RESISTANCE IS FUTILE!

Resistance to what seems inevitable may be futile, but - in my world - there is a lot to be said for so-called futile gestures - in fact 'my world' seems almost entirely composed of the stuff. I'm not sure why. May be I feel better defined by them, I'm not sure. I am not interested in finding a 'solution' though. And yet I am. For we are here, this is it, as far as I am concerned. We are it: a sort of infinitely mutable origami puzzle-box programmed to both perpetually un-puzzle and out-puzzle itself. The puzzle does not sit still for a moment, it always changes, and the solution is always trying to keep up, forever-born, forever-dying, locked in the ever-changing crest of a wave of potential. If the puzzle-solvers recognise this, they may recognise that they are also the puzzle-makers, that the making and the solving of the puzzle are twin functions of the same thing and there is therefore no solution so there is no point in trying to find one. It is futile. But to stop trying would be to disappear. Would it? Hmmm. If finding a solution is about seeking an end, then this would certainly do it. But if the donkey realises it will never get the dangled carrot, should it give up? Probably. If it were a sensible donkey. But where is the fun in that? And anyway, it is a very hungry donkey, and it knows that if it just stopped, it still wouldn't get the carrot. The very act of solving perpetuates the puzzle. And the puzzle demands to be solved. It is futile, and yet essential, in order to exist. Reality As We Perceive It may be an illusion - in fact we pretty much have to accept it is: We seem to be unable to make any claims of actual, only of seeming. Things seem. or seem to seem. So, it seems that a phenomena is at work, or present, folding itself (by design, accident, or both or neither) - by way of smoke and mirrors - into the scenery and the very tools of perception (or invention) that observe (or invent) said scenery and themselves and each other and etc.. But perhaps it is an illusion that (though incomplete, and imperfect) completely and perfectly describes some thing or facet in which we are embedded, by way of providing a 'context': an illusionary medium for reflection and response, for poetry, if you like: The illusion of interaction, of relationships between the ineffably indivisible (the proverbial 'difference between a duck', i.e. one of its legs is both the same). We are always infinity minus one or else we are nothing. The elusive 'one' must never be found yet always sought for, perhaps, and the 'one' in question is infinitely interchangeable, will always be present as a 'blind-spot' to make way for an 'optic-nerve' (?). The question is not really about the illusory nature of reality but whether it is or isn't (by accident or design or both or neither) a divisive illusion. A worth-while one. Less 'illusion' perhaps (as that's what we're saying it is, ) than 'description' (as that's what we're saying it does). Then everything is exactly how it (in all its diversity) emerges subjectively. Everything (in all its diversity) is exactly what it seems. More exactly than it would be than if it were the thing itself. The facsimile, the interpreted projected image, becoming more authentic than the original. In a way. No. That's not right. I think the 'authenticity' must exist in the dynamic between the two. The imaginary inter-relationships between apparent 'otherness' in all its rich variety and contradictions. We are in a preposterous and impossible situation, and therefore can only respond preposterously and impossibly. Either blindly, by accident, or deliberately. And we are defined by this response, and yet we are not, because there is of course no 'we'. And yet, at the same time, there is.

I suppose you are right: This would be a good time to call in the Zen-Plumbers. They are at least - if they are worth their salt - not afraid of paradox. But they've got no bloody taste...

My Life as a Zombie.

I'm jumping the gun of course, completely bypassing 'My Life as a Teenage Werewolf'. But I'm not in the mood for that one, and can't really remember it anyway (I was cautioned for chasing a duck one night - across St James's Park in my underpants, and that's all you really need to know).

The life of the zombie is, predictably enough, quite dull. But there is, if you like, a certain 'Zen' quality to its dullness - if (like me) you are of the 'proper', old-school, slow-moving variety (these new-fangled fast-types completely miss the point: The Fast Zombies are to the Slow Zombies what these (now universal) shaven-scalped 'patriots' and white-supremacists are to the original skinhead. They've got no fucking taste for one thing).

So, you know. You plod about. You wander aimlessly around gaping and glazed. You decay at a rate so inhibited that you could probably out-live your average human. Except that you are already dead.

The complex 'macro' living organism is the evolved 'contract' between all the micro-organisms that go about their business within the metabolic construct. But make no mistake, it is a hierarchical-contract, a contract of biological plutocracy, which in real terms, is no contract at all. The anti-organism that is the living-dead, is the perfect manifestation of Marxist ideology. The intellect has been dethroned and sent into exile.

The Zombie does not 'think' in the conventional sense. It is like a jellyfish in that respect, an animated city of micro-(quasi) life.

Free of the chains of the conceptual, one achieves a state of 'pure mind'. The mind is not that which might happen to float or buzz about in it if you among the living. It is a fluid and timeless thing.

But, like you breathers with your precious pulses, it is always hungry. But not for sustenance, for nourishment, or the fulfilment of any sensual pleasure.

It is hungry only to - in the most primordial sense - 'embrace'. The devouring of the flesh of the living is done, not - as some suppose - out of some surviving instinct still in circulation in the 'reptile brain' (the brain is an organ long-gone, replaced by endlessly re-organised soup, much like perpetual pupa-phase), but to extend this 'embrace'. But an embrace of what?

That's (in part) where the 'Frankenstein-factor' kicks-in: The answers to all of these questions (and more) require apparatus no more sophisticated than a fork and a toaster. But operating a toaster is more than just a bit problematic for your 'de-conceptualised' zombie, and it can therefore only be achieved by accident - and don't let anyone tell you that "there is no such things as 'accidents'", because - aside from the poor grammar of such a statement - if it wasn't for the Accident, there would be no such thing as anything at all. Take it from me, accidental zombie pioneer...

My Life as a Christian.

It was a bit on and off, my Christianity thing, First of all I was five and sent to a Protestant School. But only cos it was the nearest school. Apart from the Catholic school (I suppose they were full-up). My parents were a-religious types, coming themselves from a mix of Catholic/Protestant/Jewish/Hindu, and bleeding Zoroastrianism . Though my mum had an interest in Christian-theology - mainly derived from her obsession with the paintings of da Vinci - all them secret-codes and such (now so very popular - everyone pointing their fingers at everyone else). She used to enjoy chats with the local vicar about these. Then she had her 'vision': She was visited by Christ-no-less, who more-or-less told her that Judas was the true martyr in the equation, as Jesus had merely given-up his physical- life for humankind's salvation, where as Judas had consigned his very soul to hell for the cause - or some such ( It is worth mentioning that my dear old ma used to also spend hours arranging tea-towels on her arms in a way that would be perfectly symmetric as this would defy gravity and she would levitate). Anyway, she shared her experience with this local vicar, over tea, who was very intrigued and suggested a special meeting at the church. When she turned up, there was about 12 of them waving crucifixes and chanting 'THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELLS THEE!' - so that was the end of that.

Anyway, for whatever reason it didn't occur to either my mum or dad to brief me on the basics before sending me to Jesus-School. I was told-off during the Lord's Prayer as it confused me as I had no Idea that all our dads were doing 'art' in Devon or why everyone was kneeling and putting their hands together all of a sudden. That was Day 1. Then they didn't like my drawing which they misinterpreted as Jesus and all the angels perishing in Hellfire whilst Satan looked on laughing. It was a drawing I did right out of the bible, and they just misunderstood the symbolism.

Well Protestant school didn't do much for my spiritual-indoctrination. Then when I was about 9 I met a kid in the park. He told me that he had had a terminal spinal-condition and then he'd prayed to God and had levitated in a 'golden light' and was healed. That sounded pretty cool. For further information he obligingly pointed his Dad out to me who was this comb-over in an anorak handing out leaflets... I read the bible and prayed at night. I prayed for a terminal spine-condition so I too could levitate in the golden light (when all I needed was two identical tea-towels, obviously). It occurred to me that my prayers were selfish, and that in the eyes of God the Almighty my soul was naked and I must therefore only pray for worthy, selfless things of the empathetic and spiritually integral... But underneath everything there seemed always be some subtle layer of self-interest. The impurity of my soul went right down to the marrow. I was a hopeless case. I would never develop multiple-sclerosis at this rate. Then, obviously, I discovered masturbation and drugs and It all went sideways from there.... But I'm sure Jesus was a very interesting fellow, despite his bad hair

The Church of Frankenstein.

The Church of Frankenstein was founded about 6 years ago in my bedroom by accident. Practitioners are subjected to high-voltage electrical shocks for no particular reason. Our 'theology' is confused by definition. Confusion is the key state to which the Frankenite aspires. We encourage and exalt in contradiction. It is the very certainty of uncertainty that brings forth the friction necessary to generate the diametrically immiscible reconciliation of everlasting-mortality. We strive for the infinitely unsustainable dynamic between truth and reality. In this way we are never transformed but ever-negotiated: for the conflict of the composite is never the sum of its parts. We also serve sandwiches.