The Master of Changes: Chapter 2

Continued from Chapter 1

It was the second day of Harry's stay in Nag Nog Creek; he already hated the place, but since he was there for good, he decided to make the best of it. He woke up early, before many of the other villagers had woken up, and he made his way to the market square. The village was veiled in blue as the sun peeked over the horizon. By the time he reached the market place, street vendors were already beginning to set up their stalls, as the birds began to chirp.

There was a bucket in the middle of the street; Harry had seen it before, but he couldn't remember where. Just as he began to walk over to investigate, he felt a hand clamp his shoulder. 'Sorry sir, employees only.' said a voice; Harry spun around to see that it belonged to a elderly man in a police uniform. His gaze met the intent stare of the man who now held him in place with the weight of his arm.
Harry stuttered, 'I-I-I was just interested in the bucket.'
'Nobody, but nobody, gets to look at the bucket, sir.' boomed the policeman who after years, half a century perhaps, of maintaining the law, seemed to have a certain calmness along with his authority.
Harry smiled at the officer, and walked slowly back to his cottage where he absent-mindedly removed his jacket and threw it in the dustbin on the way in. He dropped himself into a sofa, his eyes lost to the ceiling, and drew a finger up to his chin in contemplative thought.

Harry was one of those guys who could see potential in people, not because he knew potential, but because he could read other people who saw potential. Most unfortunately, in this case, Harry was terribly mistaken, for the people he read, were not the usual run-of-the-mill human, but like a piece of dough that has been kneaded and turned on itself many times, and wine spilled on it; these villagers had been messed up by generations of inbreeding. Harry believed that he could take Cranberry, and sell this creature back to the very people that created it, in the form of popular entertainment; Yes, television.

Cranberry Richards made for a very interesting case study. Each person is unique, that is what makes them an individual, like the ingredients and cooking times that go into baking a cake, a person like Cranberry could only be made by pure accident. He was brought up by the family dogs; his parents often neglected him because they were usually too busy having sex in the garden. It's lucky that he didn't die because the dogs themselves had been also neglected and left to fend for themselves, and they did that by hunting the local stray cats, although sometimes they happened to be domestic; Cranberry Richards never lost his penchant for cat meat, an acquired taste he would often say at the dinner table to himself.

The problem with Cranberry Richards, and everyone kind of knew it at the back of their minds, was that he was totally useless. If it were not for his daily performance, every morning, at the village market: he would not have money to go to the pet store and buy cat meat for his dinner. Aside from knowing how to prepare cat meat like no other chef in the world, mister Cranberry Richards A.K.A Jon Pickstick, had absolutely no talent.

Let me carry on this rant about Cranberry Richards, who I am starting to hate more and more as I write this. He is also someone who hates mainstream things, he likes underground stuff like outsider art and music, refusing to listen to anything else. He even finds underground a little too mainstream for his tastes, so he looks towards the outsider scene for his music collection. For this reason, and it is a very somewhat retarded reason, he carries a tape recorder in his pocket, incase he can catch someone singing in the shower or humming while doing the dishes. His last recording, and his most recent favourite, was the sound of a four year old girl singing 'London Bridge', albeit badly and messing up the lyrics. Thus, this horrid, disgusting, and little man will hate all forms of popular music, dismissing it as no good, or sometimes saying 'It sounds like the artist has no talent and is just doing it for the money.' And thus, that is why Cranberry has no skills unto himself.

The next morning, Harry sprang out of bed, not groggy eyed as usual, but with a smile so full of delight that it would have split the corners of his mouth. He hobbled down the stairs to his study and plopped himself into the leather chair which hissed as he sank into it. He grabbed the telephone handset and made several calls that morning, one of them to the mayor; he sang and whistled the rest of the day, and finally fell asleep on the sofa. That night, while the villagers slept, technicians from out of town were busy setting up cables in the street. At dawn, a box was delivered to each house in the village with a note, which read 'Please find inside this box, completely free of charge, a plasma widescreen television unit. A technician will call later to install it for you.'

When Cranberry woke up, as usual lying naked on the kitchen floor surrounded by cat bones, he lay there for a while and thought about quitting his day job. Later, he found a note in his letterbox; it was addressed to him, but the name was spelt wrongly, 'Crumbly Rickards'. He opened the note, and read it out loud and slowly to himself, stumbling on letters and sometimes rereading when he mispronounced, smiling whenever he had uncoded the word. The note read:

'Dear Mr. Rickards,

your extraordinary performance at the daily market has been brought to my attention. Perhaps, we could meet sometime to discuss whether you would be interested in appearing in your own television show.

Yours sincerely,

Harry MacMann.'

The sender had scribbled his contact details beneath the message. Cranberry tucked the note inbetween his buttcheeks for safe keeping. He then opened the front door and walked straight into a large box which he tripped over, falling onto his face, and shouting 'FUCKING BITCH!' at the top of his voice.


To Be Continued...

Bed Time Story

It was never easy growing up for me, and it’s even harder to describe the childhood I suffered. Perhaps it’s true that madness runs in our family; my father who jumped from the top floor of an office tower, and my mother whom was later committed to a mental asylum for reasons that I shall explain later.

I was no more than seven years old when my father decided to commit suicide. My mother, who was in her early thirties at the time, was two months pregnant. I have little memory of the period, apart from the funeral, where I saw my father for the last time; the mortician had done a good job in reconstructing his body. My mother, distraught with grief; her belly bulging with the dead man’s child, my future brother, beneath her dark funeral gown.

Only a ragtag assembly of my father’s friends and work colleagues showed up for his service; the only relative being his mother, my grandma. I had always assumed that since he came to the country as a migrant worker, most of his family remained overseas, perhaps knowing little of his circumstances, hence my mother received little monetary assistance in bringing us up, relying heavily on the welfare system to support us.

Fortunately, grandma decided to stay with us soon after the funeral to help mother. She was a quiet lady who kept to herself most of the time, staying in her room with the door locked. I’d often hear her sobbing and wailing; a mother dealing with the death of her only son. After several months had passed since my grandma moved in, it became apparently obvious that my mother and her did not get along.

I would often hear grandma’s screaming and shouting coming from the downstairs kitchen, in a tongue that I did not understand, and promptly afterwards as I watched from the landing, my grandma would stomp up the stairs, her face contorted and red with anger, her eyebrows furrowed so deeply that they would hide her dark beady eyes. She would walk past me, pushing me out of her path, enter her room, and slam the door loudly behind her. Then almost immediately, my mother would run up the stairs and slap me on the back of the head, taking her distress out on me.

It wasn’t long before my baby brother was born. For the first time, in a long while, my mother began to look happier. The baby slept in a cot beside my bed. Sometimes the baby would wake up during the night, and hurriedly, my mother would run into the room and take my brother downstairs to the kitchen to feed him. Soon afterwards, the screaming could be heard to settle down to intermittent cries until they eventually became quiet.

It was around this period, that my grandma would also come into the room to check on me while my mother was busy. I took the opportunity to ask her about my father; I wanted to know why he killed himself. She leant in to my face as I felt her breath against my neck and ear, her voice was raspy, uttering one word that seemed to forcefully shake my body, ‘madnessss’.

About a week later, about the same time as usual, my baby brother began crying during the night. I had gotten used to the routine, so I stayed still, but awake in my bed as I anticipated the door to open and my mother to shuffle in. Strangely, the door did not open as soon as I had expected. Strangely, the baby had stopped crying, and laying in bed I turned my head towards the cot. It was dark; the moonlit glow from the thin curtains unveiled the outlines of the cot; I saw nothing. Suddenly, a shadow which I had assumed to be a play of light, darted across the room and melded into the blackest corner.

A light bulb lit up on the landing outside my bedroom. I could make out the edges of the doorframe as light leaked into the room, the silhouette of the door swung open; the lights of my room came on. My mother screamed and then collapsed. I saw my brother’s limbs littered on the floor which was covered in blood; my mother laying in a puddle of redness. Arms and legs appeared to have been torn from the body. The torso was on the end of my bed, belly ripped open and blood still gushed from the gaping hole. His head was still attached, although it looked like his face had been savagely bitten off.

I spent the next few years of my childhood in and out of institutions, spending up to months at a time in therapy. My mother never recovered from the shock. The most curious thing was that the police were never able to solve the crime, although the incident was published in the papers and shown on television, nobody claimed to have witnessed anything suspicious leading up to the moment where the attacker broke into the house.

It wasn’t until I was in my late thirties that I decided to confront my mother about that incident. There was one small detail that constantly kept rolling around in my head and nagging me. My mother and I hadn’t discussed the incident since it happened. I went to visit her at the institution where the doctor told me that she spent her days weeping and blaming herself for having not responded to my brother’s crying sooner. The day I visited her, she appeared to be peaceful and rested, albeit a little dazed from the drugs. ‘Mother,’ I asked her, ‘there is one thing that I need to ask you.’ she gazed at me and smiled, her eyes distant. I continued, ‘What ever happened to my father’s mother, my grandma?’

Her eyeballs swung wildly towards me and she laughed with a fixed grin, ‘Silly boy, your father was an orphan, on his side, you have no grandma!’

The Master of Changes: Chapter 1

Harry MacMann, a heavily built, angry man who had a habit of smashing his clenched fist down on any nearby horizontal surface, such as a table. 'Get it fucking done!', he'd shout, his face shifting colour, almost instantaneously, to a fuschia red. He was the CEO of a medium sized television broadcasting company, and breaking desks with his fists was how things got done; well, that's how Harry initiated change; he was good at what he did and he knew it.

Having devoted several minor strokes to Eutopian Televisual Broadcasting Corporation, Harry decided that it was time to retire. He summoned his secretary into the office; he didn't use the buzzer system, instead, he chose to call her at the top of his voice, 'IRENE!!', he shouted as he looked out to the street below. Nothing, he waited, no sign of the old woman whose birthname (if she hadn't lied) was Irene. It was a large office, his desk on oneside of the room beside the tall glass window, and a span of thirty feet to the door where outside his secretary sat.

He pace up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his large puffy hands. 'IRENEEEEEEE!!', he shouted once again, this time prolonging the call until his face turned purplish red and his voice turned hoarse like a wailing donkey. He comtemplated pressing the buzzer which was right next to him, the old lady was fucking deaf, he knew that, but it wasn't good enough excuse for Harry MacMann. There was a politely quiet knock on the door, Harry took a deep breath to calm himself down, 'Come in...' he said while shaking his head, the door creaked open slowly and some trembling eyebrows peaked around it, '...it's about fucking time... bitch' he spat.

The old secretary shuffled across towards the brighter side of the room, her back arched humbly in the presence of Harry who appeared even more sinister with his shape silhouetted against the window. She sat down shakily and readied a pencil to her notepad. Harry snorted, he pulled a damp hankerchief from his pocket and rubbed it across his brows; the room was cool from the airconditioning yet he was hot from the stress of waiting for this decrepid, crumbling sack of bones to cross the room. He hated Irene because she was so old, he hated the way she was so subservient, he hated the way she dressed, he hated her with all his hatred yet he only kept her in employment because she was so obedient and also she functioned as a focus for his hate.

He stared at the old woman who looked at him, ready for dictation; she caught his eye to acknowledge her preparedness for his words, and then when he returned her gaze with an intense stare, she lowered her head as if bowing to him; he loved that, and he smiled to himself. 'Dear Diary,' he began, Irene hastily scribbled into her notepad; she wasn't the ideal secretary because dictation often made her nervous, she awaited his next word as the tip of her pencil hovered nervously over the paper. Harry turned towards the window and looked to the street which was forty-two stories below, and continued, 'I have decided to quit this fucking job, do something else. I have built this empire from scratch, working my way up from a mere coffee boy, and turning this once small company into a formidably sized profit machine.' he scratched his belly. 'I will now...', he stopped, 'delete that last part Irene!' He scratched his bottom, 'I will take my leave now, to greener pastures. Go to the countryside or something; live in a small town, or village, or something; and live off vegetables that I shall grow in my backyard or...' he coughed, '...something.'

There is a village, a strange one no doubt because its inhabitants look like each other, talk like each other, and smell like each other. Why they do, nobody knows. Although, it has been speculated by sociologists, who happened to be stranded in the village when their bus broke down on the way to a sociology convention, that the people of Nag Nog Creek (for that is the name of this quaint little village) are the product of generations of inbreeding. This village, where the people are the same, and do evil and nasty things to each other as soon as the sun has hidden itself from view, is where Harry decided to spend his retirement.

It wasn't the ideal place for Harry, he only chose Nag Nog Creek because he liked the name. He had never heard of nor seen the place until a friend of the family, a sociologist, recommended it to him as a 'great place to die'. Harry's first impression of the village was that it was too small, it reminded him of the Smurf's village, he despised the fact that he knew that, and he only knew that because his murdered pet dog used to watch that stupid show.

He had bought a cottage, not far from the village centre. The village centre was marked by a well, near the well was a blacksmiths, near the blacksmiths was a tree, on one of the branches of the tree hung a plank of wood from a pair of ropes; it was a swing; the swing was the only reason why anyone would want to go to the village centre. There was a marketplace to the east of this swing, this was where the daily life of the village was actually centred; nobody needed a well, all the buildings were fitted with running water. The only reason why anyone would go to the well would be for matters of excretion when they were caught short, or too lazy to return home to use their toilet.

It was Harry's first morning in the village. He had arrived during the night to his newly furnished dwellings, slept well, woke up with a smile, showered with a song, and then he ventured out to explore the new place. His first stop was the well, he stood next to it and looked down it's shaft into it's shadowy depths; the foul stench of faeces soared upwards and surprised his scent organs like a punch to the head, and he staggered backwards, snorting the flies that had shot up with the smell into his throat cavity. He choked, then fell down on his knees to give birth to a pile of vomit on a nearby flowerbed. After expelling the entirety of his breakfast (cereal, toast, bacon, sausages, cheese and boiled eggs), he raised himself from the ground and brushed the dirt from his trousers. He wobbled over back towards the well, this time holding his breath; pale and sweaty still, he drew a digital camera from his pocket and took a picture of himself standing next to the well.

The next stop was the market square. Harry was amused by the stalls of fruit, vegetables and other items for sale that he considered useless. Amid the stalls, was a street performance. A jester stood within the circle of a crowd; Harry shoved some small children and their grannies aside to get a better view. The jester's name was Cranberry Richards; a sixteen year old who was a highly respected entertainer within the close community. His act consisted of waving his arms crazily and screaming, 'FIRE! FIRE!' while standing perfectly still on the same spot, this would last about five minutes (unless it rained, then it would be about one minute), and then he would pull a ham sandwich from his shoulder bag and begin eating it; at this, everyone would break out in raucuos laughter. Most strangers would not understand why this was so funny, but really it was an in joke between the villagers. Since most newcomers would watch the show from the front, that is while facing Cranberry, the funny stuff happened behind him.

Harry stood, slightly crushed within the crowd, a slightly bemused look on his face as he watched this young man in his traditional jester costume proceed to eat a ham sandwich, while the crowd laughed their merry heads off. He witnessed an elderly man laugh so hard that he started coughing up blood, but nobody cared, they were too busy laughing. Young kids stood on the opposite side, behind the performer, they giggled until tears streamed down their eyes and their cheeks cramped till their little faces spasmed into unreadable, deformed expressions. If Harry had watched the spectacle from where the children were standing, they would have seen that the jester had a round hole cut into the back of his costume that revealed his buttocks. As he nonchalantly ate his ham sandwich, he would excrete into the tin bucket that he stood over making bimp, bimp, bimp sounds.

Harry thought to himself, these people are crazy! They obviously hadn't discovered television. It was true, nobody in Nag Nog Creek watched television; they never even considered it, watching young Cranberry shit into a bucket while eating a ham sandwich had always been enough in way of entertainment. Harry decided that he would introduce the people of Nag Nog Creek to the device that had made him rich, the box of dreams: television.


To be continued...

Better Good Than Money

The rich are not necessarily bad nor are the poor necessarily good; these are preconceptions that have been taught to us through folklore and fairy tales. Money does not define a person, but their heart and thoughts.

Bob Wurm was an extremely bitter man. He had spent thirty-nine years of his life working in a variety of demanding manual labour jobs, mainly kitchen, warehouse and janitor work. Now and then, he would take time off work, if not for getting laid off for incompetence, and live for months at a time on unemployment benefit. He lived in one of the poorer neighbourhoods in his city; a working class area which was populated by society's rejects: prostitutes, drug dealers, the insane, crack junkies and those who lived below the poverty line.

He lived in a small cramped single room in a shared house with eleven other occupants. Each room was as basic as it could get, unfurnished with only a mattress as a bare minimum and a hotplate for cooking on. The toilet and shower was located in a wooden hut in the back garden.

Bob did fairly well for himself considering his low wages which most would go towards paying taxes and the remainder towards food and luxuries such as cigarettes and beer. He would buy the cheapest beer and the most foul tasting tobacco. He furnished his own room with found items, mostly discarded furniture from the neighbourhood; he loved to collect and reuse, so his room was packed with secondhand items. Whenever he went out, whether on the way to work or just meandering along the streets, he'd keep his eyes open for free things.

There were so many things that Bob wanted. He wanted a cooker, for he was fed up of cooking on a hotplate. He wanted a microwave oven. He wanted a widescreen television. He wanted a surround sound speaker system. Of course, he would never find these items to take for free, yet he would never want to spend or save any money to buy these. It was for this reason that Bob envied and despised the rich, he would often call the rich, 'spoilt fools' and spit everytime he used the word 'rich'. 'It's better to be poor!' he would often tell his friends, 'I am happy being poor, because poor people look out for each other unlike the rich.'

One Sunday morning, which Bob had free; he was eating a tin of cheap baked beens while sitting on a found chair in the front garden of the house; he didn't know how to cook so he would usually just eat beans. He spied a large limousine parked along the street and began swearing, 'YOU FUCKING RICH CUNT! HOW DARE YOU PARK THAT FUCKING CAR IN THIS NEIGHBOURHOOD AND FLAUNT YOUR MONEY!' He stood up and waved his can of no brand beans at the car, 'See this! this is the shit I have to eat everyday! While you guys are enjoying your nice foods, I have to eat this crap!' and he threw the tin of beans at the vehicle but missed by several feet; the remainder of it's contents spilled onto the street. He went back inside, the sight of the expensive limousine was making him feel ill.

On the way back to his room along the hallway, he passed Joseph's room, which was once a part of the front room, and decided to bang on the door. 'Wake up Joe, wake up!' he shouted, he knew that Joseph would still be asleep since he worked the night shift as a barman on Saturday night. A few minutes later, the door opened, a groggy looking man in his early twenties stood there, eyelids half shut and brows struggling to keep them open.
'What do you want Bob?' slurred Joseph sleepily.
'Have you seen the fucking abomination parked outside Joseph?'
'Oh yeah, didn't you read the article in the newspaper?'
'I don't read fucking newspapers, they're full of shit.' spat Bob.
'Yeah, the multi-billionaire dude, Will Tate, who owns MegaSoft is dying of cancer, he's giving five million dollars to a poor person who deserves it from his home city; it's his "final good deed" before he dies.'
'He's here?' said Bob excitedly.
'No, he's sending out people to parts of the city, over a two month period, to look for someone who might be worthy of the donation.'
Bob smiled, and couldn't stop smiling, the grin pulled his face into an expression that he hadn't made since his childhood.

Bob went back to his room and gently closed the door, he giggled to himself and rubbed his dirty, blackened hands together. He couldn't help smiling, and he began to organize the contents of his room.

Over the next few weeks, Bob Wurm was seen giving away objects from his collection of found items to the neighbours. These gifts comprised of lamps, chairs, sets of plates, teapots and other functional household things. He gave the old lady, Mrs. Gray, a worn Persian rug that he had recovered from a dumpster. He offered a set of baseball cards, although of no collectors' value, to the young son of a mother who worked as a waitress in the local diner. He made sure that he wouldn't be employed during this time of his charity. It hurt him to give away these items, especially since he had spent most of his lifetime acquiring them, but he knew that it was the 'right thing' to do, for him anyway.

Oneday, there was knocking on Jim Stewart's door. A couple of well dressed gentlemen in three piece suits greeted him when he answered it. Jim looked over the shoulders of the men, and noticed a limousine parked outside; he smiled at the men for he knew why they were here; in other circumstances he would have been suspicious of anyone else who went to his house.
'Greetings sir!' said one of the men, the taller of the two.
'Hello sir!' replied Jim humbly as he had grown accustomed to behave as the door keeper of a local hotel.
'Jim Stewart?'
'Yes, that's me...' said Jim anxiously.
'We'd like to ask you a couple of questions...'
Jim nodded, 'Yes.. yes..'
'What do you think of Bob Wurm?'

Joseph sighed as he opened the wooden door to the toilet; there were urine and diarrhea stains on the seat, again. He knew full well that the person responsible for the mess was Bob because Bob was the only person that lived in the house who never cleaned up after himself; Bob also suffered from constipation and diarrhea because of his poor diet. The man had also used up all the toilet paper and hadn't refilled it, he never topped up the paper; when people asked him to buy more paper, he would say, 'I'm really sorry, I'm out of cash, I'll get it next time,' as he drank cheap beer from a six pack that he bought earlier that day. There were also cigarette butts all over the toilet floor, nobody else smoked in the house, he wouldn't pick them up either; the toilet seat was also pock marked with cigarette butt burns.

One evening, Bob had invited all the members of the household to his room. It was a tight squeeze, and some were forced to stand in the hallway. Bob had managed to save up a couple of welfare cheques to buy beer and some snacks for everyone. He told those in attendance about how the committee dedicated to selecting a receiver for the five million dollars have chosen Bob as a prime candidate; he then kindly asked his housemates if they would drop him a good word, and to reward them should he win, he would split the money twelve ways between all of them, so they would all end up being 'winners'. They agreed to Bob's plan, and they all toasted towards their probable future good fortune.

Two weeks later, the end of the two month search, the committee announced, on radio, the winner of the search for the most deserving city dweller for the prize money. 'After much deliberation, and research,' they said, 'we've found that the most deserved person of this large sum of money is,' they paused dramatically as a sample of drums rolling played, 'Bob Wurm!'

Days later, there was an official presentation in the city square, where Bob received the cheque for five million dollars, with hundreds of onlookers who applauded and cheered. A live band played music through the night and Bob was checked into a five star hotel, compliments of MegaSoft Corporation, after the festivities. His housemates never saw him again; he never returned to his room to retrieve his belongings nor to give each of them the promised share of the prize money. A few weeks later, Will Tate, the president of MegaSoft, passed peacefully away in his hospital bed.

The last thing that was heard about Bob Wurm, was that he had bought a mansion and the island on which it was located. Apparently, one of his paid financial advisors had suggested that he invest in some third world shoe-making factories; they were later taken to court on accounts of polluting the local water supplies with leather dyes and killing the fish in the lake; Bob bought the best lawyers and got away scot free to continue destroying the environment.

'So much for responsibility,' said Joseph to one of the customers at the bar as he poured them a whisky, 'yeah, I knew the guy, and I'm glad to see the last of him; men like him will never be happy with what they have; not until the whole world is on it's knees.'

Not Everyone Who Smiles is Nice

Matthew McVitey swivelled around in his chair away from the view of the city that was framed by the large floor to ceiling glass panel. He faced a long teak desk, immaculately polished and bare except for a flip-card calendar, telephone and a leather bound appointment book. He lightly caressed the buttons of the telephone before him and smiled; he then picked up the handset, his secretary answered, 'Yes Mr. McVitey?'
'Take the rest of the day off Miss Brahms, I won't be needing your services for the rest of the day.'
'Thank you Mr. McVitey!'
He then got up and casually strolled out of his office, never to be seen again.

That was one part of Mr. McVitey's life. A selfmade multi-millionaire by the age of twenty-five, owner of the nationwide McVitey chain of supermarkets and notorious benefactor of various charities.

Matt Peehole came into existence at the age of twenty-six human earth years. His personal history was vague, most of his friends came to know him when he was twenty-six. 'Ha ha, Peehole, that is an unusual name!' they would joke, 'you should perhaps change it to something less stupid!'
'I already have!' he'd reply and giggle as snot shot furiously out of his nostrils.

Matt Peehole, like his name would suggest, was a very unusual fellow. He would wake up in the morning and put on his stringed vest and cum stained father christmas boxer shorts (he called those garments his uniform, for he wore it everyday), and fill a pint glass with his own urine, and guzzle it down thirstily. Then he'd go and sit on a dirty rug in the middle of his kitchen and play guitar for a few hours before going back to bed, only waking up for food, which usually was a feast delivered from an expensive Chinese restaurant on the otherside of town.

Once, Matt had a few friends over at his moderately sized house. They partied then stayed the night. In the morning, one of his friends, a girl, caught Matt peeing into a glass and drinking it; she later fell in love with him and they started dating, her name was Emily Munchkin. 'Why do you drink your own urine, my love?' she once asked him.
Matt giggled hard until his nose expelled some mucous in the form of a spray, he wiped it with the back of his hand and replied, 'Ahhh, there are so many things that I do that don't really make much sense,' he paused and farted, 'but these are the things that make me who I am.' he burped then laughed loudly.

Emily Munchkin was the most beautiful girl in the world; men and even straight women would look at and want her; the longing would be so painful that tears would stream down their eyes and they would feel they had a glimpse of heaven. It was for this very reason, that men envied Matt; they wanted him dead.

This is the part where Joe Smith comes into the story. Joe was a computer programmer who had spent his whole life being a nerd, up until the point where computing became profitable and his company made him a millionaire.

Joe had never had it easy in life. He wasn't particularly sociable at school and therefore kept his head buried in books. He was pathetically uncoordinated at physical activities and thus resorted to computers for his gaming needs. He surrounded himself with people who were intelligent albeit considered 'geeky' or 'dorky' by the more popular and influential kids. Having said all that, he was a nice guy, back then.

When Joe became a millionaire, life changed dramatically for him. He bought himself a couple of condominiums and a large house in the suburbs; a collection of sports cars which he had always wished for as a child; and a brand new wardrobe and a fashion advisor. He was cool, no longer a nerd, with a large circle of friends who loved him. He had everything that he ever wanted, but Emily Munchkin, his childhood crush.

His obsession with Emily, had led him to hire a private detective to track her down, find out about her daily routines, who she knew and listen to her conversations. He discovered that she lived her life to a fairly regular schedule, so he decided that he would 'accidently' bump into her at her local supermarket. They did bump into each other and became friends, although Joe wanted much more but Emily wasn't interested, no matter how hard he tried to impress her by lavishing her with expensive gifts.

Emily was a very talented girl, her intelligence allowed her to learn and acquire new skills quickly. She was also very creative, an artist, singer, and poet. Joe always told Emily that they would make a good couple, with their good looks and intelligence, he said that they would make amazing babies who would go on to rule the world. Unable to see beyond her beauty and intelligence, he could never fully appreciate the creative output of Emily.
'There is more to me than my beauty and intelligence, Joe.' she would often remind him, and he would nod compliantly and smile while looking deeply into her eyes.
'Of course there is, that's why I long for you so much and it hurts!' he'd say.

When the private detective told Joe that Emily had started seeing Matt, he grabbed a vase and smashed it against the wall. His hatred could be seen boiling in his eyes, the redness in his face, his teeth and fists clenched tightly; he would have been ready to explode in fury if he was not so given in to a collected calmness that allowed him to be cunning and deceitful. He grinned, 'Matt Peehole must die!'

Joe invited Emily to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in town; she declined at first but accepted as she usually did when he became persistent and mildly annoying. 'Why do you choose to be with Matt Peehole?' he asked her when the moment seemed right (while she was busy devouring her entree), 'He is poor and lives in filthy conditions, a man who cares for you will buy you everything that you ever wanted.' She stopped chewing, looked at him as her eyebrows furrowed furiously, then spat the remnants of her mouth into his face.
'Matt is a better man than you, and always will be.' She stormed out of the restaurant and took a cab home.

'I have something to tell you Emily,' said Matt, after Emily had told him of the incident at the restaurant a week earlier, 'I used to be a real jerk.'
'What do you mean?' replied Emily, 'I could never imagine you being a jerk.'
He smiled sadly at Emily, 'I used to be a very popular guy, but I was a real jerk.'
'I still don't understand what you mean?' pleaded Emily.
'I treated people badly,' admitted Matt, 'I was a bully.'
'But, you're no longer like that anymore.' she answered.
'I was a liar and a cheat.' he began to cry.
She pulled him towards her bossom and he wept torrentially onto her sweatshirt.

That night while the couple slept, there was a noise downstairs; it woke Emily up and she went to investigate. There was nothing there, so she crept back upstairs to the bedroom. She crawled under the covers to find that they were wet and sticky, to her horror, she noticed that while she was downstairs, someone had crept into the room and slit Matt's throat, severing his life, while he was asleep.

The police never discovered who the assailant was, but they believed that it was a madman who happened to have escaped a nearby insane asylum on the same night.

Office Larry

Larry lived for his job, it defined him as a person and kept him occupied. You see, when he wasn't at work, Larry would often find himself bored. When he wasn't occupied with watching television, playing computer games, or going clubbing with his friends, he really had no idea what to do with his spare time.

He was neither an antisocial character nor an unfriendly guy, infact he had a reasonably sized circle of friends. Whenever he met up with his friends, who had little interests outside of work, they complained about their small paychecks and backstabbed each other.

Larry was more like his mother rather than his father. She was a housewife who had little ambition in her life but to marry a rich man who happened to be Larry's father. She would spend her day making visits to her friends, similar housewives, in her suburban neighbourhood and gossip about the people in her life.

Larry and his friends, if you were to meet them in their regular haunts such as expensive trendy bars and nightclubs, would most likely comment on your clothing first and foremost. They're fashionably attired people and they're also very observant about modes of dress, they'll selflessly offer a compliment or insult to your clothing.

He lived in Zisney, a country on a large continent on a planet which supports an interesting array of wildlife and landscapes. The government of Zisney oneday realized that most of it's inhabitants were like Larry. They invested a huge sum of tax payers money to fund scientists to study people like Larry. They discovered that the particular psychological makeup of these subjects inclined them to homicidal behaviour when they weren't given sufficient attention or structure in their lives.

As a result of the investigations, the government decided to turn large areas of the country into a themepark. The 'Larries' as the scientists termed them, would have their minds constantly stimulated by fun distractions to stop them from turning into psychopathic killers. Naturally, the Larries loved it! They found themselves drawn to these entertainment districts where they could watch loud explosions and people having sex on big screens; that's what Larries love, mindless sex and violence, anything else would be too taxing on their minds; not to say that they are stupid, far be it, they just choose to be that way.

I forgot to mention the other group of people, the 'Leonardos'. They were a group who did not need to be bombarded with distractions, they were a minority who had the ability to find their own ways to occupy their time, and they did it well. The Larries didn't like the Leonardos because of this fact, they thought the Leonardos strange and unusual because they didn't like the things they did which they thought that everyone should like. Ironically, most of the Leonardos work in jobs which produce things to the tastes of the Larries in order to keep them subdued and happy.

Leonardos had lives outside of their jobs, they enjoy the countryside, learning about nature and the world in general. To them, jobs were jobs, they kept their non-working life separate so they could use that time to develop themselves as creative individuals. They were easy going people, content with their lives and did not usually complain; though not completely passive, they were concerned with the infringement of their happiness by the needs of the Larries.

The themepark which was designed by the Leonardos for the Larries had one major setback, it consumed alot of natural resources, polluted the environment, and ate up the countryside with it's increasing expansion. The themepark was constantly growing in order to support the needs of the Larries whose numbers were also expanding, yet if it stopped growing there would be outrage and disorder leading to the instability of a society which had lived in symbiotic harmony for millenia.

The Leonardos were also concerned with the type of world that they were creating. Some believed that they should be trying to educate the Larries while others argued that conversion would be futile and that acceptance would be a better solution. Meanwhile, the Larries, quite oblivious to these debates, lived in a paradise that provided them a structure to prevent them from becoming extremely bored.

The biggest irony was that the Leonardos were governing the society. They wanted what was best for everyone, yet the dilemma was that they could only achieve happiness through the happiness of others. The Leonardos governed the society because they produced inventive solutions yet they did not rule it; the Larries ran the show and they were fully aware of it.

Sesame Street: Fan Fiction

Big Bird lay in bed with a slightly puzzled grin on his face, although muppets don't have access to the wide range of facial expressions as humans do, they're usually inclined to be either happy, angry, puzzled, or all of them simultaneously. Today, Big Bird was confused, but he didn't know exactly why. Maybe, it had something to do with the smeared faeces that formed the word 'happy' on his ceiling. He sat up in bed and shook his head as if attempting to shake ants from his ears. Suddenly, he became overwhelmed with a portentious realization and he spoke out loudly to himself, 'I live in Sesame Street, I should be happy!', he smiled then continued, 'Here is a place where I can be myself, do whatever I want, and have fun!' He bounced out of bed, went downstairs, and on the way out, grabbed a meat cleaver from his kitchen.

Half way down the street, Big Bird suddenly stopped, 'Whoops!' he chirped, 'silly ole me, I forgot to do something before I left the house!' He strode leisurely back to his house while whistling the Sesame Street theme tune, unlocked the front door and marched straight through the house to the living room where Snuffleupagus was snoring loudly on the sofa. The creature that resembled a mammoth that's had its DNA resequenced wrongly too many times stirred as the deformed giant yellow bird shook it to consciousness. Eventually, Snuffleupagus slowly drew open his eyes in time to see a meat cleaver come down in between them and embed itself into his skull. 'Oh you silly elephant you!' said Big Bird affectionately while stroking the mammoth's head which was still quivering in a semi-fit. He pinned Snuffleupagus's head with a large foot and retrieved the weapon.

He left his house again, this time he didn't bother to close the front door behind him because he knew that he wouldn't be coming back. 'I'm going to kill all muppets on this street but keep the humans alive so I can torture them!' he told himself, and then forced himself to cry but he couldn't help laughing intermittently as he did so.

At this point, the author finds it difficult to continue this story...

BIG BLACK DOG: Chapter III: The Stoopid Bitch

Read Chapter II

Andrea had lied to her husband, Marcus, but that was wasn't any new surprise; she did it all the time. She told him that she would not be home till late because of a work conference, that was an utter and blatant bloody lie, the believability of which depended on her husband's gullibility for such things; especially since he knew very well that she was unemployed. He was a fool, she knew that, and she kept him that way by keeping him on a diet of split-pea soup mixed with laxatives and sedatives. She smirked to herself, thinking about how that stupid bumbling idiot would be at home lulling back and forth between sleep and wakefulness and stumbling around the house in a dazed confused state.

It was five O'clock in the afternoon. Andrea had spent the day walking around the shopping mall to look for some enticing lingerie to impress her lover, Mr.Braxton, her canine lover. She could not decide whether to buy the lacy transparent brief, bra and suspender set, so she stole it by stuffing it into her handbag and briskly walking out of the store; she got away with it, but the excitement of the theft had left the panties that she wore soaked with urine. She found a ladies washroom, and changed out of the wet underwear into her newly acquired prostitute style bedwear. On the way out of the washroom, she tossed her urine stained panties into a rubbish bin next to the exit. She smiled to herself as she minced her way to the carpark and to her husband's orange Ford Capri Turbo.

She had arranged to meet Daniel MacCleaver at his house on the other side of town, the ghetto area where only the poorest, dangerous, and stupidly ignorant lived. He had called her the night before, just as she had mixed the sedatives into her husband's food. When she picked up the phone, she addressed him as 'Doris' incase her husband was listening in:
"What's so urgent, Doris?" she asked.
"Uh, I'm not Doris, it's me Daniel."
"Yeah, I know, just be cool with it okay?"
"I don't want to be Doris."
"Listen, I'm taking precautions." she said with a slight hint of annoyance leaking into her voice.
"What ever do you mean?"
"I'M CALLING YOU DORIS INCASE MY HUSBAND IS LISTENING IN ON OUR CONVERSATION AND I DON'T WANT HIM TO KNOW!!" she shouted into the receiver.
"Oh, alright then, I'll be okay being called Doris."
She sighed, "What's so blinking urgent that you have to call me at this hour, it's five past midnight; one should never call during the witching hour..."
Daniel paused, she heard him take a deep breath and exhale slowly as he prepared himself to deliver the message, "I'm onto something big, come over tomorrow afternoon and I'll show you. This will blow your mind..."
They said nothing more, a silent mutual agreement to both put down their receivers and continue with sleep. Andrea found her husband asleep in the bathtub, the water level just beneath his nostrils, a little higher and he would have drowned; she left him in there and went to bed with Mr. Braxton.

She arrived at Daniel's house at about twenty three minutes past five O'clock. There was no need to knock since the front door was broken and hanging on a single hinge, it could have snapped and fallen down any minute; but it wouldn't have killed anyone since it was really a laminated piece of styrofoam board sandwiched between two pieces of single layer plywood. The floor was covered in dust, broken glass, bits of chipped gypsum, and torn pages from various pornography magazines. Daniel was in the living room, reclined with his eyes shut on the only piece of furniture in the room, an old ragged worn couch.
"Wake up Daniel, it's me Andrea!" shouted Andrea.
Daniel stirred, moaned and his eyes slowly opened. "Hey," he answered sleepily as he rubbed his eyes, "I was just meditating." He sat up on the sofa, his head dangled between his shoulders, and he rubbed his eyes once again.
"So what was so urgent that you had to call me in the middle of the night?"
Daniel stood up, he was a short thin man, with a large beard and extremely large eyes. He scratched his chest beneath his t-shirt which read 'Bantam Banana Boat Race Championship'. "Come this way!" he pointed to a doorway into the next room, and shuffled slowly towards it. Andrea followed.

The room was naturally well lit, it had a sink, a refridgerater, and a small round table with a couple of chairs. Above the counter were a row of windows which looked out to an overgrown and weedy garden. Daniel bent down upon his knees, and pulled out what appeared to be a small wooden chest from beneath the table. Andrea stood back as he dragged the box into the centre of the room. He looked up at Andrea as he placed his thumbs over the latches, "This is going to blow your brain!". He released the latches and flicked the top of the chest open. Andrea leant over, she looked inside the box and gasped.

to be continued...

BIG BLACK DOG: Chapter II: The Grass is Always Greener Fullstop

Read Chapter I

"Must stay awake..." slurred Marcus as he sleepily stirred his split-pea soup on the stove. His wife, Andrea, had left a tin of split-pea soup on the kitchen counter with a scrawly note informing Marcus that she would be home late because of a work conference, and she hoped that it would be enough food to last him till midnight.

Marcus was a tall man, a retired body builder, although his muscles had atrophied from lack of use; he was a lean albeit slightly flabby fellow. His body was smooth and white with little definition, supported on a couple of legs that looked like kitchen towel rolls. He constantly yawned as he fought to stay awake. Marcus and Andrea, once went to see a doctor about his lethargy, the doctor could find nothing wrong and dismissed the problem as a combination of laziness and malnutrition.

Marcus stirred the soup, his eyes drooping as he watched the green mush swirl psychedelically in the rusty pan. He yawned as a pearly string of drool fell from the corner of his mouth into the soup which he stirred in. "Must stay awake!" he moaned as his head wobbled to and fro as it struggled to find a point of balance upon his neck. "Fuck it!" he swore, he turned off the stove top and wandered to the living room where he collapsed face down onto the sofa.

He woke up about three hours later, he looked at the clock, one o'clock in the afternoon; he never ever bothered to look at where the minute hand was, it was too much effort. He suddenly noticed that he was lying on top of a black furry object. He leaped up, as if in slow motion. After standing and swaying for a few minutes for his head to stop spinning, it gradually became clear to him what he had been sleeping on. His most fulfilling and deepest nap ever, had been on his wife's pet and live-in lover, Mr. Braxton, the overgrown black poodle which resembled an ape rather than a canine.

Marcus stared at the dead creature which was sprawled and flattened like a cheap dollar store rug across the leather sofa. It's neck was twisted awkwardly to oneside, tongue hanging out, and eyes drawn towards an invisible void that was an eternity away. "They don't make 'em how they used to!" joked Marcus to himself. His vision was already beginning to blur, he knew that he didn't have long to act before his body would once again helplessly fall into a bottomless slumber, he had to hide Mr.Braxton's corpse before his wife returned home. After a few seconds deliberation, for he had learnt to think quickly due to his condition, he decided to cut the body up, cook it, and eat it.

Mr.Braxton was an old sinewy poodle. The kitchen knife that Marcus used to dismember the dog was bought at Mr. Patel's Dollar Mart, a nine and three quarter inch poorman's steel blade with 'made in China' proudly emblazoned on it's edge; the flimsy plastic handle was already splitting apart along the seams. He stuck the knife into the neck, he was determined to remove the head first. Just as the tip of the blade made contact and slid into the flesh, the dog suddenly sprang to life and began thrashing it's limbs about! Marcus cursed to himself, he should have known better and checked if the creature was actually dead first. Too late, he thought to himself, because the animal was now wounded, he had to finish off the job. He pulled the knife across Mr. Braxton's neck, severing the spinal cord, and the dog stopped moving.

The flurry of activity had left Marcus drained of energy. He took a succession of short rapid shallow breaths to recover from the action, his head slumped towards his chest. After a moment, he forced his head back up, and continued sawing off the dog's head. Half-an-hour later, the animal was laying in pieces on the kitchen floor. Hurriedly, Marcus turned on the oven, and haphazardly threw the lumps of flesh into it. As soon as the oven door was closed, the acrid smell of burning hair filled the room. The weakened Marcus staggered to the cabinet in the adjacent room where there were freshly laundered towels. He grabbed a bundle and crawled back on his hands and knees to the bloody kitchen floor, and dumped the clean white towels to absorb the puddle of blood. He lay upon the red towels panting and closed his eyes.

The room was full of thick billowing smoke; the smoke alarm had woken him up. He stood up and opened the door which led into the backyard. The smoke quickly vacated the room and the alarm ceased to sound. Marcus looked at his watch, twenty minutes had passed since he closed his eyes. He glanced at the split-pea soup on the stove, his stomach growled hungrily; he needed to replenish his energy before it was too late. Mr. Braxton hadn't been in the oven for very long, but Marcus's digestive tract demanded food like a spoilt child, it drove him to take the uncooked dog from the oven and put it on the kitchen table. He drew a chair and dropped himself shakily upon it. He picked up the dog's thigh, it wasn't even hot, the skin was scorched, but the flesh was only warm. He bit into it and savagely tore shreds off the bone with his teeth, chewing and swallowing as if he'd been starved for weeks.

Half-an-hour later, Marcus was mowing the lawn; he hadn't felt this much energy in a long time, not since before he met Andrea. He felt empowered, a new lease of life was surging through his veins like a lethal bolt of lightning. What remained of Mr. Braxton, or the parts which hadn't been eaten by Marcus, had been buried beneath a square patch of grass. He smiled as he mowed that patch, making sure that he stomped it down properly as he passed over it. At that moment, at the corner of his eye, he saw his next door neighbour Jason stick his head out of the window. The noise of the lawnmower was overbearingly loud so he could not hear what his neighbour was saying, Marcus waved and continued to cut the grass.

to be continued...

BIG BLACK DOG: Chapter I: The Naughty Man and His Bloody Rabbit

Before Jason went to bed each night, he would stand naked in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom and breathe deeply in and out. He would suck the air in, expanding his chest, thrusting his ribcage forwards and upwards, then slowly exhale as his belly gradually sagged. He did this for five hours, then he would sleep for three hours and wake up.

It had been his birthday three weeks ago. He had dreamt of running through a poppy field with his pet rabbit, Buster, by his side; leaping across small pebbly rivulets and dancing with the butterflies. When he awoke in the morning, he found himself covered in blood; he had accidently rolled over Buster while sleeping, causing the rabbit's guts to squirt out of it's arse and make a mess on the sheets.

His first reaction had been one of shock. Buster had been his pet and best friend for three years, and now the creature that Jason confided in - lay there, stiff and hard from rigor mortis. He stared at Buster for a few minutes, feeling guilty and slightly nauseous. He stroked the soft fur of his dead rabbit for a few seconds while humming the lullaby that his mother used to sing to him when he was a child. A tear ran down his cheek, some snot slid along the curve of his pout and he unconsciously licked it away.

He got up off the bed. 'Alright then, I have to clean up this silly mess,' he said to himself in a matter of factly manner, 'ho hum, just killed my pet rabbit, yeah just killed my pet rabbit... all I have to do now, is scoop this silly mess up, yeah scoop this mess up.' He grinned and stared at the rabbits intestines that looked like big slimey worms on the white sheets. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as he did so, he inadvertently sucked some saliva into his lungs which made him cough uncontrollably. He looked into the mirror and wiped spittle from his chin with the back of his forearm.

'Okay,' he said as if to steady himself, 'must remove the dead rabbit...' He returned to his previous position by the bedside and took a deep breath, this time it was a successful inhalation without any mishap. He bent down slowly, lowering his upper body to level his chest against the top of his mattress. He reached forward, firmly grabbed the intestines and pulled, adhered to the sheets with blood and pus; they made a peeling sound as they slowly separated from the cotton fabric. Jason smiled. The end of the intestines remained attached to the inside of the rabbit, he held the torso down while he gave the innards a quick tug and something tore inside releasing the string of intestines.

Jason examined the intestines. One end was shiny and slippery, while the rest was dry and sticky. He brought the guts up to his nose and sniffed. It smelt rabbity. At that moment, he had a sudden flashback of a biology lesson in school; he was with his best friend Jeanine Farrow at school working as a pair to dissect a frog. The teacher Mr. Humphries had shown the class the order in which he wanted the students to cut up the frog, 'Slice it down the middle, and pull open the flaps of skin...'. Jason and Jeanine were both holding scalpels; he had been too squeamish to cut the frog's skin so he stood there gripping the blade loosely while he watched Jeanine turn the frog onto it's backside.

Jeanine moved her little finger over the frog's genitals. 'Look, it has a little weiner!' Jason looked, and saw that the frog did indeed have a penis. He smiled. Suddenly, Jeanine violently slapped her left hand over the top half of the frog and with a rapid sawing motion with the scalpel, sliced the frog's penis off. The little piece of flesh fell onto the wooden work top and rolled to a stand still. Jeanine giggled and picked up the frog's reproductive organ between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, dangling it before Jason's eyes. She suddenly grabbed his head and forced the piece of frog into his ear canal.

He was deaf in one ear! He tilted his head to oneside and smacked his palm against his head, hoping to dislodge the foreign body that now resided within his ear canal. It didn't move. While he attempted to scrape the object from his ear, he watched Jeanine pick up the scalpel and repeatedly stab the frog in the chest and stomach. Bloody juice sprayed from it's stomach. She repositioned the scalpel within her hand and proceeded to randomly slice the frog's limbs off, first it's finger and toes, then at the elbows and knees, and finally at the shoulders and hips. She then started slashing the frog diagonally, half it's head came off, then across it's torso, it's innards blossoming outwards like a flower in springtime as her blade opened it's body.

Jason snapped out of his daydream. He didn't enjoy recalling that memory from his childhood which he had pushed to the back of his mind, hoping that it would eventually disintegrate from neglect. He looked at the body of Buster. 'It's just a dead rabbit,' he said loudly but monotonously to himself, 'Hello Buster! how are you today? would you like some breakfast?' He angled his head coquettishly and fluttered his eyelids as he stifled a girlish giggle. 'Oh my god! Oh my god!' he yelled as his hand grabbed Buster's dead body, and peeled him off the bed sheets. He lifted Buster into the air and held the corpse above his head, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, 'I will always love you Buster...'

An ambulance siren screamed past his house then faded away into the background of his next door neighbour's lawnmower engine noise. He looked at the clock; two thirty-six in the afternoon. He stood up, as he dropped his arms so he held the rabbit before his face. He brought the rabbit to his nose, and took a sniff... 'Phewwwww!!', he shouted angrily, 'you stink of fucking shit!' and pushed the rabbit away from his nose. He stared at Buster and smiled, 'Hehehe, you're dead Buster, I killed you while I was dreaming, it was a good dream.' He catapulted Buster into the air and caught him, he did it again, on the second journey upwards, Buster's body ricocheted off the ceiling with a dull thud and the stiffened limbs snapped and unlocked themselves. The body landed in his hands, 'Ha ha ha, you're dead!'

Jason, tired from all the action, decided to collapse onto his bed on top of the red stain where the rabbit was. He tossed the limp body onto the floor and grabbed the remote control from his bedside table, and clicked the television on. He surfed the channels for awhile before settling on the Music Television Channel, Aerosmith's 'Love in an Elevator' video was playing; he sang along. During the song, he kept increasing the volume; at one point, the neighbours were banging on the wall in complaint but he did not hear them. The song finished, and he turned the television off. He had forgotten about Buster, but he caught a glimpse of the rabbit's foot from the edge of his bed. He sighed, and sprang out of his bed to pick up the rabbit again.

He pressed Buster's behind against his face and inhaled the pungent stench of death. 'Mmmmmmm, you smell so good!' he screamed, then licked Buster's face. He placed Buster's body on the bed to open the bedroom window. The air was fresh, and it was sunny outside, his neighbour was mowing the front lawn, he called out to him, 'Hey Marcus!', Marcus looked up and waved, 'Guess what?' shouted Jason hoarsely, 'My fucking rabbit died!' and put on a sad frown, the edges of his mouth twitching as if trying not to break out laughing. He brought his head in, paused, and stuck his head out once more to shout at the top of his voice, 'MY FUCKING DEAD FUCKING RABBIT. IT SMELL SOOOOOO GOOOOOOOD!', then slammed the window shut.

Jason tore his pyjamas off as if they were on fire. He grabbed the rabbit and stood naked before his full length mirror. He laughed, 'I am possessed by Buster!' he whispered to his reflection, 'I do not know what has come over my poor little self!' He laughed hysterically, almost insanely. His breathing became erratic and he stared at his glazed pupils in the mirror. He watched himself lift Buster's body towards his open mouth, teeth coming down into the flesh of the creature and biting a chunk off. Blood streamed down his chin and neck while fur protruded from his mouth. He began chewing with a big grin on his face. With his mouth still full, he shouted, 'I AM FUCKING EATING MY FUCKING DEAD FUCKING PET FUCKING RABBIT!'. Blood sprayed from his mouth onto the mirror as he spoke. He had an erection.

to be continued...

Cherry Retreat (part II): The Missing Chapter

Read Part I here

In response to the advert that I had discovered while perusing through old newspapers while folding origami monkeys, I dialled the telephone number supplied. A secretary forwarded my call to Nathan Cherry who provided me with further details; the gathering was to be held at over the following weekend at The Mickey Barnes Institution.

The six hour drive to the retreat was boring and uneventful. I drove over a couple of baby hares, a frog and three-medium sized hedgehogs. The only stop I made was at Minney's Inn, a small motel and restaurant erected just off the mainroad. I ordered an apple pie, a packet of crisps and a fried banana which promptly ejected itself from my stomach ten minutes after ingestion into a diarrhea stained toilet bowl.

The Mickey Barnes institution was a dark foreboding five storey building that stretched menacingly along one arm of the forest which it bordered. It was raining as if the gods had abandoned this place to hell's lavatory, so I parked the car beneath a tree and trudged across a muddy grass verge onto a gravel sidewalk towards the entrance.

I entered the reception area via a pair of large wooden doors. Sitting at the desk was a lady, her beautiful soft hair and doe-like eyes caught my attention, and her lips were beautiful like... Arrrggghhhh, I fell over; for whatever reason, my legs had suddenly wobbled and collapsed beneath me like molten rubber. I crawled upon my hands, putting each one down in succession with a loud slap on the cold tiled floor, dragging my legs behind me. By the time I got to the desk, I found that I could stand up again; the strange affliction disappeared as quickly as it had seized me.

She stared at me wide-eyed.
'Hi!' I said in a high pitched voice, 'I'm here for the Nathan Cherry retreat.'
She looked at me as her face betrayed a smirk then asked for my name which she put in the computer, 'Ah, I see, Nathan has you listed as a visitor, proceed to the second floor to the common room, number two-oh-one, he'll be joining you shortly.' I thanked her and ran towards the elevators at full speed, almost tripping over a teddy bear that had been abandoned on the floor..

I hurriedly pressed the switch, nothing happened, with lightning fast reflexes I pushed the button once again -click. I started jogging on the spot as I watched the spots beneath the floor numbers light up in sequence on the display over the lift doors. Some mechanisms could be heard scraping, eventually a clunk. The doors glided open and I sprinted into the small space, bouncing off the back wall and falling onto the floor.

Meanwhile, on the second floor, what delight must have greeted the residents of that level as a fully grown male man sprinted out of the elevator doors. The sound of the elevator ping like the starting gunshot for an athletic race, I ran out of that elevator as fast as a turd pops out of an overstrained anus hole.

So I sat on a sofa in the common area. Some people were gazing at the television, while others were just gazing. To my horror, I suddenly realized that all the heightened activity had left my body sticky with body secretions, otherwise known as sweat. The first part of my body to suffer was my bottom, the crevice in between the bossom of my bony butt. My Y-fronts had absorbed an immense ammount of sweat and slowly crept inbetween my butt cheeks like a panther crawls into a cave to take cover from the rain. I pinched the bottom of my Y-fronts through my trousers, and plucked it from my arse... relief.

After a long wait of about two minutes, a nurse wheeled a man into the room. I instantly recognized him from a photograph in the advert as Nathan Cherry, the founder and owner of the Nathan Cherry Retreat. I stood up and greeted him, shaking his hand vigorously and smiling as if we had both created the world that day. He looked at me, then looked at the ceiling, then looked at the floor, then looked at me once again, 'Oooh, you're tall!' he commented, 'have you got the five hundred bucks?' I handed him the crumpled wad of five dollar bills in payment for the weekend.

Nathan's nurse wheeled him right up to my face after I had reclined to a state of comfort on the sofa, it put me into an abrupt state of alertness as the short figure in the chair invaded my personal space; I dared not say a word. I hadn't realized how dark the room actually was until he had been manoeuvered beneath the incandescence of the standing lamp, then I could see his features clearly. Nathan, looked like a baby; he held the five hundred dollars with little stubby fingers as he flailed his legs up and down, striking the heels of his feet against the frame of his chair.

I stared at Nathan, he stared back. He then looked up towards the ceiling, stopped as if something had caught his eye, then nodded his head down to look at the floor, staring straight through me as I entered his field of vision. This seemed to go on for some time. Finally, after about an hour that seemed like five minutes, he spoke, 'What are you?'

'I am a human.' I replied, but not before licking my lips and blinking my eyelids. I took a deep breath in anticipation of his reply.

Snot dribbled from his nostrils, 'I am a human too.' He spoke slowly to me as if I were deaf, but he clapped his hands excitedly before he continued, 'Where are you from?'

I paused. For the first time in my life, I could not remember where I was from. My whole life seemed to have been erased from my memory. I could feel my face redden, and heat radiated from my cheeks, making my eyes slightly watery. I tried again, 'I'm from...' I stopped, and stared at Nathan. He looked up at the ceiling once again, held his eyes there then looked down at the floor again. The elevator pinged, I felt the urge to run into them as the doors opened, but Nathan's chair was blocking my way. I began to tremble uncontrollably.

I looked at Nathan's helper, the nurse who had wheeled him into the room; it was the same woman who I had spoken to in the reception downstairs, although she had looked vaguely familiar before. Suddenly, everything became clear to me; she was my wife, Nathan was my child, I was his father.

Cherry Retreat (part I)

Something was wrong with me, I didn't know what. 'What's wrong with you?' asked the visitors to my room before they promptly left me standing alone with my head bowed.

The floor of my bedroom was covered with origami monkeys of different paper colours. Wherever I walked, the monkeys would cling to my socks. I kicked them, and they would climb onto my bed in retreat; I didn't sleep on my bed, I stopped sleeping. I nibbled my way through boxes of sugar coated breakfast cereal throughout the days and nights as I became obsessed with making paper monkeys.

Oneday, I ran out of origami paper. I had originally bought fifty packets of paper, each one containing fifty smooth multicoloured sheets. I didn't feel like going to the store again, the sales girl would not look me in the eyes when I made the purchase; her face twitched nervously whenever I was close to her. I didn't care what she thought; I didn't care for hygiene or appearance; I hadn't bathed for a couple of weeks. I wanted to fold paper monkeys, so I raided the neighbour's recycling bin for paper; I took a stack of old newspapers and magazines.

I cut squares from the found paper, discarded the images and used the text only; the pictures distracting. The monkeys were grey and miserable, the thinness of the paper made them flimsy and fragile.

A couple of days later, as I greeted the page of a magazine with a pair of scissors, an advert caught my attention. It read:

Nathan Cherry Retreat

Worried, stressed, anxious or confused?... Then come join us in the beautiful countryside of the peaceful Toronto outskirts. Nathan Cherry has all the answers for a healthier and happier life.


To be continued...

Words

Words become magical when you speak them from your heart.

On the Brink of Disaster

Peak Oil - Global Economic Collapse scheduled for 2020


Links:

Peak Oil, Life After the Oil Crash

Video: Peak Oil: Gas Prices, Oil Supply Depletion & The New Energy Crisis: SUMMARY

Video: Crude Awakening: Peak Oil & The End of Cheap Energy: Part 1 by Tim Hudson

Google: Peak Oil

Independance and Freedom

It often amuses me how people are so vehemently against Capitalism, yet they continue to support the integrity of the system by opting to be a part of it.

They complain of being constantly tired from being overworked, leading unfulfilled lives and how corporations continue to screw up the world.

And they will continue to defend Capitalism although they disagree with it by saying things like:

'We have to work, to maintain society and order.'
'I could not afford the luxuries of life, if I did not earn money.'
'I need to be a part of the system in order to put food on the table.'

...etc, etc.

We talk about equality yet we continue to want to uphold a system that is not fair. We want the homeless off the streets, yet we want to further our careers and be at the top of the professional ladder, because we fear being homeless ourselves. We have worked hard all our lives and we don't want to lose it, therefore we don't want to fall into poverty, yet we continue to create poverty by the very intention of not wanting to be poor.

Why are we taught to look at poverty in disgust? It's offensive to our nature. We fear that the system will not look after us, and it won't. The crisis of our times, is that the economy will eventually collapse, as more people go into retirement and there is less of a younger workforce to replace and support them. The government cannot promise to look after the elderly, and the young are too busy working long hours to care for them.

Would you really miss your television if you don't have one? Do you opt for freedom or slavery? Do you prefer love over judgement? When will you leave what is comfortable for you?

If enough people get together who have the same beliefs and philosophies, it's possible for them to become independant from the system. The idea of creating a commune where a group can be self-sufficient and live off the land was an idea that was prominent in the 60s. A movie like, 'Easy Rider', and 'The Matrix' both convey the same message. They appeal to people, yet they don't affect people to alter their own lives and be in control.

A commune is not a group of religious fanatics. It is a collective of people who want self-sufficiency and independance of tax and government. How I might suggest that it could be implemented, the seeds of change sown into a culture that has been feudal and capitalist for so long, is that the retirees can come together and buy land. Fruit and vegetables can be grown on this land, worked by those of the community. The elderly of the community won't have to worry about pension or care, since the young will have the time to support them.

So what I am proposing, is a system that can co-exist within an existing system, that allows people that believe in freedom to live together. This commune, can support the homeless and whoever wants to be a part of it. It works because people are not inherently selfish, selfishness and greed are values taught to us by the system that created us. We're naturally social beings, will naturally work together for the benefit of the group and help each other.

I have heard about systems like this working in England, although the self-sufficiency may vary, it depends on the group of individuals to decide. For example, there is a large mansion which has been bought by a collective of people and divided into smaller rooms. It works by joint ownership, and is wholly owned by the group. Those who live there, are free from extortionate rents, have a place for life, and the freedom to support the community in any way they want. There are those who choose to farm on the property, and those who continue to work their everyday jobs. It has been running for several generations, to the point where nobody owns the property, and new people are accepted into the community upon the basis of what they can contribute to it.

If we want equality, we must support it by action. It starts with our own lives; not other peoples'. To be self sufficient means to be able to not support those large corporations whose aim it is to control our lives, and rather take care of the poor by taking them out of the system that they depend on so much to be able to survive. If enough people support freedom, then the economy will eventually collapse, with government following, and then we can all live in a happier world where we can live the way that humans were meant to live. Less pollution, creativity, better environment, less waste and getting in touch with the roots of culture.

It sounds all very naive, and many people will say, 'Ahhh, that will never work.' but it starts with a dream, and faith in that dream. There are many who are too fond of their lifestyles, and they cannot give it up for the greater good of equality and happiness. However, if you are on the career path ladder for riches, you will continue to make people your slaves, and thus continues the cycle of unhappiness. Capitalism supports unhappiness because it can then sell us the things that we're conditioned to think make us happy. Happiness is simple really, it's appreciating the simple things in life.

I have money to invest in starting such a commune, if anyone wants to join me? Let's take a leap to become free and free others.

Here's some links you might find interesting:
http://www.creativeideasforyou.com/commune_land.html
http://www.creativeideasforyou.com/commune_land.html#Links%20to%20Communities%20from%20F.I.C.

The Ducks

There's a wall made of ducks.

Floating in the skies, high above the mountains, into the darkness that is on the edge of Earth's protective atmosphere, is an island. The island is a huge circular plate that revolves slowly. It has a lake, it's own land masses, shores and vegetation. The lake sits in the middle of the island and creates the island's own atmosphere.

Multicoloured ducks glide across the lake. Silver fish with mirror like scales dart to and fro beneath the surface. When a breeze stirs, it causes the reeds to shake and make the sound of tubular bells. There is no other life on the island but a large pair of disembodied hands whose job is to look after the place.

Every now and then, the large pair of hands, will pluck a stone from the golden sand of the lake's shores and toss it into the water. Crystal drops of water splash upwards, and as they land, they form more ducks and fish; making a soft popping as they do.

On one side of the island is a wall of ducks. The hands will come together to form a cup, carefully scoop a duck from the lake and carry it across the island to stack it on the wall. They are squished into position after being petted, they aren't hurt, nor do they complain. This structure is vibrant with the colours of the rainbow, you cannot discern the ducks from a distance.

Miracles

"There are two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle."

Albert Einstein

Truth

Truth

She wants to speak to me,
But I do not want to listen,
She speaks angrily,
But that is not her message,
She makes me angry,
That is not what she wants;
I do the opposite.

This is my relationship with her.
My emotions blind me,
they make me deaf.
I cannot see beyond her face,
she does not want me to see;
yet she is beautiful.
I am reacting.

She is the attraction,
and she is the distraction.
She is a lie, but she is the truth.
I know myself through her.
She leads me astray
Because I follow her
but do not listen.

When I see her, she disappears,
She makes me aware
That she is not there,
That is how she speaks,
That is her language,
That is why -
I want to know her.

The Letter

The Letter

The Letter is crisp and infinite,
I love the Letter,
I cherish the Letter.
The Letter smells good.
The words in the Letter are beautiful.
The Letter reads like silky petals.

I hold the Letter to my heart,
I love the way the Letter folds and unfolds.
I don’t want to let go of the Letter.
The words are evocative and truthful;
They are lying and deceitful.

Another wrote the Letter,
In another time, in another language.
The day I received the Letter,
I feared to open it.
When I opened it I loved it, I hated it,
I despised the Letter.

I, we, them wrote the Letter,
I forgot who made the words,
The sender wants a response,
I love the Letter,
The words are disappearing,
Time for a reply.

Understanding the Machine

A cog within a machine can only wander so far before the machine stops working. Therefore a cog can never see the machine as a whole, but only the pieces around it.

Can something which has never been a part of the machine be integrated into it?

Consciousness

There are a myriad of worlds or realities where we all exist. There are an infinite number of combinations for how each world is made up. Consciousness is a view point. It is a perspective. We choose our consciousness, and there is only one, we can only have one. It moves through each reality by its actions.

What is consciousness? consciousness is what we see as the everyday world. Our actions determine our perspectives, it determines our life. We are everything that consciousness embodies. It is a vehicle that moulds it's path and everything around it.

Experience is a form of currency within the universe. Experience can be exchanged to either make ones life better or to make it worse. Most consciousnesses decide that they want to use their experience to make more experience. Experience solidifies those things that appeal to our senses.

The types of experience that we choose, will affect our senses. By altering our experience, we alter our senses. By altering our senses we are able to step outside and take a look at our lives and change it for the better.

In all the worlds, we are given the choice. We are free to experience and earn that experience. Experience is also power, so it can be easy to be addicted to it. We should use our experiences to make it better for everyone.

Experience is also a form of energy that can be converted to different forms. It takes shape in different concepts but usually in the form of desire. Desire keeps us rooted to a reality and maintains it. To remove desire, we are able to allow our experience to free us.

Consciousness does not realize it's freedom. It can choose to be 'good' or 'bad'. Those are concepts that are subjective to the consciousness and are determined by the ego. Ego is a part of consciousness, it is the anchor of consciousness and keeps it rooted into realities. It allows us to experience our desires.

Desire is not always pleasant. Desire can take the form of self-hatred and self destructiveness. With our experience, we should not choose desire, we should choose to alter our reality. Desire feeds the ego, the anchor, which keeps us grounded in that reality, until that reality become over laden with desires. The greater the desires, the more grounded the ego.

Without ego, the consciousness is able to move freely through the world configurations and find a reality which is more apt towards it's goals. The ultimate goal of consciousness is to achieve freedom from the worlds. The type of worlds in which we move through, at the lowest level, is called Earth. That is how we understand it.

Once we understand that the monetary value of the lowest level is not money, but experience, and that the experience can be used not to feed ego with desire, but to enable us to swim through the constructs of reality.

We are conscious beings, and that consciousness refers to everything that it knows as life. Life is a term that exists on different levels. It can only be understood as a process of doing things. Everything is a part of life, even death. Death is also desire, because desire is related to conformity, the ego tastes conformity in desire when it absorbs it.

Consciousness exists in other beings. Some people do not have consciousness because their egos have grown too large from fear and therefore has swallowed up their consciousness. They become illusions that have little power to escape until someone gives them experience to free themselves if they want to.

Life is working these things out. The consciousness has been given the freedom to understand this and release itself. Ego allows the consciousness to remain rooted within realities.

On different levels, consciousness works or even appears different. At the lowest level of reality, the consciousness is perceived as many others, other people, objects, animals, but at the highest level, the consciousness is felt as one. Therefore consciousness itself can be moved through. The conscious levels start with many (time exists), then it will be the people who are with you at the moment (time ceases to exist at this point), one person who you will talk to (the other, like a spirit guide), eventually there is one (you are the whole consciousness).

Once one has entered the whole consciousness, this is the place where actions are decided, and the consciousness can decide where to go from there, although it is limited by ego, it is also the place where ego can be eliminated. Once ego has been removed while you are wholely conscious, your perspective will change, it is like cutting the string of a helium balloon and allowing the wind to carry it into the skies so that everything is visible.

Consciousness is able to work at different levels, actions performed on the highest level affect the lower levels. The lowest level is our everyday existence. At the highest level of consciousness, it is a thought action, at the lowest level, it is physical action. Major life changes can be altered at the highest level.

These are things that we all should know but have forgotten, so we have to keep reminding ourselves. I write this as a mid-level thought action to affect change in the direction that my higher consciousness has seen fit and laid out for me. You can bring desire to higher consciousness, but not the other way around, memory is a form of desire, so the thoughts of higher consciousness can not be recalled by lower consciousness.

I hope to refine this; hope it makes sense.

A Society that Judges

We are all trained to be judges. We live in a society which is based upon judgement. If we did not judge others, then the world would be a better place.

People judge based on fear of the unknown. They must overcome their fear and be willing to be subjected to the unknown to understand the source of their own prejudices.

Society is diverse. People come from different backgrounds, behave and look differently. We have to learn to accept them, because without acceptance, then there is no trust; but we must also judge ourselves for judging them. Everyone wants to be right all the time, but in reality there is no right, the only truth is love for your fellow humans.

Judgement is an enormous part of human nature, we like to judge, yet we are unhappy to be judged. Judgement creates fear, it stops us from being ourselves, yet we are watchdogs of each other, our own law.

Acceptance of others, accepting who and what they are creates unity and then understanding. The understanding allows the influx of knowledge to further ourselves towards a better world.

In all our lives, we have been everyone and each other. We have to treat others as we would have them treat us. When we are attacked, we become defensive and it creates negativity by making us aggressive. Negativity stops us from growing.

Non-acceptance creates war and conflict. By not accepting, we create pain and suffering to ourselves and others.

We must also accept ourselves, for if we don't then the suppression of anger and guilt will manifest themselves as actions that inflict pain on others.

Suffering is self inflicted. We hurt ourselves by hurting others.

Conversation about Life

Lee says:
hey
Lee says:
I'm stoned and I'm writing
Kerry says:
haha
Kerry says:
so that's what you've been doing all night.
Lee says:
yes getting stoned
Lee says:
I figured out the meaning of life
Kerry says:
42?
Lee says:
but because of the fact that I am insane, nobody will believe me
Lee says:
also that there is no such thing as insanity
Kerry says:
I don't think you're insane.
Lee says:
The meaning of life, is that you get to choose your life
Kerry says:
yes. I've always thought so.
Lee says:
and learn to stick with your choice
Kerry says:
well, I haven't always thought so, but I do think that.
Lee says:
I think you can actually change your life
Lee says:
I believe that the fabric of reality can be altered to ones desires
Kerry says:
do you mean in a dimensional sort of way?
Lee says:
there is no time, just a picture, you can blink, and the picture will change
Lee says:
if you have enough understanding, you can alter your life from start to finish.
Kerry says:
do you think you can do that? yourself, personally?
Lee says:
I have done it!!!!
Kerry says:
you have?
Lee says:
I am proof that it's possible
Kerry says:
when did you do it?
Lee says:
I have become self sufficient!
Kerry says:
in what way?
Lee says:
I think at 25 when I did a big lsd trip
Kerry says:
ok, go on..
Lee says:
the trip actually changed, altered my reality
Lee says:
but I didn't know it at the time. Now my reality is exactly the way I asked for it, but there is always a price to pay for that
Lee says:
But I can pay it back by explaining that everyone can do it
Kerry says:
tell me about the price.
Lee says:
and I am a living example
Kerry says:
what sort of price?
Lee says:
the price is constant paranoia from people who think I'm either crazy, insane, or too damn lucky
Lee says:
There was never any luck
Kerry says:
nor crazy or insanity
Kerry says:
how do you do it then? explain it to me.
Lee says:
I almost remember another life, where I failed to do it
Kerry says:
really? what do you remember?
Lee says:
I remember that it was very similar to this one, the alternate realities vary in an eternity of subtle ways
Kerry says:
do things look different, or just sort of 'feel' different...
Lee says:
but if you push parts enough, they can change radically
Kerry says:
?
Lee says:
I'm trying to explore whether the process requires much memory loss
Kerry says:
hmm... I can see how it might...
Lee says:
I know for radical changes, they will be harder to remember
Lee says:
Everyone has been looking for this answer
Lee says:
I realized I have to show people how to do it
Lee says:
Firstly they must understand and have faith that the reality in which they live in, exists in two parts
Kerry says:
what are the two parts?
Lee says:
one is mallible, and the other is not. One is the software, and one is the hardware.
Kerry says:
ok, that makes sense.
Lee says:
so in order to reconfigure your life, we must accept that we are able to do it
Kerry says:
ok, so once you've come to that realization, then what happens.
Kerry says:
if my questions are distracting, I can stop, if you'd rather just tell me.
Lee says:
we have to take a look at our lives, and find what we are looking for. If we really want it, then we should just take it as a path of exploration
Kerry says:
yes, that's right for sure!
Lee says:
hmmm sounds a bit simple
Lee says:
the problem with language
Lee says:
i just read it, and realized it conveys a different message
Kerry says:
that's true. its not easy to describe an abstract problem.
Kerry says:
ok
Lee says:
Okay, here goes...
Lee says:
every philosopher who has experienced this alter reality has seen reality from afar
Lee says:
they can't explain it.
Lee says:
But they were once people who really wanted to do it, and set themselves, their lives to it.
Kerry says:
ok, go on.
Lee says:
do you think you can change your parents? that is really the question. Can you change your past?
Kerry says:
no, I don't think you can. but at the same time, you can change the way you see your parents. your angle on what they're like can change - your perspective.
Lee says:
no! you're talking in the present
Kerry says:
that's what happens when people get older - easier to relate to them...
Kerry says:
ok
Kerry says:
you're asking me if I can 'actually' change them.
Lee says:
I'm talking about altering reality
Kerry says:
if I think I can.
Kerry says:
I'm not sure.
Kerry says:
I can imagine that there are ways...
Kerry says:
but then I start thinking about alternate dimensions where everything is different in some way.
Kerry says:
almost identical, but different in subtle ways that might be hard to see...
Kerry says:
is that more what you mean?
Lee says:
thats why when you change your life, it can only change subtley, the greater changes can only happen with faith
Lee says:
nobody has enough faith to change it for completely worse or better
Lee says:
but enough to make small changes to improve their own life and others
Kerry says:
so when you were 25 and had this LSD experience, can you explain what changes were made to your own life?
Kerry says:
I mean, do you actually know what they were?
Lee says:
yes!
Kerry says:
can you tell me?
Kerry says:
that might help me understand.
Lee says:
I imagined myself riding a scooter on lsd, I wanted a bike.
Lee says:
I won a scooter, in a competition
Kerry says:
oooooooooohhhhh
Lee says:
isn't that weird
Kerry says:
that's right, you did!
Kerry says:
that's very weird!
Lee says:
I wanted my parents to be successful
Lee says:
they became successful
Lee says:
my life is so strange, I have learnt to control it, but I know it sounds crazy
Kerry says:
It doesn't sound crazy, but its definitely bizarre.
Kerry says:
I believe that anything is possible.
Lee says:
the meaning of life is to learn that your choices will affect other people's lives and also punish you accordingly
Kerry says:
do you feel that you willed those things to happen?
Kerry says:
what about choices you make for yourself?
Lee says:
I did will those things to happen, and it happened
Lee says:
it was the choice I made, so I can do what I do
Lee says:
it sounds like just wishing, but it's not, it's about being open
Kerry says:
you made the choice during the LSD trip?
Lee says:
we've been programmed to think that we don't have the ability
Kerry says:
no, I understand the difference...
Lee says:
the distractions stop us doing it
Kerry says:
maybe you managed to tap into a part of your brain that other people don't know how to use.
Kerry says:
some kind of connection was made.
Lee says:
my life I have created, it is so strange
Lee says:
but it somehow works
Kerry says:
but what about for yourself?
Lee says:
although it has created interest, it has also created a clown image of who I really am
Kerry says:
aren't there things you would want to happen to your own life?
Lee says:
I am doing it!
Kerry says:
what are you doing then? right now?
Lee says:
next time you are here with me, something good will happen to your life
Kerry says:
do you know what it is?
Lee says:
What I want in my life, is freedom from slavery
Lee says:
and I got it, partly, not without repercussions of course, but that is for my ego to deal with
Lee says:
because the things I say, might make me sound better than everyone else
Lee says:
but I'm not
Lee says:
I was there once
Lee says:
that's why I've spent such a long time studying it.
Kerry says:
you were where once? better, or just thought you were better?
Kerry says:
ok, I understand that.
Lee says:
there is no such thing as better
Lee says:
there is whatever suits you
Kerry says:
so now you're saying that something good will happen with my life, does that mean you've been willing something ot happen?
Lee says:
we're afraid to ask for something, that doesn't seem right, so we end up punishing ourselves by dreaming of hardship
Lee says:
the thing is, I don't know if I have the ability to change your life, or whether people must do it on their own
Lee says:
for a start, I don't know your life
Lee says:
but I know that you would like to have more free time to pursue your interests
Lee says:
I think that's very important.
Lee says:
So you might want to be able to have that time, but you yourself have to think how you can change your past/future in order for that to happen
Lee says:
i'm actually am aware that this stuff sounds crazy
Lee says:
I have done things to alter my situation

The following message could not be delivered to all recipients:
So you might want to be able to have that time, but you yourself have to think how you can change your past/future in order for that to happen

The following message could not be delivered to all recipients:
i'm actually am aware that this stuff sounds crazy

Kerry says:
I'm sorry - msn kicked me out
Kerry says:
you've done things to alter your situation.
Kerry says:
do you mean in a general 'all encompassing' way, or specific things?
Lee says:
So you might want to be able to have that time, but you yourself have to think how you can change your past/future in order for that to happen

Kerry says:
I might have missed some of what you said when I got kicked offline.
Lee says:
i said that my life will have people that will help me out so I can pursue the discovery
Lee says:
okay it doesn't matter
Kerry says:
of course it matters. I probably didn't miss much.
Kerry says:
if anything.
Lee says:
I think it's hard to persuade you, as it would be to myself when I'm not in this zone
Kerry says:
don't forget, you were talking about this very thing on Saturday night, and i was just as stoned as you were.
Kerry says:
I've been thinkingn about it a lot ever since.
Lee says:
what would you say, if I told you that I had a dream of all the people that I now know
Kerry says:
tell me about it.
Lee says:
everyone says that 'life is not what it seems' have you heard this?
Kerry says:
of course.
Lee says:
because they are trying to explain this! Life works on a higher level
Lee says:
the mundane reality surrounds us with distractions, we must break out of it
Lee says:
and to do it, we must dream how we want it
Kerry says:
'assaulted by sound'... yeah, I totally get that.
Lee says:
not just sounds, but by feeling the need to comply
Lee says:
it stops us from being able to be in the zone and altering our lives for the better
Kerry says:
are you trying to tell me that you've dreamt about everyone you now know, before you even met anyone?
Lee says:
YES!
Kerry says:
I know not just sounds, that was what it made me think of.
Lee says:
we have met all before, at a different party
Kerry says:
when did you have that dream?
Kerry says:
you were saying that the other night!
Lee says:
when I was on lsd
Kerry says:
but I didn't get what you meant by that
Kerry says:
are you sure it was us?
Kerry says:
that was a long time ago...
Lee says:
you're all familiars
Lee says:
people appear familiar in the altered state because you see that you have met them
Kerry says:
no wonder you were talking about feeling disconnected (my word, not yours).
Lee says:
each time, in a different version of your life
Kerry says:
did you just realize this the other day? or have you always known this?
Lee says:
I could have chosen a life of homelessness or extreme luxury
Kerry says:
...that you had met us all before
Lee says:
I have kind of realized it before, but I got scared and paranoid, I thought I was going mad, but it makes absolute sense now
Kerry says:
you've thought you've met me before?
Lee says:
i have been scared and paranoid for my life since 25, and been living a life that is out of control, now I am able to control it
Lee says:
I remember, you said to me, 'I want to be your soulmate'
Lee says:
I remember you have said that to me before
Kerry says:
really?
Kerry says:
that's weird!
Lee says:
I know, I got more weirded out
Kerry says:
do you remember anything else about that?
Kerry says:
did I say that to you on the weekend? that I wanted to be your soulmate? I remember there was a conversation about soulmates.
Lee says:
i didn't talk about soulmates
Lee says:
my life is the perfect example of how you can control your life
Kerry says:
I think you did at one point... but it was abstract
Lee says:
I have made it weird, to prove it
Lee says:
I was talking about the levels
Kerry says:
yes, mostly.
Kerry says:
you were also talking about clues...
Lee says:
no, only in my blog
Lee says:
but those ideas are more refined now
Kerry says:
and about how you made it all happen.
Lee says:
I wrote them as they came to me, but if I wrote it again, it'll be more refined, although I risk losing the rawness
Lee says:
I feel that the people I know, and have met, I myself have created the situation that we are all together
Lee says:
I have drawn people that are intelligent and beautiful enough to understand what I have to say with an open mind
Kerry says:
you were talking about it on the weekend too.
Kerry says:
yes, that would be the difference. you've been thinking about it non-stop since I think.
Lee says:
I want to show people, but it does require them to be open
Kerry says:
you were talking about it on the weekend, not writing it. but you may have written about it before.
Kerry says:
yes, that's what you were saying!
Kerry says:
do you remember telling me that I weaved some kind of a trap?
Lee says:
oh yeah, I was just paranoid
Lee says:
i read it wrong
Kerry says:
what were you thinking though? its been bothering me.
Lee says:
i meant it in the sense that you caught me
Kerry says:
I caught you? how?
Lee says:
you brought me back to the truth
Lee says:
I have been lost
Kerry says:
it sounded as though you were angry with me. you kept saying "you know".
Lee says:
oh yeah I remember
Kerry says:
I still don
Kerry says:
I still don't know.
Lee says:
you know what that whole camping thing was about
Kerry says:
in what respect? I need some context
Kerry says:
all I know is that I felt blamed for something at the time.
Lee says:
you wanted me to tell you how to get there and be able to do it
Kerry says:
that's what it was?
Lee says:
yes
Lee says:
my life situation also closes me off to people, I have been opened by my experience
Kerry says:
I wasn't sure, because it seemed to be a very sudden thing to say, in the midst of everything else we were talking about.
Kerry says:
by your LSD experience? Or by some more recent experience.
Kerry says:
?
Lee says:
by the camping trip
Kerry says:
yes, I can see that.
Kerry says:
are you still feeling very positive about it all?
Lee says:
i wish i could prove my beliefs but you're asking for a miracle, and I can't do that
Kerry says:
I don't mean to sound like I'm asking for a miracle. I'm just trying to understand.
Kerry says:
Its becoming more clear
Kerry says:
in bits and peices
Kerry says:
its very hard to understand someone's entire thought process. it could take a lifeltime sometimes.
Lee says:
i was watching a documentary today that says that our lives are fucked because our culture is removed from the psychoative tradition that has been with us since the beginning of time
Lee says:
all cultures before this era, embraced the religious psychoactive experience
Kerry says:
that's true
Lee says:
we have other drugs to suppress us, to prevent us from being creative and free, but also to stop us from pursuing our dreams
Kerry says:
yeah
Lee says:
we free ourselves by belief and it changes our life
Lee says:
I have money in the bank to support myself
Kerry says:
you know, I wonder if there wasn't something strange going on in the sandbanks this weekend. there was an awful lot of introspection going on this weekend.
Lee says:
I have freetime
Lee says:
to think and share my experience with others
Kerry says:
that's a lot to have going on.
Kerry says:
really.
Lee says:
everyone can do it!
Kerry says:
most people don't have that luxury - the free time is the most important.
Lee says:
not just me! you can make it happen
Lee says:
that's what we're told to believe
Lee says:
and it stops us from allowing our consciousness to be what it can
Lee says:
those luxuries come with enlightenment
Kerry says:
how can it? too many 'earthly' concerns. that's the problem. we live in a world that has too much unimportant shit going on.
Lee says:
I'm trying to say, that you alter your reality, by willing it
Lee says:
I have done it to my own
Lee says:
I am living it
Lee says:
I have the freetime
Kerry says:
'freedom'time.
Lee says:
people are scared of freedom
Lee says:
they are scared of what it represents
Lee says:
they think that freedom is the end of everything that we know
Lee says:
freedom from compliance, allows us to change our reality
Kerry says:
we've created a world that doesn't allow freedom.
Lee says:
we are the writers of the book we call life
Lee says:
yes!
Lee says:
because alot of people don't want it
Kerry says:
that's right.
Kerry says:
they need to be told how to live.
Lee says:
we could all be living in a world with no rules
Lee says:
but we are programmed to feel guilty for breaking them
Kerry says:
exactly.
Lee says:
the rules are there to make us feel bad and to suppress us
Kerry says:
just look at all the single adults in their 30's who are a disappointment to their families who want them to be married with a house and kids.
Lee says:
and when we are suppressed, we forget that we can change our lives by raising our consciousness and therefore allowing our lives to be easier
Kerry says:
definitely!
Kerry says:
one small step at a time can change everything.
Kerry says:
the hardest part is getting past the fear.
Lee says:
no, I don't think you understand completely
Kerry says:
i'm trying!!
Lee says:
i'll give an example
Kerry says:
ok
Lee says:
imagine where you lived in a world where everyone was granted one wish, what would you wish for?
Kerry says:
is this a hypothetical question?
Lee says:
yes
Kerry says:
ok. so I have one wish.
Lee says:
anything
Kerry says:
ok, so you want me to answer! ok. I would wish for ...
Kerry says:
like Buttercup says, I would wish for true love.
Kerry says:
now what.
Lee says:
then if you wished for that, then your life will alter accordingly
Lee says:
I could not say what would happen
Lee says:
but you may end up meeting your true love, but it might end up being a woman
Lee says:
what I'm trying to say, is that whatever you wish for, you'll likely get something that you least likely expected
Lee says:
say if someone wished for world peace, what would happen?
Kerry says:
I would never have assumed that it could work any other way.
Kerry says:
world peace, true love, wealth...
Lee says:
those things can also have negative repercussions, although well intended
Kerry says:
those things are things that would happen in a miriad of ways.
Kerry says:
that's true.
Kerry says:
like the saying goes "be careful what you wish for, you might get it".
Lee says:
I've come to the realisation, that it is what karma is
Lee says:
you wish to be a multimillionaire with everything
Kerry says:
I was thinking that when you were talking about the punishment aspect earlier.
Lee says:
if you wish to be rich, then you will become isolated from people who are genuine
Lee says:
if you wish to be poor, then you will experience sympathy and care
Lee says:
but you will also suffer physical hardship
Lee says:
to sum up, you cannot be greedy
Kerry says:
what did you wish for, to bring yourself to this point?
Lee says:
i wished that I could share with people my knowledge
Kerry says:
of course not. but greedy people wouldn't care about this sort of thing anyway. those are the people who rule the world as we know it.
Lee says:
and my life has enabled me to do that
Kerry says:
that's why you're a writer Lee.
Lee says:
because my life has taken to the wish
Lee says:
i'm different from everyone else
Kerry says:
it has.
Kerry says:
that's a good thing.
Lee says:
I just need people to understand that I made it, and everyone else makes their own situation
Kerry says:
have you been talking about all of this all night? who were you with?
Lee says:
my situation is not ideal though
Lee says:
just by myself, I had a spliff with my housemates and decided to retire to my room and think about life, and it's meaning
Kerry says:
its probably a good thing. I mean, over the weekend with everyone else around. you needed time to yourself to process it all.
Kerry says:
do you think that other people understand this?
Lee says:
life is like a complex programme, but it's codes can be changed
Lee says:
program
Lee says:
sorry
Kerry says:

Lee says:
I wonder if other people get this or not.
Lee says:
I wonder if other people have done the same thing as me, or I am the first.
Kerry says:
I think they do. But everyone would think about it in different ways though.
Lee says:
Or whether I am the last, and everyone is just testing me
Kerry says:
You were describing things very mathematically the other night
Lee says:
I saw it in mathematical terms
Kerry says:
I think I can say, without a doubt, that no one is testing you.
Lee says:
well as an abstract construct
Lee says:
it was hard to describe
Kerry says:
see, math isn't a way I would choose to see this sort of thing. but I'll admit, I've done that myself.
Lee says:
i think that people know it, but are afraid to believe it, because society programs us that certain ways of thinking are 'insane'
Lee says:
The power of each person to change their own lives and shape reality
Kerry says:
many people are very closed-minded. more then I'm comfortable with, that's for sure.
Kerry says:
yes, I believe that Lee.
Kerry says:
I may be describing it in simple terms then you though.
Lee says:
there is more to life than meets the eye
Kerry says:
yeah
Lee says:
once we see the other levels, it is like discovering the other controls of a new car
Kerry says:
people decide the kind of life they want to ahve.
Lee says:
you get more control
Kerry says:
of course.
Kerry says:
the more options you know about, the more things you can accomplish.
Lee says:
they decide, but they don't just do it through work, they do it through understanding life, and manipulating the coding underneath
Kerry says:
I think this is the point where my understanding of what you're talking about falters.
Kerry says:
but I think ultimately I'm seeing the same (at least similar) result.
Lee says:
life is mathematics
Lee says:
every action causes a reaction, it is mathematical
Kerry says:
right
Lee says:
the smallest action, can have big implications
Kerry says:
chaos theory
Lee says:
yes, butterfly effect
Lee says:
it's much talked about
Lee says:
scientists question it
Lee says:
once you understand the patterns that make up what we understand is reality, we can start to change it, beyond physical manipulation
Kerry says:
the proof would be nearly impossible to collect. the science involved, the condistions... It can never be proven, really.
Lee says:
lets say that you wished to be rich
Kerry says:
you're telling me that you've worked out the code.
Lee says:
in order for that happen, your life must justify it
Lee says:
it could happen by you stumbling upon a suitcase full of notes
Lee says:
or being discovered for a movie, and you become a famous actress
Lee says:
you find the pattern that makes that happen, and you change it, life is made of patterns
Lee says:
or you could say that your parents won the lottery when you were young
Lee says:
or just working for it
Lee says:
it depends on which one you choose for you to happen
Kerry says:
what about the price. the punishment. did you decide what that was goign to be? Or is that just your lot?
Lee says:
the price depends on what you wished
Kerry says:
I don't think you deserve that kind of punishment.
Kerry says:
ok
Lee says:
if you choose to work for a living, you're with the majority of the planet
Lee says:
they will accept you because of your struggle
Lee says:
if you choose to have won the lottery, they will despise you, and you will always be paranoid about your true friends
Kerry says:
that makes sense.
Lee says:
i mean paranoid about people wanting you just for money
Kerry says:
yes, I got that.
Lee says:
but the fact is, that you can choose anything you want, just like that, and you wake up to a different reality than the one you left
Kerry says:
the wheels have been put in motion towards the desired result.
Lee says:
this is the new consciousness that people need to accept to make the world a better place
Lee says:
we could all live in paradise
Kerry says:
wouldn't that be nice.
Lee says:
but we have to not concede to our ego, but try our best to help others achieve what they want
Kerry says:
it seems to me that this kind of altruism woudln't warrant any kind of punishment at all.
Lee says:
there is always punishment, unless people learn to accept each other
Lee says:
once we learn to accept each other, then the world will be a better place
Kerry says:
that's true.
Lee says:
to accept others, we must learn to accept ourselves and accept our flaws and errors
Lee says:
everyone makes mistakes, everyone has that
Kerry says:
...and accept that other people are not looking for our flaws.
Kerry says:
that other people are altruistic deep down as well.
Kerry says:
not everyone, of course.
Lee says:
People are looking for flaws, all the time
Kerry says:
but they are out there.
Kerry says:
but they're not always judging the flaws.
Kerry says:
If I had to walk around all the time worrying that everyone was aware of all my flaws - or judging me for them - I couldn't be a happy person.
Lee says:
do you want to go to sleep now? you have to go to work tomorrow
Kerry says:
yeah, I was going to say that shortly actually.
Lee says:
okay
Kerry says:
I'm very interested in all of this though, so its hard to stop. lol
Lee says:
that's good
Kerry says:
we can talk about it more later.
Lee says:
your life will improve as if by magic
Kerry says:
lol
Lee says:
I'm being honest
Kerry says:
I'm not laughing at you, I'm just thinking about what that might mean.
Kerry says:
in general.
Kerry says:
I wonder what it would take for my life to improve.
Lee says:
once you start to understand, and awaken to it, you really can give yourself what you want and you don't need to feel guilty about it
Kerry says:
that would be nice, for sure...
Kerry says:
but we can discuss it more later on. Did you get my email earlier, btw? Wednesday maybe?
Lee says:
okay, wednesday is good
Kerry says:
ok cool.
Kerry says:
sorry to cut the chat short.
Kerry says:
...well, I guess its been over an hour.
Kerry says:
g'night Lee, don't forget to get some sleep.
Lee says:
g'night
Lee says:
can I copy and paste some of this conversation into my blog?
Kerry says:
sure, I don't mind.
Lee says:
thanks!
Lee says:
you have inadvertently helped me
Kerry says:
I was actually thinking of telling you to save the entire chat - might help you later - if wondering the questions other people might have.
Kerry says:
I've always believed in the socratic method.
Kerry says:
i'm not sure that's exactly what's been goign on, but question/ answer helps.
Lee says:
Logic allows freedom but at the same time prevents it
Kerry says:
it can. questions can divert.
Kerry says:
thats why I asked you earlier if you wanted me to stop asking them.
Lee says:
no I enjoy the questions, that's why I wanted to talk to you
Kerry says:
Ok cool.
Lee says:
no one can explain it, I never explained the meaning of life,
Kerry says:
no, I guess you never did get around to that part.
Lee says:
maybe it's easier through fiction
Kerry says:
maybe!
Lee says:
I can use characters to symbolise what I'm trying to say
Kerry says:
its certainly an other way to explain
Kerry says:
yes, I beleive a lot of writers do that.
Lee says:
but then people might misinterpret the message
Kerry says:
that's the danger.
Kerry says:
ok... i've got to go now...
Kerry says:
but write your fiction Lee
Lee says:
cya later
Kerry says:
maybe it'll be clearer then you think!
Kerry says:
g'night