Truthspoon


Insider info and illuminati analysis...


...from the man they just can't recruit.

Tokyo Notes. The Final Bitter Chapter.


One Day I'll Fly Away.


Why does there seem to be no place in the world for me? I’m happy enough; I’m alone but never lonely, chatting with aliens in my spare time (or at least that’s what they claim to be), gaining new insights into our existence, experiencing new feelings, making up new jokes, and generally keeping myself entertained, but, the world doesn’t seem to want me, at least not on my terms. Why do so many unscrupulous, nasty and downright selfish people seem to succeed where I so spectacularly fail? Hang on I think my question just answered itself.

Now I’m trapped in a square, I guess it’s fun to think I’m worth their while but they are just depraved idiots and they’re yet to prove the contrary to me. They think they’re so clever and yet they’re play dumb and tie you up with numbers.

I cannot be coerced, intimidated, blackmailed or bribed. I can however be convinced with reasoned argument, I can be won-over with  conversation and I can be bought with tokens of integrity and good faith. None of which they have exhibited. Am I asking too high a price? I don’t think so. Anyone who would accept or ask for anything less is a snake and an impostor and no brother of mine.


"What do you want most in the world?" The Demon King asked me during my recruitment interview at the wuthering heights of his Yorkshire home. A picture of the Queen adorned the wall of his living room for some reason. In retrospect maybe he was working for Chinese or Russians or someone as my dad suspected, only a foreign spy would be so gauche as to try to underline his patriotism with a portrait of the Queen in his own home. 

"To be a famous writer." I said, little realising that this man was in fact Mr Fixit the magic demon genie who made any dream come true. At a price. Perhaps I'd have to rub him vigorously or something.

He looked at me with a smile, "I think that can be arranged." He said, a living Illuminati cliche. 

I never quite found out what he wanted me to do in return though I saw what they did to the others and that was enough to make me think twice about trusting myself with magic Demon King genie Freemasons.

I was brought up to believe in a world which claims to esteem good human quality, the reality is different from the empty lip service. They use this as a salve to their bad moral conscience which seeks to purify itself through the mawkish formulaic sentimentality of a Hollywood movie, or a love song sung by an over sexed over paid spoilt and under bred brat. Bitterness? No, just boredom. Good deeds don't cancel out bad deeds, that's not how it works.

Sick of the lies hypocrisy and double standards. Everybody points their fingers at the imperfections of others, shouting out and shaming to hide their own rot. Am I the only good man here? Come on, prove me wrong, please! Show me a good man, hell show me a dozen, show me a better man than I, at the temple steps. I’m waiting and hoping, it seems I’ve been waiting an awfully long time.

God I hate valentine’s day. I wrote a cracking little story for a Tokyo English language magazine, all about the fantastic Japanese festival of Senbutsun. Were they interested? Were they heck. What do I read were my tale should have been? Some mawkish sentimental shit about by an unreconstructed bullock cracking neo feminist about how hopeless and shy Japanese boys are. I hate them. Shoving that valentine’s crap down the whole fucking world’s throat, until all our teeth rot and we get diabetes from too much sickly processed sugary junk.

Yes I am bitter. Call it a reaction against sweetness. Or at least their definition of it, like the word romantic, a nice word but you can’t really use it without thinking of George Clooney. You see what they do to us? Who the hell is George Clooney anyway? Only his close friends and family know him, but we think we know him and the meaning of the word romantic, all we know is a character that has been created and conceived by a room full of manipulative Hollywood shysters, and now we have a new ideal, more real than ourselves.

Japan is being polluted by the western disease, worse than Fukushima. What do those people who show us what to see really know about sweetness? The endless Valentine’s day trawl through Roppongi’s ‘All you can drink’ and hostess bars. Poor bastards! Shall I go to watch them graze while their shepherds watch me watching them? Don’t forget the shepherds. They’re everywhere. Shepherding the ex pat wildlife into suitably inane pastures of pleasure.

Among the Tokyo ex pat people I’ve yet to meet a decent human being. The women are ghouls, all the love has been crushed out of them, they exist in a permanent posture of either fear or suspicion. So sad…

Still I can enjoy the emotional solitude I’ve always longed for without actually having the feeling that I’m missing something. Here there’s nothing going on outside.

Yes anger is an energy but a dangerous and volatile force which cannot easily coexist with love. Love of course is pure magic but it closes our eyes to many things which are wrong, and leads us to accept, with the retired self satisfied smile of bliss of a Dalai Lama, things that should not be tolerated. Juggle anger and love to create a positive and constructive force, blah blah blah, who cares? No-one! I care! So what? You don’t have anything, no voice, no money! I have my pen! Ahh yes your pen! But you ain’t signing any cheques with it are you? Poverty is tempering my poet’s soul into resolute and incorruptible steel. Bah what boloney! If somewhere were to start waving money at you you’d fall into line and wag your tail like all the other proud dogs brought to heel in the world. We all gotta live buddy. Well we’ll see…


Strange Fruit of the New World Order. 

The pear woman has come to watch her young ones at play. She’s brought a pen and a notebook too. On new year’s eve here she is the epitome of everything that stinks about the backbiting crooked and intensely sickening new world order, of whom she represents the front line shock troops. This heartless, friendless woman cannot for just one evening , yield to permit others to have their pleasure at no expense. She watched hawkishly while getting drunk but staying resolutely sober.

She is a machine, a heartless machine following orders, gleefully finding faults with young minds while dreaming up the best ways to manipulate and break them.

A heartless dead souled woman, no longer capable of independent thought, another one of the criminals who abdicated their moral responsibility to some higher political power.

She no doubt still has some degree of independent thought, her own ideas and dreams but in all likelihood they all have a cash common denominator, which fortunately, thanks to her service to the machine which has created her, will all easily be realised.

She is not a hero, unworthy of good King Henry, not having the depth of feeling of Bacon's Shakespeare, nor the ruse and charm of Churchill, nor the eccentric dash of Laurence. Real heroes have died to give rise to the age of the pear woman. Virtue and honour once existed too, or so they say, they pampered her with gifts of myths of greatness which she and her cohorts dashed them into the trash, while mouthing their words soundlessly.

I hope she is but an experiment that will be aborted and washed away, before better things. I hope…but I fear.



Ignorance IS Bliss.


Reading dated tidings from my beloved France from a week old Marianne, I am reminded what a drag it is to perfectly master and understand the language and customs of nation. One immediately becomes embroiled in petit prise de vue, and must adapt a posture of partisanship of whatever blackcurrant is in flavour. I read and hear the shouting voices; the opinions, ideals and beliefs and then the binary negative of the wound-up clockwork dissenters. I am so happy to be in a country where I understand a great deal of absolutely nothing. 

The language is a musical jabber and nothing more, the symbols and shapes on the morning newspaper tell me nothing of the death and dissatisfaction that invariable reign. I am blissfully unaware of its sordid and foolish politics, the crafty caprices of politicians, ignorant to the ignorance and prejudice that blights its people. I do not care and I don’t have to care.

However in time, I am sure, the great evil of knowledge will dawn on me and I will have nowhere to escape, my eyes and ears will be assaulted on all sides by news! Dreadful news of more atrocities committed only by foreigners, news about the genetic superiority of the Japanese race over their Asiatic neighbours and of the ill favoured Han people.

I will become a partisan, I will have to take a position and have an opinion, was there ever a more burdensome asset to modern life? I do not want to care about any of these madness.

All the naïve blind charm of a people seen only upon its virtues will vanish, this is the reason I like to travel!



Thumper the Filipino Witch.

Thumper’s middle of the night mischief alarm has just gone off it seems. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning and I hear a yawn, a loud and underlined yawn, rise from the room below mine. At least consciousness stops her from snoring, now she’s going to spend an intriguing fifteen minutes finding things to knock over and noises to make in her room.

I’m not quite sure how she does it, I think she is by nature one of those people who feels very important indeed, and so has to bang the drum of their own terrible big and important existence. In the house she jabbers loud and proud, booming through the house like a broken telly without any volume control, if only I could turn her down. Her words are her crowd and her laughter an audience. 

Now new drums for her to bang: Thumper's bumps in the night. She’s quite good at it by now, she seems to have found the right things to kick the right doors and cupboards to slam to make the greatest possible noise with the least possible effort, she seems to have a whole orchestra of cupboard doors and heavy objects, the performance usually lasts fifteen minutes. 

It is a striking example of powerful discordant percussion and atonal resonance, banging boxes and slamming doors. At the end of the show, fatigued by another night’s performance, she’ll take a bow and get back into bed, only to follow up with an encore of studies in vibrating human sinuses as she snores the rest of the morning away.

Some time ago this virtuoso complained to me about my feet and the sound they made when walking about in my room and when descending the stairs. Apparently she couldn’t sleep.

You have big footsteps!” She said, “Very noisy at night and in the morning.”

Hm,” I said, “Well, it’s called gravity, it’s something we all have to get used to and learn to live with.” I gave a thoughtful and earnest look.

“I’ve got a good idea!” I said confidentially, “I suppose what you could do, if it’s really bothering you is,” I paused and seemed dreamy, “you could go to the moon. I think it’s a particularly good idea because you’ll be far from me and that awful Earth gravity that makes things noisy won’t bother you anymore, and second, I suppose the best part is that you’ll quickly die. See I told you it was a good idea.”

“Stop it! I am not going to any moon I am staying here!” she said as if I had just offered a serious proposal.

“It is your big footsteps that I do not like.”

I looked down at my feet.

“Hmm, I see what you mean, well what shall I do with them. Where shall I put my footsteps? Do you have a box or something, preferably with a lock on it or something because you know what footsteps are like, they don’t like being alone, they always need,” and I paused, “some-body!”

She said nothing, not even laughing, but I laughed for both of us.


Tokyo is Nine Hours Closer to the Future.


In the future our emotions will be suppressed or enhanced by small non invasive electrical signals sent into the brain, The brain of course is an electrical organ. It is already possible to localise specific corporal feeling and sensation centres in the brain, we will shortly pass from observing to manipulating.

It would be nice to dream of a day where we could have our ‘hate’ emotion permanently turned off, but the reality I fear would be quite different. Perhaps armies of policemen and soldiers with their pity and compassion centres switched off. Perhaps we could have DIY kits so that said officer or soldier could come off duty to his family and friends and have these centres turned back on, to have his love restored to him when out of the fray, and then removed before going off to work again.

Let’s see, scientists could, as Einstein himself might approve, have their common sense centres switched off and maybe a touch of induced mania, all the better to grapple with the schizophrenics of relativity and quantum physics.

Psychologists and their awful ilk could have induced mental illness so that they could experience first hand their patient’s symptoms, if indeed they had any patients left, since the causes of mental illness are essentially and for the most part sociological, not necessarily biological. I wonder what a world without hate would really be like..would it work?

Has hate been useful to us do far. What is hate?

Well hate is a reaction to a profound sense of difference, an emotion that essentially differentiates, one would hope to be so far from what one hates, one never aspires to be what one hates. It differentiates social groups, family units even individual souls and perhaps is a way of defining ones individuality.

And since apparently the formation of social groups has been so important to mans progress then hats is and has been a key building block.

In the same way, and perhaps emotions which are part of the great burden known collectively as ‘hate’, are suspicion, fear and jealousy. A motivating force, a catalyst for progress, but surely when intelligence reaches a certain level we can put these barbaric tools away? 

No fear suspicion or hate, no jealous. Obviously those who held onto the tools would be in a stronger position than those without, therefore it would have to be a total and universal (planet wide) change. What’s more there should the necessity to feed such feeling should be no longer necessary, if a man fears no danger he will not arm himself. If he has everything he could desire he will not steal from his neighbour. Maybe some benevolent megalomaniac needs to put something in the world’s water supply like a benevolent James Bond Baddie.

What would happen?

Everyone would love everyone. A love orgy of biblical proportions. We would exhaust ourselves helping and loving our neighbours until, exhausted and having nothing left, someone would help us. Families would surely break down, so much love to share with so many people, and end to the tradition closed and exclusive social groupings, and end to the exclusive social groupings. 


And end to all wars and crime, our days would be spent trying to help other people not selfishly feathering nests, a true global brotherhood. This is the future. Our perceptions about child bearing and motherhood would change, like Huxley’s Brave New World, children wouldn’t need to spend long years suckling a woman’s love away, slowly building up their own stock for the future, a simple burst of electromagnetic radiation and boom: love for all no strings.

For the reality is that we live in a chemical world, more accurately an electro-chemical world. 


Miss Snot from the Green Lodge.

The heavy odour of the Demon King is still with me. It seems that Thumper and Miss Snot and poor Baby Ken are all in his service after all.

Miss Snot oozes mucus at an appalling rate. I can see the big transparent bin bag downstairs, all full of crinkly crusty white tissues. Each morning a new bag full greets me, it’s slack jaws open showing white tissue perlies.

“Good morning!” it says cheerfully, “did you sleep well?”

It’s friendly enough but it has really bad breath, positively infectious.

“Not bad,” I yawn, “and you?”

“Oh me, I’ve been working all night, no rest for a snot bag you know, not with m’lady Snot, she always needs me, night and day.”

“Don’t you get sick of it? I mean, you’re just a snot bag.”

“Not at all, I relish each new fluttering white tissue package and its sticky toothsome green contents, why I wouldn’t change my diet for anything in the world, I’m more than happy with my role in life.”

In his excitement and pride at his peculiar calling, he opened his mouth a little too wide, smiling slackly, a couple of his crinkly packages dropped out onto the kitchen floor.

He blushed, “Oh please excuse me,” he said with embarrassment and confusion.

I leapt back as the small while tissues advanced towards me across the kitchen floor.

“Come back here you two!” said the bag, “come back at once!” The tissues seemed to take no notice and they continued their advance, quivering slimily across the room.

The bag was now a transparent red colour with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry but they’re too small to make it back alone and I am alas, too full to go chasing about after them.” He looked pleadingly as me, “Would you mind awfully bringing them back to me, the bag smiled a flaccid baggy smile, mixing the snotty tissues inside.”

I felt nauseous, as I looked at these two stray tissues, they were small but full and still wet behind the ears. I heard the bag’s voice again.

“They’re so naughty but what can you do, kids eh!”

“They’re not kids, they’re snotty hankies what are you talking about?”

“Don’t talk like that, you’ll give them a complex, really, just bring them back and we’ll say no more about it.”

I stifled the urge to fill that bag with something else and tossed the filthy rags inside. I then sterilised my hands as best I could, with hot water and washing up liquid.

“God in this house even the bin bags have a bad attitude.”

I went upstairs to my tower only to find that I’d caught the bag’s bad breath. “You’re really doing your bit on the side of the germs in the battle for survival. I’m sure they’ll thank you one day when your race is run and your life of service to their cause come to an end. They’ll probably present you an award or high honour, from the snot republic like an OBE (order of the Bogey Empire) her face is pale white but her hooter is bright red and the skin is broken and peeling just above her mouth where a couple of streams run along her face towards her mouth from her nose, like a river running towards the sea. She diverts their course with a wipe of a tissue, across her cheek with the still waters dry and evaporate, leaving a salt crust.

I’ve known her for two months now and she always has those same two rivers running down from her nose.

“Have you seen a doctor!” I ask.

“There’s nothing they can do, it’s the bag, she must be filled, she’s so demanding, I have to keep her full at all times, if not she tries to suffocate me to death.”

“Blimey! Well we all have our cross to bear, but I’ve never met anyone with a plastic bin bag.”

“It’s not all bad y’know, I get a generous stipend from the Bogey Empire.” So I was right! How extraordinary.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yes, well, I can’t really talk about it, already I’ve said too much, it’s very special work secret work.”

“Ok that’s fine,” I said, not particularly wanting to hear anymore about this very dubious sounding outfit, probably not a nice place to be, I certainly wouldn’t want to work for them nor have to associate with their sort let alone live with the bag. Uggh, I shuddered at the thought.

Miss Snot has been recently like a snail, laying a mucus track, Miss Snot deposits a slimy membrane in her wake, on the walls and on the floor, on the door handle and everything she comes into contact with gets sticky at her oozy touch.



Trying to Love my Enemy but Preferring to Like Myself.


After seeing a group of three disabled Japanese girls, merrily fumbling and smiling their way out of a Harajuku shop door I immediately opened my heart in radiant joy. Triumph in the face of adversity is an old cliché but there was something frank and guileless about them and their smiles were honest, sincere, they experienced pain and still do on a daily basis, and come through smiling.

Of the whole sultry aimless crowd that evening, these three girls were the only intelligent sensitive and real humans around.

After meeting them, I had love enough for everyone that night. I glanced at oriental strangers and their lives seemed to open up before me like delicate little flowers. Their pleasures and their pains became apparent. I thought about Christ and how like so many other things Christ is merely a symbol; a symbol for compassion and ultimately: humanity. That is the definitive difference between man and beast: humanity!

That is until I arrived home and saw a light on in my room blink off and my window quickly close and a peeping face vanish into the darkened recesses of the room.

How could I love these peeping fiends? Paid by the hour to watch me, and spy on me, demons in human clothes. Let’s clean up this world! We have the ability to transcend cruelty and all the sins of man, yet, how strange that our society perpetuates these very sins. Yet the artful manipulators are legion, as are their weak willed soulless servants.

My clear sight instinct I pity, but if I consider them the hate wells up inside me for they are destroying all we are. Smearing excrement on the white wings of angels.



The Means are the Ends.


They are men and women who should know better, university educated, versed in Christian precepts, they sell their responsibility for a handful of coins and have the nerve to claim a soul too! They are but monkeys playing in the dank and stinking shadows, hiding from the light.
Despair Takes a Day-Off.


Today is a No-day. I really like the No-days. Nothing to do nothing to think about, no stress worries or burdens of any kind. It reminds me of my days as a stoner living in a beautiful quiet house in East Ham where the dope grew in a sun filled conservatory. Except on No-days there are none of the side effects of ingesting drugs and the best thing is that everyone in the world is in exactly the same cool and easy going frame of mind.

The No days are a bit like holidays in a way, except you never know when they’re going to crop up, so you can be in the middle of something, like writing a book or sowing crops, when suddenly a voice surges up from the pan terrestrial psychic network to inform you that next week or tomorrow is going to be a No day, everything stops, work, worry, even time itself. Time literally stops ticking, the clocks are all stopped, and a No day is not really a day at all, it is a pause, there are no activities prescribed, as in the case of a Joy day when every person must express and encourage their feeling of Joy.



Waiting to be Reborn into Light.

Staring at the subway escalator in Tokyo at Otamachi station and seeing a vision of finite eternity of human life as the light from a fluorescent strip rose and fell on each raising step, like the rising and setting of suns. The step rises to its waiting peak, the light greets it and the moving step basks in the warm glow for a while then its sun sets and it dies from the light only to be recycled in the mysterious obscurity of the machinery and reborn, to step out again into the light waiting to die but waiting also to be reborn.

Who are these People?

Have you ever sat at a table in an ordinary restaurant or in an even more ordinary café or pub and sat at a table next to a couple of these odd people, sometimes a man and a woman, or two women or two men, they order a drink, peanuts hell maybe even soup cheese and a side of beef too, the whole feast, among friends, and the whole lot without saying a blasted word? 


Who are these people? These frozen mutes who just sit and stare, who go out together not to talk to each other. What does it mean? Who or what are these people, are they real? I think I have found the answer. I maintain that these ‘people’ are in fact what I call filling. In fact they’re not really real and they’re just there to provide filling to an otherwise empty scene. Like in a movie there are the extras who wander aimlessly and mute or who otherwise repeat the same couple of syllables over and over again to give the impression of conversation, well the extras exist in real life, the filling.. They have no autonomy of course and they don’t think, they just sit and blink all the while. I now believe that half of the whole world is stuffing, and I see them everywhere. When I think about them the world starts buzzing and parts of it become over energized and strange things happen.


Meeting a Sirian at the Irish Bar.


I’d always dreamed of this. I guess I’ve been lucky but it’s like my nan used to say:

‘You can have anything you want as long as you know what you want.”

The thing is you spend your life waiting for things and wishing, then you get what you want a then you find a new desire. Whenever I turn back to examine my life I find that everything has been given to me I just sometimes forget how badly I’d wanted those things.

So here I am trying to chat up this alien from Altai 9 at the ex-pat pub or petting zoo and I’ve never been more bored in my whole life. The first problem is hardly any aliens in Tokyo speak English, and when they do the words are so difficult for them to get their mouths around that I end up covered in digestive enzymes. Still I really want to see this creature’s reproductive organs, it’s so important because they’re famous all over the galaxy and it’s a rite of passage for free wheeling bright young playboys with more time and emotional energy than they should have. The females of Altai 9 have multi coloured genitals which are designed to hypnotise their mate into loving them for the span of their natural lives.

“Hey Adam!” my friend from Sirius calls me. It’s not my name, but my friend studied the Bible at school in his human psychological disorders class, and he calls all humans Adam, though he only knows one: me.

My friend is an intergalactic planet repair man, he basically zips around the galaxy fixing faulty planets. The job itself is pretty straightforward, he just inputs the problem into a computer and the computer then calculates the best solution. Sometimes he has to send an asteroid crashing into a planet to rid it of a malignant life-form. Sometimes, and this is the tricky and skilled bit, he has to actually talk to the inhabitants, that’s the reason I’m here. I met him at the Irish bar, lots of aliens hang out in Irish bars all over the world for some reason. Apparently they’re always sending repair men to earth, it’s a problem planet, so he says, I think he’s just taking the piss but he assured me that Sirians don’t do that.

He winks at me.

The first time he had had to intervene was when a massive tribe of huge dumb monsters had sprouted out of the ground and were stomping about fighting and trying to eat each other, a real waste of space-time, so he reckons. “The next thing you know there are these cocky bald apes running around everywhere (present company excepted of course) fighting and trying to eat each other. A bit of inside info but don’t let it out, if they’re not careful, pretty soon..” he mimed an asteroid smashing into planet Earth.

“I’ll have to do another complete overhaul.”

I wince “I feel personally threatened by that.”

“I’m not threatening you.” he says.

“Of course you are, you’re threatening my species, like you’re going to take out my family. You can’t mean we’re that bad.”

His silence was loquacious. I feel the need to speak up for my fellow Adams and Eves, there’s nothing worse than a snooty alien from Siruis.

“How can you blame a race for their imperfections, surely that’s nonsense, it’s a question of environment. And what’s to say that our imperfections aren’t part of our charm?”

“Imperfections part of our charm, I like that ape man.”

“Are all Sirians so condescending?”

“I’m not condescending, that’s just the way you interpret it. Look I don’t have a stake in this like you do, so I can see the thing clearly and objectively. I’ve been in this game for 300 million years now so I know my bleedin’ business.”

“That’s as maybe but who taught you your English, Eastender’s language school?”

“What’s wrong with my bleedin’ English, if you want I can give you a different period, early middle period, the language of Chaucer. Or do you want to go way back and hear some authentic proto Indo-European, I must be the only man in the world who speaks that funny language now, it was once so popular.”

“Do you use that accent when you advise presidents and monarchs?”

“ ‘Course I do, makes ‘em feel relaxed, and confuses the hell out of the Americans which can only help matters.”

“You should turn your spaceship into a black cab and the tableau would be complete.”

“Anyway have you finished here yet? I’ve got a planet to annihilate in half a couple of hours.”

“A planet to annihilate! That’s not very nice is it! At least on Earth we have ethical standards in the job market.”

“No you don’t. What about soldiers?”

“They only kill people to liberate them: haven't you read the Herald Tribune lately?”

“Oh well in that case I’m liberating the planet from itself. Anyway you ain’t been there, it’s a dump. Their neighbours have been complaining for centuries about ‘em. They lower the price of property in the whole cluster, keeping prices down and scaring off investors.”

“What’s so bad about the place?”

“They just don’t get it.. some races, you give the right amino acids and a bit of early guidance and it all falls into place, before you know it they’ve conquered inner space than they start zapping about outer space and making appointments with the Gods’ personal secretaries.”

“Personal secretaries?”

“Well of course, the Gods are very busy y’know, they don’t have time to meet anyone personally.”

“Anyway other races just, well let’s say they have learning difficulties.”

“So you blow them up! That’s not very progressive is it? You didn’t coach Hitler by any chance?”

“It’s not the same at all, to be frank I don’t understand everything but some planets work and others just don’t. I guess it’s probably a question of, well the universal mystery, all I know is I’ve got my orders and without it thing would be a hell of a mess, I don’t understand it myself really.”

“That’s reassuring, it makes you almost human actually.”

“Oh thanks, I think,” he paused, “So…”

“So?”

“Can we go?”

Inter species sex is all the rage in the more decadent darkened corners of the Irish Pub. An alien creature who looks like a chicken has just left the toilets with an alien creature who looks like an egg, they both look flustered and are smoking cigarettes.

“I wonder which came first the chicken or the egg?”

“Eh?”

“Never mind, let’s go.”

Then I left but found myself alone. I then woke up, it was still the middle of the night and I felt some regret that it was just a dream, then I looked out of my window at the blinking lights of the Tokyo skyline and I realised that I was still dreaming and that I hadn’t really woken up for about two months now.

I had no chance of returning to wakefulness so I decided to mediate inside the dream. I had only just started and I hadn’t yet found my soul and I seriously wondered if I really had one but I must have because there were a lot of people here in Tokyo who seemed to want it, like the Demon King who offered to make me the next JK Rowling in return for it. Would I miss it if it was gone? I suppose if I found it then I could decide whether I ought to sell it or not.


While meditating I had the feeling that I was turning around myself and then I entered a kind of tunnel. I had the sensation of highs and lows like a roller coaster ride and afterwards a strange feeling, a little like entering a deep pool and not being able to get your breath, like I was entering a new element for the first time. The waters rose higher and higher but I could still breathe, and then I floated in this new element, I felt weightless. I had the strange feeling that I filled the whole room, it seemed to me that my search for my soul had reached a successful conclusion.

Afterwards I felt a little like a genie trapped in a bottle. So I decided that my soul is trapped in a bottle, I just have to find a way of taking out the cork


Then I fell into another dream when I was no longer who I am but was someone else.

The Mystery of the Trees.

She stared out of the window and allowed her senses to be quietened by the gently dancing arms of the trees. A bird flew into her sight, framed momentarily by the window, and then it was gone, perhaps to become portraited by another window further down the street and watched by more pairs of dreamy eyes. Her mind refocused briefly as she thought of the other people down the street who might be watching a similar scene and she wondered what they were thinking.

Was there something about the easy swaying of trees in a light wind that stopped the mind’s chatter? Do people think the same thing when they look at trees? She had tried to solve the tree’s puzzle once, she had taken a trip on Hampstead Heath and felt that there could be no mysteries that could not be upturned at will and laid bare before the clarity of her perception. She had solved the mystery of the trees, once, later in the evening she had forgotten everything but the poem she had written which spoke of ‘twisted knots of windblown prayer’ remained, a disappointment.

She wondered then if there were more circumstances when people think the same thing. During sex; on the toilet; eating a chocolate bar. Maybe we are all thinking exactly the same thing during those specific situations. Maybe we are all thinking the same thing most of the time! She then looked into the shooting fingers that pried into the sky and felt her thoughts drain from her mind, as she did so she felt arms wrap around her and found herself comforted.

She was no longer afraid of the invisible world. She wondered why it remained invisible though, she considered it a little strange that she could be seen and not see, like peeping Toms they crept around our world. Maybe it was her. She had read a book once about perception which told of how the arrival of Captain Cook’s sea vessel went totally unnoticed in the South Seas until a small boat set out for the shore and was immediately spotted by the islanders, being within the accepted and understood size range for canoes, it was perceived, the much larger vessel was too big and far too unusual to be perceived.

It was like Pavlov’s cats, who were reared in enclosed box with only vertical lines, after the period were the brain’s perception was developed the cat was placed in a space containing only horizontal lines, the cat could not perceive the lines. Was she little more than a cat? Unable to break into new territory once her little mind had been sealed as babbling dribbling baby, all those years ago.

Rudely her telephone tooted out the James Bond theme, and a minor flood of anxiety poured from her kidneys and soaked her mind.

“Bloody phone!” she said aloud, I must change that, she thought, it’s so stressful. She answered the phone sharply, not expecting to hear her frail old grandmother after such a dramatic introduction.

“Is that Katie?” she said with a quivering nervousness in her voice.

Katie relaxed in an instant and smiled as she heard her grandmother’s voice.

“Hiya nan.”


Then I woke up, feeling confused and trying to be James again and not a woman called Katie. It was definitely my nana's voice though.

I wonder what it meant. Was it really my nana or was it the Demon King in disguise? I'm losing my mind here. I need to leave before I lose it completely and become one of the MFI pawns on the black and white chessboard courting with Miss Snot of the green lodge and cackling and banging all night with the mad Eastern witches. 

I'd rather die in the plane-crash home.

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