Plasters for Pixie Zombies

They're very green. Or maybe They're not. You can never quite tell with Them. They're not even really the undead either. In fact, I don't actually even know why They're called the pixie zombies anyway. I'm not imagining Them (and it's not the result of a combination of raisins, Stilton and mushrooms)- They're here and They're munching on my plums. In fact they rather like it there- in amongst the fruit. Who knows why? WHO doesn't disapprove either- apparently their saliva (if one can call it that) has nutritious properties (feeding you exactly what you lack).

I remember climbing into a black cab once. It was black and shiny and reflected the grimy filth of London sodium lamps in all their yellow wonder. The driver was female. She probably was the only one. Around me were endless streets, surrounded by endless grey, piss and chewing gum. They like chewing gum- They pick it up and make it glow. Most people can't see Them- they just see luminous gum and think they're hallucinating again (anything can be accredited to flashbacks). Somehow things were just slipping by- ideas running through my head, and vanishing, like the hazy shadows of modern buildings on the overheated pavements.

The one who finally approached me was different from the mass. Initially I thought the poor thing had lost its way, but its beautifully large mauve eyes glared at me, staring- lingering as if nothing could possibly break a sudden sense of connect I felt with it. Oddly, it was wasn't an it at all. I can't describe what it was, as the duality of sex simply ceases to exist in Their rationality. Their anatomy is irrelevant- the extent of Their alien sexuality (if it can be called that) is exactly what it sounds like - Alien.

It's never quite left my side since then. I see it everywhere- hanging on the ceiling in lectures on Jainism, swinging from London Plane to London Plane in photography, chasing squirrels in Gender. It's a cute little soul, but whether it relinquishes any of its loneliness in my company is another matter altogether. I do not pay it heed, yet it remains.

Do we thrive on following that which cannot concern us?

The Loner

There are days when the pretences seem to overwhelm you. Days when discussions of the shallow and frivolous are just tedious and exhausting. And suddenly you find yourself questioning popular culture, questioning whether you ever can quite fit in with it all. Because, to be honest, you just don't give a shit. The whole thing seems utterly boring and you think that you only follow it in order to relate to other people. At which point you realise that your whole life is constructed only to please or in the least, somewhat attempt to fit in with others...

And the you begin to wonder exactly what you do actually want to do, and why the fuck you spent so much time trying to somewhat belong in other people's worlds when you never quite will. So actually the problem lies in the fact that your background and knowledge is so fucking confused that you're not like anyone else, and although that's great and everything, because you are unique, and that does make you somewhat special, you never will be really there. And you'll always be the boring one, because the only thing you can relate to is the serious stuff.

It's probably best not to talk to anyone. In fact- hide! (That's the key).

the future lies in Zeppelins

Dismal! Dismal! Here come the pretentious extended metaphors!

Flying over the world you may encounter a rather eclectic group of objects. You could easily confuse them with UFOs or other mysteries of the unknown, but what you are really seeing a reflection of yourself. Of course, if you're quite as quirky or interesting as I hope you are, you are probably blind to these oddities- thus, there you go, another reflection. What these objects really are, therefore, are perspective (or perspectives?).

Clouds are never really clouds from high above- they are not balls of cotton wool either. They are mysterious- enigmas from beyond that haunt you to the extent that you begin to take them for granted. But when they form the dark sinister face that you often see in horror films, BE AWARE! Or so they say. And suddenly, you are aware- aware that the clouds are peculiar objects who are in-flight with you.

Perhaps you may notice the land below you- dark shadows stretching out for miles. But the green and the blue and the brown and the white, and all those intense colours that swoop beneath you are momentary, and constantly so. And those moments collect and form the length of your flight. Each moment that passes, each stretch of land that slips behind is another object, another whisper of a presence that could possibly have not been there at all.

Ah- but maybe you're asleep. Your eyes are shut and you are not flying, but dreaming. Dreaming of not flying, or perhaps dreaming of dreaming? Who knows- maybe you don't even know yourself. But it is obviously safer with your eyes shut, (though very dull for your neighbour who finds themselves staring at a corpse rather than an energetic thoughtful person... Except your neighbour may be a bit of a dull one him/herself

Sometimes it is nice to see things when you're flying. Sometimes it's better to just close your eyes and shut up.