The Tale of Octopushead, Professional Overseer, and his Adventures Behind the Window of Reality

Octopushead marched down the 3&1/3 regiment of the chain gang of former clowns astounded by their decrepitude and tattered costumes. Here he was, in the middle of a solar desert, many kilo-miles from his happy suburban home, and it seemed the decaying failure of the clowns was a hideous metaphor for his own failure as a commandant of the circus performers forced labour camp 9. In the distance he heard an elephant bellow, from behind an array of red and purple mesas which swayed and shifted like plants in the desert winds. Clearly the animals were yet again unwilling to partake of their share of the work. Octopushead wondered if they would take industrial action again, or attempt a breakout. It was only with the loss of several fine tin foil men that they had prevented Larry Lion escaping last months. The horrific tears and mangled remains of those tin foil men, utterly unable to resist Larry’s savage claws, claws which he had been sharpening in secret for weeks, these nightmare thoughts still regularly haunted Octopushead’s conscious each successive day.

He was overworked, and, after the last prison freighter had encountered severe turbulence due to a cacophony of astral projections from a nearby barbershop and ditched several kilo-miles out in the parched ocean, supplies had been running low. Without his heroin, that most secret of vices, necessary to maintain his forever splintering sanity, Octopushead had been experiencing creeping bouts of The Fear. As Octopushead was terrified of clowns, his job as their Overseer was a particularly strong catalyst for these outbursts of psychic energy. The last few days alone the heads of three clowns had been caused to explode like eggs with hand grenades inside them because of panic attacks brought on as he was forced to manually restrain them. His job was at stake, he needed to score, and soon.

Each day the itch got worse, he could feel it at that moment, a creeping, prickly feeling under the rough wool of his resplendent uniform, like it was some static interface with his skin. His attention to duty waxed and waned like the tide; when he caught a clown shirking he administered the ritual sowing of a live, sexed up monkey to the back of the inmate’s head, yet at other time his attention to the strict and serious regulations of the penal colony was lax at best. Clowns would caper and prank each other, and he seemed to be almost unable to summon the effort to even give them a solid beating. Some days he didn’t even break any bones. Octopushead thought of his wife, how she abhorred his job, thought it was cruel to treat clowns and other circus folk like this. Octopushead’s buddies had informed him that her perverse sympathy was due to her likely gypsy ancestry, but Octopushead simply thought that she held the heartfelt belief that clowns could be tolerated. Also he would never marry a gypsy, for fear of their wicked spell craft.

Octopushead had argued with his beloved, Squidface Clam-minge, many times, but try as he might he could not conquer his fear of the clowns as something hideous, unnatural, untermench. Only a few of his closest friends knew that clowns had killed his parents one fateful night as they were walking home from an Operatic rendition of Naughty Nurses Nine. Even Squidface only knew the bare outline. Thanks to his smack withdrawal, it all seemed like it was happening right about now…

The rain on the streets, forming great, spinning whirlpools that lasted fractions of seconds. The amber city lights like fireflies trapped in jars. The rumble of traffic filling his ears and body with the vibrations of the city, like some giant hideous organism, perhaps an aardvark, as it ponderously plodded to the future but never seemed to leave the present. His father, a wealthy entrepreneur, one Sebastian Scalloptit. His mother, a lawyer by trade, but he remembered her most for her compassion, for her smile, and for her briny smell. Mrs. Cocksucker Van de Fellaté was one of the most popular debutantes of the year when she had been seduced by his farther, and that beauty still lingered on, in its way. His father reminded him to never kiss his mother on lips, as she had a taste for landwomen, but otherwise they had the perfect family.

And then, on that fateful night, moments before his parents were brutally run down and left spazzed multifariously, hung upside down on life support, twenty clowns on the run were carjacking a small business owner in a mini. All twenty clowns piled in, but the generous camp diets had made them corpulent and there was no room to steer or control velocity. The mini sped along the road, out of control. At that moment his father, Scalloptit, was fiending for smack, and spotting a man he assumed in his weakened state to be a dealer he knew, shouted at him and began to cross the road without looking, dragging his wife along. The man was in fact a pony called Albert, and he didn’t sell drugs but was a community support officer, a duty which saw him take a key role in managing the aftermath of the pending and now imminent disaster. Octopushead’s dad always needed smack to pay his mother, he told him, otherwise she wouldn’t be willing to ingest his landwomen and she would starve to death. Octopushead never really understood any of that, and was pondering it over again when he heard the car of clowns smash into his parents.

The rest was a blur, as he had just previously stolen and used the last of his father’s heroin. Also he was 7, and could never remember much of that age anyway. The incident, however, had taught him several valuable lessons, primarily not to put yourself at the mercy of clowns when you haven’t had the horse in a while. And yet this was what he was doing right now. He cursed his stupidity not to have had a larger stash. In his anger, he took his club to a nearby clown, but all he heard was squeaking of the clown’s bulbous red nose.

Later Octopushead found himself in the mess hall with not memory of how he got there, or anything since the beating of the clown. Clearly his need for heroin was intense, he had to score, and soon, reality was decaying, and he had no intention of letting it run out anytime soon. He had done it once, while hiking for several days in the great Breast Mountains, let his supply run dry until his mind became detached from the corporeal world and he went to the shadow realm. He had no intention of returning. The indistinct memories made him shudder as he ushered prisoners in with his baton, the hideous sound of muted shopping mall music, the sparse but manageable crowds of contented people, the good deals everywhere… Octopushead woke up on an Oriental Schooner in the middle of a grey and turbulent sea.

Again, he had no memory of reaching this place, or the (he assumed budget) whore lying next to him in the bed of the opium den. He was no longer even sure if he was later in time than his position as an Overseer or not, maybe that was still in the future and this was soon to be the memory he was remembering in the camp mess hall. He no longer felt the need for smack now though. The water was seeping into the ship, it came up half a foot against his bed. Addicts sat in the water, gazing deep into the beyond, some lay in bed, emaciated, others huddled in covers. A laudanum bottle bobbed past the bed, but he had no desire to grab it, to chug the entire cork stopped bottle. He still had a need though, this time for opium.

Octopushead heard a throaty laughing from one corner. An immense and corpulent moor
sat cross-legged on a buckling stool, a hookah pipe in his hand, and yellow teeth bobbling beneath an immense moustache. He reminded Octopushead very much of a clown, and he wondered if the man had any clown genes, it would explain a lot. This man was surrounded by many glittering wall hangings, yet looking closer Octopushead could see that they were the flayed hides of poor, misfortunate tinfoil men. He felt disgusted, and wretched. Even weaker than before, he gestured pitifully and slowly at the pipe, Opium, Opium he begged in a cracked voice like wind over the top of a dying mountain, but the moor just sat there a laughed again, his deep, booming laugh. Out his mouth poured rolls and rolls of paper covered in mad scribbles, like a plenitude of tumbling tongues. They wrapped as if guided by some mysterious force about the opium den, about the struts of the ship, and at the head of this mass of paper tentacles was the moor, like some fat and crazed abdomen, covered in gold and silks.

The paper sheets heaved and the boats supports buckled, tearing the vessel apart, wood cracking, splintering, coming apart like torn muscle, and Onctopushead was too weak to stand, let alone stop them. Vainly he flicked water with his fingers at one paper roll, but only got it marginally damp. He felt the boat give way beneath him, and he tumbled into the ocean, only to wake up in pitch darkness. The only sound was his own breathing, slow and tense. He got up off what felt like a dusty floor and tried to squint. Still nothing. Then dazzling lights thumped on, and carnival music filled the air and all around him, crowds cheered. Oh god, he said, I must have travelled back in time, I’m in a circus ring! His body spasmed like a dying spider, and then he heard the sound of a mini cooper engine starting, somewhere backstage, a sound getting closer, closer with its rhythmic chugging. A nightmare come alive. And he didn’t even have any smack.

Fin.

A recurring dream

The room is lit by harsh white light, no shadows being visible in the four square corners. In the middle lies a brown wooden table with a green vase and a blue flower. At the far end the grinder.

The white floor moves incrementally towards the grinder. The table and plant would be the first, and then I too would be crushed. The grinder is metallic and mechanical, it has circular rows of sharp galvanized steel teeth, and the loud, churning, electric drone of the grinder clouds my mind and my thoughts become confused, as if in a fever, as I head inevitably towards my death.

A story

Adam had been waiting for hours now, in a dark upper room of a Paris flat block. His rifle resting against his angry chin. He was waiting for the pope. And he was going to shoot the pope. Right in his head.

He took a last puff of his PCP laced cigarette and opened the blinds slightly to get a better view of the road below and to let out the sweltering heat of the French summer night. He could see the flickering of candles metres below, the people clumped neatly together in rows, it was the start of an improvised vigil to mark his Excellency’s arrival. Here Adam saw the sunrise of an entirely different, bleaker ceremony, the beginning of the sacrament of execution.

At eleven-thirty the Vicar of Christ would travel along the Champs-Elysées in his pope-mobile, towards the Notre Dame cathedral to hold midnight mass. There Adam would take aim with his precision fifty calibre rifle and in one bloody squeeze of the trigger blast off the pope’s head. It was a good plan, and Adam understood that this simple action of projecting hardened metal through an old man’s skull could change the world. 

Adam would dip his own semen in the bullet that would kill the pope, and as it soared through the electric sky the potency of the bullet and that of his own seed would become one, in a cataclysm of destruction. The flecks of semen being driven into the pope’s brain and mind with the speeding bullet. Only this deed could reverse the tyranny of the evil pope, his shooting would be a profane act of intercourse. The penetration of the bullet exposing his virginity as a fraud and flooding the cavities of his papal mind with semen.

Adam had time to kill, it was not yet ten, but he knew also that he had the pope to kill and this thought made the minutes flow, as if the gravity of the deed he was about to perform was dragging him at pace through the silken minutes.

He felt as if this night was a fiesta, a great feast, as if god himself was in the sky playing Spanish guitar, over the warm coffee black night-time atmosphere, the streetlamps whispered words of encouragement, the heat rising from the concrete road spoke words of love. And he knew that as the old man approached all these signs would reach a crescendo, and in one tumultuous squirt he would fire his semen bullet into the pope’s brain and infect his mind with death and truth. In those last seconds the Vicar of Christ would know his destiny, know the black uncertain hole he was doomed to be cast into, taste the semen of his conqueror in the back of his throat. And he too would see that the aesthetics of the situation were that of a perfect act of death-love-making.

The adventures of the prophet pt 2

Hercule and the prophet walked out into into the black night. The cold desert wind caused the mighty Hercule to shiver, but the skinny prophet stood erect.

"Now my child" said the prophet,
"Try and lift this small stone".

Hercule bent his trunkish legs downward and reached for a round pebble beneath his feet.

"It is too heavy my lord", whined Hercule the strong.

For the lord was using his magical powers to make it heavy.

"I can usually lift two-hundred times the weight of this small stone said the puzzled Hercule",

Hercule looked at the black sky and the amber sand and let the harsh wind blow across his stubbly beard. He sighed and wondered where his strength had gone.

"Are you using your magic on it" he finally asked

"Yes" replied the lord

A Treatise on Church Corruption

Bring to me the men of God
Who trip ov’r their vestments,
They stumble in their shoes well shod
Unfit for divine assessments.
And each by each they are to kneel
Before the font of reason
And each displays a golden heal
For it’s wealth that is their treason.
And when the bishops try to pray
Heavy gold flows from their jaws
And as it crushes down their cassocks hear them bray
And tear off their gilded gowns with frantic claws.
For they take on the pomp of ancient kings
And all forsake Jah’s edict
But see now the fate it brings
To those who feign believe it.

The adventures of the prophet, pt 1

It was a cold night in Samaria and the strong flow of the wind rattled and battered the sandy desert houses. A disciple Hercule, and the prophet were seated at Hercule’s table for supper. The disciple of the erudite prophet asked his master:

“Master what is the secret of strength"?

The prophet paused and then said to Hercule his disciple,

“Strength is not physical strength, but a strength that is non-physical, and hence the physical has no effect on true strength, the opposite however is not true, true strength girds the mind and hence allows the building up of the physical body.”

Hercule was confused but kissed the prophet on the lips and thanked him nonetheless.

He reached from the communal plate with his wooden spoon and sipped on the fish broth he had prepared for his master.

After some time he gestured towards his large arm muscles and asked the prophet if he should continue his exercise regimen. The prophet knew however that his parable was a metaphor and that Hercule had sadly missed the message.

The Prophet continued:

“Strength is good, it is better than weakness, but an excess of strength is a weakness, and thus too much strength is a weakness that cannot be cured with more strength, but only by weakness. The opposite however is not true; too much weakness is not strength but is a weakness and hence can only be cured by strength and not by any increase in weakness”

Hercule thought for some time and then gestured once more to his mammoth arms. The prophet frowned and decided that poor Hercule must be possessed by a demon of ignorance.

“Follow me my child” said the prophet.

The two ventured out into the cold night, each wearing only a thin white shawl.

RUSSEL CROWE's 'Noah'

A rather trite article on the upcoming Aronofsky Opus Noah (http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/filmblog/2012/aug/13/russell-crowe-noah-darren-aronofsky?INTCMP=SRCH) starring intense character actor RUSSEL CROWE led to thoughts of what the film may hold for fans of Biblical epics:

SCENE 1:

Noah builds the worlds first cruise liner for animals

It is morning, birds call, RUSSEL rises from slumber next to his wife. Though aged 600, he looks a mere 300. His body has withered into a wrinkled husk of a man, contracting to a dry form the size of a 6 year old child. He dreams of rain, so that with moisture his dry, old skin may be refreshed. There is an extended dream scene, perhaps of a cornfield in a deluge.

RUSSEL: WIFE, I SHALL BUILD AN ARK, FETCH ME TIMERS.

Wife: Noah, you are mad, it has not rained here for many a cursed year

RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Wife: Oh No(ah), not again (Laugh Track)

RUSSEL: Whatever comes through those gates….

Wife: I’ll fetch some wood

*    *    *

An Ark is built, the world floods, RUSSEL sets loose a dove
 


Scene 30

RUSSEL: Fly, my pretty, fly!

Enter Commodus, dressed as a dove

Commodus: Caw, Caw

RUSSEL: Dove, find me land, or a tree that lo I may perch my boat upon it.

Commodus: Caw, Caw
Exit Commodus, Play montage of RUSSEL looking hopefully out over a wild sea. The rains have made him young again, perhaps there is a scene in a corn field. Commodus returns with a branch

Commodus: Caw, Caw

RUSSEL: A BRANCH, I CAN USE THIS TO AVENGE MY FAMILY, BUT FIRST, WINE

Together RUSSEL and Commodus get progressively inebriated, until their clothes fall off, exposing their nakedness. Enter Ham.

Ham: Egads, father, your nakedness, I shall avert mine eyes (He does so)

RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Ham: Here father, Shem and I will cover thee

RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Advancing backwards, Ham and Shem cover RUSSEL. Commodus flies off, only to be caught on an overhead power line. He explodes.

RUSSEL: Son, Son….

Ham: Yes father?

RUSSEL: You covered my nakedness, son

Ham: I know, father

RUSSEL: I curse you, son

Ham: What?

RUSSEL: I curse you in the name of Jesus. My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

Ham: Father, you are drunk
RUSSEL: Son, I never loved you, you were always a dissapointment. I am not your father

Ham: No, father, it can’t be

RUSSEL: You were just a bastard in a basket, I used you to get contracts from God. Just a pretty face. My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next. Bastard in a Basket, BASTARD IN A BASKET

Ham: Father, I saw your nakedness, I know you could not have begat me, for you have nothing betwixt your thighs but the painted face of a bald man with protuberant teeth

RUSSEL: And now I am undone

RUSSEL dies, Ham, distraught, cries aloud, then commits Hari Kuri over RUSSEL’s limp form. Commodus flies down, and weeps. His tears fall onto the face of RUSSEL, but he is no phoenix, and RUSSEL does not stir. The shot lasts 8 minutes. Then black.
Fin.

Then, a voice, calling in the darkness, and the darkness could not comprehend it
RUSSEL: My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.

The Philosopher at sea

When the oaken barrel’s empty base, 

Feeds the peep holes in your face

And grog is gone, the wine run dry

Perceived by a perceptive eye

The tumbling of the masts and sail

The clanking of metal,

Sounds of the whales

The gull that caws above the brine

The eyes on a pittance dine

When, blank sea returns a meagre smile

Sit on deck and think, a while

The storm at night;

An irritation

The constant cracking of the bows and

Their, unchaste vibrations

Make a sailor rather cross

He laughs

A thought

• 1.) (premise) I exist in the present
• 2.) (premise) I existed in the past and the past is something "real"
• 3.) (premise) I have free will and the future is undetermined. 

Conclusion "I" am a growing '4D' time worm and "I" can shape my identity

Inferences:

IDENTITY IN AN FINITE UNIVERSE

1.) If I only live once my identity is valuable only in some abstract way, and hence not of any particular concern.

IDENTITY IN AN INFINITE UNIVERSE

• In an infinite universe reincarnation necessarily follows (as given an infinite time everything that is possible becomes actual) 

If identity is directly shaped by my actual moral/experiential deeds then "I" could only exist where "I"  performed similar actions to those that I performed in my actual life or in a life where I felt the results of those actions.


Thus if "I" were to be reincarnated I would have to perform similar deeds in all subsequent infinite reincarnations. 

Thus I should pick my actions very very carefully indeed.

COUNTERARGUMENT 1

Life whether finite or infinite is imperfect so it’s not all that important to “choose” our identity right, if indeed we can choose our identity. Indeed many things are beyond our control and as long as we have a reasonably ok identity then it is unrealistic and a waste of effort to aim for a much much greater life..

COUNTERARGUMENT 2

Rigid identity and an infinite universe necessarily impliy determinism. (i.e. i was always performing these deeds in an infninte chain with no beginning or end) So I can't change my identity even if I wanted to.

COUNTERARGUMENT 3

I only have control of a small part of what shapes my identity (my actions), bad things still happen if I do good things.

Confessions of an evil man

TWO ARGUMENTS IN FAVOUR OF BEING A DICK

FIRST ARGUMENT: MORALITY IN AN IMPERFECT UNIVERSE

Three preliminary points:

1.) Imperfect things have imperfect value.

2.)The universe in imperfect.

3.) People belong to the universe thus they are imperfect, and their wllbeing has finite value.

PROOF OF 2

FOR THE PERFECT UNIVERSE TO BE ACTUALISED THE FOLLOWING KEY DESIRES MUST BE FULFILLED:

a.) We do not want to be ultimately accountable to somebody else – we want pure free will: Atheism

= Plausibly true at this world

b.) We do not want the universe to be dependent on our thoughts – we want the external to be real: anti-idealism

= Plausibly true at this world

c.) We do not want to know we live forever - If we knew we lived forever life would be meaningless thus we want a period of forgetfulness between lives: reincarnation

= Not necessarily false in this world

d.) We do not want to suffer unnecessarily

= It is almost certain we do suffer unnecessarily

CONCLUSION: IT IS ALMOST CERTAIN THAT SOME OF THE ABOVE KEY DESIRES ARE UNFULFILLED THUS

THIS IS NOT THE PERFECT UNIVERSE

From 1,2,3,: A slippery slope. 

If it is morally justifiable to spend 99.99999...% of my energy on morality then it is morally justified to spend 99.9998…% of my energy on morality. Because of the insignificant difference between the two figures.

- It is morally justifiable to spend 99.99999...% of my energy on morality because people's wellbeing has finite value.

It is morally justifiable to spend 99.999998...% of my energy on morality

THUS

It is morally justifiable to spend 99.9997…% of my energy on morality. BY TRANSITIVITY OF RULE

Etc. etc.

It is morally justifiable to spend 5.99999999...% of my energy on morality

THUS it is morally justifiable to spend 5.9999999998…% of my energy on morality.

Conclusion: I can be a dick

ARGUMENT 2 THE ARGUMENT FROM SELF-PRESERVATION

2.) It is justified to hurt somebody a little to avoid a very large amount of pain yourself– SOME VALUE COMMENSUARABILTY

OR At some point avoiding pain becomes objectively more important than a little immorality.

2. a) Slippery Slope

If I can hurt somebody for 1 unit of pain in order to avoid 45000 units of pain myself I should do so.

If it is morally justifiable to inflict 1 unit of pain on somebody in order to avvoid 45000 units of pain then it is morally justifiable to inflict 1 unit of pain in order to avoid 45999 units of pain. As the difference is insignificant.

Etc. etc.

THUS BY TRANSITIVITY OF RULE

- If I can hurt somebody for 1 unit of pain in order to avoid  0.1 units of pain myself I should do so. 

Conclusion:I can be a dick

Jazzstep

Dizzee ft. Evans

The Olympics as the triumph of Thanatos over Eros.

 

With the Olympics near I turn my learned mind to the topic of competition. Competition is in essence the embodiment of the death drive, the desire to subdue and defeat your earthly brethren, the angry face of nature, red in tooth and claw and glans and wizard’s sleeve.

A mighty warrior fells a beast with his cock.

 

Colour on screen / 2012

CONCEPT

The above image portrays a mighty warrior slaying a beast with his cock.  The beast (centre) is large aggressive and purple. The warrior-man seen bottom left is wielding a spear (a metaphor for his cock) as well as his cock. Bill Conti's "gonna fly now" plays in the background.A feeling of triumph emanates from the image. A sisyphean feat.

Fictional Dictionary

Crebules – a borough of London city

Yopus – Trousers

Crebulosophpous – The core of a loaf of bread

Filligerubestop – A worm

Gipper- A title of honour (often academic)

Boonoceriousap major – A comet orbiting the constellation of Scorpios

Craspos - a fluid or essence that, though familiar, exits the body via the wrong orifice

Posterperfidy - to be famous for a petty crime

Finbrae - a diseased end

Steely Jean

A Collection of Images

'The Decent of Capitalism'

'Mind at Work'

'Mysterious Figures'

''The Great Creator'

'Deity and Priest'

'The Hideous'

'Pedagogue & Catamite'

'Brazen Elephant'

'AUTOCANNIBALISM FIRST INTERATION'

'AUTOCANNIBALISM SECOND ITERATION'

30 minutes of thought

Darius - a play

Part I

In the small tea room, it is desirable for every utensil to be less than adequate. There

are those who dislike a piece when it is even slightly damaged; such an attitude shows

a complete lack of comprehension.

Zoomed in on lapping of ocean

Darius barely clothed, is stretched out asleep across the cold morning sands

Morning, sun rising. Seagulls caw, golf ball hits him. Soundtrack: Vivaldi

He has morning potency. He smiles in his sleep. Philosopher walks by in the background (robed man)

Voice [whispering]: Darius, Darius

Darius: (startled, groggily) Pray thee, who dane to speaketh to me? God?

Voice (woman): Nay, It is me, alma mater, Gaia, Mother Nature.

Darius: [pause] Forsooth, this is hard to believe. Why hast I been awakened from my hypnotic spell?

sheets wave in front of camera. A cat hisses.

Darius holds sand in his hand and watches it slip through his fingers. (still prostrate)

Gaia: See how the crystals of sand blow like the seeds of a ripe poppy; I have ordained a pattern to everything here.

Darius: Of what relevance is this to me? Leave me in peace.

Gaia: As you wish.

Darius returns to his slumber. [Fade to black]

Part II

The Taoists relate that at the great beginning of the No-Beginning, Spirit and Matter met in mortal combat. At last the Yellow Emperor, the Sun of Heaven, triumphed over Shuhyung, the demon of darkness and earth. The Titan, in his death agony, struck his head against the solar vault and shivered the blue dome of jade into fragments. The stars lost their nests, the moon wandered aimlessly among the wild chasms of the night .everyone has to build anew his sky of hope and peace.

The pale orange sun rises over the sandy spit and Darius is roused from his temporary oblivion.

A fire is going on around him, they are cooking dead seagull. Two men, wearing tweed and ties, but no pants  

Darius [clutching at the sand]: The grains are bound together with frost, it is another cold day.

Darius walks along the sands in the direction of the estuary. His sodden loin cloth blows in the nipping breeze. (he has a beard)

Darius looks displeased, but continues to walk for some time. [2 mins or so]

(no longer has beard)

A loaf of bread is found partially buried under the sand by Darius.

He eats it, urinates, eats some more.

Darius spends many minutes collecting dry bracken and logs to start a fire with and after a pile of deadwood has been formed he removes a flint from his loincloth. (the barbeque-ing men are now sitting reading newspapers, They are now dressed as monks)

He strikes his flint against the rock seven times. But few sparks are produced and he cuts his forefinger. (he has an orgasm of anger, his loin cloth is ever more soiled with his own excrements) (soundtrack: more vivaldi)

Part III

Hastings: Say my name (for 30 seconds, zoomed in on his mouth)

Darius continues his path down the beach towards the estuary.

He happens across two monks in the embrace of a passionate clothed sodomy. The one being penetrated is weeping and chanting da pacem dominum

Darius sees the monks and quotes Ecclesiastes:

 2 “Meaningless! Meaningless!”
“Utterly meaningless!
   Everything is meaningless.”

 3 What do people gain from all their labors
   at which they toil under the sun?
4 Generations come and generations go,
   but the earth remains forever.
5 The sun rises and the sun sets,
   and hurries back to where it rises.
6 The wind blows to the south
   and turns to the north;
round and round it goes,
   ever returning on its course.
7 All streams flow into the sea,
   yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,
   there they return again.
8 All things are wearisome,
   more than one can say.
The eye never has enough of seeing,
   nor the ear its fill of hearing.
9 What has been will be again,
   what has been done will be done again;
   there is nothing new under the sun.

Monk fondles his orbs of virility upon the beach,

Tongue licks nipple

Darius is chased along the beach by the two men clothed in tweed, they brutally beat him with golf clubs and he screams in prolonged agony (soundtrack Zadok the Priest)

            when we consider how small after all the cup of human enjoyment is, how soon overflowed with tears, how easily drained to the dregs in our quenchless thirst for infinity, we shall not blame ourselves for making so much of the tea-cup. Mankind has done worse.

Sand blows over a ‘really nice’ tea cup for a long time

Some Renderings

'The Devil Tempts The Pope'

'Beings'

'Parthenogenesis'

Arnie is a Nephilim.

Schwarzenegger certainly has the look and feel of a nephilim, the broad cheekbones, the political success, the angelic frame. Though this is not evidence enough, it certainly casts aspersions on his angelic status.  But we must look closer at his film career, and indeed his policies to discover his true nephilim self. But you say Elohim created the nephilim, driving them from their celestial sphere in the heavens down to earth, where they were to dwell with the sinners adam and eve. Why Schwarzenegger, he was born some six thousand years later and the bible mentions nothing of him!

Or does it? Remember Samson, those beautiful flowing locks, the sword or bone used to fight with, the piercing eyes, and the immutable ambition? The man who said "let me die with the philistines!", and thought that the greatest thing in life was to crush his enemies see them driven before him, and to hear the lamentation of their women! Does Samson the man with a weakness for the ladies and a penchant for oiling up his bared torso remind you of anybody?

Yes indeed, Arnold Schwazenegger is nothing more than an alias, that the ancient biblical Samson (a nephilim) has chosen to mask his true identity. He has existed for millennia, casting down his enemies, brutally ousting his political opponents, sleeping with maids, and pumping iron. I take my hat off to him and bow down in reverence.

Fertile Cresent Plastic Surgery, or the Adaptation of the Apeman Form to Modern Technology Rooted in the Past

Desiccated maw repurposed via autocannibalism
Implemented with fluid alloy with cheese holes
Providing ventilation for respiration, rebooted
Stitching performed with gizzards of nightingale
Deceased. Soundtrack recorded with voice of nightingale
Resurrected. Insertion of metal appendages
With silicate lining
At marked points along the fifth vertice
Enabling primitive locomotion and four dimension
Object manipulation. Insert bolt B into docking slot 5mm
Ease in until full lubrication, then cleave and make one
If correct application, note protuberance of tongue
Restrained by fishing net of whittled bark
And copper wires woven. Addition of muscle mass
Via bacterial culture, prune trunk on sixth day;
Spare rib rotate 90 degrees with gentle pressure.
Bottled wind on intravenous drip inserted into artery
Swap each of the four winds at regular intervals.
When facial mass reconstructed inside out,
Insert dry bones, bolted and springed
With any fractures repaired with chewing gum.
Dimensions 37 by 7, E. Encase all in shell of snail
Gestate for sixteen years.
Remove mulch and pour into injection mould
After application of non stick fluid.
Into top hole insert sugars, fibres of wood.
Collect refuse at base chute and dispose.
On extraction from mould, feed to murder of crows
Connect to an electrical circuit and increase voltage
On each successive avian detonation recover contents of stomach
Spill on ground and read smoking future in thick blood,  congealed guts
Bile that runs over the stones and stains the bottoms of your shoes.

The geniuses of intuitive genius

Headlining are the geniuses of Albert Camus and Salvadore Dali. Followed closely by Schwarzenegger in third place.

Society and its ills

“Society” and its ills

 

Man is no longer free to gaze at the heavens and feed his mouth with the fruits of the earth. He cannot lay down by the green pastures and sip from the flowing brook. He cannot use his cunning and might to cudgel a monkey to death and roast its tortured body over a fire, or by his choosing, spare it! He is not free to explore the jungle-earth in search of knowledge, bounty and riches. He cannot build his own house, and till his field with his own two hands! He is not permitted to murder his enemy in some bitter and honourable dispute. All these things are owed to man, and yet the wicked and greedy, the cowardly, the boastful, the arrogant, the self-seeking and the proud have mechanised existence. They have made a wall around their ill-gotten gains in the form of laws, precepts and duty. Man in society has become a schemer, a plotter and a fiend.

A MANIFESTO

THE ILLS OF RELIGION

Religion bends man’s lusts and inward and turns him into an unnatural sex pest, like a catholic priest.

-THUS Priests should be encouraged to engage in coitus

Religion rationalises by the medium of fear the natural wonder of existence that is proper to us all

- THUS Priests should be prevented from using fear as a coercive tool and must be compelled by law to use the Children's Bible, instead of the actual one.

THE ILLS OF THE LAW

The law prevents due revenge and vengeance which is every man’s right, by offering retribution by proxy.

- THUS a law should be in place that allows the wronged to punish the wrong doer. The boats, the breaking wheel, head crusher and crocodile shears are all possible legal punishments.

The rich and greedy own the land which belongs to all of us and take the food from our mouths!

- THUS a large tax should be levied against the rich and the gains distributed for the good of society.

- THUS the richest man in society must be made to toil in a rubber fist mine for a year

A man must pay for the very ground upon which to build his own house!

- THUS each man, without exception should be allotted a plot of land for his quarters

- THUS machines should till communal fields in place of man, and pick the orchards, and bring the food to him and the community.

THE ILLS OF THE FACTORY

Man utilises the means of production to sell useless items and indebt their owners

-          THUS man should create more drug factories, to create a cheap supply of products

-          THUS man should create a GM bird that he can ride and feed oats or some such cereal instead of building a car. 

The meaning of life

Gentlemen, I present to you with all due modesty, THE MEANING OF LIFE.

AND

THE ULTIMATE METAPHYSICAL NATURE OF BEING:

1.) Being, i.e existence itself has no inherent meaning

2.) It is our desire to create morality and meaning in the world

MAN URGES HIMSELF TO GIVE MEANING TO A MEANINGLESS UNIVERSE

MAN URGES HIMSELF TO GIVE MORALITY TO AN AMORAL UNIVERSE

As the sole enforcers of this type of behaviour, we could choose not to act in a meaningful way as there is no punishment for disobaying the rules. But this is to miss an opportunity.

Metanormative dialectic

I have of late been wondering how to roll the perfect joint. I told  the wizard Wolfram Alpha my query and this is the pith of the response:

raises more questions than it asks

Elton John's "and the house fell down" as commentary on Job

"The sun is up and the shades are all pulled down
I'm more paranoid with every little sound
Like the leaf blower blowing the leaves around
And a siren wailing on the other side of town"

The modest beginnings of the first verse does not betray any deep existential ponderment, a leaf blower, a siren, and pulling down are all mundane themes, John still invokes such timeless images such as the rising sun and the terror of the wind but they are most definately muted by the mundane. In the second verse John does introduce the theme of suffering, and remorse. John tells us that he could be in many places, but what is crucial is that here he is on the precipice, having followed a poor diet of cocaine and wine for three days.John then in this couplet of verses eases us into themes of suffering and angst, whilst backing the apparent misery with an upbeat and groovy piano composition. It is however the chorus that rivals Job, the wolf here representing suffering keeps blowing down his house and what can John do but shake his fist at God?

some riggidy rap

I hereby put my unborn seed on it.

The Anguish of Boredom: Original Sketches

The Preacher & Camel"

"The Aching of the Contact Lens"

"The Beurocracy vs. Dinosaurs"

Pandora's Urn Releases The Nymphs of Decadence

Yukio Mishima and the love of St Sebastian.

It's not my bag

It is Sebastian’s almost base physicality and masculinity that instantly strikes us, upon viewing this painting. The dark shadows, the harsh lines, the piercing gaze, the massive semi-erect penis. If not for the arrows one would imagine the image to be designed for the purpose of proudly displaying a person’s authority and achievement. Sebastian in the picture stands erect and exclaims ecce homo – behold the man!

Yet there is a white elephant in the room, Sebastian this symbol of masculinity is seen in the painting as being ravaged by a swarm of arrows, (an obvious reference to the traditionally dominant phallus). Why is Sebastian a paragon of masculinity so often portrayed as being humbled by the phallus? Why is this sadomasochistic perspective seen as so erotic by writer’s such as Mishima? For the answer to the latter we must look deep into the mind of the great poet and writer.

Mishima’s childhood was rife with difficulty, he was often sick with tuberculosis and and was only allowed to associate with “weaker” female relatives for fear he would be bullied by boys his own age. In the beginning of “Confessions of a Mask” Mishima often escapes the sufferings of worldly existence by escaping into a world of sadism and dominance. His actual sufferings giving rise to imaginary sadistic triumphs. As Mishima grows this striving for dominance takes on a sexual aspect, he writes:

“I cried sobbingly until at last those visions reeking with blood came to comfort me. And then I surrendered myself to them, to those deplorably brutal visions, my most intimate friends.”

It is logical to assume that in the case of Mishima this early repression of the will to power led to a rebound of the ID – an explosion of sadism. The will to power that had been repressed and denied him in his childhood grew exponentially more violent in adulthood. Yuko Mishima strives from his mid twenties to be a real-life Sebastian, ceaselessly exercising with heavy weights, each day trying to fit his ever bulging muscles into his spandex pants.  Tiring to become like the heroic and ever masculine Sebastian.

Sexy

We see in the life of St Mishima then a pattern, a childhood of submission, a rebound and an adulthood of sadism and dominance.

And yet like Sebastian Mishima wants to die, and indeed declares that it would gratify him, to "die among strangers beneath a cloudless sky".In November 1970 Mishima commits Japanese ritual disembowelment (seppuku) in the back room of a military compound. For the reason why we must look to Sebastian.

Sebastian is the key to Mishima's entire oeuvre. As Mishima plunges the blade into his abdomen. He is reduced once more to his childhood weakness and surrenders to the power of death.  Mishima who strove all his adulthood to become masculine is seen here secretly craving domination and the power of another man's willy (represented by death).  Thus Mishima the Sadist becomes the Mishima the Submissive in death, completing his darkest desires and finally creaming his pants. Mishima is not only a sadist but a masochist and indeed his masochism finally overpowers his potent sadism.

RIP

A Lesson

Kristos came and kristos went
Kristos saved and kristos spent
-the preacher spoke
So eloquent

Within his pulpit, as a nest
At voicing god he was the best
An eagle on the scriptures fed
Or vulture, as on man’s carrion read

A man of God in vestments pure
But fell unto the vestal’s lure
For in the crowd below did spy
A woman fit for heav’nly eye

And to this prey he did pursue
And by her scorn, his lusts, they grew
Until one sermon spent and wrecked
He came unto her, so bedecked
In rosen garb with golden crown
A wealth fit to upturn any frown

And in the shadows of the cloister
By his own art her loins grew moister
And at the climax, he gasped at last
“For I am man, from God I part”

And now he roves the world anew
For from this moment, passions grew
And now his want is never sated
For by this act, new want created.

So brothers, here this warning wicked
The devil had his weakness tricked
Thus heed not the damsels fine
Or face the toil of Satan’s mine.

a story

“Gimp”, yelled Badger to one of the local school boys. The boy was scared by the badger, with its big teeth and beady little eyes, and Badger knew it and took great pleasure in his ability to scare school children. As tears began to well up in the child’s eyes the badger turned and proudly walked away. Badger could play saxophone very well and performed two nights a week in the village jazz bar, his band Jazz Badger and the Supremes performed a mix of soul and early jazz music, not unlike the style in which the human Barry White performs, though his violent essence personified in the music often led to misplaced shrill, high notes and dull heavy drones.He also took pleasure in this aspect of his being.

Surreal Poetry

The sandman eats his own sand

The snake eats its own tail

Schism of a boneless hand

Sea buoyant shores derail

Unborn folly of the gods

Old and dying  flame

See Kaiser to his subject nods

Sew whips unto his name

Crumbling wall and drying blood

Dark path and close'd door

The ever present virgin would

But for the present whore

A Mallard, Caught in Situ

I was happening to amble about the district park the other day, when in the corner of my eye I took vision of a most singular bird. This fine example of the avian form lingered only to allow me to snap one picture, before flying off into the sky, trailing stardust and mumbling indistinctly to itself. I present this one image here, for you delectation.

How fly is Nate Dogg?

The is no question that Nate D-o-double-g is indeed fly. But how fly? That is what I wish to examine in this post. Through a few thought experiments.

"Thought experiments are devices of the imagination used to investigate the nature of things. Thought experimenting often takes place when the method of variation is employed in entertaining imaginative suppositions. They are used for diverse reasons in a variety of areas, including economics, history, mathematics, philosophy, and physics."

We shall now assess the most probable outcomes in the following imagined situations.

Peter Jackson's Movie Trilogy Lord of The Rings: A Fertility Parable

 Argument

Just Friends, OK.

Any study of The Lord of the Rings will always be coloured by the obvious controversy that still abounds regards the relationship between the primary protagonists, Frodo and Sam. As People Magazine famously quipped, ‘did they do it?!?!’ However, I believe under this flaming tale of unrestricted gay desire there is something deeper, even more elemental than a mere craving for Hobbit booty. Therefore leaving the explicit commentary of Frodo and Sam's relationship concerning the fluid boundaries between homosocial and homosexual behaviour in a male-male partnership to one side, here I shall instead consider the implications of Lord of the Rings as a Genesis-type fertility parable, if you will.

This analysis will primarily focus on the mortal races; it is clear the elves in Tolkien's strict catholic prose are allegories for and synonymous with the Nephilim, an immortal, angelic race possessing superior physical capabilities from a far off location (The Heavenly Firmament, The Grey Havens) who mate with mortal mankind (consider Aragorn and his hot elf ho.)

Despite this, there is still much argument in the academic community at how far such an argument can be taken. Is this epic a thinly veiled portrayal of overcoming infertility, represented by the forces of darkness, the orcs who cannot love or make dirty coitus, who are birthed from the earth itself? Sex is everywhere and nowhere in Tolkien, omnipresent and yet denied even when at it's most obvious.

Genesis 6:1-3 When men began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose, then the LORD said, "My Spirit will not contend with man forever, for he is mortal; his days will be a hundred and twenty years."

Therefore here I will consider both an argument for, and an argument against a reading/viewing of Lord of the Binge as an ancient Mesopotamian Fertility Epic.  First Sam the inseminator will be considered, and then an opposite argument using Éowyn as an example of female independence.




An Argument For Fertility: Samwise "The wise" Gamgee, Professional Gardener, Gimp and Fatty.

Brooding

Sam is perhaps not the most obvious character with regard to fertility within The Lord of the Cock Rings, given his oft regarded romantic relationship with his 'employer' Frodo Baggins. While this commentary on social exploitation of the working classes through a subliminal BDSM narrative implicit in their relationship is fodder for a separate analysis, it may be productive to consider it briefly here.

The Worker's Struggle

Sam is subservient, oppressed, scorned, and yet loyal like a lobotomised cocker spaniel to his master Frodo. He is the only one shown cooking, or performing many of the other necessary activities on their extended camping trip. Meanwhile Frodo sits on rocks or tufts of earth, sweating, mewling, and looking into the middle distance. Is this, as Wilde put it, "the love that dare not speak it's name"? Or is it instead a comment on the exploitation of lower classes by a fundamentally weak and unstable oligarchy, here represented by Frodo. Once the police and army break down (here symbolised by the Fellowship, particularly Aragorn, and the spilt at the end of the fist book/film) little stops these two polarised groups from coming into conflict, culminating in Frodo's dismissal of Sam. Like the horse Boxer in Orwell's Animal Farm, Sam is loyal to the last, even when it conflicts with his own interests. Perhaps this is a comment on modern media's ability to be used to penetrate and manipulate the masses into voting against their interests, or perhaps it is too early to say.

However, Frodo finds that, abandoned by Gollum, representative of decedent and unrestrained desire, he needs his 'dear Sam.' At this moment the typically passive Sam comes to the fore, and slays the spider Shelob. Is it any wonder that such a brazen allegory for the web spinning ability of contemporary middle and upper class consumerist culture is a giant spider? It seems facetious to think otherwise. Here, unlike Boxer's fixation that "Napoleon is always right," Sam has finally transcended the yoke of the lower classes, and taken control. However, he has done so to rescue his educated master. The masses cannot survive, it seems, without some educated elite to guide them, though this elite must be now weakened, as the ring weakens Frodo. Now, as in Mordor, it is the masses who drive the nation forward, as Sam carries the feeble Frodo to Mount Doom.

With this brief aside in mind, it is now time to turn to the case of The Lord of the Onion Rings as a parable primarily concerned with Sam's fertility, and his claiming of Phallic privilege and exclusivity of procreation with the hobbit slut barmaid Rose "Rosie" Cotton.

Before Sam's adventure he desires this woman Hobbit wench, but is unable to act. His fear and his subservience overcomes his masculine urge for coital intimacy. Here Frodo is seen as the a-typical 'bro' at the party. Beer is flowing, the wenches are dancing and Brodo tries to convince Sam of the virtues of making a move. Frodo is a capable wingman, but he fails. Sam does not get lucky. He is paralysed by fear of the female, especially in it's most seductive of forms, Rosie. Paradoxically it is her very appeal to him that causes him to be unable to approach her.

Bro-do and Sam Mid Party

On his return. however, Sam is a transformed man. He asserts his masculine phallic authority by siring thirteen children from his woman while she is of healthy mating age, and, not content with his dominance over the female other, he asserts control over the male population through his long career as Hobbit Mayor, a role equitable in contemporary terms with the powers of the Deputy Prime Minister. Though he is arguably in a position of power of the 'little folk' of the Shire, in reality his influence is negligible on the wider Middle Earth stage.

Nevertheless Sam has asserted himself as fertile, although like Abraham it took a journey and many hilarious adventures to achieve it. This is in direct contrast to Frodo, who returns a celibate monk compared to his prior bro-ishness. The two roles have become inverted by associated and overexposure; just as proximity to the Ring warps Frodo closer to it, the time Frodo and Sam spend together, huddled together for warmth on cold and rainy nights gives rise to a mimetic transformation. They come to emulate each other, and slowly become each other. Frodo becomes the feminine, whimpering supplicant to Sam's proactive masculine heroics.

However, a spiritual transference with Frodo is not the sole source of Sam's new found fertility; that alone has not given new life to his withered seed like Elisha in the Valley of the Dry Bones. While in the Shire, Sam is exposed to the endless and bountiful exuberance and vitality of the Hobbits, and their undeniable fertility. As a result he feels lost, unable to compete with their happy harvests, another sign of fertility, in the very earth itself. As a gardener Sam understands this; he can nurture flowers and vegetables to maturation, yet he cannot create life himself. His very profession is an endless reminder of his impotence. No wonder he takes to practicing it outside Frodo's window in the middle of the night; in the daylight, his flaws are too apparent for him to be able to stomach.

But in his travels, Sam passes through lands barren, or ravaged by war. Weathertop, Moria, Icthillion, Gondor, Osgiliath, The Misty Marshes, Emin Muiel, Minas Morgul and finally Mordor itself. All of these locations have been made infertile, unable to support or produce life any longer. They are simply places of death, of perpetual conflict. As Homer puts it in the Iliad, 'war never ends.' The war in these barren climes is total and immortal, and in the face of all this destruction of life Sam becomes aware of his own life and fertility that he carries within himself. A sense, perhaps, of 'heroism' this becomes more and more pronounced in Sam the more adversity he faces. Sam discovers his internal fertility when set against the bleakness of Middle Earth, it is the only way his psyche can survive the trauma of war he witnesses. To escape the effects of PTSD, Sam externalises his inner peace, his inner goodness, and is able to conquer the darkness. Furthermore, when he gets home, he brings this fresh ability with him, and is able to seduce and procreate with a vigour that would put a rabbit to shame.

"Mister Frodo, she's at least an eight. Dibs."

 An Argument Against Fertility: Éowyn, The Sterile Warrior Mother

However,  Éowyn seems to turn this fertility narrative on it's head, or at least provide a female counterpart to Sam's 'male mothering' of Frodo. Her repeated attempts to penetrate masculinity and overcome her natural femininity and the prejudice that occurs see her struggling against the very idea of fertility and the female role as a vessel for procreation. Her people are 'horse lords' and the horse has long been a symbol of unfettered virility and masculine expression. She is a (frumpy) woman cut loose in a patriarchy where a man's worth is measured by the length of his beard and his ability to shout.

What a Horse

 However, Éowyn blends masculine and feminine gender roles to create a hybrid persona which fits both her ambition but also her maternal urges. Against her father's wishes she sallies out to battle, and, as well as slaying many disgusting (totally not Moor allegory) orcs, she kills a motherfucking Oliphant. The destruction of this masculine symbol of phallic compensation shows her triumph over the patriarchy through emulation. She acts like a man, she fights like a man, she is a man.

And yet she achieves something more. By bringing along the small, boyish Hobbit Merry, she plays the role of his surrogate mother. Under her influence he transforms from a foolish young rapscallion into a man, a warrior in his own right. She guides him in a second childhood, and both of them act out the child-mother relationship.  This is a relationship that oozes in Freudian tensions and desires. Merry is clearly in love with his mother, and sexually desires her, but, due to his tiny Hobbit manhood, is unable to meet her demanding needs, finding himself eventually replaced by Faramir, another Surrogate she nurses back to health from near death. Here she is able to project her maternal desires onto a male of the same race, and as a result is also able to finally consummate her otherwise sick and twisted desires. Merry is left jilted, but learns from this experience. His true love lies with Pippin; both Hobbits, though in rival factions like Romeo and Juliet in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, have achieved martial prowess, and as such affirmed their masculinity. No longer in crisis and feeling emasculated and vulnerable due to their diminished stature. they are able to consummate their love without these insecurities which previously prevented them from opening up their hearts to one another.

Another Hobbit Fantasy

However, by finding and rearing a surrogate son, Éowyn forgoes coitus in preference to an immaculate conception of sorts. She will not submit to the patriarchy, and as such will not suffer to be made vulnerable by the sexual act or by pregnancy. Her role is sexually gendered masculine at all times, hence the penetrative sword she brandishes. This is the sword with which she slays the dreaded Witch King, itself an gendered oxymoron playing on concepts of the evil (fe)male monarch, providing an empty 'other' onto which she can project herself and her virtues as she now becomes a female monarch with the death of Theoden.

Finally, by severing the phallic neck of the Fell Beast and removing it's aggressive, drooling head, Éowyn is asserting a new type of female masculine virtue. She is both an emasculator, a castrator of men in the mould of the bride from Kill Bill, but also very much a woman, protecting herself and the king from a violent 'rape' at the maw of the Beat. There is no need for the phallus in the new word Éowyn creates for herself, the final symbol of the patriarchy has been undone. She has made herself wilfully sterile, and yet also a mother. Men have no control over her or her reproductive ability, instead she is the commanding mother to men.

Pre Castration