Skin boiling, blood scalding at the surface. Rip the jacket off, claw arm on arm till I'm free. Throw it across the room onto the bench. Get it away accursed thing. Take your comforting warmth with it.

I want to freeze.
Veins run liquid ice at absolute zero, hyper-efficiency. I will be the smartest computer ever. That's right.
Neptune blue information runs through deep. So fast will I process, every cell a wormhole, instantaneous shifts of data, matter and concept. From place to place any place. Through time.

Fuck you jacket. I embrace the cold.
The hairs on my arms stand up, goosebumps a million and more redefine my topographic skin. A mountain range, a dull homogeneous mountain range. Every peak the goddamned frozen same.

My whole body shivers. The whole range shakes. Doing its special dance. That one invented on an Ionian beach. The time my lips turned blue, manatee with no endurance for the sea. How could I forget how much my body hates the cold?

Hyper-efficiently, my body shakes, its breaks and oscillates. The circuitry falls apart. Information zips about, impossibly fast, data rattles, incoherently random.

Who the fuck took my jacket?

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Trip Mckenzie and the Entropic Slaughterhouse

Sweaty waking to find a head aching from heat suffocation, hours wasted to find moments of rest for more of discomfort.
How am I going to do it today?
But I rise before the thought can follow into action. Never let the unease take shape and I might make it back to this evening sleep.

Shower piss and brush your teeth, knock back a litre of water, consider: bacon or cardboard cereal bran. Choose neither, run out the door. Earphones in ear, skip down the stair and out, we begin here.

That first step though, every time. A doozy for sure.

Foot gripping pavement but you fall right down anyways. And down. Nausea rising, you're drowning in it. Until resounding, you drop out smack crash into the void.

Energy is flat here I think. Nothing...

The thought un-forms as form tears us back to waking. An image whispers in my wake. She is feet planted, standing. Wearing blood coat all over, red and animal.

At once and tranquil, whispers and is gone.

"I'm thinking of giving up drink."
"...?"
"I've been chasing self-destruction too hard."
"Can't you just moderate?"
"How would that not be worse?"
"Worse than self-destruction?"
"Worse. Moderation is to self-give up."
"How so?"
"What are you moderating? Yourself. Only ever yourself."

"I'm thinking of taking up drink."
"...?"
"I've been chasing nothing too hard. I need to self-destruct."
"Now that makes fucking sense!"
"Amen."

The glass is empty. And the one before.
Of course I have nothing to show but compromised coordination. So I walk out the street, leave the noise and people behind. Alone in the night light, self image's failure dictates it is so damned cold here. In just one sheet, a belt and so well fitting jacket.

Tomorrow we work or go again.
Next week's the same.
This cycle, mundanity refined.

Close your eyes as you embark for home. Blank out and ignore the weekend revelry, broken glass and drunken hearts. Close your eyes and let chance supply you a detour. Blind step more than a few, perhaps you will find something new.

A long shortcut later, befuddled confused; you open them. (Good god the sky is blue.)

Out stretches the sea, at the island's edge, wild it is all you can handle. The wind whipped up, lash and sting, salt tears well and brim. Ducts overflow, torrential. Waters rising, shut them tight and drown again.

Floating, drifting colder than cold. This time I've popped into heat death. Energy is flat here, I think, lifeless. Half formed, I'm conscious, anomalous. Out of place unique.

Pop, the mathematical bubble bursts. I'm gone.

But an image whispered, impinged. My head is bleeding.

"My head is bleeding."
"I think I fell"
"I think I fell!"
"That explains it, my head is bleeding."
"No, my head is bleeding."
"You're telling me!"
"Telling who...
I think my head is bleeding."

The waterfall showers and runs away the blood which runs. And runs, with no end. Staining rocks, periodically, menstrually, they turn to red. 95% you sponge down and towel off the rest. Dry and clean for now, only the brain is throbbing. A dull reminder, but of what?

Sweep, cheap drop to your back, concussed, or was it the ring fist to the eye you gay foreign cunt? Did you spontaneously split, cleaved in two by over-thoughts. Spiral and obsession out of control, 1-way attrition eventually cracking your skull open unseen. An egg tooth for insanity.

Just a dull reminder now. Live with the pain, shut the hell up!

*

Bacon and eggs or cardboard cereal?
Declining both I go with coffee simpliciter. Black and strong (now that's brewed for 31). Stimulation can get me by, though should be seeking nutrition. Four stories up, window open, pouring thick fog into my apartment. Unable to see anymore, the door is lost. I jump straight out the window.

As I fall the thought occurs to me: "there is no fog out here". It is the crispest blue crystal blue morning. A perfect sapphire (of a day). A tray of dry ice sits just under my window, suffocating the room behind.

Pulling out of tuck somersault position I finish with flourish and flare. Yank hard my right arm down, left thrown straight as an arrow overhead. Tight and taut, a plank, I spin four times to gracelessly smash face first into the pavement out front. My window faced the back.

There is nothing there now. Unable to breath, the room inhaled itself, imploded, sucked into the fog. A great gape left behind.

A hole is nothingness though, impossible to leave behind. That no-thing it's a vacuum, that's just gotta be filled baby. The ice cloud drifts away, solidifies, dries out. Faster than the eye can see, I do see. It creeps up the walls of the short-lived abyss, freezing nothingness. Crystal climbing, repairing the world. It is blue. A perfect sapphire. But then green and red and every other colour more. It's fucking Krypton but I sure ain't Superman. With my broken limbs and mangled face. Tickling the back of my left ear with my right foot.

You don't want to know where my hand is...

I think my head is bleeding.
With blood in my eyes and dead to the world I see clear, the world drowning in my life. She is a vision. In red, blood coat all over. Standing serene out front. Feet planted a billion miles away, never in this place. She holds out a hand beckons to take.

With my good hand, still functioning, just, I accept.

Onomatopoeic cataclysm. Nuclear sunrise goes off in my brain. White sheets, searing. Her simulacra hit, rockets bombard, star light up and fry every synapse. Every thought, every moment, every memory melts together. My life runs river over my eyes.

The lights go out.
Energy is calm here I think.
Empty, undisturbed. I am conscious, anomalous. My existence, tranquil, perfect.
I can only last a moment.
The universe snaps its fingers, the void fills up.
I pop back. Pre-jacked.

Cracking snapping, I am put back together. Pulled afoot and aloft, blood washed away. Ripped dry from every vein and artery, every pore and cell. A bloodless husk, returned to life. A return to this make what will. Low entropy, what a joy, what a thrill. Take a seat, a ride on the here-we-go around. When it stops we fall apart, we all fall down.

"Why so angry?"
"That's the first thing you asked."
"What?"
"All the people. That's the thing. I always ask."
"I have no idea what you are talking about."
"You asked. Why are you so angry? I always ask, that's the first thing. That's the thing. All the people. Why are you so angry?"
"Always."
"But what do we ask?"
"What do we ask of all the people?"

Ask the revelation. Where is this headed?
The universe swings anew. In and out pop the Boltzman brains. Gods, insusceptible to disturbance, contrary to logic and law. A statistical entity. Entropic probability breeds inevitability; atomic agglomeration, vast voids. In and out pour the Epicurean divine. Complexity arrives at consciousness, an existential loophole. Human achievement magnetized.

Ask the revelation, because I have yet to hear an answer. Human achievement magnetized, the void pulls on us and we reverse our polarity.

Upturned rocket trees, blast into the ground. Hiding obelisk chimneys, belching out the sky. Without exhaust fumes the sun would fall. I walk past it all, every day, 1am, every seeping sunrise.

The weight of all this matter, all of it so lawfully arranged bears down.
"An infinite gift!" cries Atlas.

"Rise Above.
Rise Above.
Rise Above!"

Screaming Prometheus.

"You never say anything about yourself."
"You hardly know me."
"..."
"I spend time in coffeehouses and fall in love with images. You still know nothing."
"You say nothing about yourself."

This is breaking down.
And falling apart. I told you so.
Didn't I?
The world is cracking, where are we going to be?

Alone I cry an ocean, enough to slake the world's thirst. They drink it all, 90% by volume, the human race in entirety wasted on my sadness, self-destruction. They piss it all out again, who has time for that?

Into the crack, desperate ambivalence to reduce the discordance that tears at this tiny world. Desperate for something new. The chasm is bottomless. Never to be filled. All their sense seeps away, into and under the bedrock, out the world. In answer, the chimneys belch out their noxion, poisoning every soul with its own filth.

Sink or swim.
Cherish and choke.
The engine grinds to a halt.
(John Galt)

I let go. Now here we go.
Every thought, every memory, every moment melts. I let myself drown in the causal floodwaters. One last time, my eyes see stars.

Cosmic crack and fizzle.
We bleed into the great void.
Everything is still here, tranquil.
Energy is at rest.
Probability has brought complexity, enough to cohere.
Nothingness. And us.

At once and tranquil. We whisper and the world is gone.

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Trip Mckenzie and the empty sun

Aimless, restless.

Bleach burst my eyelids are burnt through, my brain sears. Waking up to this day after day brings on the manic. So I foil the windows;sheets of light are replaced with the tiniest pin pricks of day.

Down the centre of the main street, party children strung out all along the way, basking in the counterfeit excesses of the night before. Family addled youth, dream addled tourists and age addled aged all join them, the joys of the world cutting through each and every ugly compromise. You wander through this, stumble, untouched, cold shoulder to the world. Aimless fucked, you burn alone.

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Description

Half a toy car, red with blue windows, juts out of the wall behind the bar, 20 centimetres below the spirit shelf. Aound it are tacked an assortment of drawings, newspaper clippings and half a credit card with the picture of a pretty Swedish girl in its top right corner. A well dressed man in the store he owns, a red car in front of a typically eurpean town house on a summers day, chocolate covered bacon, crudely penned faces and a karate dog. Also a handwritten list of takeaway numbers.

her hair, find and cut just below the shoulders is strawberry blonde. A loose, light cotton top, its sleeves short at the elbows, printed with a multiöcoloured Indian theme design. Primarily blue but with details in red, green, yellow, orange and light brown. The top is thrown over, but with slight cling, comfortably tight black jeans. On her feet emerald green hi cut converse boots. Around her neck she wears a gold chain and her name celebrated in the Simon and Garfunkel song. This is the same girl whose face appears on the credit card tacked to the wall.

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Trip Mckenzie and the geriatric ferry

Interconnecting two deck sides, each surfeit with camera laden and sun-dumbed passengers, is the loneliest place on solid ground.

Gaze out into the vast ocean sky, lose yourself in the waves, find yourself as you swell back up.
That is the dream I sailed with, at night, in day unachievable. Infesting, irritating skin and psyche, fucktards rob you, of peace and purpose. So you cross between the two decks endlessly, restlessly searching for a spot to dive in mind first to entropy's embrace.

White and cold, this shipshape functional tunnel space that facilitates your impatinece pacing. Its crossing allow those moments. Never stop. It is no resting place, but for moments you can slow to a crawl and race on at lightspeed. And when you travel that fast a second is more than enough. At night is another story. Deck passage and deck are all yours. Suspended in the void.

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Trip Mckenzie and the train at the top of the world

Zoetrope tunnel over clouded snow high.

Untold horror lurks in a glimpse. So terribly human and ugly. Nothing more than the derelict, unkempt corner of concrete underbridge. But in glimpsing is spied something deeper, deeper and rotten. Sedimentary, mineral attrition is made organic by my mind, the desolation produced stinks of fear and loathing. Sand becomes shit, the beach our children are playing upon diseases them with harrowing gastric plagues.

Light and life are the purest of cures, a glimpse is just a glimpse. Emerging up on top the world washes out the sores, all is cleansed and health again. The horror remains and recedes, between the cracks where it suits me best.

Breath deep the mountain clear, run oxygen tears down your eyes and cheeks. Let it out again tomorrow.

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Trip Mckenzie and the harbour murders

Space expands, ushering increased entropic probability. Divine streams, disconnected from existence, find their configuration void favourably re-aligned. In answer to the universe's mark of approval images race, out of the void into occupied space.

I sigh, with caffeine hyper-dosage running through my veins it comes out a hiss. People, of whom there are none around, back away. Disconcerted by my unintended display. They would if they were there.

With no witness the moment is wasted. Shame, I would have liked someone to take offence, or show concern. That would be touching.
Well it would to someone, I'm sure. I doubt I would care.

Ignoring the caffeine driving me twitched out tweaking I don't think I'd appreciate the company. Why else would I be with no-one right now?

Maybe that's just the caffeine though.
Clip my thoughts.
Run free-minded.

Wind blasts my face, skin torn away a bloody wreck. Sea salt spray, stinging the open wound. Nothing now but to drive in, wash the pain down and chase it with suffocation.

Bloated white and bloody I float right back up. Instantly.

If I don't expel this gas I could flight right on up and bounce around the atmosphere (troposphere, stratosphere). Wouldn't that be grand?

How many corpses are up there already?
Body balloons floating freely under exit velocity.

A canopy of fetid dead for the world.

I breathe out, a sigh, back on the beach at cliffs edge.

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Trip Mckenzie and the midgard serpent

The Northern Lights, dust stars, light years away by the millions. Trapped in our atmosphere, transported acoss universes. Through wormhole cracked space. I stare up and into.

A wing and a prayer on imagination´s back, inspiration fuels their frenzied dance. Colour and bright, try to escape our world.

Briefly I float. So tantalising. Up toward the tears, but one last flash, spectral shift and they slip break away. The tear closed behind them. I drop down to earth again. In the dark alone with serpent and sea.

Driftwood.

Weak later I regain conscious.  Whichever I am awake, but unfamiliar. I have never been to this place. What though is it to drift?

It stretches, like the moon but worse.
A league against me, until then I may reach sheer mountain's barrier.
So this plane is where I drifted down and now I am trapped.

Look to the sky, no bearings there. Even the moon is gone, though if this is it then that bears sense.

I hike inland, nothing marks this choice but direction is comforting. As I walk features strike me. The landscape, not as barren as I thought first. It is scarred. Lacerated by gorge and river. Cut deep by the fury of angels wings.

I think of angels, but find no comfort there.
Just a dream, they pass through, cold and purposeful. (and their passing is terrible as angels tend) My mind or this land. The dream refuses to stop or offer a sympathetic hand.

Unsolaced I walk on.
I had not noticed, how?

In the centre.
Standing, sole defiance. No host could drown its beauty, not even a truckload of trumpets. This rock, this fort and monument. Rising sharp from lunar homogeneity flatscape be damned. It just and it cracks, straight up to the sky.

Now purpose is mine. I scramble and scrape, scrabble crawl, run and fall. I must mount this beat, it will bear me, take me away. I can ride this obelisk I say. Right through the tears.

20 minutes, 200 metres up. Maybe a lifetime an insurmountable height. I stand barely, ripped by wind cold as cosmos, sharp as wings.
It is more than I can stand and I press down. Prone. Supplicate, pay respect to the void. At the violent edge the storm is strongest. But now I am here, I look. Our far and deep.

This is it. The crack in it all. I think.
Foolish and giddy, adrenaline and inspiration surge, thrusting me onto my feet.
One roar and I am gone. A twig in a maelstrom. Tossed toyed and cracked. Star dust.

Later I gain conscience.

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Trip Mckenzie pauses to reflect on a question someone mentioned to him: Why is reality so disturbing? But he gets distracted, loses his thread and comes to no insightful conclusions...

Reality disturbs in gestalt shifts.
Between one concept to another.
Experience bears out little reflection and only continuity threads it all together.
So fragile crack the world and what will unravels.

Drowning in electro submersive music and alcohol. Fragments of a face from sometime shatter me and I'm reeling. Through the crowd, faceless and confusion, we came together and tumble up the stairs with a toe to chine and no need for apology. For one moment wild and senseless  oh what glorious sense this is. And then it slips away. What we had, a world cracked was never so.

Irresistible with mane and sharp jacket, riding the dancefloor again. His bitch and castle rolled into one, throwing out temptation confetti and wed yourselves to sin girls. Hardly meant that way but he can't help it. Lock up your wives and fuck partners before they get a hard on they don't want scratched. Or so they say.
Isn't that enough to turn any man to anger and drink?

Whilst I stand confidence high-tailed and waved me off. Another room of the facelss. Finding this grey and lifeless, not waiting around to say goodbye but go blank and empty mind.

Then we get the hell out and being again.

Poison lines up in front, about to embibe when oh my mercy my soul is making music.
Acrobatics ensue. We somersault twirl and trip. From sofa to sofa the magician and I. And pretty young thing they walk in to join. So altogether spinning circling, hip to hip, making such tragically sexy living.

Five fused on in music, sweat freedom's moment. Others crash in and out, limbs flailing, twist break and snap it is joyous. To behold and misbehave.

We flood break on the street, into the dark and ever onwards. Buring bright we light the night, through traffic and travail, whoop and scream. Onto our next stage.

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Trip Mckenzie and the eternal mirror

Derelicts and emptiness. Pass through and over, for the lost and transient.

Lost transience pass through and over in derelicts and emptiness.

Pass over, derelicts and emptiness in and through transience lost.

Transients pass over, lost in emptiness through derelicts.

For the lost and transients, derelict and emptiness. Pass through and over.

Pass transience lost and derelict through emptiness.
Over.

Trip Mckenzie and the wasteland

Dull grey street, functional and flairless. Colour free is its character, depressing as hell it makes you feel alive. Push your cheek hard-on crack chewed grafitti walls, run fingers over rusty chicken wire borders. Revel in reality, oncrete for once.
You think I'm slumming it. Shoulder to shoulder with wild drunks and noble fuck ups, drinking in gutter water romance. Shit of the earth and that salt.
None of that.
It is the colour, its lack. Environments quaity bare and sterile despair. What fucking potential? Wasted land, desolate.

Crack the world part 1.

Trip Mckenzie and the Sea of Mulagi

Light flicker waves in gold, lapping boards. A tiny cloud tossed fishing boat, blue on white, orange touched wood, in fog thick and golden, radiating off sea shadows that run so deep. Uncertainty overtaking, barrier borne upon scales of incomprehensible time, a sole drifter's faith unends.
He kneels, bloody torn prayer cried past through exhaustion, out and out again upon these mazy mists.

To harmony!
To his pure note!

Searching; one which rings out, resonates.
Lights a swathe through blindness.
Octave and key, modulate frequency, tenor and tone.

These ear shattering piercings from mellifluous curves; their cacophony, euphony.
His range, such staggering, stuttering in dishumane.

Until, bloodless and wasted, pours off tongue and lips so softly, sweet syrup rolls. This drifter's mouth, his throat, reach deep down, clamp wrenching diaphragm, heart, lungs, down to his bone.

Blows it all away.

*

Torn, divided. Double slit in two.
Disharmonised by the violence of freedom's voicing.

One half all light's exuberance, surface skims; over waves, under dusky sky.
At play and frolic through sea spray, breaching high to kiss sun sleepy evening rays.
This note is shoreward bound.

One half, shattered, all at disarray. In vortextual clutches, interference tentacles grip and grasp.
Shipwrecked and spiralling; 1-way, where confusion reigns darkest drowned.
This note is going down.

*

Suck tearing, the whirlpool pulls.
Tornado's water, razor wire.
Every whip of the void, lashing tears your nature apart.

Until, numb
numb
numb.

Senseless at the spiral centre. Existence patterns left, lost, dispersed in the fall, traces on spiral walls. Slipped out, whacked out, thrown into the void heart, speared upon basicality (singularity).

You're unexistence now, immeasurable, Ireal.

*

The shore is clouds serene, so lay back dreamy, and with gentle wash settle on endless snow sands. This close to existence you could lay forever.

Cushioned, head, whole and heel, upon infinite particles, soft and warmth. Fingertips of minima, pure and light, breezy caress; dancing across eiderdown skin.
Naked, safe and peaceful, you could lay forever.

In the sands around, kicked up and gently drawn. Whirl and wave, patterns abound, curl and contemplate. As from water's edge, a lunar lullaby, rhythmic, magnetic.
This haven replenished, eternal, you could lay forever.

But pattern and particle, heard apart, is incomplete harmony. And these waves, of sand, of sound, wind and water, interfere upon serenity. Reminder of the other harmony half. Lost now in chaos discordance, far below fundament or firmament, where even real ceases. The something, someplace place.

*

Finger stream sands fall away, into the dark below, starflaking, drift and glitter. On gossamer strings, dust covers everything, catches feathered wings; a moments breath, suspended over the spiral roaring. Then star angel, twist and dive, you swoop. Fearlessly, into the heart of void.
Reach blind into the fury, outstretched at terminal velocity. Found, clasp tight your binary love, lost no more. Rejoined, rejoice. Out of depths the golden note sounds true. Harmony completed, perfect resonance.
The spiral shatters, existence follows.

END

(for reference look up Shahriar Afshar, this is based upon his reworking of the double slit light experiment, some quantum thing...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afshar_experiment)

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Trip Mckenzie and the Interjection Pages.

Opening the book, somewhere in the vicinity of page that I had reached. It lays on the desk, spread inappropriately: spine bent, binding loose and indecorous. Such provocative behaviour from this supposed tome of learning. I am nauseated. I reach out to shut it close again.

I cannot bring myself to touch the pages. I stare at it, I hope with an expression of reproach. I have the feeling that the book is unbothered. Neither its permanent nature or present state are such as to care.

Such unusually salacious behaviour from this book, my companion for some weeks now, not once has it hinted at this obscene playfulness. I wonder. What is it about these pages that it has fallen upon? Why this new behaviour? What words lie there, bringing about this change?

Forcing the bile and arousal deep into my stomach I lean forward. Peer intently, objective and disattached. A scientist studying a curious new bug. I shall not engage with the words on that page, my intention is to categorize, classify. A purely scientific examination. One in which literature, art, feeling and emotion have no place. By this I shall resist its allure.

The pages laugh at me. These dark characters spore further, tentacles grasp my vision, fasten to my mind. They pull. I go down. Deep and dark.

Lightning strobes, sight periodically. Blink out, recede into the black. Everything drummed in stellar light. Flash of endless heaven. Stark and terrible. Empty and pure. Absolution.

Concrete reality reboots, restores.

Leaning upon the single metal bar, spanning the door space in the wall. Elbow juts out, chin on wrist. I look into the alley. Lost in thought, thinking of nothing. Alarm bell ringing a constant. Rain tap dance the street. The walls. Sky dark, heavy, bright and clear. Glass reflection. I feel the sea extend endlessly around the world. Vast and powerful its serenity, peace. I smell the mountain peaks, storm breeze a faintest echo of winds that dance through summit and snow. I stand upon a glacier, magnificent shining resplendently in golden sun. Ancient and endless. Epochally I surf the ice. Circumventing the earth and the ages of the world.

The pages of my notepad flutter, the rain picks up, drops into sheets and then waves. Ground lashed clean, memory of the days washed away. Light shifts spectrum, a temporary hue, a moment shorn off the world.

My head lifts, sit up straight, eyes wide, dilate.

Internalize and eternalize.

The book, inanimate now, devoid of personality and character. As it always was.

Trip Mckenzie and the Great Barrier Language.

(wrote this a while ago, in lieu of anything better though I thought I would put it up. It is not written creatively or well, but I find the ideas quite interesting. More to the point my brain is not functioning right now, so I thought to kick start it a little by going over some stuff...)

I realised just now that I hate language.

By its nature language is a system of pre-conceptions, past exceptions, rules and regulations. In the interest of communication we conceptually limit ourselves. To describe a day's experiences we employ a barrage of references and descriptions of previous experience. These are not even our own.

If I say 'tree' I am referring to the thing that is a tree, except I use a word that is not my own creation, not my own reaction experiencing the object to which I refer. Up to a point this is a remarkably convenient means of communication. Generally speaking our collective experiences of trees are likely to be very similar. So by accepting the word tree as our universal label for those similar experiences we are able to easily translate our experiences to one another.

Yet none of our experiences of even something as concrete and common as a tree are likley to be identical. So that when we accept the label 'tree' for our own experience and concept we also assent to a sacrifice of something unique to our perception of reality. This is where language begins to frustrate.

Fir f we wabt ti express our own unique concept of anything, to represent in language our own instinctive reaction to experience, we must turn to this other and past defined system of description. Whilse 'tree' when first uttered may have entirely captured the feelings, thought and perception of its speaker, it cannot be the same for us. But if we were to utter to someone our own instinctive verbal/vocal interpretation they would surely not understand. Inevitably, to explation our meaning we would once more have to return to the accepted term 'tree' and then add further explanation of what the object inspires in us.

Add every other word and the structure of our expression is the same as that first one. To pinpoint exactly our own experience we fall further and further into complexity. Simply because if we were to utter the simplest most natural expression, no-one would understand nor would they be likely to seek to understand.

And this is all just for a simple reference to a common object...

Aparat from a literary exercise we are unlikely to have any great desire to share our unique interpretation of 'tree experience'. Appart from a certain sadness at this loss empathy, we can accept efficient communication as a preferable pay-off.

When it comes to an abstract idea, concept, emotion or feeling, however, the frustrating limitations of language become never-ending and irresistable. With its base sacrifice of expression in favour of communication, language in fact becomes a remarkably inefficient tool.

A picture tells a thousand words only because peope are prepared to descipher the nature of the picture, however abstract it may be. The same with music, dance, visual art. We accept our own emotional response as our guide to the expression of the artist's experience.

Present a book of abstract scribblings which are your own unique written expression of experiences and be branded insane.

At a push we can insert made up words and sounds into our chosen language to express something we otherwise cannot find the words for. Admit that no words are your own experiences, substitute the whole language for a book of your own creations - that is entirely unacceptabe.

As we reach to greater complexity or uniqueness in our discourse of ideas we embrace the most efficient tool in the interest of communication. But it is this very efficiency which is the flaw in that method, since it is this which pushes us to ever greater complexity.

technorati tags:language

I drift in void.
Orbiting a vast amorphous bubble of space.
Star clouds float, deep below its skin.

On occasion one floats closer. To crash and break against the impenetrable surface tensions. Explosion, magnificent spectrum. Light cascades across my awestruck face. Eyes widen at the beauty of it.

Creation, destruction, all of it before me.
This is the ideal of existence.

My path takes me further around the surface.
I see new shapes take form.
Impossible to describe, their geometry denies my perception. Existing as concepts in my eyes.
I realise. I am seeing other dimensions, universes.
This bubble contains so much more than my reality.

I reach out, desperate to pierce the film that separates me from the all. Fingers outstretched, comically insufficient. I will my nails to grow, joints to break, skin to stretch. Will in vain. It is beyond me.

I drift. Away now. Void envelopes. The bubble diminishes into nothing. Only the sheen of its surface shifting remains.

Where does the light come from I wonder.

Everything is black now. My eyes close, what difference is there.

Explosions, climax, release. The stars are inside me. Rushing from my mind, crash against retina. Violent, chaotic creation. Eyelids are torn apart. Eyeballs burst into space, grey matter sucked into the vacuum.

The bubble has broken. Surface tension lost, more than could ever be contained.

Everything, the all, rockets towards me. A stream of existence in all its possibilities. A pear propelled into my hollowness.

Pouring in, filling me. Saturation, destruction. I dissolve into the all. My body, soul, nature, disparated into something infinitely greater. Total.

Bonds reassert. Forces exert. Coalescence, cohesion return. Surface tension restored. The bubble is complete.

I orbit the centre. Looking out,the void is barely perceivable, refracted by shifting of the inner film. Looking in, to the centre. The epitome, the essential. Inconceivable.

Trip Mckenzie and the power of his hands.

Get the fuck away from me.

Stars traverse my fingers,

Fingers over eyes.

Eyes filling with stars.

That is what I hope for at least.

Get the fuck away from me and let me fill my head with stars.

A head filled with the cosmos,

All that there is vast held between the walls of my skull.

Everything inside.

Left outside only what is not.

Not a part of everything.

But instead, you continue to be there.

Blocking my star flow.

Maintaining the emptiness inside my head.

Whilst everything, outside, distant, apart.

You, I hate you.

Your hands covering my eyes.

Not protecting me, hiding me.

Ashamed, afraid.

Worse.

Disinterested.

Disinterested in my emptiness.

Disinterested in their surfeit of existence.

Disinterested in all and nothing.

Can't you tell that I want to be alone.

Alone as a part of all.

Get the Fuck away from me.

Remove your fingers from in front of my eyes.

I see now. There are no stars to be found in them.

Those were just the first flashes of blindness.

Blind to though, feeling, inspiration and beauty.

The great numb blind.

I might say the words, understand me.

I might say those words.

Beg, plead, pray for numbness.

Bt there is no sincerity.

They only reach so far, never so deep as my heart.

My heart cries out 'love or bust'

It rejects you nihlism and I adore it for that.

It embraces the futitily of it all and runs with it.

As far as it can.

When it falls down it whispers to futility, held tight in its arms

'You can be anything you want. You can be hope, joy, prpose, life. Everything.'

Take my fingers away from my eyes.

There is no need to hide, I can be anything I want.

I can be the stars, I can be everything.

Come back to me.

Trip Mckenzie and the titleless drivel

One of the convenient side-effects of the search for greatness is its diversionary power. You aim for something higher than the sky and you can pretend not to notice anything underneath it.
Your intellectually defined goal of soulful fulfillment allows you to ignore the emotions your heart begs to feel.
This is hardly transcendence, as I said, it is merely diversion. The aim is noble, but this path is not right. Greatness must encompass and be achieved through the same pains and joys which plague the mundane life. They should be felt even more keenly, with greater intensity: pain as much as joy. This greatness is an emotional state, whatever the intellects position in that state, emotions cannot be discarded - they are also it value.

Eyes are teary.
Staring blankly, eternity.
Middle finger hanging on pinky, holding me together.
Feet up, knees as if clutched.
One physical state to be replaced by another.

(this was my attempt to describe something in plain language, with the idea of telling a story in nothing but description and emotion, with no plot to speak of. I gave up straight away, creativity is not with me right now. If you listen to Springtime by Jeffrey Lewis he does it perfectly with about ten words and a guitar.)

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Trip Mckenzie and the perfect gathering.

I have been trying to imagine the perfect social occasion.
Driving in my car, returning from a show that never happened, nostalgia for days of my youth hitting me in the face as I travel along the dark tree lined roads of those days. I recall an excitement and a spirit of adventure that accompanied every such drive, no matter what the occasion I would be filled with expectation of the grand and magnificent events that might just possibly occur that evening. Or the beautiful, intimate moments that I might experience.

Now my head is constantly overflowing with jumbled ideas of great artistic achievement, human evolution, purity of experience. I question whether there is any worthwhile reason to engage in anything which is not pure experience and so I find myself doubting that there is any worth to any art or act of creativity. But without it how does the human race progress, how does it evolve into something greater than the stagnant state of society now.

I imagine an answer to be found in a collision of these ideas. Acts of wild unbounded creativity enacted purely as experience pushing its participants with every manifestation to a new and better place. In my head this collision of ideas is only possible through the collision of people - evolution of an individual is not the same as evolution of the individual.

Yet every gathering of people around creative reasons always seems to devolve into two groups: performer and audience. The former forced into effectively shouting their ideas into space, no matter how much they simply want to share and interact. The latter demanding that they be entertained, that their laziness and cowardice, unwillingness to push themselves rather than claim to be enlightened through their appreciation of other people's efforts, all be satisfied by those who they believe they validate through their presence.

This is not what I yearn for.
I yearn for social experiences, a natural product of life lived well, in which every person engages and participates. They do this for no other reason than that it is the right way for it to be done at that time. A dancer dances for themselves, but in doing so inspires a writer to put pen to paper, whose words feedback into the music played by musicians, guiding the hand of the artist and sculptor, shapes created compelling the dancer to push themselves to new places. And so on, with the linebetween all ever blurred and erased until the group and each indivudal a part of it finds themselves in a new place, filled with new ideas, concepts, imaginations and understandings. A pure experience done for no reason but its own self-worth and the self-worth of the individuals involved.

I have no idea what I am talking about.
These thoughts just run through my head day after day, never taking concrete form or shape, never showing me anything apart from frustration and confusion.
Something is lacking, but it is only out there to be grasped and embraced.
But I have no clue what it is.

Trip Mckenzie and the nuclear mirror

Face lies sideways, buried in the pillow.
Eyes closed or staring emptily into nothingness.
Fingers sitting impotently on the keyboard, elbow experiencing sensation of rough carpet.
This is all I feel right now.
In a moment I am sure my hip will being to hurt again.

Then I might cycle through the emotions of the evening, frustration and melancholy. Not a long cycle. I'm planning to be done with it in just a few minutes. Then  can start again.

The lamp is too bright, it is shining through my eyelids. How ineffectual a piece of the human body are our eyelids? IF they did their job properly we would not need curtains to sleep through the day. We do need curtains to sleep through the day. What else are we supposed to do till it gets dark?

In the mirror my own face stares back, this is not uncommon for a mirror to do. In the eyes of my reflection tiny nuclear explosions daisy chain endlessly. It is quite beautiful. I am not sure whether this makes my reflection a worse person than myself. I would quite like tiny nuclear explosions to detonate endlessly behind my eye, so I conclude that my reflection is a better person than me.

He also looks less melancholy and frustrated, but this may just be a trick. These things are hard to determine when you so busy staring at the explosions. Sometimes I wish my reflection wold say something to me, but he just looks back at me. I am sure that he manages somehow to be more impassive in his gaze than I am upon him. Which is unusual, given that he is nothing but my reflection.

Apart from the explosions in his eyes that is.

Ah, that one blew one eye out.
Now he is staring at me with a gaping white space where one eye used to be.
It is even more beautiful.
Like staring into the sun captured behind my own face.

I am jealous of my reflection more than ever now. Not only does one eye feature an endless parade of nuclear starbursts but his whole brain is a stellar event. Soon it shall go supernova and spread its essence throughout the universe, touching upon every soul that exists within it, sowing its seed in planets yet to be formed. Lighting up the darkest of dark matters and energies. Altering the frequency of essential vibratroy strings, plucking out the rhythm of the sum of his mind's life.

I hate my reflection. I hope he blows soon, at least then I won't have to stare at his impassive face any longer.

Trip Mckenzie and the suffocation set.

Writing, words, paper, pen, ink.

Nothing in my head. How do I get past this point?

Oral histories, fractal collapse and empty expression.

Powerful idease, but none with a voice.

Mind should be the voice, mine are the ideas.

So where is it?

What is strangling it stillborn in my throat?

Holding back the words, caged in head and heart, untouched by lips or fingers. Pure in abstraction, never reaching manual expression, concrete reality.

Why should they ever do this though?

Is this the wall?

The source?

Is this the doubt?

Empty expression, love of the abstract and the spontaneous.

The concept and the action.

But never the conscious combination of the two.

What would that add to the proceedings?

Existence in collapse. Awaiting new energies to annhilate stagnation and hold back the inevitably entropy.

But without the energy.

Witout development, progression, evolution, relative transcendence. Pond life is stifled, expansion repeats. Fractal suffocation.

The vision of my own context, framed by arrogance, blinds me.

'Ending forced by circumstance'