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 I'm lying in bed, alone, outdated drops of semen drying on my stomach.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.

Trip Mckenzie and the origin.

It all started with a child named Simon. Intelligent, aware and with everything provided that he might wish for,  Simon was a child with the world ahead of him. Life was simple, obvious and the future offered nothing but potential and new opportunity. Innocent and enthusiastic Simon threw himself into his young life, working hard and keenly, never a doubt, never a worry.

He grew older, something snapped. Somewhere deep in a once innocent mind darkness began to surface. Let me make this point clear - there was no obvious catalyst for the emergence of this new aspect to the boy. His family was happy and supportive, life's necessities were never a worry at this point he even had some friends. Yet it came anyway, with no basis or motivation something in the boy's mind changed, innocence was lost and in its place crouched addiction, destruction and fear. This new way of being put the boy at odds with his peers; this new doubt and questioning of the world around him, the lack of faith that this empty social world that people were growing into had any value to it, these things distanced and alienated him. I know that this sounds arrogant and contemptuous of those others and certainly to a degree it is, yet at the same time they were doing what children and teenagers should be doing. Experiencing what was given to them, making mistakes; for sure this is often done these days led by foolishness, empty desire and sometimes even malevolence but the carefree pursuit of new experience is what youth is about.

Simon grew into a man, new friends and the embrace of absurd spontaneity allowed him to keep the destroyer at bay and for a time he flourished. No longer did the child push and stretch, but still the young adult did enough, kept to what he thought had been the path all along. Of course this may well have been the greatest mistake. Better in some ways to crumble and crash and eventually rebuild and begin again with new fire and raw purpose than to blindly subsist along the wrong path. According to some standards the young adult Simon could be seen to be flourishing and achieving, according to his own pointlessly high standards nothing was achieved. This was the mistake in the path, to set standards, his own or someone elses, high or low. By doing so Simon allowed himself to be diverted and distracted from what had once been amongst his greatest talents which was the unqeustioning pursuit of nothing but what seemed right.

And then the darkness rose up at last, the path was engulfed what light was left was extinguished; for the first time Simon was truly lost. Neither the innocence and purpose within him, nor the path of society could be found. All that there was was darkness and questions. No truth, no illusion, no perception... nothing. Simon was lost and Simon fell.

Jacob stood up to a stark emptiness. A road stretching to infinity in either direction, not a landmark in sight; dust and destruction. Lost and alone, nothing to follow, no train to jump aboard, no car to hitchhike within Jacob did something new to his existence. He walked. And he thought.

A million questions occured to him, ten billion theories flew through his head. With nothing else to occupy him Jacob could not help but obsess over each and every one. Round and around in his head with no release in sight, the structure of his mind began to fall apart. under the constant abrasion. Spirals and cycles, addiction was the name of this game. Never letting go, never releasing, never moving on. Jacob saw that something was wrong with him, saw something wrong around him, but all he could do in reply was answer the question and guess the answer. Every answer was perfect, ingenious, complex and complete. None was satisfactory, none felt like the truth. Yet Jacob could not discard a single one; nothing could dislodge a thought or a theory apart from a new and more unhinged theory. Once again it was nothing external that plagued Jacob, as with Simon before, but now the darkness had a his soul trapped in a maze and his internal compass was shattered. Jacob span, whirled and wheeled wildly, with no sense and no control. He glimpsed the Fazz, he touched upon the Ireal, one time he dreamt of Kingsville. Then just as it seemed Jake's wild ride would never end and that he would remain disorientated and lost by default for ever more the string broke. Centrifugal, centripedal or whatever other force  it is grew too great, his mass multiplied a million times and he flew free, careening off wildly into whatever direction destiny aimed him. Freedom or failure, he could hardly tell.

Jacob flew wildly through space and mind until his freefall was forcefully and abruptly halted by the impeccable solidity of an island. Jacob lost conciousness and in his place Trip awoke. Simon had been a fatalist, Jacob the questioner, Trip... Trip was an explorer. On that island Trip learnt to seek adventure, experience. He learnt the value of belief and faith in oneself over all else. The beauty and virtue of arrogance, the necessity of confidence. Trip hardly had the answer or the weapon to push back the darkness. He empowered the same demons to shred his soul. But now he vowed to find that weapon, to discover the answer, find again the innocence. The one true guide, himself, oneself yourself. Self.

The compass is still broken, Simon is still there, Jacob is still there. The goal is never to banish them, the goal is to return to the original and in innocence combine all of the self. To venture to explore to discover.

Trip Mckenzie and the creeping green death

Is this a new start or an end. Have I opened myself up to greater experience and greater freedom from my own demons. Or have I just handed them the keys to the kingdom. It is hard to tell right now, senses clouded, coordination shot and inhibitions inhibited; hard to tell what is right, what is wrong, what is truth and what is idiocy.

I hope that this is an experience to lead to better things. See one extreme, enable the other. With clouds and fog later come clarity and focus. That is my hope anyway.

And apart from diametric reactions what can I learn directly. Are there traits of my character that are revealed that I should either take new pride in or show new respect for. Wary or revel. In part this mindset fits with recently unveiled beliefs in the sanctity of the individual. Find your core and then never allow doubt to creep into it. Self-conciousness is the enemy of this for it is anything but conciousness of self but false concern for how others perceive yourself. Throw a cloud over the periphery of conciousness, however, remove the full perspective and it is easy to loose this false concern, to become concerned only with the core self. And this is how it should be, but not how it should be. The only concern should be the core self, development of that , understanding of that, rejection and acceptance according to that. But this is only of true value if it also involves awareness of all else, awareness and consideration of challenges and questions. To simply ignore other concern, to empower self-concern merely by default of a reduction in capacity - is to invite naievety, stubborness and true vicious arrogance. Virtuous arrogance is none of these. It is awareness and consideration marked by self-belief and confidence. To achieve any of this through loss of control is not the path. But I think perhaps that it can help me find the path.

We shall see. Because frankly I have been way off that path for the most recent times, just as I have discovered the clearest view of it that I have yet to have. And now... now I think it is time to get on that path and walk along it once again. Proceed to the next junction and see where I can lead myself.

Yippykiyay