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Topics - Payne

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Or Kill Me / n00b+booze= No Conversion :(
« on: April 05, 2007, 02:46:37 am »
Its hard to force someone to open their eyes, you may blind them.

I'm sitting in a pub on a Tuesday afternoon. Now there is nothing unusual about this, in fact it is very much a ritual. A friend of mine is sitting next to me with a pint of what he calls lager, but I call cats urine. But who am I to talk, drinking, as I am, whisky polluted with ice and coke.

The conversation is dying. He has told me about his failure to get a driving licence, his mothers refusal to allow him to buy a motorbike and the re-write of the screenplay for an old Bond movie.

I have said very little.

In the middle of his fantasising about sending his dross to a production company, I change tack, quite suddenly, and begin talking to him about personal freedom. What it means to him.
He orders another lager, and asks me to repeat my question, which I do.

He tells me that to him, personal freedom is being able to get around without asking his mother to drive him (for the record, he lives in the sticks). I then describe to him my version of personal freedom, which in essance boils down to knowing when someone trying to lead you by a chain, whatever that chain is.

He thinks I mean this literally, telling me that doesn't really happen in a civilised and free society like there is in Britain today, so I have to explain that I mean the kind that are forged in television, banks, family, psychiatry etc (again, my personal view).

He still doesn't understand, so I drop it. I order another drink. We talk over some of the finer points of his screenplay, a subject clearly very close to his heart. We discuss music and girls. By now I've had a bit more to drink, and as always happens, I get a bit more evangelical, a bit louder and soundbite-y.

I begin to rail at him, just a little, telling him that none of us are free. We are enslaved to our perceptions, and our perceptions are currently spoon fed to us by serious newscasters, by the views and opinions of family and friends, by our education. He replies by asking me if my opinion should be his new perception. This is a good point. Am I getting through to him? But no, he is being 'witty and urbane'.

I then make a fatal error, I tell him about the PD and the BIP pamphlet.

Now he thinks I'm in some weird cult, and he most definately doesn't want to be a pope.

I scratch this first, failed attempt up to experience and drop the topic. Next time, I will try to be sober first, have more understanding of what I'm talking about and I'll certainly make sure I leave off the subject with him for a few months.

Several hours later, we swagger out the pub, still talking about his fucking screenplay...

Or Kill Me / You have mail
« on: April 02, 2007, 08:37:41 am »
Your possessions no longer interest me, neither does your fragile mental state. Your intellect has become stale and useless, wallpaper in the cage you call your life, a mere link in the chains you are to make yourself. Forced to do so by yourself.

Your friends/family/pets/rulers/employers are meaningless constructs until you accept the grim reality of this situation. Perhaps they are meaningless until they accept the reality of their very own imprisionment.

Go on, make a checklist of what you need to survive. Done? Good.

Besides food, warmth, shelter, what, if taken away, would actually kill you?

Discard as appropriate.

Now break down whats left. Do you really need your takeaway pizza every weekend? Would you really be a lesser person if you had a one bedroom housing cube in the shadowy part of the big city?

Discard as appropriate.

Now you have pressed the reset button. Feel free to add to your list again, but this time its not what you need to survive, its what you need to live.

Add your favourite art, scenic views and witticisms. Most of all, I suggest the quiet dignity of a free human. But thats only me, you are now in total editorial control.

Done? Good.

Now look around you. Does anything seem different? Do you really like that McBurgerHut down the road, the one you've been hanging around, inside and out, since you were able enough to say "I want!!" and point? Does the preacherman seem more, or less, creepy? Something never sat quite right with his fantastical tales of eternal paradise, if only you were "good" in this life. A life which, to the best of MY knowledge, is the only one you are guaranteeed to have?

Do you have any questions you have to have the answers to, answers that you know only you can find?

Good. Join the club.

This is a chainmail letter, you must now invent a way to mail it to yourself five years ago...

P.S. Have more fun, I can tell you it wasn't a barrel of laughs the first time around.

Or Kill Me / the toymaker
« on: March 31, 2007, 07:39:24 am »
So. I'm sitting here, as I always do these days, stewing in my own juices (basting if you will). Smoking cigarettes, drinking all the booze in the house, yes even the girly-girl ones. I think a bit, maybe that should be 'regret' a bit, about the last couple years, then the last decade. Hell, I say, why not my whole damn life.

People I've known, and let down, or who let me down. Oppurtunities squandered. T.V. shows I missed.

The last six months in fact, I haven't even DONE anything. Except run away, retreating into an ever tighter corner. At times its easy to make myself believe that I achieved something by fucking up. At times I can even make myself believe that continuing to do nothing about it is a Good Thing.

I owe things to people who can't find me. Money, Goodbyes, Explanations.

Political ideologies, religious mantras, 'common sense'. I used to think I was clever, I used to think I was smart, but I really am no more than a cabbage. No, worse, I'm a toy. A clockwork one wound up by my own hand, to amuse others. To glimpse my reflection in the McBurgerHut window and amuse myself with my antics and tomfoolery. And every day, with my first cigarette, and putting on my glasses, just before I go for a piss, I wind up the spring again.

See him chatter, roll around and stumble!

It says no user servicable parts in raised letters, next to the poorly manufactured tin key on my back. But maybe thats a lie.

So one day, I stumble onto a website, well off my beaten track of boring, inane subjects. I read a funny little book written by a couple stoners. I find it amusing, given that as a semi-ex stoner stoner, I always have a weakness for people who write shit when they're out of their faces. O.K. That was fun.

I follow the trail to a disturbing little forum, well removed from the coiffured, primped little holes I usually find myself in. This place is seriously strange. Bizzarre names and avatars, and scary posts. I read another little book, not so funny, inviting me to a jailbreak.

O.K. the toy has been busted out of its box now. I just need to find a way out of the toy. Suck it up man, cause this is really going to hurt...

Apple Talk / nOOb intro. Dont read if noobs bore you.
« on: March 28, 2007, 07:00:12 pm »
My introduction.

Yowza! Im a total noob, having only read PD, very quickly, and a couple RAW bks while totally zonked.

My chat will be boring and inane.

I hail from Stonerhaven in Scotland, consider myself a drunken bum with various unsavoury addictions and habits, a speaker of shite and general waste of space.

Where N=Cabbage, I am N+1. Maybe.

Flame me....

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