Depression.

This is your depression, your chemical imbalance. Don’t you know? When your fine-tuned God-made perfection – that is to say your nervous system and your brain – is only thrown slightly off tune, it all goes to hell; you become depressed. I jest, of course – there is only chaos and imbalance in the body’s chemical circuits, and no such thing as a God exists (except Azathoth of course, but that is really quite another story). There is only mental disorder, no order, no normalcy, just insanity and depravity. The classifications of disorder span the entire repertoire of human emotion: DSM-IV, your vague definitions and criteria mean nothing.

Your depression is a response to the harsh reality you face, your alienation and your estrangement from the material reality. You have become a dissonant choir, a stalker of the uncharted peripheries. It is not the depression you face that is the problem, it is the world, the world that makes you depressed, this world gone awry and spinning out of control. It is not you who need to be treated; it’s the world that needs emergency surgery. There’s nothing wrong with you, it’s everything to do with the world.

And the world twists and turns, spinning through the interstellar aether; and here we are, stranded on this rock, stuck in the horrible barren gulfs – deep ravines cutting deep through the empty superficial wastes, the deserts of pop-culture pornography; like deep knife wounds cut in a body drained of all blood. The corpse of the earth has been exsanguinated.

I had a dream…

I had a dream, a wonderful dream of visions; visions of things past, present and future, different from reality, so enchanting, beautiful and wondrous. I was I which was not I, not trapped in this body, this prison of flesh and thought and torments of sickness and vile lust. In the dream, I cut my wrists with a kitchen knife before my father, and the blood dripped on the white linoleum floor like my sisters vomiting up the blueberry jam she just ate. In the dream I flew with invisible wings above the sleeping city in the early morning; the trees, the houses and the lights, so wonderful and spectral under the dimming stars as the sun first heralds it’s arrival with a blue-tinted light on the horizon.

In my dream I walk with ease, worries of my own mortality vanish underneath the eternal flickering of the dreaming stars, blissfully unconcerned with the churning nonsense of everyday life, unconcerned with my own problems. A being without purpose, a being without mind and thought and worries, a being that just experiences; that was what I was, floating through a series of peaceful hallucinations, peaceful even when the guns were blazing and the bullets flying by, peaceful even when the fist deformed my jaw.

Ignorance of the void, the spatial oblivion of space, comforting only when we ponder how the dust that was once us and our human brethren, our magnificent cities and disgusting nature, will drift as stardust through a chilly multiverse, as collections of splitting mineral constellations. Our memories, every trace wiped out. In our dreams…

In my dream, this prison around me was no longer, liberated from the pressure of the horror of reality and my true nature; the original sin, or the original mistake. It cannot be undone, it cannot be changed, and we are speeding up, rushing onward towards a black eternal pit, the whining of ethereal flutes to keep Azathoth placid… And the universe colds, the lights turned off. Show is over. Time to leave.

And the purity, the pure ocean salt on your tongue, delicate like a kiss, a blinding second of ecstatic passion—oceans of time and space disconnect us, the very universe and existence our enemy, the ticking of the time; I dream of a shopping centre, a parking lot with many cars, but no people. It is only I, in this desolate wasteland of reality, an island of consciousness, absolutely loneliness… My tears are the salt on your tongue, do they taste well? I hope they do. It’s the only thing we’ll have to drink. At least for a while.

The flowers will grow in the pools of our tears, and our bodies will float on the ocean we form, the salinity of the Dead Sea…

The hate for the Tower block

“the massive scale prohibiting meaningful sense of community—“; “the anonymity of the grey concrete monoliths”; “a failed social experiment”;

Always, forever, in perpetuity, the hatred for the tower block ravages through society. High-rise housing is okay only if it is some flashy office skyscraper or a luxurious tower filled with enormous flats larger than a majority of single-family houses, not some terrible eyesore of a functionalist or brutalist tower with balconies in stark grey concrete. No, terrible things like that must be demolished. The Glasgow Housing Association has lately been in the progress of demolishing numerous tower blocks around town, leaving ravaged war-zone ruins in their wake, space now ready for “mixed-income” houses, where some of the flats will be “sold on the market” to mix the poor and unfortunate with some of more “successful” classes to… mitigate the delinquents, the crime, oh, I’m sure that is how they see it. In the U.S., they call it “gentrification”, more like luxuriousation, right?

Let the area become desirable; make sure the land value skyrockets. In the suburbs of Paris, political messages hung from balconies of tower blocks: This is not a condominium; NOT FOR SALE. In Sweden, the conversion of public housing associations to for-profit companies, the sale and privatisation of large parts of the housing stock; Mr. Latrine, also known as Sven Otto Littorin, spoke lyrically about how the Swedish housing market needs to become more “flexible”. The rigid definitions will be no more; it must be the way it is down in Brussels, the home of the corrupt cabal we know as the “European Union”; when asked whether some areas of the flexible housing market down in Brussels could be considered slums, Latrine said yes, indeed they could. Latrine, by the way, got his degree from an American diploma mill. Seriously.

And the towers blown up – falling down like houses of cards, whilst the ideas of Le Corbusier are collected in piles and set alight, all the while big burly men pee petrol on the fire. “No more”, they say as the flames lick the doomsday red sunset sky, “no more shall we be confined to your concrete abstractions, death to Unité d’Habitation! The Radiant City, looks like the burning city to me”, and they laugh, a laugh with a callous machine-like quality, like the Tyrannosaur in the Jurassic Park movie. The Garden City, the Towers in a Park concept, failed, long-live the endless seas of single-family houses! Long-live the American Dream; a car, a house, a job at Wal-Mart and a guard dog to keep your house safe, and a gun under your pillow.

The towers that once climbed the sky like pencils thin and slender, and the wider blocks like tipped-over dominoes, like veritable Berlin walls of communist oppression; flashes of Moscow in the winter, the 1980 Olympic Village; a desolate landscape, snow all over like volcanic ashes, cold and empty, not a soul in sight; and over it all a menacing cloudy evening sky. And then the suburbs of Paris, towers of Babylon, queer shapes, twists and turns and serpentine lingering blocks—public housing, what a mistake – the brown sandstone towers of New York City, the glorious Pruitt-Igoe, Cabrini Green, Robert Taylor Homes; “perpetuation of poverty”, it only counts as perpetuation if the residents stay in one spot, if they move around, it’s not at all the same thing! And the towers fall, explosives and clouds of dust and pulverised concrete, picked apart like patients under the surgeon’s knife—we’re correcting the mistakes, paving way for the more profitable development of this here district—

Red Road towers occupy such valuable real estate, one day they’ll crush those towers too; let’s build a mall there, parking lots and office park, and a few expensive row homes too; to make the whiny little buggers get off the developers backs, they offer some tiny number of flats for rental social housing. That is what we call “mixed-income housing”. It builds towns with a character, just look at that great Family Friendly city the psychopaths at Disney built outside of Orlando, Celebration they call it. A perfectly choreographed nostalgic trip to a past that never was: Main Street U.S.A.

Soon, the towers will have fallen, and they will give way to endless fields of sprawling single-family housing districts. Enormous tracts of “subdivisions” – as U.S. developers call it – stretching for miles and miles in all directions from the city centres. In some cities, already the sprawl spreads for out like a cancerous growth over forty miles in either direction from the downtown area. Over-sized motorways, concrete valleys with rivers of speeding cars; noise barriers, fast food restaurants, trailer parks, wide avenues with no central barrier or separation, endless forests of billboards and oceans of parking lots, midst the puke-green fake-lawns and plastic-surgery shiny windows of the glassed modernist shoeboxes.

Tower blocks and commieblocks remain popular elsewhere, outside of the west. They are still built in most of eastern Asia, in Russia – reminiscing the magnificent Soviet housing estates, the 15th microdistrict—in India, they are now touted as the solution to the terrible conditions of many revolting slums of metal scrap shacks.

But the failure of a district is absolutely the fault of the buildings, not the people that live there, not the people responsible for the decision not to provide services in some of the areas, not the people that neglect maintenance; no, it is all the buildings fault, the anonymous blocks, they lack the communal spirit that ugly New-Urbanism communities offer, pastel coloured lipstick and odd cubes and artsy shapes. It is all the buildings fault. Blame the towers! And they decide not to do fix the poor insulation, they decide not to deal with the leaking pipes, they neglect upkeep and then say the building is inefficient, dilapidated and then they schedule it for demolition. Sweep the trash under the carpet, where it cannot be seen, so it won’t be our problem no more. Let it sort itself out. Let it be. Lassies faire, as the liberal dregs say.

Your orifices are unappealing.

 Sexual preference is in no way a classification, merely a vague bit of information; those who somehow identify by their sexual preferences are disgusting and should be shot. As should anyone ever wanting to have children, or anyone who has ever been loyal to neo-liberal conceptions and lassies-faire… or anyone that for some reason perceive gender to be a part of their identity. Kill with fire. Just kill everything with fire. None of it’s of any worth either way.

 Sex is revolting. As are human bodies, really, up close and naked they reveal the most hideous flaps of flesh, grotesque by any standards, mountains towering here and there from uneven tectonic plates, protruding mounds with deep abysses and fault lines crisscrossing the landmasses. Not to mention the disgusting genitals… dark unexplored caves with repulsively coloured and uneven walls and hidden sacs, or a strange tower of Babylon strangled by the most hideous worming veins, crowned by a purplish monks exposed skull. Their eyes so playfully alluring, covering up the most warped of secrets like the impressive governments of conspiracy nuts midnight entertainment. As the skin is torn off it reveals the utterly offensive muscular tissue and all the organs engaged in energy-conversion of various sorts, ugly organs, defective, sensitive, prone to failure. Not built to last, like modern kitchen appliances and clothes or NASA’s space shuttles.

 When I see people discuss such utterly trivial nonsense such as sex with their friends I want to have my secret police round them up and send them off to the re-education and labour camps. If they ever come back from there they will no longer be interested in pathetic travesties. No longer will their topics of choice be the size of their friend’s asses and tits, or how fucking funny that inane party last Saturday was and how loaded they got, but worldly topics beyond their own selfish sphere. They’ll no longer ponder the joy of driving whilst drunk or how fucking awesome smoking joints is, they will feel no joy, their hearts will be squeezed empty and filled with relentless hatred. Never again will they enjoy their own existence and vanity will be uninteresting to them.

 I don’t see any paradox in wanting to end humanity and being appalled at the utter inanity of humans and their lack of emotion. People aspiring to satisfy their own selfish desires offend me, not people without emotion. Sex is a primitive drive to assure the survival of the species. Humans must aspire to move above the retardation of the past, the mammalian habits and behaviours we sadly inherited. With technical enhancements this might one day be reality, though I have no hope ever this will be realised. I know that technology will not be used in constructive ways, but will only be used to produce cloned designer babies in child factories. In the future you will choose by way of a corporate catalogue of offers what kind of a child you want. Who cares what is “natural”, there’s no “natural” state on this planet; existence is ever-changing.

 Everything is wrong, flawed; thrown away, forgotten, resigned. I don’t much care what people think of what I say, though I do care about how I appear physically. I dress sloppily, but I never talk to people unless they talk to me first, and if they do I only use the absolute minimum of talk required to get away quickly. I appear hateful, bitter and as a fanatic Stalinist lunatic with a million emotional problems, and I am absolutely aware of why no one in the world wants me, but I’m not sure I care all that much.

 It’s a lesson of life; one must deal with the reality; not give in to the foolish instincts that say we must find a mate and reproduce and learn to become a hermit, isolated from the waves of retardation that flow like poison through the populace; the toxins of liberal democracy and the illusion of “freedom”. One must realise the insignificance of ones every action. Nothing matters or makes a difference. Offing oneself the only real solution. Everything else just postponing the inevitable. Every drug-abusing rock-failure ends up with children three marriages later, so much for trying to outrun the instincts… just another meaningless attempt to break away from the bondage of existence, by the claws of Nature devoured…