Cleanse!

Perhaps the flame death is preferable simply because conflagration is magnificent. Witness humanity and their tireless firework displays. But, in the end, we’ll probably have to go with a second option.

I fancy entropy’s beauty. Do you?

The black blocks of residential flats seemed to glare down at me as I passed on the train. If they did glare instead of it being only my imagination, it was in apathy. The consumers of such places are shielded from one another by black walls. The black absorbs all sound and even feeling. It mutes the percussion of emotions. The foetus beats in its sister’s makeshift womb. He’s tried to grow nails before, but just now has succeeded simply by force of will. He doesn’t wish to die.

The sister, once a foetus herself, wails as her innards are shredded. She even gasps for more than half a half-click of the device before expiring. The foetus, let’s call him Shambal, is gruesome, but we root for him. His erect penis impedes his progress as it bumps nagging on the floor. He’s headed for the food store. He knows its location, but by intuition alone. The sister was often there.

There are only figs. They crack and splatter on the floor after the effort to pull open the aperture nearly puts Shambal to eternal rest. He, too, finally tumbles to the floor from the counter onto which he had climbed, exhausting his frail form. The fig-muck cushions his drop. He scoops the pulp mass into his underdeveloped maw.

A conversation with the Christián Newman (see below) earlier got me thinking about the connection between inner dialog and a sort of self-attribution. When I, or anyone else, introduces a topic, Christián often directs the course of conversation towards facets of the topic he has included in one of his creative endeavours. My friend almost perpetually has a stream of said inner dialog flowing beneath any personal interaction. Thus, attaching a topic to that dialog is not really surprising.

From an outside perspective, it seems egoistical, as if he wishes to demonstrate his mastery or depth of knowledge. At times, this habit is tiring. Also, whilst pointing fingers at Christián, I have to admit that I am also guilty of this, though far less frequently. I attempt to catch myself.

Past episodes with Tony also come to mind. I have attempted to present a artist I appreciate to the guy and instead of listening and trying to absorb, he immeditely tries to sculpt his own voice to the song. I’m thinking of a particular instance now when I introduced Tony to the piece Farmer in the City by Scott Walker. His inner dialog interfered in a joint listening session and urged him to participate / change / better the music.

These threads are loosely connected, but demonstrate a human trait that disagrees with me.

Continued from yesterday, my precious horde.

Very strong English (especially American) accents annoy me.

It’s easier to bear the fools these days, actually. Another product of living with women for the majority of the last eleven years is a swelling in my personality’s penumbra called patience. I have always criticised others for not looking beyond the tone and delivery of speech to the actual words themselves. I’ve been a hypocrite! Well, at least some of the time - that is, when I don’t catch myself.

An old adage states that humans and certain mustelids criticise others for what they dislike in themselves. I’ll add that the distaste is often unconscious. Of course, my intense hatred for deeply resonant peasant accents is a direct result of my infancy, adolescence and especially my so-called university years. I nearly suffocated in a sigularity of misanthropy.

To reteach myself acceptance has been a hard road. It will continue to be a hard road. Well, actually, since everyone will celebrate my suicide at the aforementioned delta of the particular quantum universe’s existence, perhaps the road will not be that hard, after all, or even exist.

I am Bluebeard and I paint an immense portrait of the horde, all frozen in contorted enunciations in peasant-speak. Their legs have no toed feet, but are instead as trunks of trees descending into roots that flow and merge with every other pair. The delta is crowded. Every ghoul from my haunted university years stands clustered around the singularity where my corporal being and the crest of the wave of immediate future collide.

But that pointed caw coming from Southern Californian peasants still will not do. No. It will not do. They are not invited to my suicide party, in this or in any other quantum universe.

I was baptised twice.

I vaguely recall being submerged on or near the altar of a Baptist church in Clear Lake, Texas in the presence of Marcie, her family and the church’s congregation. I don’t remember my thoughts other than perhaps an inner warning cackle. As you, my prolific reader, have certainly read every other entry in this blog leading up to this one, it will come as no surprise that I concededed to this ritual to perpetuate amicable relations with Marie’s family (and curséd congregation).

Though memory is merely a phantom, I surmise that I relished the irony. I’ve always been a big fan of irony, even when directed at me. Tony was always fond of the phrase The universe is conspiring against me. I relate more to Let us laugh along with the universe as it laughs at us all. Grendel would relate to that.

I am an atheist.

My ancient love of following one statement or, in this case, list point with a sharp contrast is evident! As I ride the slimy back of time’s slug further and further to the apex that will send me cascading on a makeshift raft to the aforementioned delta and abundantly populated suicide party, I tend towards spirituality. Buddhism and Taoism especially beckon me.

A random entry from the Tao Te Ching, provided by my handly Tao Te Ching app nestled in the flash memory of my phone, follows -

It (The Tao) nourishes infinite worlds, yet it doesn’t seek to master the smallest creature. Since it is without wants an desires, it can be considered humble. All of creation seeks it for refuge, yet it does not seek to master or control.

The contrast with the Baptists of my university years is stark. To climb or fall from one to another involves ascending a sheer cliff or plummeting from one. Dogmatic religion is designed to control. I use the word DESIGNED because it was conceived and erected by an elite like a tyrannical government. The Tao is its opposite in this respect. I cannot take part in any “Spiritual Practise” that is not based in humility.

Audacity and arrogance see me balking. They cannot be included in anything I call spirituality. To teach and to follow are united. Both are the same humble path.

All that being typed, for the most part, I am an atheist. I dabble in spirituality and even at times daydream of a hovel on Saaremaa or in Tuzla and a simple life without possessions, wonton desires or ambitions. I’m still quite a long way off. Alienation by scientific progress sees many balking. Such phrases have been uttered on myriad occasions:

• Easier than thinking for yourself.
• Unity in ignorance.
• Old ways, the best ways.
• A cleansing of the spirit.
• Fuck um.

I like the last one the best.

Christián would be proud of me this morning as I have resisted the urge to stumble to the toilet and relieve my bowels. Great effort is required to achieve this feat. My mind battles the urges of my body. I am cleansed in my reverence for the spiritual. I have rounded the final bend of the river and can now clearly see the sea stretching blue against the horizon. From the peak, the remainder of my days are a pleasant, even enthralling downhill rush. When I am torn apart in the delta, in my transcendence, I shall not mind the dissolution of corporal being.

What I’d really like to say is that ghosting away physical discomfort is the crest of the wave of the immediate future. Like all waves, I see this particular one from my height, just seconds before the descent. Some rustle in memories of my youth slather a portrait of a tram at the apex of a roller-coaster. My youth was a waste, so I ignore it. This wave of the immediate future shall meet me at the delta.

We collide!

The performance is simple:

It is my death coupled with the death of the future, of innovation, and of all healing through spirituality. Everyone is invited to the event. You’ll be presented with a free pro-stagnation t-shirt upon entry to the fairgrounds. From the climax of the event, time shall cease to exist.

Shambal would understand.

Embrace the blackness of the static. Dynamacism is gone.

Fuck um.

On 25 December, 2005, I was inspired by a woman named Jana that I only met once at Na Květnici during December of the previous year, methinks, or even of the same year. Since I have begun to see through the flimsy partitions between universes, my estimation of time has drifted from its exacting nature into a sort of muddled horse-shoe toss.

(Na Květnici)

What was I inspired to do?

I was inspired to type into my livejournal (my surrogate blog at the time) One Hundred Things About Me. Throughout the epochs, I’ve conversed with many concerning personality traits and the flimsy border between one’s core, one’s malleable cultural / environmental residue, the liquid crust wrapping those two, and vapor without. The opinion of many, including the jaunty Shambal Brambel, is that the core is static. No amount of glory or tragedy can deform it. As for me, I do my best to put chips into it with the pick-axe of Sweet Entropy.

Those three exterior layers are sloshing around with my every step.

1. I am sterile.

Well, isn’t everyone, one way or another? I chose to not have children and I have no regrets. I honestly believe my life is better or at least more varied for it. Since I am a fan of diversity in both thought and action, the electricity that seared my ducta deferens was a boon.

These days, and most probably throught the majority of my days, I am (and have been) more concerned with intellectual and creative sterility. It is a subtle plague that seeped into western culture. I’ve watched it mature all my life. It is a maturity of diminishing returns. Younger and younger, people turn to comfort in stagnation. Routine bares less and less fruit, but nurtures familiarity. Personally, one of my greatest fears is the death of my personal creative process. I’ve weathered years of aching depression during which this creative process was pushed aside to make room for interpersonal relationships and / or work.

I haven’t yet had a stereotypical mid-life crisis, and hope I never shall, but I do muse about mortality when I sit back and take notice of the passage of this flimsy time. The glimpses of a corpse that one day will be empty of my consciounsess goad me to abandon those aforementioned interpersonal relationships and work. Write or compose, or at least fill tangible or virtual notebooks with ideas, ya cunt.

So, actually, fuck sterility.

2. I have a child that I’ve never met.

People (mostly women) over the epochs have implied that I am a callous bastard for not being concerned about this point. But dub me what you may, thoughts about the child I conceived in 1993 and his fate never appear.

3. I like wearing non-matching socks.

Living with women (with some well needed rest periods) for the most part of the last eleven years has mostly eradicated this routine. However, this particular point illustrates a a part of my core that either was installed by genetics or my niggard hatred of the homefront.

Of course, I am reminded of Dave. One of his modus operandi of morning (or more frequently, mid-afternoon) ritual dressing was to grab two random argyle socks from a drawer and place them upon his toesies. I hope it is still one of his modus operandi.

I perused a thread on Reddit some weeks, months, years, decades or epochs ago entitled something like Subtle Ways You Rebel. Though the course of the thread was more humourous than anything else, it reminded me of the importance of defying the uniform. Fashion is a bane. It rapes then buries needs to rise above homogeneity in shallow graves. It uses the industrial file of ephemeral cultural quirks to smooth rebellious crags.

Remind myself to continue to think. From today, subtly, non-matching socks once again. Don’t forget, you leprous slag!

4. I worked in the porn business.

I’ve written at length about this one.

5. I don’t like porn at all.

I’ve written at a lesser length about this one, which was directly produced by the previous.

6. Genmaicha tea is my favourite drink.

I do not possess any Genmaicha at the moment. I shall rectify that in time, most likely by consuming it in Praha next week. One thing I miss about Praha are čajovný. Nothing like them exists in Logroño, or anywhere in Spain that I have experienced.

Christián and I splurge every centimo we own constructing one in a bleak pueblo in Andalucia. We work until our limbs are scabbed nubs. We sit, night after night, backs slumped against the wall of a dim room filled with hookah smoke and fractured spanish barking. The clientele relieve themselves onto our wobbling forms. We stink of urine and our own festering wounds. We die.

To be continued.

I refuse to believe that this particular entry is for purposes of testing the new layout of Martenblog. I worked on rebuilding it system from scratch during the whole of the flimsy weekend. Why was the weekend flimsy, you ask? Well, my pugnacious starbeam, I felt light, as if I were drifting from one state of consciousness to another. I most likely was. And probably still am.

I began my reconstruction with a new framework dubbed Alkali. The result was a wasted five or six hours fighting with the DOM “template” language and update strategies. Since you won’t read the documentation, I’ll expound a bit. Instead of Redux’s store, which is a moderate step away from hierarchical data-structures that cause my skin to grow seeping warts and boils from sheer frustration, a concept of independent Variables are its core. Like Redux’s store, updates to Variables flow through the system and can dynamically synchronise the DOM. I am fond of this idea, as the Variables are decoupled, unlike Redux’s store.

(Alkali)
(Redux’s)

Unfortunately, the library is in its infancy and five hours of fighting with broken update flow deterred me from continuing. I abandoned Alkali and fell back on the now familiar Redux, to complete the whole of the code in two days or so, sans bugs. Martenblog code. Yeah… it’s still called mb-alkali. Perhaps it remains that way to inspire me to return to the nacient framework in the future.

(Martenblog code)

I began reading The Ghosts of Evolution by Connie Barlow a few days ago. The digital tome is a enumeration of fruits with attached stories concerning their evolution alongside mammals utilised to distribute their seeds. These mammals were but propagation machines and nothing more. I agree with this use of mammals, in general. Anyhow, Miss Connie’s focus is on a number of fruits that still exist whilst their means of propagation do not. A prime example is the avocado, whose flesh tastily enfolds a seed that is far too large to pass through the digestive system of any existing mammal, excepting possibly elephants and whales. Any semi-alert reader may have noticed through his or her observations or studies (humans still do that, right?) that elephants and whales do not cohabit the same ecosystems as avocados. Any semi-alert reader may have also noticed, having noticed the last point, that avocados therefore are dunderheads. To castigate the dense fruit, and being an avocado myself, I shall continue to commit genocide on my own species by cannibalism. When I, alone, remain, I shall nibble away at my own fleshy parts until only the seed remains. This seed will begin a new, modified race of avocados that will repopulate and ultimately dominate the earth, returning it rightly to the plant kingdom.

Basically, Connie tells her readers, who, themselves, are also dunderheads, that these plants evolve very slowly. They haven’t noticed yet that gomphotheres and ground sloths stopped consuming them some ten thousand years ago. I’d like to make an analogy to certain humans. I’ll even ponder on my readers’ favourite subject: my parents.

I posit that many adults, especially after a certain age, let’s say thirty (that’s possibly a bit low) stop evolving intellectually and culturally. They don’t keep up with what’s shakin’ with the current mammal population, honeybunch. An excellent example is, again, my readers’ favourite subject: my parents. At some point, they both ceased augmenting their scientific and cultural knowledge. They still get skewed and melodramaticised blasts of current reality from the tele, but those hardly stick and are anyway dubious at best. When I introduce a topic concerning zoology or astronomy to my parents and attempt to update their knowledge with something fascinating to me, I usually stub my prodigal toe on the cinder block of their stupidity. Blank looks and comments along the lines of but we learned it THIS way in high school / college gouge out my interest in continuing. They just stopped wanting or needing to advance mentally after a certain point in their lives. Perhaps that is a simplification and the process was more gradual, but now only the aforementioned cinder block remains, and it is certainly not pleasant company to my fleshy footsies.

I sometimes fly off the handle and exclaim that they are still living in the fucking fifties. But they are, to an extent. Current social interactions between man and goat or woman (choose as you wish, dear beastie) baffle them, no matter how often the skewed and melodramaticised blasts from the tele attempt to nudge or sway them. Their teen years and possibly their twenties define their points of view. They drifted into their own West Texas dreamland by the mid sixties and the hippie revolution of the late sixties did not touch them. For all its faults, that revolution could have opened my parents’ eyes at least a little. But I forget. West Texas was most likely never exposed. Another source of their malady is that bleak isolation - the one I broke from long, long ago - that never changes. West Texas is static.

Let’s waste our youths working in an oil field, my friend. I promise that grueling work will make you a tough man and an honest man and wipe away any semblance of art in your life.

I see symptoms of the same illness in the eyes of the majority. Cultural and intellectual evolution has left them behind. During the ponderous course of one day, one month, or one year, they retracted into what would become their puntos de vista for the remainder of their lives.

I call for a culling.

A fork in the proverbial road and Shambal chooses the way more recently paved and travelled since he’s hoping to meet more chicks.

It’s a truth that one cannot ignore that Shambal was once a prolific womaniser. One of the many epitaphs crudely carved into his immense sarcophagus reads Although his flesh wilts, his stillborn progeny plough other pastures. As an aside, the mystery of the tomb persists through the ages and leaks across countless quantum universes. You see, dastardly reader, Shambal was the only known sentient being on the moon he called home when he passed.

Ah! The road less travelled metaphor. It amuses me sometimes, or, actually, all of the time, that metaphors such as this one were drilled into my consciousness time and again during my youth. Yet, somehow, the whole philosophy (I laughingly call it a philosophy) of my padres ran counter to them. Any deviation from the norm resulted in my castigation. Normally, these castigations were psychological, involving gouts of emotional blackmail. As in times of old, my parents had a clear course in their mind mapped out for me.

It still infuriates them that I never finished university. Questions dribble radiomagnetically through the atmosphere, piercing my ears. They ask how many hours might I have left to achieve a degree? Any degree. The picture etched into my parents’ minds of me standing tall, smiling and pious holding a rolled diploma persists. I suppose it will be the final disappointment in my mother’s mind as she lies, organs failing, skin drooping, on her deadbed.

The road passing directly through university is definitely one of those least travelled in the holy United States of America, but not by the invaders, pale and strong. It was my right as an elite white to clutch that holy paper to my chest and succeed in the corrugated american dream. I surely would have got more chicks. Yeah. May I never remind my padres that those lowlife scum minorities in the sacrosanct United States of America plunder more twat weekly than any gringo other than the hunky bulks that call themselves High School Football Stars. Fuck um.

One road less travelled during my adolescence that I was forced to take was that of the hermit. Like any other teenage ape leaking sticky, hormonal juice, I craved interaction. My padres feared corruption by alcohol, drugs and counter-Jesus ideas. The three were obviously going to arise from doing what any other teenage boy would do - socialise with his peers in gangways and alcoves, parked cars and pristine living rooms, all outside of the schoolhouse. I was sequestered by a phantom lock called religion and its equally phantom compatriot key called guilt. I spent my time in a cave (as Christián would have dubbed it).

The only interaction I got, for the most part, was during the hours of schooling. In this regard, I was forced to take another particular road less travelled. I expelled most of my social energy during these hours, in contrast to most of my fellow students. They expunged the welling urges within by drinking, fucking and simply hanging out during evenings and especially weekends. I had no such opportunity. Weekends saw me cloistered in my cave (as Christián would have messaged it) reading, listening to music, or fiddling with an ancient difference machine. Either this or i was whisked away to Seminole to the sublime pleasure of a visitation with my dead grandmother. Only these visitations ultimately saw me cloistered in another cave (as Christián would have exfoliated it) reading or contemplating the theme music of my existence: pick any dirge.

Weeknights, after alienating fellow students and feeble and strident instructors alike, I sat in my rocking chair in my cave, listening to records. Yeah, I had a plethora of them. I still picture the wooden crate cradling them in my mind. They were a buddhasend. I probably read a bit and fiddled with those aforementioned difference machines, too. That part is foggy.

I walked along that ill travelled road by upchucking my captive social necessities from their prison and onto any maggot within projectile vomit reach. These living, wet, ovoid gops fueled by anxiety invaded classrooms and even the school newspaper. During the hours set aside each day so that the erudite masses of Fort Stocktoner teens be educated, I never held back. I poisoned every environment I encountered. I made few friends. I made myriad enemies, students and instructors alike. Few were indifferent. Peering backwards, I congratulate those few. Emotional resilience is a quality to be applauded.

The majority of my infractions saw me castigated at home. My father found out all. He inserted his proboscis were it ill belonged. He was, still is, a gossip monger, and I was a turbine billowing rumours in my wake. Let’s hope he dies soon. Real soon.

Fuck um.

I started going to a psychiatrist recently. She prescribed a type of anti-depressant. I cannot recall the exact name, or even the inexact name right now, so I shan’t mention it. The pills have ostensibly been affecting my system, my outlook and my personality in general for approximately two weeks now. Have I noticed any differences?

I am not very sure, Mr. Goat.

Although a paranoia piquing in my system guesses that the chemical itself denies me the ability to sense its effects, I am merely guessing by a mental restlessness that it has done very little to change my inner workings. And actually, isn’t a fucking anti-depressant supposed to counter paranoia? Perhaps it wants me to take more acute notice of psychological life. Any reader would know that I have already done this. Alternately, Taking a pill every evening could simply be a placebo to assuage any onset of depression (more on that later). The act of scheduling a pill taking session could make me hyper-aware of moods.

When I last saw the psychiatrist, we talked only in spurts and dribbles about my ostensible problem with alcohol. I’ve written about it at length in other entries, so when I add a full text search to my blog sometime during this century, my surely ecstatic readers can find said information easily. In fact, to whomever is reading this at any particular moment before that other moment within this century at which I complete full text search functionality, please take note now that you may browse back through blog entries at that other, later moment so that you won’t forget to do so when that moment comes.

In any case, when I last saw my psychiatrist, we talked only in eructions and heaves about my ostensible problem with alcohol. The remainder of the conversation focused mainly on what she saw as self-absorption. She repeated a variation of the following question time and again:

What do enjoy doing in your spare time?

Anyone who knows me past a few hours of conversation could easily answer the question. I love to write, as I am doing now (though I do it far less often than I wish or should, but that is a subject for another epoch). I compose music. It brings me fantastic contentment to be creative. This includes creations among others. That is, being creative within a group of other people also paints a honest smile on my twisted and snarling lips. The mention of group brings me to the point she hammered into my skull like a mallet to a flaccid, rubber spike.

Why don’t you get out and participate in activities that involve others?

It broils down to - well, I should do more sports! It assuages the mind to do sports! It curtails depression to do sports! It gets the gonads pumping to do sports! After doing sports, you’ll want to hop into bed with your squash or badminton-mate and think of nothing at all but doing another interpersonal sport!

SPORTS!

I have no problem with sports on a theoretical level. The simple and unavoidable fundamental fact of my personality is that I am an introvert. To those readers living on the dark side of Phobos, Spain - the country in which I currently live - and especially its population is not known for its introversion. In fact, and my psychiatrist verified my supposition, it is seen as a sort of illness in my current country of residence. Some of the humans here even consider it a mild but specialised form of autism. Fuck um.

As I was writing, I have no problem with sports on a theoretical level. The basal, transparent truth is that I am an introvert. I love to cycle. And I’m not talking about the piece of music I wrote called Cycle, though that, too, paints a ecstatic smile on my contorted and scowling lips. Hiking also toots my inner muffin. I used to play squash and had a fling with badminton. I sucked at both, but especially enjoyed the former. These are mostly solitary sports, I am aware, but, as I mentioned, the singular and pervasive case is that I am an introvert. My fondness of such forms of sport limit my interaction with others, obviously, as one set is completely individualistic and the other two individuals competing.

Furthermore, she (my psychiatrist - not the badminton-mate that I later fucked) encouraged me to collect (my words, not hers) more friends and spend time with them frequently. Doing so should shew away any encroaching periods of depression. The more I think about myself, and I am not sure if this is the placebo talking or not and shall not really ponder that part of the matter, the more I come to the realisation that I haven’t had a true dip into depression that wasn’t alcohol withdrawal induced for over fifteen years. To verify this, I may simply read back over my blog entries. My written journals mostly date from before said fifteen years and they are full of glowering entries of self-annihilation and despair. I know this. Perhaps I grew out of some sort of light bi-polar disorder into an alcoholic.

Whether it may be the placebo writing now or not, and I shall surely not explore that avenue at the moment, my sober states do not veer towards any sort of clinical depression. When I feel adrift during any day, usually from doing the same activity during a prolonged period, stretching the legs is a simple rescue. My mind resets shortly thereafter and I am ready to pursue whichever activity once again.

See, you ungulate fucking cyst - I am perfectly normal.

Happiness is not necessarily very constructive. My first real (ha!) girlfriend, Marcie, despised me for years because the following attitude:

I’d rather be intelligent and depressed than stupid and happy.

Mr Roger Soden told me in 2009 that she still despised me, after fifteen years. Bizarre. Although, I’ve never been one to hold grudges against, well, anyone, though I can think of many against whom I should (again, a topic for another blog entry entirely and that surely has been before, and, as mentioned, you, the mesmerised reader, will be able to use a full text search feature at some as yet undetermined point in the current century to find ramblings on said topic).

Christián will hold me in contempt for being black / white here, but I’ll just say now that there are two types of people (actually, there are six, but again, a topic for another blog entry, etc). On one side of the grimy coin, let’s say the sighly off-white (it is a grimy coin, after all) since being clean, pure or what have you is the fucking pits, we have the gents and ladies who wish to achieve bliss and bliss alone. Forms of attaining such a goal are many and mostly contrived. Find a spouse! Vomit out children! Buy a big house and multiple vehicles! While away vacations and subsequent retirement on a beach or in an igloo, whatever toots your inner muffin! The point is clear.

The dark side, which is the side that is always churning, and I mean that in the most evolutionary of ways, is wont to have a number of overlapping goals, one of which may be ultimate contentment, but never it alone. The act of creation, and I’m not talking about vomiting out foeti here, is always prominent. Individuals have differing aims to said creations, be it eternal life etched into the memories of humanity, or eternal at least until our nearest star engulfs the planet, or the personal nirvana the process unleashes. Creation alone or in groups. The beast rises from singularities within individuals to shape itself from formlessness into grotesque beauty.

It’s art, baby. It’s art that matters.

Cynicism reigns supreme on the dark side. It’s contagious and it spawns fluctuations in the quanta from which the aforementioned singularities are born. The big fucking bang of an idea, vole. The acknowledgement of desperation all around agitates the creative sensation. No, it births the creative sensation. A pallid, endlessly happy outlook, the bubbling mindlessness stumbling through vacant days until death, has no use for birthing from the black spirit world of cynicism. Let um trip and tumble past. Inner turbulence sires new worlds.

If Lee was right about anything, he was about this. Perpetual happiness and stupidity are closely linked.

Fuck um.

The female sitting in the seat in front and to my right has a skull. Well, reasonably enough, all female humans have skulls. Let’s not forget rodents. Female rodents also have skulls. The unusuality about the particular skill in front and to the right of me is that it resembles Susie’s skull to an almost disturbing degree. The curvacious lips tip a slightly protruding jaw. Her maw widens and narrows like Susie’s. Being an American human (or rodent - it’s hard to tell from this angle), she even speaks like Susie. She uttered to her neighbour as the denizens of my aeroplane arranged themselves a squeaky Oh. I’m sorry! that sucked me back into the autumn of 1998. Now Susie’s face hovers in my mental projector space.

It could be that the consciousness that inhabits Susie also inhabits this being. It could be that consciousness molds the soft bones of foeteses even in the womb, for possibly it possesses them even before they are spewn into the noxious atmosphere from their slimy tumor-sac. It could be that the limited number of everlasting consciousnesses have to inhabit more than one creature at a time. My theory conforms to biological populations waxing and waning but a constant troop of entities persisting througout timelessness.

Knowing these disturbing ideas to be true at least in my biological mind at the moment, I should no longer be surprised when I encounter clones. Not clones. Partial clones? Beings that run on the same foundations, with similar states of inception.

I’d groan at the interpretation a mere fifteen years prior. The energy flowing through my biology, the force that built it and keeps it vital, is shared by other beings. I certainly hope my companions in spiritual resonance are either capyparas, goats or stone martens. Humans? Fuck um.