How rational we become at times of emotional turmoil.
Humans! I despise them all. I hate them – all of them – even myself – every last human bastard on this planet. I have come to the realisation that we are the stupidest creatures who have ever evolved on this beautiful green sphere – and there have been a few monsters that have evolved here, I can tell you.
I think the worst thing about us is our damn intelligence. We can’t even claim ignorance for the vileness of our acts. That makes it all far worse. Everything we do is consciously done with intent. We know exactly what agonies we inflict and we thoroughly enjoy inflicting it.
But life goes on – at least for a while to come. We’ll eke out the last days of our vainglorious reign and probably still be around to witness our total annihilation of what once was a beautiful green planet full of beauty and potential. We’ll leave behind a legacy of pain, garbage and senseless destruction.
But hey – that’s probably just the mood I’m in right now. It’s chemical. And I have good reason. You’d probably be feeling a tad down if you were standing where I am right now.
Death goes on too.
I’ll feel differently in the morning……………. probably.
It is strange the morbid, dismal thoughts that go through your mind while you stand in a hospital ward, beside a bed on which lies the remains of your old man, the person who begat you, who looked after you, nursed you, cared for you, loved you without limits and then fucking goes and dies on you – the bastard.
Except that wasn’t him in the bed at all. That was just an ice-cold marble sculpture of some haggard wretch whose cancer-ridden body some master sculptor had seen fit to replicate in stone. He’d done a fucking good job too. The sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks were perfect. The nose stood out like some grotesque beak. He’d captured it. It was a perfect replica of the man he had been yesterday. But he’d got the colour wrong. This marble effigy was as pale as snow. There was none of the sallow, jaundiced pastiness. The smell had gone too. Obviously there are some things even a great artist cannot replicate.
I was remembering back to the day of my father’s death, standing in the hospital room, alone with his body, looking out of the window. My head was full of huge emotional turmoil. People outside were going about their business completely obliviously.
A parent had come into school in a distraught fashion, looking for people to blame. His fifteen-year-old daughter had planned a weekend orgy with her friend while he and his wife were away. All the boys in the neighbourhood had been round for a sex-fest. He wanted to blame the school.
I incorporated it into the book.
Extract:
I had begun thinking of myself and examining the depths of my own psyche looking for clues – for the evidence to condemn myself. I reckon most people would be just like those wealthy fuckers given half a chance, me included. I have come to believe that the whole human race is a savage, callous, selfish group of mindless monkeys out for nothing more than sex, power and wealth, and they don’t give a toss for anything or anyone – least of all nature or the plight of other creatures. If it isn’t about that trilogy of crassness, then it’s about cretinous fun – usually involving some form of cruelty or abuse.
I’ve always had a soft spot for nature. I detest cruelty.
I gave out a deep sigh which came out more like a sob as I absently pondered my own philosophical views on the nature of humanity. They weren’t currently very flattering, particularly when it came to our record with fellow creatures.
Outside the window I watched a young boy on roller skates, all tousle haired and scruffy, who reminded me of myself so many years before. Perhaps he was indeed just like I had been? Perhaps he had pets and enjoyed playing in the fields, climbing trees and wading in ditches and ponds, catching frogs and newts? But would that be enough in his adult life to prevent him from shooting birds or chopping down trees? I thought not. At heart he was human. He was all like the rest; like all the rest of us.
Indeed I have a pretty low impression of mankind and the circumstances were providing me with opportunity to give vent to it. I have come to realise that the majority of people are insane, shallow and stupid. I am convinced that they won’t be happy until they’ve destroyed the whole planet and laughed themselves to death as they busy themselves with slowly frying the last living creature on the sphere.
I played with that image in my head. My mind seemed to attach to it.
They have no scruples – as far as I can see they wouldn’t even want to eat that poor creature, they’d just want to watch it squirm, to make it suffer. That’s how they get their kicks. I believe that. They really would – they would enjoy watching some poor creature, even if it was the last creature on earth, as it screams its way to a horrendously painful death, and all for nothing more than their own amusement. I have really come to believe that.
I know. Christmas is coming. You are looking for something unique, out of the ordinary, SPECIAL. Something that nobody else has! Something that you know they won’t be expecting but will love!!
It hits you!
You want an Opher Goodwin book!!
There are lots to choose from:
You could go to Burning Shed (The publisher’s own site) and purchase a book on a fabulous Rock Musician or band. Perhaps Roy Harper, Captain Beefheart, the Beatles, Bob Dylan, Neil Young or Phil Ochs?
You could go to Amazon for an Opher Goodwin book on Rock Music, weird alternative novels, anecdotes, the environment, poetry, art, antireligion, travel or antinovels. (something for everyone)
If you really want to give someone something very special you can email the author directly and purchase one direct complete with the Author’s signature!!
I started writing 1n 1971. My first book was a strange sixties conglomeration of narrative, philosophy, poetry, spirituality, photography and cartoons. I thought it was brilliant. Unfortunately nobody else did. That’s probably because it was unreadable. I still feel a nostalgic love of it though.
I then set about writing Sci-fi. I wrote four or five novels without a glimmer of success.
In 1980 I had a re-evaluation. I went and talked to my friend Roy Harper about producing a biography. He was keen. It morphed into a book based around his lyrics. I spent 20 years on that project. It was in 4 parts but never saw the light of day.
In the meantime I was still writing Sci-fi and delivering a course on The History Of Rock Music. So I made that into a 4-part book. A publisher was interested but wanted it cut down from 1200 pages to 200. I wrote him a different book. It was pulled on the day of publication.
Undaunted I continued writing.
I had a job as a teacher and four kids. Every night, after they were in bed I’d write. Whatever took my fancy – Sci-fi novels, weird underground novels, antinovels, environment, antireligion, travel, education, art, poetry and rock music.
Then I discovered self-publishing.
Then sonicbond publishers contracted me for eight books on my rock heroes.
Every now and then I stand back to take in the whole of human history and the present state of play.
I have to assume that as a species we are completely insane.
All I see is cruelty, torture, war, lust, greed and power. It’s completely psychotic.
The world is a wonderful place. There is more than enough for everyone to live happily and well. Yet we don’t.
A small number have more than they could ever possibly need; a majority live in poverty.
We are surrounded with beauty and wonder and do our best to destroy it.
We create religions, political systems and use them to divide, breeding hate, war and fear.
We invent weapons of mass destruction and tools to elicit maximum pain.
We misuse resources and practice cruelty as entertainment.
We are still fighting wars and acting like barbarous monsters.
Those who have want more. They never have enough.
Those who hold power want greater power and to crush all opposition.
We elect sociopathic, narcissistic psychopaths and expect them to care for us.
Is there a way out of this mess? I used to be optimistic. Can we not control our worst impulses? Don’t humans also possess a kind, caring, altruistic side? Couldn’t we elect nice people for a change? Do we have to withdraw into our own little cocoons, protected from the insane masses, in order to live our lives?
