17th October 2008

So on wednesday I woke early, donned my camo pants and para-boots in preparation to attend my scheduled disciplinary hearing at Dystopia Cafe, clearly possessing little interest in what might transpire there - my intentions, will, desires and designs already fixed on terrains way beyond the insidious bureaucratic skullfuckery about to be, inevitably, metered out; got escorted round to the shop - The Nerve Centaur of the entire 'co-operative' and admitted, accompanied by my cafe representative; guied into a spare and anonymous-looking room and asked to sit. The three 'prosecutors' then produced sheaths of prepared notes and proceeded to gaffer tape my entire body in revised policy, to the end that I was granted a new skin,whose control cyphers I would obey completely, should I not want to run the risk of infection. I sat there, on a one-legged stool, lest a fall asleep, smothered in bureaucracy as the three of them took turns to assail me with news of my character dysfunction, ticker-tape spooling from their pursed, beak-like mouths, etched with the precise error code of my failings, which largely comprised a bunch of personal grievances held by a recent chef acquisition that they found on an internet auction site. This new chef model has already been proven to take itself excessively seriously (i.e. at all) and having instantly found my character to be too ingrained with contradictions and irony, has dismissed me as worthy of attempting to get to know, and has thus withdrawn any leniancy, kindness, empathy, with which it may have been initially programmed. However, I know that this anaemic, adenoidal prima donna is hopelessly unhappy, having alloted itself the Victim's position in life's Role Matrix, and while I'm no practicioner of schadenfreud, it does occur to me that the new Chef Model may well experience an increased production of alpha waves were it not a Screeching Ego Cunt of a specimen whose sole capacity appears to be the projection of her self-dissatisfaction onto those she deems uncomfortably self-assured; itself perhaps the crudest equation going.

So, upon having been trounced, lambasted and rottweiler-ed, I tumbled out onto the pavement, crackling with negative energy. My primary impulse; set fire to the various premises owned by the co-operative, my secondary impulse, go locate a piano and play it. The latter having been achieved, Bacchus phoned and explained that we'd be participating in an anti-arms demo and to meet him for coffee imminently. Met Bacchus, who was mid-comedown from a week of strip-club coke-bunny bacchanalia, he necked a flaggon, I mainlined coffee, and as I expressed my apprehension at participating in the impending protest - it being my first such event - he curled out the word 'Bollocks' and my fate was set. Ultimately, had a fucking fantastic afternoon, managing to collectively create genuine obstruction and cause major disruption to the traffic flow of the entire city, whilst avoiding getting sidled into a police cordon and/or arrested. Most of the roads were closed at one point. And ye, were it a simmering pleasure to see the quaintly myopic middle-class hippie mekons of the lanes all wonderstruck at the sudden manifestation of an immense fleet of riot police vans, and five hundred chanting protestors decked out in black hoods, red masks, blasting out digital hardcore from shoulder-mounted speakers. At the mouth of the pier, as the police turned their batons onto a sixteen-year-old boy who had, a rumour announced, thrown a stone (the riot police were, as you'd suspect, coated in kevlar, visors, armed with pepper spray, batons et al. The boy sported little muscle and a red sweatshirt.), tourists emerging from the amusements within were inadvertently drafted into the assembled cordon, creating the illusion of our numbers having doubled. Still, at this stage, having been marching for many hours, and the central thread of the deomo having dispersed, we excused ourselves for food and ultimately wound our way to the radical social centre in town, where as the protestors drifted in in clusters, food was dispensed, the energy of the protest tangible, thick in the air, as we, collectively elevated into a lawless and exquisite space, exhanged debriefings, 'war stories' and absurdly mused on ways in which we might eventually penetrate the walls of the munitions factory. Bacchus, in tweeds and cut-up on coke and ale, careening around, his wire-tapped spine lending a cockeyed amble to his gait, later expalined to me that he'd been the one to trigger fireworks outside the factory at previous protest. Having never before participated in such a thing - the extent of public dissent in the village that nurtured me (atrociously) through my adolescence amounting to 'Please don't shut our post offisce. Please?' - I rank it perhaps the first oaccion in which I've genuinely felt a sense of selfless community, in which everyone came together to exact an end beyond their own personal interests. Any other scene, community, with whose fringes I've flirted, i've found any potential energy to be instantly dissipated, all character impotized as soon as thier members number plural. It has to be truly confrontational I feel for a genuine and progressive - and tacit - bond to manifest, and what a luxurious, invigorating jewel this fucker is.

In my pursuit of freelance work in which I work alone and designate the working hours, I've uncovered a position advertising for as writer of obituaries, for a website based in San Francisco. I submitted my sample obituary and a hastily-assembled, and likely utterly incoherent, resume, mailed them off and awaited a response. i was hired. Essentially, the organization would provide biographical data of Bay Area recent stiffs, and the writer would assemble an obituary around this, in the required tone. When the first commission for Nick Hudson's obituary met my inbox, I dismissed it as coincidence, but after having written my own obituary seventeen times in week, each addressing a different set of character attributes, all of which corresponded very closely to my own, across various states of being, my suspicion became paranoia, to the extent that I even reported my own death to the local newspapers, thinking it was so, and subsequently volunteered a self-penned obituary explaining that Nick was driven to suicide through being forced to perpetually redraft his own obituary for a magazine somewhere in America, which he believed was established entirely to collate and compile obituaries for Nick Hudson, all written by Nick Hudson, until the genuine death of Nick Hudson had been attained. i began to suspect that this may have been the higher powers behind the riot police of the earlier demonstration, and discreetly contacted other protestors to pry as to similar persecutions perhaps having been encountered by them. Naturally, each systematized breakdown procedure would be tailored to the psychological frailties of the specific protestor. Still, apparently, nobody else has suffered any such affront. This being so, i elected to continue dismissing it as coincidence at all costs, and have since submitted fourteen further obituaries for Nick Hudson and am indeed earning substantially for this endeavour.

October 14th 2008

Lying in bed just prior to firing up the laptop and beginning to write this, the anvil-weighted reconciliation hit me - that I'm probably by now, utterly constitutionally-disinclined towards emotion. I suspect I may have inadvertently intellectualised my route out of emotion. Having been consistently devastated to a whithering and impossibly painful degree by LOVE, or my interpretation of 'the bearing of a feeling of love for someone', the last instance being exceptionally bludgeoning, my reckoning is, decanted all of my capacity for emotional connectivity into a generalised and decompartmentalised sadness, whose stoicism flashes through with the occasional rearing of anger, the basest, perhaps purest emotion (aside from an impossibly de-politicized love. Classical love remains just that: the deomain of bardic scholarship). Aware that a fundamental component in my grand thesis and life objective has been for a long time the decompartmentalisation of separateness, as metered out by received wisdoms, my current hypothesis is that i may have achieved this to some disturbing level of accomplishment. Cool. So, when an employer has delivered a scud of a denunciation, trashed your character, made ruinous assertions as to your motives for remaining alive, and concludes the assault with: and how do you feel about that? In recent months I've been prone to consider the question. In such circumstances my initial responses are more intellectual: rather than feel anything specific or clearly delineable, I THINK you're a dickhead who relevance in a social Dawrinist sense is negligble. Existing in a plural dimensonality prohibits me from FEELING anything about this, Boss. Sorry if I've deprogrammed myself so wholly that I'm capable of contexualising your affront within the monotheistic system of control you inhabit, even sorrier if work is your only context. And again, sorry for not feeling anything other than the routine boredom that graces me like a veil upon entering the work premises, and which itself has become so routinely, that I'm bored of its particular brand of boredom. Etc. So yes. through a combination of active and positive deprogammatic procedures (either/or is moribund, clearly) and systematically annihilative romantic encounters, I truly believe I've been rendered spare of emotionality - or perhaps I've manifested a new internal language of emotionality so armed with refractive irony, red herrings and evasive tactics that its cyphers are incommunicable to those still trapped in the paradigm of hand-wringing sentamentalism, me-culture, victim bullshit, faux-empathy and shrink-baiting. Perhaps having encounter pretty much most conceivable formulae of disappointment in encounters with other reputedly 'emotionally mature' creatures, my final roll call of response is one of desolate, arid, sardonic, bleakbleakbleak laughter at the absurdity of their, and our, self-importance. Even when masturbating, the erotic is now divorced from emotion; where once I saw titillation in denial, in a the slick nylon of a football shirt brushing past my skin in the school changing rooms, I now see hollow emptiness, as I know that the contents of the football shirt are now professionally impersonating their fathers, down to the very molecules of his biography, being too scared and shamed into idiocy by the status quo of averageness, to prise himself into any more fluid realm. Now, when wanking, it's purely over the physical, the act of fucking, mechanical, relentless, without care or compassion, a flickering eclipse, twelve frames a second of occupied negative space, twelve frames a second of unoccupied, gaping daylight. And yet even now, I know, through the bluster and the polemicizing, that, The Kiss, yeah, that act, would satisfy me more than anything else, and render fucking an indulgence. The tenderest transmission - The Kiss - is also the harshest, way more intimate than the act of vain fucking, breathing one's spirit and love into the orifice from which a creature's entire repertoire of audible expression emits: anguish, joy, laughter, perhaps the only thing I've ever allowed from my deepest marrow to stifle a laugh, is a kiss. The intervention of some boy's lips on my own, whilst otherwise in the throes of hilarious caustic trills, is amongst the most permissable things imaginable on this desert of no hope. But none of this makes me particularly conducive to a relationship. And again, the motives of so many for entering into a relationship are a dependence upon the archetype - coupling is what has always occured, either to present a convincing argument (he's COMPLETLY heterosexual!) for one's aspiring presidency of the universe, or merely to ensure a regular fuck without the ritual humiliation of wooing and courtship becoming ritual. I suspect the only circumstance in which I may be complimentary to a romantic relationship would be as collaboration in activating change on a mutually internal and external basis. We will never, collectively like to concede that at best, we are currency. To me, as a creature that for whatever grotesque reasons, wishes to remain alive a little longer, it seems laughter is the only honourably legitimate response to such realizations (literally, to make real), and when the vital essence in that whooping cackle of mine desiccates like all else, to infinitely timeless space dust, then so will my lanky, twitching corpus. the act of typing this even reckons my physicality next to that of a preying mantis. And perhaps the young I'm eating is literature, in this vengeance text.

One of my central projects this year, is to compile an encyclopaedia comprising a paragraph for every conceivable circumstance, and thus, in my old age, when weariness transmutes into apathy, have an available compendium of everything that may have occured throughout my life, with the sole task needed to complete my written autobiography being to select and correctly juxtapose the paragraphs, and omit only those paragraphs detailing events that didn't happen to me. This Encylopaedia Biographica, could readily be transferable to the text of any sentient creature. I should register a patent. Naturally, the circumstances portrayed would be outlined in the driest, most clinical text, so as to ensure little-to-no authorial slur on events, merely the empirical data. Dependent upon the presumed renaissance of my emotionality, years down the line, as I recognize a tirelessly lonesome fate for the central character in my autobiographical text, I may just interpolate some emotional responses to the empirical data, as footnotes to the outlined circumstances. Either way, I may also write accompanying volumes drawn from the same encylcopaedia, titled: Aspirational Autobiography, Internal Autobiography, etc, and may even write the autobiographies of people I've never met, and who therefore can be presumed to exist. Perhaps in a year, once it's compiled, I may construct a series of unrelated, contradictory chapters, each spanning a year, and opt to live out the circumstances detailed in these chapters, radically altering the course of my life, annually, by pure action, steadfastly refusing any external intervention but that depicted, to interrupt my pursuit of these depicted ciecumstances. I don't see how a project with no communicable measure of success, can fail. Surely the perfect rationale on which to act.

Basement

October 13th 2008

Nearely succumbed to a full-blown mania yesterday. Woke angrier than ever, twisted, aching, very nearly insane. I've often sought as a wholly creative act - i.e. indistinct from my daily endeavours - to foist myself at the edge of that precipice, and the view from the edge of the crags is for sure, intoxicating, fluid and freeing. So long as you remain on the edge. Yesterday, the hyper-lucidity almost blurred into a mangled, spun chaos. When these pockets of micro-lunacy occur, they usually elicit a palmful of insight-souvenirs. On this occasion, whilst embroiled in a pitch dark internal rage as to why we enslave ourselves to the mind-hoovering, strength-sapping virus of WORK, my mind took to leapfrogging conceptual hurdles more athletically than usual. So we enslave ourselves, and if we through whatever means managed to abolish work and live a more communistic, equilateral life, we would then have to eradicate GOD. And then the cynical weight of my heart ass-kicked through the tautly-drawn veneer of idealism, announcing that, once these had been abolished, we would doubtless, as a species, erect another deleterious ringmaster at whose feet we'd miserably genuflect. And so we'd perpetuate this pattern, as one balloon bursts another is being inflated, each painted with the face of a different bullwhip-wielding demagogue. Perhaps it's borne of consciousness-guilt - the collective need to suppress our potential happiness for fear of appearing 'smug' to the 'inferior' species, all the while blind to the suspicion that these species seem at least to enjoy some form of equilibrium between their needs and desires. Probably not. It's obviously the residual greed innate to each of us having glimpsed Eden the first time we saw a flower, a billowing cumulus, the first and blue-est sky - we want more of it, and dependent upon the nature of privilege bestowed upon the family into which we're born, we'll either be equipped to chase this ephemera, this vapour cloud, and this reflection to its fruition, alchemised into paper and copper currency, or we'll settle for the role of ensuring those that are equipped, attain exactly thos phantoms, through engaging in acts of work or worship. Both roles are pitiable and tragic - as I know it would merely take a minor perceptual readjustment to reframe what we see into being the most vital, revelatory, exciting, every time - but when this intangible self-empowerment can be so readily shortchanged by the collective manifestation of false idols, this isn't gonna happen. Still, why would I want to smother myself in fine silks when I can stare and see infinite tapestries of a rarer kind in the ocean, indefinitely? Through our forsaken diligence and rigour, I guess we've earned these totems of failure. And yet it does seem unduly masochistic to suggest that we desire these addictions. I then realized, or rather posited, that as is true of crowd psychology - several organism governed towards a single goal congeal into a single organism - I realized, posited, that just as we inflate these balloons, once they're of sufficient size, they sever the string that connects them to our eager, childish hands, and they drift into the etheric dimension, to wield autonomy - we may induce them, but with enough enthusiasm, these fetishes actually become entities, complete and extant from our reins. We create Golems. They terrorize our citadels. We lament their destructive wake. Daemon of the week. So the two overriding ones, being so inextricably entangled with our greed - GOD and WORK - will prove and are proving to be the hardest Golems to annihilate. Meanwhile, we have the fragmentary obstacles to infinite wealth and the sainthood - the kaleidoscopic prejudices - sexuality, gender, age, race, intelligence, physicality, all judged via subtle or bombastic shades of fascism (he might be Aryan but he has no limbs and is likely gay - whatever now Your Highness?) that occupy our concerns the way we'd stare at the blemish on the teacher's chin instead of at the eyes from which her reprimand so fiercely emanated. Again, slavery is abolished, women get the vote, homosexuality is decriminalized, the age of consent is lowered (but not abolished?!) euqla-rights for potential employees are drafted in, a whole new lexicon is developed with which to discuss and address the deformed and disfigured, and then... out rolls the new Jew. This time he's from the middle east and has a nuclear arsenal tucked in his intestine with which to wreak Jihadism and the whiplash screed of The Prophet on our lily white derrieres. Soon he'll be assimilated into this sick nexus of empathic hand-wringing and superficially indiscrimatory platitudes, and The Hate Factory will shit out a new micro-Golem, with a whole new mask, and a whole new bag of reasons as to why we should blast it with radiation and eliminate its presence from the histories we teach our white-middle-class-middlingly-intelligent children. All hail the renegades.

Anyway, above is loosely contained the guts of how I nearly went insane yesterday. It's not as though it's a diatribe I'd not considered previously, but in this incarnation, it birthed with such weight and ferocity, tumbling over itself like folds of cement, that I was forced to flee the cafe briefly and seclude myself amongst the recycling enclosure, hidden, hyperventilating, feeling as though I'd just torn off another layer of skin, that i was in some way an inch more intimate with the white-hot, biliois source of all of this incendiary suffering and miserable graft to which we're all so cyncially self-consigned.

It's my birthday in precisely a month's time. I.e. the 27th annual celebration of my mother having conveyed my physical self unto the world outlined above. Thank fuck I was and am graced with the capacity to birth any number of alternative and better worlds. I guess we all are. I feel like every day yields the birth of a new incarnation, angle, refraction of myself and by extension 'the world' (which I'd evidently rather term 'The Infinite Multiverse' but won't, for now.) so i should be celebrating every day. And once I've nailbombed a few stray Golems, then perhaps I might. Happy Birthday Everyone.

October 12th 2008

I have a vegan friend who, so distraught at the notion that committing suicide might contravene his veganism, actually went ahead, shotgunned his head to herbivorous chunks, and was even shunned by the devil. His betrayal of his beliefs was deemed so thorny and yet inevitable that he was transmogrified into an abbatoir lorry and forced for eternity to drive himself around a Moebeus Strip hewn of a tapeworm. I tried to contact him as to how he felt about this, and despite being as extra-dimensionally multiversal as anyone could hope for at this juncture in my life, he was just that bit removed from my perceptive field. So, I sent a pigeon. And quickly learned that a true vegan, after having contracted pubic lice, would retain them forever, unless he shaved from head-to-toe, which even then was tantamount to deforestation, forcing the lice into vagrancy and indirectly promoting squatting, or at worse, merely delaying the inevitable - they would die anyway. I have another vegan friend who upon having contracted the lice, meticulously plucked them off with felt-tipped tweezers and housed them in a self-built sanctuary which he'd had feng-shui-ed, and was, I gather, based on one of Christopher Wren's earlier works, only marginally scaled down. For the housewarming I turned up with a hamper stuffed to the gills with veal, foie gras, which I'd left unrefrigerated to fester in the hamper for a month prior to the party. Fortunately, my vegan friend saw the humour, even as I slammed his head facedown into the hamper, for him to emerge pasted in maggots and half-decomposed unethical sweetmeats. It was a good party. The pubic lice proved surprisingly good dancers, even within their perspex palace - albeit one escaped and burrowed into the microscopic grooves in the skin just above my navel. As I slept that night, it occured to me that to have contracted even a single pubic louse from a dear friend was not dissimilar to having quenched our thirst on the same can of coke and regarding it a kiss. So, having fantasised over my vegan friend for many years - I had to force-believe he were carnivorous for the ejaculate not to be utterly translucent - I masturbated over the thought of us having shared a pubic louse. The next morning, hurried to the pharmacy, bought a tonne of insecticide, ran home, poured it into a tin of creosote, mixed them, and coated myself utterly in this elixir homebrew, plonked myself on the lawn to dry, turning at intervals so as to dry both sides equally. Upon being satisfied that I'd killed the louse and stopped time with the application of the creosote - the passage of time, naturally, being marked only by interruption to a void, friction, entropy, et al - I shaved my head, rammed the hair in the freezer, with the intention of having it made into a wig once my hairline started receding in old age, and paid a visit to the vegan friend from whom I'd obtained the louse. He was lounging in the garden on a wicker chaise-longue, and bare;y registered my approach until I lit my fingertips and ran screaming, flaming, at him, screeching 'Look what you've done, you hideous mekon bastard.'. I convinced him that the only way to reverse my predicament - although by then already, the flames were eating through the creosote, and my skin - was to eat his dog. Months later, after extensive and experimental cosmetic surgery, in which time I grew back skin, he paid a visit to the hospital, his dog's name-tag hung around his neck like a cheap aluminium requiem, and apologized for having caused so much torment by refusing to have sex with me back then when we were sixteen. I absolved him of blame as he knelt before the hospital bed and fellated me, the dog-tag flapping against my scrotum, as I lay back, contented, awaiting delivery of my wig.

I love autumn. It owns a very specific light. The light, diaphanous diffuse, as weightless as the blink of a butterfly wing, ebbs through my basement window with grace, contrary to the way that summer light pants and penetrates. I can coexist with autumn light quite happily. Particularly in the morning, the light seems to be expressly visible, present, beyond merely illuminating obstacles, objects. I've noticed upon casually photographing the crescent garden beyond my window, that in the autumn mornings, 'light' dwells more in the realm of the noun than the verb. It doesn't just light; there it is: tangible light. A character in its own right rather than an assisting function. Breathe it in.

October 11th 2008

Absence Note:

Note so I've moved house, spent time off of work due to diahorrea and gross fatigue, enjoyed a visit from my mother, incurred disciplinary proceedings for the mentioned illness, engaged in casual photography at the local skate park and generally been designing my new room as though it were a curatorship rather than a residency. Bureaucratically, I'm off-the-radar, AWOL, MIA, and intend to be more so once I've quit my job and made life adjustments to the tune of my busking daily in the pavilion gardens, doing occasional tax-exempt work as a bedrock. So long as I can afford the rent and some basic foodstuufs then I'll be absolutely fine. All the resources I need for the creation and perpetuation of my art are already freely available; imminently I'll be initiating a series of beach recordings, wherein I assemble concentric circles of musicians - percussion, reeds, vocalists - around a single mic suspended in the centre, and hit record as they/we launch into a performance, partially-prescribed whilst allowing for improvisation, all the while the lap of the surf pealing out at the fringe of the sound architecture, like a serviette mopping at the grub of falsity, and naturally, all of the character of that exquisite environment will be embedded in the sonic data captured on the recording. I also intend to photograph elements of the event, vast tableaux of 'live painting', human assemblages, with 'props', composed friezes of instruments, plants, heavily chiaroscuro, all flares, candles, and reflective materials, potentially projections also. I now know enough people capable of summoning for free the required resources for the staging of this kind of activity to be very feasible. Fucking fantastic.

Meanwhile, I bought a tiny electric orange harmonium, still a reed organ, but one whereby the player is relieved of pedal duty by a wondroud electric fan, whose sound alone is already very dear to me. I have yet to record anything of this kitsch acquisition, but meanwhile, it's just a comfort knowing that I have something resembling an organic keyboard instrument (i.e. closer to a piano than my synthesizer or Casiotone toaster) squatted in a corner.

I haven't taken heroin for a good few weeks now, having replaced its compelling and cosy cocoon drift with an actual cocoon, fashioned of material scavenged from a thousand-and-three wasp nests, at gross disadvantage to the incumbent wasps, but hey, the world's fucked beyond care anyway, and survivalism is now a pragmatist's daily privilege. I built a gigantic breathing hyde in my new chamber, adhereing the brittle, papery sheaths of wasp-nest to each other with my own mucus and spit, true to biological tradition, and painted the whole construction, which resmebles a giant, tapering penis of inconsistent diameter along its length, various shades of menstrual red, with tiny swastikas, etched with a razor-blade, along the 'foreskin'. I sleep inide this, standing, and its mulch flaps 'breathe' in synch with my body's own rhythm, a duet most conducive to gentle, immersive sleep, and from which I rise early, rested, conditioned to celebrate the day, something I used to only achieve via the ingestion of many, many drugs - transubtoxification - I'd take such a vast and diverse array of drugs, that I'd chemically replace the majority of my body's cells, and actually become more Drug than Human. Once, in a backroom in Soho, a limbless transvestite offered a charismatic sum of cash in exchange for the chance to insulfate the dandruff off my pubic hair, and even more money if s/he could mainline bile from my liver for an evening. I explained I wasn't aptly prepared for a transfusion, embraced the honeyd freak dearly and in sympathy, shaved off all of my headhair, tied him to a stool and fed it to him'her, whilst spitting in his/her mouth, as tenner notes tumbled from her/his cleavage and into my crotch. Later I realized that i'd acuqiesced to a transfusion after all, if only one weakly analogous to the 'fucking-of-the-little-man' by the corporate high-powers, and yet to this day, in the sense of both the anecdote and the analogy, I'm still unsure as to who was fucking who and whether I actually care or not. As long as there's a fundamental tension between parties of superficially oppositional stances, then the world will revolve, evolution will occur, and stasis will be averted, however close a siblingship their passions, desires, anxieties and delusions may share at root, such is the hydra-headed mindfuck that is homo civilis. I was lying in bed yesterday, vaguely delirious in a feverish convalescence, attempting to masturbate over a picture of a beautifully-torso-ed boy, probably eighteen, who self-identifies as straight/curious, and as often happens in the retreat to the subconscious terrain of the wank fantasy, I got distracted, it being a liquid plane - wanking is such a lubricant portal into a realm of hypnagogic contemplation. I got distracted, Into thinking, 'yeah, the notion of this kid being only accustomed to fucking rather than being fucked, him being straight, etc, is hysterically erotic, and yet...' the meditation continued 'would i find him so attractive if he were a creature of identical shape and form whose primary impulse and only recognizable human capacity was to fuck?' I.e. if i were incapable of projecting any 'brooding, wounded, hetero-male intensity' onto that blank canvas face, of assuming the rumblings of a basic subconsious fraught with human attrbutes, behind that harshly angelic face, then would I find his physicality whatsoever erotic? It would likely be akin to retard sex or bestiality and we know that these subtle refractions of our arbitrarily-finessed selves carry their frames with very different characteristics to the wholly-self-reflexive 'functional' human being, whose self-inflated notion of his bearing a specific sexual leaning can and often does dictate how he'll carry himself, how he'll present his core character (i.e. his perception/created incarnation of himself). I found the boy attractive because I was able to freely interpret from a single photo, a sense of confused intelligence, enthusiasm, health, strength, frailty, intensity of thought, disappointment, desire, hopelessness, isolation (he photographed himself, probably in his bedroom as his parents, unaware of his suspected-gay-leanings, furiously wandered their thickshit minds through The Daily Mail, only a room away), male awkwardness, absurdism, and any number of further paradoxical attributes. And I say interpret. Each of those listed attributes likely reflects more on my make-up than anything else, though were I to have directly confessed such, I would have emphasized the terms 'hopelessness', 'absurdism', and 'enthusiasm'. The boy may well a) not exist b) actually be a retard or c) be merely a shaved animal, in which case, I'm either, stupid, deluded, morally-repugnant, or any number of these, and if he's neither of these things, and actually just a boy who's just realized he wants to fuck with other boys, then I'm still those things, but such is the idiotically sublime nature of wanking.

I'd like each of you, upon having read the above paragraph, to unbutton your pants, lie down, and using your full capacity for projection, masturbate whilst thinking of me. Thank you.

Umber Park, October, Toby

Umber Park, October

Tryst-tych