Saturday, August 10, 2013


He once had ambition, long ago he was once considered to be someone with a bright future in the art world. He had been considered a charming, attractive, charismatic, even thought of as an incurable romantic, amusing and a kind man. He was told that he was innovative, a creative force to contend with, a bright shining spark in experimental and abstract art. Although, he had never considered that  these attributes applied  to him. Because he created works that he liked, for fun, for his pleasure. He liked to think of it all as a hobby. It was just a bonus if some things were liked and purchased. His creativity was a way for him to release his inner demons.

Yet, how quickly things change and how plaudits are so easily forgotten. It all changed his life, thirteen  years ago, his last major exhibition at the Muddle Gallery in London. It was for want of a better word a ´disaster´. The works were slated by critics and potential buyers. He was an instant ´pariah´. The reviews were scathing and some of the words used still jangle in his memory. ´self-destructive´ - ´intimidating´ - ´ugly´ - ´perverse´ - ´childish´ - ´absent´ - ´insulting´. He actually found some of the descriptions rather apt, he considered that some of the words described his style rather well. But, there were other comments that were a little too spiteful, too damning in their descriptive reviews. ´talentless´ -´ unimaginative´ - ´a creative void´ - ´an absence of talent hinders this lacklustre fool  who uses too much paint and glue.´ - a pointless waste of canvas,´ and so on.

For some unknown reason, he found those comments/ critiques a little upsetting, perhaps because he knew it was the end of a decent income, perhaps he realised that any idea´s he had of expanding into books, prints, merchandise were now dashed. Whatever the reasons, he knew that from that moment on, his art was for him and him alone.

He withdrew into himself and shunned social events, friend´s dinner parties, invitations to other exhibition openings. He did some travelling, he spent a lot of his time alone. Any relationships that formed soon crumbled. Yet, he still painted, wrote stories, kept a diary, took a lot of photographs. But, he never showed his work. In his studio, the art piling up, stacked up neatly all around him was for his eyes only.
AS the years went by, his behaviour was increasingly strange, reclusive. He smoked more ´weed´, he snorted more ´coke´. The few friends that he had left were concerned about him, they found him  ´erratic´, ´impossible´, ´argumentative´,  ´unbearable´, and ´ emotionally vacant´.

He would say up to the early hours painting, writing, listening to music, playing Xbox games and watching DVD´s. He would look into the mirror and see himself, unforgiving in his wretchedness. Incomprehensible darkness in his hollow eyes, a sneer permanently attached to his colourless face.

It was inevitable that his virile imagination that fed him, that exhilarated his senses would worsen, due to his addictions and his overwhelming obsessive compulsive disorders. Every day became a new horror to him, as he would look in the mirror, and what he saw fascinated him and terrified him in equal measure.
His art became even darker,  more disturbing as he was creating his own colour blends from his own blood, urine and excrement. His writings became increasingly vivid, but cryptic, his desires and fantasies sprawled across the pages, written in a madman´s hand. His perspective of life formed and fuelled  by his addictions.

When he finally decided to join the computer age, his obsessions found a new outlet. The internet. It was a new universe, filled with people of all backgrounds with whom he could communicate. He wallowed in the world wide web, embracing all that it had to offer. AS the internet changed, he did his best to change with it. Facebook. Twitter. Pinterest. He devoured them. He used them to vent his frustrations, disappointments, anger and his lonliness. Sometimes he would share his sense of humour and fetishes. He also wrote on blogs, an online diary, created websites and he even started to post images of his works. The internet was a global gallery and he would spend hours searching for others that thought like he did. His search was fruitless.

 It seemed that he was never going to find people that he would fit in with. What had happened to society?
 He felt alone in this real world of stink flesh and dumbed down idiots who watched endless reality TV show´s. The news  media spread propaganda. The journalists wrote about their own vanities and no longer reported seriously on the issues that were destroying this small planet called earth. Everyone, of the so called normal people seemed greedy and sheep like. Selfish, empty headed and stupid, oh so very stupid. Where were the creative people? The thinking people? The people who were like him? Surely he was not alone in his thought processes? Where was lust? Where was love? There must be someone out there on the world wide web that he could relate to? Was there somebody out there who could / would understand him, would they want to? Someone who would be his MiSTRESS  dARK.

The 13 friends he had left seemed to understand him. Especially Mister Zero, Tom Tron, Lord Muddle and Mr FiSChTZ. They always helped to ease his troubled mind. But, he wanted more.
The internet would sometimes unnerve him. So much information, so much ´rubbish´ to wade through. So much choice that actually was limited, search engines filled with corporate listings, advertising and ´celebrity´ nonsense he wished he could rid the planet of people with very low I.Q´s.

Still, he continued using the internet, making the most of what had become a beast of burden. He believed that he would eventually, at some point in time, find the one he was searching for. Someone who would enthral and intrigue him, capture his imagination and stir his hidden lusts and desires. Someone who would become his muse, his ideal, his ´soulmate´, someone who would want to share his darkness, his light, his murky world, his fantasies and his love.

He worried that his online addiction was a part of his other cravings for drugs and vodka, he knew that he needed to get ´cleaner´. Become a little more human, claw back what was left of his hardened soul and return to his creative path and enjoy the outside world again.

It was a slow process, but soon his need for drugs diminished, he spent some time in Europe, visiting cities that had always interested him. He started to socialise more in the face to face sense and to his surprise... he started to exhibit his artworks  again. He even sold some. Which gave him back some of his lost confidence.
But, he was still unable to meet someone that could be his muse. As was usual for him relationships started and failed. They usually liked him in the beginning, but then, they usually wanted him to change in to the person they wanted him to be. Then, when he did, they did not like him and would leave, telling him ´that he was not the person they thought he was´. It was all very Mars, Venus and confusing.

Then once he returned to London, he started to spend a bit more time on the internet. For some reason that he could not explain, he was enjoying using Twitter. It was no longer annoying him the way it used to. And that is when he found her, or she found him. A stranger. He knew nothing about her except from what he learned from her posts and the few photographs she would share.
 He had no true idea of what she looked like, he had no idea of her body shape, but none of that mattered to him. Because her posts intrigued him, her words thrilled him, her thoughts aroused him and that excited him. He had finally, after nearly thirteen years,  discovered someone that could keep his interest. So for twelve weeks he followed her on twitter, watched her every comment, her every share and her every favourite. He wondered if what he was doing could be considered ´stalking´ and if it did, he loved it!

On the thirteenth week he decided that he would contact her. He was strangely nervous about sending her a private message. How would she react? What would she reply? Would she reply? Did his own posts disturb or excite her? Did she like his art? Had she read any of his stories? Was there a twitter etiquette that he did not know about? He felt lost as thought about what to write to her, he wished that he could send her a handwritten letter in the post to her. At least that would have an element of him in it. The internet could be too anonymous. He decides to hand write a draft before typing it. But as he writes he notices that his hand is shaking and that his writing has become an unintelligible sprawl of black lines and incoherent sentences. What has she done to him, this woman he does not know. Just even the thought of her sends icicles of excitement through his mind, body... and... dare he say it ?


He never really thought that he had one. He needs to calm his nerves, so he makes a fresh coffee in the machine and lights up a Tor Oriental cigarette. AS he smokes, he looks out of the window and stares at the sky, looking some birds flying. He smiles. If my friends could see me now.. he thinks. AS he continues to enjoy the cigarette, his thoughts start to fill of ´HER´.

He wants to know more about her. He wants to know her deepest thoughts, her desires, needs, fantasies, interests. He wants to understand why ´SHE´ out of all the women he has ever known excites and thrills him to his very core. He feels that she is the perfect ´fit´ for him. So, he finally sends her a message and to his surprise she replies and they continue to write to each other. Each day he learns a little bit more about her. She teases him with her messages, hinting at more, but never truly giving anything away. She entangles him with her charms. He becomes a little bit more obsessed with her as the time goes on until...... He can take it no more. He must meet her. See her in the flesh. He must have her!

So, using methods that were indiscreet to say the least, he found out her full name, her address and some other private information that would help him with the idea that started to form in his mind. He travelled to her city. He booked himself into a 5 star Hotel. Unpacked. Showered, shaved and dressed. He caught a taxi to her road. Walked about the area to get acquainted with the place, to make himself feel comfortable, so he would not look like stranger or out of place.. He might even rent an apartment  here. Then he started to watch her. Follow her. For 13 hours a day, he would know where she was, what she was doing and he would keep notes, a diary of her daily routines, the diary of ´HER´.

Soon the time would come when they would meet.

Soon, he would go and visit her, his muse.

 He knew how to enter her apartment, he knew where she slept.
She would finally be his and his alone.

Soon it will be time for the new dawn, for him to wake up at the crack of dawn and help his muse understand that he loved her.

 His beautiful sweet Dawn.

 Soon she would understand.

The End.

(continued in the 2 short stories ´A NEW dAWN´ and ´AdOURNEd´)

Saturday, August 03, 2013


Another dAWN.

She was glad of the silence. It helped to soothe and quiet her troubled mind. It took her away from the glare of the computer screen.
     She felt at peace. Alone. Erotic and wet. Free to do nothing but finger herself, caress her own flesh. Thinking of him.
     Mr Zero. Mr Tron, Mr Fischtz - names, only names. Names that had once meant excitement,  then sadly boredom,  eventually frustration, then caged slavery. Names that had nearly brought her to the edge of insanity.

     But here in her own space. She relished the peace. She was at one with herself, away from THEM. Here, alone in her apartment, her fingers inside her, giving herself pleasure, arousal.

     In her eyes the darkening filter of LUST. Her  nipples erect, hardened by her fingers pulling on them and her other hand rubbing her clitoris and fingering her ever dripping cunt. She looked  at her feet. Tought of him, her desires, his fetish and whimpered, a lonely troubled sound, as her cunt juices flowed through her fingers. Quickly she used her fingers to make herself cum.

Sodden and breathless, her moans, louder and louder still, then finally a screaming and a gushing from her pouting wet hole.
She lay on her bed, panting, her eyes closed, imagining him... Joshua Kane. Wishing he could see her now.
     And then, as she slowly opens her eyes, she sees him, standing at her bed, watching her and smiling at her, a cruel smile.

     'Tick Tock Time, I am sleeping, aren´t I?' Dawn stares at him.
     'did you like watching me?' she asked.
     The man said nothing.

     She wanted to be angry at this intrusion of her privacy,this invasion into her bedroom, but anger somehow seemed pointless. It was as if SHE was his, her body was his, and she had finger fucked herself wishing him here with her.
     She watched him, curiously; hoping for an explanation. He said nothing. Not a word.
Then after thirteen long minutes
     'Did you get wet?' he asked.
     He stood, huddled over her, gazing at her heaving breasts.
     She leaned up, moved towards him  brushing her nipples against him as closer to his groin, but still he did not move. Erratically the flames of his eyes burst into blackness, something sinister in his dark eyes.

   'I have been watching you for a very long time my darling Dawn, a very long .... time´' He stared at her. Then he slowly started to undress.
   The words , spoken by him in a quiet, toneless voice, took her by surprise.
   'why?' she asked.
  But he seemed not to hear. Only the shiver of her skin and her heavy breathing broke the eerie silence.
     She spoke again. 'how long have you been watching me?'
     His eyes followed her as she moved closer towards him.

´ that´s right my sweet Dawn, come closer to me, I have admired you from afar for thirteen months, thirteen days and thirteen hours. Now help me unleash my lust for you´

     She unzipped him, took his cock out from behind the zip and embraced it with her soft hand, she gripped it and started to use her tongue on its circumcised length, it throbbed as she closed her mouth around his cock. She sucked on it greedily. Savouring his sweet taste.

     He watched her, and she thought that he looked vaguely like a dark shadow; lean, a miscreant , with bitterness in his eyes and cruelty in his form. And his voice was languid and haunting, when his mouth and lips formed into a smile. It was of desire, filled with a need to inflict pain. She continued to suck him, her eyes watching him, when he pulled her by her hair, and pushed her away from his erection.

      ´what do you want to do with me ?' she asked.
     He smiled, a pitiless smile, but did not answer.

     As she watched him she had the feeling that he knew her every desire. Sensed that he'd been waiting for her. Expecting her. Not just for a long time but for eternity. He had been looking for his soul mate. She felt arousal and the thought of this, that she alone matched his every need.
     She turned towards him.

     She stared into his face, his eyes and felt her cunt getting wet again. She was alone, completely alone with this delightful, sensual and silent stranger. She knew that she wanted him to fuck her, fuck her hard and hurt her, hurt her with as much pleasure and as much pain as he could give her. He excited her and it showed as her pussy oozed her lustful needs over his fingers which he had suddenly entered easily into her eager and willing hole.

She felt highly excited, dirty and a willing whore to his every whim. She offered herself to his movements inside her. She heard him tell her to talk to him, to release herself to him, to be a filthy talking slut and she obliged. ´yes, stick them into me, finger fuck me hard, make my cunt juices flow you fuck nasty bastard!´

 ´good girl´ he smiled ´now let me taste you bitch! My tongue needs to be inside your hole´
She was highly aroused, her pussy had never been so wet, his tongue was magical, what else was he planning for her willing body?

As his tongue probed her, his dark eyes watched her face lost in pleasure, then he stopped. Stood up and started to take off all his clothes, they looked at each other, her face full of desire and need. He slowly licked his lips and as he stood before her, now completely naked and erect, he started to masturbate.

     She watched. Hypnotised. Unable to take her eyes off him.
     Destiny, her mind told her. This is your destiny, this is what you were created for. No matter where you went you had to return to him. To this man. jOshua Kane.

     Quietly he wanked his cock in the direction of  her angelic face, he moved slowly towards  her. Getting closer to her hot sweaty face, his cock hard, stiff, bulging and throbbing. She licked her lips, hunger in her eyes and then greedily swallowed the length into her mouth. Letting his prick ease down her throat, filling her.

     Gently, very gently, he took a handful of her hair into his hands then tightenedhis grip, and pulled her hair tightly, his grip firm and cruel. His cock throbbed and swelled even more in her hot wet mouth,  she wanted to scream with pure animal lust, but she couldn't.
´that´s it my fuck whore, you cunting bitch, SUCK it, suck it hard´
He forced his erection further down into her throat, pulling at her hair tighter. Her eyes started to water, but still she wanted more.

Then he pushed her away from him, she fell back upon the bad, gasping for air. He roughly rolled her over onto her fours, spread her buttocks apart and started to lick her asshole, his tongue probing her small butthole. Then after some time, he positioned himself behind her, telling her to start begging him to fuck her, to hurt her, to punish her. She willingly started to scream at him to do these things to her. Then he gripped her hair, pulling it tightly, forcing her head back and pushed his hard cock slowly into her asshole. She moaned, begging him to go harder, faster, ram it deep into her tight hole, she begged for more cock. Then he stuffed it all the way into her and leaned his head down into the back of neck, licking her sweat, Then let go of her hair and put his hand around her throat, squeezing, in unison to his pumping of her ass.

´that´s right you dirty fucking bitch, talk dirty to me, be the fuck slut that you are with ME, keep begging me to fuck your slutty, shitty hole!´

She could feel her cunt juices dripping out of her pussy. She did as she was told and screamed and shouted at him the dirtiest, filthiest words she could think of. She loved being his fuck whore, she loved his cock and she wanted even more of it inside her.

Then, he pulled his thick stiff prick out of her ass and turned her over, stuffing it into her open gasping mouth, ´now taste how dirty you are´ She loved her taste, mixed with his, she gobbled greedily, like a good dirty little bitch that she knew he wanted.
Her mind filled with a thousand different thoughts.....

    Did she feel Love? NO! This wasn't love! This was lust. This was madness. Insanity. He was a stranger to her. He'd taken her, a woman of gentleness and twisted her, moulded her into a  macabre fuck doll, and she loved it.

Then he he pulled his member out of her mouth and stared down at her.
´be sure to look into my eyes.´ he whispered.
  His own eyes shone with a maniacal fervour.
  ´now to hurt you my sweet Dawn´ he glared down upon her, his tongue licking his lips, reptilian lust in his shadowed face.
 'This moment YOU are mine, mine alone, you my darling Dawn,
  Perfectly formed, a good and beautiful fuck.
 Then he started to use his sharp finger nails on her damp skin, creating small lines, a dribble of blood peeking out to his longing eyes.
     She wanted to scream. A scream of ecstasy  She tried to scream. But she couldn't. His fingers were about her throat and no sound emerged. She fought for air but she could feel her body falling, falling. Her mind struggled to escape from the darkness but all she could hear was a voice, a distant voice, fading, ecstatic . . . .
 ´ sweet dreams , tomorrow will be a another  new dawn.´

And he slowly strangled her, not to the point of death, but to a powerful ejaculation. Then she fainted. Exhausted, spent and lost in  his murky world. Then he left her alone, sleeping in her bed dreaming of him and of his next visit.

The End.

Saturday, July 27, 2013



A dark misty night.

 The light from his small flashlight gave a shadowed  glow to the room. The room he was standing in smelt of her. She has a sweet smell. It aroused him. He looked down at her as she was sleeping. Her angelic face shimmered from the glow of his torch. He wanted to touch her. Feel her skin. But for now he just wanted to stare at her. He stood there. Naked. Hard and content. Looking down at his beloved.

He had been watching her for some time now. He was obsessed with her, the idea of her, how he imagined her, how they would be together, of the conversations they would have, the sex that they would discover. He knew that she was the one to bring out his dark desires, that she would be willing to discover his murky world with her flesh, her mouth, her hidden desires.

Although,  he had never spoken to her. Never spent any ´normal´ time with her. He had followed her, monitored her and kept a diary on her behalf, for thirteen months. He felt that he had come to know her very well indeed. He liked the fact that he did not know how old she was. He relished the idea that she would not know who he was.

Dawn slept soundly; light snores could be heard coming deep from within her chest. Her arm twitched a little, but became still, once he gently stroked her delicate skin. The sound of her breathing whispered out across the silent room. Joshua Kane stood perfectly still. Gazing down upon her sleeping form. His cock hard. His appetite wetted.
Seeing Dawn deep in her slumber, Joshua Kane lay down beside her in the bed. He was a thin man with crooked lips. His eyes, enlarged, seemed to shine with something more than desire. In his hand, he had thirteen small playing cards. Soon a card would decide her fate. He lay very still next to her, a sigh leaving his parched lips, as he played with his hard erect cock.
Dawn stirred, but didn’t wake. Joshua Kane giggled silently and moved a little closer to her delectable body. He leaned up and slowly placed himself on top of her. His darling Dawn. His eyes savoured her, devoured her with his lustful stares. Tonight she would be his. He looked at her face and wanted to kiss her lips, open her mouth and stuff his hard cock into that mouth and feel her tongue wrap around his hardness, he needed to fill her with his meat. He smiled a crooked smile and allowed his fingers to glide across the sheets to see more of her body.
She was naked and her breasts seemed to welcome his hungry eyes. He was overwhelmed by the sight of her. He looked at her. He caressed her nipples and smiled as she stirred in her slumber. He started to touch more of her, working his way down to her pussy, He fingered her, parting her lips open and sliding more of his fingers into her wet hole. As he got more excited, his rythmn became a little faster, pushing his fingers further into her beautiful cunt.
He was looking down at her angelic face when Dawn´s eyes suddenly jerked open at feeling the fingers motion ands she nearly screamed if not for the calming manner of the man staring down at her. His fingers continued to finger fuck her cunt as another hand squeezed her right breast.
He smiled at her. ´tonight Dawn you shall be my little fuck whore´.
“Are you a dream?´´ Dawn stuttered out, gazing up at Joshua Kane..
Joshua Kane  merely smiled and moved closer towards her. “My name is Joshua Kane but you can call me master,” he paused a second, his fingers were still inside her and she was soaking wet and Dawn continued to stare at him in wonder. “I’ve never seen you before. Who are you really?” she whispered.
“EYE am the voice of the fire and EYE am here to make you my muse.”
Dawn smiled and opened  her legs a little wider.
“Ah, my sweet Dawn, do you want me to fuck you?.” Joshua Kane´s  mouth twitched a little as he said this.
Dawn tried to lean up, but Joshua Kane held her down and kissed her. Hard, rough, his tongue entering her open mouth.
Dawn found this stranger to be exciting, but she also knew that this was just a dream. She would wake up soon. Because her dreams never usually came true.
Joshua Kane moved closer to her, he dropped the small playing cards over her naked body.
“pick a card my sweet Dawn, then we can play´´ Joshua Kane looked at Dawn’s innocent face and ached to fuck her till she bled..

“what will happen once I have picked a card?.” she smiled.
Joshua Kane stared at her. ´´ Why Dawn, you shall become mine. But it all depends on which card as to how you will be mine.´´

Dawn closed her eyes and picked up a card. She showed it to Joshua Kane. He nodded and then turned her over onto her fours.

Dawn buried her head into the pillow and whispered for Joshua Kane to fuck her hard, but he did not. He buried his tongue into her dripping wet cunt and savoured her taste.

Then he suddenly he got up, got dressed and left her alone. She lay there stunned. Wanting more. She lay there for a while slowly realising that she was actually awake and that her ´visitor´ was not a dream. She should have been frightened, but was excited and thrilled. She hoped that she would see him again soon.

The next morning after Dawn  had woken. She was restless. Eager to meet Joshua Kane again. The day seemed to be in slow motion. Everything she did that day was dull. She was waiting for the night. For when she went to bed. Because, he may visit her again, or so she hoped.

That night, she pretended to be asleep when Joshua Kane , naked and his big hard erect cock entered her willing cunt. Then he turned over and eased his prick deep into her asshole. She moaned, loving it, hating it, wanting more. He gripped her by her hair and forced is cock all the way into her tight hole.

“Do you like playing with me Dawn?” Joshua Kane     asked, his dark eyes sparkling, as he pulled his cock out of asshole and turned her over so he could see her tears. She looked up at him and before she could answer he stuffed his cock into her mouth.

She sucked on it greedily.

Joshua Kane smirked and ran his lithe tongue across his crooked lips. He likes this game,. A game that only he and Dawn can play. He came into her mouth and she happily swallowed his spunk. Joshua Kane then kissed her. He loved the way their scents combined.
Joshua Kane looked at Dawn and said....

“Let’s play hide and seek. If you win, I will stay with you for only 13 days. But if I win, you get to be my special friend forever.” Then he started counting. He would stop at 169.

Dawn smiled and ran from the room. She liked to play games. Especially games that she knew she could win, so she hid in the bathroom underneath the sink.

Joshua Kane stopped counting and spun around, making sure to check every space in her room before going down the hallway. He slowly made his way from the Dawn’s room to the spare room, and was surprised to see it filled with a strange collection of Jars and boxes. He crept out of that room and into the bathroom. He smiled knowingly as he put his hand on the cabinet door under the sink. Slowly, he opened it and found Dawn shivering in the corner. Her time was up.

Joshua Kane descended upon her and pulled her from the cabinet. In his hand appeared a knife and  he ripped open Dawn´s throat out. Blood sprayed across the mirror, the walls and Joshua Kane  licked it up. His tongue lapped at Dawns’s throat as he cleaned the wound and then he ripped Dawns’s skin off of her body and folded it neatly into his special box. He also put some of her blood into a his special bottle. Joshua Kane was now ready to paint his masterpiece. ´waking up at the crack of dawn´
Dawn was found later that day, skinned in her bathtub.

No-one knew what happened. The investigation revealed nothing. AS far as anyone is concerned it is a cold case.

Joshua Kane held his exhibition in Berlin to great reviews. A private collector purchased the main attraction and it now hangs in an exclusive club, called ´the thirteen´.

The End.

Monday, September 07, 2009

Dr. Joshua Kane is a licensed psychiatrist specializing in individual therapy and psychiatry. He earned his undergraduate degree at ENAK University, and his MD at the State University of the Murkyworld. He trained in psychiatry at the ZERO University residency program. Dr. Kane has practiced in diverse settings, including community mental health centers, University teaching hospitals, and The men of Code hospitals. He currently maintains a private practice in the Murkyworld of London and works with insane at the Tower of Lost Control in Kaneville. Dr. Kane is a diplomat of the Universal Board of Psychiatry and Neurology.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007


(the spyder’s web)

Before we met, you showed me your diary.

I am still confused by this sequence of events, as you must be too at the way you ran away from your shadow and ME after I read your secrets. I know that we have discussed many things, including my addictions and habits that you find so intolerable.

Before we met, you showed me your diary and then we were having sex on the wooden floor of your living room. I still remember the way the orchids filtered the sunlight and the sound of holistic music filled the room with mystery. Then your Maltese dog was at the foot of the bed, asking me where you'd gone. "I don't know," I told him, "I expect she'll be back soon."

Today I went into your study and found that you'd converted it into a gallery. The first photo from each roll of film that you used, you said there was a pattern to it. I do not see it. Oddly, I found that I could date each image, even the ones that hadn't happened yet. They seemed to go on forever, a jumbled, blurred and erratic array of unhappy memories, each one partially obscured by blinding black light.

I knocked over a jar full of dead butterflies but when I went to pick them up I was overcome with vertigo and I had to leave. We were making desperate love in your kitchen when you told me about the journey of the senses. You said that the person is just as real as the shadow. You told me that just because you aren't there yet doesn't mean it isn't real. You said it was like London still being real when you're in Paris. You talked about personal space and the chakras and folding canvases and I didn't understand anything except the way that your breasts moved and the way your breath misted in the cold.

Then we were in a restaurant and you were screaming and you said, "This is what it's going to be like all the time." A waiter dropped a tray and the contents floated majestically into the ceiling. It was beautiful. You did not think so and demanded that I gave up snorting cocaine and smoking ‘skunk’.

After you re-introduced yourself, we resumed our date and I asked you again why you'd chosen a supermarket. You told me that you had a special soft spot in your heart for dairy products and organic vegetables. You said that there was something endearing about the seriousness of it all. You said that they called out to our imaginations in a way normal vegetables can no longer achieve. You said that all supermarkets - no matter how dismal - were optimistic in that it assumed that there would be a future at all. We were on a train and you were explaining to the assembled group of passengers about the spider’s web. They were smiling and nodding. They didn't really understand but strangers had told them that your idea’s showed promise and, after all, the journey was going to be long and boring. The coffee tasted terrible and I kept fidgeting in my seat. You were radiant. No one thought to ask what would happen if the spider’s web collapsed.

Today, I watched a broken egg re-assemble itself on the wooden floor, in the main room, where the piano sits, waiting to be spoken to. The egg made a strange popping noise as the last bit of eggshell re-attached itself. It flew into the air up and up and then came to rest on the shelf, the one where you keep your diary. A helicopter roared overhead, as if hovering above your garden, monitoring our movements and your Maltese dog came in and told me that he was scared. I didn't know what to tell him. The spider’s web was becoming my life and no one can say how or when it will end. I remember your reaction when you read this letter.

I remember how the last line, where I say, "we weren't meant to live like this," brought a tear to your eye and you turned to your Maltese dog and tried to explain to him that I was gone. But how could you explain? What does 'gone' mean to a dog that has no sense of time? Then we were lying together under the stars and when the first fireworks went off, you leaned over and kissed me for the first time. You tasted of red wine and cigarettes. I can't blame you for choosing a new direction in life. When you finally came back, you were older.

That was the hardest thing for both of us, I realise that. We didn't share the same memories anymore. You held me and told me that it would be all right, that you had hardly changed but I think that we both know now that that wasn't true at all. Time changes people. That's how it works.Today, I went into the study and stared at the spider’s web. I can still remember the day you spun it.

I remember how you'll stand in front of a crowd of shoppers with your Maltese dog and your new hairstyle and you'll give your speech about the tyranny of love and death and the triumph of the singular and about setting us all free from the rituals of relationships. But inside, you'll be thinking, "I wish I was more honest with myself, I wish that I did not use people, I wish I knew how to love, I wish I knew how to be human." I know this because, before we met, you showed me your diary and you wrote about this day. How could you not? It was the most important day of your life. You saved yourself from the brink of madness and ended up listening to cd’s that claimed to cure the panic attacks. You asked me to listen to them as well. There's nothing I can do. I think it’s all in your mind and you are not the person that I first read about in your diary. The past is just as real as present. There is no before or after anymore. Because of you, there never was. You are not in love, I am not in love. Yet still we exist as shadows of each other. Existing in the same place at a different time.

We weren't meant to live like this.

The End.




I had decided to leave myself behind. I had decided that I was no longer a viable option, but something always happened to stop me. A telephone call, the chance encounter of an old girlfriend. It was always difficult to decide when the time was right to escape from my life. This time, I decided to escape by car. I had seen another of my selves do this and never heard from him again: it didn't look that hard. I remember the day well, windy, droplets of rain fell onto the windscreen as I sat in the car, ready to drive off.
Then I was on the motorway, and then I was at the petrol station. I felt hungry so I bought myself a chicken sandwich. Normally these things give me a miniscule amount of pleasure, this time it felt dull.
I found a small slip road off the motorway. The road dipped and I could make out a stone farmhouse. I thought for a moment of using the drive, but it seemed too close to the farm. I didn't want the farmer to disturb me. I felt that would be very embarrassing.
So I drove on. I saw a lay by. The road was quiet and I felt at ease, so I stopped there. I got the black plastic bag from the boot and threw it into the bushes. Then I sat back in the driver's seat. I unwrapped a packet of camel cigarettes and began to smoke one, thinking of nothing in particular, just enjoying the unnatural taste of death and enhanced flavourings. I wanted to have that pleasure before driving towards my new life.
But, typical of my luck, another car drove up to stop behind mine, a blue Ford Fiesta. In it was an elderly couple. I could see them in my mirror eating sandwiches from a plastic box. How long would they be? They seemed to chew very slowly. They did not talk much however. I calculated perhaps ten minutes. Boredom.
Then I saw the man nod towards the bushes, and the woman adjusts her glasses to see a little better. They had spotted the black plastic bin liner. I watched the old man get out of his car and go to the bag, I watched him peer into it. Then with doddering steps the old man came towards my car. He tapped on my window. I felt myself turning crimson with embarrassment. What did he think of the contents? The contents of my old existence.
I tried to ignore him, gazing straight ahead intently, but I could sense his face peering through the glass at the side of the door at my profile, and hear his tapping again. The woman the appeared. I could hear her voice.”Is it his bag? Ask him, if it his bag. See if he knows who it belongs to”.The man opened the door. What a fool I was, I should have locked it!”Excuse me, but did you see that bin liner over there, is it yours?” said the man.”NO, NO, nothing to do with me”, I said”There's something very strange inside it”, said the man”it may be a bomb”, said the woman”do you have a mobile phone? So we can call the police please”, asked the man. I gave him my phone.
I stared ahead, trying to ignore them. Then I felt a sudden burst of resentment and despair within me and I started to weep, loud howling sobbing, my inner core finally releasing the years of contempt and anguish I had held inside for so long. They called the police- I have to say I resented that, after all, I was harming no-one other than myself: I loathe busy-bodies and I spent the best part of the following six months discussing the human condition with an psychiatrist, who smelt of cheese, too bad the cheese had turned blue. He looked like a piglet and I hated the way he would answer my questions with a question. I disliked him a great deal and made sure that anything I told him about my childhood and experiences of bestiality helped him think that I was becoming cured.
A few months later I found myself with a little money in my pocket and an abnormally cheerful mood: I had recently sold a painting and Battersea Park looked delightful as I was wondering quite what to do, it suddenly occurred to me: I should get myself a cat. If I had a cat, then I would not want for company: why, the cat could live in my studio, kept in a cage, it could not escape me if it wished to. And it would be sure to keep the mice away, for I would teach it to hunt and kill.
At Battersea Cats and Dogs home. I viewed many cats, so many unwanted cats, it made me miserable looking at them. I asked the girl for cat with a strange personality.”There is this one,” she said.”I see,” I said. The cat was medium in size, its grey fur was dazzling, an aristocrat of the cat world. It was missing one eye and had one bent ear. It also had an odd twitch and a stare that would equal medusas. The girl and myself discussed in length, the cat’s history, its background, its likes and dislikes. We also discussed how I might be able to obtain this cat. I filled out the various forms. I was told to expect a home visit, to see if I was a suitable candidate to adopt this cat, but I found myself falling into a daze, and I wandered out the rescue centre without a cat and a vague recollection that they were coming to visit me.
The day had turned sallow. Thoughts began to trouble my mind. Such thoughts! That the world was melting, consumerism was consuming us all, all politicians are evil scum. Teenagers with guns, where did they get them? Should I get myself a sniper rifle? Is it wrong to look at girls and think of strawberries and cream? Would anyone ever love me? And copulation with a handicapped girl would it be an experience? Would that girl develop an interesting erotic skill to compensate for her handicap? Becoming a fine lover of dark desires and weird positions? Or cultivate contortions that with patience and study would nurture her talents to glorify herself and the experience of others?
That I myself may become a victim of misfortune, or a depression, or an act of gross indecency, and that self-same crippled girl whom I had desired, and, in her deformity, regarded me so woefully, she offered her to me to give me consolation that she was the only type of female that could tolerate me, that other girls found me to repulsive, too disgusting and weird to have a relationship with.
Oh yes, indeed, the world was full of strange events like that.
Why, I had even encountered a couple living in my street and who had arrived home to find a bin liner, oozing blood in the middle of their living room floor. What purpose was there in that discovery? And inside the bag contained five severed toes! Why, it seriously disturbed them, they talked about it for days afterwards, they even mentioned it passing strangers. And the cleaning that had to be done to remove the blood from the Persian carpet, it was so tedious and expensive! All that trouble because of a bloodied bin liner!
I met them at the newsagents: they stood close together; the trauma had served to unite them in horror. They stood there in a dim silence - overtaken by a sullen mood, resenting a world that could so dishonour their living room floor. I asked them if they had reported the incident to the police, but they did not, I think, want to talk about it. "A terrible thing to happen!" I said, in what I hoped was a sympathetic manner.
In truth, however, I feel ill at ease with people and from then on and I am sure that the atmosphere that prevailed in the street where I live, became dark, uneasy, a callow silence on the pavements, as if we were all guilty, but unsure quite of what. The ladies who lived at number 13 and number 11 were forever gossiping in mumbles over their hedges and watching the, now notorious, front door of the bin liner house.
And after an event like that, you become fearful of black bin liners, you may become a statue, you might simply fade into the shadows, you may get hit by a bus, or die quietly in the middle of a dream about sex and chocolate éclairs or be kidnapped by Satanists for an orgy. There are many that take their lives in despair: it seems romantic but normally the lives of these suicides were merely trapped by petty conformities and misunderstandings; debts, chronic illnesses, the abuse of a parent, the bizarre effects of drugs. Truly, there was no glamour to their deaths.
I awoke from my thoughts to a rustling sound in the cupboard under my stairs, muffled and pitiful. I opened the door and watched the black bin liner wriggle. I picked up my baseball bat and smashed it down upon the bag. It screamed a muffled cry and became silent. I watched some red liquid ooze from the bottom of the bag. Then I went to my garden shed to get my shears. I had more toe digits to leave for my neighbours and number 13 was next on my list.

But what about the cat you may wonder. I decided it was not a good idea to receive a visit from the Battersea cats and dogs home and I called them to tell them that I was planning on leaving the country. I had decided to leave myself behind. I had decided that I was no longer a viable option. That this time, nothing was going to stop me.

The End




People have a right to be delusional if they want to be, Not too long before the horror started, Mister Zero gave me - Joshua Kane (1) a card with this handwritten note inside...

Dear Kane,
I know you think I have forgotten many, many things But one thing I have not forgotten is that look my memory brings Of you, as you watched Alice White, as she mingled with guests at our private viewing of the artworks of zeroKane. Your look of everlasting lust, her look of denial. How she has ruined YOU. And so we come to a new beginning, For I shall be the code and may you hear these words forever ringing, kill them, kill them, KILL THEM ALL.

Perhaps it was his final statement before he completely lost hold of his mind. I can't be sure, of course. I'm no longer too sure of very much. He spent more and more of his days scribbling morbid words and phrases; trying to draw meaning from license plate numbers; predicting twine disasters; endless hours alone in his basement listening to the same loud music over and over; and then there were the temper tantrums. He voiced his belief to any that were in hearing distance, that people were watching him and attempting to control his thoughts and actions but he was mentally stronger than they were and knew the secret of keeping then from penetrating his mind. Mister Zero is presented with a myriad choices and boundless opportunities. But, the one constant is the alienating character of Zero himself who chooses obsession from all that he has dreamed of in favour of ideals, and familiar routines. Which drive him to the brink of madness. Some have observed how empty, irritating and meaningless his life is. He's trapped in a small world, burdened by worthless responsibilities and completely incapable of escape. He is full of self-blame and loathing, but far too dependent on the narrow avenues he walks down for a sense of identity to be able to make a choice that could in anyway liberate him. Mr Zero is like an animal reared in captivity, feeling distant primal instincts but completely incapable of realising them. Mister Zero has a linear view regarding the structure of his life. He seems to be permanently lost in transition, assuming identities, discarding them, continually searching for meaning and consoling himself with the idea of something, rather than the actual creation of something.

I once went to visit him to discuss our new novel. Mister Zero just handed me a small piece of paper, and told me to GO AWAY!!

MISTER ZERO (0) – once owned Zero Real Estate, able to turn immaterial and alter his form into a large ghost-like shape of liquid twine and dusty particles. Now sells fabrics to ugly women. He has a possible connection to the man from the 5th dimension. Don't Fuck With Mister Zero.

Mister Zero likes to read old and obscure plays, long forgotten. He thinks of his life as a play. Recently he spoke about and muttered to those who would listen about a play from 1923 called T.A.M. (the adding machine) by Elmer Rice.

This highly symbolic play tells the life, death, afterlife, and rebirth of Zero, a mild-mannered nobody who is hoping to get a raise for twenty-five years of loyal service as a clerk doing addition and accounts for his employer. Instead, he is to be replaced by an uneducated girl using an adding machine.
Also in the cast are his wife, Mrs Zero, and their friends, Mr and Mrs One through Six. Their friends Mr and Mrs Seven through Twelve are mentioned in the dialogue. A character named Joshua Kane provides literary balance, of sorts.
Mathematical content is mostly limited to the blatant (and effective) symbolism of treating people as mere numbers, and business as simply so much addition. Also, Zero is something of a numbers maniac, given to turning mentions of numbers into obsessive bouts of addition, which he quickly suppresses.
This play was originally produced/published in seven scenes, with a deleted eighth scene (Zero's death) restored in revival/republication. The missing scene has no mathematical content.
Mister Zero’s version is darker and far more twisted. Sadly, he has never written or typed his version anywhere, it has only been spoken about. Below is the idea based from the fragments gained from Joshua Kane (numbers 2 to 11), which have been reworded to create a synopsis. I am Joshua Kane number 1.
Everywhere People are given numbers according to their social standing. Zero quite literally is a zero. He has no future. His life consists solely of adding numbers and counting twine at a desk, day in day out, 51 weeks of the year - he is the adding machine of the his own life. On his few days off he has the tower of lost control and has to suffer endless whooshing sounds from the unsympathetic wind turbine machines built very closely to his home, what was once a sanctuary has become an asylum. Mister Zero once chopped a wind turbine down and burned it with gasoline. The only unpredictable thing he's ever done, the only time he'd been ruled by his repressed passions. For all of his frustration, Mr Zero knows not who he is and not what he wants to be. He lives in a very narrow world and lives an estranged existence, yet is happy with that. They twist and spread themselves around the stage. Black plastic bags move and scream. Turbines are in the background, spinning, humming and whooshing. Adding machines appear and click and clack. Zero and Kane speak. Yell. Shout. Scream. Other characters appear and disappear. Until at the very end they both are killed by vast amounts of paper sheets covered with numbers, letters and code.

Mr Zero and Joshua Kane (2 to 13) are all rancid and xenophobic.

The meaninglessness of Mr Zero and even Joshua Kane. Our reaction to the introduction contrast to living with the THEY and having to endure the banality of typical party conversation is what defines us. The thirteen. The men of code. The thirteen 0’s and the 13 Kane’s.We exist to suggest the vanity of human wishes as well as the despair in which the ordinary man spends life. Don't look for consistency or logic, as we create an emotional rather than a rational reaction with the presentation of a melange of philosophical ideas.

In the expressionistic spectacle depicting Zero's inner turmoil, I Joshua Kane number 1 rotate, and overlapping sound effects screech as the one-dimensional Mister Zero jibber jabbers.

“ You can now send me emails, but beware, at the moment I’m still not happy with this form of communication, so I don’t necessarily check them every day. I am Zero. I can hear the sound of the turbines.”

ThE ENd.


Tuesday, February 06, 2007



Joshua Kane drew on his cigarette - which wasn't really necessary, as there were a couple of blank sketchpads on the table beside him.Margaret Fright watched. "Always like to be different, eh Kane?" she remarked. Margaret Fright was a part-time model and a full-time prostitute. She just adored pea and ham broth - as long as it was made with real urine."If snakes can shed their skins," mused Joshua Kane, continuing to sketch on the cigarette, "why can't rainbows shed theirs?"Lord Muddle tittered. Everyone knew he had a glass eye."I think I'll take the mule shopping!" Joshua Kane announced gaily. "It's about time she had a new outfit!""Why Joshua," drawled Mister Zero, "that's no way to talk about your life."Lord Muddle and Margaret Fright sniggered.Joshua Kane sighed and shook his head. "You should be more unusual, Lord Muddle," he advised him. "Don't just have a glass eye - have a stained-glass eye."Mister Zero laughed. Joshua Kane twirled … his ego."Oh look, Kane - he's staring at you from the corner of his eye!" Mister Zero told him."A glassy-eyed stare, no doubt," muttered Joshua KaneLord Muddle thumped the table. "One day I shall have my revenge!" he snarled."An eye for an eye, eh Lord Muddle?" mocked Margaret Fright.Outside in the garden, rain began to fall and the earth rushed to catch it. Inside Joshua Kane’s head, a pocket watch began to float and the Crucifixion melted in the air.Margaret Fright grew restless. She felt an incredible desire not to have sex. Joshua Kane finished sketching on the cigarette and presented it to her. Mister Zero offered her a light but she said she preferred darkness."When I die," she mused, admiring the sketch, "and am lying in my coffin, I should like this cigarette placed between my lips.""So your skirt will be raised as usual then," ventured Mister Zero.Margaret Fright hissed at him. "If your cock was made of glass," she spat, "I'd shrill like a soprano till it shattered!"Mister Zero glared at her and suddenly realised he was in love…. with himself.Outside in the hedge, a butterfly turned into a caterpillar, just to be different and nocturnal animals came awake, complaining about daylight.Inside, a woman knocked on the door and entered the room. Her mouth was on one side of her face, her nose protruded from the other and both ears were bleeding blue blood."I see that Mister Zero’s new showroom dummy has arrived," drawled Joshua Kane.

Mister Zero told her to go away and realised that the floor had changed colour overnight. From the ravenously beautiful teak mahogany floor that he had been used to, there now lay a semi-fluid mass of twitching pulp. A low throbbing sound was emitted from the mass, which heaved and rumbled and sighed, much like a wrecked hot air balloon that has been invaded by a pack of hyenas.It didn't take long for Mister Zero to realise what had in fact occurred during the this day of intellectualism, poetry and art."Liquid twine, liquid twine, liquid twine", he screamed, for it was the remnants of his other life that he now viewed pulsating wretchedly on the floor. "The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad." Mister Zero danced in a circle and hummed the songs of unknown origin. The Liquid twine started to melt even more into the wooden floor and was slowly fading into the MurkyWorld. This day had begun like any ordinary day in Saffron Walden, ESSEX. The dull and unpleasing village that Mister Zero called home. After hang-gliding to the shops using the wings made from the dead skins of teenage girls. He purchased a postcard and sent it to himself. He then went down to the local fruit shop and bought his daily ration of four pineapples, and a small tin of kidney beans, with which he had hoped to rustle up an exciting meal for him and his 3 friends. He had an unambitious conversation with Mundy, the shop-owner, in which he imparted upon him the sordid details of fruit and vegetable abuse.

Then the question beckoned to Mister Zero, Isn’t Paranoia just Reality at a higher resolution? Mister Zero was no more unhinged than the rest of them, that is, Joshua Kane, Margaret Fright and Lord Muddle, but perhaps he was more of a genius!? He certainly had more motives to carry out horrific acts upon the scum and the awful.He looked around the room for clues. His normal human skills were still at a fairly embryonic stage, and he figured that the direct approach would be most likely to yield results. "Who did this to you, Liquid Twine?” he asked the oozing, disintegrating mass, next to his bed."Urgh", replied the mass, in a polish and Wiltshire accent mix.Maybe this was a clue, thought Mister Zero. He mused over this for a while, before his attention span denied him any further progress and turned him swiftly to the attention of the intriguing nature Joshua Kane, who was painting on the walls of their studio, using the piss, shit and blood of recently slaughtered rabbits. It seemed to resemble the endless turmoil of life, and the blurring of those distant black relics of the imagination that tinge the green everyday realities of his monotonous existence. This occupied his thoughts for a while until abruptly derailed by Margaret Fright fondling a cockroach. The cockroaches hadn't paid rent for months."I know", grinned the telepathic cockroaches in the corner, sitting ON THE matchboxes stuffed with hay and cotton buds that THEY called home. They wore small paper-clips twisted into a coil for hats."One day", thought Mister Zero, "these cockroaches are going to get fed to my favourite girls, the one’s that will soon be in my basement.” "Have to catch us first", sneered the cockroaches, before all diving into a crack in the wall, the result of Lord Muddle's over-ambitious, yet substandard plastering.

Margaret Fright lay on the sofa and watched the ebbing of the liquid twine mass, her eye twitching involuntarily with curiosity as she saw a strand of stringy twine emerge from the ooze twine and grasp at an unsuspecting cockroach and suck it shrieking into the shimmering mound. The mass quivered slightly and then emitted a low, satisfied groan.Mister Zero irrelevantly thought briefly about a book by Chaucer that he had once lifted from a table, and then put down again without so much as blowing the dust of the cover, then with A terrible creaking sound – surrounded their studio, it was all around them.Mister Zero fell tentatively to his knees, and started to scream as loud as he could, louder than he had ever screamed before, his scream was able to stop and silence the terrible creaking sound. His screaming was accompanied by rounds of applause and standing ovations from his appreciative audience, the cockroaches, Joshua Kane, Lord Muddle and Margaret Fright- and a small gurgling noise from the final remains of the liquid twine. He stood up and bowed. Margaret Fright said, “He who says it cannot be done should not interrupt a man doing it”.The applause of the cockroaches, whose memory should never be praised too highly, turned, once again, to howls of anger and despair as Margaret Fright’s poodle appeared in the midst of the assembled insects, crushing several thousand of them. "Keeps the population in check", said the poodle. Margaret Fright then stripped to her underwear, and in her high heels, bent over to let the poodle lick her arse crack. Joshua Kane watched this and took photographs, Lord Muddle ‘s feet hurt and he moaned that he wanted to go home and then fell asleep and Mister Zero allowed his mind to wander on this delightful Malthusian principle, before noticing a crowd of fuming cockroaches rounding on him, seeking revenge for the fate of their beloved friends, killed by the poodle.A small one near his ankle fashioned a small crossbow out of a discarded toothpick and the remnants of an annihilated spider's web, and proceeded to launch several dung pellets up his trouser leg."Not today, I don't need this today", thought Mister Zero, as he considered the mournful quest that lay ahead of him to return to his family, to go back to the tower of lost control. His recently erect penis, hiding behind his freshly cleaned trousers looked up at him in dismay.

"ATTENTION PLEASE. WE ARE NOW MOVING TO PHASE 3. REPEAT. WE ARE NOW ENTERING PHASE 3." Yelled Joshua Kane. “Open your minds! CUT Open your hearts! Allow yourself to succumb to the dark, sprawling forces of your sub-conscious! Accept the true, pan-dimensional reality of non-existence, feel the mass consciousness shared by all hatred transcend through your soul! Tear down the walls! Be one outside of yourself, know that we are all one, and appreciate death and torture from the greater perspective!”

Mister Zero stopped himself from playing with his penis and turned to look at Kane, who was standing in a corner of the studio. He was in one of his trance like states again. Chanting some unrecognisable mantra. Lord Muddle was asleep and Margaret Fright was letting her poodle, fuck her 80-year-old cunt. Mister Zero decided to go to another corner of the room, the one near a window and turn his back to them all. He needed to think. He needed to realise his existence and contemplate the ways of the THEY. Mister Zero stared at this wall painted in shit, piss and blood only 11 days ago. He leaned closer towards it, sniffing it, breathing it all in, then he licked it. The wall was his art, his life and his mind. Then his thoughts turned to THEM.

“They, whomever these corporate positive thought entities are, are masters of delusions and I have recognized the raw power of the vividness as more than my murky dream scenarios could ever muster and am convinced I am dead and that the nature of dreaming. Are the realms of angelic and demonic human scum, a spirit world of myriad vibration levels and the pictures I see on the backs of my eyelids, are not dreams but reality. Souvenirs of a greater existence, I have unlimited awareness of the code that floats beneath the surface of a greater reality; I am groping, my mouth agape in total understanding”.

Mister Zero longed for the embrace of control. It was entirely his decision, He thought about plate glass walls. He thought about cruelty, he listened to Joshua Kane’s Mantra, he listened to Lord Muddle’s snoring and he listened to Margaret Frights moans of poodle ecstasy as he spent the rest of the day watching the young woman, who had moved in to the studio across from theirs. Through the window he could see her exercising in the nude and as he watched her and fondled his penis, his darkness floated uneasily behind him.




ThE MURkYWORLd OF JOShUA kANE (a comment by Mister Zero)

THE FACE OF ANOTHER was Joshua Kane’s first major novel after the international success of THE BOX MAN.

The novel traces the story of a man (known as Joshua Kane) who has had his face hideously disfigured in a laboratory accident and who sets out to create a mask which will help hide his disfigurement and seduce young girls and boys who are themselves physically deformed, whilst at the same time keeping a detailed account of his researches and involvements in his notebooks.

Joshua Kane symbolizes the fundamental facelessness of contemporary man and depicts himself as living among millions of strangers whose face he does not even recognize. Joshua Kane trades his skin for handmade papers and is reduced to the voyeuristic gaze as he conveys his bleak message.


The ideal of the face as a special skin, through which one’s heart and soul are communicated to others, is sharply contrasted with Joshua Kane’s brutal abstraction of THE FACES OF THE OTHERS, perceiving them as either enemy or an object of IMPERSONAL EROTICISM.


Sunday, January 21, 2007



The Unconscious appears as a combination of the metaphysics of Mister Zero with that of Joshua kane. The Unconscious is both Disbelief and Frustrated Anger and the absolute all-embracing futility of all existence. Mister Zerothus combines Kaneism with Zeroism in a manner adumbrated by The TronMan in his negative philosophy. Nevertheless Disbelief and Frustrated Anger is the primary aspect of the Unconscious, whose melancholy existence is determined by the primacy of ZERO and the subdominance of the Frustrated Anger. Precosmically the MurkyWorld has the potential and the Reason latent, and the ZERO is void of reason when it passes from potentiaiity to actual non-existence. This latter is absolute misery, there is no cure therefore the Unconscious evokes its Frustrated Anger and with its aid creates the worst of all possible murkyworlds, which contains the promise of artistic interpretations from actual existence by the meaningless existence of the Awful from its subjugation to the ZERO in the unconscious reason of the non-enlightened narcssisist. When the greater part of the ZERO in existence is so far enlightened by Hatred as to perceive the inevitable misery of existence, a collective effort to will non-existence will be made, and the world will relapse into nothingness, the Unconscious into quiescence.
Joshua Kane is a pessimist, but not an unmitigated one. The individual's unhappiness is indeed attainable either here and now or hereafter and in the bleak future of the Murkyworld, but he does despair of ultimately releasing the conscious to its sufferings. He differs from Mister Zero in making retribution by the negation of the CODEX and depends on a collective effort and not on individualistic asceticism. The conception of THE MURKYWORLD also supplies the ultimate basis of Mister Zero’s ethics. Therefore Kane and Zero must provisionally affirm DEATH and devote themselves to a non social revolution, instead of striving after a World OF Men and Code which is impossible; in so doing they shall find that immorality renders life less unhappy than it would otherwise be. Suicide, and all other forms of murkiness, are highly recommended. Epistemologically Mister Zero is a transcendental realist, who ably defends his views and acutely criticizes those of his opponents. His realism enables him to maintain the reality of Time, and so of the process of the Murkyworld’s expansion into the unconcious minds of the SCUM.
On the other hand, Mister Joshua Kane is plagued by a depressive condition, left on the unsteady ground of his own uncertainties; Joshua Kane came to believe in an utterly black, utterly futile existence. Disturbing that such a belief is to countenance, it was the sole thought that he had any confidence in. This deeply prejudiced view is manifest in varying degrees in the triumvirate that is The Murkyworld of Joshua Kane. Plagued by his own personal demons, The Murkyworld is an exercise in withdrawal. The author seeks to reduce expression to communicate his bleak view of the world. The art of nothingness that he mastered successfully draws the reader into seeing that what we do, what we say is ultimately ineffectual. His work is at times scathing, at times absurd but strives to illuminate the illusions that we - the human race - hide under; this is what Joshua Kane sees as the awful truth.
When the truth is known, it ceases its discursive function as the object of quest in the human intellect. The truth is, there may be no truth at all and the truth that we believe does not liberate or satisfy the human consciousness and reason. It imprisons the mind toward something that does not possess certainty. In uncertainty, man's consciousness creates something to substitute that elusive certainty of truth - either the existence or the non-existence of TronGod.