The Fight – The Conflict Chakra

I used to have a strange relationship with an outwardly professional, very down-to-earth, to all intents and purposes “normal” girl.

Throughout the relationship she would “try” to get me to hit her. Sometimes she even hit me to try to provoke a violent response. I always thought it was something to do with her Radical Feminist tendencies conspiring to drive me to violence, thus justifying the idea that all men are bastards.

I will interject here and just state that I am aware that the principles of Feminism do not posit that all men are bastards. I am a Feminist. And she was also an enlightened woman, a true Feminist in many ways, and I have a lot of respect for her. She was however plagued by certain negative beliefs born in childhood of her neglect and abuse at the hands of certain prominent male figures in her past.

Aware of this, it seemed a reasonable conclusion to draw that someone who modeled a relatively positive male figure would need to be induced in any way possible to inflict violence upon her in order to fulfil the childhood belief that men are cruel, heartless, purveyors of violence. My conclusions came from observation of behaviours, the study of certain prominent thinkers in the field of psychology previous to these events, and a certain intuitive reasoning. But I am no authority and I could have it totally wrong.

And my thoughts this Winter evening may confirm that. After all, there are plenty of ways to get a man to fulfil the aforementioned criteria without trying to get him to hit you. Why, specifically, did she want me to hit her?

I’ll just interject again, for the sake of my reputation, to say that I never did hit her.

So, recently, as you can see from my previous entry, I have re-acquainted myself with the movie Fight Club (I’m kinda breaking the first two rules here if you take it to extremes!) A master stroke of film making in my humble opinion. That question of etiquette thing – the ass or the crutch dilemma – still sticks in my head to this day, along with certain other pearls of wisdom that rolled off the tongue of Tyler Durden in those couple of hours. It’s Tyler’s alter-ego, played by Christopher Norton in the film, who says, I think, “You never felt more alive than when you were fighting.” And that kinda rings true with what a lot of people say: when you take a big risk you feel alive, that exhilaration, like from bungee jumping, hunting, or whatever. It puts you in touch with something primal, something our button-down society, with its convenience food and ever so polite transactions, fails to deliver. So getting right in there with someone, fighting tooth and nail with nothing but the weapons Nature gave you touches that.

The principle is also advocated in the film Green Street. Elijah Woods’ character says something like “When you realize you’re not made of glass” you lose that fear about speaking your mind and worrying what other people think of you or what you’re doing.

And a fight is not generally mortal to one of the combatants. In the film Rocky IV the kid hits the bully for nicking his jacket, the fight’s finished, the guy gives the jacket back, the two go on about their lives. Countless other films have portrayed the same thing. So it’s obviously an important thing in our collective psyche. And the point, beautifully painted in Fight Club, is that you can even be closer to someone after a fight. Hell, you can even just fight for the feeling of being alive that it promises.

I remember the first time I hit someone. I spent plenty of my school career being termed as “a pussy” because I didn’t like to fight. I was also extremely slow to anger. Then one day a kid got right in my face and, completely unconsciously, I landed a perfect right hook on the side of the guys head and he hit the concrete like he’d been shot. I dropped to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably, shocked, appalled, terrified at what I’d done to another human being. Or so I tell myself. Was I actually feeling a huge in-rushing of “Life” that I’d never felt before and which was so completely overwhelming to my twelve-year-old self that I was reduced to tears?

I never got a chance to test this theory because a) I’ve only just come up with it, and b) after the other kids had seen that, I was afforded a level of respect which meant I didn’t need to prove myself again. And to this day I’ve never been in a situation that demanded physical intervention. Now that’s probably mostly due to my disposition – Watch the weather change… Sorry, I happen to be listening to Lateralus at this moment – and the fact that I’m not a fan of violence… and probably also because I’ve spent a good part of my adult life taking downers that suppress those instincts. But, to someone who doesn’t take drugs, could that in-rushing of life become addictive. I should think so!

So one wonders if my ex wasn’t seeking a “hit” of sorts that mirrored my need to anaesthetise; a release, an exorcism, an act that gave her the feeling that she was still alive. And who could blame her? If I didn’t take drugs I’d do something drastic to “feel” something.

One of the reasons I’m not prone to getting into fights is that you don’t know where they can end up. It’s no longer, as with some previous generations I’ve spoken to, that you have a disagreement with someone, get your fists out, slug a few to each other and when a guy goes down you pull him up and shake hands. Now there’s a pretty good chance that if you get into a fight, once you hit the deck the guys mates will pile in and break every bone you’ve got. Or someone decides to pull a knife or some other such weapon to bring an edge of fatality to their violence hit.

Is it any wonder? If you suppress urges they magnify, fester, grow ugly and perverted, and manifest ten times worse in spite of your best efforts to bottle them up.

We are so out of tune with ourselves and our surroundings and etiquette demands you keep a lid on all that shit you’re feeling and plaster on a smile for the sake of everyone else; no fucking wonder kids ever more frequently pull out GUNS on their fellow brothers and sisters. The Doublethink forced down our throats is vicious: video games and TV, tabloids and friday nights are exponentially more graphically, narcissistically, gratuitously violent than certainly I have ever seen; and yet they don’t embody the true expression one gets from being understood, rather they distract you from connecting with people around you; and then coming down from on high the politicians peddle wars while all the time calling for world peace! FUCK YOU!

A well armed populace is the best defense against tyranny…

I don’t believe in guns but I believe a populace should be taught to deal with these violent urges that manifest in each of us differently. I’m not sure how yet but I’ll figure it out at some point. I know it won’t be delivered by the people in charge: they thrive on us being divided and conflicted about tearing at each others’ throats while desperately trying to be tolerant of everyone!

Then again, maybe a militia is what we need. Peaceful protest doesn’t seem to achieve an awful lot in this day and age; they seem to keep fucking us no matter who’s in power.

At the very least the fight should be reclaimed as a reasonably safe method of solving differences. I’m sure it would weed out this nasty litigious virus we’ve got. The idea of beating someone to within an inch of their life is abhorrent, and, I’m pretty sure, is abhorrent to every man, woman, and child on the planet. Something in your bones just screams “No!” On the other hand, sometimes you just want to smack someone in their bigoted mouth when they are shooting it off about something… And my point is someone should be able to, and even supported in this act, without fear of being beaten to death.

“Third Rule of Fight Club: someone yells ‘Stop’, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful end to a film than when those credit card buildings (with no one in them, I stress) come crashing down as the culmination of Project Mayhem’s activities. And then the Pixies comes in. Happy Day…

Well, I’m off to my friend’s house to see if he’ll hit me as hard as he can.

In the world I see – you're stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.

In the world I see – you’re stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You’ll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you’ll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.


The Shades of 4 a.m.

I’m inbetween.

A quotidian, Persephonic curse.

I inhabit the underworld – the land of the dead, though walking they still be. Though by some grace I’m still free to join society. Some people can’t tell; they can’t read the signs: tiny bruisings running along the path of veins, a certain paleness, a certain gait, the pupils, the irises; it’s all laid out for one who knows how to read. The fact that people don’t tend to look too closely means I can have been scoring, shooting-up, and enjoying a little death (not la petite mort, you understand, but it’s not dissimilar) of a morning, and be sitting in Fortnum and Mason’s with the family in the afternoon and no one’s any the wiser.

Now, perhaps, they choose to not see; my sister, certainly, finds my little anecdotes of life in prison and criminal rogue-ery (not sure if that’s a word but it suits) rather distasteful, wishing I wouldn’t bring up such taboo concepts up in polite conversation, whereas my father chuckles away and comments and questions, as though I’m one of his learned Oxford fellows, a scholar in criminal behaviour and the pschology of addiction. Yes, perhaps they choose not to see deeper; my sister not wanting to imagine her middle-class, picture-perfect fantasy of her family tainted by a heroin addict and convicted criminal to boot, and my father, so convinced he was a cruel, heartless father, is easily swayed by the part of me that is practised at putting on a facade in order to soothe and manipulate the hapless victim into handing over money, though I now use it to convince him that I’m recovering well and haven’t touched a needle in weeks. It pains me, but on the other hand, the idea of him thinking I’m a failure, and discovering that he really can’t help me is worse.

No one can help an addict. We are undead. Heroin addicts are like vampires. One even becomes addicted to the sight of blood in the syringe – the rush before the rush. We use the massive confidence boost tempered with care-free, laid-back cool like “glamour” to navigate social events and captivate the opposite sex, while, later in the addiction, we learn to sniff out targets, bleeding them dry of money, valuables, energy, and eventually, care, in order to feed our beast. And when the thirst is upon us nothing, and I mean NOTHING, will deter us from getting our next fix.

Similarity is uncanny, no?

You can see it with other substance abusers, as well…

Alcoholics resemble zombies mostly: lack of motor control, bad skin, terrible smell, and wandering around crying “Brains!” Well, obviously: alcohol destroys so many brain cells it’s no wonder they want new ones! They’re also prone to bouts of violence, against anyone and everyone who happens to be in range.

So, what does someone trapped between life and death do? It’s a form of cowardice: too disdainful of life, too despairing of death, I walk between. I would like to say that Love could break the spell, draw me out of the mire, but I just don’t know any more. One needs a reason, a fire in the heart, a voice urging you on to face any obstacle.

I have none.

Everything I touch, hope for, believe in, dissolves into dust. There’s only so many times you can rebuild… aren’t there?

What would I like this Solstice? A reason to live.



Dear slim, white, stick of rolled virgin leaves, crafted by mine own loving hands,

Shall I compare thee to a sunset evening? With your waxing-waning crimson glow, your warmth delivered within-without. Demure, you peer through smokey clouds, awakening my lust with your coy smiles, only driving on your own destruction, for I am promiscuous, and shall find another ere you are even half a sundial segment gone, and no tears shall I weep for our fleeting pleasure game: my new interest already at my lips.

But, surely, no grudge you bear me? What could be more unhappy than a smoke without a smoker? And though I am a fickle, crass companion, you never cease to yield up your sweet aroma hit: in my more egocentric moments, I should imagine you to be excited by my mysterium, my capricious promises while we spend this time together.

And, now, as your time is drawing to a close, and flecks of nico resin fleck your snow white gown, take comfort from the fact that, though you leave this mortal world, I have memorialised, immortalised you here, to live forever in my thoughts.

With love, dear Scarlet Lady Marlboro,


I did not stub out this cigarette: I let it burn out. All I can hear now is the screaming of someone burning to death. I can’t imagine stubbing it out would have been any more humane; that’s just being crushed, no? Inadvertently I may have just invented Cigarette Rights. Oh, God, and I was planning to smoke forever…

The Desolate Plains of Limbo – A Lyric on Loss

The words you said stayed.

They echoed like an eighties movie moment,

Now tinnitant, except for when they rear,

Repeating, though receding, always near.

And for their fatal message, just a tear,

Drop solit’ry of undisguised emotion,

That none have seen for far too many years.

Perhaps that was the problem?

Gods, what I wouldn’t give to change,

The torrid path of history, Escape that tragic day,

Deny the crossing of our stars and Destiny’s decisive mastery.

But all too often it’s Euripides who brings us Truth:

The blazing, harsh, relentless torch of Real,

That chases out the shades of reverie,

And leaves me twice, and thrice, and still once more,


Somewhere, in long ages past, an idea came to be,

That men are hunters, warriors, with hearts of tempered steel.

Perhaps I am the flaw that lets the rest of life endure,

For as I am, the fairer sex’s graces long witheld,

Bereft of company, retreating deeper in my shell,

I wither, and I dwindle, though my grieving’s long since done,

So tired of being single, I’m the sky without a sun.

Suicide has been considered,

I chose to do it slow,

With intra-Venus Dream-Sand,

Subcutanaeous haema-flow.

She’s my silent, warming mistress,

But she has been known to kill.

What would you do if your love was ripped away against your will?

The last hope then, A final roll of Fortune’s loaded dice:

Is there someone there to save me from myself,

Or is it Poppy I was truly meant to wed,

To walk the shrouded aisle to gates beyond,

Where there is never any pain?

Optimism bleeds dry

I think I have a rage problem…


I think I have a rage problem...

Yeah, sorry, I would love to come to work but here’s the thing – Your fucking bullshit policy makes me want to fucking die so I’m just gonna go over here, sit in the middle of your parody of classy shop, amidst your downtrodden employees who’d rather vomit in your holier-than-thou face than swallow another of your fucking saccharine (wish it was morphine) laced, saint-faced constructive comments, rip out my own intestine to use as a tourni, and shove a spike loaded with acid-borne analgesic in my vein – yes thats right I’d rather disembowel and stab myself and fall into a coma than deal with you on your own petty level – until I suffocate in my own bile and convulse on your floor. How’s that gonna work out?

Oh God, sorry, did I say that out loud?


I am.
Disconnected from you.
Disconnected from me.
Words are so far removed from their meanings, so abstract, I can’t even make you understand.
The magnitude of the colourless, lifeless, joyless sorrow that swirls inside me.
It devours everything.
I want to write; I can’t.
I want to love; I can’t.
I want to not be so fucking alone… I am.
Forever swimming through this deep, demented water.
And not a soul to light my way.
Well, there was one…
But that was all so long ago, and I have made too many mistakes since then.
The hand was offered and I was too afraid to take it.
And so I swim, solitary, soundless, a man without a name…