The Psychology of Michael Jackson.

"Young Michael Jackson"

There is a saying; only the great are persecuted. History proves this somewhat true. The corrupted evil of time; Adolph Hitler, Pol Pot, Attila The Hun etc... were never hated during their lives. They were only universally despised long after time and rational thought proved their true destructive nature and hate for humanity. Whereas names like Martin Luther King, Jesus Christ, and even Madonna to a lesser degree; who preached a tolerance and equality were - in their times, treated like renegade stains of the human race. In the past few decades, no other name personifies this notion than a man whose musical talent was only bettered by his empathy for living creatures; Michael Jackson...

Michael Jackson was born as the eighth of ten children, into a poor, working-class American family. Somewhere along the lines of youth, his Father discovered the boy's prodigious talents; deciding to fulfil his own failed musical ambitions through his children. With a sensitive five year old boy - able to burst out soulful, powerful vocals; coupled with the ruthless sword of ambition, the global success and universal fame eventually rolled right in for the Jackson clan, desperate to escape the clutches of poverty.

As is consistent with success, the spoils came at an immense price; in this case, a collection of childhoods. Their father enforced upon them a strict work ethic upon which would scare most adults - let alone a collection of young boys. He would often use violence of a physical and psychological nature, to keep his dreams alive unhealthily through his children. As one of the youngest and most talented, Michael would not only have experienced direct hostility in resentment, jealousy, and bitterness towards his skills, but also seen his own family seduced by the madness, of all that this corruptive world within a world of it's own had to offer.

By the time Michael Jackson had reached early adulthood, he had already lived the ferocious hurricane of fame; a world where sex, drugs, politics, and corruption run rife. Ask anyone who has been exposed to the dark nature of life before mature enough to fully understand it, and search for the happiness behind the jaded eyes hardened from repeated exposure to excess. Better yet, Google almost every child star of history; surviving through it with sanity in tact is the exception, and definitely not the rule.

Michael Jackson never had a childhood, and spent the rest of his life fighting within himself to reclaim it. He wanted to be the child he never was; surrounded by other children, going to theme parks, eating ice-cream, watching stupid movies and staying up late, having sleepovers, and riding bikes and bumper cars; all the stuff we take for granted as a given. Not too much for a man who never had the chance, to ask for. Sure the manner in how he did this was easy to misinterpret. But, much like the naked baby penis on the cover of Nirvana's Nevermind album, those who see it as sexual are really the ones who need to worry; not the makers of the cover (he is swimming for a dollar from birth, it doesn't take much to figure out the subtext.)

"Older Michael Jackson, still full of heart."

Sadly, a bitter, jealous, and quite hateful media, were out to destroy a man of his powers and credibility; built on part skin colour/part reminder of all the aspects of sheer good in his life, which reminded them of all the bad in theirs. They set upon accusations of the man through mass propaganda; calling him everything from a bizarre weirdo who slept in an oxygen tank, had a chimpanzee for a best friend, wore funny gloves and clothing, and collected the bones of John Merrick - the infamous 'Elephant Man', of Victorian England. Eventually, seeing that none of these accusations were working, stopped so low as to imply him being possibly the worst thing you can accuse anyone on this earth of being... a child molester. His incredible voice, songs, and humanitarian work, were all conveniently glossed over.


Michael Jackson never abused a child in his life - doing quite the opposite by giving them a reason to smile. He was tried on twelve counts of these claims, and acquitted for every last one. Even now, there is not even a microcosm of evidence, to show he was nothing more than a very sensitive man, who wanted lesser fortunate children to experience the wonders of childhood, which he himself had so publicly missed out upon. The irony in these claims is that the negative, sensationalist media; who spew hate from every conceivable angle, are almost as detrimental to a child's future as some forms of physical or emotional abuse. The good in Michael Jackson was being defined as evil, by evil; but throughout history, when is this ever different?

He was not perfect. He suffered from Vitiligo - a disease which changes skin pigmentation, which can be argued as a subconscious rejection of his skin colour; but when you listen to his song lyrics, you realize - like all good men, he saw humans as humans, and not colours or classes. He did have a lot of plastic surgery, and was scalded for this. Yet so have people like Joan Rivers or Barry Manilow - and where are their criticisms for being middle-aged and having faces like a white version of The Mask? He was ridiculed for protecting his children's faces from the media - but why wouldn't he? He most likely loved his children, (who lose out more than anyone, as they miss out on growing up with a Father) and did not want them being hounded and tortured for both their association and looks. He once hung his baby out of a window, for a microsecond. Pretty stupid, yes. But enough to crucify him over?

In the end, Michael Jackson was simply a very talented man from a very rough upbringing, and the mixture of the two adapted his psychological state to a point of being stuck in a moment of forced regression. He was not a normal man in the conventional sense, but his heart and love were very human, and very much genuine. Beyond all this, go listen to his music or examine his philanthropy; the guy was an absolute saint.

Thankfully, he was a man who had millions of fans. And they are fans who never turned on him, gave up on his kindness and warmth, and still love the man as much as they loved the music; as well as being able to separate the two, whilst still appreciating both. Two hundred years from now, Michael Jackson will be seen as the victim, and the media the persecutors. I just wish the message got through a lot sooner...

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My Guitar.

I miss my guitar... I mean, in times like these, where I feel that my mind simply cannot stop racing at the constant 100mph rate in which it does - a result of furious writing and meticulous editing, it reminds of the days where there was only one true solution to relax and allow the uncontrollable and misunderstood stream of ideas in my overemotional, young adult mind... playing my acoustic, and writing a song.

It is one of my hard-earned skills which I very rarely talk about - much less show off to other people. But back when I was a man in my early twenties, I would often spend three to four hours a day strumming, barring, finger-picking, soloing, and constructing my way to eventually attain a pretty high level of guitar playing ability.
Like most avenues I undertake in life, I was going about it in an odd yet successful manner I was - and still am, a left-handed male who plays a right handed instrument, I had no musical ear - though it improved greatly over time. And I used to break strings faster than the callouses would form on the tips of my fingers from the friction of pressure... but I persisted. I wanted to learn, I needed to learn. I had told myself I would, and once I do this, I cannot allow myself to stop. So I bought myself an acoustic guitar, and off I went...

The first song I ever learnt to play in full was 'About A Girl' by Nirvana. I never played too many songs of others, simply because I wanted to copy as little as possible - though I always loved Kurt Cobain's simplistic yet raw and passionate attack of the barre chord, and Nirvana are still the one group I would choose to see in a live and intimate venue over all others - should a magic and quite bored genie offer me the random opportunity to do so. I wrote pretty decent indie type ballad songs, or second rate attempts at generic rock. To me, the message mattered more than the music - and even now, words mean more to me over any other form of expression in art. Which is ironic as I realize more than most, that actions do indeed speak much louder than words.
Anyhow, as time passed, and I grew in the knowledge and design of playing, I became better and better. It is a truly incredible moment in any aspect of learning in life, when you can apply yourself to a developed skill, and suddenly... it simply becomes you! You feel that the instrument is little more than an extension of your own being. It is much like the feeling when learning to drive, and - about ten to fifteen lessons in, you suddenly feel as if the car is not in control of you, but you are in control of the car - as if it is some form of robot, and you are it's rampantly beating heart.

I only ever really taught myself so that I could write songs. I loved writing songs. Anytime I had a bad day, felt low, had a issue on my mind - I would sit down, strum some chords, find a formulation of words in my head, express them through a melody, rhyme, and a pleasant sounding chord structure. Ten minutes, or a few hours later, bang! I had another song to play.
I wrote over 150 songs in the end - I still have all the hand written lyrics and chord structures in the A4 note paper from all these years back stashed away in an old folder. Looking back now, some of the lyrics are a little soppy, and come across as the oversensitive musings of a boy, but that is who I was, and I am very proud of my song collection. Some are actually pretty good, and there is also a great indication of the intelligent wordplay and deeper understanding of the emotions, which as a man of thirty, I command a greater strength and rigidity of.
Somewhere, sadly - the music lost me, or I lost the music - I don't know. A part of me felt I did not have the natural soul which practically any success in the field tends to have. Maybe this was a subconscious excuse to justify hiding in my fears,  maybe I was lazy, maybe I just didn't care enough. But I just stopped. No slow death, no gradual yield, I just, stopped. And almost seven years later, I still have not started again.
I stuck my Choloclate Brown Fender Electro/Acoustic dce22 in the loft, then gave it to my sister in Bedfordshire - as she wanted to learn herself. Stashed my song list away, then slowly convinced myself that I couldn't even play the instrument - even though I am pretty awesome at it.

Oddly enough, last May, I was fortunate enough to take a trip to the British Music Exhibition at the O2 Arena, with my good friends Carla and Jamie. Where there was an interactive room full of instruments. Before me sat a golden brown Gibson Super Jumbo 200 - my dream wife of acoustic guitars! I picked it up, began to strum, finger-pick, pluck, and solo away to myself, lost in a feeling which took me right back to the troubled young man who finally found a way to express himself. For the next hour or so, I forgot I was even in this world. And - for this same hour, the little chubby boy waiting for his turn to strum my baby, remembered what it was like to wait around in vain... poor chubby boy.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should make the trip to Sandy, and retrieve my old buddy, or simply buy a new Guitar. I miss the musical therapy. I miss writing songs... I miss my guitar.

Lee.

Panic.

It was yesterday. It was dark. It was sometime just after eight o'clock in the evening. I was lying in my bed alone at home, with the lights off and the curtains open - I always sleep with the curtains open. I could hear light rain pattering onto the earths surface outside. I have always loved the sound of outside rain when laying in my bed, but this moment, I was barely thinking straight.
I was trying to relax. All day long, and, for a good three weeks or so, I had been feeling light-headed, nauseous, barely able to eat - even after working out, cold, and somewhat conflicted mentally and emotionally. Rest and relaxation seemed the best idea, and doing so in dark silence, is generally the best way.

But as the minutes passed, I started finding myself feeling like breathing was becoming harder and harder. As this happened, I felt colder, distant from my own body, and as if my mind was slowly cracking up deep in the heart of my conscious thought. I cannot explain how it truly felt, not yet anyway.  For a moment, I wondered whether I was going to turn into another Syd Barrett - gone so far in the head, that even rationality was out of the question.
In the entire day, I had eaten only one bowl of bran flakes, and one bowl of porridge. I had drunk a couple of coffees in Starbucks while writing, but even the experience of feeling this way in a place I have become all too familiar with, only made my head feel as if it was a pressure cooker about to explode. So I needed both food and to do something regular, to get my mind back on track. I pulled my naked body out of the bed, whipped on a pair of grew sweat bottoms from the cupboard, and attempted to walk downstairs to make myself a glass of desperately needed water. 

By the time my bare feet reached the cold floor of the kitchen, and I had switched the light on, my legs felt like they were made of weak jelly, my body wanted to collapse, my heart was racing and pounding like a jackhammer, my head was spinning all over the place, and I felt my ability to breathe dissipate - as if my lungs were growing smaller and smaller. For about three to five minutes of my life - I genuinely felt as if I was going to die.
During this short yet intense experience, I had crouched down - still on my feet, but my bare back leaning against my washing machine. I imagined being found lying on the floor of the kitchen unconscious, wondering if I would last long enough in this state to be saved. I somehow managed to grab a cup and fill it with cold tap water, then gulp it down in a very quick motion. The breathing was getting heavier, every pain was pounding and pushing. I spoke verbally and openly to myself 'What the fuck is going on?' I asked? I was scared, but I wasn't going to give in.. whatever this shit was. 'Compose yourself, man. This is gonna be a rough night'. I spoke again. A few minutes had passed, and as always when the fight or flight response is needed, I chose to fight the barstad all the way.
I slowly gathered my breath, found a secure place in my mind, stood up, and said the words 'fuck you!' to wherever this feeling was coming from. I wasn't going to let it beat me - even though it was scary as hell. I had to remain a fighter. Somehow, I manged to crack open, separate, and cook three egg whites in the microwave, then eat them. I felt naked, afraid, and more than anything else, completely alone.

Ten minutes later, i was calm. I was sitting against the wall of my bedroom, as a quilt sat draped over me. I was still a little shell shocked. I knew I was and still am going through a rough patch, but never until this point had stress actually made me physically ill, so much so that as I thought about it, the harsh realizaion came punching me firmly in the mind; I had just experienced someting in my life which I never believed would ever come my way - I experienced a panic attack. And it scared the living shit out of me. I never thought it would happen to me. I never thought it would happen.

I have not fully recovered. I still feel breathless, my head a little light. I now realize I am both very fragile and incredibly strong too. This experience will make me stronger, as the trials of adversity always do - and perhaps I needed to see this to put myself right.Not just for me, but for every last person in this life who wish me good fortune and happiness; I am lucky to have so many people like this.

The outer world today has seemed perhaps more human than it ever has to me, and, even though I feel more than capable of handing all these stresses and worries life throws at me, I feel great empathy for those who cannot. It is not my place to judge them, and only wish that nobody reading this ever experiences what is without question one of the most intense, painful and scary fucking feelings you are ever likely to feel. And, if you already have, and a couple of people reading this I know have been in this God awful position - I now know exactly what you meant, when you told me about it. And anyone who says it easy to deal with, has obviously never dealt with it.

Tomorrow I spend the day with Marissa, which will in no doubt pick me up. But tonight, through personal choice - I am alone. And tonight I rest. I am going to relax by watching some television, as I do not do it very often these days. I was going to view 'The Long Con', one of my favourite episodes of Lost. But instead opt for a viewing of the Hulk Hogan classic, 'No Holds Barred'. I am quite sure it will be shit... but in a good way.

Lee.

Soul Gazing.

To look into the bare, naked soul of another human being - particularly when it happens to belong to someone so firmly implanted inside of your own, carries an extraordinarily overwhelming power. A power that twists the entire complexities of the spectrum of life, into a form of clarity, in which a word needs to be invented beyond vivid - as it is nowhere near strong enough, to do this incredible feeling justice.
It feels as if you are gazing - without thought or concept, into the absolute core and root of a human soul; a soul which existed in the beginning as fresh, excited, and innocent. Before the outer world and internal motion began moulding, shaping, convoluting, and conditioning it, to a point of barely being able to recognize or even see it in the external world. Watch a child openly and freely express their real selves - unafraid and unconcerned; happy and free. Now find me an adult in this life who carries no metaphorical armour to protect themselves. The amounts vary drastically, but we all have some form or another. We need to, to a degree.

This all began to make me think about the inner workings of the human soul - which is - in my own personal definition, the combination of the mind, the heart, the body, and every element which encompasses all of that which makes us human. Some may argue the soul does not even exist, and, while I cannot prove to you I am absolutely right - you also are unable to prove to me that I am evidently wrong. 

As I look and think deeper into this, I find myself starting to understand a simple mechanism of humanity - all humanity. Deep down inside, every last living being - all of us; you, me, the last woman you lied to, the last pensioner you ignored. The bus driver, the dictator, the silent witness, the junkie, the thief, the rebel, the conformist, the thinker, the doer, the follower, the leader, hell, even the universally despised traffic warden - all simply want nothing more than to be loved. More to the point, to feel as if they are loved... even if it isn't entirely true.

The difficult issue is that each individual impression of a constitution of love, differs in great amounts. Therefore, the world moves around searching for the same outcomes, yet in hundreds of thousands of unique ways and means. Our constructions are born from our environments and conditioning, or sometimes even as a rejection of these modes. But we keep searching, and often get so far lost in all the attempts at trying to find it, we forget what it is we are searching for in the first place. Many do find solace though - and for this, it is a reminder to always continue searching, no matter how deep in the mud our feet have sunk.

Seeing this sight, it scared me, if I am honest. It reminded me of the analogy I always use of humans as Russian Dolls - the structure and title of my first completed screenplay. The idea of this massive sized, bold, stoic, figurine, standing proud on a high shelf. Yet, when you strip them layer by layer, all you are left with is this fragile, somewhat innocent, and frightened creature. And, as always seems to be, it is usually the most beautiful of dolls, who hide the greatest sadness. It scared me because it was very very real. It was blunt, open, naked, and perhaps one of the purest sights these eyes have ever seen. It also made me realize that I may never expose this part of myself to anybody, ever. Not because I don't want to, but because I really don't know if I can.

I don't watch much television, or play computer games. I am not against fiction, as fiction is a great way of relaxing the mind in fantasy from the stresses of life, as well as showing examples of certain aspects of life. But for me, I am trying to find the absolute root of our lives, and, while I believe the end result will be a beautiful sight in which it all makes perfect sense, there are going to be many visions that will require internal strength beyond any period of the past. But I am strong, I am steadfast. I will not live on my knees... I never will.

I have to keep going. I have to face the sights which scare me. They are no longer external, and I desire to break through the looking glass. Yes, it was scary, yes, it was real... but it made me realize, that while rules are always made to be broken - hearts are not. And as scary as the feeling was, I believe I only want more...

Lee.

Thunderstorms.

Somebody has turned out the lights. I have been walking around with an ever growing black cloud lingering above my head, waiting to embark upon heavy rain and a huge thunderstorm. Scary to you as it may sound, it is even scarier to me to feel the fact, that a part of me kinda likes being this way. I am walking through the darkness. Light rain has just started.

Perhaps I need to reevaluate my own interpretations of the human race; I don't know. I have found myself in the last few hours of time seeing all the things that make people predictable, somewhat slimey, boring, and stupid. I have looked down at the world, as if I am growing sick and tired of the same old usual and dull communications and conversations of it all. It is like watching devils pretending to be angels as they remains as devils, while the real angels are treated like devils - walked over and trampled upon with heartless refrain. I continue to move. The rain has got a little heavier, I can hear thunder in the distance.

I look on and see idiots, I see clowns. I see the true meanings behind the actions of untold numbers of people as they move back and forth behind the world. I see the hidden sinister nature of a smile, the man who eyes linger upon an underage girl, while walking with his wife and little baby. I see wasted kids wasting their lives, desperate nerds and even more desperate housewives, watching each other and wondering how to enforce it all. I watch men sell their products as lifestyle advancements, old pensioners walking slowly and alone through shopping centers, while being rampantly ignored and treated as a hindrance by all those who pass. I see lies, deceit, deception, denial, destruction, depression, and delusion... I walk and walk, I am soaking wet, and now there is heavy rain. The thunderstorms are so loud I can barely hear myself think. I don't know if I even want to anymore.

Then, in the solitary beat of a dying heart, I stop. I stand still, in the pouring rain and the thunder. I am static. I don't care anymore. If the rain is going to beat me down, then let it beat me down. If lighting strikes me. Then let it strike me. I am sick of nature, but in no way scared of it. I ponder, everything is still, every feeling around me is silent, suddenly, as if I was in the eye of a hurricane... there is peace.

And then, I realize why.... I have always known why. Everything in this life we see as a reflection of others, is really a reflection of how we see ourselves. I cannot cry, because tears cannot say anything which I do not already know. It isn't the rest of the world which has let me down, and it never has been - it is me. I am the one who has let down both the external world, and myself. Men are not slimey or boring, women are not shallow and predictable. All these acts are not all callous or negative or insidious... I am just walking around with a cloud above my head. There is darkness, because darkness is exactly what I want to see. A part of me is ashamed, another part of me is numb. The rain is dying down a little, and the most immense thunder has past me now. I yearn for a cup of tea.... it is a product of my association.

In moment like this, I wish I had God in my life; but I don't. I wont lie to anyone and pretend I do. There is just me. Yes there is Marissa, and she is amazing. But she has her own life to live, just as we all do. I often wish I was nowhere near as intense and blunt as I can be, for she deserves better than this. She is a genuinely nice person, and those types are the rarest of the lot.

I sit down and I rest for a while, then close my eyes ever so slowly. Emotion has rendered me tired, edgy, and slightly erratic. I know when I awake the clouds will have vanished, and sunshine and brightness will have replaced all the drudgery of these feelings. But the darkness and the memories shall remain. I wont ignore them, I can't ignore them. I will be a prick again. I will have a bad day again. But perhaps next time I will remember... it really isn't their fault, it is always mine.

Lee.

Maybe I'm Afraid.

My heart feels as if it is breaking. No, I am not literally at the point of losing the things I hold dear to me, thankfully these still remain as steadfast and strong as they ever did. I am simply coming closer and closer to the understanding that the world will one day take away from me - and everybody else, every single thought, feeling, desire, object, and aspect of this life we live and hold in such grand importance.
I know this may sound a little morbid, but I do not mean it in this way; I am merely trying to accept that man is not meant to live forever, and that in accepting our frailties in this notion, we can live and enjoy the life we have in such greater depths.
I don't have any commendable metaphors to use; perhaps if you imagine eating a never ending cake, contaning the most delicious ingredients of all time. Eventually, the cake will bore you. Even heaven would get boring after so long, I imagine. I feel as if I am saying that life is a cake but I am not. This has been one very emotional day in my life, and I am writing without even thinking or editing. This is pure as I can be right now... pure and full of errors. Errors I usually mask like a man who has made a successful life out of doing so.

There is a question I ask now and again, and I will ask it now... Imagine you awake in a white padded room, where there are no doors, no windows, and nothing else but you and you alone, and you are in there for an indefinite period of time. What would you do? And how would you feel? Pause for a moment... then read on.
Your answer is an actual account of how you feel about death... the answers are always real, as you are not consciously aware of its realities, therefore face no stringent social construct to adhere to.
I thought about the question myself, and, after much thought, decided I would probably still believe there was a way of escaping... and would never give up trying; even if it took an eternity to do so.

Nothing in this world holds any real fear to me anymore; men are predictable, women even more so. Power is seductive, but also hollow and empty. Commercialism a waste of my time, and being alone is something I never desire, yet would deal with should it ever come my way. I feel as if I fear nothing... except death. I am afraid of dying. It is like I am trying harder and harder each day to become a bigger, bolder and better man, in some kind of subconscious hope of achieving a form of divinity once time comes a knocking at my creaking, rusty door. I fight, I continue to put on a show with the mask I wear. I am aware that life works somewhat inside out and backwards, and that logic is as much use as it is total bullshit, but all the knowledge and smarts do not change the truth - that as smart as I am, I am simply no more than a mortal man... like everyone else on planet earth.

I guess this is it. and I am confident my mind can hold its own with absolutely anyone, and that the trials and tribulations can and will be handled in the fierce yet careful way I deal with the rolls of each dice. But death... you scare me. For I cannot control you, I cannot beat you, I cannot dominate, manipulate, contort and guilt trip you to submit to my desires born from insecurities... in simple terms, I cannot win.
So all I ask is that you leave me, the ones I love, and the frail human race alone for a very very long time. I have seen too much of you these past six months or so, and you are not receiving an invite to my parties anytime in the near future...

And life, love, and happiness, if you are reading this; I am more than satisfied that I have made good friends with all of you!

Lee.

Forward.

I am closing my eyes at this moment - but only just for a moment. I am thinking back to the days of my life, which now feel like a million miles from the world I view before my very eyes at this point in time - once I reopen them.
I remember a feeling of solitary, or a form of disconnection. I was never unsocial in any genuine way, but I always felt alone. I never ignored the empathy of others, but was too busy trying to organize my own space in time. I know the path of intellect is one of often frustration and internal confliction - very few wish to think as deeply as I may do, which is cool. But for me, this is how I am, this is how I have always been. And I am not a fan of telling anyone to deny that which they truly feel they are on the inside. Besides all this, I embrace the hell out of the brain I have; I have only just begun using it to it's full potential, as I intend to.

I search my mind back to the days when I would go for long, long walks through the inspirational areas of green fields and nature, or even the dirty slums of harsh living, when I needed to think long and hard about problems which now feel so trivial, yet at the time mattered as much as the big deals of today, which themselves may not seem so great an issue a decade from now..
I remember the times where I would simply go somewhere public and study the human race in all it's quiet glory; it never really mattered where - stripped of all the bare bones of religion, power, colour, class and the like, all the desires, insecurities, and communication modes of humanity, are pretty much equal; I man in a suit needs love just as much as a man in a cardboard box.
There is great irony in the knowledge that most of the answers came when I simply stopped thinking... but this is almost a subconscious act of force driven by impulse, for to openly think about not thinking, means you are still thinking; much like how you cannot be truly free when reminding yourself that you are so.

I have come to the conclusion that in order to find yourself, you need to give a certain part of your true self up to the world - the world (people through nature, not nature through people) in turn defines, decides, scrutinizes and muses over this portion of you. And, when it hands yourself back, you have the power to fix that which you believe needs fixing, and discard everything else at your leisure. As long as the choices are undoubtedly your own, not born out of malice or spite, and structured somewhere in the pleasure of personal progression, it should be okay.

I guess much has changed, just as existence continues to progress and move forward. But this is life; to be the same person I was ten years ago, right now, would be the equivalent of wasting an entire decade of my life. But I hardly know anyone who is the same as they were - we are all changing. Sometimes we get lost, sometimes we forget why we are even trying anyway. Sometimes we change while we feel like we are not, only to realize we are always moving ahead, many years after. It isn't easy, there is no map, and the jigsaws we piece together will only ever truly be our own. Sure, we can help others with a piece or two of theirs - maybe even construct a frame for them, but it is their puzzle, they must decide.
This is all a portion of being human. Motion moves forward, it doesn't stagnate or look behind itself - it is always living in the now while knowing there lies a future ahead. The past retains a basic awareness, but only as a tool to remind ourselves of the errors and trials which made us better people.

And that is all life is... it is a journey, a train, a roller-coaster, a bus, maybe simply just a long long walk, or a very slow run - and this world is yours and only yours... but it is also mine. So treat it with respect. And even if you don't like to think, or use your legs so often, go outside and smell the incredible smell of Springtime - beside the scent of hair on the head of a new born baby, it may be the greatest gift our nose sense has ever been given to us.
My eyes are reopened now. But I never wrote this with my eyes closed.

Lee.

Human Chess.

During the rainy days of my childhood pre-rebellious and angry teenager faze, I would often play Chess with my friends (The ones who knew how to play the game) I wasn't great at it, but I loved playing it.
There were ways and means in which the players generally undertook each competition; some were smart, some bold, some ruthless, and some, downright stupid. But for me, I was never going to play this game the way everyone around me was telling me to play it. I couldn't see the point. Predictable formulas and structures are somewhat boring and conventional - and if convention always remained the same, things would never change. Besides this, who were they to tell me how to make each move? There were books, sure. But I didn't want to become a second-rate half decent version of someone else - I would rather be a terrible version of myself... at least it was organic. Slowly, as I played, I started to see life as a game of chess. The pieces were all representations of the human animal; each one carrying a certain use and value, which would differ and abound in relation to the board, the game, the situation, and the logistics and varying places of the world within a Chess-board. As we all do, I instantly looked for myself, as the pieces of a fresh new game sat before me... white versus black, Dark versus light, Man versus Man - (Or woman. A few girls have beat me at Chess)...

* Initially, we have pawns. Faced against each-other for the ignorance and power trip of the King, they stand at the front line, waiting to sacrifice themselves for the 'greater good' of protecting the King. Pawns are stupid. Pawns are limited, and can only move one step forward - except for the first move, which is sometimes a double step of idiotic proportions into the bleak unknown. Pawns are also 50% of the board. Every now and again, a pawn will devour a major piece, but only when the piece has a severe distraction to allow this snipe attack. It is very very rare, and the pawns are, by all accounts, little more than human armour to protect the bigger pieces.

*Next is the Rook, or Castle as it is often known. The Castle is steadfast, loyal, and also a protector of the King. He is better than a Pawn, as he moves in long, straight lines. He can and often will take major pieces, but only when he works well with the other pieces. He is dangerous, but limited. A Rook is easy to notice, and easier to defend against. He should not be ignored, but, by all accounts, is little more than a man who openly desires a position directly above him own - very easy to see, therefore even easier to control. His greatest danger is when he remains hidden... but is often left open in view of his movement abilities.

*You then have the Bishop. He is very obscure, and is in its simplest of terms, a distorted version of the Rook. The Bishop moves in a diagonal direction, and tries to imitate the Queen. Certainly a threat, but more of an imitator. They are those who attempt to attain through more obtuse means. A greater challenge then the Rook, for his cunning, he is best handled when not taken seriously. A man who moves diagonally is in many ways trying to work outside the box - while still intrinsically locked inside of it. He works best with an aggressive Rook, and worst when trying to operate through stupid Pawns.

*Then their is the Knight. The Knight is far and away the smartest piece on the Chessboard. The Knight is the only piece which can move both forward and sideways in one swift move. He is also the only piece which can literally jump ahead of any other piece he chooses. He is a tremendous asset to the Queen, and ally to the King. He does not adhere to any science of logic. Is cunning, devious. and a wolf in the clothing of a sheep. His biggest downfall is in moving too fast, not looking when he skips over in a Pawn in an L shape, and landing in the hands of a ruthless and barren major. He is the silent ruler of the King. He is the man behind the curtain - pulling the strings of chaos.

*The King comes next. He is the Daddy of them all. He rules with an iron fist, is the central target for everyone, and the sole aim of conquering, in order to win the game. The board revolves around the King - who can even go as far as sacrificing the Queen, if he so chooses. No other piece is afforded this luxury, at least not directly. Everyone wishes to live as the King. Very few actually can or do.

*Which leaves the Queen. Of course, the Queen is an entirely different concept to the entire board, and, like it or not, she is the true barometer in which the board revolves around. She can move and act in almost any direction and distance she pleases. She can align herself with anyone, at any time, for any reason she sees fit. The Pawns will die for her, the Rooks will worship and guard her, the dodgy, diagonal moving Bishop will attempt to imitate her motions and actions, the Knight will guard her honour against anybody (including the opposite Queen), and the King will defend her as the investment to his future genetic code.  The greatest downside of the Queen, is that she is both expendable and replaceable... this sole truth destroying any genuine potential to become absolute ruler and master of the board.

So which piece is the one which most represents you? We all want to be the King, right? In all personal honesty, while being the King is an outwardly desired and, by all accounts, an incredibly powerful position in its direct and obvious influence, the King is in no way the greatest piece on the board. Think about it; he is the bullseye. He is the central target who sits on the throne which everybody wants to sit on. He ordered the Pawns, organizes the Rooks, Knights, and Bishops, and can only move one step at a time, as each move affects every aspect of all which surrounds him - in this case the entire board. Sure, he gets to fuck the Queen, but remains so busy trying to control order and chaos, that he cannot devote all his loyalties and affections to her alone... she has to turn somewhere?
The smartest piece is the Knight. He is always needed, ever resourceful, and in the trenches enough to view with a sharp eye, all which surround him, but not too far in to get swiped by a flying missile of a Bishop or Rook. He will become right-hand man to whichever King rules, by proxy, and probably shafts the Queen behind the Kings back - without needing to adhere to all the responsibilities of protection of the King towards his wife. His worst enemy is the opposite Knight. Which is why he seeks to rid him through other pieces as soon as possible.
Every piece has its place. Every piece has its value. Nobody is born a Rook, a King, a Bishop, or a Queen. We become these pieces as out lives move forward. You may be a Rook, you maybe a Knight, you maybe a dodgy bendy Bishop. Regardless, you matter, and never let anyone convince you otherwise...

I have not played Chess for a few years now, and wonder how good I would be at it in today's world. But it is a very sharp game, and if I ever find the grave of the fella who created it, I owe his skeleton a beer!

Lee.

One Percent Of Chapter Seven.

I continue to write, and it is hard at this point. Not stretching the imagination or idea, but constructing everything into order. I get closer each day, and am much nearer to the end than I give myself credit for. I will feel satisfied when I am fully finished. But it will only last a day or two, by then I will have started on book two. I will write until nature forces me to stop...

I don't know if the reactions to these are either positive, negative, or indifferent. But hey, it is not to worry, I will simply continue to write a book which I would personally enjoy reading... 

This is taken from somewhere in the middle of chapter seven... The Art Of Feeling;

'Can you remember a period of your life in which you felt you wanted an aspect or element of existence to move in a certain direction? Only for the desire to happen, yet still leave you no happier or validated than before? Now remember that same portion of your past on this precise moment. Can you sense, with the somewhat ineffective benefit of transparent hindsight, a clearer viewpoint of what you felt you wanted, in comparison to what you actually needed?

Unless you are a severely delusional and repressed being, who may very well endure an entire lifetime in an uneven reality born out of an internal mode of unconscious protection – which, conversely enough, only serves to lessen the quality of its life, as opposed to progressing it. You are likely to feel a sensation of a form of vivid clarity. The depth, of which this affects each individual, will vary in drastic measures - dependent upon the root and reaction towards future endeavors the moment perpetuates. Regardless of the depth of its power, each outcome of conscious awareness goes to elaborate the sheer force and nature of the fundamental truths about human desire and denial.

In essence, the powers of the emotions and the actions they cause in all their varying forms have never changed, only the societies and the constructs of how they operate. Much like how murder and chaos are generally acceptable in certain elements during war time, the same actions are completely unjustified when there is peace. The actions remain constant - the perceptions vary.

We are not a good, wholesome animal, who seeks to help the world and make it a better place. We are not an evil, malicious animal, who carries an impetus to destroy and manipulate our surroundings. We are simply an animal - nothing more, nothing less.

We are born after a nine month gestation period in our Mothers womb; we exist as a living creature from a few solitary moments to - in some cases, over a century. Finally, after all our living on this planet has come to pass, and there is no longer any point of purpose in our personal regulation of the human race… we die.

Sometimes there is music, sometimes complete silence. We think, we feel, we breathe, we eat, we wonder, we create, and we destroy. Our paths, our beliefs, our lies and truths all vary through culture, class, colour, creed, and ideas of why we exist in the first place. As long as we continue to replicate our species, and push forward in our paths of survival, everything else in the world simply belongs to the dance our social animal partakes upon.

Before our societies even existed in their state of basic reality - in which land was built upon for greater comfort of living and survival, rules and regulations were decreed to its populous via the rulers of the land to ascertain power and structure, and a system of regular process and order was facilitated to organize and control the desired outcomes and repressions of leaders who were afforded this power, man lived a solitary yet dangerous existence.

He never needed to suppress or withhold his natural desires and impulses, as there were no moral or ethical rules and regulations to stop him from doing so. He never needed to worry about a feminist movement holding veiled protests outside his cave or mud hut, vastly against his dominance over whichever female he chose to club over the head, carry by the hair home, and then replicate his genetic coding with. Nor did he fret over finding alternative eating habits, after almost experiencing a grim death through stoning, from a group of disenchanted cave dwellers who believed in the unquestionable rights of life for boars and wildebeest.'

This leads to freedom aspects and the idea of freedom and rule being somewhat intrinsically mixed - much like oil and water.

Hope you enjoy, and it isn't too mentally draining...

Lee. 

Free Form Writing.

There is an old cliche of the frustrated writer.  Who sits above a furrowed brow as he gazes down upon a fresh sheet of blank paper - unaware of what to write next. Scratching their heads and chewing on a Biro, musing over the first set of formulating a series of words together - hoping for literal alchemy, but probably achieving little.
Personally, I never have or have had this problem. Sometimes, when I have nothing specific to write about, I just write... this is one of those times.

So anyway, this laptop is sitting in-between my raised knees and crossed legs, as I lean against a wall of my bedroom. There are two pillows propping up my back, and a cold yet fresh breeze - which stems from the curtains I washed and re-hung this afternoon. My mobile phone is resting beside me on the floor at a right-angle, beside an empty plastic black flask cup, which just under an hour ago contained a cup of tea I made, and then drunk (Not that you can do much else with a cup-of-tea). I have just eaten two pieces of wholemeal toast - I no longer eat white bread, and have not done so for about ten years.
A barely edited copy of Chapter Nine of my book sits on the other side of my right leg on the floor, on top of it rests a folded letter form HSBC bank, telling me about my new debit account approval. I am already with three other banks, but just applied because I could.

Even writing about banks and money bore me. Not because I am some kind of anarchist who believes in burning cash, but because it reminds me of Chapter Five, in which I had to research the entire history of finance, money, trade, and the like. God it was boring. Money is an undoubtedly necessary portion of the world. But the more you learn about its nature, the more you realize how cold, cynical and lacking in any real humanity the item truly is... which is ironic when we consider it is a human invention. But, it is very difficult to imagine the world as it is without it, and human nature is much more subtle and devious than we sometimes like to admit.. and the readies have not helped so much. Of course, 95% of it is controlled by only 5% of the world, so I will let you decide how healthy money is as an act of human endevour. In truth, it is not really money that is the issue, but how the human animal organizes, controls, and is seduced and destroyed by it.
Though it does bring me to the idea I came up with, that the global recession was a result of too many banks creating money out of nowhere in the form of mass loans; money which adds to the debt of a nation. There is a reason that in only 70 years, the percentage of actual currency being physical in the U.K, has dropped from 50%, to a mere 3%... All the issues and riots of our world now; from Greece, to Iceland, Egypt and Libya, and those which will arise over the next few years (and yes, England is a possibility too), arise from the wealthy trying to punish the poor for the mistakes of control made by those in power. But this has been happening since man created order, it is only when they tip the balance, do the riots take place. I guess everything in life is revolving - even evolution... sort of.
You have to love the way all great fascists dictators refer and promote themselves (at least, in their rise to power) as 'of the people' types. A point of proof that the greatest enemies do indeed pose as your allies and friends, if their ever was one.

I never followed leaders myself. I have never followed anyone. Not to rebel for the sake of it, but purely because I don't believe the words of men who the masses allow to think for them, when doing so only creates disconnection within the human species. Hitler, Mussolini, Rupert Murdoch, et all. Only find reasons which show the outlooks and attributes which separate the human race. Whereas Freud, Nietzsche, Darwin, shit - even Albert Camus, would only attempt to unify through ideas of possible universal truths. Of course, trying to adept truth to the masses in a system they have come to rely on is kinda dangerous, and should my book eventually become released, I am likely to make as many enemies as I do friends. But this is cool; Sawyer was always my favourite character on Lost anyway...

Goodnight all...

Lee.

Whose Mind Is It Anyway?

There is a scant possibility that in the next five to ten years of my life, I could slowly happen to lose my mind, to a degree in which the ways and means in which I see the world will perhaps be considered as too obscure to fit into any standard accepted form of idea. This doesn't mean I will be changing my name to Chicken George, or joining the cult/religion/pyramid scheme of Scientology. What it does mean is that time may well render me as somebody deemed insane. And am writing this as a preemptive disclaimer to such accusations.

The perception of this comes from the idea that I simply do not see this world in a way which the majority of people do. I love this planet - I love this life; how can anybody not? It is so varied, rich and immensely convoluted, that it has always felt to me like a circus which nobody has been able to organize properly - even though the lion tamers, tigers, clowns and elephants, are all waiting for their turn to dance for the masses.
This is just a metaphor, and, life is whatever you see it to be.

But what is insanity anyway? To me insanity is seeing men in their 50's wearing football shirts with the names of boys in their 20's on the back - putting their entire validation modes upon people they will never even meet. It is an entire cinema remaining silent, as none of them believe they have a social right to tell some noisy knob-head kids to keep it down. It is watching guys try to develop rapport and attraction with a woman by talking about data-cables while kissing their arse - ignoring every last aspect of the female emotional drive. It is watching generations repeat the ignorance of those which existed above their own, while passing it downward to those below them. It is knee-jerk reactionaries reading tabloid papers and believing every ounce of bullshit designed to propagate hate and fear, in order to sell more newspapers. It is accepting truth with question, conforming to every standard belief system and idea, and bowing to the pressure of the masses - as if some unquestionable law book of life was written by a monotheistic, omnipotent figure or creation.

I understand that human evolution never progressed with thought of the mind in any form of construct - hunters hunted, nurturers nurtured - a pretty simple plan for a pretty simple people. And that the pressure in humanity to conform to the masses, or risk the fear of being ostracized and... the greatest true fear of all humanity - alone. But we have been building our modern world for over 10,000 years now. An inception in a generation of great thinkers, is surely only so far away?

The world needs more free thinkers and radicals who are considered somewhat nuts. Not psychotics who cause others emotional or physical harm, or those who crack from the pressures of life to embark upon an existence of manic street preaching or walking around in the same clothes carrying shopping bags (See my Bagman blog), but souls who see the circus of life in purely independent terms. I personally connect with those viewed as off the wall in much greater depth than anyone else. Not people who act and dress and appear different purely, so others think they are (I feel a little sorry for those who do this, but still send them some love for trying), but the genuine single-minded. I would rather hang with somebody who believed that they were once a cat in a previous life, than some boring barstad who allows the Daily Mail do their thinking for them.

I know this blog itself may come across as a little odd to some. But I believe in my own personal view that self-awareness is the greatest barometer as a prevention tool of losing your mind. So as long as I remain knowledgeable that some people may consider me to be a little crazy, then I am not really crazy at all.
I ask you to embrace your own ideas - I know deep down we all have them, and it is hard in this world to openly express them. But, unless your independent ideas are of any harm to other members of the species - why should you keep them locked away? When somebody trusts you, they will tell you all sorts of incredible and original thoughts about life that they have within themselves... just make sure you keep them with you, it is not very nice to tell others that which you have been told in secrecy.

The older I get, the more I find myself caring less and less for convention. Structure is a good rule of design to regulate the world and all its amazing ideals and inanimate objects of living, as well as withholding anarchy and mass hysteria. But there is no reason that i have to think as others want me to think, to act as society tells me to act, or to adhere and submit to global truths designed by other human beings. I love people - humans are amazing, wonderful and fascinating creatures, but I am not willing to let anybody, anywhere, ever, do my thinking and construction of belief and idea for me. My brain is my own, and I protect it like it were the Fort Knox of neurology. And if doing such a thing makes me insane? Then that is exactly what I am!

And perhaps, it is the one truly great thing I can take from the family I come from. In that hardly anybody I am related to is not full or original, independent thought. Of course, I don't happen to agree with it all, but than again... if I did, that would be boring anyway...

And I leave you all with one simple yet random question...
What is the boldest action in your life, you have ever undertaken?

Lee.