Alice into

Chapter 1 The mean Ing of Meaningless, and that’s not meaning all

“Once upon a time before the furthest thing away was the furthest thing away and the concept of a concept was not even a concept,
there wasn’t any meaning and I do mean that conceptually, literally and metaphorically.
There didn’t have to be any meanings you see, the universe just existed in pure equanimity;
in the mind of the great being.”

With wine glass in hand and a sleepy intoxicated grin upon her china white face,
the audience of one this evening announced her carefully arranged thoughts on the matter in a precise but slurred manner.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Returning to his prose Max, good friend, lover, confidant and thorough pain in the ass went on to explain the meaning of equanimity to Alice.
She of course would tell you should you ever ask ever that she obviously knew what it meant;
that the mind was perfectly balanced and observant to all sensations without any form of craving or aversion.
Max being a somewhat wise but somewhat misled gentleman and a scholar knew
Alice didn’t have a clue what equanimity meant. However, rather than causing her embarrassment
carried on in a hurried whisper that proposed profound enlightening illumination.

“So, the equanimity of the mind, the enlightened place of heaven, nibbana or nirvana, all things just…. ‘were’ and as I said, very balanced.
All things vibrated in this state of meditation and the great being or beast depending upon your take on creation just observed
the sensations of the universe without any cravings or aversions.

Then…
…there was the Big Bang!

“Like, the Big Bang?” Alice said with a sly tone mocking his seriousness.

“Yes. This big bang made the great, all knowing heavenly gracious mysterious groover the original mover and omni-present one shout out in curiosity and wonderment,

“What in Gods name is that?

The power of his great voice echoed out across the universe causing vibration upon vibration making it expand and expand.
God listened in complete surprise for the first time to his expansive voice echoing through the cosmos with a captivated smile on his face akin to a bemused child.
He then thought ‘Huh, Jesus, who in hells name is God? Fuck, that must be me,’ he said.
Then he thought, ‘then who in hells name is this Jesus bloke and what in heavens name is hell?’

You see, creation occurred with a bang too many questions from the start and thus as we know a lifetime of confusion followed.
Anyway, to settle things down again and to get things back in order he decided things need order and everything needed a number and a name.
So firstly he decided upon a name for him self and wrote it out across the universe.

‘Oh no!’ He cried out in a roar of frustration, ‘I can’t see my name, its too bloody dark.’ A holy command later there was of course light and thus the Lords name written about the heavens for all to see, and thus it read….

Nigel.

God scratched his expansive beard and feared he had been a little too hasty, too impulsive.
‘Jesus I’ve just invented linguistic tumbleweed he thought, i have just created boredom, a vacuous black hole within a name.
No one worthwhile will believe in me if my names Nigel.’
He hurriedly erased it out and thought of something , as he did language was created, and as we know creation was created from language.
He then scratched his oversize head and wrote it out across the heavens.

Yod Hey Vav Hey.

Yod Hey Vav Hey liked what he saw and went on to think intently who on earth could this Jesus bloke could be.

Oh I forgot to mention; as he wrote his heavenly name across the universe at the time there was
actually no one to see it universe or in fact anything resembling polite society in the universe at all.
Albeit apart from a few bits and bobs of non matter, which obviously didn’t matter to anyone.
Not liking that, God waved his holy hands in the air in a flurry and got the creation process going.
As you know he built the universe in six days, inventing football and beer on the Saturday afternoon.
He invented alcohol on Saturday evening and went out and got drunk on Saturday night, inventing the kebab at about 2 a.m.
Obviously on Sunday he curled up on the sofa with another two new creations called ‘guilt and regret’ who
spent all their time moaning in his head wishing he hadn’t had drank so much, created angels
and told them they could hang out at his until they get somewhere of their own to hang out in.
He fell asleep for some time and as guilt and regret fell asleep he decided this day
was good indeed and exclaimed this is a holy day, a day of rest.’

Alice now sat concentrating and attentive, not on Max but on the spider that was making its way across her bed.
Max sighed at her apparent lack of focus and attention.
“You see when the great being was disturbed by the big bang his consciousness was observing purity.
In the split second where he lost control of his mind ‘Ity’ jumped out of ‘purity’ and floated unnoticed across the universe.
Ity being lonely and alienated from everything around him quickly came to an ego defensive conclusion that
the universe rotated around him and that he was in fact the best thing in the universe.
That’s why people think that when they leave university.”

“Ha, ha….boom-boom very droll my little wordsmith.” Said Alice.

“However, and there are always however’s,’ he added, ‘for there was another character called ‘Ing,’
who had also slipped out of a word that the great one later wrote. On the first day of the second week after creating man
God decided to write his autobiography. He had only penned ‘In the beginn-ing…. when it all happened again.
This time it wasn’t a big bang it was a cacophony of screams, an unholy noise that did disturb the Omni present one.
‘Satan’s testicals,’ he cried out through clenched teeth wondering where on earth he was getting these bizarre names from.
He put down his quill and knocked, knocked, knocked upon heavens door. Increasingly annoyed
at no answer he burst in within a hail of fire and brimstone caught the culprit, one of his angels no less.
God caught him red handed writhing upon a stringed wooden instrument of torture that omitted the most of unholy sounds.

“What the fuck is that?” God demanded.

“Rock and Roll baby, rock and roll,” did say the angel shout playing his electric guitar.

God looked at this instrument shocked that he hadn’t invented it and jealously demanded where he got it from.
The angel proudly exclaimed, he himself had made it. Then without any form of forward thinking God banished the evil Luthier to the depths below.
Shouting after him he would get the last laugh and invent Christian rock, Iggy Pop and Johnny Rotten who would sell out rock and roll in the early 21 century.
Then he began to write out, ‘in the beginning…’ when another big bang happened. In this disturbance Ing was dislodged

“You’re on fucking Ketamine again aren’t you?” Interrupted Alice.

“If I was on Ketamine my dear I wouldn’t be able to speak,’ he replied. “Do you want a story or not, Alice?
Anyway, who said God wrote in Hebrew?” Max asked rhetorically not wanting an answer.

“The fucking Hebrews, that’s who!”


Alice stopped him with a kiss before he went to rant on about that particular fuzzy point in history.
Max took a deep breath from this, tied his hair back, took a hit of his bong shaped like an oversize nob and smiled back at Alice.

“After the initial shock of discovering each other Ity and Ing became curious companions and ardent rival’s.
They were brothers from different mothers, as they say. However, together they became very, very skilled craftsmen
and did some quite amazing things with words too; indeed they were cunning linguists who specialised in the fine art of suffixing.
In stark competition they would travel around the universe attaching their
sound or vibration on the end of words to see what would happen and if the great being would notice.

However, God had over time listened to his fears a little too much and was worried he had lost the right state of mind forever and had become
a little bit neurotic and edging on becoming bi-polar.
He was becoming flooded by emotions and feelings, sensations and vibrations that he could not deal with.
Overwhelmed he had to sit down and take another day off, then another, then another until he reached what is now regarded as clinical depression.
He decided to go into retreat taking on an agent to promote his words and will.
Unfortunately his choice of agents was poor and as we know his brand platform now is pretty dam low.
Many think he sold out or was never that big an intergalactic rock star.

Alice looked blankly at Max as if to urge him to get to the point or die.
“And Ity and Ing?” She verbally prompted, ‘will you stick to one fucking story please.”

Max failed to comprehend her body language and carried on.
“What was my point? Ah, yes translation. Translation, linguistics and perception, beliefs and values, basically; meaning. It’s all about meaning.
You see in the suffixing game ‘Ing’ was whipping ‘Ity’s arse’ and stacking up the chips.
Ity thought he was at a lost until he came across a stroke of luck when becoming aware of the changes in the social environment.
He hatched a cunning plan to get Ing to put his name on ‘Mean.’

‘Mean’, at that time in history, sat as a humble servant with equanimity; balanced, average and in a perfect state or position.
Ity realised that when ‘Ing’ joined Mean a ‘Mean-ing’ will come into effect; that of course opened
the floodgates to chaos who had always existed but was far too chaotic to realise it.

Logical really, I suppose.

Anyway, it was also cunningly conceived that once ‘Mean,’ the balanced, average, and some might say boring fellow he is, had an ‘ing,’ he should be given more than one meaning.

Firstly, it was decided that due to the nature of equanimity, ‘Mean’ should stay balanced within the great balance of the mind and, secondly, he should be given another conception or meaning: ‘To have in mind, as to intend to or have intention’. Mean grew fond of the attention, which seemed harmless enough.

However.

When he was also told that his name also meant; to be from low rank or birth, base, sordid, like ‘mean’ and nasty. Along with meaning shabby, ungenerous, small minded, malicious, bad tempered, out of sorts and downright squalid unsurprisingly Mean was upset.

As anyone would be.

Mean became more aware of his actions and now shocked that he had now ironically become his new meaning. This further knocked him off balance, which had devastating consequence to the mind. Before he could realise the trickery involved it was too late and the ‘impur-ity’ had taken effect. Not to mention Ity’s master plan of having ‘Less,’ a moaning rouge who lurked in shadows waiting to sandwich Ing and crush ‘Mean’ into having a meaning of now becoming mean-ing-less.

So now Mean was Meaningless!

So, that’s why everything has a profound meaning, and everything is profoundly meaningless. As profound as it is, it is all meaningless in a meaningful type way.”

“Is that it?” Alice asked staring across the bed now in heavy eyed disbelief and bemusement. “All that bollocks for that tit bit of manic wisdom, ha, ha, fucking ha….”

Max jumped in to defend himself, “yes, but Alice you have obviously missed the finer fine connection of his parody of the perpetuation of Christian docrine based upon…” Before she could finish he found himself tipped off the end of her bed. She then laughed and smiled at her very own Mad Hatter, Mr Max Wabbit who was getting back up off the floor, who was incidentally a ghastly shade of opaque white, mainly from being a nocturnal drug fucked gothic hippy and a manic fan of ouigy boards and all things socially contrived as ghoulish.

Still swirling her wine glass in hand she simply conquered up a weary, tired drunken smile. She sipped the last of the nectar and addressed her lover “Max, I wanted a story full of heroes, villains, and romance and magic and you talk bollocks about Ity!

You are now so, so boring the queen.
Be gone my loyal fool.”

It was only her wry smile that said to Max I love you really that made everything okay.

At this point Max looked at his watch, closed his journal carefully put the red elastic band over it and smiled. With a stroke of her hair he kissed Alice on the cheek and bode his mistress goodnight and farewell. He nicked her spliff and went out in the pursuit of a little more decadence. Whilst Alice had apparently reached her limit Max had far to go and far he would go on such heavenly and decadent pursuits.

“I’m late.” He said to himself walking out of her front door brushing crumbs off his favourite T-shirt. It depicted an old classic painting of Jesus Christ, scrawny and pained on the cross with his head replaced by the White Rabbit’s. Max put on his top-hat and deeply inhaled the musky night air before walking into the comfort of the shadows.

An hour or so passed and as the clock struck one Alice was dressed and had stuck two lines of coke up her nose, had her make up on and was doing up her boots. She turned down the stereo to hear the dialling tone of her white rabbit. There was no way he was going to have all the fun and then wake her at seven in the morning talking shite.

She would be the one talking shite tonight.

Chapter 2:The populace of the metropolis

The bars, clubs and restaurant facades shine and glitter like cartoon props along what the locals in the know call Wonderland Walk; one of the many walkways through the lanes and mazes of decadence this coastal town has to offer. Starry, wide eyed punters revel in abandonment and fantasy chasing their personally acquired or unconsciously motivated white rabbit’s through the glamour, hype and at times the low down dirty, downright seedy pit of hedonism. They deposit chunks of their hard earned cash, blagged and stolen bounty for their psychological treasure; their promise of escape and feeling and illusion of fame, fortune and celebrity status. Or at least a temporary escape from their personalised jails, trials and tribulations.

Well, if we ignore the poetry and prose and reduce it down to its common denominator, most people are out to get as smashed as quickly as possible for the longest time possible. They may look like a million bucks at the beginning of the night act out regal and perceived celebrity ‘A’ list mannerisms but most resemble something akin to a remorseful Widow Twanky by mid morning as they remember or come into some form of cognition of who they actually are. The question of actually where they are and how much money they have spent trying to forget who they were or where they are in life is seldom asked and rarely answered.

To be fair, in a way, in this confused and ever so spiritually corrupt society we live in at the moment this method of madness is in a way a way to find a piece of enlightenment, a peace of mind so be it in a very distorted and twisted way. For many, enlightenment is just a feeling of feeling special somewhere within the Maze of Meaning and the maze for many is a labyrinth for once entered a way out is never found. However, for those who can control their passions and impulses or don’t fall foul of the many predators that lie in wait within the constricting walls of perception, after revelling and recovering they come back to Wonderland again and again in search for that little bit more, that little something more.
They always want that little extra more. Not just the lost, forgotten, the drug dealers and people who scare the masses and excite and arouse the media. The self declared holy, the vicars, the preachers, the teachers and the blind, the followers who call themselves the faithful, they all want that little bit more, they want that feeling, even if it’s the blood and life force of those they arrogantly challenge and hate, whoever they can get it from. Some might say it’s the vampire within, the hunger of Thanatos, a shadow of sadism cloaked in masochistic pursuit of self righteous existence. To others, they say the true inner essence of mankind still hasn’t evolved enough for its current intellect or consciousness and its nose is still in the shit sniffing out the meagre truffles of illusion. To others who say they are following god’s way they are in a way, after all he was the first one who got too pissed on the Saturday night and couldn’t face work the next day and created the omnipresent comedown.

Back in Wonderland Walk a group of women saunter down the street dressed in veils that are commonly used in religious ceremonies and rituals. For this time of night they are remarkably sober and upright. They also are wearing white bunny ears and two of them of course are carrying the obligatory inflatable six foot dick. They are of course on a hen night. Horny eyes fixate upon the necklaces that bounce and glitter upon the contoured breasts of the orange and brown tinged liberated, independent ladies as they wander in the pack fuelled on cheap chemical delights and shots of a pleasant tasting liquor, aptly named Devils Cum.

Obviously there are men wondering too, wondering how on hell do they pull these wired and hyped up killer chicks. The girls chew them up and spit them out for tonight they are not looking for mates only amusement and they are not taking prisoners. A group of metro-lads are checking their reflections in a shop window it has to be said looking a little more dolled up and feminine than the girls, but after all this is the twenty first century and this is a metropolis. It’s all expression and it’s all okay, we’re all going to hell some might say.

Just choose your route and method of transport.

Anyway, without wanting to start a debate or offend those who look to be offended, right now the evening is young and the flyer girls, hostesses and dealers flirt and chat with gusto and excitement to passers by as if to say this is the best offer you’re going to get. Further along where the more interesting clubs and bars lie, unfortunate souls who have become homeless, the outright forgotten, junkies, criminally insane and the vulnerable sit, stand and kneel in the shadowed doorways smoking fags, crack or anything that combusts. They chat, beg and talk amongst themselves fingering dirty polystyrene cups containing warm sweet tea. In analgesic and alcoholic psychosis they try to engage the passers by, receiving comments of empathy, bewilderment, ignorance or resentment. “Spare any change, any change,” they speak in mantra.

‘Change comes from within,’

‘Funny that,’ thinks the Jez, the homeless person who the mocking comment it was directed at. He throws down his begging cup and decides to change. He waves goodbye to his scruffy chums and walks on up the road past the junction into a world of being nice and decent.

Does he bollocks?

No the sad fact is he has just raised enough money to buy another ten bag of low grade Middle Eastern smack and is off to see his dealer. Not that it’s his fault, his is a long story of innocence, sadness and corruption, of addiction, dreams and dependency, but now he is lost. He too preyed at the alter of false tranquillity.

Up at the junction, Jez walks into a brightly lit take away brushing past hungry pissed revellers with hunger pangs and those who haven’t taken enough drugs to avoid eating the contaminated and condemned meat. Many sit upon grimy plastic chairs bolted to the floor to stop people wearing them as hats or more poignantly to stop people trying to make other people wear them as hats. Proprietors Abu and Fabu stand behind their big glass grease stained counter slicing oozing meat, taking the money in their oversize paws and engage in small talk in their native language whose subject matter is usually to the detriment of the paying customer. Jez buys a tea with a ten pound note and a knowing nod and receives a special bag of brown sugar. He nods again and walks off back to his girlfriend where they will feel really close again for the briefest of moments in analgesic comfort worlds apart. They may get lucky and find a path out of their maze and walk hand in hand with giros into the sunset, get jobs and become how they say?

Normal!

Unfortunately, she is found dead a week later and he is now in prison.

The Caterpillar apparently has a lot to answer for.

Abu and Fabu wink at each other and scratch their scruffy beards in unison. They sing their song in unison, ‘don’t you wish your girlfriend is covered up like me, don’t you wish your girlfriend was hard to see? ‘Name one Muslim model,’ they ask a silenced punter. Abu laughs not waiting for a reply, ‘Kate Mosque!’ They both laugh again in unison. Even for their standards they are scraping the barrel and look particularly rough tonight. If these boys turned up at an airport they would be very quickly jumped upon by men in dark uniforms carrying machine guns and sent to some hidden far away American sponsored jail for a long time having their testicles electrocuted and then have the honour of being deported from their own country upon return. However, looks can be deceiving and Abu and Fabu are not terrorists, they are business men. They run a profitable business from midday through to five in the morning, seven days a week in the name of freedom making kebabs for the masses. They grew up together always have been and always will together, as high as kites with crazed expressions on their little brown pot ridden bearded faces.

Even though they are as mad as the proverbial hatter Abu and Fabu, the Tweedle Dum and Dee of Little Afghanistan, lodged up on the west bank of the Wonderland border have astute and some say magical qualities, they meddle and peddle very well in urban rituals, misguided beliefs and in local business. They serve an assortment of Arabic and eastern delicacies, exotic substances and contraband to those who enquire in the know and to those they trust. It’s quite possible to come away from their shop with obviously a kebab or two of your choice, in addition to two kilo’s of the finest grade heroin if you want and a rocket launcher to boot, should you be in the market.

Okay, fuck it, they are terrorists and downright dodgy scum.

What the hell, Heaven loves martyrs.

This biased, misguided, misleading and dangerous epiphany is written on a sign placed upon the counter next to a tatty over exposed and grease stained picture of their proudest culinary delight, their midnight special; the hottest imaginable donner kebab this side of Tehran. Many say it’s hotter than napalm and suicidal to take a mouthful let alone eat one, hence the name; the Suicide Donner. After all, Abu and Fabu do run Jihad Kebab, a widely known and respected kebab eatery by the hardest and most foolhardy gangster, arm dealer and chilli chaser alike; the breed who enjoy the scorching burning, mouths on fire and don’t mind sweating a bit. In fact Abu and Fabu have been known to extract money from and torture their enemies and occasional spurned lover with their extra chilli sauce.

Not much is simple in life but you don’t fuck with Abu and Fabu.
Nonetheless, they are liked and loved by the many misguided fools and Jihad Kebab is a haven and rest pad where the weary, drunken, over excited or tearful night folk pit stop and fulfil their drunken dietary and emotional needs with fat, hot chilli sauce and unnameable meat. It’s here right now where a group of frustrated, angry and psychotic girls are trying to pick a fight with a poor unsuspecting punter who dared to look and engage with them. Unfortunately for he, with Dutch courage inside he took the wrong time to gain confidence with the opposite sex and said the wrong thing. There are no brothers or handy hero’s to step in neither nearby, nor any sympathetic member of the public to support him and in their absence the girls are now administering verbal and physical pain and it has to be said it isn’t pretty.

Even Abu and Fabu have shocked expressions.

It also has to be said to be fair about this place, away from the carnage and pumping atmosphere of the downtown pseudo ghetto, sleepy and delightfully well lit lanes entwine giving rise to a mixture of old, odd and delightful buildings where nice people live and dine. You see this town, or this city if you like to believe the councils hype and pretension and criminal use of the tax payer’s money is cultured too. In fact it is twinned with a foreign town exotic and mysterious in name, so exotic in name no one really knows where it is, nor I guess really cares. Some of the quainter houses boast crested signs stating that bohemians, occultists and artist once famous lived or died there. Every summer the current residents throw open their big doors in glee showing off their conversions and décor in the name of showing local art on part of the annual festival art trail, which is great for the local petty criminals who come and scout for future raids when they need more money for crack.

However, without wanting to stray too much from the immediate story, Nigel the poor chap from the kebab shop is walking home, very upset, drunk, embarrassed covered in kebab and has piss running down the inside of his leg as the girls did actually scare him. Unfortunately he’s passing a series of night club queues where of course someone has noticed his darker stained trouser leg and has called out in a caring social manner alerting everyone to mock him. At least they will all united for a brief moment.

Nigel is now well on the way home to hang himself.
Which is good really as Nigel is a bit of a soppy cunt.

Anyway, the clubs he passed are for the midway adventurous and desperate. A few old ravers, ex road crew and mentalists hang about in them retelling and retelling stories of grandeur to anyone who listen or are unfortunate to look at them. The usual stories occur of how many blow jobs they got on tour as well as how they only tried coke the once, for ten years, as well as how you only needed to take one pill back in 1989 to be high and in love with a complete stranger for ten years. New students to the town always fall prey to them. But there is always a payoff; the old farts have an audience and new friends to corrupt for a while. The students feel very cool and elite having a hairy weirdo as a friend especially as now they have done a gap year, cared for a crippled cleft pallet child in a remote village in an exotic land and have smoked pot with someone dreaded called Winston.

Most clubs along Wonderland Walk clubs boast the usual, bone shaking muffled booming sound systems, sticky floors and watered down beer. The DJ’s, and MC’s are now entering, forging their way in front of the guest list cues despite still being too young or too old, too dumb or too off their heads to be allowed in. Most are on the dole, on supervision orders or are tagged. They revel in their small town celebrity stardom as they are let passed by the bouncers who like them cane more drugs in a weekend than the Happy Monday’s did in their hey-day. After all in this town it’s expected of you. Even the police are at it, you know they are.

Here, in this Wonderland, this sea side metropolis going to prison is a right of passage for its contemporary and contemptuous abandoned under current hooded youth culture. Many people would say, the underlying social fabric of where they live is something to be desired but not many people who would say that would actually visit their areas or help and support them to having a clearer perception of society. However, they don’t mind momentarily rubbing shoulders with them in Wonderland Walk. Most come and go, other frequent it often and those foolish enough to stay often get caught in its somewhat infamous and dubious hidden black magic rituals within the decadent callings of fun. Many a young daughter and innocent son has succumbed to its charm been caught up in its harm and have stuck a few things in their arm before they escape, move on or pass away.

A few years ago the town council, local police and property developers tried to clean up the centre. In a move to assist the police or more poignantly to regain their licences the clubs installed cameras and put half sized doors in the toilet; which now mean any unsuspecting punter who is in dire need of privacy can be harassed and abused by his fellow man as they take a private moment. So too can the bouncers now easily bust those who are under the impression they are doing their very elusive and glamorous drugs away from suspecting eyes. Funny that, to think that the most social elite drug in society is often administered in a shit stained toilet.

These bouncers it has to be said are the well trained good old fashioned doormen who like a good one sided punch up and too, supply all the local teenage punters with chemical delights. They wait till they are high then bash them up and bust them an hour later for being under aged in licensed premises, with illegal substances to boot. For those lucky enough to take their fancy the doormen will turn their backs for a small moment of bribery.


They call it the blow job run.