.also, i am a twat
Joined: Jan 2008
Originally Posted by planktonnn
There in that wooded time I did have such elongated periods of no thinking. Now, for one as ignorant as I, not thinking is both easy and of course hard, but the sense of having no-one to be, mixed with utter powerlessness, eased from me the need to try to think of ways forward, or solutions to what was behind, and so an empty headed jerkin' gherkin such as I was, at times, able to become truly empty headed. All without the aid of a formalised religious structure or the payment of even the slightest membership fees. Should I now charge others subscription fees to reach the same void? All I need is a wood & sack-fulls of willing cashed-up suppli-cunts. Yet another unlikely, undeliverable business plan devised in every detail in just a flash of thought. I’ve got hundreds of original TV shows devised, & licensed spin-offs worked out too, the least of which is, ooh let’s make one up now… Er, ‘My Name Isn’t Earl’? wherein I find ‘everyone who ever pissed me off but I didn’t mention it’ and incessantly swear & rage at them for whatever it was, whenever it was; Or for the late-night audience perhaps I could sub-license ‘Big Brothel’, the natural final base extension of the genre; Or perhaps at a stretch ‘I Was a Minor Celebrity Get That Out of me!’ wherein various incongruent items are inserted into inconsequential former famous persons in an attempt to see how far they’ll forego self respect. Again, probably a late night one eh? All these are of course derivative knock ups, but there are plenty more self originated ones, & one day I may come up with a plan that would actually work, tho/ough it seems doubtful doesn’t it. Out in't woods I only had no solar charger and a cracked screened iPod Touch full of assorted video shorts I’d made & some spoken word versions of various books I could identify from a single Vectabook Touchscreen graphic my dear insightful & massively capable Lusean once sent me. Even we hedgehogs have to make an effort toward enlightenment you know? By a circuitous route, powerlessness does indeed lead to dealing with loss with aplomb, because if you can't do anything about something, you can't deal with anything, ergo the end result of clear headedness, even if reached thru/ough stupidity rather than wisdom. I could ‘Will To No Power’.
As far as actual battery power was concerned, I worked out two or three places in the Cacktown of Nailsburgh where, whenever I got the chance I could sit beside a spare mains socket & surreptitiously juice up the iPod and ‘I ditn’t do fuffink’ steal away my electric swag (the specific offence is one of abstracting electricity), tho/ough on one occasion I did pull the plug on a photo booth by mistake. The delightful & compassionate League of Janets had been kind in so very many ways, one of which was net access for topping up the iPod content with a reading of Mr Happy A. Schopenhauers ‘Studies in Pessimism’ and other light listening to keep me occupied. I’ve still to find a reading of Ouspenkis ‘In Search of the Miraculous’ (£128 on Amazon?!?) - Oh the troubles & privations I face…
For example, does the person that inhabits the space set aside for your personality seek to project or imagine futures? When faced with ‘any given reality’ does that you inside of yours produce an incessant torrent of potentials & possibilities however unquestionably unbelievable they might be? Does your s/he that is also your me reach beyond the reasonable & attainable limits of what might actually really actually be do-able in the real world?; and do you get stupid thoughts of what’d be just downright perfect even tho/ough they’re obviously observably clearly impossible? You may know by now that I do it repetitively. All aspiration/no actual ability. Always, forever, for all time, for eternity, until the end of time, for ever and a day, at all times, all the time, constantly - Always. You guessed that yeah? This is why I need a benevolent billionaire/ss, who isn't easily offended, making undemanding fiscal overtures towards my little self. At the very least they could pay to point & laugh, none of this Equipe Excellante nonsense, more "Look at what this clods done now :-D". So sort of like this here writting here, but cashed up. I could come to terms with being somebodys tax write-off. I’m not proud. Do I possess nothing that can be moneterised even on a miniature level? Oh the fickle fates of skill distributions, the stick of which is apparently for ever facing me with its shitty end.
I’d thought long since of seeking out the bliss-ed haven of a secular non-ascetic hermitage within which to become without. A simple place where one might revive the vocational craft of Anchorites, & in my all alone time to survey Platos exhortation to ‘become not a man, but a beast or a god’. Still tho/ough, despite even my most excellent attempts to find an expedient road to dehumanisation & friendlessness thru/ough Hermitry, it seems such luscious openings only arise exceptionally infrequently, if at all these days, and when they do (they don’t) they do almost universally have a tendency to be either a great deal too interconnected to X religion (i.e. any dogma is too much dogma for me); or to the self–deluding remnants of hippydom, still expecting to prevail over the base selfishness I see scribed onto the core of human nature; or opportunity is dispensed at the whim of capricious benefaction from the wealthy senile remnants of (Ibn Khalduns) thoroughly undeserving 4th & 5th generation collapsing post-industrial cash-carried Ninnies, who might quite probably insist on a vibrational test in somewhere like Toulouse before deigning to open the path to the paradise pad down by the rock pools; or are basely bungled at their very root, their foundation fouled by some other appalling jambalaya of well intentioned yet lucent socio-politico-spiritual foolishness. Any of the above, and by extension the myriad other undescribed expressions of the same basic principles, offer much too distorted a lens to see ‘poor twisted irreligious non-hippy unsociable non-theist antipathist catch-all personality disordered’ me toward anything even approaching ‘alone’ – The results are now in, and I can tell you that for me there is no available isolated anchorage within which to quarantine or edit out my uncomplicated plain-old misanthropic rage.
It’s not as if you can even apply for the post of Hermit on any of the great estates any more. One used to be able to sign up for seven years (payment on completion), thereafter being obliged to strike a pose of cultured contemplation or tragedic melancholia when your Lord, his retinue or his goat passed by. So not that unlike religion after all? They were not to cut their beard or nails, leave the grounds, talk to the servants, attack the guests, or wear anything other than a camel-hair robe. But where do you see that kind of job advertised nowadays? Is there a section for it in one of the daily papers? Or a specialised media outlet or at least an association newsletter? There is a (oh so predictably) sparsely inhabited (Ha. Haha. Cough) web forum at www.hermitary.com, tho/ough I couldn’t find a ‘Situations Vacant’ section. What circles should one be moving in to come across such an opportunistic opening? And how does one infiltrate the rich when ones unfortunate personality causes one to seek out ‘separate’ in the first place? For sure this stolen right of self-seclusion was victim to the land inclosures of the late 18th/early19th century, & the imaginary right of ownership over the soil around us all, the underground beneath it & the overground above to the top of the sky granted therein. Surely the mooted historical migration of the whole human nation from out of isolation to all across Gondwanaland & Laurasia was just a matter of someone getting to the point of thinking ‘Fuck this, I’m moving over those hills to get away from these twats’. If such were so, you’d really have to hand it to those hardy peoples of the furthest north no? A people prepared to endure populating privatious polar habitations just to get away from the rest of us.
And could it be a better life?
Well, whilst at contemplatious peace in this days ending here in my wooded time, I drank deep of the extra water I’d collected from the nearest gas station, and I let me loose to take a mental rambling route that led me to let me wander & wonder, and therein to envision a brilliantly complicated and/or simple design for a home I could build there, subject of course to being allowed to, which you wouldn’t, as I’ve no doubt already moaned about, and will again. There was a raised doughnut (torus?) shaped living space encircling the great tree I’d made my current home, built to two imaginary floors looking over an inner courtyard dominated by the living timber centrepiece. There would of course be fully kitted workshop facilities for both my Wife, myself & the Kids in San-Zhi like pods at differing heights on the outside of the ring, modular additions of further pods would naturally be possible as and when required, eventually becoming spokes to an outer ring, or semicircular section thereof, one floor above ground with a basement below, all in phase three of the development. For sure it all had an unashamed unselfconscious derivative/referential quoting of 60’s ‘future buildings’, but would be the ideal refuge we deserved so much & needed so desperately. There was of course much more detail to the exquisite magnificent design & fitting out of the impossible dwelling that was my pointless dream, but there’s really no function in going any further because absolutely none of the components of ‘getting this done’ are anywhere near being in place. Nepotistic ‘career’ development & consequent finance, land ownership, architects drawings, relevant permissions from ‘friends on the panel’, materials, production of modules, earth moving machinery, construction & assembly labour, a family to share a perfect home with…
Why on earth did I bother to conceive yet another unobtainable ridiculousness, an added absolute impossibility, one more unreachable contentment to whine about & pine over, whilst all the time I couldn’t even get my life together enough to get a dry nights sleep? The reason is quite simple, it’s because I’m an enormous twat - an idiot trapped in the life of an imbecile directed by the brain of a fucktard… All the plans hadn’t come together, ever. All the grandiloquent quests had flopped, all the seemingly ‘normal hopes’ were quite evidently pompous purposes because they were dispersed & fell short. Every attempt had been stymied, mired deep in almost cavernous incapability & innate ‘unable’. I was simply a ‘could not’ within the societal context set by the generic/ubiquitous ‘them/they/their’, because if ‘their’ set of measurements were applied then, if I were a ‘could’, I too would be brazenly exhibiting the visible spoils of confirmatory acquisitive ‘winning’, and I’d have 5 houses & private schooling for the kids, or an international (tax free) career and early retirement in the western shires (why does the abuser always profit?), or at the very least a bloody doughnut shaped pod house in the fucking woods. For fucks sake I’d make do with a couple of buried shipping containers side by side with an adjoining portal - a poor mans underground space station… Like when people used to build their houses replete with nuclear bunkers, only without the house bit on top.
But even simple ‘warm & dry’ had shown themselves to be beyond my feeble wits to arrange. Things weren’t going very well, they hadn’t really been going well for something around 45 years, and I wasn’t getting any of the validating signs of being at the ‘winning’ end of the aforementioned stick – strictly the shitty end for yours truly, just so often so as to become usual. In case of any doubt, this was undeniably not a good thing. I took a long swig of the last of my water to wash down the pills I’d need to get any sleep at all with all this shit on my mind. All this and so very much more leaves me forever feeling extraordinarily & breathtakingly low, and ultimately leads me to the inescapable conclusion that there is but one simple truth in my life – ‘Nothing Cannot Be Destroyed’. That is to say that only by wholly expunging all aspirations, plans, aims & goals can I lead myself to the becalmed peace I ask for, in that whatever I try always goes wrong, ergo if I try ‘nothing’ then there will be nothing to go wrong. Pure sophistry on one level of course, in that the nothingness itself could be broken or mis-formed, and something might in fact succeed by mistake. However my disproportionately bad reactions to the trifling tumbles & trip-ups of everyday ‘alive’ leave me irrestorably broken & lame. A suspiciously large number of things go wrong, and I am the one common factor between them all. It’s enough to bring one to what in that little sliver of orange suited America perched aboard Fidels little lifeboat would be recorded as having reached ‘The Futility State’. It leaves me ‘thinking about the jaws of life, and how they chew you up and spit you right back out into the frying pan’, and I can say aloud that the unceasingly recurring negative nature of this ‘luck’ scares me.
Now, you tell me. How can I face you unabashed and tell you that I woke the next morning and had right royally pissed myself? What!?! Have you never? I don’t mean in childhood, but as an adult? And not just a little leak, but a full bladder unwillingly unloaded. Well I don’t need an excuse, but I have one - I was so under with sleep meds that I’d not been roused by my body signalling its needs, and even the ‘dreaming you’re pissing’ big ringing alarm bell hadn’t alerted my somnambulate self. I’d had too much water intake the day before (because of dehydration the day prior to that), or the preceding rain had insinuated itself into my cells, and the dam inevitably busted itself wide open. But it was far too late to do anything about that now, and it happens to us all one time or another doesn’t it? No? You’re liars :-D
I guess I can say there was only one time in my life where I’d been genuinely happy to piss myself. It was back when I was being made redundant, and I’d screamed my battered de-piped BMW K75 121,000 mile rat-bike away from a staff meeting in not the best of moods, in full knowledge that the following day I’d be in a meeting with my ‘superiors’ being formally notified of what was already an appallingly unsuccessfully kept secret, i.e. redundancy. ‘Left or right at the gate?’ is something that’s obviously troubled most of us at one time or another. Right was medium speed twisty & across the hills, left was flat out dual carriageway. Both took me to home, and I probably ought to have taken the former, tho/ough the latter better suited my mood, and I paid for this poor choice by hitting the roundabout at the far end of the speeding ribbon of roadway - head first, followed immediately, it seems, by the bottom of the bike, and the engine thoughtfully bashed my head back into the roundabout brickwork as evidenced by the sump marks on the back of my somewhat shattered helmet, and the little tuft of my jacket on the bottom of the gearbox, torn off as it hit the rear of my left shoulder. Wear marks on my gloves showed I must have landed on my palms and slid before hitting the roundabout and pain in my wrists & shoulder seemed to confirm this, but I couldn’t really tell you, as I don’t remember anything at all of the impact itself, only approaching the junction that ended the dual carriageway and lifting off & braking early, my lane entirely clear. I hadn’t been going that fast anyway, and started the slowing process in plenty of time, but the bike seemed to push on a little* and started bucking on the suspension as the rear wheel slid & gripped & slid. A vehicle ahead in the stationary other lane began to indicate & made to begin pulling out into my lane so I initiated uncontrolled movement towards the outside, and in the gravely dirt & diesel there the brakes & suspension misbehaved even more vociferously, and the last thing I can remember is being high-sided & cast off the right front of the bike by the widening centre reservation at the junction, towards the curving brickwork, with the bike following me. I hadn’t had a lot of choice at the time - it was either that or lay it down in a low-side slide, at the end of which trajectory lay a moving articulated lorry or three, all ready & willing to squish me. At the time avoiding being flattened seemed a good choice, but there are times I wish…
* A failed throttle position sensor.
As you can imagine the above resulted in an undefined period of unconsciousness, and, as is so often the case in such crashy matters, it was right then that my bladder thought ‘fuck it’ & let go. Did it not realise I’d guess what it’d done given the lack of alternative likely suspects? Maybe it thought it’d get away with it because I’d be confusedly convinced that someone else had sauntered along & pissed on me while I was spark out? But I wasn’t hoodwinked. Any of you whose life has included (or includes) the potential to knock yourself out will fully recognise my bladders bitter betrayal of me given the circumstances. This must have happened to most motor-bicyclists some time or another whether they like it or not, but after all this descriptive guff this wasn’t even the actual time I was pleased, almost joyous, to have pissed myself. No, that came a short while later, after having been questioned by ambulance staff as to the date & my mobile number (and explaining I never knew either so this was no sign of brain injury), and having declined medical service* & then dealt with the filthy pointy headed cnuts who trailered the bike away having promised to pay the recovery fee**. I was then offered a lift home by a hateful & otherwise malicious ‘colleague’ who’d pulled over. The bike was almost untouched & eminently roadworthy as I appear to have cushioned it somewhat, but the aforementioned cnuts wouldn’t let me ride it away with a smashed helmet, or chain it to a post for later retrieval, so I reluctantly took up the heavily detestable co-workers offer of the lift back into the Shitopolis we call Nailsburgh.
* I always decline hospitalisation unless there’s something sticking out or hanging off. I’ve absolutely zero desire to sit in A&E for hours when there’s little or nothing they can do.
D J S
3 – Well I wood, wouldn’t I? (or, how my fire got put out…)
** They didn’t of course the lying cnuts, they kept it for a vehicle inspection, which it passed of course, and then I had to pay £266.00 to release it from the ‘you’ll have to talk to the coppers boy’ yard.
Then, while being ferried by a despicable woman who I knew was one of the primary instigators in my impending removal, who would be behind the enacting that dismissal in the meeting tomorrow, and who had repeatedly been a big shit
whenever possible, it occurred to me that from my point of view the damage was already done, and so for the rest of the journey I marshalled all available urine & beseeched my bladder to make up for its earlier disloyalty by silently slopping another hefty pool of piddle discretely into her front seat. I can’t say I’m either ashamed or guilty, I’d given her plenty more chances than she deserved, but she just didn’t know how to play nice, and I don’t even recognise your right to judge me either way - be as appalled as you like, but you should meet the woman, you may think me crude, but hear me when I say she got off light, if I’d have really
taken appropriately scaled level 4 action then I’d have shat myself in the car and shaken it out my trouser leg to under the seat, no worries - It’s little things like this that make me happy :-D Some people, thru/ough their repetitively malicious actions, just don’t deserve any mercy. First time, well we all make mistakes. Second time, we’ve talked about this before. Third, “You are now on the ‘wanker’ list, please stand on the other side of that line there, Where the floor is marked ‘WANKER’, and do not approach me.” Fourth? I will now shit in your car, face, life etc. with total impunity. Fifth? Don’t now be surprised to wake in a bath full of icecubes missing your kidneys. Who am I and how am I any better than them? No-one, no better. It’s simply Plato and his definition of justice as ‘You leave me alone & I’ll do likewise for you’. I don’t think that’s unreasonable…
Soooooooooo, as I lay in my urine sodden state back in my tent, contemplatively considering this pleasing past piss based affair, and shaping my present reaction & consequent crafty plan of action to my most recent urethral indiscretion, I again become agonizingly conscious that the state of resignation
has never proven easy to summon at will. Certainly it comes a micro % easier when you’ve really no choice in matters, but then the efficacy of this resignation is inescapably undone by the inexorable indignation at my overall innate powerlessness, and that makes everything anything
but easy to deal with.
...using the wrong spanner since 1964...
planktonnn screwed with this post 01-22-2013 at 08:35 AM