Things

They were things. Forget “people”, forget “humans”, even the word “animals” was just another noise made with their mouths and a combination of symbols on a page with absolutely no relation other than the merely cognitive to what they really were, to their basic essence. “Things”, while itself as a vocal sound and symbolic depiction was just as irrelevant, at least by its very definition, was so vague and superfluous so as to do justice to that which they were at their most fundamental level. All “sentient beings” in fact, if seen through the eyes of a newly, instantaneously materialised perceiver, would appear as nothing more than totally weird alien things. They had, over the millennia, developed all manner of ways in which to disguise their thingness, not least to those around them but above all, in order to avoid the existential horror such a realisation would provoke, to themselves. Those lesser conscious things, beyond whom the capacity to self-reflect still lay, were without the necessity to hide from themselves their thingness in so much as they weren’t even aware of it to begin with.

The Case for Being Positive

Through the inhalation of that particular dried burning leaf it was never really his intention to carry out any kind of analysis of the actual state, rather to allow it to help him produce ideas which, as always, it seemed to be doing if not slightly differently to how he’d previously expected. In presupposing that its effects would be dramatically negative in character, fearful and apocalyptic and highly, darkly imaginative, Whitetrash appeared to have proved himself wrong, or maybe he just hadn’t smoked enough. Or maybe that’s just what he needed to do, that the antidote was in fact to work himself up so much beforehand in anticipation of how it would be that whatever he imagined would subsequently be proved wrong, as that was all it ever consistently seemed to do.

On this occasion it was making itself pretty logically clear that dark and fearful imaginings were not only undesirable but totally unnecessary in that the drawbacks far outweighed the benefits. In fact the only benefit to that way of thinking that Whitetrash was able to discern could only ever be that it helped him avoid such an eventuality when it was well understood that this was simply not the case. The future would happen whether he liked it or not and no amount of foresight would hold any sway on what ultimately happened. Even if he were to act on it, which he invariably did with respect to multiple, diverse issues (this itself playing a crucial part in the overall process), there would be no way for him to know, not least control, what would happen as a result and whether this was any more favourable than the perceived result of his other possible options. In fact it seemed that indeed there were no options, only imagined ones. He could quite easily imagine himself in another situation, but at the end of the day he was not and the decision to make such a change seemed highly unlikely. The push and pull factors were decisively balanced and it seemed that self-preservation was, perhaps undeservedly but nevertheless, just one of many numerous and subtle distinct criteria and only a fraction of his overall concerns to which a determinate amount of heed was paid. In this sense he could fully imagine himself as programmed to go in a certain direction and, much like a robot, carry out his function.

Thus, if they were, each and every one of them, in fact planned on the genetic level to behave in a certain way at a particular point in time and space, would it not then follow that it was all always meant to go the way that it did and does and will. For this line of enquiry he was making three, rather grand assumptions:

1.  That there was such a thing as genetics at all as opposed to just another vacuous explanation formulated by imaginative minds for the purpose of pacifying the existential angst of mass ignorance, as credible and accurate as the belief in a group of meddlesome supermen and women living on the top of a mountain.

2.  If it was actually empirical fact, that it followed some kind of formal pattern that would point towards meaningful design as opposed to just random mutation the pattern of which only aroused awe, wonder and mystery for the simple reason that absolutely none of them understood it, at all.

3.  That their genetic make-up had any bearing on the decisions they made, both conscious, unconscious and involuntary (if it did also have something to do with nurture it would then need to have been ascertained whether this too followed some kind of formal pattern which again pointed at meaningful design).

They filled in the blanks with assumptions; blind spots were replaced with their visible surroundings. They assumed that a beautiful pattern must be created by some kind of being similar to themselves (if not a little bigger) just because they would have done the same had they been in charge. But then again they were also the product of whatever was in charge, the same force that had created the sublime Milky Way was also responsible for humankind. So surely their appreciation and attempts at imitation of everything around them, including themselves, would suggest that they shared something in common with this supposedly responsible agent.

Was the pattern supposedly being followed actually being followed at all? And if it was, was it consciously organising itself for, it seemed, nothing more than aesthetic expression? Was it for that matter particularly aesthetic in the first place? Of course he saw beauty but he also saw ugliness, hardship and suffering. The question it seemed to be worthwhile asking therefore was how much ugliness, hardship and suffering did he see on a daily basis compared to the amount of beauty, peace and happiness? For if this could be determined one way or the other, maybe he could work out once and for all whether it was indeed the work of a grand aesthetician.

Going back to the question as to whether genetics did actually exist at all, it was not too unreasonable to wonder whether it was all in fact nothing more than rumour and hearsay and only ever the crazed hallucinations of every last one of them if not just downright lies. If he was to assume that everything he’d been told about all this was actually true in the objective sense of the word, if objective truth were in fact a reality, the beauty and complexity and absurdity of life would be quite rightfully astounding. If on the other hand none of it turned out to be anything more than a grand delusion, the beauty and complexity and absurdity of life would remain, if not on a slightly more intimate level. Indeed he would be able to deny the existence of everything that did not occur in his own narrow corridor of perception and therefore become the sole creator of all that was.

Whether genetics actually existed or not Whitetrash came to the puzzling albeit not too unnerving conclusion that, when all was said and done, he still appeared to be programmed. There were conditions and there was room for manoeuvre but the actual course of action taken was informed by various subtle synergising prompts each a condition in itself created by either initial nature or previous experience and as possible to ignore as his very humanity and therefore the perceived room for manoeuvre was no room for manoeuvre at all.     

Why me?

Whitetrash remained glued to the glass, his nose reminiscent of a strange exotic gastropod. Did they ever realize how good their lives were? Maybe, but even that didn’t stop them from getting in bad moods occasionally, getting angry with those they knew for a supposedly blatant disregard for their feelings, getting frustrated when things happened differently to how they would have liked, treating an unknown other in a slightly negative way on account of the particular design of their face, wishing they were someone else, wishing they’d never been born.

Of course this was all merely conjecture, as far as Whitetrash knew they had never felt any of these things and it was for that very reason that they were granted the privilege to genuinely enjoy the company of others in a relaxed, comfortable and warm environment. Perhaps they were in heaven, perhaps they’d earned it, perhaps they’d performed noble and selfless feats of heroism in a previous life and this was their reward, perhaps this was the afterlife to whatever came before, in which case Whitetrash was curious as to the exact nature of whatever he’d done to deserve this. If only the answer could come in some form of realization, a flash of insight, an instantly formed neural network materializing out of nowhere, a light bulb above the head to which he could proclaim aloud,

“Oh I see!”

If only he knew why, he could immerse himself fully in the whole sorry process of suffering. Instead of eternally wishing for what he didn’t have he could relish in not having, happy in the knowledge that it was all in a good cause and, if ever the endless punishment became slightly too much to bear, at least he would know why, at least he would be able to agree with his tormentors and grant full approval of the sentence just glad that they shared a common morality. But then again maybe that was the punishment, wasn’t it the not knowing why that was the hardest to bear of all?

A Nugget of Wisdom

Whitetrash found himself once more transfixed by yet another of Jimmy’s many nuggets of wisdom. A nugget fully capable of arousing vague smiles of mild amusement among most of those who received it; a nugget the likes of which had on certain occasions induced short cynical sniggering fits and taken blows of light mockery; a nugget in which even Whitetrash himself usually partook with tongue at least partially lodged in cheek, as this wonder of creation unraveled multiple psychoses right before his very eyes; a nugget which at the same time is fascinating to behold, a poetic conclusion to all that is known about this tragic and heroic figure who, if disbelief is held fast in a cool, soothing, golden liquid, has the power to set free all manner of miraculous visions within the imagination, exploding popular myths, outshining received knowledge to illuminate numerous wondrous possible truths.

They sat outside Jimmy’s café as the wandering hoards idled by in their own state of alleged enlightenment, the wandering hoards that inhabited this town and willingly lent a helping hand to the endless perpetuation of collective repugnance that these two misfits could all too clearly see. At this moment though, Whitetrash and Jimmy Tennis neither saw, heard nor felt the presence of any other, yet again gripped in a floating lucid limbo where even the breath stood still. Jimmy’s echoey, slow-motion voice filled the void with sounds that made only the slightest of sense, his eyes melting into kaleidoscopic patterns similar to those of the evil baddy with hypnotic powers in old children's cartoons.

Phillipe de Spades and the Legend of the King Tree

Whitetrash wheeled his crippled friend who, although totally dependent, accepted the aid as his God-given right with the humility of a spoilt child, barking out last-minute directions towards a mysterious destination that remained hitherto unknown. All he knew was they were off to meet a very special individual who was in need of their help as a matter of grave urgency. The search went on well into the twilight as they arrived at the deserted desolation of a riverside building site. Jimmy grunted and groaned as the tired old wheelchair hobbled over irregular ground and broken rock and finally came to rest before a giant of a man slumped over the wheel of a disused digger, his shiny shaven scalp resting on thick forearms, his broad dark shoulders merging with the fading light. Upon Jimmy’s orders, following faithfully his enigmatic protocol but not yet knowing exactly why, Whitetrash stood to his left and slowly dropped to his knees. With this he was duly informed, after a lifetime oblivious to the fact that such a title could even exist, that he found himself now in the presence of the rightful King of the World.  

The Wolf Street Fiacre

Some types of golden bitter liquid require more metal circles than others. It is not all the same, you can tell by the different coloured containers. For some it is infinitely preferable to drink golden bitter liquid that has required a lot of metal circles to obtain. However, for a certain fraction of this town’s population the designer lager is the cheapest and comes in a green and red metal container. If you clutch it to your chest and your chin rests on bare knees poking through damaged fabric, you are automatically permitted to engage with another who’s doing exactly the same.
Numerous members of this very demographic could currently be seen lining both sides of the cobbled street as the temporary destination of Whitetrash and Jimmy Tennis drew near. Like the charge of the light brigade into the valley of death, it seemed their approach had been tinged with a vaguely threatening quality. For some reason, perhaps something to do with the colour of the containers they held or the possible thoughts running through their heads or the way they behaved every day or the cuts of cloth covering their natural form which may or may not have looked better than his or simply because there were so many, Whitetrash felt a growing sense of unease by the very presence of these others and was just grateful that there was enough alien molecules helping to numb his mind to the point where all of this mattered slightly less. 
Apparently the name given to this particular gap in the vast geometric structure making up the town was that of a wild animal. Throughout history this animal had been much maligned and feared to the point where it was said, but never actually believed, that at the same point in the orbit of our only satellite, when one complete half of its surface can be seen to reflect the rays of the Great Source, certain others would adopt some of the features and exaggerated characteristics of this particularly ferocious beast.
The special kind of party Jimmy had promised was happening right here at the convex angle of two intersecting gaps where a door could be opened into another familiar world of various sonic vibrations, dried burning leaves and others making noises with their mouths.

A dense and humid jungle of dead leather and living skin, a constantly shifting self-consuming shapeless organic generator of divergent nervous systems and plus and minus signs. Whitetrash and Jimmy Tennis stood out like sore thumbs. A band was getting ready and if they wanted to stand in front of them they would first have to step through a door and if they wanted to step through the door they would first have to give three metal circles to someone else in exchange for a small piece of paper. They decided instead to position themselves at the end of a bar where absolute strangers, bored to death, crushed the lives out of one another for at least ten minutes before hugging plastic containers of golden bitter liquid close to their chests and walking away. At the end of the bar stood yet another of Jimmy’s many distant friends, like the Aging Thespian’s identical nephew, he too was large and effeminate and even more unusual. With thick lips curled between full jowls and lazy intoxicated eyes resting on prominent cheeks he appeared to resemble an overweight reclining Buddha, perching himself on one dimpled elbow, surveying the goings on. Apparently this was all his doing.    

Jimmy Tennis - The Early Years

Jimmy didn’t always have useless legs. There had been a time, far back in the distance, when the young Jimmy would leap in the air with the graceful strength of a ballerina; would stretch and contort his form into numerous fantastical shapes, seemingly beyond the realms of physical possibility; would be as ready and prepared as the coiled spring of a clown-faced jack-in-a-box to shoot off in any which way he felt necessary. There had been a time when Jimmy Tennis was a Champion. The chalk limits were his home, his stage, his dominion. For the time it took a small illuminous ball to bounce once and begin its second decent no distance within those thin white lines was out of reach.