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...