Introduction

I have clearly stated in my "I am not human " manifesto that I am not human. I have also clearly stated there that such statement is clearly a lie, a contradiction, a paradox. I have since received quite a lot of what, you humans, call "fan mail", asking me to explain the paradox and suggesting that perhaps I should describe how it feels to be not human amongst other humans. Few of those correspondences clearly hinted that perhaps I am not alone. But please understand - I am as confused as the man in the pub next to you is. I have therefore decided to write a diary, record the events and their interpretation as they happen in a hope that perhaps those historical records will one day shed a light on this absolute mystery.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 06-Sep-2003 at 06:56.

Brief Introduction

I don't know how my whole journey through this part of Universe began but I suspect that quantum physics are my real parents. You see, there has been mix up - some accidental, coincidental event took place, some gravitational flare, something, I existed somewhere else, I know I did because I still do - but for a brief moment, mili, nanosecond I appeared in your world. It doesn't really matter how it happened - what matters is that it did. Even then - it was just a momentary fluctuation, nothing special, nothing unusual - the whole Universe is just one vibrating flux. Nobody would have known about it, not even me, it was just a slip of an atom, not something which can be noticed, measured or observed - for at least one more atom would have been required to witness it - by which time the disorderly atom would have been put in its right place.

I am not very good in human language. Please forgive.

The point I am trying to make is that your physics failed me miserably. The disorderly, quantum atom should have been put back in its righteous position before anybody have noticed. And yes - practically nobody noticed apart from 2 people who have no understanding of such advanced science: my parents.

Yes - my parents trapped me in your world - by their shire insistence and determination that I existed. They didn't understand how atoms work and maybe that was and is the flaw in the whole way of the Universe. I remember those days very well, those were amazing times. I was trapped but sure of my liberation - after all I was just a chaotic collection of atoms, a "cell" as you call it - with very little chance of survival. I knew, I was sure that any moment this whole primitive organisation will implode and I will find myself where I was to start with, I overstayed my visit but was certain that my departure was imminent.

But that did not happen. Somehow my mother knew about me, sensed my presence. And she persevered that I should exist. Right here. Right now. That was awful. More atoms, like swarm of bees were attaching themselves to this single cell, slipped atom of mine. I was suffocating, I could not get away. Of course, I existed somewhere else and was not aware of any of it - I know it is quite difficult for you to understand that. The atoms created forms, cells grew into organs and before I knew it.. my consciousness was stolen from me - it was dragged screaming here, on Earth when I was in fact somewhere else. And I woke up screaming in the hospital, in human body, using human vocal cords. And that was what my parents call "my birth". Little did they know - I wasn't screaming from the excitement of being brought up to this world - my cries were cries of bereavement for somebody who I left behind, somebody very close to me: myself.

And that is really my story. Story of how I got here. I know I still exist "there". I know that where I exist I am not aware of "here". Or maybe I am. I definitely lost the contact with my real self. But maybe, just maybe my real self did not loose contact with me and is still monitoring my adventures. For how else can I describe this accidental imprisonment - in the world totally alien to me. You understand that. I have seen StarTrek crew stranded in some primitive world without any means of communicating with a Mother Ship. That's me. I am an Alien but by now a Human Alien. Tamed, Civilised Alien. Let the diary begin.

Last Week

This human body - after dealing with it for nearly 40 years I thought I learnt its functions pretty well. I thought I knew its inside-outs. But it appears not so. Last week was a week of encouraging discoveries, faint promises that I am closer to getting home than I ever thought. I put a lot of poisons in my body as every decent human does. I expected, as I know from my own personal experiences - to suffer side effects, to suffer the poisonous tongue of poisons so to speak poetically. And I did. But it wasn't quite what I was used to. Last week was different. Amazingly different. OK. I woke up every day with a throbbing head, suffocating cough, unpleasant tingling in my veins. So far so good. So far everything as it should be. As it always was. I felt bad. I felt terrible. I was abusing my body, killing the very form I got stuck in, seeking liberation and suffering from it. Or perhaps for it? I could never tell the difference. Stress at work, palpitating heart, sweating, feeling faint, feeling that I might be close to death, I might be close to my so-delayed return. Exciting stuff? Yes - that was what was strange or rather different, unusual. I felt happy, immensely happy, I wasn't taking any drugs or alcohol and there was no explanation for those overpowering waves of happiness washing my body which felt like it is going to collapse any second now. I had to cry, I wept few times, particularly in the morning but those were the tears of happiness, and I was laughing, laughing quietly, imaging a doctor or some human being seeing me, being disconcerted, disturbed, alarmed by seeing somebody spitting their lungs out and crying - and insisting that he is the happiest person in the whole Universe.

I am not good in languages. Where I come from - we don't have any. It is difficult concept - language - and I always feel trapped by words. In my world we don't use words, we.. we... hold on.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 06-Sep-2003 at 07:13.

Love

Those waves, those washing waves of tingling happiness, I think it is called "love" - I think I know - for I heard a song on the radio - song I heard many times before... and I listened to words.. and it all became clear... It was those words which were creating this sensation.. well.. not really because the song doesn't get played 24 hours a day and I don't listen to the radio apart from the trip to work which lasts 10 minutes... but I noticed that those words can recreate this feeling - the words, the song.. something like "Where is the love?"

Madness

It is just a term which is defined by relating it to other terms. Human terms. It is not my concern for I am not human - hence there can be no comparison - no relationship. But it is a funny term, it does make me, or rather my body, my shell - laugh. I was thinking about it last week. I was crying from happiness. Without medication. Tell you doctor that. Watch his/her face drop. Watch the tone of their tone change. Share it with your work-mate - we all want happiness, don't we? Feel un-easiness and sudden coldness. This world is crazy world. This world is mad world. Everybody wants happiness. Everybody apparently strives towards it. The moment you share your happiness with others, the moment you encourage others to experience it - they run away, they become unhappy. Matrix is a very powerful film. For it understands. For it speaks this understanding. In human, very present terms. Religion is outdated. Matrix fills the gap.

Diary

As far as diary goes - weird concept as it is for only humans could invent such concepts as time and sequence of events - well, here it is. Hopefully it will be more sequential and more timely in the future. But "everything is relative" I hear people saying. And that means that today is related to the very beginning and beyond. And that means that I don't exist yet, I am just talking in a preparation for my birth although I have been "around" for ... let's say "quite a while". The atoms in my body are definitively as old as Universe itself - that is what your science says. But I do take offence in such frivolously stated statements. I think I might be older than that. I lost the count. Who cares?

Ghost in a Shell

I am a Ghost in a Human Shell. Of course you know what I am talking about. Of course you are the same. We have the same shells, shells made of atoms, atoms which were created before or after Universe, who cares, all is relative, but we have similar shells and hence can exchange the experiences like divers do when they discuss their kit.

Liberation Front

I wonder how many of us "here" do not belong "here". I wonder how many of us suffer the same atomic ecstasies and the same human feelings of alienation. I think it is time we Aliens formed "Alien Liberation Front" society. I think it is time the world should be told that MenInBlack is reality. I think it is time for Matrix to be tampered with (don't confuse with tampon). I think.. hold on.. damn... in my world we don't think either!

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 06-Sep-2003 at 07:18.

RE: Liberation Front

I was supposed to be a diary but it rapidly turns into some philosophical manifesto. Sorry. This crazy brain of yours, this bubbling grey matter. I don't know how you humans can live with it, being ruled by something so unpredictable, so nonsensical, so out of control. I never could. The thoughts just seem to appear out of nowhere and without any reason or consequence - like bubbles of air raising from the depth of the ocean. And you pay so much attention to those bubbles as if they meant something, as if they were... you.

mucus

Can anybody tell me what the function of mucosa is? Yes, this slimy, oily stuff which is practicably not digestible. I have been studied this body, this marvellous shell of yours for years - but I am still very unclear as to what positive impact such non-degradable substance serves. My body evacuates it every morning all right - at least it tries to - because the substance has a tendency to cling like a super glue, but why the hell do I have to go through this hell every day? What is it produced for? Is this some kind of malfunction? The only comparison I could possible come up with would be that of an oil engine - but oil engine is smooth and leaves its container freely when the gates are opened. But mucus? No. I drags on and on and I bet a lot of your brothers' and sisters' shells died in the process of evacuating this obnoxious liquid slime. So why produce it in the first place I ask. Why bother at all? Why not swallow a super glue - at least it sets into something solid and breakable after few seconds - mucus never does. It must be some religious punishment, some spiritual ritual of yours. For when I live my life according to highest standards set by your priests and leaders - the mucus does not bother me at all. But when it does - my life is just a hell. The only solution I found to counter it is wheat bran which sucks it all up so it comes out from my rear rather than my mouth. Much more pleasant if you ask me - and allows me to read as well. Of course - there are also those yoga guys - they worked out the mechanics of your body pretty well. They have few tricks for it too - but it does not answer my question - why suffer from it to start with?

Constituent Parts

I want to talk about constituent parts. How everything breaks down into basic elements. How we can deconstruct the atom into electron, proton, nucleus. Atoms marry other atoms and form molecules and people and things. You have proton-heavy molecules and electron-heavy molecules, biased molecules, polar molecules, greedy molecules, leaches. We can take O Shea's Big Adventure through the molecular world and find the very same shit that we find higher up in the heirarchy of life. And the molecules represent themselves well throughout everything.

Marked on that ladder somewhere is the alien.
The free radical, if I may.

The alien drinks at the pub and a sodden man talks at him loudly, suppurating, spitting. This drunken fool is blubbering, grinning, exposing fully his chipped dentition -- stupid happy. Stupid. Fidgeting, swaying from side to side and shooting little droplets of saliva on the alien's favorite shirt. He's a fucking asshole and he's human. And if this is human then the man of Christ is the rebel. If this man reeking of putrid animal odor is a human being than the man of love is the genuine man of revolt.

And if God is dead and everything is relative then charity is the antidote. If the existential realities are such that the macrocosm is indifferent towards hope and faith and love and charity, then Christ becomes an artificial truth, a human truth. Christ is CREATED. As real as granite. Christ is the reaction. Christ is the breath breathed into Adam; the reanimation of old bones. Because, the alien says, "it doesn't matter." Because, the alien says, "everything is relative." It all works out.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 07-Oct-2003 at 15:43.

The Walk

After I considered existential difficulties and dilemmas I set out on foot in the street. I was looking to lose the harmony, the direction that seems to be embedded in every cell of my body. The constituent parts of the soul, say. The basic elements of awareness.

I saw the robots bleating into their cell-phones, walking with purpose, plan. Every one with somewhere to go and someone to love and some puzzle to solve or enemy to bury. I changed up, shifted gears, moved about in an irregular fashion. I allowed the spirit to blow me around on those streets like litter. I ambled, I jogged, I ran, I stood still. I took strange routes through hotel lobbies, searching out back exits, pushed through an emergency door setting off a cacophonous alarm and panic. I stumbled drunkenly down a narrow alley, knocked over a can, sat under an open casement. Those around me reacted, took their orders seriously, obeyed their internal commands.

I turned South on Main Street and walked a bit and stopped and spun and walked North a bit. I laughed aloud and mocked routine. Randomly...oh so randomly I stopped and started and walked in the street and muttered to myself and even broke out in song. I stepped in front of a moving bus with arms outstretched and caused the driver much irritation. I stood there and did jumping jacks and then ran away. And then I ran along the bus as it passed me and I pounded on the windows.

I bought a hotdog from a corner vendor and placed it on the sidewalk.

I expected a pop, some smoke, sulfuric odor. An overload. But the idea that gave birth to my insane jaunt through the city forced a consistency of behavior I could not deny. I was not without aim, not without plan or purpose. I was obeying a credible urge to emancipate my mind from body. I was reacting. The only thing left to do was die.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 07-Oct-2003 at 15:44.

Sanctified

That young puerile dreamer. Alienated by high ideals. Set apart and sanctified by a strong remembrance of the way things were before the fall into sin. Expectation. That first encounter with sin when God dispensed justice on His creation. God 's psychic break. The creation of this 'fault personality.' Multiple breaks to follow. Triune makeup. God is broken down into his constituent parts under the supervision of classical and analytical reasonings. At the site of the cold husk of the creator our Christian rebel appears for the first time.

The alien recalls a time with big curls and spiders in that mop of big curls. Playing in the front lobby of the school with some toy, making a ruckus, making noise while his mother talks to the upstanding principal. Though the alien plays with a toy or model airplane or whatever it is, the principal explains to his mother that "he is a special boy" and "we are not sure what we can do with him here."

And the scene plays out and he sees himself from a position of height, he's airborne, floating, watching over his shoulder. This stupid little kid playing and making crashing noises and such. This little god breaks down into fragments and pieces. Part of him hovers. Part of him dreams. Part of him considers the atoms, the ants, their incessant obedience to innate urgings. The alien dissolves as a solute in a solution. He is something bigger. He finds an expansive identity in this loss of individuality. And so the alien puts poisons in his body as every decent human does.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 10-Oct-2003 at 09:59.

My Spaceship

The alien at night in his ship, tumbling through space. LED displays, buttons, switches. The room/ship. The little box flying through space. The lights are out. The monitoring station, the keypad, the punching in of codes. Alone in this module/casket. Seperate. Sanctified. Set apart. Poisons accumulate.

The alien in his ship slicing through space. Shedding the skin of time? He reaches up, flicks a switch, something happens. In my bed in my ship, my chamber, my casket/pod. I reach up, flick a switch and something happens. Space junk and shields and the gradual corrosion of the hull. Elements clashing with elements.

Crashing into the subconscious. Mucus and dreams. As an adult in my pod bought with years of hard labor. I escape into myself. I imprison myself in this tumbling tomb. This casket. This pod/ship/hull. I never get far before I crash into a subconscious state.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 07-Oct-2003 at 15:45.

Disillusioned...

Writing about oneself as if oneself is an alien is juvenile and stupid.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 10-Oct-2003 at 10:00.

Being juvenile and stupid is the first step towards getting one's innocence back - the idea which sounds very alien indeedy deedy to most of the human beings.
You see - that's yet another peculiar-lity of human psyche - they think, believe, insist that they are all the same. At the same time they all struggle and suffer in order to be different - to be unique. What those stupid creatures do not realise is that they are all Alien to each other.. that the only thing which they have common between themselves is that there is no difference between them and me!

Starfish

Just why is our alien so possessed by these moments? These snapshots carved into his memory banks. These crude files, measured in kilobytes -- some sound, an odor, a few fundamental hues. These small bits of code protruding from the subconscious, unleashing a torrent of adjectives. Those hundreds of abortive attempts to translate these snapshots/moments.

Gone now to Belmar beach. A frigid, early-November whipping. Mr Alien, traversing the slick jetty boulders. Waves rolling in, divorced by the outermost juts. White, frothy explosions. Some spray carried by the whipping wind dabbing Mr. Alien's brow. He plants his right foot on a scummy boulder, leans his weight on said foot. He looks down into the break between big rocks and sees a swirling pond, some surface sea-vegetation, layer of silt, starfish.

"God," he says. Mr. Alien wants us to understand what moves him. If we can understand this, maybe we can accept him.

This post was last edited by MrAlien on 07-Oct-2003 at 15:47.

I have never met so many addicts on any planet. They are addicts from the yawn of dawn to the swoon of the moon. Take the average schmuck and his morning coffee, his addiction to caffeine. Sodas, sugars, fats, candy bars, carbohydrate addicts. Consumption addicts. Tobacco and nicotine fixes at regular intervals.

How many are addicted to living?
How many study human behavior?
How many understand why they do what they do?
Why would they want to?

Consumption addicts, these humans. Always more. Eager for a new habit, a new self-destructive routine. They inhale these poisons, some take them orally; others are addicted to noise, radio, talk, conversation, distraction. There are self-improvement junkies, Jesus addicts, money-mongers. Some are laxatives addicts, Immodium addicts, needing a crutch to shat in the regular manner. Nuff said. That's quite enough, sir.

I'll start with the waste of images that Dudley spoke of. The clap of the open palm against the mommy's face. The shame, the humiliation of teenage years. The supersaturation of those same years with a harrowing ineptness.

Walled in by mythology and fiction. Comforted only by a superficial proximity to the womb. I am external. The lies. The contradicting lies from the right and from the left; the searing heat to the South and the frigid cold to the North. Gridlocked in mediocrity. I am suburban, bloated, ignorant and dead.

I started this journey as a flake. I started as strange fruit, a wretched little weakling. A puke. I was born of city pavement. I was born in a welfare joint. But, it wasn't all that bad. I don't remember being born.

The chilly whap sound. My father -- crimson veins glowing in his pasty eyes. My mother, stricken. I told you about my angle, my viewpoint. As if my spirit was hovering, watching it all from just above my shoulder. It was the ghost fleeing my body. I left myself and watched from a height. The weightless spectator searched for the warm security of the womb. Finding only ice and frost, he jumped back into the temple. Then the shock of chaos and indolent emotion. Streaming tears. The death of innocence? Maybe.



I was eight years old, maybe nine. I had mastered the art of getting lost within myself. In class, teacher talking, my head straight back, horizontal on the chair. I was somewhere else. I was with friends.

Imaginary friends. I had two of them. We would talk. We would try to figure things out. They would console me, weep with me. In return, I taught them what I had learned in school. Which wasn't much.

So I would always go to the bathroom, escaping the severe climate of the classroom. I would sit on the toilet. My two friends sat below me on desks. They were miniature friends and made of lead. They were walking, talking sketches. I taught.

Back. Back to the large foyer in school #21 in front of the main office where my mother was standing in front of the austere woman Principal. I was airborne, levitating over the right shoulder, again. Looking over my own shoulder. My mother appeared to be beaten but cantankerous. The principal said "special child." The principal said "won't let him in here next year. Consider a school for gifted children. We've tried everything. He won't participate. He isn't attentive."


School. I was the dreamer, always in the spirit. The wanderlust stuck in my dome. I was planning my escape. I was running away, to another landscape, another country. I floated in space and observed the luminous moon and the twinkling stars. I drove a car. A big hunk of junk white and rusted 66 Dodge Charger. I drove it to Paris, Australia, Florida, the Antarctic, Canada, Los Angeles, Mexico. I steered my spaceship. My ship/room/pod. Switches, LED lights, displays, screens, terminals. Self-isolation. I was alone in all of my travels. Free.

Re: Predator

Many years back a film executive approached me one sunny day. In the park. He knew that I was an alien - don't ask me how - my impression is that those media guys are so desperate sometimes that they are capable of practically anything - they would happily blast the whole planet to bits if they had a chance just to get a good shot of the flying debris. Anyway....

Mr Johnson : "Look mate - we are making this film about an alien and we were wondering if you have any members of your family we could employ for a starring role - the uglier the better" laid out his cards Mr Johnson from Visual Imaginery Ltd.

Alien: "Hmmm...hmmm....but how?..." replied I

Johnson: "You mean 'how much'? Big bucks mate - although probably useless on the planet your family lives on. But he, or whatever it is, could for example buy some souvenirs or something and take it back there. Not to mention visiting you as a perk. Look - I am sure we could cut some deal here, money don't matter - the real question here is: 'have you got anybody of the kind?'

Alien: "But why do you want real alien for the film? Most of the film companies seem to do with humans and special effects and all this visionary illusion and magic stuff..."

Johnson: "You have no idea how much all those techno gimmicks cost - we figured that it would be cheaper to employ a real alien - even if we cover all the travelling expenses"

Alien: "But you don't realize that it would take energy of at least one Supernova to get a single creature from my Universe here. We would have to turn it into black hole and..."

Johnson: "How much does one Supernova cost then?"

Alien: "Well, it doesn't really have a value, not in your monetary terms anyway..."

Johnson: "There you go then - see! Totally free trip - and it is good to visit family and keep in touch. Who do you have in mind then?"

Alien: "Well, my uncle Bernie always was a bit of a voyager... but.."

Johnson: "No 'buts' my friend - leave all the technicalities to us. When do you think we could have him here?"

Alien: "But, but...but you don't even know what he looks like! What if he is not, what you call it, photo-genetic or something?"

Johnson: "I told you - we have it all sorted out. He will be wearing a special, human-like costume so it doesn't really matter what he looks like"

Alien: "You what? You want to bring my alien uncle here - destroying few Supernovas in the process - and then you are going to dress him in a human costume?! Are you mad?!"

Johnson: "No, no, no - you are an alien too, right? You don't have a clue about film industry and this, if you pardon me, shows. Of course we have to dress him in a human-like costume - otherwise people will think he is just a CGI, see?"

Alien: "What's CGI?"

Johnson: "Computer Generated Image. You see, when people see something they think is impossible than they either don't see it at all or think it is a trick. So we have to put your uncle in a nice, very alien looking human suit so people can see that he is an alien..."

Alien: "But that doesn't make any sense!"

Johnson: "Why would that bother you? Anyway, I told you many times already - we have it all worked out! We will show his head or whatever you people, I mean creatures, have instead of the head - at the end of the film. That way people will know that there was an alien in this suit all along and believe it - because if the head was just a CGI than we could have shown them all his body, innit? So they will know it is real stuff."

The longer this conversation continued the less sense it made. So I cut it short - passing all details to uncle Bernie and leaving it up to him to make up his...choice. And he did arrive - in a bodily form of a gorilla. He said that his investigations revealed that forms of life present on our planet were not equipped to live on Earth and since the role involved jumping from tree to tree he thought it would be more appropriate to obtain gorilla's rather than human body. Mr Johnson appeared to be somehow disappointed when he met my uncle - but he was rather bright person and therefore only happy to accept his own reasoning: that my uncle is an alien, that gorilla shape goes perfectly well with human-like suit, that my uncle can jump up the trees and make terrible, horrifying cries which the role demanded as well. The only uncertainty was the final scene with the "real head" - but the technicians from the film company had a stroke of genius too: they cut few holes in a rubber, washing up glove and pulled it over my uncle's head so it looked like he had few eyes and antenna-like tentacles on top of his head. That wasn't any visual CGI trickery - that was the real alien's head that was!