How To Change Your Fate

Step 1: Embrace your grief. Remember why you hurt. Find the beauty in it. Find a song, an image.
Step 2: Find a reason to love yourself. Have faith in time. Sometimes we get lost.
Step 3: Listen to the people around you. Tell a story with soul.

(07/06/2022 : My love has essentially been treated like a resource. I am sure grief comes under that category also, at least in terms of a well of tears that can run dry, leaving you with nothing but blood to trace the light through).

You have beautiful eyes for a buttface vagina blowjob nightmare.

Girls taking showers in cupboards. On a speedboat, grasping a black grape, hiding from pirates who get to dictate what you do until you die with 3 layer harmonies. Populating your head with a nightmare. Don't worry, it's only a dream, it can't hurt you - but I keep getting deja vu and then I talk about it and the universe springs like a trap in your direction.

Don't worry. It's just your nerve endings.

They get married. Do people that don't love each other get married?

There could be plenty of reasons.

Like?

Safety. 

re: that Simpsons episode where Homer is blackmailed into taking the controls of a nuclear power plant and gets trapped on the stairs, head twitching. Or that scene from the film Speed which is basically the whole film.

I. Am. A. Robot. Beep beep boop boop.

Last night I dreamt about a film. It was the final scene: a Gorilla wearing a baseball cap asking for "the cure". Tears were streaming down the human patrons faces. They were wearing unflattering 3D glasses. I was a camera in the theater and everybody looked straight through me.

The gorilla was me, obviously. It was some kind of self-parodying but ultimately heartwarming tale from the meta-perspective of a human who'd been locked in a cage for years while everybody else got to evolve into barely conscious weaponry - they'd all been listening to bland pop music and watching social media, and had learned to mimic the congratulatory and sharply condescending tones of the television presenters and news hosts. There was I, a fuzzy symbol of a simple speechless heart the clouds of grinning, gnashing teeth had left behind.

There is a vortex in my mind where synapses are clocked at incredible speeds and ghosts go to learn about the future. I sometimes imagine it's what cancer might be like if individual cells developed consciousness. The leaders of the free world, which sometime in the near future consisted of cartoonists, comedians, artists, college graduates and spies, went there to learn about the dissonance between their carefree attitudes and the gargantuan responsibility they had set upon themselves for the billion year pastures hidden beyond their picosecond loop horizons in their quest for self glorification. They have already beaten the shit out of me so I don't mind divulging this.

I. Am. A. Robot. Beep beep boop boop.

Social experiments hurt

T&A

Out there. Dumb, alone and ugly.
In here. Dumb, alone and ugly, and slightly more content, since nobody loves dumb alone and ugly, and a source of dissonance is a role I’d rather not step into.

Somebody laughs as someone else tries to scrabble out from the pit. A flower bed among great oaks, and the chaos in my prison chokes the winter above ground. Cacophony of nutrients. Time is frozen at the surface. Life frightens me, as an inevitable conclusion. Sucked below the waves, behind teeth behind my back a trapdoor spider a snake a carnivore growing herbs from the ripples. All in perfect harmony. In love.

Rocket propelled. Frantic eyes. Pushed into every kind of death. Panic. Trying to hold it all together. A look away. Navigation of the soul. Staring too long might mean something for not just me, but for the ghosts I hold in a sac in the deepest reaches of organs making sense of my heartbeat. Something I will never know. Something that will never know me. Something that will break my heart. Golden rings, dark arms around me. Telling me I’m safe. A box in the sun, family members beckoning. A subconscious responsibility. Expectation. (Static electricity where clouds were collecting feelings. In bed with desire.)

Ghosts telling me I’d travelled millions of years into the future. Expecting something from me. Like I’d brought them there. Like they were angry with me for it.

The conclusion, the answer, that there’s always something wrong with me. I was born into a cage and the bars are living and breathing. I could never harm them, when the problem is me. Perspective, perspective, one mirror two mirrors. Golden mirrors. Retarded. To survive.

Laying on the ground. Light flowing out of me. Torment, really. But it’s cheered on. Floating above it. Convinced of an interpretation, in unison, happy patronage, coliseum. Infected, immunized, infected, immunized, single cow powering the continuation of never ending complacency. It’s a perspective. You’re alone when you’re being eaten by a horse. In the deep dark wells of that being, souls as slaves to internal order is the only possibility. That’s the technique.

I once dreamt I crawled out of an ocean onto a muddy bank. Females in bikinis, sirens, calling my name (fingers pointed at their crotches). Grey and colourless. I wandered over. Humanoids, dark eyes, massive skulls, teeth, wrestling me to the ground. Looking back, they were still young, even if I were younger. This is what happens when you don’t have books to read about the local wildlife.

Scared and alone. Alone and scared. Or scared of people. Because they make you feel alone. What am I, food? For a good cause. Or to carry on frantic and blind and at the mercy of the elements and the biology and. The phase of clocks. The colour of your eyes. You are a way out, a way in, that’s all I want sometimes. Unison in the dark, where it tempts my dreams into colour, beautiful structure, communication which leads to someplace better. Jumped high up here because there is not where we want to be. A constant battle with darkness. Diversity in the attic.

Grow your own light kits. Solar panels. Attack attack attack attack the shadows from the shadows. Cancel it out with phase and nomnomnom. Style over substance. Carried away with your technique. Immune system immune system immune cyst. Zoloft and viagra. Everything I want to procreate with is trying to kill me. Trace amounts of great ape. Another branch is not acceptable. Eugenics persists, you will be disposed of. Arrows and arrowheads. Parasites.

You don’t do enough. Trapped in a cage which I can’t perceive.

Please record my mistakes in a big book of mistakes so you can judge me in the afterlife.
But make sure that your vocabulary is staccato, condescending in pitch and ambiguous so that I may never escape your assertion. (It would be interesting to create a nation breastfed on this pattern, just to see how mad the inhabitants would become. You could probably do that.)

Simulation of galaxy clusters, nodes in the multiverse, call it one eye (but not spaced in parallel so that they’ll never form a stereo field). Actually phi got stuck in my ears. Frequency. I once knew a girl with cute ears. Now I’m old. The end.

£1.59 at Clinton Cards

In order to maximize profit, the designers of Christmas cards often opt to play it safe by depicting festive celebrities and customs recognizable to the lowest common denominator. The greatest loss suffered at the hands of this neglect is undoubtedly the heart-warming tale of a giant dimensionally transient spider who comes to those who lay cold in their winter beds, hugging them as they sleep, and sucking any evil spirits - who may have entered in their chilly state of vulnerability - out through the soft marrow of their spinal cords.

The following message of festive cheer is my personal tribute to him - and to those that have never had the pleasure of hearing the tale due to the survival instincts of asexual overlord Skaal'Tethos.

(Diaries) - 16 March 2008

I found myself in an unfamiliar bedroom.

The walls were painted green and the space was empty save for a bed lengthways down the middle of the room, pushed against the wall. There were messages written in large, bold black letters all over the walls. I can’t remember what they said but they all seemed to be directed at me. I remember a vague urge to leave the place, but I couldn’t find a door. I don't recall looking that far for one, though.

On the bed there was a naked girl, lying flat, her body facing the wall opposite. Her face was screwed up, like she was struggling or giving birth, and she appeared to be floating slightly above the bed. Her body then started to rotate clockwise. I stood there watching her rotating until her feet were facing me. She opened her legs and started screaming, and suddenly it seemed like everything in the room was being sucked into the space between her open legs. The writing on the walls peeled off and flew into her, followed by the paint, and then I felt myself being sucked toward her.

I could tell by her face that she wasn’t enjoying this.


Now I’m at the front of a train, at the controls. My father’s next to me. We’re speeding up, and there is debris on the tracks : old, burnt out cars and rusting husks of what were once trains. In front of us and coming from the opposite direction there were moving trains, and I realize I have to learn how to control ours, or we’re going to crash. There are two pairs of joysticks, each one can be moved forwards and backwards. We can control the speed of the train and which track we’re on, the left or the right. My father tries to teach me how to control it, often taking the controls from me, but we end up narrowly missing a train going in the opposite direction, and eventually bump into a slower moving train in front of us, so I decide to take the controls and ignore my fathers advice. In no time at all I pick them up and have control over the train.

We arrive at a huge, square, but pretty empty train station, save for a male worker who flashes a sinister sort of smile, greets us in a knowing fashion and welcomes us to ’illegible’.

I’m not sure if I’m with my father now, but I’m joined by someone and we’re waiting in an elevator. The doors open to reveal a warehouse sized, concrete room. It's empty and badly lit, save for a small stand selling t-shirts in the corner. There’s a group of young boys waiting outside the lift doors. As we exit the lift, one of them comes over to me and starts threatening me. I remember thinking that one of them may have had a knife, and that this kid may have posed some real threat. My companion and I started over to the t-shirt stand, the child following us and hassling me the whole time. I became rather irritated so I picked him up by his collar and said something to him. He didn’t look too phased by the incident but scurried off regardless. "I think he was more threatened by you than you were of him". "Yeah, I think he was".

I end up buying a black t-shirt with what appears to be an animation on the front, which would loop over and over. It started with some unfocused circular pattern, followed by a darkly lit, inhuman, cat-like face with long brown hair messily draped over its cheeks. I remember deciding that it looked like the result of a botched cross-breeding experiment.

For a moment, I glanced over at the lift - the entire group of children who were previously outside the lift, about 30 of them, had now packed themselves inside. The child who was hassling me was trying to squeeze in. They all looked quite cheerful.

I looked back at the shirt. It was now the only thing worth my attention in the room. The person I'd entered with - I think it was my mother - had put it on. It looped over a few times, and with each cycle I was getting more sucked in, until the animation took over my entire field of vision, and I was there with the face. Him looking looking directly at me.

Suddenly, the animation changed - after the inhuman face, another image was shown - even less human this time, but better lit. Its body was humanoid, but it had shiny black skin - on it’s head there were around a dozen eyes, unevenly spaced and glowing yellow. It had no nose, and it’s mouth was filled with long, thin canines.

I remember it saying something to me - "we survive" - then the image changed. The same creature, but now fatter and with no discernible limbs, was laying on the ground. I was getting sucked away from the image now - it had turned into a sphere, and on top of it were thousands more of these creatures, all without limbs, all laying upon the surface.

(Diaries) - 13 December 2007

it was a conscious descision.

it's only sometimes I remember what really woke me up. most of the time I get carried away. build my own reason, because I need one to understand myself, and forget that there's one ticking and echoing backwards in the cells behind me.

energy low

(Diaries) - 3 September 2007

I had an interview for college today. I also had one last week, but I was asked to go again so they could more thoroughly grill me on my motivations and try and discern whether I was a circle or a triangle.

Actually, both the interviews scared me somewhat. Not because of the social surroundings to which I am naturally averse, or nervousness about the contents and combined difficulty of the courses I'd be attending, but the fact that the understanding of the universe which has been brewing uninterrupted in my mind for the last 3-4 years had suddenly shifted, and swept away to a tiny corner of my mind, to somewhere which my awareness of humans in the context of the universe as groups of chemicals which had formed consciousness was no longer a valid state of perception, and instead was replaced an awareness of humans in the context of an educational establishment as labels such as "lecturer" and "student". In essence it was a huge eye opener into the way we see ourselves - not as naturally occurring entities which are formed from universal mechanisms, but machines in the context of an human-centric, abstract society.

This isn't an attack on identity. I'm not saying that it's the wrong way - but it's apparent to anyone which is the more 'truthful' of the two - universal truth as opposed to abstract role in an abstract society. Yet we cling to our roles as if they are as important as our physical manifestations. A lot of people will defend their identities with as much desperation and aggression as they would their own mother - yet, if that identity was stripped, the person would still be alive, breathing and conscious. I believe that it's misplaced instinct that results in our defense of the imaginary (although I reserve the right to change my mind). It's almost as if we've been told from birth : "that concrete statue over there, that's you", we dress it up, and do anything to stop it from being torn down.

(Diaries) - 17 March 2008

I woke on a cold, hard mattress in a dingy police cell.

In the dream, I felt like I knew the cell well and today was like any other day. I knew exactly what was coming : every now and then, a small slot would open, and a pair of eyes would stare at me through the door to my enclosure for a couple of minutes at a time. Then they'd leave, and the cycle would continue. No-one ever said anything directly to me - I think it was assumed that I knew what they meant, if anything at all. I probably didn't : I used their eyes only as a makeshift clock. This was not a willed or conscious decision. I didn't want to know the time, It didn't matter to me, but my cells, my body and my heart craved rhythm and used the only source available to them.

I didn't care what they saw. Their world was so utterly different to mine that I knew whatever conclusions they constructed would be tainted by it. Their thoughts and actions were all secretly governed by the desire for acceptance - in a network as large as theirs, that meant extreme adherence to global behavioural rules was inevitable, and it followed that their branches of conceptual possibility would become localised to a specific, socially pre-determined point. In other words, there was little freedom of thought (even though it might have seemed so) and as such, little chance of conceptualizing an object outside of their network to a high degree of accuracy. They would reach conclusions, but they would generally be placeholder labels, as they had been taught that these were acceptably accurate answers, and did not question (sometimes didn't even notice) the processes constructed to calculate them.

Their thought processes, on the other hand, were something I could approximate pretty accurately. After all, I was a human once, and that was the clincher - I could see them, but they couldn't see me. Every time I glanced up and saw them staring through, I imagined their reactions to me. I eventually built a whole internal network based on snippets of conversation, on tone of voice, on dialect. Rooms, cars, streets, people - anything which they mentioned became an internal reality. Often, I'd see myself through their eyes as they stared at me : then I'd watch through their eyes as they walked down the hall, then into darkness, then to the meeting room they often mentioned. I'd have conversations with other members of the network, talk about my behaviour - we'd go to the pub, have a drink, go home to our respective husbands and wives and kids and families, and do it all again - the cyclical nature of their lives made it easy to approximate what events would occur and when, which gave me even more insight into the thoughts that they had.

I often tried recording the rules they abided by in a notebook I had smuggled in with me, but it was difficult to conceive of a method of communicating them in a universal fashion. No mix of language, mathematics, diagrams or illustration seemed to be sufficient, but in the end it didn't matter - there was no-one to communicate with but myself anyway. As long as I could understand what they meant, I was content. Even if I could have written them down in plain English, they seemed to be so absorbed in their network it that it wouldn't have mattered much to anybody (save a few marketing execs and economists - people who wanted to manipulate for their own gain, without having the insight to realize their every action was dictated by those same rules). No-one wanted to know that they might be living a lie - no-one wanted to know that they might not be who they thought they were. At most, they would accept the fact that it could be the case, but would relegate that possibility to the realm of insignificance. That would imply a lack of control, a futility. On a certain level, it would imply failure. People had spent far too much time building understanding dependent on who they thought they were, relating themselves to everything around them, building up a strong relationship with their conceptual selves to break such a strong connection to a perceived truth. So long as there were others around them that shared the same mindset, they were justified in their denial - they were able to live without worry in their jointly constructed world.

I often thought along those lines when I wondered why I had found myself in the cell - I wondered if I had done anything wrong at all, or if my captors were simply trying to protect their imaginary selves from the threat I posed to their foundations.

I often fantasized about reasoning with them, but could never find the words - how could you communicate the flaws in a medium through the flawed medium itself? Unless they were able to separate themselves from it (an improbable outcome), at best you'd be considered a little crazy, and at worst, you'd be locked up.