Rohan RantsI'm a fan of his writing and asked his permission to share it with you.
Contents
1. Eat vegetable lasagne.
My friend and I worked out 100 ways of giving the finger without
All this whislt considering the nirvana of butt rollies.
The term 'butt rolly' will be given in the near future.
A 'butt rolly' is a cigarette made from the butts of all the other
a. You don't have any money
and
b. You don't want to move. Inventing ways of giving the finger
Butt rollies need two ingredients. Butts, and cigarette papers.
If you run out of either of these see:
Parsley-and-yesterdays-shopping-docket cigarettes.
The word 'docket' was used instead of the word 'receipt'.
Don't ask why.
And now! A poem.
---
"Hey, you!
The pavement hates me
"Hey creep! Loose the haircut!"
Postbox again.
Don't even ask me when this all started.
(taken from - the Book of Rohan. --- Soon available in HTML format.)
Scene:
Author's noTe: The above is a true story played out by a friend and
I when we wore bear costumes on a bus to the city.
WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING
Do not believe anything written after this line.
WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING
After realising that all we see is but a creation of our
own manifestation, it's quite easy for me to make a small
step towards paranoia.
This paranoia takes the following form:
A world full of people who are starting to realise EXACTLY
how the universe works. How will those who were the only
ones `in the know' handle this upsurge of manifestors ?
Create a harmless manifesting device: The Web.
In the morning, I Call for an object. Instead of that
object being made manifest in my physical reality, I see
it's digital doppleganger on the web.
It's what I asked for, but my manifestation has been made
'harmless' via the vision on the web. I have changed naught
in the physical world that doesn't consist of the 0-1 subset.
But, not one to be ever too paranoid, I could say that it's
the universes way of handling it. Too many questions, not
enough resources ? ...create a fake suckling tube.
Rohan, who lays no blame but upon himself.
AHA!!! Yet more proof that the internet is a global conciousness /
artificial intelligence experiment created by the american government.
I recently entered:
Into the rhyming creator
and got the following result:
Does this not makes SENSE to you !?!!?
Come on come on!! THINK DAMMIT! valleys.. silicon valley ?? illegally,
gotta be the CIA, "United States Government" - well, does that give
away the punchline or WHAT ?! And.. ha! The cream:
1943.
Think about it.
So we'd finally fulfilled one of my dreams. We'd created thus huge
reflection of the global conciousness, a manifestation of all those
minds that linked to it, a storage machine where every machine was
a reflection of the whole; each process able to access the information
that was entered by any other process.
But it didn't think.
So me and my crew set about giving it the LIFE-DRIVE. Something that
would continue it asking questions, something that would keep it alive.
CURIOSITY.
So we set it all up. We programmed it all in, we made it all happen.
And the question we used as the base question ? The first question ?
"How do I become human ?"
Hmmn.
I often use the internet search engines as ways of accessing the global
conciousness as it is.
I thought I would look up "human" as a followup to my last post.
Not only was the advertisement subquoted:
Hmmn.
Captain Nork sat on his wooden chair on the boat called Epsilon.
Rohan the computer programmer looks at his screen, it's text black against
white and it's meaning almost lost.
His eyes become slightly watery as he listens to them talk about machines
around him. They want him to 'work', and he knows that if he does, the
last ounce of creativity that he has might disappear into the system of
cogs that join to the uncaring masters. The money orientated producers
to which the consumers march.
"Efficiency, not beauty!" his imaginary corporate head yells "Why write
something new when we can buy this for less ?"
And he starts to cry.
He looks at probably his last work of ART.
He's not crying out of joy, or sadness, or even loneliness. He is crying
because he realises that this, his last piece of artistic mastery over the
creative medium of c, may never be seen by another eye of understanding.
Soon, he realises, this program will be erased, and the microsoft company will
install their pre-planned wizards and 'easy-to-use' clones via the clones they
have already converted, and nobody will see this ART.
They will erase all his masterpieces, and all his triumphs, and all his
memories of axhiliration when he finally got the fucking thing to work.
A tear drops, but he continues to type, not for the pride, not for the self,
but for the sake of his dying art.
Sure.. he realised it's limitations. The fact that there were only so many
words, and so many ways to arange those words, but is any art infinite ?
He sighs. Not even this program will be seen except as a series of questions
and answers, an output and input. No one will see the excellence of
commenting the beauty of the loop, or the glory of the binary switch.
And none of them will really care.
"Let the microsoft company have them" he thinks out of spite. "When they
realise that you are what you consume, then they might wonder why their life
isn't as special, that it's not so hand made".
Another tear.
He finishes of the final function, and types MAKE.
IT compiles.
IT runs.
IT ...
Rohan the computer program dies. I take a drag on my cigarette. "So since then I've just been living in this sweet little old town that I guess you'd call home. It's not bad you know.. not really what I'm used to, but then again, compared to London, what would be ?" Her eye flickers. "I mean take the night life for example.. I mean, if you can call it night life, I mean really, I don't know why I bother sometimes. Probably just to get drunk I guess.. I mean, the music is shit, well compared to what I'm used to.. TECHNO TECHNO TECHNO!!" I look down at my coffee. "Hey, I met this guy the other night who was quite funny, he kept talking to me as if I gave a shit ? I think he was trying to chat me up, but I couldn't really tell.. You know how sometimes you know and sometimes you don't ? Well it was like that.." I look up again. "So I just got drunk I guess and afterwoods I caught a taxi home with a few people that I'd met that night... very cool people actually just sort of met them, you know ? I was like, sharing around cigarettes everywhere and saying hello and all that. Lucky they were going my way really." There is a pause. I take a drag on my cigarette. I sip my coffee dry. I say one thing, and one thing only. "You're not even real" back to Contents
So there I was, sitting at my computer, typing away, when I suddenly
realised all these voices behind me. I thought, hey, wait a second,
they're saying things about me! They were pointing at me, they were
discussing me, and I didn't like it one bit. I decided that I would
protect myself continually and be independant from then on.
For the last few weeks now, my life had been getting very very stranger.
See what I mean ?
For example, there was this voice. This insistant little voice, the
one that told me "hey, the reason you looked suddenly over there was
because of that girl", or, "see that hair salon you just looked at
suddenly, unconciously ? That's because of the haircut idea your mum
planted in you earlier this morning".
It was getting on my nerves. But just recently, it was really bugging
me. As much as I wanted to shut it up, it just kept talking and talking
and talking "this is because of this", "this is because you believe in
that", "this man represents something else". It was giving me headaches
and eventually I retreated away from an ever confusing society of
representational symbolism.
So now I sat in my room. The voice still talked, but this time a little
slower, only perking up if it heard a bird, or if a spark of sunshine
entered the room, which wasn't often, as I'd nailed up all the windows
and doors in order not to see anything.
"And that light, the lightbulb ? That represents the last spark of
your old life". I looked up at the light. I turned to the light, and
I turned it off.
"thankyou" said the voice. "now you can know who I am"
I asked... "I am your new life.", it said.
"now, instead of me destroying things, I will create things. Instead
of me having to remove all those reasons, I can create reasons, instead
of me shownig explainations of things entering your life, I will give
the explainations, saying 'today I want this', or 'no, I beleive in
that'. I will be a creative light"
I turned the switch back on, I started to believe, and I fought for
what I believed so that everything I ever wanted to be real...
...was.
I used to believe that I did not exist, instead, I was a jumble of
connections. I was not "funny person", I was, "Person who makes this
person laugh". Or, "this person's friend".
I was an object made completely of the connections I had to other
things.
Strange it was.. like jumbled spaghetti. But one day, I decided to
unravel all the spaghetti.. I took this bit away, throwing it towards
the other end (they could deal with it as they would), I took that
bit away, wondering where the other end had long since gone to, I
wondered at the mobius stips, and the bits that joined back to where
I was.
Finally, I unravelled it all, like a cat, or a boy who has just
discovered the inside of a cricket ball. And inside, under all that
mess, I found a little child with a big smile and glowing eyes, waiting
to see what would happen next.
Oh yeh.. it's CaveGecko to you... (he says, throwing out a connection)
Face up to your fears they said, because if you don't they'll continue
And some of them realise and try to help.
And some of them realise, and abuse the power.
But what they didn't tell me, what they didn't say, was that when
I wanna be..
I wanna be, your addictive drug, your nicotene
I wanna be, your best friends voice, your telephone
I wanna be!!
I wanna be!!
I wanna be. Needed.
I was having an 'argument' with a friend of mine at work.
I think you am i was playing in the background.
"I create reality" I said to him.
"No.. you don't" he replied, convinced.
"Yes.. I do" I replied.
"No.. you don't.. how can you ?" he said again.
"I don't know, I just came to the realisation I guess"
He paused.
"Well I don't believe you" he started.
I smiled inside.
"I feel like a jerk today" he started.
Hmmn.. I thought. And when he started talking about how he was going to
connect all these computers and start scrubbing disks and downloading software
so they that they would work better for him, I felt like walking away. Sure, I
respected the fact that at least he was doing now what I told him was true,
but that didn't mean I had to be part of it.
"I've got this great computer here.. it's quite groovy" I suggested.
He looked over. "And what are you going to do with it ?"
"Well, I was thinking of teaching it to program itself, and then all the
computers could sit around chatting about what they've been doing for the
last few decades, hopefully to somehow reach a conclusive reality where
they can all see each other as equals, as storehouses for shareable
information, all totally concious of the game they are playing and creating"
He looked at me strangely.
Life went on.
Yeh so I was at this party. I hadn't actually put it on myself, but I
appreciated the amazing volcano that was somehow articulating itself
extremely well for a volcano.
I thought to myself.. who's listening ?
I sort of looked around a bit, wondering who else was wondering what I
was wondering, and then I looked back at the volcano. It seemed to be
talking to everyone.. but for some reason, I KNEW that I was the only
one listening, that everything that it said, was purely and utterly for
me. Sure.. there were other people there at the party, but they were
purely memories or names, shadowy beings as I listened to the volcano.
So I listened well.
It started telling me how hot it was where it was, which I figured was
quite a normal statement for a volcano, and I felt pity for it's warmth.
I really wanted to pour some water on the poor thing, but felt that
somehow this would be breaking the rules... wouldn't it ?
It told me that where it came from was a world of myth, mystery and extremely
hot tropical conditions, and that the juice of the coconut was appreciated
although many preferred the banana.
I wondered who the hell the many could be, and as I looked at the volcano
I'm sure I could see 5000 faces. Some thought of buddhist rebirth propaganda
quickly shot through my head and left again screaming 'om mani padme hum'
It told me that it had met many manifestations of the spiritual world, many
myths it had seen played out in reality, and many times had it been lost in
it's own little world, watching through the eyes of a child that thinks that
it is the centre of the world.
And perhaps it was.
Then it went and got a martini and I listened to something else, all the
time my mind bubbling with forming ideas, ideas that would manifest themselves
as soon as I was ready.
I was at the pub the other day and a troll (or wierd one as it is known in
some lands) was giving scripts to cue balls before sinking them. I looked
on in strange disdain.
He got up to the black ball and looked at me, about to tell a story, but
quickly I spoke.
"There's this newsgroup", I said, "called talk.bizarre", the two words said
quite forcefully, a command more than an explaination, almost like a verbal
version of TALK.BIZARRE.
"It's quite bizarre, as you might expect, and whenever I get the chance to
read it I'm always quite impressed".
The troll smiled and sunk the black ball.. he was a good friend, even though
his moonfull repetitions of "I don't know" sometimes annoyed me, and the party
continued.
"So what have you read lately ?" he asked me later that night, and I told
him about a good friend of mine who liked to discuss the differences between
consuming and producing.
"Consuming", I commented, "occurs when you live by the catchphrase that you
are what you eat". "If I read a book, and tell someone about it later on,
have I not just become something that I have read before ?"
"True" he replied, more of a comment than a reflection.
"And the solution ?" he prompted.
"The solution I guess would be to discuss either lies or experience, depending
upon whether you want to explain yourself or create yourself".
The word lie and the word guess seemed similiar in a way, yet somehow different.
He nodded. "or create others", he trolled.
I nodded and wondered whether the use of the word troll was correct, sure of
the fact that somehow I would learn.
"But then again" I said, "If you purchase a book yourself, when you are, so
to speak, one with god the divine, then is not reading the book an experience
of self creation or explaination".
"It depends which path you take" he replied.
"True" I said, almost magically, as if there was something inside me that knew
when something true was being said, and prompted me so.
"So is it not best to choose what path you are on in any endevour ?" I stated.
"In reflection, I would have to say that I always try to know what path I'm
walking either by self resolve or by playing along with the game".
We both nodded, and drunk our beer.
Interactive tv, without the bad scripts (unless you want them).
Take a look at me for example.. Here's a bit now:
Rohan the person who writes this is sitting in front of his
computer with a red shirt and yellow suns.
His fingers, which he is looking at now, are dappling on the
not so dappling keys that are on the white keyboard and wasnt
that all very descriptive.
He looks up to see the word descriptive.
He looks down again.
Wow.
Living in the now sure isn't cracked up to what it's supposed to be.
There is a tree, in a roundabout, in the middle of a crossroads.
To the left, the path rises, to the right, it drops and splits.
>From the ocean that reflects the moon, it starts
Look up to the stars and imagine.
I am a bird that lives in this tree. I give directions to passer bys
I am the Crow
Please remove articles marked: U and ME.
Place article U in a safe position, perhaps in a bottle, on a beach,
away from children with sticky little hands and teeth that smell
of their mothers deoderant.
Light article ME with a handy ME-Lighter, available at most stores,
but not available with this article instruction article.
Place article ME within the confines of the secret attatchment
provided by, but not consisting of, article U.
ASS should develop naturally. Do not force.
I met this guy once. He came across two paths and wondered why the hell anyone would want to wreack a nice forest with two horrible paths.
Anyway, why doesn't start a cafe there. Don't they know that the best
cafes Spelling mistakes are completely random. I think i'm supposd to not cuk now. That should be suck ?
Steven looked at his shorts. The stain was quite visible now that the sun had risen. He looked up again at the tree in front of him. He mocked the tree. "Hey tree! You suck! You suck suck suck suck suck"
The tree did nothing. It's quiet sucking un-noticed by humanity in it's
rush The waitresses often read Douglas Adam's novels as a reprimand. He looked at the tree some more.
The tree did nothing. Meanwhile, it slowly fixed the mis-spelt air
around it, Steven looked back down at his shorts.
now did that suck or what ?
Destiny Duck When do you know if you're onto a good thing ?
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