Edward Said

Edward Said “free Palestine”

Edward Said “where is my

goddam club sandwich

i’m starving”, Edward Said

many many things about

postcolonialism as well

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the end

This blog is a cartoon, a caricature, nothing more than fragmentary elements of my most toxic thoughts and morbid sense of humour. For a long time now the narrator of my work hasn’t been me apart from in certain instances where this is obviously the case, ‘Mother’ for example.

I have been working on a novel about amoral hedonist-individualist hipster scumbags and much of what you find on here is some forays into the world that book inhabits and the way the narrator thinks.

I’ve now on more than one occasion had friends and family worry about my mental health and/or drug use as a result of what they’ve read on this blog. This is upsetting, both that they worried about me and that they’d taken my blog at face value, as reportage. Because of the way its written and that its in my own name, its an easy leap to assume that this work is diaristic but this is simply not the case, its fiction, and to prevent any further confusion I will now be keeping my work and my private life separate.

I’ll continue to write, posting under a pseudonym for the time being.

This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time so I feel a great sense of relief at finally breaking free.

Oh, I’ve also got a zine coming out through Organised Fun Press so keep an eye out for that. Cheers for reading. BYE

court

I was on trial for some reason. I was in court.

“he was fine until he got into the drugs”

“yeah those nasty drugs ruined his life”

“Excuse me but fuck you both, this is hegemonic horse shit. It makes sense in a very basic commonsensical way but is it true? Its a load of fucking bollocks! I wasn’t fine before I got into drugs, if anything getting into drugs has allowed me to be more fine than I was prior to that. I have never been fucking fine. I have demons that circle like some kind of evil fucking distorted Alexander Calder piece and I can never escape unless I die, and sometimes when I take drugs I can partially escape for a bit, at least I can feel a gush of fresh air at the back door.”

“Drugs may exacerbate situations but they don’t change a character. So don’t blame drugs, don’t even blame the drug dealers. Blame the Queen, blame Rupert Murdoch, blame representative democracy, blame libraries, blame Tesco Express, blame Apple, blame Instagram, blame those machines you find at the entrances to supermarkets which sort out yr change for you. Blame me. Blame me. Blame me. I fucked up apparently, I’m sorry. Blame me but do not blame the drugs.”

gone sour

We were beginning to resent each other for various small unmentionable hypothetical indiscretions. Communication had broken down entirely and we just mutually existed in some kind of raw apathy or simmering inward looking hatred. Love was lost.

“I have spent my whole life being pushed around.”

“Me too”

“Why do you always say “basta!” when I touch you on the arm.”

“Because yr not currently capable of loving me in a sensible way”

I stood up and walked out of the back of the house, jumped a fence into the neighbouring field and climbed the hill up towards what looked like a small copse at the top of the hill. When I got to the top of the hill I was exhausted and there were no trees. I lay down on the grass and looked at the sky. Small black dots floated in and out of my field of vision like ballet dancers. Sometimes in the countryside it can be very quiet. When I hear ‘silence’ I hear a high frequency hum, a phasing mid-frequency robotic sounding phrase and the sound of imaginary horses hooves on their way to apprehend me.

When I got back to the flat Daisy was masturbating on the bed wearing one of my t-shirts, she had a bored look on her face. I sat down on an armchair and watched her. Then I lit a cigarette and started doing things on my phone to pass the time. Eventually Daisy climaxed or at least she got somewhere close and gave up. She stood up and walked over to me, she sat on my lap and her wet cunt started to saturate my jeans.

“I’m feeling a bit paranoid, like, I think that everything I do is the wrong thing and I feel like you hate me. I feel like I’ve annoyed you.”

I looked at her blankly, I felt completely disconnected from her. Daisy began to cry and I felt uncomfortable about the crying and the cunt on my jeans and the fact that she was in such close proximity to me.

“do I suck?”

“you don’t suck any more or any less than anyone else does”.

I didn’t know what was going on, who was I? Who was Daisy? Why were we together in this flat?

Daisy’s face ( a few inches away from mine) was just an achromatic blurred haze of vagueness.

clever lying

Pascal says: ‘Kneel down

move your lips in prayer

and you will believe.’

In western post-Fordist

capitalism we are taught

to consume a niche

and we will be

rendered whole

our work will become

valid and worthwhile

ideology is based on

false assumptions

its all a big lie

a big fucking lie

and we go along

for the ride

sick

we can judge a society by examining the ways in which it is ‘well’ and the ways in which it is ‘sick’. In post-Fordist western capitalism we define ‘wellness’ with reference to agents’ ability to work and shop. Production and consumption. Our leisure time is reified and our work time is mythologised.

A more accurate look at this will come courtesy of the ways in which we are ‘unwell’. Depression, anxiety, other mental health conditions, eating disorders, self harm, these things are endemic in the millenial generation.

Why?