Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Untitled Dream Fragment

And Tim was by the stream, skooshing oil into the trickling water.
“Tim, what the hell ye doing?” queried Allen.
“Ah, you know, everyone thinks I’m like this eco-warrior or something.”
“Why are ye doing this?”
“Ah, just for a laugh really, just to piss people off.”
Tim ran into the house. Allen pursued and found each room in darkness. None of the light switches worked.
Upstairs, a room full of cardboard boxes. Tim sprang out from behind a large cardboard box and yelled AHAAARGHHH!
“AAHRGH ya bastard!” yelled Allen and promptly awoke with excruciating leg cramp.

Second Instance of Ritual Abuse

When he returned he seemed furtive, even more so than usual. The boys were quiet, the dog its usual animated self. Cut hands at the sink. A walk to see the excavators.

The Inscrutability of Certain Observed Participants

She arrived at the bar early but didn’t order a drink, she took a seat near the window and settled in to wait. Presently a young man appeared and asked her to confirm her name and the name of the man she was waiting for. She did this.
“He’s not coming… he sent me in his place,” the man explained with an enigmatic grin.
“You’re gay,” she told the man. She stood up and they left the bar together. They walked quickly and then simultaneously broke into a run, neither speaking. The woman was giggling, the man breathing deeply.

James Kelman was sitting on a park bench somewhere in Edinburgh, wearing dark shades and sipping carefully from a can of Coca Cola. He cackled suddenly for no discernible reason, spluttering coke onto his jeans. Next thing David Keenan came dancing past, a silly gleam in his eyes.
“Ya demented cunt,” giggled James Kelman. He scratched the stubble on his cheek. Keenan groaned and then farted.

“Sad to see it go. My libido that is. Ach well, we had a good run, aye, so we did.” The auld yin took a long sip on his pint then.
“You just made me waste all this money!” screamed the neurotic teenage art student, dragging her frail fingers through her straggly blonde hair.

Around dusk the swimming pool was quiet, there were no sounds except the ambient noise of insects stationed in nearby shrubbery. It was quite incredible. The sky was smudged with oranges and mauves, it was quite devastating.
He awoke. His sores throbbed. Night had fallen. Dogs barked in the distance, the sound echoed. He felt as if he hadn’t slept. The weight of everything. He was exhausted.

Nuances of the Epic Ritualised Humiliation

All participants submit themselves in total embarrassment. They are keenly aware of the sublime anguish they are about to voluntarily undergo. Unimposing shy men are financially dominated by shrewd, hysteric whores. Talented, intelligent, gorgeous women are brutalised by fat scumbags. These sicknesses repeat themselves, multiply, form a vast intricate pattern of exquisite despair. Rapists are congratulated and celebrated. Demure beautiful teenagers are forced to suck the thick, veiny cocks of obese sadists who harbour little regard for any kind of standard of personal hygiene. The worst, most tragic outcomes of any given situation are welcomed with consensual glee. A sort of sick, hysterical glee which revels in base errors and inherent vice. Satanic ideologies and psychological theories are woven into a new religion of nonchalant cruelty and spectacular violence. Effete fatalists wax philosophical on the subject of this mass moral regression as they sit in ruined public houses. The sky is a crystal clear blue, contrasting marvellously with the maroon hue of wet gore. Masked participants lurk in school playgrounds. Melancholy academics are bogged down by memory, ensconcing themselves in prestigious mental illnesses as an indicator of intellectual rigour. Waves of ennui and lethargy debilitate the populace of planet Earth on an overcast afternoon.
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