Archive for July, 2011

lost minds 5 [drum and bass mix]

drum and bassy mixxy goodness from one of South Africa’s premium DJs – the almighty Zyrex!

here for tracklisting.


It’s true!

Extraverted rational types


“…characterised by the supremacy of the reasoning and judging functions.”

but is yet

“…influenced in almost equal degree by unconscious irrationality.”


From the outside, with no consideration of “unconscious manifestations” this type may in fact appear more irrational than most.

“…the case with the psychologies of both Freud and Adler. The individual is completely at the mercy of the judging observer, which can never be the case when the conscious psychology of the observed is accepted as a basis. He afterall is the only competent judge, since he alone knows his conscious motives.”

Here Jung lays down the reason (or one of them) for this split with Freud, the split itself seemingly focussed around Jung’s insistance upon the importance of individual subjectivity and Freud declaring that such a perspective was not valid, was meaningless as it belonged to the realm of the sub-conscious (Jung uses the term unconscious to highlight its importance, that it wasn’t merely a sub-set of consciousness as Freud declared).
Of course Freud would say that. Dude wanted to kill his father and sleep with his mother and he found the idea abhorrent. It was only by projecting this desire onto everybody else (the Oedipus complex) that Freud was able to deal with it.


“…life in both these types [reasoning/judging] involves a deliberate exclusion of everything irrational and accidental… a force that coerces the untidiness and fortuitousness of life into a definite pattern, or at least tries to do so… restriction of sensations and intuitions is not absolute… but their products are subject to the voice made my rational judgement.”


“For them nothing is rational save what is generally considered as such. Reason, however, is in large part subjective and individual. In our types this part is repressed… Both the subject and his subjective reason, therefore, are in constant danger of repression…” at the whims of ‘objectivity’ and the object “…and when they succumb to it they fall under the tyranny of the unconscious, which in this case possesses very unpleasant qualities… primitive sensations that express themselves compulsively, for instance in the form of compulsive pleasure-seeking in every conceivable form; there are also primitive intuitions… everything sniffed out and suspected, in most cases it is a half truth calculated to provoke misunderstandings of the most poisonous kind… the individual becomes the victim of chance happenings, which exercise a compulsive influence over him either because they pander to his sensations or because he intuits their unconscious significance.”

Rationality then is handed down via consensus; What has been called Consensus Reality. What the majority agree, either consciously or unconsciously, to be reality. This world view, however, does not take into account either subjectivity or the unconscious. What i think Jung is saying here is that when you ignore subjectivity and and unconscious you can become enslaved by them. This enslavement takes place through the lens of ‘rationality’. When you ignore sensations and intuition then intuition and sensation present themselves to the conscious mind as in fact being rational thoughts. This is of course posited on the fact that the mind in question is lacking equilibrium. When everything is running smoothly everything is cool.

This type brings to mind the ‘character’ of the paranoid conspiracy nut – everything he does and thinks/feels he considers in the upmost as Rational. He checks constantly to see if anyone is following him because it is reasonable for him to assume somebody is because of what he knows or at least thinks he knows. You could have a lot of fun with this type in a narrative watching their sense of reason and logic eeat them alive. In fact I would argue that many a screenplay/novel turns on this idea of a protagonist’s rational world view being turned on its head. The idea of this reversal is a strong impetus for the dramatic.

Enter title here [poem]

Imagine a girl. still fluid, a bucket
that isn’t ready to be filled.
A woman squeezed into whale bone
clasped shut against protesting flesh.
Choking beneath layers of sundried detritus.
Inside is the yoke of herself
in perpetual motion
impelled to crash up against those that like to push
and prod
and cajole.
Her ferocity is muted
travelling almost infinite distance
to reach the surface, exploding in slow motion into physical space.
In the same moment
and all the moments leading up to it
that whalebone paper shell,
for but a hair’s breath,
loses all consistancy.
In that beating of humming bird wing
possibilities to push beyond the horizon. Like freedom was every second
that had and ever could be
bursting together in unison, condensed into a single stroke.

bone of echoes [poem]

This is a room
its length and breadth is
hung with the adornments of sense. Not eyes and fingers,
those wishing wells of comprehension,
but needles and veins
that sink and enter
without knocking.
A shape cut from mechanically recovered meat.
Without meaning they push underneath
and tug like a waterfall that comes on like a skull fracture.

Bone of echoes collapses into the other.


19 keys [short story]

Made of ache, satuated and creaking, the transient caretaker dragged his bones around the large hall, pushing the wind brim before him in skittering, jumpy movements. Everytthing was gone. They had taken all but vapours, and he had let them; had instigated the whole thing.

It started with a key, a whole bunch of keys really, their multiplicitous nature acting as an amplifier, each one an ambient tuning fork for esoteric signals. 23, they numbered, 23 keys of different sizes and types woven on interlocking rings and finally attached to a mountaineering clip. Each key opened a lock in the community centre. That was the assumption, but he only knew of locks nine of them opened, leaving fifteen a mystery.

At first he carried them in his pocket, tangled up with the detritus of his day to day life, but the bulge was cumbersome; the keys digging into his leg, working holes into the lining of his trousers. Soon the lure of the clip was too great; tarnished pink steel, springloaded mechanism. He started hooking them onto a belt loop, let them hang there. He liked their weight pressing against his hip, the way they swung and jangled as he went about his duties. That was enough; the weight and sway, gentles stainless percussion. A gentle soundtrack to his day.

Then it wasn’t. He began to steal glances, stopping mid-step, ‘tween sweweps, admiring their dull gleam, jigsaw teeth.

[to be continued]

The poetry of Sacha Karaulov.

Ruport Murdoch: “We are fuckers.”

<< via >>

possible futures [fiction]


Lady Margaret’s daughter Alice heard but appeared to ignore people. Her mother’s funeral was on a hot sunny day. There were only a few attending.

Alice didn’t care that they thought she was strange. They already thought that.

Alice was upset but couldn’t cry. She tried to upset herself. She imagined her mother in the coffin beginning to decay. She still couldn’t cry.


Walking on her own Alice saw something white, an animal struggling in the bushes. She went to look more closely. Not an animal but two people fighting.

A woman she knew. An old woman with a mark on her cheek. The other person looked at her. Her father.

Simultaneously it seemed he was shouting something at her while he fought the old woman, that Alice stood staring at him, that Alice was running away through the woods to hide somewhere, that her father stood heavy hairy and white.


Alice talked to a boy she knew called Henry. They wondered what it would be like to be disfigured or die in a fire. Henry watched her face closely.

Henry’s eyes looked strange. The way they had a month ago when he had talked with Alice about marriage. He knew that he would marry. Alice said she would never marry and never have a child.

Henry touched the back of Alice’s hand. She moved her hand and walked away. He apologised but she ignored him.


Alice swam in circles in the river. She felt the water hold her body. She felt light. Especially so in comparison with other women her age.

Later she sat naked on a large slate at the edge of the water. It was already warm from the morning sun under her arse. Water trickled and gathered and ran back to the river as though she’d pissed.

Alice felt just as free as when she was a child. In some ways more. She had obligations to nothing and no one.

tamlyn 11

the memories of my youth have just gone wrong

falling in a straight line [poem]

stumbled in a sugar blanched sky rising
dizzy and hectik
gasping hard whispers made of ache
creaking in the shadows of nothing but the could of beens.
As experienced from a distance.
Falling in a straight line
from the outside.
It gets so bad that the echoes feel more like real life
subjugated to a time and space once reserved for the satire of dante.
Hands thrust deep in the earth of the rotten field – tastes funny but you get used ot it. They all look alike. Easy to get confused.
Can’t hear each other over the silence taking hold, leaves you hanging by fingernails snapping one by one in the ragged sunlight. Feels like a re-run caught in the wee hours.
Been watching the jerky movements of the halfbreeds out the hotel window whilst the river runs backwards in an effort to undo itself. Has to be better than being, brought and sold on credit by the great pretenders whilst they act like they know how to be something other than the afterbirth of the once imagined.
Chock full of real bits
of shit – this bud’s for you, buddy.
Fresh air smells like cancer
something to remember whilst your waiting in line for fold after fold of bullshit
that melts in your mouth,
not in your hand.

The curious adventures of Lord Fuckington [short story]

To skip all this disclaimer bollocks and get straight to the curious adventures click here

I have, very recently, completed a short story, whose title you can see above. Ordinarily, i would attempt to get it published, sending it around to magazines both on-and-offline, and hold out for the one that offered the best rate (this has never actually worked). But even I, with my optimistic smoke-filled eyes, can see that I could shop this around to a thousand publications, over the course of a year and a half, and still be rejected. Alot of them, most of them, want exclusive electronic rights – so in all that time it would languish on my hard-drive, unread.

Fuck that.

Why though? Why am I so certain that it would be rejected? I shall tell you. It is without a doubt the most perverse thing I have ever written. It is sick. It is twisted. It is likely to offend. It’s also quite funny, in my opinion.

The list of the kinds of people who may be offended by the words and narrative contained within is long; too long to be included here. A brief overview would likely include feminists, masculinists, liberals, conservatives, vegetarians, vegans, the upper-middle classes, the lower-middle classes, the lower-upper classes, the upper-upper classes, those with a sensitive disposition and most probably anybody with any kind of moral compass.

So, I guess this is a disclaimer. It is not my intention to offend, only to amuse and illuminate. Please don’t read much further if you are likely to descend into a rabid furor of outrage. Actually, please feel free. You will probably find it a cleansing experience.

When i started writing it I conceived it as a satirical reflection on the works of the Marquis de Sade with Cronenbergian overtones. There is perhaps an undercurrent of feminist thought and a critique of society, although these may in fact be accidental. I may, in fact, be suffering from delusions of granduer.

If you read it, and after giving it some thought I have changed my mind and in fact urge you to read it, please – share it. Throw it up on facebook, your blog, your twitterstream. Email it to friends. Mention it on the forums you frequent. Leave me horrified diatribes in the comments. Let me know if you like it, if you hate it, if you want more. There can be more. If you want it.

I’m not usually one to be so forthcoming. I’ve been blogging on and off for a decade – i’ve seen the raise and fall of traffic, the waxing and waning of interest. All the while I’ve played it cool. There’s nothing worse than some whiny prick begging for attention on his blog. I’m making the exception here though, because i think that ‘The Curious Adventures of Lord Fuckington’ is worth the possible backlash.

I started writing this is a lark, a piece of amusement for myself and friends. Something to write after a several month long lapse of creative output. I throughly enjoyed writing it and as i showed it around to a few people i realised that people throughly enjoyed reading it (even those that were somewhat disturbed by it). So, I figured, why not throw some effort of promotion behind it? If it sinks unnoticed beneath the surface of the internet so be it, but at least I will of tried.

So, i bequeath you to read. And link. And comment. And if you want more let me know. There is a very possible long-form narrative for this. Get to the end and you’ll see an inkling of what i mean.

Oh yeah, one more thing. Although I have strived to correct spelling mistakes, it is somewhat unproofed. Just so you know.


Click onward to read The Curious adventures of Lord Fuckington

Cat Hepburn

scriptwriter | spoken word & voice over artist | arts facilitator


Featured writing from Aloud Magazine, news updates, and performance videos.

Loki The Scottish Rapper

Cultural terrorism with a splash of self regard

Street of Dreams

A literary blog of poet, playwright and essayist Rachael Stanford


Curiosities, exploration, strange things and history

On Space

Boredom, Architecture and Modernity

Leave In An Orderly Fashion

Don't let the door hit you on the ass on your way out.

Never Quite Broken

What you did not build up, you cannot tear down.

Society X

the Great Universe

sonja benskin mesher

writing site, a daily blog


~Weaving Words in her Web~

Helen Shanahan

Visual Artist


Artists and Free Thinkers Ignite!

%d bloggers like this: