A love letter to the voyeur

Here's an extract from a piece i'm working on at the moment (developed from the telephone piece in To be or not be a Cunt):

I love you.If only now.

If only in these perimeters.

Well love might not be the word but its the first word that comes to mind.

Your my servant, my Master.

You provide me with joy.

The sweet sound, my percussion, my rhythm.

You hit to the beat of my end, my finale.

You love when I leave,

When the action slowly evaporates into the next,

movement cruelly discarded.

If i'm not there to witness the fallout maybe the celebration will linger,

live a bit longer in your conciousness.

Maybe i'll still be there tomorrow.

Forgive my absence.

It doesn't have to come between us.

Maybe someday we can love without any framework at all

Maybe we can just be ourselves.

Inspiration Point

Recently i've come across some personally and generally inspiring/motivational writing:

The first piece being one of the short stories from David Eagelman's collection called Sum: Tales from the afterlives, a book that has some truly inventive and inciteful philosophies to indulge the mind in, well worth a read or a purchase from only three pounds :)

Subjunctive

In the afterlife you are judged not against other people, but against yourself. Specifically, you are judged against what you could have been. So the afterworld is much like the present world, but it now includes all the yous that could have been. In an elevator you might meet more successful versions of yourself, perhaps the you that chose to leave your hometown three years earlier, or the you who happened to board an airplane next to a company president who then hired you. as you meet theses yous, you experience a pride of the sort you feel for a successful cousin: although the accomplishments don't directly belong to you, it somehow feels close.

But soon you fall victim to intimidation. These yous are not really you, they are better than you. They made smarter choices, worked harder, invested the extra effort into pushing on closed doors. These doors eventually broke open for them and allowed their lives to splash out in colorful new directions. Such success cannot be explained away by a better genetic hand; instead, they played your cards better. In their parallel lives, they made better decisions, avoided moral lapses, did not give up on love so easily. They worked harder than you did to correct their mistakes and apologized more often.

Eventually you cannot stand hanging around these better yous. You discover you've never felt more competitive with anyone in your life.

You try to mingle with the lesser yous, but it doesn't assuage sting.In truth, you have little sympathy for these less significant yous and more than a little haughtiness about their indolence. "If you had quit watching TV and gotten off the couch you wouldn't be in this situation," you tell them, when you bother to interact with them at all.

But the better yous are always in your face in the afterlife. In the bookstore you'll see one of them arm in arm with the affectionate woman whom you let slip away. Another you is browsing the shelves, running his fingers over the book he actually finished writing. And look at this one jogging past outside: he's got a much better body than yours, thanks to a consistency at the gym that you never kept up.

Eventually you sink into defensive posture, seeking reasons why you would not want to be so well behaved and virtuous in any case. You grudgingly befriend some of the lesser yous and go drinking with them. Even at the bar you see the better yous, buying rounds for their friends, celebrating their latest good choice.

And thus your punishment is cleverly and automatically regulated in the afterlife: the more you fall short of your potential, the more of these annoying selves you are forced to deal with.

Copyright goes to the author. No Copyright infringement intended.

The piece is more personal and comes from my late grandmothers collection of poems.

Christopher John Michael (My Grandson)

Christopher John Michael, babe of "89"

I hope your days will always be fine

Bright eyes shining, resolute and true

Ready, willing and able

My wishes to you

Schoolboy of the nineties there's hope to your life

Exciting roads to follow dreams to pursue

May it be inspiring, may it all come true

But be wary don't let danger threaten

To thine ownself be true

Which job will you hold, which road will you choose?

Steeplejack, Writer, Lawyer who knows?

But whatever you do, whatever the score

Be honest, have courage

You cannot do more

The twenty - first century will come and go

You will be here to say "Hello, greetings and Best Wishes"

We all want to say and with good luck we will keep wars at bay

With all our resources, a better world to live in

A vision to fulfil.

Margaret Tsoukatos

I was ever so proud when I found this poem I hope some day I can write a suitable reply to the amazing woman that wrote this. Gran you give me hope,inspiration and a power - rest in piece.

Fuck it

Sometimes I think that when the bomb strikes we won't care we will turn the channel over, we watch another channel then as we are watching home shopping channels, tv quiz and gameshows the bomb succumbs us. We evaporate into nothing but dust.

This isn't some random prediction but a vague attempt at an analogy of todays personal politics. They are just too many people who don't give a shit.

To be continued...

The evening after the previous morning of the night before

To give this some context this was written after a drunken memory void night out, in a (terrible clichéd) coffee shop the following morning. Forgive any notion of grandiosity it is stained in blood sweat and alcohol.

I'm I'm not sure what to write, except I have a need to put it into words document and sure its exacted. I'm not sure i've anything to write that hasn't already been written before. Though comforting to think that i'm repeating the same words of some great philosopher or some deluded Psychopath. I then feel disgraced. I want to rub faeces around the transcript and fuck it to a pulp. It's wrong. I want Original. I don't want to paint by numbers. It's a falsity. Like a mind to paper, pen existence. It misses immediacy, orginality, the achievement of the masters.

I think, then think, then condense, then forget, then fuck around, eat, then write, blaspheme.

Think, then think, walking, pondering, writing, imprinted on a blood vessel hidden to be thought of later, forget, then thought of, and forgot again and until in surprise I find out my brain has come up with some miraculous theory. A way through to something more, better. Enlightenment reigns, if only temporarily.

The thing is i'm just complaining on a piece of tree with ink. What use is it? What is the point for such artifice of rebellion, when all is just in print, a static framework. Such a deluded voice, it seems to be radical but wheres the raw scrawls the picketlines, the Fucking.

And then I think about the drinking, the thought, the action that brought me here, an attempt to try to explain. The Want the Need to Fuck and be Fucked. The Art of Forgetting and Wondering into the imaginary landscape of dicks arseholes vaginas the excessive pleasure which is never enough and just a momentary blip into forgetting again and partly remembering what's next...

p.s. 05/12/10 I retain no explanation of this ranting. The thought i'd like to leave you with is an apology to a past of stupidity, a pathetic-ness; a self which is slowly fading.