Domesticated primates running digitally on extra-terrestrial software

Chris Kirk

6 October

I am a human being trapped in an alien landscape of domesticated primates running digitally on extra-terrestrial software. I personally don't identify with the culture in which I was born, but luckily I meet beautiful human beings who transcend their culture just for a moment with me sometimes, or sometimes for their whole life. I am glad I am here surrounded by these strange and fascinating people. I want to smell them and touch them and look into their eyes, but there are strange psychic barriers in the way sometimes. I don't know why.

Darius

Critical mass eventuates population collapse once environmental equilibrium unbalances to an extreme which creates a point of total instability. The bees are dying on mass.  If pesticides and fungicides are not completely eradicated global famine could result.  The US may default in 11 days, if their debt ceiling is not raised global economy will implode and world war could follow as per usual. If these 2 events do not manifest due to intervention there are many more potential actions of global human culture that are pushing the limits of tolerance that could collapse. Survive and contribute to writing the new paradigm that will naturally follow. Prepare, unite and survive.

Chris Kirk

I am ready. I am just gathering up health and sanity, cos I may need a stockpile. I can't handle this civilisation farce anymore. I wish the people who love me would just come be with me here in paradise. What the fuck are you all doing in the cities? Are you really trying to play that game? Have you noticed you are losing? Have you noticed that the people who are winning are more miserable than you are? Or that people are collapsing into sociopaths all around you? Withdraw, my friends, please. Come roll in the grass with me, swim in the ocean before it's totally radioactive, help me learn how to sprout and graft fruit trees. I don't want to come visit you in TV-land anymore.

Eva-psyphae Macula

All very well and nice. But if all the people leave the cities your little bush huts and self-sufficient circle jerks of xenophobic culture cringing will be lost and you'll just have crowded beach and trampled grass.

The console works just fine, the software needs updating, but all controls are still intact and the levels are all still fun. However I think its fair to say that we all need to chip in on a rather large power bill that's been stuck on the empty fridge door for centuries. Like any shared house situation, those that are accountable are not always responsible and others ended paying more than their share.

If the '60s and '70s can teach us anything, is that the '80s and '90s is what happens when that approach is taken. Abandoning the game does not finish the level. It just leaves a seriously fucked character with only a few lives left and the boss to face alone. Group hugs and acid won't fix this problem.  Nor will burning spears.

Coded language, psychic cyphers and data bombs will be our tools.  Our generation is that lost child who crawled his way through the flower fields of zombies and reality gameshow sets to find his tribe dancing in whirlpools of splintering metal tectonic bass, and screamed with ecstatic affirmation and agonizing confirmation in the middle of the moshpit, we are indeed fucked.

As the monitor flickers in the dark and the controller lays cold, the world burns.  The war dance is over.  It's time to take back the city.

Chris Kirk

I hope that one day I will take my children or my grandchildren on field trips to the cities. They will see the decaying buildings, skyscrapers with hundreds of glassless windows covered in vines, pavements cracking, streets of weeds preparing the soil, metal and concrete skeletons of alien technological non-entities from some dark fairytale that actually happened, unexpected reclamations of industrial, commercial, so-called "pubic" spaces, fungi consuming piles of plastic. 

I will walk them through like a museum of filth and perversion that is slowly collapsing back into the soil, the earth finding ways to consume it all over thousands of years. I will tell them stories about what went on there, the uniforms, the bureaucracy, the stress and the hopelessness, the cars and the pollution, the Economy and the shopping malls and stupormarkets. 

I will then take them home and tuck them into bed to dream of a better world, a world I am not capable of imagining, so compromised and traumatised by paranoia and cynicism. They will create a better world in the remains of what we are too scared to confront, disassemble and abandon.

Darius

Cities can be wonderful places which hold an important utility for humans and have for many millennia; I don't know why anyone would hope for their destruction. I think it makes much more sense to hope (and work to to create) in the future that cities and the people who live in and manage them evolve them to become clean places of artistic beauty, social vibrancy and environmental harmony.  It can be done, we have the knowledge to make it so globally.  There are many people all over the world right how who are working to make it so. 

To wish otherwise and to think the world can only be improved by destruction seems rather narrow minded, selfish, short sighted and ignorant. Cities don't take up alot of land area actually and many people greatly prefer living in them to living in the country side. Oh but you don't like them therefore they shouldn't exist at all and destruction should be hoped for and relished, despite all the good people that love them and would feel a great loss to live in a world without cities, who hope to and work at removing the negative effect they have environmentally.

Christy

Remember, dear friend, all is as it should be, if you are truly in the moment (reality). If you think it should be different, then you are arguing with reality.  Insanity.  They should, they shouldn't, he can't, I can't, etc.  Love what is.  If you don't love what is: PAIN.  The Work of Byron Katie. Highly recommend it. Peace brother.

Darius

Do you actually realise that if cities were all gone then there would be a lot less green spaces in the world. If there were weeds preparing soil then there would be much more soil being removed everywhere else. As I said cities take up far less land area per person than in the countryside since everything is built vertically, and since they are built from glass that means far less trees need to be cut down to build all the houses which would be needed if there were no cities. Besides it's a fact that cities pollute less than the countryside with all it's cattle.  Glass and steel don't eat cattle, people do, and they would whether they lived in a city or not.  If not, the meat would be transported further, rather than the singular small area cityscape, creating a greater carbon footprint.  Glass is made from sand which is abundant in the many desert waste lands on earth and steel is mined from isolated places. Deforestation, for lumber and cattle, and nuclear technology are what need to be removed.  As it is now, cities could be what is keeping the earth from destruction by population overload.  If everyone left them it would create even more strain on the environment due to lumber needs and energy used for greater travel-distances.  Everyone would need a personal car to visit family and friends and employment, rather than public transport. 

Not everyone wants to work from home, not everyone wants to grow their own veges.  (I fucking hate gardening with a passion, if I had to grow my own food rather than pay someone else for it I would consider that a misery and a waste of time.)  Though many others I know love the garden and almost always grow with a huge surplus.  Some of them love piano music but would hate to practice to hear it.  I love to eat fresh organic produce. The earth and everything and everyone in it need people to hope and work towards improvement, a greener environmentally harmonised city and countryside culture, simple. What it doesn't need are hyper-emotional, reactionary people who just want to see it all burn, who are just plain weak.

Chris Kirk

http://www.personaproductions.com/2013/10/paterson-by-allen-ginsberg.html

Ivanovic

And thank god for Chris Kirk also.

Gracias, familia

Chris Kirk

11 October

Thank you to everyone around the world, in other worlds, who has loved me, who has touched me, who has looked at me and talked with me, slept with me, shared a home with me, appreciated me when I'm pathetic, appreciated me when I am ecstatic, sang with me, danced with me, especially naked, especially in the rain, who has wrestled with me on the lawn, who has licked my wounds, who has grown on my windowsill and reached out to the sun, who has nourished me and kissed me.

Thank you to all of you have revealed your beauty to me, to all of you have seen my beauty.

Thank you to my home on the hill and everyone who has been born or died here with me.

Thank you to the mother from whom I emerged, in whose womb I lived in for nine months and whose loving home I lived in for 18 years; whose breast I drew milk from; whose nurturing love I drew confidence from.

All those warm nights of snuggling.

All those friends, come and gone.

Nothing is more important in my life than the beings I share my life with, especially those peculiar human beings who I'm so fond of. Sometimes they break through it all and we are present together. I am ready for you friends, family, lovers. Come to me now, I am here and I always will be until I go and then I'll be gone forever.

Jiveny

Beautiful words Chris

Chris Kirk

My love is my hope, my guide, my meaning and my purpose.

Jade

Love you chris

Olly

Yes Chris! good stuff, I love the synchronicity of this connected world, the friendships that forge, and the paths of our lives. Quite incredible, come join your family in Tasmania

Maria

Thank you for your gifted being co love you xox

Margo

Piggies wiggly piggy loveeeee

Carolina

I love this

Bec

love u beautiful      

Paterson by Allen Ginsberg

What do I want in these rooms papered with visions of money?

How much can I make by cutting my hair? If I put new heels on my shoes,
bathe my body reeking of masturbation and sweat, layer upon layer of excrement
dried in employment bureaus, magazine hallways, statistical cubicles, factory stairways,
cloakrooms of the smiling gods of psychiatry;
if in antechambers I face the presumption of department store supervisory employees,
old clerks in their asylums of fat, the slobs and dumbbells of the ego with money and power
to hire and fire and make and break and fart and justify their reality of wrath and rumor of wrath to wrath-weary man,
what war I enter and for what a prize! the dead prick of commonplace obsession,
harridan vision of electricity at night and daylight misery of thumb-sucking rage.

I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins,
eyes and ears full of marijuana,
eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border
or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman;
rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun;
rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati;
rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies;
rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los Angeles, raised up to die in Denver,
pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain,
come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage,
streetcorner Evangel in front of City I-Tall, surrounded by statues of agonized lions,
with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp,
screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, annihilating reality,
screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of the world,
blood streaming from my belly and shoulders
flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and highways
by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones hanging on the trees.

The Maori Jesus, by James K. Baxter (1966)

I saw the Maori Jesus
Walking on Wellington Harbour.
He wore blue dungarees.
His beard and hair were long.
His breath smelt of mussels and paraoa.
When he smiled it looked like the dawn.
When he broke wind the little fishes trembled.
When he frowned the ground shook.
When he laughed everybody got drunk.

The Maori Jesus came on shore
And picked out his twelve disciples.
One cleaned toilets in the Railway Station;
His hands were scrubbed red to get the shit out of the pores.
One was a call-girl who turned it up for nothing.
One was a housewife who'd forgotten the Pill
And stuck her TV in the rubbish can.
One was a little office clerk
Who'd tried to set fire to the Government Buildings.
Yes, and there were several others;
One was an old sad quean;
One was an alcoholic priest
Going slowly mad in a respectable parish.

The Maori Jesus said, "Man,
From now on the sun will shine."

He did no miracles;
He played the guitar sitting on the ground.

The first day he was arrested
For having no lawful means of support.
The second day he was beaten up by the cops
For telling a dee his house was not in order.
The third day he was charged with being a Maori
And given a month in Mount Crawford.
The fourth day he was sent to Porirua
For telling a screw the sun would stop rising.
The fifth day lasted seven years
While he worked in the asylum laundry
Never out of the steam.
The sixth day he told the head doctor,
"I am the Light in the Void;
I am who I am."
The seventh day he was lobotomized;
The brain of God was cut in half.

On the eighth day the sun did not rise.
It didn't rise the day after.
God was neither alive nor dead.
The darkness of the Void,
Mountainous, mile-deep, civilized darkness
Sat on the earth from then till now.

I had a nervous breakdown in San Francisco

In a world of love and money, I went crazy in San Francisco.

Golden Gate Park opened up and held me like a womb.  The abundance of Whole Foods fattened my lonely days and emotionally complex and confusing emails from loving friends brought sobbing tears into my nights.  I could smell the eucalyptus all around me in my cave of tree and vine, their fallen leaves and bark were my carpet and they covered my bags when I went out for the day.

The mist fell on me like a veil of death, a gift from the whole planet.  "Thank you for the heavy veil of tech culture," the mist seemed to say, "in return I shroud you in an endless fog that no messiah will save you from."

I searched for love in the best possible place.  A void opened up around my friend and I and we took the opportunity to dance around in that void, failing to anticipate the clutter that had been left there, invisibly.  We yearned for the love that we knew was there, we tasted and smelled that love.  It was sweet, tender, funny, but the void sucked us in, like an enormous vacuum vagina, emotionally inescapable.

There was no way we could dance our way out of this womb.  My great wordsmithing was useless.  We were latched on to an umbilical conduit of anxiety and shame.  I ate the shame, I slept with the shame, I looked at it every time I closed my eyes.

I would visit the San Francisco Public Library every day and disappear into mezzanines of serpents and temptations and false gods walking through gardens and a lost paradise.

I would spread myself via Facebook into little wi-fi rooms all over the planet, through the monitors of people who admire and love me, into their distant hearts.

I would shamefully look over the cliff-face to the lower floors to see desperate angry library patrons yelling at staff or into their phones.  I would see the uniformed security team come up, try to talk to them, grab their arm, grapple and grip against the struggle and escort the unacceptable lunatic out of the building into a different unsafe adventure in the city.

I would stay until the library closed, always too early, and step out into the falling darkness and cold, before the fog rolled in.  I would sneak into the back of the bus, crowded thick with Capitalists, stinking of alcoholic fragrances, the glare of iPhone light, descending towards the ocean, past the park.  I would step off the bus by the rose garden, past the log cabin and into the eucalypts.

Maybe the fog would roll in with me at the rose garden, maybe it would wake me in the night with heavy droplets falling from the leaves far above me.  Already nestled in my sleeping bag, I would pull the blue tarp over my body and tuck it under my sleeping mat.  In my plastic womb I would be warm and safe and dark, to breathe and sleep and dream.

It is obvious that it is government and industry are what we need to be protected from, so their protection is superfluous and their sovereignty entirely dependent on our consent and participation. We need to progressively and permanently withdraw our consent and participation in certain small and real ways while maintaining this extremely important dialogue and sharing information. We need to entirely withdraw from all corporate media if we want to have a truly informed decision, and instead look to the world and to each other as sources of information and new perspectives. Independent documentaries are currently a pertinent form of intelligent media. As we watch our governments deteriorating we realise the importance of learning from Syria and Egypt, because at some point, unless they relinquish their power voluntarily, there will be a point at which their behaviour is generally considered so unacceptable that action will be inevitable. What can we learn in the meantime? Building community is clearly the central task. Only by building community will we not only be able to stand strong in defense of what is important, but we will be able to make decisions as a community. Individuality is a myth. Humans are social animals. We cannot live healthy satisfying lives unless we are serving social interests.

She took with her

When my mother took her life, she took the life she had helped me build with her.  Everything that was bright and exciting in my life was built on the steady foundation of her support and encouragement.

I do not know why she thought her death was a positive decision.  Did she not have faith in me, as I had faith in her?  Did she not believe that a mother and son are always such?

I struggle now for a heart to expose myself to, and find only indifference, sex, philosophy, vapid suggestions, poetry and an impenetrable apathy and nihilism.

What we call hope in this world is willful denial, blind adherence to preordained goals in an ever-changing and complex world.

What we call faith is a blind and violent destruction of everything truthful and real, a raising up of banalities and plastic figurines in defiance of the Supreme Divinity forever visible to those those brave enough to look.

What we call love hesitantly peeks through the routines of convenience and humour, terrified of the intensity and perversity and filthy nudity of a love that penetrates us everywhere - fiercely in a single shared moment - and doesn't necessarily result in contracts and domestic arrangements.

We fill our sadness with objects - not too beautiful, not too sexy - pathetic in their limits.  Not to remind us of our best moments - exuberant, dangerous - authority and culture forgotten!

Before paranoia, before the ugliness and violence of the world became so unavoidably central, before fear of the world, I had a mother who believed in me, who knew what I knew, though our irrelevant thoughts were different.  I had a life that stretched out into a future, out into a world - out into a world that would be breathless and impressed in my presence.

Now there is a pervasive silence and endless empty streets in identical cities all over the planet.  Nowhere to go when everywhere is the same.  Familiarity in the most extreme.  No one to be shocked.  No one to hold me unselfishly.  No one I would go to unselfishly myself.

She made her decision, sucked her life out via the portal of a common poison.  So common we all spew it out into the atmosphere every day.  We all kill ourselves and each other little by little daily, pretending we're alive.

The world is dying and my mother told me with her own death.

She gave me life, love, hope, and then she cursed me with a lifetime in knowledge that we're all dead.

I can never forgive her, cos she's not here to forgive; I cannot resent her cos she's not here to resent.

There are seven billion humans on this planet and not one of them is my mother.

My father is a teenager.  My best friends are all infants and I am supposed to pretend to be an adult.

I am an unweaned baby with no breast to suckle on.

The religions and entertainments my countrymen suckle make me sick.  The dairy industry my nation is built on is not a viable source of nutrition.  Eating and fasting make me feel equally disgusting.  The houses I was raised in make me feel weak and humiliated.

She's dead and the son she knew is dead.  There's a man sitting here, writing.  A man she will never know.

To be free, unchained, naked, together, alive.

I have tried, in my way, to be free, unchained.

I expanded out from the cities, created the suburbs, where I could possess my own estate, deep in the ocean of nuclear families, their backyards and their lockable rooms.  I paid no landlord, I owned my own home, though the bank submerged me in debt for decades of my short lifetime.  Their arbitrary authority was sold to me like a noble charity; the charity of the hardworking.  I am the Lord God of my own nation-state, numbered and geometrically mapped by city planners.  My hands stink not of dirt and grease, but of disinfectant.

I feel an all-encompassing love for everyone around me, but it is heavily encumbered with the futility of my financial culture.  Everything I want is obscured by the price tags on objects to clutter and confuse my life.  I fill my life with these objects, hoping to uncover the pristine peace and emptiness beneath them, but I always need more.

I fill my lonely soul with philosophies that sicken me like too much candy, and the cynicism I am left with causes me to nihilistically accept the secular materialism that advertising bludgeons me with.  I am told there is no God/dess and I have no soul.  The contradiction in my experience of the world is a shameful secret.

I walk in nature and strive to wander until the traffic is inaudible, but when I reemerge into what they facetiously call the Real World, its bland perversity sends me into a repressed fit of despair.  I read revolutionary texts, but it makes me feel too sad and I yearn for the mind-numbing entertainment specifically manufactured to drown out this Real World that its presence unambiguously perpetuates.

I glance through the glass-pained window and notice the moon is full.  I try to project myself into a world where this monthly celebratory moment has some significance, but the rhythms and cycles of television programming do not take the moon into account.  Natural phenomena are not considered relevant in this Real World I inhabit.  They are quaint symbols of dead religions at best, like faded and chipped Coca-Cola logos on long-abandoned convenience stores.

I can get naked and dance around the backyard with my family watching, amused, but it will be a travesty.  This will be no shared experience, I won't feel the breathing earth underneath the concrete, there will be no fire to get sweaty around and no natural body of water to dive into subsequently.  I won't feel the thrill of life coursing through my body, it will be a display for the attendants and assistants and employees I live with.

At best they will appreciate it as an expression of my personality, what distinguishes me from them, like a birthmark or a homosexuality, as acceptable and irrelevant as an outbreak of acne.  All diversity is accepted and assimilated in Capitalism's Democracy pageant.  Every flavour, every colour of the rainbow is represented and available for purchase.

The only exception is the illegal and the illegal is, by definition, necessary to marginalise and eradicate by otherwise abhorrent means.  The illegal is the very problem we face here in the Real World of the Legal, sanctioned, culturally-defined, personality-diverse extravaganza of materialistic accumulation.

I scorn that within the world and within myself that I feel powerless to transform.  I resent that I do not know how to change what I hate, and I resent more my fear or unwillingness to change what I know precisely how to change.  Too much clarity, too much sensitivity and empathy is dangerous in the Real World.

To see things through my own eyes, rather than the eyes prescribed by the media, is painfully revealing, like being exposed naked in front of the whole school, like those dreams I used to have that my clothes, my personality, my cultural veneer, vanished, and I was left, naked, together, alive.

The world succumbs.

The world succumbs.
We are enveloped into the enfolding.
We join the retreating wave of biomass.
Another species no longer hoping.
No more convenient delusions to survive us.
No more development of our civilisation.
Science as ignorant as the day it was born.
Nothing to save us from ourselves.
No noble cause to die for.
No morality to alleviate our guilt.
Not even a home to return to at day-end.
Mother buried in the void beyond understanding.
Not even our children will survive us.

I am still here, facing certain death.
You are still here, I face you too.
Nothing to say beyond the wind of exhalation.
Surrounded by a deafening silence.
So much space and time to behave in.
Everything to do but nowhere to start.
So much love, but never enough.
Just the potential of 12 hrs of overcast sunlight every single day.