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Posted 27 August 2004, 3.50 am by Villager

I used to be something of a slave to my emotions. It might have been the throes of love, the vacant agonies of loss, the bitter thrall of hate or the disabling woes of despair. Whichever, they each tended to dominate my thoughts and dreams, my motives and actions. Beautiful, wonderful highs, bitter, crushing lows. I was happy with that, broadly – the lows got to me but I felt alive, human. The highs were worth the lows. Something changed.
For a long time, what I would call ‘charged’ emotions (that is, recognizably positive or negative ones) were simply replaced with an intense nothingness; not a particular positive or negative, just empty, and sad. Apathetic In recent times, even this has faded. Where once I would have sat and stared with tragic, narcissistic loneliness, I can now only gaze and try to recall such feeling. Any feeling. In my efforts to understand myself I seem to have become something else.
I cannot recall a recent time where I felt even mild hatred, anger, love, joy, or even that staple of disillusion, apathy. Just nothing. I’m a person without feeling, and I have no idea why. I’m not particularly upset about it, except perhaps in a vague, abstract way. I’m now largely driven by curiosity, when it strikes. Apart from that I think I’ve become a passive mill, turning experience and information into thoughts and ideas that feel like somebody else’s.
Some might consider this a victory of sorts, a stumbling into command of my mind, free of the liability of emotion. But I cannot think of it as such. I lack entirely motivation, cares, impulse, even desire. It would be something of an inconvenience to indulge in pleasures of the flesh, and hardly worth it. I don’t feel human anymore. My relationships are fickle, my interactions with others trivial and forced. I have no personality, only dull, recited responses to the various stimuli. Perhaps this is indeed a step towards something better, but I cannot fathom what. It’s as though I’ve become amputated from the orbit of human experience, or rather, that I’ve simply drifted away.
So what to do? I have no real inclination towards anything, I just exist, eating, sleeping, and going about daily life. Is this what it feels like to be ‘grown up’? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I‘m concerned, I think, because I’ve always relied upon my feelings and emotions as a kind of bizarre compass for life. I realize this is unlikely to be particularly interesting to any of you, ‘Oh great. After years of whining about his emotions, Villager’s whining about not having anything to whine about’ and in truth my prime motive in posting is to solicit responses from anyone who can relate. Been there? Still there? What’s happening to me, people?!

justify my love

Posted 21 August 2004, 4.01 pm by darkstrEam

I think it's fair to say I spend too much money on music, even if most of what I buy is a "bargain". Most of the albums I bought today were only a fiver but there was holy grail of a CD...that I spend twenty quid on.
Of course I can balance this out in my head, in that everything else was well below a resasonable price for a quality original album, but still...twenty quid is twenty quid.
So what was this uber important and yet very expensive album?
Why, it was the collected early works of Art Of Noise, remastered and mixed into 5:1 surround sound. *silence* *tumbleweed* *cough* *etc*

Music matters to me, some music more than others. Art of Noise were electronic music I was into before I realised how much I loved electronic music. I still have a battered and much-played copy of Close (To The Edit) on 7 inch vinyl from 1984. Twenty years ago - only nine years old, one of the first pieces of music I'd ever bought (although I also bought "Star Trekkin" and the Ghostbusters theme around the same time).
Back then I loved it because I'd never heard anything like it and it spoke to me. Now I see it a little differently (an experimental yet also hypnotic and mocking sonic rant on the nature of electronic pop music, not entirely dissimilar yet opposite to KLF's chart-milking reinvention philosophy) and yet I still love it and know there's nothing quite like it.
Some things are important for more reasons than we can understand, and sometimes you can't explain why what matters to you does - it just does.

Paedophile Appreciation

Posted 19 August 2004, 3.57 pm by Anton

[Editor's Note: Remember these articles are purely the opinion of the individual poster and do not necessarily reflect the policies or opinions of]

How many of you think paedophiles are sick and the scum of the earth? I'm guessing a fair few. That's quite a foolish thing to think. Paedophiles can be normal people too, they don't have to touch children. Paedophilia is as wrong as homosexuality, bestiality, scat whatever. Its nothing but a sexual preference. I'm sure not every paedophile touches children, some of them most realise that it is wrong to do such a thing because a child hasn't developed sufficient mental faculties to know what its actually doing. These are the paedophiles I have no problem with, think of the fucking mental torment they must go through being sexually attracted to children. I bet its hell.

Nobody chooses to be a paedophile, you don't wake up one morning and think "I know, I think I'm going to fuck children so I can hear their pelvis snap" just like you don't wake up think "I'm going to fuck people of my own gender from now on." I don't know what causes it be it genetic or because of something that happened to you in your life but I can safely assume its not a choice. The man who just masturbates to the children's underwear section of a catalogue may have highly questionable sexual preferences but can you call him a sick freak? He knows he can't and shouldn't touch children but he has sexual desires. Should he condemn himself to a life of no sex and no masturbation? That's a lot to ask of someone who doesn't have the constitution of a monk.

Child porn is a different story, the people who make it are sick. The people who watch it however? Not really. So the kids underwear section doesn't do it for them anymore, its obvious they're going to go onto child porn. Of course there's the argument if nobody watched it then it wouldn't exist. That's true, but its cyclical, people will watch it as long as its there as well even if its just the maker knocking one out to it. So in essence its near impossible and even more improbable that we'll ever completely get rid of child porn so someone watching it isn't really adding to the problem really.

So how do I conclude? Paedophiles are people too. They can be good, bad or downright sick. Either way, next time you hear of someone caught with a child porn collection just look at it this way: At least they weren't caught with a basement full of decaying child corpses with holes where they aren't meant to be.


Posted 17 August 2004, 3.50 pm by shaggy

The world is controlled by blips and bites,
The ones and zeroes are following us.
We see them in the mirror.

This is controlled, we are controlled
And it is our liberation.
We have no choice, we cannot be otherwise,
And hammered down and shackled,
we are free.

Make me have no choice,
Hammer me down and set me free,
Tie me up and free me from bondage,
Give me no choice so I can have the freedom to smile.

Breaking the Habit

Posted 5 August 2004, 2.02 am by shaggy

I cannot control this, the system
Lost its lens, the prism with which
We have seen it all.

The habit has controlled us,
Made us who we are,
And polluted us until we gave it away.

Yet now we are left with a habit
With no way of ridding ourselves of the actions
Rolling and rolling with nothing to light

Perhaps it was the pollution that ruined us?

Me America, You World. Grr!

Posted 3 August 2004, 9.50 pm by Villager

The European perception of the USA is often unjust, assuming naiveté or reckless arrogance concerning foreign affairs. Having been here a while, I see it is rather more complicated than that.

I was seated outside a sleepy little café in a sleepy little town taking an occasional sip from my morning coffee when I was joined by a friendly local, an old man whose profession I have always admired; gardener and groundsman. We talked about ourselves, the weather, and about England, a country that not a few Americans seem to regard as still in the Nineteenth century (they are not entirely wrong, but that is a topic for another time). Inevitably, conversation drifted onto Global Terrorism and American Foreign Policy. Of those I have spoken to – and of course I can make no claim that their opinions are representative of anything more than themselves – there seems to be two problems, as I seem them, that distort and oppress the American understanding of contemporary conflict and the wider world. First and foremost, the media here is largely terrible. Exposure to television, radio and newspapers betrays an almost shockingly narrow perception and presentation of world events. My native BBC, while not always (or even regularly) living up to the ideals of impartiality and broad coverage, at least seems to have in view the goals it should strive to meet in Public Service Broadcasting.
Flicking through the national broadsheets and Washington’s local publications, one is struck by the lack of world news and analysis, and where it is to be found it pertains almost exclusively to the narrow, short-term American interest. There is a prime-time, right-wing (though ostensibly politically unaffiliated) political opinion show here with a substantial audience which provides its viewers with what amounts to a diatribe of self-interest, distrust of the world at large – even those who have staunchly supported American policies – obsessive paranoia and an utter unwillingness to consider that military and diplomatic force may not be the wisest means of serving the interest of America, her allies or the world at large. The 'liberal' equivalents differ only in their hatred of George W Bush, and such shows are not untypical.
Self interest and, in light of the aggression that this nation has suffered in recent times, reactionary distrust and militarism are perhaps to be expected. But it is very dangerous that these things pervade the media, and so the public mind, without being placed in a greater context. The American media is fixated upon the present and the immediate future. It is not concerned with historic precedent, nor willing to consider the long-term negative consequences of its brazen behavior. If it is to be hoped that the world’s sole superpower will mature and greet the world on equal terms, then the American media’s self-censorship and mindless preoccupation with the here-and-now represents an obstacle to world peace perhaps as great as any other. I speak of historic precedent, and by that I mean that the ‘War on Terror’ to date is, compared to the United States’ recent and distant wars, much less a threat to American lives and general prosperity than political discourse and the accompanying hysteria would have you believe. Yes, the terrorist attacks on American soil and American nationals and interests abroad do represent a significant development in America’s relationship with the world, but what it does not do is herald a new era where America must fight with all her military might or die. Bad as it may seem right now, it must be realized that it could get a lot worse.
The second problem, a sibling of the first, is that the American people themselves seem unconcerned at the journalistic lethargy of their media. Perhaps this is even a cause of the first problem, though inasmuch as a nation’s media and people reflect and shape each other, I hope not for it is much the harder to change. The consequence is that the world lies prone to a force that neither sees nor wants to see the world’s problems with any clarity, its focus sternly upon material self-improvement and preservation. So much depends upon American policy, from man’s perennial abuse of the environment to how many thousands of innocent lives will be claimed and how much destruction will be wrought, if this playground brawl between the forces of Western conservatism and those who would make Islam an excuse to take innocent lives is allowed to escalate and draw the wider world into a conflict that is as unnecessary as it is potentially dangerous.
The key to all of this lies in the pyramid of American political power. At the top, the President and a tight political and economic elite sit astride a two-party system that strangles and perverts the democratic process. If America is to save the world and itself from chaos, then it can only do so through the proper practice of the noble, democratic principles that it is presently attempting to foist upon Iraq. I believe that an accurate political reflection of the humanity within America would solve most of the problems that America faces, but that cannot happen until the people themselves demand that they be properly informed. America and the world need a second American Revolution, but the only Englishmen now are those who sit and ponder in cafes. This time, the enemy and obstacle to true American freedom lies not across an ocean, but within the borders of what the people here so tragically refer to as the
greatest nation on earth. The United States of America was founded on principles which none could justly fault. As the 228th Anniversary comes and goes amid deafening fanfare and celebration, the silent masses need to stand up and defend those principles, else for them and the world, things can and likely will get a whole lot worse.


Posted 30 July 2004, 2.44 am by Indigo

I watched a woman today
as she stood up on the bus
to stagger down the aisle
clinging to the slippery cold
metal poles
that a million hands and a million lives
have touched.

I looked her over,
with an air of false importance.
Stifling a yawn I watched
as she stumbled and
pressed her fingers
into the grimy yellow tape
that promises a satisfying give
into the pressure of your body,
a bright 'ping' and a loud red light up
overhead... 'Next STOP Please':
but always delivers

I watched her blunder
and took note of the grace
with which she handled
the whiplash of the road;
and I wondered silently
if it was an echo of the grace
with which her ancestors
bore another
more terrible

My eyes travelled down
to her ankles
wrinkled and shined
gray-black and slim
but powerful and bare
the rich mahogany of her
overwhelmed me
my heart took up stacatto beat
and the soul of old lands
took root in my chest.

That woman turned to look at me
and I could see wisdom in her neck
and flourescent fear
in her eyes.

She infused a longing in me
for thick beats and moon howling
for the heady scent of life
filling my lungs and clinging to the soft tissue
burrowing deep with claws and teeth
until I am engulfed by the wild

As she stepped off the bus
I could no longer see it in her
though the sound was still in my ears
clogging up my mind.

As she walked away my vision blurred
and beneath her strong ankles
wrinkled and shined
gray-black and slim
I saw the congo
seeping into the concrete jungle.

Death the the infidels

Posted 23 July 2004, 9.23 pm by shaggy

"Hey, look at that sweet ass!" The guy punched him in the shoulder and pointed. "Man, I'd like a piece of that."

It is the same. Always the same. The focus is never on the important things, the significant details that always get lost in the rush and confusion, the cold chill of pragmatic reality. Concrete and fatal, the world pushes down, ever down, until the ground can no longer push back and everything crashes inwards.

"I don't care about her," he thought but did not say. "She is attractive but I do not care. She is no one, not even a name, to me. Why would I want to pay attention to someone without a name?"

"Yeah," he says, his voice tired and obviously not interested. "Simply marvelous."

He picks himsef up, not knowing why he feels so pushed down. This is the real world, where his actions matter, right? The other realm is not reachable without a single act of violence, his will not strong enough to succumb to the demons taunting him in his head. He has scars, yes, but he knows now that those who suffer are not the ones who disappear but the ones who remember. Memory becomes a game, a twisted torture to those who survive to live another day, looking back at those lost. Blame and anguish set in, set shop in the heart, and rest, content in their establishment.

"I vow," he says to the people around him at another point in time, in another moment of his life, "never to go into a place that either has strippers or a wet t-shirt night."

Laughing, the others say "check his forehead, see if he's alright." He thinks but does not say, "there is nothing wrong with me. I am not a freak." Upon reflection, he also thinks to himself, "always to myself, never out loud. Perhaps I deserve the title, perhaps I do deserve to be laughed at."

He wonders silently if its a function of society. Is it the surroundings, perhaps, that are freakish? Maybe he belongs, maybe he is the one who is normal, and all the rest that he sees are the anomaly.

It is really all he can do just to assume that he is all right, after all, that there is nothing wrong. His scars sing out to him, relics of his past. He remembers the logic, for it still rings in his head. "If I hurt, then I can remove the pain." Sometimes, added to it as if on a pile for his shoulders to bear, "I deserve it after all, for being such a failure. One punishes the dog who cannot control his bladder, the world punishes those who cannot control their emotions."

Always a burden, there is always a burden. This is the unbearable weight upon us. When the burden is removed, there comes an even more unbearable lightness of being (see: milan kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being).

"Avaunt and quit my sight," he tells these burdens. "Leave me, allow me to smile." There is silence. He wonders if his words have been affective, if his heart has heeded the call, the necessity of happiness. He wonders if those gentle reminders, little demons that cackled into his ear, would go away.

He depended on their evacuation for his survival.

He closes his eyes now. The pains, as if being beckoned into reality, jabbed at his side and almost knocked him over as he stood. His face contorted in pain, and he clenched his teeth to try to shake it, try to push it away.

After it disappeared he wondered if he didn't deserve it in the first place.

The sunshine comes; the alarm rings and he jumps awake, groggy. He wonders if the new day will be any different, if his vows to smile will change anything at all, or if his Nietzchean cycle of eternal return was fixed upon one short interval of time.

But for all of it, he stands. Somehow.

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"New Orleans at Night" Acrylics on Canvas. I recently saw a shot of Bourbon street in New Orleans. I liked the shot enough that I wanted to paint something like it, to sort of reproduce the feelings the photograph gave me. I want to go to New Orleans myself and do another painting in the same vein.


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Hey Cris, it's as busy here as it was at the end - which is to say, not at all

I wish I could new you guys was here in the beginning of 2020 LOL

OMG I was feeling nostalgic and I can’t believe that AKP is still here! So how’s it going ?

Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness


80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.


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