On Post Modernism And Magic.

On Religion.

From an early age (thirteen) I was fascinated by religion (that is religion with a big “R”, world religion, not religion, “r”, that is Christianity, see book shops, libraries etc). I must admit for some time I did take on the vacant eyed, smiley-faced aspect of the “Born Again Christian”. I got better though. I studied, yoga, Sufism, obscure Christian mystics. I spent much time in the libraries alternative religion section perusing the works of Christmas Humphreys (Books ) (Christmas Humphreys, born in london in 1901, was a judge, a Buddhist, and the founder of the Buddhist Society of London ), who opened up the can of worms that is Zen Buddhism to me (my having studied yoga for a while, I found his terminology quiet accessible). My travels in religion eventually led me to Taoism particularly through the writings of Alan Watts. As an aside I was also interested in the western mystical tradition (Brother Lawrence for example). Eventually the force of learning a foreign culture collided with my obstinate side and I began to explore the native culture and religion here in the British Isles.

On Paganism.

Paganism in all it’s various guises was an eye opener for me. Here was an attempt to move away from the male dominated, misogynistic, Masonic hierarchical structure of the Christian religion that I had forsaken with glee. Paganism is in itself a purely modern religion (there being few if any true links to any pre –Christian practices). The oldest order of druid’s I have personally come into contact with claim their line from Henry the Eighths period and no earlier. Now as an interested party in the (until recently) hidden aspects of Paganism, I of course was brushing shoulders with such occult heavy weights as Crowley, and Israel Regardie. Not physically of course but in the same sections of the book shops that I use to have to frequent to purchase anything good on Paganism.

On Magic.

What else could a young aspiring occultist (by now no longer Buddhist, or plain Pagan but a Pagan Occultist) really want for but the complete works of either of the above. Now here we get into my main theme (at last I hear you cry). Study closely the texts of early alchemists (Rosicrucianism for instance), and occultists, and later writers on the arts. The major theme I find in most of my travel is the denial of the objective reality (Buddhism) and the belief in the ability of the Magus to reform the mundane in the likeness of their own will. Mainly by the process of naming things correctly in order to have power to manipulate items/people.

On Existentialism.

Being an enquiring mind I also bathed my intellect in such luminaries as Marx (I read the introduction to “Das Capital”), and Bertrand Russell. Expanding into such interesting areas as Sartre’s Existentialism. As a student of the mind I was also interested in both Freudian and Jungian psychology. Of course having such a wide reading area precludes one from being anything but a passing acquaintance to these subjects.

On Postmodernism.

Imagine my joy when finally arriving at university (as a mature student of thirty nine) to rediscover the work of both Sartre and Freud, leading into such people as Lacan and his developments in theory, Barthes with his extension of the same, and Kristeva (and more ). All focused on the use and misuse of language and its development as a tool being all pervasive to the point of taking over the whole of reality. To this end the Post modernist creed almost stating there is nothing but text and text is able to be infinitely manipulated.


On Finishing.

This is purely a small essay (full of holes), which I hope may excite the reader to at least explore some of the subjects raised in order to engender debate. My final point is the conclusion that both Magus and Postmodernist end up in the same place, surrounded by words, all at their beck and call, all there to be manipulated to their advantage.

Yours the Dyslexic Postmodernist.

Other Links
gothic cyber punk, religion, and text!

Technorati Tag: Humor, Humour, Occult, Pagan, Postmodernism .

Shrimp

"Suppose you're thinking about a plate of shrimp. Suddenly someone will say 'plate' or 'shrimp' or 'plate of shrimp,' out of the blue. No explanation and there's no point in looking for one either. It's all part of the cosmic unconsciousness." Tracey Walter as "Miller" in "Repo Man"

I saw this quote on another blog and it reminded me.

From what I understand of Memes, they are self-replicating ideas. Like urban myths, one person tells another and so on until the story itself becomes an entity in it’s own right, whether or not it is entirely true.

This is my meme (and now the reason for Shrimp and memes explained).

A number of years ago I was allowed to join a TELNET forum (yes there are still some of us had experience of the net quite some time ago) in Texas (I was in Stockton-Upon-Tees, UK at the time). A great group of people a lot of whom seemed to be fairly local to the servers in Texas, and many who seemed to know each other personally. Many hours of fun were passed explaining the differences between British and American Swearing (cussing), and such.

One particularly shitty evening I’m hiding from the storm that is raging outside. So head up to the Sun labs to play with the Internet. Log on a few terminals and begin to surf and log into the TELNET session.

This evening in Texas appears to be particularly fine one. Now as any one who has used anything like msn or the old TELNET sessions will know, many threaded conversations quickly leads to many threaded confusions. A number of threads following the usual have you seen such and such a film became entangled with one contributors description of where he was going to dinner and what he was going to have. Shrimp particularly. And he was being extremely descriptive about quantities, sources, cooking style. As the differing threads became more and more entangled there emerged a disparate thread. Originally trying to get the name of a recent film the answer to the gap in the title came back "Shrimp" (of course).

There then ensued many hours of frivolity replacing shrimp in titles of books, films, stage plays, the list inexhaustible.

So there is the game. Start with some classics “A Shrimp Too Far””, “Where Shrimp Dare”, “Shrimp over the river Kwie”, develop to more recent examples “Shrimp of the Caribbean”, the all encompassing “Shrimp”, “Shrimps”, and “Shrimp III”, "Shrimp IV", etc.

Explain the game and watch the beast grow and devour any reasonable conversation.

Welcome to my meme.

Obsession On, Obsession Off.

The angst ridden whinging of a forty something.

Obsession on, obsession off. Obsession on again. Obsession off again.

Obsession on.

I ensure I leave work just in time to catch her leaving the pub after her day session. Hoping for the odd smile, a wave, a word.

Obsession off.

I ensure I leave work just in time to miss her as she leaves work so as not to see the smile, the wave, or receive the odd word.

Obsession on.

I spend my time sulking by the bar, not really talking to her, her not really talking to me. But for the occasional time she catches me staring at her and she smiles, or I catch her looking at me and I smile. The odd evening when there is a bounce in her step and a light in her smile. Sometimes too much beer in me.

Obsession off.

I’m wasting my life just trying to catch a brief moment with someone who is (I know deep in my heart) not particularly interested in me. I am wasting my time, and my money just propping the bar up in the vain hope she even talks to me.

Obsession on.

Every Wednesday I’m enticed down to the pub, her evening session so I just get pissed and stoned and here I am again just propping the bar up and forlornly hoping.

Obsession off.

I re-align my chackras. I go to another pub Saturday night. I stop staring at her and even reduce the amount I’m talking to her.

Obsession on.

After a night of almost ignoring her, she is pissed, I am stoned, she stops to talk to me, and there it is, that bloody light in her face, the smile, and it all starts again.

Technorati Tag: Obsession, Women.

If Love Is A Drug I Must Be Going Cold Turkey!

Having been born in north Africa (Libya), lived in Northern Ireland, and seen vast amounts of mainland Europe, and travelled the length and breadth of the UK, I find myself more and more restricted to the little island of Portsea (Island, it’s a ditch that separates the place from the “mainland”, but it is completely surrounded by water, when the tides in). It must be because of this that my outlook is becoming more and more restrictive. I am less and less likely to consider jobs in London (only an hour or so on the train from Portsmouth), or the Home Counties. I drink in the same pub at the moment (may the gods bless “The Drake”, and all who frequent her). After my complete breakdown and months of sleeping on the sofa, in a prozac (seroxat actually) induced stupor I find it easier to stick to my “safe” places, my home (until the bank tries to take that from me), my pub (as above), and the temp job I have in the local council.

It is probably of no surprise to you that during all this period I have of course not been in anything remotely close to a relationship with a member of the opposite sex (a cumbersome phrase). Please don’t take this as a “I’m not getting laid enough” whinge, it’s not (I’m not but that’s not what this is about). Having reduced my socialising to a small number of venues I found myself becoming more and more obsessed about fewer and fewer people. Until I am totally absorbed by one individual. This is of course the cumulative effect of prolonged depravation added to vast quantities of alcohol. Unusual for me as my taste is usually intellectuals, and more usually not British.

Funny really because all I can put this ever decrease in socialising, and an ever increase in an individual who I would have had little interest in previously, down to the obvious reduction of any real affection (on a personal basis). Unfortunately the reduction and the obsession increase exponentially until I completely implode and end up “Going Postal” with a Kalashnikov (AK-47) and running up and down commercial road randomly shooting anyone in Burberry or shell suites (so alls well that ends well).
Oh damn this is a whinge about me not getting enough after all.

Technorati Tag: Obsession, Rants, Rant.

The Case Of The Lost Glasses.

This actually happened a while back but I will re-tell it here.

As usual last Friday was a miasma of drunkenness.

Finished work at 1630hrs, wandered down the agency to hand in my time sheet and drink their wine. (memories of a Jimi Hendrix song come into my head at that last sentence). An hour later I am trotting across town a little worse for ware due to red wine.

The major problem is that I have to pass the pub on the way home. Actually the major problems is I don't pass the pub on the way home. So about 2000hrs I decide I should at least go and put my briefcase and tie somewhere that they wont get beer dripped on them (mostly by myself that is).

Thirty seconds later I re-enter the pub, clean tee-shirt and a little more money better off.

Well the band are excellent. I'm told I led a small personal "mosh pit" in the pub, to the landlords displeasure. Well much leaping about and head banging later I eventually run out of steam and go home, weary but happy.

The next morning is heralded with the usual Saturday morning hangover and a particularly sore neck (too much head banging). Well I manage to find my trousers and my shoes, and the forensic evidence in the kitchen suggests that I may have cooked something to eat when I got in.

As is my way I get out of bed around 0900hrs to migrate down to the lounge and fall asleep in front of Dragon Boosters or some thing. Now as necessity would have it I need my glasses to see the telly (whilst my eyes are open).

Here in lies the problem. I cannot find them anywhere. All the usual (and some pretty unusual) places are searched to no avail. Even the fridge has no comfort for me.

Concluding that I must of left them down the pub I resolve to check later and break out the second pair (kept for emergencies such as this).

Those of you who wear glasses will of course appreciate the mild discomfort of wearing a pair of glasses that are not your regular pair.

As part of my weekend domestic tasks I set off to get some milk. On the way I resolve to pop into the pub to check if the offending articles have been handed in. Well one thing leads to another,(mostly one pint leads to another), and it becomes necessary to purchase breakfast in the pub (just to settle my stomach).

Well about 2000hrs (again) I need some more money (not having gained any clue as to the whereabouts of the glasses yet). I head off home and return better off fiscally (in the sense I have more money in my pocket not so much in the bank).

So Sunday is greeted with the traditional Sunday hangover (much distinct from the Saturday morning variety), and yet again I ransack the house trying to find these dammed glasses.

Well Pete and the "Godson From Hell" turn up about 1600hrs as usual, neither of them are of any use. The godson doing his best Colombo "do you think they are upstairs or downstairs?"

"To be honest if I knew that I wouldn't need to find them!"

A fine afternoon is had by all culminating in the now mandatory kebab dinner, and they leave me in the house to sulk about the spectacles.

Monday morning comes around. I do the usual somnambulant dance of breakfast, bath and get dressed (sometimes in that order, sometimes not), sling on the MP3 player and head for the door. For no apparent reason as I reach for the door handle I look right and there are the damn glasses.

All's well that ends well.

Love Poem.

Like I could actually write a love poem, well here is an attempt:

Love Poem.

What use the limpid pools.
Flowers and sickening love birds,
No,
Sycophantic rubbish!

More like…..

My soul is a dark and despicable thing this night.

I look into her eyes,
And she rips the still beating heart out of my chest,
With an almost careless disregarded smile,
More addictive then crack cocaine,
That illuminates the universe,
She tosses it to one side.

I descend into a pitch black pit of self loathing,
And self recrimination,
Never to be able to concentrate ever again.

Wishing only for another oh so brief moment.
To see that smile again,
To bathe in it’s beauty and light.

Simon Kennedy 19/07/2005. Performed (The Cha Cha Bar).

On Children.

I didn’t like children when I was one, I don’t particularly like them now. I especially don’t like to have people who have had children tell me how fantastic the experience is.

I have often heard it said “Having children makes you grow up quickly!”
Then people ramble on in platitudes about increased responsibility, maturity, and the benefits of rearing kids.

Be assured this may be so. But only as a result of having to drag a mindless sucking leach like thing into the, and around the, world for some fifteen to twenty years before you can legally throw them out and regain control of your life.

Basically children are ecologically, economically, and psychologically unsound.

Ecologically unsound:

Not only is the world already overburdened by over population. But the obnoxious toxic excretions of the things are downright unthinkable. Why bother even re-cycling that wine bottle if your pushing around one of the inexhaustible little shit machines. Think of the mountains of used nappies that pack the ever increasing number of land fill sites around the world.

Economically unsound:

Tell me, do, how much more money would you have to spend on yourself if it wasn’t for little Bobby, or Bobbette, whining about the latest Barbie, Ken action thing atroscity that they will just die if they have to do without. Also please consider the strain on the already thinly depleted resources of the world.

Psychologically unsound:

Imagine if you would the cumulative strain and ware caused by almost twenty years of psychological warfare over bath time, bed time, or what time they should be home, “and no, whatever you do don’t pick me up right outside the school disco”, “and you will never understand modern music because you were born just before the dinosaurs were.” And don’t think you’ll get away with just twenty years, you will be worrying for the rest of your life.

Monkies can have children. Having children is not a clever thing. It’s a biological function. Not having children is the right way to go. In fact I had a particularly good shit this morning. It may not grow up to cure cancer, but it stands a good chance of being elected prime minister though.

Oh and by the way if you do have children, you’re not the first to do so. Remember your parents, and unfortunately you wont be the last. I’m sure some witty individual made similar comments to our parents and they unfortunately didn’t listen either.

To be honest with you yes children change your life, but then what sexually transmitted parasite that takes twenty years to get rid of wouldn’t.

Simon Kennedy 15/08/2005. Performed (The Cha Cha Bar).

On Vampyres (with a ‘Y’).

Why are vampires not short fat bald guys. I must ask, if statistically so few people look like Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise, why does Hollywood insist that the archetypal vampire look like them? What happens to the ordinary looking person? What happens to the less than beautiful when they are given the kiss of eternal life? Or is it that they are just fodder for, and not part of, the chosen? If you are bald does your hair grow back? Do vampires only bite good looking people? If so how would they continue to prosper and exist, just choosing the better looking? I seriously doubt that!

Also studying the very nature, and situation, of vampires suggests that they would want to be the very anti-thesis of glamorous, rich, obvious, and famous, individuals.

If vampires were to exist they would more obviously be the person next to you on the night bus, the accountant, the man in the late night cinema, the woman alone in the bar. Vampires are the plain people, un-noticeable and un-noticed.

In fact the banal, mundane nature of the vampires has probably funded the Hollywood glam hype. The perfect misdirection.

Watch your back. Cover your neck. And never, never, trust the guy who looks like he wants to sell you double glazing. The short, fat, bald guy, in the street is more likely to suck the life from your neck, than the tall supine blond dressed unimaginably all in black.

Simon Kennedy 04/05/2005. Performed 09/03/2005 (The Cha Cha Bar).

Breakfast At Epiphanies.

“A surrealist must create his own logic. Then be totally inconsistent with it.” Salvador Dali, Surealissimo. Beware of falling busses. Mind Your head please, thank you very much.

When I was a child I was always impressed when certain individuals from the local WI turned up to take assembly at school. These were co-ordinated multimedia experiences with poetry, readings, and music synchronised usually with a slide show. This is what I am now attempting here. Obviously without the music, or the slide show. Having the retentive facilities of the average dead halibut I have scripted this little collection. So, you will have to excuse the carefully rehearsed, and pre prepared, adlibs. I have entitled this collection Breakfast At Epiphanies.

Purely by coincidence I discovered Mr Ivor Cutler. I happened to have the television on the background about three o’clock this morning, whilst up to no good elsewhere in the room. It explained to me much about his life, his loves, and actions. Without me really looking for such information. I make the point of calling him Mr Cutler as we have not yet been formally introduced. It came to me as something of a shock to realise he was quiet as famous as he was without me knowing of him. Maybe I had heard of him and forgotten, or perhaps he was not as famous now as the programme claimed he was. I have to admit that I was much impressed. He reminded me to continue to look with the eyes of a child (I will collect some later), and that everything does not have to make sense. In fact nothing really does make sense until someone comes along and makes sense of it. A tree in a forest does not care if when it falls it makes no noise. Only worried people care about such things.

That night I dreamt I played table tennis against daemons from darkest hell. We used rats. Skinned and dried with their tails and heads left on. Stretched to make good surface area to hit the ball. Rats rather than bats, because bats are smaller, and rats have the tail with which to make the handle. We of course used proper ping-pong balls.

To the best of my information Mr Cutler didn’t re-marry after his initial divorce but has been associated with someone for a large period of his life. Not actually living together, they had separate flats, but they visited each other on a regular basis. A fine arrangement in my point of view, that reduces many of the inherent complications involved.

In deference to Mr Cutler, and unfortunately not having his singing voice, you will have to suffer the following in my own particular version of plainchant. When I originally heard him perform this I was reduced to tears. I think it is particularly indicative of his relationship with .

Beautiful Cosmos

(by Ivor Cutler)

You are the centre of your little world and I am of mine.
Now and again we meet for tea, we’re two of a kind.
This is our universe, cups of tea.
We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me.
We have a beautiful cosmos.
What do we talk of whenever we meet? Nothing at all!
You sit with a sandwich I look at a roll.
Sometimes I open my mouth, and shut it.
We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me.
We have a beautiful cosmos.
You are the centre of your little world and I am of mine.
We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me.
We have a beautiful cosmos.

I still surprise myself occasionally when digging through old poetry books. I am attempting to transcribe as much of my previous poetry into digital format in the hope of actually keeping it. Whilst doing so I found this untitled piece the other day:


My smiling is a secret thing,
Left to the private places,
The gentle times,
Passed between you and I.

Simon Kennedy 16/09/2004.

The other day I found God. He was in a shoe box under my stairs. And boy was he pissed off. Loki the god of mischief had left him there. Tricking him into a game of hide and seek. Loki unkindly had not seeked. Being a pagan myself I of course had not noticed him there. So I released him from my front door. Much like liberating a trapped bumble bee, he went forth to correct all the things the Christians had got wrong.

At the risk of giving the impression that I live a life of complete whimsy. Finally a piece that wrote itself after the programme on Mr Cutler finished.

My House.

I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
I had especially liked the way all my toys,
And books,
And things,
Had come to a rest in the same place,
At the same time,
As me.

I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
Maybe I had been too previous,
In putting up pictures,
And curtains,
As though I really lived there.
The nomad finally come to rest.

I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
I’ve had less,
Avoiding damp bed sits,
Hiding from the wrath of my ex-wife.
Frightened nights in others spare rooms,
Space stolen from close friends,
Or family.
Dark corners of lofts of pubs.
Whilst I mal-adjusted in my own particular way.

I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
Even though I thought I’d stopped moving.
Just when I thought I was getting it right.
Illness put paid to that.
And the bank will be paid.

I don’t know if they are going to let me keep my little house.
Which is a shame.

Simon Kennedy 16/04/2005.

***
Salvador Dali’s moustache is alive and well and living in Peckham.

Random Rants and Bits!

Now for some previous thoughts:

Fridges.

From a quote from William Gibson:

“Technologies are morally neutral until we apply them!”
Take for instance a fridge. Not in itself particularly malignant. Until I drop one on you. And store pieces of your body in it. Don’t do me the injustice of now looking at me as though I were some axe murdering psychopath, or about to drop some fridge on you. Fun for all the family. Rainy bank holidays dropping fridges on the poor people. The fun we had in Manhattan. That weekend with those dozen Indoset.

Simon Kennedy 09/03/2005. Performed 13/04/2005 (The Cha Cha Bar).

Prayer #2.

Right I claim in my profile that I am some sort of poet so here's some of my work:

Prayer #2.

And I went up upon the mountain,
And spake unto the gods of consumption and capitalism thus:

“For have I not been a good and diligent consumer?
Have I not purchased even the most banal and useless crap,
In the name of fashion and popularity?
Have I not spent many hours of devotion in front of the thirty six inch wide screen one eyed neon idol in the corner of my lounge,
And have I not undertaken the most holy writ of credit,
Even unto points well beyond my means?
To sacred mortification in penury and debt!
Unto almost bankruptcy!
Have I not been one of your most pious and devoted hedonists?
Thus I plead to you,
Oh fickle gods of finance,
Would it not be unjust?
To bestow upon your most devout and staunch servant?
A little more money to spend upon your devotion,
(About twice my current wages would be fine!).
What sort of sacrifice do you want of me?

Yours in the service of Mammon,
Etc etc,
Amen.

Simon Kennedy 21/09/2004. Performed 13/10/2004 (The Cha Cha Bar).

The Web Site Is Still Up.

OH HAPPY DAY!

Whilst trawling the net for pictures of myself (not vanity just the fact I forgot to bring one in to upload to the blog here), much to my surprise and delight I find the “official” FECOO (First Evangelical Church of Onan) website is still up and running :-).
The Hit counter is dead though!

Quote

"Welcome To The O.F.E.C. Official Homepage. A quick word from their Holinesses the Pope, and the Anti-Pope (ne Holy Loss), Simon and Pete, respectivly.
Why a religion based on inuendo and masturbation? Desparation, searching, looking for something different. An alternative to the main stream religions that are taking themselves too seriously. A truly non-sectarian religion, with bars to no one, as in truth all people must at one time have at least thought of joining us. Or been accused of being one of us. An adaptable religion that fits in with your way of life. "

What's In The Box?

I liked this comment I composed on another Blog HomeFree so much I feel I want to post it here as well.

Without seeming like some ultra left anti capitalist (the instant someone says something like that you know they are about to do the opposite). It worries me that the level at which western society has embraced capitalism has some very far reaching potential effects. That unless they (the multi nationals) are kept in check by something (anything) we are going to leave the world with the equivalent of McDonald's as it's only choice of restaurant, Wal-Mart its only supermarket and so on. Look at the Smith Kline Beecham control of medication or the Lever Bros control of soap and detergents. The consumer is more limited in the choices they are making than they think. Multi national companies using different branding for the same products, for different markets. Look under the lid and it's just the same product from the same source just a differing label.

It follows a long term "rant" theme of mine based on a quote from The Brothers Karamazov to do with allowing people small liberties in their cages and them hailing you as a great liberator, not seeing they remained caged.

Self Publish Blooks

I have found some fairly crappy blogs, and some vaguely decent blogs but this seems closest to why I think you should even bother putting finger to keyboard: Self Publish Blooks. But, on the other hand (never start a sentence with "but") from the point of any author if that is how you feel reality is in your world perhaps even the poorly written blogs are as justified as any other.
Placed as a comment on "Greek Tragedy".

"Finally a coherent use of blogging. I have spent far too much time surfing the blogosphere (or is that blogasphere?), meeting the angst ridden "txt" corrupted whining of pre-pubescent teenagers. It was nice just to be lost from rainy Portsmouth (Southern England). It is my belief that the net is an opportunity for everyone to improve the quality of their experience by being able to communicate to a wider audience than the small milieu that would have received them otherwise. To travel for a moment to "beside the Omaha dugout". Coincidentally the moment I finished reading the piece the rain stopped here as well. Thank you for the sun dance."

This definitely a blog site I will be returning to on a regular basis.

Facist Mortgage Company (Letter to The Times)

Dear Sirs,

I am not sure if you will be interested in this story or not.

Having been signed off work for eight months with stress and depression, heavily medicated with seroxat, my wages were halved (as per my contract of employment), thus causing me severe problems with my mortgage. As a result I was unable to make payment for four months. Contacting my mortgage company I agreed to pay the interest on the mortgage, and something towards a £100 overdraft in an associated account. Being paid weekly (on a Friday) I hit certain problems now and again. For instance the last payment for February had to be made in the first few days of March, the Friday that week being the third of March.
After fourteen months of struggling, and eight continuous months of managing to pay regularly (though not to the banks satisfaction) the mortgage company, the Woolwich (really Barclays) have finally decided to hand my details over to their solicitors. I have to admit that their intermittent threats to do so (regular letters every other month) have done nothing for my state of mind, and medical condition (of which they are more than aware).
I find that on contacting them about a month ago the original agreement to hold all charges and interest has not actually been in effect since July last year. This means that with the compound charges it appears I now owe £1653.29 for the £100 overdraft (for fourteen months), and £3889.18 in arrears on my mortgage.
The Woolwich is yet again threatening to re-posses my home and ensures me should there be any short fall in the sale of the property I will have to make up the difference.

To be honest with you I received far better treatment from the double glazing company (whom I owe £9500), who are quiet happy for me to pay them £10 a month until such time as my finances improve and I am able to make a more significant payment.

Yours (in deep depression)

The Infamous meekon5.

And so it begins!
Another corner of the web taken over by the Poet Philosopher (anarchist).
Faced with the blank page all those erudite, and amusing observations become smoke on the wind (wiped from my mind as quickly as they appeared).
The major problem is to actually think of something interesting to say. This though is a beginning, I have broken the ice and can build on this in the future.

The following items I dedicate to the fools that think they run (ran) Lewmar Ltd so well, and who caused me so much mental problem, that I can only hope history will prove their undoing and not mine. Though as I have said before, it is no use cursing those who cant see they are already cursed, and living in hell. Hell is not eternity with the same people, (sorry Sartre), but the foolishness of believing you are actually doing something important, and well, when we are not. I thank them for giving me the keys to Hades and letting me out, rather than insisting I remain for the eternity they are happy to perform. (from my "Little Black Book" collection, Sunday, 20 March 2005) Please don't assume that I am a completely unhappy individual (I am a lot better since I stopped taking the medication).