Trip Mckenzie and the in five minutes.

Hell yeah, that title makes no sense.

Only got five minutes to write this. don't even know what I'm going to write yet.
ISS on the screen. Shouting for the Bream.
Substance abuse running through my veins, if the right girl had just said lets get some drugs you know I would.
Or not, something to think about.
Or not, who needs to think. Not enough time, only got five minutes then I'm back on.

Talk about matters of the heart, spirit of life, dance, rhythm and no blues. Pretty good huh, a whole night without any blues. If you could have that maybe once a week then you would have something. Or maybe not. I mean just because you don't have something negative does not mean that you have anything to fill the space.

What a way to live a life.
Add up the minutes hours seconds years draw up a chart find something to fill every second hour minutes year and day. Pick your experiences and then fill your life.
What a way.

Not for me though. That kind of organisation is for squares and I'll be damned if I'm one of them.

Running out of time, I only had five minutes for this, not enough time for thought. Thought gets too much attention anyway, what about instinct. So what we share instinct with the animals, ever watched a jaguar fight an anaconda? Ever seen a whale hanging around in the National Geographic? Or seen a Polar Bear gut a walrus?
They all live on instinct. Seems like a pretty good way to live.

Five minutes, instinct alone. What I would do if there was an opportunity to act on my instinct right now. Guess I'm not gonna do it though, no opportunity you see. Just gonna write this. And what is it?

Nothing. That's what.
But there ain't nothing wrong with nothing. Way I see it.

Trip Mckenzie and the short climb left.

My god this process of getting my damned thesis ready for submission is tiring. With each big step that I take it seems that a thousand tiny ones take its place. The distance keeps getting smaller yet at the same time it seems to break down into infinitesimally many points. Certainly I will have finished by the week, but so long has it been in getting to this point that I can in no way comprehend the end; so it is that each of these tiny hurdles seem like a mountain left in my path.

Ah, but I only have to remember that the view from a mountain top is the most breathtaking of all. I shall not get disheartened as I come to the summit; I shall see myself again at the top of the world.

This place is pretty spooky; empty like this.

Lights, caravans and tents of joy. At night they are all empty, lifeless and desolate.

The lights are up anyway though, just for us. Tell me that ain't just a bit spooky?

There's a church in a sepia graveyard. Outside the church is a plasticine tree, like a monster out of an old Ray Harryhausen movie. Maybe some nights it comes alive, stop motion, unnatural, unnerving. Jerkily moving from grave to grave, drawing amputated stumps of arms across the stones. Lovingly, despite the clumsiness. It checks its wards, ensures that their rest is ever peaceful. If it does though it is missing the tragedy, they were all gone long ago.

Come on. I want to get out of this place. It feels like a million eyes on me. All looking right inside me. Can't we get out of here, I want to get out of here.

Don't you feel like that? How long have I felt like its time to get out of here. How many places have I felt like that. Yeah, this place is spooky. It's nothing new though is it? A circle of light, an infinite darkness outside the light. Nothing in the circle but yourself and you just want to get out. Go some place else, find something else, someone else, a world which extends past the horizon. Even to the horizon would be something.

Yeah this place ain't nothing new. Really its the same as every other place I ever am, every place I have ever been.

Maybe its not the place huh?

C'mon, let's get out of here man.

The only residents left in this sepia city are much more diminuitive than the tree's wards. There are millions of them occupying this place. Opportunists, stow-aways, plague-carriers, people of Apollo. Take your pick, they fit all of them well. Their empire extends around the world, but rarely do you spot them. In the graveyard though they live free. The ancient guardian, so protective of its domain remains ignorant of the blight beneath its feet. His old eyes are poor these days, his ears are gone, he cannot hear their scratch or their scurry, he cannot see their burrows and their holes. But I saw, saw them run across the grass, carefree and careless. Saw them run across the grass, under the tree, into the bushes, into their burrows. What we discard they take as home, what we bury, they feed. A city of bones a city of rats. A sad old tree, all alone.

You were right.

What about?

Let's just get out of here.

That's what I've been saying.

I know, let's get out of here.

How come? What was in there.

You were right?

What about?

Let's get out of here.

How come? What did you see.

Nothing. Let's get out of here.

How come. What happened.

You were right. They saw me.

Who saw you?

You were right.

What about?

A million eyes. A host of eyes. A city of eyes.

Let's get out of here.

Let's.

Where we gonna go?

I don't know. All I can see is the dark.

Trip Mckenzie and the bus of the night.

Hell yeah, this is gonna be great. Write something inspired and imaginative and dream-laden based upon such a mundane experience as taking the night bus home after a dull night out.

(let's not even get into the fact that a night which ends at 1.30 is hardly a night out. I should hardly even be out by that time.)

It maybe a mundane experience, the theory goes, but it is still an experience. There will be people on the bus, all kinds of people, who have had all kinds of adventures, all kinds of stories to tell. I can just look at those people and imagine what paths they have trodden to sit on that bus with me. What paths they will tread once they alight at their chosen destination. God isn't this actually really exciting? Something which seemed so mundane at first glance, but with a little thought we realise what amazing potential it has. What possibilities!

Not only could we imagine the lives of these nightlife explorers, but we can imagine ourselves interacting with those lives. Becoming entwined in the personal and infinite stories of our fellow night bus travellers. My god is that not exciting fuel for the mind? A million stories for each person and we could be a part of any of them. Imagination or reality, either one is a thrilling concept isn't it!

Standing at the bus stop, only ten minutes till this smorgasbord of experiences arrives. I can't even contain the excitement, so I waste five minutes finding a secluded spot to relieve the excitement.

Something seems wrong though. The bus is only two minutes away. So where are all the people?

There is a greasy fat kid, his greasy ugly friend and, I don't know, someone else, pretty sure there are three people but my mind shut down before I could even come up with a description of the third. It's not like my descriptions of the first two were that inspired either.

What is going on? This certainly does not seem like an imagination on fire. Creativity let loose, fanned, stoked, poked and fed until it runs wild and consumes all around it. This seems more like... wait for it... wait... this seems more like...

A really mundane bus trip back home after a dull night out that finished at the, so early it's not even disappointing, time of 1.30 with the accompanient of noone more inspiring than a greasy stupid looking teenager and his friend.

Well good god if that was not a disappointment.

Trip Mckenzie and the whispering canyon.

Godamned those walls are high. Walls? Or are they cliffs? Or sides, maybe a canyon has sides.

Whatever the answer, godamned those things are high.

There is hardly any light down here on the canyon floor. I can't even see my... wait, my mistake, two feet right there. Same place as usual, end of my leg.

So ok, it isn't that dark. I can see my feet, my hands, even my nose. But still, pretty dark down here. Dark enough for me to comment on how dark it is at least.

Plenty light up there, above the canyon. Sun is out, looks like a good day. Actually, its probably more hellishly hot than pleasant. I am in the desert right. Or under it. In a canyon.

God. Why the hell I am at the bottom of an impossibly deep, reasonably dark canyon, all on my own. What possible purpose is being served by my being here.

Have I mentioned how cold it is down here. I shouldn't be surprised really, the canyon is on a glacier afterall. More of a ravine than a canyon if I am totally honest. Sorry did I say that I am in a desert. I meant an ice field. Which would mean that its not going to be hellishly hot up there at the top of this hole. It still won't be good weather though, just cold. Hel-ishly cold at that.

Hey, where did my nose go. Dammit. Now it really is dark. The sun just disappeared too. Went down pretty fast. How long have I been here anyway? Ah well, there are stars now. The stars are so much prettier than the sun anyway. Well, even though the sun is a star. Ok, so its a matter of perspective then, but from this perspective at least the sun is not as pretty as the other stars. Too damned big. And hot looking. Gold vs. silver. I always preferred silver, it speaks of night-time, loneliness, endless space, void. Gold is too warm. Who has time for warmth at the bottom of a godforsaken canyon. Ravine.

Still I'm sure the sun is just as pretty from the perspective of another star system. Maybe its even the prettiest damned star out there. Wouldn't that be something.

Did I tell you that this canyon has been whispering to me. For quite a while now, at least as long as I can remember. Which is... well I don't really know how long that is. Kind of hard to measure time when nothing happens. I suppose I could use the sun and the stars to mark time, but I seem to be too absent-minded for that. I keep getting distracted by these whispering walls. Really high whispering walls.

Not that I could tell you what they have been whispering to me. I have not been able to make out the words yet. Quite possibly it is in a language I don't understand. Odds are that it would be, can't expect all mystical canyons to speak english now can we. Especially the ones which are not in England.

Although I'm not sure if this one is outside of England. I suppose the answer to that would be pretty obvious if I could remember how I came to be in this abyss. But I can't. I couldn't even say with too much conviction that I have ever not been here.

There is that whispering again. Like I say, I can't make out the words. It is definitely speech though, it has that unmistakeable rhythm to it. Definitely, this canyon has been trying to speak to me for a good while now.

Man, it must be getting pretty annoyed by now. Waiting for the stupid human to understand its words. I guess it has plenty of time on its hands though. Longer than I have anyway.

I wonder which will come first, understanding or death?

Maybe I can't die here though. That would be pretty nice. Certainly been stucking in a canyon forever doesn't sound that great, but I bet if I can make out what these walls are saying to me it will be worth it.

I'm gonna be quiet now. See if I can pick out a word of too. The canyon is whispering to me again.

Imagine a city which exists only as it falls through an infinite sky. Every second brings with it a different sphere, a different climate, environment, perspective background and reality. One moment it falls through cloud another through void. From time to time its citizens can reach out touch the stars. Other times it is they who reach out into the inky blackness and with their fingers poke holes through the velvet night curtains to create those same stars. Every second of life in this city is a second’s inspiration. And another waits just around time’s corner.

My waking day is filled with concrete experiences. One and a half meals, walk a hundred streets, one street walked a hundred times. Sit at a table in one or three cafes, book, computer, writing pad. A girl in drugstore, a friend in a bar. Work done no my thesis, pleasantries exchanged with strangers. Impassioned conversation over such weighty issues as science vs. mysticism, repetitive structures through history, cultures and intellectual traditions, internal against external, the means to truth and happiness.

God knows how many cups of coffee I drink in a day.

It is the conversation that marks today as one of awful realisation. Highlights the dream vs. the day. The simple fact that the awful, pointless and terrible dream wins every day.

This conversation of ideas, concepts, meaning and morality. To others, this is what I do, some kind of junior professional philosopher bringing to the table his skills. In conjunction with the expertise and passions of others, the attempted exploration of our lives.

Learn to think, find a worthy project, topic or question which grabs you. Learn to think and press the button 'apply to the world'. Philosophy as career has a point, a purpose; it is not without reference. I try to convince others of this and I try to convince myself.

Justify the path or more truthfully, distract myself with meaning where I grasp there to be none.

A day of experience, moments of application and now I am laughing. I don't buy a word of it. I buy the dream. And there, there is nothing to buy.

The dream wins every time, push it back, close it off, imprison it on Alcatraz, run as far as I can conceive. Ignore it and shout in its godamned face. Nothing keeps it at bay for long, it simply denies what I method I most recently chose until I come to agree with it once again. Then we, I and the dream, deny everything.

The dream shifts and changes. It used to be the IReal and the matching concept of LEOTI. The theory of the detective story. Clues are never the answer, they just mark the path toward the answer. The answer must be discovered, not uncovered.

Clue after clue builds up, each identical to the last: something is up with what I perceive to be the world. This idea is formulaic for sure. I even made a t-shirt attesting to this idea as a teenager; but then this formulaic idea is not the answer to the mystery, just a clue.

So it starts.

Before long I am denying that anything is real but asserting something. When there so clearly is something and it is not real, then, what the hell is there? Enter the IReal and its Lucid Experience.

The ideas are laughable, make no sense, conform to no logic, soundness of thought. Not because of brilliance, but rather childish arrogance. Deny the Real to non-assert the IReal.

All I am doing is adding a nullifier to every term.

I am aware of this yet I become convinced that I am close and so I pull back. It is this or the world and this time I chose the world.

Half-heartedly I throw myself into being a person; for want of anything better I throw myself half-heartedly into finishing my journeyman years as a professional philosopher.

Today I am almost there and today is concrete but then it is there again. The dream. This time literally as well as figuratively. But as I said, it shifts and it changes.

New clues, new ideas and now they are so worthlessly insane as to be far beyond my waking mind's comprehension...

Trip Mckenzie and the wilderness.

Watched a film, Gerry, today.

Two guys get lost in the wilderness, walk around, talk a litle but not much. That is pretty much thewhole film. Nothing really happens in it. I highly recommend it if emptiness and desolation are your thing.

The film got me thinking a little about dying, lost in the wilderness. What kind of way to die would that be?

That is not a rhetoricla question, I could not come to a conclusion.

The wilderness, isolation and desolation all seem like suitable counterpoints to a death. Perhaps with nothing else to grab the attention and with the realisation of nothing in your future, those last moments could provide some kind of nirvana. Pure and peaceful, divorced from everything but yourself and the moment.

But what if nothing like this could be found, the mind did not clea and the moment was wasted trying to deny the inevitability of an end. Of you became fixated upon some mindless and trivial event from the past or in the non-potential future.

If you look at the proportion of such idiotic reminiscence against perfect tranquility in any life, the odds are that the former is more likely. That is if these things are about the odds at all, which, well I am not at all sold upon.

But still, if it was this way, then it is a terrible way to die. Not because of the moment itself, but for what precedes it. Ruling out some kind of nirvana, I have to suspect that this scenario creates nothing but an extensio of those lously feelings that accompany the moment of death itself. Worthless, endless repetition of thoughts of being lost, which way to go, how hungry, thirsty you are and an unhealthy dose of that mundane postulation and recollection. Meaningless death, preceded by the extension of that meaningingless can only equal a whole big lack of meaning.

And well, death may not be suposed to have meaning but it kind of sucks if your last few days before the event are just as worthless.

Its the mundanity of it all that gets me y'know. So for the sake of anyone stuck in the wilderness about to die right now, I'm gonna pray you find some nirvana.

Trip Mckenzie and the beautiful people.

How the hell do you write anything?

You feel like running around your mind are a myriad of interesting and worthwhile ideas, concepts, perspectives. Fuck... now I think about it I don't even have a clue what I think is in my head.

Now that is a new problem. Usually I am busy concentrating on the lack of inspiration and the failure to grasp an idea when I feel that it is time to write something down. Now when I think about it I am not even sure what ideas there are or what grounds there is for inspiration. A receptacle for inspiration you would think might have some quality about it that would earn it that label. I do not have an idea what quality I could define my mind by, so how could it be a worthy receptacle of inspiration?

Of course this is all entirely the wrong way to approach these things anyway. To search for inspiration, particularly to search inward, to try to produce when you have nothing to produce about, nothing to produce for.This is without doubt an enterprise that is bound to failure. Unfortunately when nothing better is coming to you it seems the only thing to do.

What should I write about, if I was to go at this in a more positive and active manner, what would I pick to write about.

Perhaps the issues of faith vs. reason that are currently a hot topic in the press and which without doubt I find interesting and worthy of debate, consideration. Then again when my thoughts on the subject, no matter how much detail it is possible to engage, amount to little more than 'everyone is an idiot' it wouldn't seem like I have that much to add to any debate. You could just watch South Park for that argument. They are funny too.

Ok, so something inward, a creative idea. How about the 1-way spiral, reflections, shadows and other images of oneself. Walking through a city of cardboard buildings, the starry void surrounding everything and threatening to impinge upon your limited world with every step. I certainly have some interesting ideas and concepts to explore down this road. But I have no idea what any of it is about, what is the point to any of them? Aimless flights of fantasy and depression.

So let us take a similar line of thought, perhaps I could explore some ideas I had a year or two ago about the nature of reality and ourselves. It sounds redundant and cliched, but I was onto something interesting back then, something new and something that a large part of me begins to belief has meaning and truth. Except that is the problem, because that part of me was also driving me into an extremely unstable mindset; beginning to believe my own theories which place me at odds with the world. So probably not the best path to go down right now.

How about I just write about my life. Write what you know and all that. Except my life essentially consists of sitting in cafes listening to other peoples more interesting stories yet thinking that the majority of those people are still boring and lifeless.

How about how boring and lifeless people are... yeah. That would be a fun read. Enlightening as well I am sure. Or perhaps I could take the opposite tack and write about the people who are not boring and lifeless, the people that inspire me or are just good company.

You know... thats not a bad idea. Try to focus sometimes upon the things in the world that actually do lead to inspiration and joy, which make life a thing of beauty.

Perhaps I do have a good idea.

Trip Mckenzie and the 1-way spiral part 2.

Did your reflection talk to your again today?

Yeah. Same thing every morning.

What'd he say this time?

Ah I dunno. Some kind of warning, beware shit.
You know its always the same, you'd think it would be pretty exciting and fucked up that wouldn't wear off.

Yeah sure. Damned reflection talking to you.
Still seems fucked up to me.

I guess so, but its the same shit every morning. Even your reflection gets pretty damned boring pretty damned quick if he can't find something else to talk about. Beware this, watch out for this, look behind you...
The guy's a jerk plain and simple. A jerk who is there every damned morning when I step out of the shower.

You put it like that I can see how it sucks. Like meeting some crazy guy in a bar and he tells you his crazy conspiracy story about the speed of light. Its funny at first but after a while you jus twish the guy would shut up and let you drink your coffee.

Exactly, just like that fucking light-speed guy.
But y'know, waiting for you when you have just got out of the shower. Checking you out whist he is talking shit to you...

Still, guys got a nice body.

Damn straight. Jerk's got a sweet arse.

Trip Mckenzie and the 1 way spiral. pt. 1

Wake up, spirals in my eyes, left over from dreams. Fall asleep, wake up, fall asleep, through hte cycle then bolt upright. Srping out of bed, nimble as a gazelle, fall into the wardrobe. Grab my towel, mykeys, throw my thick woolen jumpen on for decency.

Someday that jumper is going to look good covering a naked girl.

I open the window, turn the heating down. Clear out the stink of sleep and nightmares. Thats it, now I'm out. The door is locked. Trust is for the weak.

Brush teeth, shower on, piss, shower, relief. As ever I leave my towel out of reach so I have to drip dry before stepping across the room. Leave no trace, have no presence, court existence but don't embrace.

I wonder if I need to shave, I don't care but perhaps I shall meet someone today who does. Perhaps I will care whether they do.

Wipe the condensation off the glass, check my posture, work the core. Admire my cock before it goes down unappreciated. I look at my face, it looks back and says:

"Be wary, be careful, be warned. Don't trust us."

Fuck you. Wrap the towel around, cover myself with my jumper. Back to my room.

Trip Mckenzie and the Triumphant March of the Return

He rides into town and up Laugavegur on the back of the world's greatest transient killer whale, throwing seals through the air to awestruck crowds.

Behind him a procession of whale corpses, totalling 15 times the worldwide quota, each and every one bigger than any whale seen by man until now, not one is of a species that any but him could identify. So inspiring is his entrance that the even the deadest of the dead whales dances with greater gaiety than the country has ever known. In their wake the species of the sea are reborn,far more perfectly evolved and formed than those mankind decimated before.

The journey has worn him out past points of exhaustion that Heinrich Harrow could only dream of. Yet he does not shirk the expectations of his legion of admirers and pulls the moon out from the sky. He throws it back out and around the entirety of the universe in the greatest act of strength that existence has ever seen. When the moon settles back into place it and every star shines approximately 18310.5673 times brighter than they ever have. The energy created by this feat, yes created, are a billion and 8 times greater than the energy released at the beginning of the univers; all of it is concentrated on celebrating his greatness. He does not wish this but he accepts the tribute with unheard of grace.

For the amusement and pleasure of the crowds he commands a staggering display of light and shadow from his fingertips. Every frequency of light ever conceived in the universal order is called upon, magnified, refracted and reflected. To end the incredible and unbelievable fireworks he creates a new colour, force, wavelength; a frequency not of light but of himself. It is the most marvelous and inspiring thing that all the dimensions of existence, non-existence, proto-existence and potential-existence have ever born witness to.  Faith, Reason and science are all destroyed by its beauty and 178.3 pico-seconds later they are reborn in perfect unity with one another.

Trip Mckenzie is back in town.

Trip Mckenzie and the Desperate Man

A desperate man tears at his oil paint hair. His eyes wildly stare at what?

At you, at me. We are the second party.

All the world's desperation turned upon the observer. See what is in my head, see what I face. How will you live with that? Now deal with that.

Piano keys fall out of the sky, exploding in rioutous fireworks. The sounds, stagerringly beautiful and utterly out of context surround and envelop you. There is nothing there to produce them, just an empty park. The sky. Grass. A bench. No fireworks, certainly not a piano to be seen. But still the sounds come, surround. And you cannot handle it, it is too much for your heart. Squeezed tight to keep the blood pumping but unable to handle this unexpected load. The increase in pressure, too much is asked, too much blood, too fast a rate. It explodes, splattering the inside of the ribcage with whatever it is that hearts are made off. A chain reaction begins, first the lungs, then the liver, kidney. God I don't know the order, this is all a fantasy anyway. Chain reaction, organ after organ, the inside explodes. Crashing against the structure of bone and skin but not making a dent.

I fall down. The fireworks keep exploding. The piano keys tumbling all around me. I can see them now. Somehow they are falling perfectly in pattern, black next to white, in whatever order it is that piano's have their keys arranged. I could not recall it if asked, but I know that what is unfolding around me is correct. None of this makes sense.

Piano keys, explosions, organs... none of this fits the picture. I'm lying in bed, alone, outdated drops of semen drying on my stomach. I wish there were piano keys around me and fireworks in the sky. That would make this scene far more beautiful. But its just me, in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of nothing. Feeling like nothing. Always just me. I close my eyes, I try to think of the music, picture the epic that is my life. I close my eyes and what I see is a desperate man staring back at me. His eyes pass the desperation over to me. How will you live with this he asks?

I shall sleep, is my answer.

I shall sleep now. And when I wake I shall still sleep. I shall walk through life asleep. I shall even sleep through my dreams.

I don't say anything of the sort. That would be even more desperate than the plate that the man has handed me.

What I tell him is this:

You are desperate because you dream of greatness. You may not know what it is, you may not be able to picture it and you may feel that you shall never find it. But still it is what you dream of. You feel it every minute of your life this greatness. And that is why you are desperate, you want to touch it, to let it envelop you, to lose yourself in that greatness. You are desperate because you dream but you believe that it is only a dream.

And you are right to think that you shall never find this greatness, but you are wrong to despair. You will never find it because there is no greatness for you to touch, no greatness will surround you, you cannot lose yourself, cannot drown in the greatness that you feel in every minute of your life. Because that greatness, that thing you feel, is not out there. It is not apart from you, how could you feel it so readily if it was?

The greatness is you.

That is how I shall handle your gift, I tell the desperate man. I tell myself. I shall reveal its truth, its emptiness. I am not empty, I am not desperate. I shall be great.

(inspired by Gustave Courbet: The Desperate Man (Self-Portrait), M83 and a non-existent love life.)

Trip Mckenzie and another bout of instable idiocy.

My god my head is hurting.

Feels like some tiny ugly creature is trying to hatch its way out through the shell of my skull. This is not a pleasant feeling.

Of course I could just go to sleep. It would certainly seem like the sensible thing to do right now. But sensible is related to stable and I really don't think that that is a trade I have much stock in right now. Earlier today I started furiously pacing around the room, except it was not even pacing, more a constrained combination of running and stamping. Pretty much the kind of thing a really drepressed polar bear might do if it was locked up in a really inhumane old-fashioned zoo... except more frantic. And I would imagine somewhat less imposing than the bear.

Now at 4.46 pacing is not my adopted form of relentless half-valve open vent destruction. Now I just stay awake, long past the point of production or benefit. No way in the world am I going to manage to do anything I should be doing now. Instead I am practicing planches and fondues. Tondues, whatever... that is not even close to the right term anyway. Some dumb ballet shit that I imagine will help me to get where I want to go. It won't. It might make my arse look a bit better though. Won't that be great huh?

That's it you see. I've lost any thread of what I might have been saying now. You know I would really like to write a story  heaven forbid a thesis a review an opinion a structured something. Not necessarily even a structure just a complete something. Instead of these bits and pieces that are all I can ever manage, until 20 minutes later my brain breaks down again and all ideas and inspiration seep out of the shards.

Maybe I should just pummel the crap out of my head again. That is always fun. Or try and split my fingers down the middle of the knuckles punching a radiator or whatever else is at hand. Oblivion baby here I come.

Actually screw that. Oblivion is alright but I'm not so into that means of transport. I mean... bludgeoning my way to anything. That is hardly elegant or graceful. Pirate, highwayman, musketeer, acrobat or harlequin. Dreams and childish images I'm sure. But I never thought a caveman was cool. I never liked the big guy smashing his way to victory. Spider-man over Super-man any day. Brute force is just has no aesthetic. And it certainly does not fit my idea of cool.

Of course those rules don't hold true for a bear. But bears are an exception. What are they exactly? What evolutionary niche do they fit into? Thats right. You can't answer it. And if you can your answer is rubbish. Bears are just bears. And well... that is just about the coolest thing you could be. (which is not to say that bears are the coolest animals. They aren't. Sorry bears.)

I read something new today about quantum physics. I guess its a new take on the whole shrodingers cat thing. The cat is neither dead or alive till someone takes a look at it in a box. Quantum uncertainty I think. Or maybe I am mixing stuff up? What the hell. Works for me.

Anyway the thing I read was about these quantumly uncertain things, I guess the idea is nothing exists in a quantum sense (and so not really at all) until the quantumly uncertain state is certified one way or another. So all that exists is a probablity or a possibility, waiting to be observed and made concrete one way or the other. Which is a pretty good candidate for what the Ireal is. Something that isn't real but still exists.

What was new was the argument that this observation had to be done by an actual conciousness. What observation could be without something to observe I don't know, but apparently this idea is new. Or the absoluteness of it is new. Conciousness or nothing.

Do I have a point. Yes. Yes and no. My point is that I should damned well have been able to think of something interesting or worthwhile to say about that. At its most basic level nothing exists beyond a potential until a conciousness observes it, validates and certifies existence. God that is pretty mind-bending stuff; but I have nothing. No creative spark comes to mind, I just sit here. Staying awake as long as I can (well not as long as I can but needlessly long), knowing that all it will do is prevent me from doing anything tomorrow, to match today and the day before that. When the hell did I flick this stupid self-destruct switch anyway? And why the hell. I mean its some kind of hairtrigger I have to do this given how fucking easy my life is...

Meh. Worst blog ever.

Trip Mckenzie and the bitter beans

My god coffee beans are a disgusting thing to eat. 3am in the morning, coffee machine switched off and a refusal to even have instant coffee in the house, however, and this is the only way I have to get a caffeine hit.

I suppose I could take an inordinate amount of over the shelf pain-killers, they often contain caffeine. Seems strange to include a stimulant in something that is meant to kill sensation, but what do I know I'm not a pharmacist.

With no sugary drinks, all out of chocolate, it seems that the bean is really my only option. Of course if anyone can suggest anything else that would be appreciated. Have I mentioned that these things really don't taste that good.

The whole idea of taking a caffeine hit at 3am is perhaps a little idiotic, but this is really the only way that I am able to make good on any motivation I might have at the moment. I can't self-motivate myself to do the whole organised, time schedule thing, obsession is and always has been my way of getting things done. Some people might suggest that this is not a healthy way to be of course, that I would be well served, instead of trying to cultivate obsession in the things I want, to learn to do without the mindset at all. Go that whole organised time-schedule route. And you know what, they would be right. This is a terrible way to go about things and to go about leading life. What can I say though, I find chaos romantic. And at heart I'm a romantic. So for now, and with stuff that I have to get done before my brain falls apart into tiny pieces for good, I shall try and cultivate some obsession for the right things. Which means eating coffee beans at 3am. Hey that must score me some points for dedication at least!

Coming soon... the story of speeding awareness and The Jacknife.

Trip Mckenzie and the deep cutting razor

I haven't shaved for years. Funny that I should be dreaming of just that.

My face used to be frictionless in its smoothness, it quite possibly still is. My subconscious seemed to be interested in finding out. Which is not an unreasonable thing for it to wonder, not perhaps a particularly sublime or noteworthy wondering, out of the blue but not unreasonable.

Except it all goes wrong. Thank god it is just a dream, at least those scars don't show.

The razor is stuck deep into my skin, however hard I tug at it it won't come out. Blood comes out though, goddamn that ain't a problem. The more I tug the more blood flows out. I must mention that in this dream my blood does not spurt. This is no cheap samurai movie, my subconscious is quite able to keep hold of the concepts of coagulation and surface tension. Maybe it clings to these concepts a little too hard, what with the blood managing to achieve the kind of cohesion only witnessed in Star Trek VI with Christian Slater. But still, no Samurai spurting. Samurai's are pretty cool though. Aren't they? Maybe not Ninja Turtles but not bad nonetheless.

So I have this razor stuck deep into my upper lip, an acceptable thing to bite but not to jam a razor into. The gelatinous blob of blood is growing inexorably (Lovecraft hurrah) and I am growing gradually fainter, verging on unconsciousness. Which is itself a funny thing, since I am already unconscious, what with being in a dream and all. (and it certainly isn't a lucid one or I would have got rid of this bloody razor by now.)

Seems that I have removed the razor now. My subconscious consciousness understands what happened now, somehow I sliced so deep that the plastic casing for the razor blade got lodged under the flap of skin, yet the opening was only the size of the razor blade. So no matter how hard I tugged it was not moving, not without the skin being torn anyways. The answer was found in some complicated ritual of well whatever... its only a dream.

I also dreamt about Carl Kennedy from Neighbours. Go figure.

You know I used to have the most amazing dreams.

Did I ever tell you about Kingsville...

Trip Mckenzie and the voice that isn't there

"I had a moment today where I felt that it was all coming together. Just me and the ideas, nothing else mattered. I was walking by the river, thinking of people, things nothing spectacular. Then the memories began to melt away, replaced with the ideas. There was noone around, just some woman doing calisthenics by the bench. The sight of her could hardly battle the ideas for my attention of course. It felt for a second that all that I had found and thought of was being sucked into the great vacuum to be fused together at the singularity. It seemed like a good thing but then I found myself unsteady on my feet. I had to tell someone before I was left without ground."

The voice is a silent one.

"God do you know how much these things scare me? Not that I could even tell anyone what the ideas are or what it is that scares me. But the isolation, the desolation that they are wrapped in... Of course I can tell you, I don't feel so insane if I tell you."

I like how the voice does not reply.

"The thing is what use are the ideas if they exclude everything else. It was nice by the river, why did that all have to fade away into the shadows and the void just so that my mind could contemplate the ideas. Don't you think the ideas should be able to exist next to and with the world. Infuse one with the other, no isolation from stuff. Stuff could exist with it. Real and Ireal. Dammit... those are not even the ideas anymore. Help me out here... what were the ideas again. What was in the singularity at the river? Don't you remember?"

The damned voice is not giving me an answer.

"I like these people these places, new experiences old memories, opening new paths and conduits in my mind, eyes focusing differently on things that I have seen before, things that I have not seen before coming to view hidden for so long out of focus. People I know, people I don't know, people I am getting to know, people I will only ever know, passing me by, me passing them by. Godammit, I'm trying to tell you that I like the world, I like reality I like the other. And all I get are these maddening ideas, making more sense than anything else but never clarifying never coming into focus because they reject all and every interference and manipulation. They won't even let me think about them, insisting that I ignore everything else, then and only then will they bless me with their precious insight. Do you think the insight is even worth it? What is it insight into?"

I don't think even the voice wants to hear this.

"This isn't working out how I thought it would. What has happened? I thought that I would tell you something, you would reply. We could share this insanity together, dilute it, spread it out, pick out the truth from the craziness. But it is not working out how I thought at all. This is just one long and pointless monologue isn't it? One loosely described event extrapolated into rambling incoherency. And not the good kind. This was meant to move between moments, modes of communication, different thoughts, different events and places. Each connected by the recurrent focus upon some vague and ephermal ideas that run through my head. But it isn't that at all. Start to finish it is the same thing. There aren't even any ideas, let alone events or messages. No dialogue, not even with myself. What is going on? Why isn't this how I thought it would be?"

Trip Mckenzie and the unbearable heat.

I think my face just slip right off the bone. I'm sure if I could see the growing puddle of molten skin on the floor in front of me I would feel quite sick. Luckily this isn't going to be a problem though; given that my eyes seem to have melted right out of their sockets too.

I guess this is going to brings its own share of problems, but for now I have to say I am quite grateful to not be thowing up all over the shop.

It's a pretty rough time of year for the river right now. Sure thing it gets to feel warm and kind for once, but really the river could happily do without this vague and passing feeling of fuzzy goodness if it did not have to suffer the greater indignities of summer. An increase in boats cutting through tis water and playing havoc with its painstakingly well-crafted currents; these idiots have no idea of appreciation of the artistry and pride that a good river puts into its cureents and its fluidity. No! They barge, unwanted into all places, with ridiculous metal and wooden tubs, drinking, shouting, acting like they are kings and queens of the river and destroying what they don't even see. Kings and queens...the river is noone's man.

Don't even start on the swimmers, stinking dry scrapy solid land skins. Give a river a duck anyday.

Worst of all though is not the people. Evaporation, thats the killer. I mean... just imagine half your body disappearing every time the sun comes out for a few days in a row.

No sir. A river's time of year is winter, cold, hard, violent and wild. Now that's a good water life.

The dancer faints on her feet and falls on her face. On stage, in front of 5000 people. The crowd are inspired more than they have ever been. The dancer, muscles fot and pliable as butter in this heat has been fortunate enough to fall into the otherwise impossibly controred shape of universal and absolute greatness, the sign of the pinnacle of reality. Bless this heat, the dancer should think.

Maybe when she wakes up.

I close my eyes, I fal asleep. 300 years later I wake up, summer is over and a new ice-age is starting. This could be interesting I start to hink. Right before a plar bear rips my face off with its massive paws and a reborn sabre-toothed tiger crushes my right leg in its mighty jaw.

Ah wel, if I'd hung around any longer I would only have complained about the cold and the poor company.

Trip Mckenzie and a brief thesis of shattering.

My hand is shattered half as much as the door I put it through. The door is shattered a fraction of the amount my mind shatters every day. My mind is shattered an infitesimal degree of the extent to which reality is shattered into tiny particles, quarks, magnetopoles and whatever else we imagine to explain it all. Reality is shattered in nothing like the manner in which conceptuality is shattered, between an infinity of clashing, colliding, complementary and contradictory ideas, realities, oblivions, limbo's voids, gods, irealities and whatever else we can conceive of for no reason whatsoever other than because we can.

technorati tags:science, void, oblivion, violence, rubbish, pseudo-science, philosophy, depression, joy

Trip Mckenzie and a brief thesis of shattering.

My hand is shattered half as much as the door I put it through. The door is shattered a fraction of the amount my mind shatters every day. My mind is shattered an infitesimal degree of the extent to which reality is shattered into tiny particles, quarks, magnetopoles and whatever else we imagine to explain it all. Reality is shattered in nothing like the manner in which conceptuality is shattered, between an infinity of clashing, colliding, complementary and contradictory ideas, realities, oblivions, limbo's voids, gods, irealities and whatever else we can conceive of for no reason whatsoever other than because we can.