Because I’m Worthless

I haven't yet really made up my mind whether Banksy is an annoying, pretentious pseud, or whether he's a genius of guerilla art. The Wikipedia entry on Charlie Brooker and Chris Morris' Nathan Barley makes brief mention of Banksy, and I have heard it suggested that Banksy is one of the models for the title character, who is "a fictional twentysomething loathsome London media type… (f)latteringly described by his own creator as a 'meaningless strutting cadaver-in-waiting'". (The same article mentions my musical hero Momus as another model for Nathan Barley, though this doesn't seem to make much sense to me.) However, if anything persuades me that Banksy is the latter (genius) rather than the former (pseud), it is this particular work of his:

Is it because I'm born in the year of the rat that I find particular resonance in this? In any case, its twisted, bitter echo of the L'Oreal advertising slogan struck a chord. I'm not sure if I can think of an advertising slogan more loathsome, and Banksy's inversion of that slogan reveals its inner loathsomeness brilliantly. In fact, I can't think of a direct way of articulating exactly why that slogan is so loathsome. There is something transcendent about its loathsomeness that defies rational, conversational explanation, which is why Banksy's inversion of it is so precious and so appreciated by some (me, for example). I do know that the first time I heard that slogan on television, I immediately felt a bolt of anger and hatred shoot through me. Because I'm worthless? Maybe.

I have quietly, in my own way, been investigating what might be called the New Age, as it is manifest in both philosophy and therapy. Of course, the New Age draws on many different traditions and ideas, and in a way it hardly seems fair to refer to them all under one umbrella. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I attended an intensive seminar that involved a kind of therapeutic inner journey. Despite having my reservations about the presentation, I felt that there was something going on here that was, well, worth investigating. In fact, I was familiar with certain aspects of the process already. I know a little bit about inner journeys. Anyway, what I discovered on this particular inner journey was a great deal of anger. It seems to me that I have so much anger that I can hardly even speak it. I have even been writing some lyrics about it under the title, 'The Mute's Revenge'. The lyrics are not finished yet, and are a bit rough, but maybe lines such as the following will give some idea of the kind of feelings it deals with: "The time will come, that time is soon/You will pay for the day/You cut out my tongue/And the pain you gave as you made me mute/You cauterised into this bloody root/Making sure I'd never speak it/Always keep the pain a secret".

Not long after this seminar, I went along to a meditation group, and someone recommended me the talks given by a particular 'guru', whom I shall not name here. I was, in fact, given flyers for a whole number of talks by such gurus. Some of those at the meditation group expressed admiration that these gurus were uncompromising in insisting there was no meaning in anything. That may well be true, I thought to myself, but if it comes to that, I might as well read a French existentialist novel – it would be cheaper, for a start, and the language would probably be more creative and interesting.

At the moment I'm actually fed up with gurus and spiritual teachers of all kinds. I read up on one of the teachers whose flyers I had been given – the one who was recommended to me. Since he is, by his own account, nobody, and since he apparently has no ego, he won't mind if I quote from his book without crediting him by name, though his name does appear on the book:

The death of the mind/body is only the ending of the illusion of a journey in time.

The awakening to unconditional love is immediate. We are enveloped in our original nature regardless of anything that apparently happened.

When the body/mind is dropped there is no intermediary process or preparation or purification. How can there be? Who was there? All ideas of a personal "after life" or re-incarnation are merely the mind wishing to preserve the illusion of its continuity.

The story is over. The divine novel has been written and, regardless of how the mind might judge, not one jot could have been different.

The scenery evaporates and the characters have left the stage… their apparent existence begins and ends with the dream that has been played out.

For we are the ocean and the waves, the darkness and the light.

Why is it that something ostensibly about "unconditional love" should be so utterly depressing to me? Well, it seems there are various reasons for this. For a start, there is something in me that simply cannot go along with the Eastern concept of selflessness, which seems to devalue the particular in favour of the general, which is nothingness. In particular, this, to me, contradicts the idea of love, unconditional or otherwise. If there is no one there, how are they enveloped by unconditional love? If this love is what some people call 'God', and the illusion of self disappears to reveal the fact that there is only God, then that means God is loving itself, which seems utterly perverse, especially when one considers that it loves itself by creating and destroying these puppets of suffering illusion known as human beings. The whole notion is diseased and repugnant. Now, doubtless such objections are nothing more than indicators of my own lack of understanding (that's what these teachers always say, anyway), in short, I have such objections because I'm worthless.

But this leads me to another reason that this kind of passage depresses and angers me. How is it that the author of this work can be so damned right? How is it that he knows everything, and I know nothing, even though I seem, from where I'm standing, to be the very centre of existence? How is that? After asking such questions I have concocted a formula long simmering within me that goes something like this: Whoever is right is a cunt, and to the extent that I am right in making such a statement, I am a cunt, too.

And here comes in the voice telling me not to speak my anger. How can I imply that the author of the above passage is the nasty word I just used? Well, because I'm wrong. Because I'm always wrong and have to be wrong, and I don't wish anyone to consider me as anything but wrong. I do not want the loathsome rightness of the man who wrote that passage, the ego-less man who wrote a book telling other people what to think, who says he has nothing to teach or offer, but charges people ten pounds a time to come and hear him teach and offer nothing. I do not want that rightness, so you can assume right away that my use of the word 'cunt' is also wrong. No, I do not want the same rightness that cut out my tongue when I was still a child. Instead I protest my right to be wrong.

It's all right – I'm only primal-screaming.

You see, I'm the youngest in a large family, and I am long used to the idea that everyone else in the world but me has authority. And even now that I'm getting on, this feeling holds. And it builds into a murderous rage. How are all these people so certain about the things they say? Why don't they just shut up?

And I know that people who only know me from this blog will find such assertions strange, since I must seem hugely opinionated on this blog, and lately, even in real life, people will probably find me forthcoming with actual opinions. But this blog is really an orgy of self-loathing. I always feel dirty after giving my opinion about anything. And the fact that I am forthcoming is only the result of years of bottling my opinions up while others blithely pour their opinions on me. So, if you ever hear me utter an opinion, just remember that I'm wrong, not right. I never want to be right. I will fight for the right to be wrong.

And blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

And if I become enlightened does that mean I too must write insipid books and give dreary workshops encouraging people to give up their dreams and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.