Lost Coast Chanties
Radio Bob Approved
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The Think Tank | As the world capital of enlightenment and self-realisation, City 24 could always boast about the creative genius of its diligently loyal populace. Found below are just some of the submissions we received for our journal. |
= Author = Edna Moore |
= Title = There be Blood | Upon the question of life and pain, there are but only few answers worth any note or recognition. In the case of human suffering, being a consequence in equal form as it is a cause for change in the bitter-minded, survival in both heart and mind is primarily achieved through its role as a demagogue rather than a forceful oppressor. Many who fail to realise such a fact must often lower themselves to draft senseless, algorithmical metaphors and, in states of logical demure, rely on their fallible inner voice - one that makes conclusions more out of self-preservation than any genuine desire for truth.
The heart, whose only duty is to bleed, masks itself as one’s moral compass and primary source of strife, enjoying the benefit of its position to a great degree when it comes to rationalising any concept related to the body’s well-being. Opposing it is the mind, which is the true source of any human’s suffering, fully capable of understanding concepts that, by all accounts, would force any other species to immediate psychological shutdown. Thus, pain foretold, existing both physically and mentally, strikes only the mind and not the perceived “soul” of an individual. If one were to understand that all their fears exist solely as metaphysical concepts, then, in the clinical ideal, they would be able to use their rational sense to become stoic for the rest of their prolonged, fearless life. These are, however, unideal times of an unideal species, and never has there been any period in which the mind was likely to recognise its superiority over the heart. The human is forever at the utter mercy of his self-made demagogue, chained by fear and weariness of all unknown and uncharted. His heart forever claims a pyrrhic victory and drenches the brain’s pink mass of endless trenches into an ocean of iron and blood, leaving only a drumming, pulsating feeling of uncertainty. So, let there be blood. Let this brutish, primordial fear rule the day and huddle man into his hovel like a filthy, starving mutt. Who said that one must be brave and courageous to live and to suffer? Is it not the pain that forces the hand to move from a scorching stove? Is it not the heart that tears itself day after day and night after night to feed us this red, poisonous iron? For who are we to judge weakness as an unfitting norm? Who are we to consider ourselves better than the very animals that once were our brethren, screeching and shrieking from knowledgeable fears? Only in this we are different, for the mind invites anxiety into one’s hovel like a welcomed guest. A tete-a-tete of the future, taken from the ruinous past. United, we’ll bleed - our hearts will bleed - and suffer the mind to quiet acceptance. And in this silent admission, our red, shivering tumour will finally learn to think for itself. Suffering, weakness and pain shall guide us to the dim campfire of red - our new hopeful beacon - and next to it we’ll finally feel equal in meekness. For what madman would be left brave enough to extinguish this last, dithering light? |
= Title = Rue the Fabric | Of all the wretched notions that the human mind holds, none are more vulgar in their disillusionment than the foolish idea that modernity equals civilization. Humanity, forever cradled in its aeries of permanent insecurities and left scarily gazing down at the bitter, grey oceans of truth, is unable, in large, to ever accept the displeasing burden of humility and remains on the brink of a disastrous drop. Exactly at such times of woeful reckoning, unseen and yet fully felt, there exist small cries of those who see the better side of things through surely a very broken glass; Drowning is equal, truly, in its consumption of breathing things, and yet not all the things that it consumes are equal - so goes the thinking.
Most hurt by this common thought process are the creatures unlucky enough to have been spared from manufacturing their own extinction willingly - man has indeed called himself greater than any other living thing combined, and thus condemned the losers to endless provisional slaughter. But who can truly feel sorrow for the two dark, lifeless eyes of a mammal incapable of screeching meaningful, pronounced words? A question most un-rhetorical, for humanity has little empathy to spare even for its own ancestors. A century, a decade or even a year is often enough to curtain the enlightened and civilized present from the foolish and brutish past. Allergy to oneself, however, holds little to the potency of historical ailment. To think the dull neanderthals of the past, building their hovels out of mud and sticks, could ever hold a candle to our beautiful bastions of powdered lime; To think they could slaughter each other senselessly for pointless and unneeded things and burn all that they dislike. Hypocrisy, of course, has always been our strongest suite, and our great ancestors were as guilty of it as we are today. So let no tears be shed upon this assassination of character - after all, when we differ so little from them in spirit, all criticism turns double-edged. Rue, for example, our fabric. When words cannot describe the meaning of the word “civilisation”, fashion shows quite bluntly. Fools of the past knew presentation, and thus chiefly showed their superiority to others by the way of dotted furs and etched bones. Far removed from the pleasantries of slaughtering, the body always enjoyed the feel of warmth and softness and still does - only, opposing the animalistic tendencies of our idiotic ancestors, we prefer, instead, to wear colours and patterns like flags of personality. It is a disease that by no means appeared recently, but has yet felt increasing favour from the modern, “civilised” man. The human mind, being a wonderfully disillusioned thing as it is, appreciates the challenge of sympathising with ambiguous patterns, and who’s to say that looking like a zebra is an image unfitting for this aim? Why the ivory trinkets, when metal scraps fashioned into geometrical shapes do just as well at making one guess their intention? After all, is it truly the message we seek, or the feel of an obstacle? Does it not serve to elevate ourselves above our own insecurities, now manufactured by the very species that thinks itself better than everything else? How civilised the modern man is, that only now he can realise his desire to be a colourful antelope. Alas, just as the aerie tilts forth, the thought pattern ends. And, instead of finally collapsing into the grey ocean, man throws his last talon to the bitter grass to hold himself a little longer… Just like the fur-wearing beasts that came before him. |
= Title = Our Woven Phantasies | On the tables of sororities and fraternities globe-width spanned and awfully short-roomed often reside a plethora of cuisines both for the stomach and for the mind. While the latter kind usually leads to plenty of verbal white noise, otherwise referred to by the on-hearers as ‘something that sure sounds smart’; in this classic, in-your-ear, multi-paragraph type of enlightened writing, today’s course of richly boiled food-for-thought will be carefully chewed by this humble cook and lowered carefully into your bowels via an allegory-stuffed gastroscopy tube.
The fact that this course of phonetic sounds was coined as ‘richly boiled’ in the previous sentence should inform you that today’s highly re-informative topic will be about delusion. On the contrary, if such was not the impression until-forth, then this newly found realisation will only present the topic with more artistic gusto. And indeed, such is often the aim of habitual liars and hypocrites, for life is composed far too often from banausic tones and misses greatly the high, irregularly pitched notes of confused absurdity - the very kind that is often cited as the chief enjoyment of the musically-inclined bore-mongers. After all, criminal insanity is as popular as it is hidden behind ‘not being like the others’. While the usual cure for such a lust consists of administering a hefty dose of Blokisms from any post-unban I-C-O-B-T Thesaurus, some people may simply detest engaging with content made by anyone other than themselves. In such terrible states, the human brain - a habitual liar by nature - may offer a brand new perspective on this dreaded issue of downtrodden normality: just make it all up. Problems, solutions, reasons and causes - nothing is off the figurative table in this endless desire of injecting one’s presence into everything. Thinking out-loud is lying out-loud, deluding not only oneself but also those in the relative vicinity. And yet some lie to themselves so much - they assume that the pink mush of others is filled with recreated images of their blue denims, carefully branded with words like ‘my dear friend and ally’. The last, of course, is the greatest delusion of every puddle-deep comradery channeled by these so-called brothers and sisters of urban labyrinths. Your normality is apathy, and yet ignoring the image of this wretched feeling is much more comforting than admitting the depth of your delusion - or would you admit to honestly caring if any of your dearest friends disappeared one day, relocated to another city far over the sea? How often do you think of all the people you met in the last seventeen years? How often would you say that they think of you? As it happens, we, the great inheritors of these lifeless concrete anchors, left chained to the very bottom of every dead hope ever envisioned, are by far the greatest daydreamers the world of blissful sleep has ever seen. Perhaps one day, if the moon turns into the sun and the dark waters of the night flood us like an ocean, then and only then will these friendly delusions be made reality. A world of permanent remembrance, a dream in every sense of the word and a nightmare in none. But until then, take comfort in this other delusion. I see the webs of your mind and hear the strings of your heart. What is hidden is always unearthed in due time. Our woven phantasies are dishes served in force. The choice to stuff yourself to death, or to feel the gnaw of painful hunger - that conundrum, I’m afraid, you’ll have to chew through yourself. |
OOC: Texts originally written as scripts for MoE. Denied due to crazy rhetoric and citizens being too dumb. Enjoy the re-purpose. Issue-02 coming out never, probably.
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