A meander down a colour strewn tube

The Leitmotif of Buses

2004-11-12T11:23:00.000Z

On the behaviour of buses

Collective intelligence should be observed when a large number of unities muster. The final outcome is not planned, but emerges out of the multitude of simple interactions between unities. If a certain number of these interactions are amplified, one obtains a structured organisation. This process is illustrated by observing the behaviour of buses.

Why, when a bus is running late, is it always over-crowded and closely followed by one or sometimes two empty buses?

Consider a six stop bus route, with each stop regularly frequented by a steady flow of passengers.

1st case: No instability. The passengers arrive at a uniform rate at each stop. Therefore, buses n°1 and n°2 pick up about the same number of passengers each. There is no perturbation or instability, the buses continue to arrive a regular intervals.

2nd case: Manifestation and amplification of instability. Bus n°2 has to wait for a passenger and is subsequently delayed leaving stop n°1

Because of this delay, the number of passengers at stop n°2 increases. When the bus arrives at stop n°2, the bus must pick up more passengers than usual. As a result the stop time of bus n°2 progressively increases at each stop. On the other hand, bus n°3 progressively catches up on bus n°2, as the number of passengers to pick up becomes less and less at each progressive stop. (They were all picked up by bus n°2). Bus n°2 is now over-crowded and is followed closely by the practically empty n°3 bus.

So there you go, it goes to show that if you don't run, rush or jostle, you'll be guaranteed a virtually empty bus or a look and a smile between a man and a woman.

{Overture}

In the crowded streets of London she walks.
A secret balancing on the precipice of her lips.
She needs to talk.

Passerbyes watch her with curiosity: staring.
Undressing her, without once smiling or speaking,
watching for her sadness.

She feels her privacy assailed.
She passes in front of a bus station
and is jostled by the rush hour crowd.
She stops in front of some stairs
and observes for a moment,
the ascent, up towards uncomforatably warm seats.
She holds on to the rolled banister,
so as not to fall.
Before a new rush-
transports her back to anonimity.

{Interlude}

A Cambridge night in August.
Flamingo's Café.
Steep and narrow stairs.
The electric red neon veering-
towards sickly scarlet.

Hands in the pocket of a cagoule
and a skirt so long,
it sweeps the dust from the pavements,
she discards a cigarette;
barely touched.
She likes the taste;
tabacco mixed with the perfume of the city,
the impression of a virile presence in the shared air.

She enters a café.
Alone, sat at the far table,
back to the mirrors, facing the street.
At the entrance she buys an expresso.

No.
A small delay.

{Set}

She looks at the two women sat at the next table:
a younger one, who holds a cat in her arms,
strokes the top of it's head
and an older one who hides her vulgarity
behind a dior suit.
The younger one stands
and takes her handbag with her to the toilets.

A man enters and orders a beer.

A couple take their leave with a last kiss,
on the step of the café;
tortured looks.
The man,
about thirty,
with laughter-marked creases fanning out
from the corner of his eyes
and with a dejected air, keeps hold of her hand:
but she is aleady half in the bus.

Time rolls like a banister.
Protect your heads.

The bus arrives late.

{Intermede}

The two men share a coffee.
The one in a green pvc jacket,
smiles quietly,
the other caresses his hand
and stands;
leads the other by the hand,
up the stairs.

She awaits an improbable return.
She hopes that at one moment or another,
he'll re-alight;
her eyes distressing the road,
taking flight,
vehicle to vehicle,
drunken with vain hope.
Feverous she grasps an umbrella.

A cramp.
Everying thing becomes immobile.

{Entre-Temps}

A hand slides into her velvet trousers;
she reaches for some change
and settles the coffee bill.

A man walks back down the stairs.
He sits back down alone,
and takes off his green pvc jacket.

She sits on a bench.

Elsewhere he orders a whiskey.

She stands up.

Somewhere he stands up too.

She gets lost in his thoughts.

{Chorus}

He gets lost in her thoughts.

{Finale}

Always the same story.

(AI) The League of Tesseract

2004-10-12T13:49:00.000Z

Dora in the morning

In the morning, before work, Dora leaves the old wooden beach hut where she sleeps and climbs the steep pathway which curves behind the old church near the top of the hill. She carries a metal chamber pot, hand painted white by one of her grandmothers: one of those inconsequential trifles without value, inherited alongside other once-useful objects, piled up any old how in an old wicker suitcase that no one could be bothered to open.
Once beside the bench she marks out her territory with stones, useless jealousies and kitchen utensils that she has collected and which she plants vertically into the ground. She waters them for a long time, whistling almost noiselessly but loud enough to hide the sound of falling liquid from a passer-by who might otherwise have become lost there. Finally, she empties her pot onto a bed of flowers, behind a screen of bulrushes.

The ordnance

It seems that there exists an ordnance survey, a sort of mythical plastic-bound report with melted edges, written in ink, faded by the years and covered by a fine layer of green and white mould and dust; a survey which holds a current record of where every townsperson in the League of Tesseract lives.
The legend states that: a map will reveal the precise location of everyone's address. Road name, house number, floor, door, each exact detail.
It's a legend without name, one we tell each other in the evenings whilst we keep vigil and to avoid falling asleep. We tremble at the mere thought of what dangerous consequences such an object could have if it were to fall into the wrong hands, so we don't speak of it much, for fear of it falling into the hands of someone who, for a nothing, or maybe to ensure their own safety, might whisper the story into an Echthroi's welcoming ear.

Father Patrick

On the way back, Dora often comes across Father Patrick's cassock, emptied of its contents and swinging from a lantern at the whim of the wind. The man who so recently wore the garment and whose smell still lingers in its cloth is kneeling in the cemetery, crying and praying in front of four or five ancient graves which someone forgot to move after part of the hill-side fell into the sea.
Far below, through the mist, you can hear the echoes of the naked man's lamentations, each lament like a stake in the heart: 'It is a holy precaution', he cries, 'hide your children because the Echthroi are coming to reveal your dreams and eat your daisies.

Another way to live

The townspeople feel at home outdoors and in the majority people are friendly, there are no lack of friendly hellos even from people they do not recognise. Some push this addiction to amiability still further, by installing their living rooms outside their front doors so that passer-by’s can make themselves at home should they feel like it. If one neighbour puts their sofa outside their front door, it is sufficient excuse for another to place a coffee table that he no longer uses next to it, a third may add a mini-bar with the bottled dregs of some forgotten spirits and some chipped glasses inside, another a television stood in a flat pack cabinet which comes with everything necessary for television viewing enjoyment other than electricity, and so they proliferate alongside side-streets and pavements like wild-flowers; tiled bathrooms, modern kitchens, comfortable living rooms, real open air apartments that you can live in, and which appeal to the eye before even you enter the front door.
No-one ever leaves home, whether going between house or covered market, bookshop or coffee shop. The town has become a large house where everyone feels at home. There are no homeless people. For a long while, there is nothing much else but passer-by’s, passing from one room to another. Every street corner, each underside of a bridge, is a home without an address, where everyone lives for at least a short while.

Too many doors

The door of my wardrobe opens onto a desert inhabited by vagabonds. It moves and opens on a different region each day. I can hear the caravans’ slowdown at the sight of the white wooden door which blocks their passage. They have heard of it in ancient stories, and they know to avoid it without making a noise. They know this because I have stuck a note to the door explaining that my children are asleep in the next room and to avoid making any noise.

The Holograms

They have created a memorandium of the imaginary in the circular avenue which leads down towards the town centre, number twenty-one, the reception of a shabby and deserted museum. This is where they place the holograms that the towns people have sculpted from air to show others what they think of the Echthroi: the kind of head they have, if they have one, long arms which scoop up everything in their path, eyes bigger than their bellies, and steel jaws. In short, a little bit of everything and nothing at all.

The missing ordnance

It’s not a peculiar place, it has a nearly-new chair and a table and a polished leather sofa. And a lamp which is lit even during the day. There reigns a bizarre sensation, a soft coloured agony of unquiet stillness, something that tastes not quite sterile. By the way the lost ordnance can be found somewhere near here.

Old Joseph's memories

Old Joseph had been a pioneer of the preservation society. He began really very young, well before the others had begun to put things to one side.
He stilled lived with his parents and had already laid claim to the loft, the cellar, the summer house and was currently eyeing up the garage. He had filled each space with, and piled one on top of the other, the elements of his everyday life that he felt was absolutely necessary to keep, but nothing that he did not believe was not absolutely necessary: the first shoe he had worn and others, a nearly complete collection of half drunk bottles of milk, clothes, a stone which he could have kicked but didn't, all his old hamsters in jars filled with formaldehyde, some drawings, some letters and much more.

The deflated football

How can you play football with a deflated ball? All the players would break their feet trying. Instead it'd require a new football, well inflated, with coloured segments that you could see in the dark, and a great florescent line around the middle; but not this soft and deflated vacuum which scoops up gravel and creates clouds of dust and that will never ever score a goal.

In-between the world

The streets are like an in-between world; purgatory for dead things. Though Megan is sensible when she walks there, she is never quite sure whether she will be able to walk out again. Obviously she goes out walking rarely. Even so, she was once seen standing for hours, hypnotised by a yellow plastic-covered book, unable to move. Some things are known to take control of people after a while.

When the hill-side last fell into the sea

There is a body buried in the cemetery on the hill-side which has been there for centuries and which has a tendency to move around. The body was placed in a number of individual graves, unmarked graves, save for a brief description: Right arm, left arm, a leg, another, a torso and a head.
Like that wasn't enough, the graves still have a tendency to move away from each other like something was pushing them from below. Regularly, or so the theory goes, one should dig up and move the graves closer to each other, in order to rejoin the disparate body parts, but this takes a lot more effort than is ever available.

Ballroom dancing without bristles

I don’t know how you can keep surfaces clean using only the handle of a broom. A sort of pole which ends in a flat rectangular lump of wood, where bristles once sprouted. It’s been a while since it had any bristles. It’s been a while since I danced.

Bazaar

This kind of place has existed forever, its façade indescribable by familiarity. Where the eye can’t discern anything tangible. It is called “Bartholomew’s bazaar of all-sorts and cheap bizarities”. When you look for a thing that isn’t elsewhere, or a corner which you can browse for an indeterminate while, when there is nothing else to do, or you just fancy a gossip, that’s were you go. Not that I’m recommending it.

Where we forget about the missing ordnance

Amongst a pile of folded garden chairs, the police are intent on lifting suspect fingerprints from a paper-machier mask. Right next to the mask is a plastic-bound manuscript with melted edges, probably full of detailed annotations, that contain the answer to how this literary tesseract shows molecules breaking down, planning destruction and the complexity of god, or it could just be the missing plastic-bound ordnance survey everyone thinks they're looking for.

Seven knocks at the door and a heavy step.

The ambulance came to get Dora, last night, after the weather report. The weather report has always seemed slightly absurd, since we don’t know whether tomorrow will ever come. It’s a little like the lottery. The ambulance men knocked and let themselves in, as the patient was busy. They carried her off sweating like a suet pudding, stewing in amber scotch. They had found her chilled out on her bedroom ceiling in the middle of religious images, kitchen-utensils and diagrams outlining some theory or another on the creation of the solar-system, amongst which they also found some photographs of an ant-eater, an iguana and a Proginoskes.

partly inspired by lots of things, and by 'the wind in the door' by madeleine l'engle

2004-10-01T09:06:00.000Z

'A hat is never just a hat' the Mad-Hatter said, holding a steaming cup of tea in his left hand 'Take this one for instance. Tea for two. It suits you marvellously, so aesthetically pleasing ...'

... I lost my head,
in London,
to a badly coiffed painter,
who invited me back to his studio,
and made me pose naked
for what seemed an eternity.

I endeavoured to be still,
shivering from the cold
in that gloomy attic.
where my teeth clattered
like castanets.

I was a cold naked beauty.
and he continued to paint me,
solid in front of his easel.

Later, to warm me
he offered tea and sympathy.
An artistic rummage which excited me terribly,
and tidied away my fears.
'Don't be afraid' he told me,
placing his tattered beret on my head
like a spring bonnet,
which ressembled the painting palette
he didn't have ...

ConfulderAR! confulderAR! hah hah hah (aka: Confusion in Teehee Minor)

2004-09-21T21:53:00.000Z

I

Someone is ringing the door bell. I could open the door, but in fact no one rang. I answer the door anyway. No one is there. I am confused. After all, I did clearly hear someone not ringing the door bell. On the other hand no one forced me to answer the door. Especially not to hurry and answer like I did, stubbing my bare toe against the hallway radiator. I close the door whilst briefly glancing back at the hallway. There was no one there. Far away, in the building, you can hear the arrhythmic bass-echo of some dance music. A drill bellows in the heart of the wall. A small child cries somewhere on the second floor. Amidst the familiar sounds of the road, a car sounds it's horn. Two people are shouting at each other under the window. Just a few banal insults. I have some moloko. I feel slightly confused.

II

Hesitating, the sheep stops in front of the zebra crossing. To cross? or not to cross? The traffic light is red. A bus nearly edges forward, blowing like a decrepit dragon after his last battle. The sheep looks to his left then to his right. The road is wide, the crossing is long. He knows he has enough time, but he experiences a small doubt. People are looking at him in a way he doesn't really like. He places one hoof on the road. Then another. He advances prudently.  He navigates a path through the sparse crowd. Soon he has reached the other side. He spots an underground station. He walks faster and descends the underground steps. Then with his head, he pushes the entrance doorway open and stops in front of the turnstiles. He hasn't got a ticket. The sheep is confused.

III

The silence grows more oppressive. There is no one to talk to tonight. Time feels leaden. Something isn't right. Maybe just one thing, maybe many things, or maybe too many things. There is no doubt about it. It was there for an instant, then gone. It wasn't worth thinking about. But during an instant a sound crackled. Like some kind of interference. Somewhere. Then nothing. I feel very confused

IV

Being confused is being unmasked, or mistaking one person for another.

Oh I'm sorry, I got confused. said the Spider to the Squid whilst releasing it from his web. In fact spiders, widely acknowledged as some of the hardest kick-ass bitches around, don't eat squid; unless they are well cooked. In the present case this is unimportant. The squid was alive and pissed off. He will no doubt make a complaint to the Authority. And the complaint will be upheld. The Spider will find itself in concrete shoes. Lots of small concrete shoes. The Spider always confuses casual passer-byes with it's prey. Because, yes, some do pass the spider's web without any intention of ever stopping. They are in a great hurry you understand. Until, damn it!, they become entangled, and are unable to hurry onwards. The Spider is always truly sorry. It tries to explain that it hasn't yet perfected a thread which can recognise which people to tangle, and which not to. But it is useless, even though many renowned scientists are searching continuously for an intelligent thread that can choose the meal of the day alone. At present, they have found nothing. They say that in Japan they have discovered a thread which rings when you place a foot upon it. But it would take too much time and money to bring it over from Japan. The Spider is fed up. It picks up it's bag and goes shopping. On the way the Spider passes the Sheep, The Sheep doesn't recognise the Spider. The Spider pretends not to see the sheep. They loved each other once. A very long time ago.

V

Night Falls.
It's morning.
Someone rings.
A light comes on opposite.
Another one switches off.
A volcano awakes.
Marion goes fishing.
Liz takes her dog for a walk.
Ahmed falls asleep standing.
Ben hunts elephants in his bedroom.
It's cold when it rings.
Suddenly, nothing happens.
Marion comes back from fishing,
it's a beautiful day.
It's summer.
Liz meets Marc who is on his way back from the cinema.
He went to see Jules et Jim by Francois Truffaut.
He enjoyed it.
They talk for a while,
whilst Liz's dog shits under a car.
The car is red.
Ahmed sleeps.
Ben hurt himself.
He thought he saw an elephant
but in fact it was a table.
Ben rapes the table.
The table cries.
Marion cooks fish.
The sun is at it's zenith.
It's winter.
Liz and Marc say goodbye to each other.
Liz would like Marc to call her sometime.
Marc just wants to fuck her.
Liz's dog doesn't give a shit.
Ahmed still sleeps.
Ben apologises to the table.
It doesn't listen to him.
It wants to leave.
But it can't.
Marc goes home.
It is night time,
It is Autumn.
Liz feels lonely in front of the television.
Ahmed sleeps.
Ben is talking to the phone.
Without lifting up the receiver.
He talks to pass the time.
Marion gets comfortable on a sun lounger.
She is drinking iced mint tea.
It is hot.
The phone rings.
Liz picks up the receiver.
It isn't Marc.
It's Ahmed.
Who is sleeping.
Liz replaces the receiver.
She watches How to Lose Weight on television.
She doesn't give a damn but it makes her laugh.
Marc stares at a porno mag.
He falls asleep.
Ahmed wakes up and drinks a glass of water.
Ben takes a bath.
The table packs it bags and discretely leaves.
It is moving in with it's sister.
It is sad.
Ahmed goes back to bed.
Marc sleeps.
Liz eats chips.
Marion stays in the shade.
In the sky some birds fly past.
The sky is blue.
A light breeze comes up the beach.
Marion feels okay.
Liz switches the television off.
She masturbates.
Ahmed sleeps.
Marc too.
Ben counts bubbles of soap.
Marion wants to make a film of her holidays.
She can't be bothered to get up.
She falls asleep,
rocked by the breeze.
It's a beautiful day.
It's Spring.
Ben cries at the table's departure.
The table is on the underground.
It is crying too.
Ahmed sleeps and Marc too.
Liz takes a shower.
Marion sleeps.
She dreams.
At the edge of the water she makes love to another girl.
She smiles in her sleep.
Ahmed sleeps too but he doesn't dream.
Marc wakes up.
He is hungry.
But he goes back to sleep.
Ben goes to bed.
He won't sleep.
The table arrives at it's sisters.
It lets go of it's breath.
Liz sits down on the sofa.
She thinks.
She runs her fingers through her hair.
Without noticing.
Marion is still sleeping.
She is happy.
Ahmed sleeps.
Marc sleeps.
Ben doesn't sleep.
The table finally sleeps.
Liz gradually falls asleep.
She looks at the wall.
The wall looks back at her.
It is a beautiful day.
Marion wakes up.
She thinks about the volcano that is falling asleep.
She takes a few steps across the balcony.
Far away, there is the horizon, waves and the sky.
She tells herself that infinity stops here.

VI

The train pulls into the station screeching all the way. In no time, hundreds of people press together on the platform. Some board and some descend. Everyone detests each other. In the confusion a big ruddy-cheeked man elbows an adorable child in the head. She screams. "Ow". The big man turns around and apologises. "Sorry little one"

83 year Kung fragment of FU

2004-09-21T21:45:00.000Z

"Arse! fucking arsehole!"

Douglas is 83 years old. He bends down, seizes a copy of The Sun which is lying on the floor, holds it up victoriously and places it in the hearth. A sleeping ember ignites with a sharp snap. Sweet scent. The air fills with scandal. A spark jumps then falls down. The paper relaxes. Douglas observes, content in his armchair.

"Fucking arsehole, you happy now?"

A flame rises, envelops, licks and caresses the dead dog. The Sun burns, twists, crumbles, folds in on itself, loses form and dissapears

Banister Kamikaze

2004-09-12T22:27:00.000Z

I caught a bad thought today, somewhere between Wimbledon and Finchley Road. I guess it must have entered my ear and become lodged in my brain during the routine emergency stop which happens on an almost daily basis when passing Kilburn. Of course I can't be certain of the exact time the bad thought invaded, it's just the first time I can actually recall thinking 'I don't give a fuck anymore'. I didn't immediately begin to act differently and In retrospect how could I have done, I was sandwiched under a tall business man's armpit and a scratched perspex double door, barely able to tell where I ended and the mass of body odours suffocating me began. I can't imagine what the passengers with newspaper-print eyes, waiting on the rush hour platform, must have thought of my squashed resignation; as the double doors opened to teasingly invite them to find a space on the crowded train, 'If they thought they were fishy enough'. Poor wannabe sardines. Poor me.

'We are now entering the Bakermuda Street Triangle, we could be lost in here for a while' helpfully scratches a tannoy voice. A tube driver with a sense of humour or a mad tube driving prophet? Whichever, he was undoubtedly a veteran of tunnel warfare. I can imagine him armed with flask and Benson&Hedges, the kind of man who always has a lighter, or at least sufficient stubble to light a match off, even if it is a safety match. No need for the wife to pack this guy a packed-lunch, he prefers to catch it on the run, his favourite is chillied hotrat then chocolate mouse for dessert. I kind of like this man, though his breath must stink.

The tall business man has somehow extricated my head from his armpit and has managed to lay a broadsheet table cloth on top of my head instead. I suspect he is having a full continental breakfast up there. The thought makes me thirsty, so I lick at a trickle of water running down the inside of the perspex double door. It taste's salty so I suck my tongue to create enough saliva to get rid of the taste. My bad thought suggests that rather than licking the sweat of the walls, or sucking my tongue I should kindly ask the man to share his drinking chocolate with me. The idea is absurd and I dismiss the thought out of hand. I don't even like drinking chocolate.

After what seems a few seconds - staring at the neon coloured 'don't you get lost now' lines against blackened tube-tunnel walls- I'm standing in lift. I'm sandwiched under a tall business man's armpit and a shiny double metal door, barely able to reach the 10th floor button. I'm thrown out of this metal tin on the fifteenth floor, by a very big bottom. I am five floors higher than I want to be. My luck as well as my normal good humour has truly been bottomed out. There is only one solution advises my bad thought, banister kamikaze.

Now I haven't tried banister kamikaze since I was a kid, but it all came flooding back. Once at the top of the stairs it would be time to choose my descent, legs first, head first, front wards and face up, backwards and face down or just plain banister kamikaze. I didn't choose though, my bad thought did. It lifted my skirt, spread my legs, let my hands go, slid me fifteen floors down and broke me on the marble entrance hall 'wipe your feet before you leave' mat. I guess my thought spotted that woven message as I waited for the lift. I also guess that the bad thought must have been propelled from my ear on impact. I guess I'm soon going to be too dead to wonder abou .......

A Writethisian Tragedy

2004-09-10T01:04:00.000Z

Classroom Philosophy

2004-08-31T10:10:00.000Z

'Draw a rectangle' the teacher said, drawing a triangle onto the white board.
'But Sir, you're drawing a triangle ...'
'Yes Freddy, but draw a rectangle in your books anyway'
'Now draw a triangle inside your rectangle' continued the teacher, drawing a circle around his triangle.
This time the children are quiet. A few look at the white board with a slight doubt in their eyes, but they draw what is asked of them.
The teacher turns around to look at the increasingly agitated class: Robert has finished before everyone else, top of the class; Sarah applies herself to the task of drawing with concentration, tongue between lips.
Once everyone has raised their heads, except Jonathan who is already colouring his triangle with a large red crayon, the teacher asks. 'Now tell me what you see in your books, a rectangle, a triangle, a triangle in a rectangle?'
The children are pleased with themselves, their answer is almost unanimous. The slowest and the most timid are quiet, adding their pennies worth is no longer important. They all smile, proud of themselves. But the teacher adds 'and?'
After a moment of reflection, Anthony, the most imaginative of the class suggests 'A bank note?'
'Yes, good ...' encourages the teacher '... but what else?'
Another moments reflection.
'Three triangles on a rectangle' announces a young boy, who used his ruler to draw the lines and shapes.
'Yes that's true Tommy ... but what else?'
The children look at each other in silence. Anthony lifts his book towards the light. The teacher smiles.
'A tipi on a postcard?'
'The great pyramid?' risks Sarah who has just returned from holidays in Egypt.
The teacher waits a few moments more, till the discomfort is clear, and the sound of shuffling chairs is audible. After looking each child in the eyes he states 'Their are shapes, lines, dots .. Trapeziums for those of you that have made the sides of the triangle touch that of the rectangle. A triangular hole in a piece of wood for those of you where the sides don't touch. A dot in a rectangle for those of you that have drawn a tiny triangle. A picture on a piece of paper, pen and ink, graphite for those that have used crayon, colour for one amongst you. Atoms from diverse materials for those of you that know what the word means. And the sweat from your hands ... Thousands of small things that only ask to be seen and understood'
'... and the circle?' asks Robert.
'The circle?'
'The circle on the white board?'
'Yes there is a circle on the white board, can you see it in your book? Can you draw it with your eyes?'
'Yes ...'
'Yes' exhale some of the children, whilst Jonathan can't resist drawing a circle on his own drawing.
'You can really see something invisible?' smiles the teacher with false astonishment. 'So the lesson is finished, it's break time'

Catching Flies

2004-08-08T16:42:00.000Z

In a room and a faded picture
Looking out with faded eyes
A little grey man in a little white cell
Climbing the wall of his mental hell
and catching flies -

They said you were 'well'

Too much non-conformity,
Label it insanity,
Put it in a box
and send it to obscurity.
Stacked up
Jacked up
Numbered up
Packed up
stuck in piles
of little white boxes.

And then I came to visit you
they wouldn't even let me through
said they had a job to do
'and it all takes time'

Mindbend medicinal
Brainwash Clinical
Don't you get too radical
they'll fill you full of chemicals.

And when I got to see you
I could hardly recognise
the wasted human being
busy catching flies -

Treatmentality
state
Hospitality

-put them in a box
Where they slowly die.

The Insanity of Sanity

2004-07-23T22:40:00.000Z

'The reality in surreality is surmounted only by the sanity in insanity' wisely philosophised the Master of Philosophy.
'Philosophy is homogenous with reality my dear man' interrupted the Master of Maths.
'I disagree, it is far more relevant that nature and nuture cradle us equally in their arms, both in birth and in death' eulogised the Master of Sociology.
'Deo gratias caveat empor' The Latin Master muttered under his breath, as the waitress placed a bill for the last round of drinks, under the Master of Music's lolling head.
Silence reigned briefly round the table in the Town and Gown pub.
'The density of liquer is proportional to the density of water, equal measures of which would fill the same receptacle, without an iota's difference in capacity' intoned the Master of Sciences.
All the Masters nodded and intermittently cried 'Aye' in strong agreement with the Master of Sciences statement.
The Master of Philosophy nudged the Master of Music awake 'Where is the plastic in money, old boy, eh? When copper, silver and gold outweigh the value of currency, and paper is arguably heavier than its peers are'
Drunkenly responding the Music Master added 'No soliloquay is richer than the musical ring of cold bitter'
The Master of Sociology tapping the Master of Maths on the shoulder, reminded 'The heirachy of social order preordains that one is always greater or smaller than the echelon in the middle, but were the middle equal to the greater or indeed equal to the lower, there would be no echelons at all, and then who's turn would it be to buy the drinks?'
'Dividing sums by each other can only return the divided sums of the parts that are used in the sums' replied the Mathmetician.
'Last orders at the bar' called the serving girl.
'The end is the same to start, as finish is to begin. Last is something different to first, yet not so different to late or early' sagely advised the Master of Philosophy.
'Compleo vestro bibo, discedo hic' muttered the Master of Latin, standing to leave.
All the Masters stood and acknowledged the suggestion with an agreeable 'Aye'.

Mister Plucked Heads

2004-07-10T23:17:00.000Z

It's just a load of newspaper and soap Prime Minister

2004-07-07T23:39:00.000Z

The newspaper has stained my fingers. I feel the desire to run to the sink, roll up my sleeves and get the soap out of my pocket. But the sink is too far away. I can't get hold of the rim. I can't even reach it. The sink is too far away. Nonetheless, I can see it floating along the Thames as the Prime Minister talks to me. God the Prime Minister talks rubbish! I must absolutely get rid of him. Well at least for as long as it takes to wash my hands. "Excuse me Prime Minister, but it's imperative I get rid of you so that I can go wash my hands. By the way you talk rubbish and your newspaper is staining my fingers and face. I am removing this soap from your hands now!''

The Prime Minister sits, his arms swinging, not that this stops him from pursuing his speech. The Tube is packed, the passengers laugh in his face, but he continues his speech regardless, like nothing has happened, like his newspaper hasn't stained the whole carriage. The Prime Minister speaks, but the passengers do the same as me. They whistle for the sink. The Prime Minister hasn't yet quite understood that it is the soap hour. However, if he read the newspaper he'd know that at Kings Cross, at 8pm, everyone always has a wash in the sink. I manage to get to the sink before everyone else. I look for the Prime Ministers speech in my pocket, in the hope a piece of soap will fall out of it. The Prime Minister takes this opportunity to slip out of my hands and kick the sink. The sink lists a little then drifts amongst the flotsam of passengers. Direction Nation.

The Prime Minister says "But Ms Whirly, Nation is not in your direction" I reply " Prime Minister you're fired. Stop getting my newspaper dirty"

Euston Square starts crying. The Prime Minister gives me a look and says "If you're going to be like that, give me back my soap. I'll soap your back during the interval." His speech cries whilst he soaps my back. I dry myself with the Newspaper. Printed words appear back to front on my skin. "Ms Whirly" says the Prime Minister "Please try to write the right way round"
Everyone in the world mutters "That's so badly written, you can't even make out the spelling mistakes!" The people in the tube are horrid. You think it's easy for a soap to write left-handed?

Absence of colour

2004-06-03T11:33:00.000Z

I'm pissing in a lift. I was playing with Jay when I felt an uncontrollable need to piss. The top of the tower block was out of sight, soI held it in, but it was hard. Looking up made me want to go even more.

*ping*

I'm not going to be able to hold it in. I'm seeing red. No choice, it's nature. Now I'm pissing the carpet black.

'The most popular colour is black Jay. Some say it's an absence of colour, rather than a colour. Everyone always has black umbrellas, have you noticed that? They've gotta be black out of respect. They're mourning the absence of the sun. I pissed off the balcony and murdered the sun. I made the world black'

Every day after school I have to go in the lift with the black carpet. I think the carpet used to be red, but I don't let that bother me. Just like I don't let school bother me. I wish they'd stop though, making me ask and answer all those questions, over and over again. Mama doesn't want me to anyway. It's been over a year now, but I still have to answer those questions. They still make me, and Mama just cries.
They make you repeat it so many times, those women dressed in black. I can recite it all the way through. 'What does god require in the sixth commandment?' ... 'That neither in thoughts, nor words, nor gestures, much less in deeds, I dishonour, hate, wound, or kill my neighbour, by myself or by another: but that I lay aside all desire of revenge: also, that I hurt not myself, nor wilfully expose myself to any danger.' I never have answered well enough to wear white. So I wore red, until all that fit me was black.
Jay didn't go to the same school as me. I don't know why. At break time I'd always be alone. The boys would play football and the girls would play at girly stuff. I liked it when they played jump elastic, because it made them red cheeked. I liked it for other reasons too, but I can't remember. They'd always take the piss out of me, so I never asked to join in. The boys would also take the piss out of me, because I was crap at footie. I would have liked to play but they didn't want me to. Sometimes ... rarely, I'd get to play, when someone was ill and they needed to make the numbers up. It didn't happen often. Some days, maybe when I was off ill, there'd be other kids off ill too and I'd have been able to play football. That's why I'd never pretend, cos I didn't want to risk missing a game because of a stupid illness. Whenever I was ill Mama would look at me with those big eyes, scary eyes and I didn't like that.
Jay never missed school, because his mama didn't like him to. He'd go to school even if he was really ill. I didn't like it when he was poorly, because his Mama didn't let him come down and play. So I'd play alone.
Sometimes we'd go play at his house, because it had loads of cool toys, a load of cars and a racing circuit that worked all by itself and a Mecano set with a whole load of pieces. But ... what I liked best, was the game he had invented. When his Mama left the room to get dinner ready, we'd turn out the light and hide ourselves behind the door, in case his Mama came in without warning. Then he'd take my twinkle in his hand and squeeze it hard, so that it made my cheeks hot. Sometimes, I'd do it to him, but he didn't like it, he said it wasn't right. Sometimes his Mama would come in and see why we were being so quiet, so we'd start playing other games.

Then one day we were on my balcony trying to piss on the head of this old lady, when he asked to squeeze my twinkle. I said no, I said it was filthy and that I was gonna tell my Mama. He got angry. I got scared, and started to cry. We fought and I pulled him around by his jumper, but he was stronger than me, and he pushed me to the balcony floor. He was big, Jay, that's why he was stronger than me. I started to act like the bad guy in our favourite cartoon. I waited for the good guy to battle the monster before sticking a knife in his back. I pushed him. He cried out, until he went 'thud', on the car park below. I cried even more. Then his Mama arrived, and she cried and screamed lots too.

This man used to come and see me a lot. He doesn't come anymore now. I still think about Jay a lot, and I still cry cos I'm still scared. Then my head goes all funny, like what used to happen to my cheeks, all hot and red. Afterwards I have to put clean panties on and my mother tells me I'm impossible and sometimes she cries too, black tears against red cheeks.

The Plastic Life Scope

2004-05-18T22:20:00.000Z

He was rich and young, too young apparently. He was dead, at the pinnacle of his youth and wealth. He made his fortune from an extrordinary invention, The Scope. Many had attempted this before him, but he alone had mastered control over the dream world, but once he had finished his prototype, he was not prepared for the consequences that followed.

The Scope functioned via old vhs video tapes, a format abandonned many years ago. A metal helmet, fitted with electrodes, placed the wearer in the Film, in place of the camera. The system was black and white (and without sound), and waking up was problematic. He had been obliged to attach a loud alarm clock, which was set to sound at the end of the dream, when during the first test, his neighbour had found him several days later still asleep. The first improvements, a few months later, were made on the helmet. Entirely made of metal, it was rather uncomfortable, and prone to faulty electrics. One day, he woke up in hospital, in the burns unit, because of a simple crossed wire.

Once the system was perfected, only a few rich patrons bought it, the product was not yet ready for public consumption. He borrowed more money from those who had supported the project since it's inception and worked non stop over a year on the colour and sound settings, as well as compatability with third generation video equipment. Version 2 of The Scope was an immediate success, and came supplied with the old Walt Disney classic 'Fantasia'. The thousands, then the millions of owners of this fashionable product (according to a government survey) were more relaxed than those without, but did have an annoying habit of singing the 'Sorcerers Apprentice' out loud in public without realising it. There were very few films available for view at the time, as a virus in The Scope only allowed discs coded with a secret algorhythm to be played, of course he carefully chose which films should and should not be coded. Fatally someone succeeded in bypassing the coded algorhthym and then began distributing violent films, which provoked a wave of depression which lasted till the algorithum was changed.

As a result of the colossal success of his invention, he sold his start up company for a colossal profit to Microsoft, who subsequently provided the technology to incorporate touch, smell and 3D imagery to the existing Scope. This deluxe version was also a great success, whilst the old version still remained popular. But he soon became bored, he had had enough of having the same dreams night after night, he had had enough of everyone else having the same dreams. In the end everyone who owned the Scope was the same. They were relaxed and happy, they aspired to a simple happiness (which was a remarkable evolution in their mentaility) but there was not much left in terms of originality. These few years saw the number of non-conformists drop and artistic endeavour cease. No, the world he had created did not please him. He himself did not use the Scope unless to test it, he spent his nights in the good old way.

Then one day he had an idea, to move from film to video games. He resigned his position at Microsoft and called a programmer friend. In twenty months, they had created the 'interactive dream' a kind of parallel world, where in part, the mind decided the course of the story, the remainder generated randomely by the computer programme to which the Scope was attached. To celebrate the occassion they rented a cinema, where scenes from the programme were shown, and where they played together in 3D. They tested the scope for a further two months, each in turn, one staying awake to unplug the other in case of difficulties. Even once all the bugs were ironed out, they still did not get bored of the Scope. One day, over breakfast she told him about a dream the Scope had showed her <>. This was when the great love between them was born. It was also when Microsoft bought back the invention. Notes made during the last two years testing, allowed Microsoft to recreate a new programme taking scenery from around the world, which once again, guaranteed the Scopes commercial success with an audience desperate for adventure and unable to travel. The young couple, now known as 'Mr and Mrs Scope' tried to distance themselves from gropwing media speculation. They plugged both their headsets into the same computer and shared the same dreams. They achieved perfect symbiosis of spirit. She was within him, and him within her.

Three months after their marriage, she needed to spend a few weeks with her family. During this time he never stopped thinking about her, and dreamt of her every night. In fact he reprogrammed the Scope to recreate the presence of his wife. On waking every morning, it seemed as if he had spent the night with her. But she had not taken her portable Scope kit with her. Her first nights spent without him were painful, their spirits had never been apart since their marriage. She felt the need to make long calls to him, but these phone calls did not bring her the same comfort as the nights she spent with him, the scope helmet on her head. He was no longer with her and she discovered she could live without him. She also discovered that the the world was more beatiful than any dream chosen in advance, so she decided to live in reality. The first time he did not understand. He didn't miss her, he always had her with him at night. When she returned to tell him their marriage was over, he got angry and deleted any reference of her from the computer programme which controlled his dreams. From that day on, he isolated himself to the house more and more. He tested ways of making the dreams even more realistic, once done, he isolated himself even more and even further, not hesitating to spend day after day in the scenarios he wrote. He invented new scenarios, one of his ideas was to recreate death. More and more often, his dreams ended in suicide, till one day he forgot that he wasn't dreaming.

The Artful Chicken and Oscar; pretend genius, discuss terrorism

2004-05-04T11:24:00.000Z

Ruminations from a wooden bench

2004-04-08T01:35:00.000Z

The streets are crowded. People jostle and press, groin to back, in the surge of unanimous intent. I thought the City would respect my mourning ... that maybe there would be, I don't know ... a day of misericord, some leniency, an alternative atmosphere, heavy under the weight of a heat wave, imprisoning everyone in their homes. Then in the silence be left to pray for salvation from uninvited thoughts. Well maybe not anything so solemn, but maybe ....

No. They're still there. They move, jostle and shout. Maybe some of them even love each other. Surely. Look at those two; they're beautiful aren't they? She has sequined eyes and bright ringlets for lips, or so it seems. It's he who lights the brazier, that takes up so much of the space between them both. In the reddening reflections which smooth over his eyes, so like the vigour of a ripening fruit heated by a blush of mauve, the intimate wound of a phoenix.

He is the Luna Pierot,
absent and incomplete.
He raises his hand
A bus stops.

The young girl remains in the road long after the bus has disappeared. She scatters sequins into the sky, whilst the roundabout of her lips lend her emotions a ride. It's beautiful. It's touching. It's January. This doesn't stop the sun from revealing her charms. This doesn't stop the girl from honouring life from beneath her blue chunk-knit pullover.

As it does not stop, 800 hundred metres further down the road, the girl as blonde as the other girl was dark, from throwing herself into the neck of a young man descending from a bus.

It certainly doesn't stop the pigeons from celebrating in circles what they believe to be the return of spring.

I Am The Commuter

2004-04-02T00:17:00.000Z

I am The Commuter. I'm a member of The Big Smoke. You probably are too. I have spent five years here. Once, in a bold move contrary to the rules and regulations of this non-stop madness, I lived for six months on the outside. It was a great time for me, but I had to return. Necessity: chocolate money, chilled wine. My present confinement has lasted well over four thousand, four hundred and sixty four hours.

To get to The Big Smoke you must take The Rush. The Rush is a ceiling-less, echoing, tunnel with scratched perspex windows. Identical advert boardings line identical head high dado-rails, overviewed by identical doorways where identical humans defecate identically. A vast sea of silence, synthetically fertilized and produced so methodically that it never changes volume or pace, surrounds The Rush like an inhibited desert. A commuter recently received electric shock therapy for speaking out of turn. He had failed to heed The Rush’s memo: “Conversation should be non existant. The stimulation of non-linear thought patterns through chaotic, autonomous conversation undermines the goals of boredom and monotony which we try so hard to achieve here in The Rush.”

Inmates enter and exit The Rush through many sets of immense double-perspex doors with stainless steel handles. The exits are unmarked. Travel between the thousands and thousands of levels is accomplished on a myriad of elevators or on stairs, if one has the time, but few commuters do. Some levels, it is rumoured, have special machines that require chocolate and child sized mice who do too.

The laughter in The Big Smoke is deep, long and loud, but it always contains some irony, some bite, some absurdity. We laugh at The Officials when they give their speeches or when we have our four year psychological evaluations, but we are insulted too. They treat us like children. They think we’re stupid.

Most of us came to The Big Smoke for necessities: a roof over our heads, a chance to contribute, a desire to be needed . Mostly we came seeking The Grind. Our yearnings are simple: we want to choose where to put our shoes, when to comb our hair, what to eat for lunch. In one Grind, a desk was once unbolted from the floor and moved by a commuter to face a window. No forms. No protocol. No permission. It saved money and time. How innovative! How darink! My Grind would have scheduled that commuter for weekly psychiatric evaluations for doing such a thing.

When the commuters criticise The Grind, and they often do, The Organ Monkeys defer to Mission Statements and Grind Policy: “Commuter suggestions will be accepted on feedback form 12A and must be filled out legibly and given to your immediate Organ Monkey. Failure to use form 12A must be reported by the immediate Organ Monkey on form 42C .” By deferring to manuals, rules and regulations the Organ Monkeys talk the same, look the same, act the same. “That is a great suggestion,” an Organ Monkey will say, “and something we definitely need to look into.” We are treated like chess pieces: attacked or defended; traded or sacrificed for the sake of The Organ Grinder. This is no chess game.

When we’re ready, we’ll leave The Big Smoke for good. For now, we just want to go home for the weekend.

I boarded The Rush hopeful, but I have become a cynic. In the beginning The Grind seemed like a quaint place. It’s not. The plants are plastic, the flowers are fake and the furniture is cheap, strictly utilitarian. Many Organ Monkeys, who appear cordial and concerned, are, behind that facade, otherwise occupied, with promotions, Grind politics, financial gain. It is mostly an illusion here, an invented, purchased image.

New Commuters are told that the atmosphere in The Big Smoke is great and forced to breathe it in so quickly they have no time to evaluate its health benefits. Initially, I admit, it felt decent, it looked good, presentation is extremely important here, but its gritty texture made it irksome to swallow and the large quantities I ingested never fully satisfied me even after a second or third helping. I was constantly sick. It became obvious the atmosphere contained downers. Later I learned the atmosphere was not atmosphere at all, but valium and sleeping pills. I stopped prescribing. I threw the pills away.

Out of necessity I mixed my own atmosphere using recipes left behind by dead commuters. I smuggled in these illegal ingrediants with the help of former commuters who, like me, are also troubled about the state of The Big Smoke.

So now I have a dream: I want to begin distribution to all commuters in The Big Smoke. Some say it is a ridiculous dream, but then, I am a ridiculous person. I am The Commuter.

Pretend Genius News

2004-03-29T18:57:00.000Z

Routine Counting

2004-03-27T20:31:00.000Z

She wakes at 6.00am every morning to the same radio station, which plays on a retro sixties radio, angled so precisely, that it is the first thing she opens her eyes to in the morning. She lies on her back listening to the improvised spiel of the DJ, chuckling quietly to herself, at the jokes and the atrociously staged phone conversation he is having with a supposedly random radio listener. After ten minutes she gets out of bed on the right side. Getting out the wrong side isn't an option. It did happen once long ago and she is still reeling from the shock. She taps the snooze button six times exactly, to ensure the radio is switched off.Time is always measured in periods of ten multiplied into six, six ten second periods in one minute, six ten minute periods in one hour.

Wearing only her knickers she makes the journey down the stairs to the bathroom, one step at a time and not one step beyond. No one in the house ever gets up before her, there is a mutual agreement that she always goes first. Leaving the bathroom door open, not liking to touch the handle, she relieves her bladder. Almost like a card game, a number one is worth three wipes and one flush, whilst a number two requires three wraps, nine wipes and three flushes. It's all about division and balance anything else leads to disharmony, which in turn leads to chaos. Not all card players are gamblers, some card players can't risk to lose so they play the safe game, the game of numbers.

The right hand tap of her wash basin is marked with a blue disk embossed with a capital C, it provides hot water, the left hand tap is marked with a red disk and embossed with a capital H, it provides cold water. It's been that way since the plumbers fitted the new bathroom suite. She wished she had noticed this before they had finished the job, because it's too late to change now. She turns the hot tap, to run the cold water first, two turns exactly, before cupping her right hand and taking six sips of water. She runs the tooth brush under the cold water and places one squeeze of toothpaste on to the brush before cleaning her teeth. The dentist she visited as a child had taught her how best to brush her teeth. 'You must brush for five minutes morning and evening' he had said, 'in circular motions front, sides and back, for at least 5 minutes' or three full circuits of the teeth.

Routinely before going to bed each evening she places her facewash back on the shelf to the right of the wash basin, along with her other wash basin products. This morning however, her facewash is still by the side of the bath, amongst her bath products. She hesitates, her hand wavering above the rim of the wash basin, before taking the facewash and running it repeatedly under the hot tap, till any trace of leaking soap from the lid or down the plastic side of the bottle has been washed away. Then placing the face wash on the shelf above the basin, she stands still for a few moments as her finger taps against her bare thigh ten times. With a small sigh she then reaches for the facewash and squeezes one measure of the soap into her left hand, before washing her face in six circular hand movements, rinsing twice with hot water and twice with cold water. She reaches for the clean towel she placed on the radiator the night before, and checks that it hasn't been used overnight. It's better to get another clean towel than have to wash her face again, so nowadays she always checks it is clean before drying her face.

On the way back upstairs to the bedroom she fills the kettle up with fresh water and flicks the power button on, checks that her mug is clean - which it is today - and places a tea bag in it. However, at the stairs she turns uncertainly, before retracing her steps to the kitchen to ensure that she has indeed switched the kettle on. Once upstairs she gets dressed in clean clothes she prepared the night before and placed on a chair making sure they didn't trail on the floor. Whilst changing, her partner has got out of bed and gone downstairs, the light patter of her son's voice follows him, chatting about something he watched on television the night before. She waits five minutes before following them downstairs. By this time her partner is in the bathroom and her son has made his cereal and is watching cartoons as he eats. She pops her head round the lounge door and says hello to her son, before going to the kitchen. She switches the kettle on and boils the water again, checking her mug is definately clean before finishing making her tea.

Tea in hand she sits at the dining room table smoking a cigarette, keeping one eye on the clock. Her partner and son join her as she finishes drinking, bantering with each other loudly about Manchester's performance against Arsenal the night before, her partners yorkshire accent contrasts with her son's london accent, her son vocally denigrating his beloved Manchester in favour of Arsenal who won the match, much to her partners disgust. She interupts with a smile for her partner, as she checks that her son is washed, dressed, fed and wearing clean shoes, before asking him to get his coat on ready to go. Her partner brushes a kiss against her lips and with a parting hug leaves to catch his tube train. Before leaving the house with her son she checks that everything is turned off and the windows closed, first, upstairs then downstairs, before rejoining her son at the door. Half way down the drive her son stops and waits as she returns to the house to double-check that everything is switched off and all the windows closed. She locks the door and turns to face her waiting son, who slips his hand lovingly into hers as she smiles. 'All done'.

After dropping her son off at the childminders she takes a leisurely stroll back past the house and down to to the tube station, popping just once into the house to check that everything is switched off and all the windows closed. She glances at the clock as she leaves the house once more, she's running on time. She stands in her usual spot on the platform, as her tube train pulls into the station. She knows exactly where to stand so that as the doors open she is opposite the left hand tube door. From this door, her regular seat is easily accessible. As the 7.00 am tube train grinds to a halt she see's someone else is sitting in her seat. She takes a step back, to allow the passengers behind her on to the tube train. It doesn't matter she'll wait for the next one, there is one every ten minutes on this line, thats six trains she can choose from in one hour. The earliest gets her to work at 8.00am the latest at 9.00am. She can count on the fact that she is always on time for work.

Nothing but a fame game

2004-02-22T18:00:00.000Z

Hello there. I am television’s Olympia Parker. You may remember me from the BBC’s "There Goes the Neighbourhood" where I played Fanny Meadows, only child of Phillip and Rhonda Meadows. A modern day family who, in the midst of a nuclear holocaust, are forced to take refuge in their suburban-semi bomb shelter. There were only a couple of problems, in addition to the world being obliterated and incinerated to ash. My character was clinically hyperactive, and in the midst of evacuation Mum forgot my Ritalin. Uh oh! AND, my Dad wasn’t happy either, because he was a claustrophobic and he couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up in the basement for years on end. Mum? … Well, she was a nymphomaniac. So, needless to say, comic mayhem ensued, every single episode.

Remember?Remember that?‘Member me?

Come on, I know you do. I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. The vague recognition that suddenly blooms to wide-eyed excitement when you realise who I am, you try to subdue it, hide it. Yes, I can see it. That smug expression. The subliminal giggling just beneath the surface. I can see it. I can see it all.

Come on, you remember me.
I know it.
I know you remember me.

Me, Olympia Parker, cover of every TV Guide and Teenage Magazine, 'TV Times', 'Jackie'. Every little girl wanted to be me. I was every diddy boy’s wet-dream. They all wanted to hold my hand or chase me hysterically down narrow hallways on my national shopping centres appearance tour. Every Mum wanted to call me daughter and hug me cosy on her knee. Every Father wanted to store me in his subconscious for his Oedipal sex fantasies. The whole world was suddenly in love with a kid named Olympia Parker.

I was your fleeting fixation.
Your temporarily elected poster child for your permanent obsession with the idiot box.

How quickly the viewing public embraced me as flavour of the month. Before I knew it my own parents had cashed me in and sold my soul, setting me up with my own private tutor on the set of the show. The panorama spun my head around, and danced me into such a disorienting dizziness that the world blurred into an unrecognisable frenzy, and reality quickly became my enemy. The incessant epileptic flashes of the paparazzi blinded my eyes. My own thoughts were cancelled out by the constant cacophony swirling around me. The voice of my agent supplanted my own subconscious, whispering demonic words that dug into my mind urging me to whore myself to the public. I tried to get my head straight. I’d sit down for a quiet meal and suddenly be surrounded by zit covered pygmies with pads and pens in their hands, begging me to scribble my own name down on paper: "OLYMPIA, OLYMPIA, OLYMPIA I LOVE YOU, I FEEL LIKE I KNOW YOU, I KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU OLYMPIA."

'You feel like you know me, eh?'
Twenty years later, as you walk on by and ignore me.

L'Amour Fatale

2004-02-14T01:41:00.000Z

Tequila

2004-01-28T04:55:00.000Z

Tequila. Tequila. Tequila.

You can really make yourself happy repeating that word. It's got a nice ring to it. It creates images. Three syllables that transport you towards the New World. Towards Mexico. Volcanos, high plateaus, corn, coffee, palm trees, the copper tones of orchestras playing close to flowered haciendas, sombreros, ponchos and all that bazaar. Easy exoticism.

Tequila. Tequila. It's none of that, no, none of that at all. It is far more precise.

Three syllables that slam you into a city that would otherwise have remained anonomous were it not for one of its inhabitants coming up with the idea to distill the fruit of the agave. It's a gift you know to wait for. The agave only flowers once, for which you need to arm yourself with infinite patience under the tequila sun. Ten, twenty, thirty years spent in a vegetative state, till with one gust, the stem flys ten metres, sometimes beyond. And so, barely born, the flower becomes a tree. The word agave doesn't originate from the greek word agaue, which signifies admirable, for nothing. Tequila is indeed an admirable liquor. Golden, adhering to the glass like a valuable oil, smelling as any eau-de-vie smells; odour of old barrel, parched earth, rusted iron, old potato, delicate flower, proud fruit. From the first mouthful, its taste, as hot as its colour predicts, warms your heart.

Cruel but poetic paradox, that with this eau-de-vie I decided to kill Amarillo. And of course, with the last minute addition of an alkaloid drawn from the seed of the Semen Strychnos. Nux vomica. Under the odour of old barrel, parched earth, rusted iron, old potato and I don't remember what else, Amarillo did not detect the bitterness of strychnine. He could have done, the idiot, after all he was a researcher for the National Botanical Institute (NBI). Oh well, he didn't smell a thing. Though I should specify that I had taken care to make sure that he swallowed a good portion of crystallized kumquats first.

Thus Amarillo didn't sense a thing. On the otherhand, he did sense his pain. Intense and extreme. A thousand deaths concentrated in one. A bombardment of napalm circumscribed in a small country of veins and mucous membranes. A tidal wave confined within the perimeters of a too human body. A body which twists, that drowns under the mounting strength of convulsions. A body which arches, pitiful bridge of flesh, grotesque face. When the muscles finish ripping away from ligaments, the pain becomes unimaginable. All is clear. You see yourself departing. It's atrocious.

As soon as the waves of pain calm and cease completely, they return. It needs only a slight stimulus for the horror to begin again: a clap of the hands, a small kick. Till it is worse than before. Time does what it wants with you, dilates you, you exist everywhere at once, as your nerves howl like a troop of torture victims. When time finally releases you, you die of exhaustion, helped a little by respiratory arrest, due to the spasms and dysfunction of the pulminary muscles and diaphram.

It seemed as though Amarillo took an infinite time to die. He was no longer able to speak, his cries for help only able to escape now through the pores of his skin. Our eyes met, then parted, before meeting again. Thus, I could measure the depth of his astonishment and his agony. His face metamorphosised; ugly and livid. His pupils dilated, ocular spheres ready to leave their orbits. Welded teeth that let only the merest hint of impetusous jets of saliva escape. His lips two grey lines, forming the most incredible smile. Behind this convulsive mask, original terror pushed with concentrated violence. Fascinating.

I knew Amarillo was going to vomit, that he would forget himself on the floor of this large apartment, so coveted, so loved. I knew that none of these commonplace details would escape his conscience. For one moment I imagined myself in his place. Curiously, I felt some empathy. This was not expected. Amarillo was a complete arsehole but a human being nevertheless. Suprisingly, and in spite of everything that had happened, I seemed also still to be a human being. From carcass to carcass, from living being to corpse, I felt empathy. A tear.

But this short moment of emotion will not stop me from killing others. One by one. They will defend themselves and for me it will become increasingly difficult. But i will carry on till the end. With the image of the people of Tequila in my mind, my patience is Mexican and almost infinite. My imagination frightening.

At my feet the twisted body of Amarillo in pyjamas reminds me that I am a cobra. I sleep under the agave. I sleep under the tequila sun. Under the sun of the New World. I sleep where I want. To see me sleep this way, might make you think I was in a coma. But the coma of a cobra has nothing to do with the loss of sense and conscience. My coma is nothing but a long wait, hatred is my venom. I can swallow it or spit it so it burns your eyes. Viva el cobra.

The Artful Chicken's lesson on- How to become a secret agent

2004-01-14T13:32:00.000Z

Something about being like Dorothy

2003-12-16T09:31:00.000Z

Regret is a backless red cotton dress, your bare skin pressed against the white-tiled cool of an airport wall.

I had been flying for 13 months, back-packing across the time lines, destination the tourist sites of my own head, till I was dumped without memories, in Stanstead's baggage concourse.

I was hot. Hot enough to hike my floor length dress up in public, way past my knees. I glanced up at the information board to check which continuously circling belt my baggage was scheduled to be dumped onto. Still TBA. I looked over at a noisy gaggle of rats circling a higher species of matriarchal rat in a purple and white flowered dress, their clawed fingers grabbing all at once into a bumper bag of wine gums. I watched as an orange wine gum, round and bouncy escaped the mêlée and rolled under a passing trolley. I lit a cigarette. No one noticed the murder of the wine gum. Even I only felt a small passing regret at it's demise, though orange wine gums are my favourite. Easy come easy go, as people who don't understand the real value of things say. I lit another cigarette from the burning butt of the one I had just finished. I'd had only one match left when I'd landed.

'Home. Fucking hell, what am I doing home? What is home anyway?' I scowl in time for a beefy bloke to walk past and order me to 'Cheer up darlin' it ain't the end of the world' ... 'Do you have proof of that arsehole' I think as I turn my face away, so he doesn't take it upon himself to stop and engage me in cheerful conversation. I haven't spoken to anyone for two days. Right now, I'm quite decided never to speak again.

I don't mind airports. Some people love them and some people hate them. I guess it depends which direction you're facing. Me, I just like watching shapes. Circles and triangles and monkey nuts amongst others. Look at those two, Father and son watching planes land or take off, the Father a crescent, curved and protecting and the son a wide mouthed circle of awe. Then a business man maybe; triangularly proper, solid on his feet, his head sharpened to a point ready to spear anyone who steps into his power zone. Others draw intimate love shapes. Those two for instance, they're beautiful aren't they?. She is curved and shapely like a monkey nut and when she laughs the walls and domed glass ceilings flex towards her, their straight lines bowing in recognition of her loveliness, whilst he charmed like a snake in a wicker basket, draws a sinuous figure of eight around her slender waist and up the shadowed bough of her spine. I look at the Information board. I have run out of cigarettes, so I decide to collect my baggage from belt 3 where it makes it's battered, yet elegant revolutions. The other travellers have collected and gone. I pick up my bag and leave too.

When I arrive everything is overgrown and untended. It feels right. So I enter the shuttered and silent house. I leave my bag at the door and reacquaint myself with old familiars. First I trace my finger through the dust on the face of a grandfather clock that keeps it's timeless vigil over the door welcoming visitors with it's sad twenty five past eight expression. I love this forlorn clock in it's Victorian black suit and brass adornments. Then more dust on a wooden banister leading up some stairs that curve round, so that only the pictures framing it's length know where it finishes. I walk into the lounge and lift a brass catch to open wide windows inwards as I lift another catch to push weathered green shutters out. Sunlight and dust procreate everywhere but in my infertile shadow.

A few years ago I walked into Brugge, a dusty and sunlit city of antique charm. I had only meant to stay an afternoon but lingered a week, browsing fairs along tree lined canals. Smoking cigarettes and drinking strong espresso's washed down with tall glasses of iced water. When I saw the box, presented on an art-deco glass fruit stand, I knew it wanted me - so I gave myself up to it in coin and brought it home and placed it on a small round table from Nepal where it seemed happy. I sat down, face upturned in the sun stream and opened the box. I rolled a joint and then smoked it. The weed had not suffered it's 13 month repose, so I rolled another joint. I took it with me unlit, out the window and into the back garden wilderness which bordered a place like Aldermaston park.

I smoked the joint sat inside a 300 year old oak tree. I sat there for some hours. I can't tell you what I thought about but I can tell you I was sad. Sad watching planes chasing the sun to other places that were neither like Aldermaston nor like home.

Middle-East Peace Negotiations

2003-12-06T11:20:00.000Z

The Amaseus Rock Sessions Pt2

2003-11-15T13:48:00.000Z

The Amadeus Rock Sessions Pt1

2003-11-14T13:44:00.000Z

The bully, the prig and the terrorist

2003-11-14T10:16:00.000Z

The bully, in the traditional school stories, is depicted as one who is ready to hurt his weaker fellows on the assumption that he, himself, will not be hurt; he will do anything to avoid this outcome and is indeed cowardly about it; he defers readily to bigger bullies; he is terrified of superior force and assumes that everybody else is too.

The moralising prig, a figure familiar both in fact and in fiction, is one who makes a show of virtue in areas in which he sees some potential kudos, but at no great cost to himself. The moralising prig is, above all, selective in what he moralises about; he avoids moralising in areas in which he stands to be shown up in an ethically implausible light.

The terrorist is a first party who seeks to influence the action of a second party by frightening third parties whom he judges to be capable of influencing the second party in his favour. The IRA, and its Unionist analogues, are such first parties; they aim to influence the UK government (the second party) by terrorising the third party - the UK electorate. Terrorists succeed to a quite remarkable extent; they have graduated to governmental status in many notionally independent countries in our tattered post-colonial era.

Bush and Blair exemplify between them - in relation to Iraq - all the general features attributed to school bullies, moralising prigs and terrorists. Our unlovely rulers would like to bomb Iraq in the sure and certain knowledge that the Iraqi simply cannot bomb NATO territories; they are moralising prigs who shrink from moral action when that might dent their popularity (crisis, pollution, and underfunding at home); As terrorists they hope to frighten the Iraqi in the street into overthrowing the demon Sadam Hussein.

They are intellectually dishonest in that they pretend, and urge the rest of us to pretend, that victory can be achieved by a unilaterally painless war.

It cannot.

Knitting Time

2003-10-27T13:29:00.000Z

Vaguely bored, I looked out of the window at the monotonous and continuously unravelling landscape. The compartment was empty, with the exception of an old lady who had been there before I arrived. She was sat opposite me, close to the window. Placed on the small shelf between us was a bag overflowing with knitting needles of various sizes and small balls of wool . In the midst, a pair of sharp scissors lay.

We exchanged a few pleasantries, then she ended the conversation, preferring it seemed to return to her knitting and thoughts. She entered into this silence in such a soft and amiable way, that I nevertheles felt comfortable sharing her company.

The train passed through one of the many tunnels along the Lorelei. I didn't like the deafening noise the coaches made when they went through these tunnels nor the sudden obscurity which brutally sliced into thoughts and pre-occupations. For a moment, I could no longer hear the rattle of my companion's knitting needles. But as soon as the light returned her fingers continued their task, one pearl, one stitch.

Five minutes after passing through the tunnel, the door to the compartment opened. The old lady raised her eyes, and I turned a little, in order to better see the newcomer. It was a man about thirty, wearing a black t-shirt. A cap covered his face so you could barely see his eyes. He wasn't carrying any luggage.

We waited for the greeting that never came. The man drew the blind which covered the carriage door. He approached. He didn't sit in one of the empty seats but sat next to me instead. He leaned over slightly and caught my wrist. I opened my mouth to say something, but then said nothing. I'd just noticed the blade which he held in his other hand.

The old lady painfully attempted to stand. Without even turning he pushed her back down with the back of his hand. Letting out a small cry she fell back into her chair.'Watch yourself granny and don't make a sound' he threatened.He forced me to stand. He pushed me back against the small shelf. I felt it pressing painfully into my back.'Pay attention granny' he said 'You probably can't remember how it's done'He raised my skirt.

I felt something in my hand. Scissors! The old lady had succeeded in discreetly slipping them to me. Before I had the chance to reflect, I plunged them into the man's belly. They went in easily. He collapsed on the floor holding his stomach. His fingers were stained with blood. His murmers of pain intermingled with his swearing - 'You whore, bitch. I'll have you for this' I raised my hand to pull the alarm cord. At the same time as I felt the handle between my fingers, we passed into another tunnel. I pulled with all my might, but all I heard was the sound of air whistling against the windows.

In the blackness, panic overwhelmed me little by little: <> The train travelled into daylight again. No one but the old lady was left in the carriage. She looked at me, face pale.I murmured 'Did he escape? The controller should be alerted.'At the end of my tether I crumpled into my seat. A few minutes passed. I got my breath back.

The door to the compartment opened. The old lady turned and let out a small cry, I raised my eyes. In the doorway stood a man, about thirty, wearing an immaculately clean black t-shirt. A cap covered his face so you could barely see his eyes. He wasn't carrying any luggage. There wasn't any sign of injury.

I trembled. The man drew the blind which covered the carriage door. He approached. He leaned over slightly and caught my wrist. I said nothing. I could guess what he held in his other hand. The old lady tried not to stand. He sniggered without looking at her: 'Are you scared granny? Don't worry you'll enjoy this, you probably can't even remember how it's done?' He forced me to stand. He pushed me back against the small shelf. I felt it pressing painfully into my back. He raised my skirt.<> I knew I couldn't have done it again.I opened my hand and the scissors fell on the floor. The rapist tried to rip off my panties.

He collapsed on the floor holding his stomach. His fingers were stained with blood. His murmers of pain intermingled with his swearing - 'You whore, bitch. I'll have you for this' I looked at him incredulous.He had a hole in his side. I raied my eyes. My travelling companion held a bloody knitting needle in her hand.She looked at me with a sorry grimace. 'I didn't try to stand, sorry, the elderly learn from experience'

I wasn't as old as she was. I raised my hand to pull the alarm cord. At the same time as I felt the handle between my fingers, we passed into another tunnel. I pulled with all my might, but all I heard was the sound of air whistling against the windows. In the darkness I felt a mounting desire to vomit. <> The train travelled into daylight again.

The old lady watched me, eyes half closed, dream-like.'My dear, after the next tunnel, why don't you change carriages. I think your presence here is a mistake'I reddened, like a school girl told off by a teacher.'I think you might be right, and you?''Me? I'm not at risk from anything you know. I'm just an old lady. Anyway, I have my knitting needles.'

So when the door opened and we saw without surprise the man in the black t-shirt, she shook out with a smile the long knitted multicoloured scarf she had been holding in her hand.She murmured: 'What do you expect, my dear, each person to their destiny'The man approached. I didn't look at him. Opposite me the charming old lady cut a loose strand of wool from the scarf with a decided snip and with the help of a sharp pair of scissors.

Dead Boy in a Jam Jar

2003-10-23T09:55:00.000Z

Tiny Me

2003-09-14T02:03:00.000Z

George had wanted a Tiny Me™ for his birthday since he could remember. His favourite TV Commercials were the ones that showed just how much fun he would have teaching Tiny Me™ to do all the things that he could already do himself. But every year Daddy had said that George wasn't ready for a Tiny Me™. Until this year when he had come to live with his with UNcle.
This year when George ran into the parlour, there sat Tiny Me™ among the large variety of wrapped presents, babbling baby talk, smiling his happy smile. George was so excited that he ran over and gave Tiny Me™ a big hug around the neck. That was how he found out about the button. George's hand pushed against something cold on Tiny Me's™ neck and suddenly Tiny Me™ wasn't babbling anymore. Suddenly Tiny Me™ was limp on the floor, lifeless.

'George!' his watching UNcle said.

'I didn't mean to!'

His UNcle picked up Tiny Me™, sat him on his lap and pressed the black button at the back of his neck. Tiny Me's™ face came alive and it wrinkled up as if he were about to cry, but UNcle bounced him on his knee and told him what a good boy he was. He didn't cry after all.

'Tiny Me™ isn't like your other toys, George' UNcle said. 'You have to be extra careful with him, as if he was a real newborn infant' He put Tiny Me™ down on the floor, who took his first tottering steps toward George 'Why don't you let him open your other presents?'

So that's what George did. He showed Tiny Me™ how to tear the paper and open the boxes. The other toys were a tank that came with toy soldiers, a Tomy gas station and some building blocks. There weren't as many presents as last year, UNcle explained, because Tiny Me™ was very expensive. That was okay. Tiny Me™ was the best present ever.

Well that's what George thought at first. At first, everything Tiny Me did was wonderful and just as he had expected. George set up the tanks and soldiers and Tiny Me™ hid behind his hands one eye peeking out at them from behind half opened fingers. George drove his cars through the Tomy gas station and Tiny Me™ pulled a workable hose so hard that it broke.

But then, whislt UNcle went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, George tried to show Tiny Me™ how to build a very tall tower out of building blocks. Tiny Me™ wasn't interested in seeing a really tall tower. Every time George had a few building blocks stacked up Tiny Me™ swatted the tower with his hand and laughed. George laughed too, for the first time and the second time, but then he said 'Now watch this time I'm going to make it really big' But Tiny Me™ didn't watch. The tower was only a few building blocks tall when he knocked it down 'No!' George said.

He grabbed hold of Tiny Me™ arm. 'Don't!'

Tiny Me's™ face wrinkled he was getting ready to cry.

George looked toward the kitchen and let go. 'Don't cry' he said. 'Look I'm building another one. Watch me build it'

Tiny Me™ watched. Then he knocked the tower down.

George had an idea.

------------------------------------------

When UNcle came into the living room again, George had built a tower that was taller than he was, the best tower he had ever made 'Look' he said.

But UNcle didn't even look at the tower. 'George!' he picked up Tiny Me™ put him on his lap and pressed the button to turn him back on. As soon as he was on, Tiny Me™ started to scream. His face turned red.

"I didn't mean to!"

"George, I told you! He's not like your other toys. When you turn him off, he can't move but he can still see and hear. He can still feel. And it scares him."

"He was knocking down my blocks."

"Tiny Me's do things like that," UNcle said. "That's what it's like to have a Tiny Me."
Tiny Me™ howled.

"He's mine," George said too quietly for UNcle to hear. But when Tiny Me™ had calmed down, UNcle put him back on the floor and George let him toddle over and knock down the tower.

UNcle told George to clean up the blocks, and he went back into the kitchen. George stuffed the blocks one at a time into their box until it was almost full. That's when Tiny Me™ broke the tank and soldiers. George turned just in time to see him lift the tank up over his head and let it drop.

"No!" George shouted. The gun cracked and popped out as the tank hit the floor. Broken. George hadn't even played with it once, and his best birthday present was broken.

----------------------------------------

Later, when UNcle came into the living room, he didn't thank George for picking up all the wrapping paper. Instead, he scooped up Tiny Me™ and turned him on again. He trembled and screeched louder than ever.

"My God! How long has he been off?" UNcle demanded.

"I don't like him!"

"George, it scares him! Listen to him!"

"I hate him! Take him back!"

"You are not to turn him off again. Ever!"

"He's mine!" George shouted. "He's mine and I can do what I want with him! He broke my tank!"

"He's a small child!"

"He's stupid! I hate him! Take him back!"

"You are going to learn to be nice with him."

"I'll turn him off if you don't take him back. I'll turn him off and hide him someplace where you can't find him!"

"George!" UNcle said, and he was angry. He was angrier than he'd ever seen him before. He put Tiny Me™ down and took a step toward George. He would punish him. George didn't care. He was angry, too.

"I'll do it!" he yelled. "I'll turn him off and hide him someplace dark!"

"You'll do no such thing!" UNcle said. He grabbed his arm and spun him around. The spanking would come next.

But it didn't. Instead he felt his fingers searching for something at the back of his neck.

Dysfunctional Chronology in Scarlet

2003-09-14T01:18:00.000Z

A life of absolute neccessity, watches time backpack across life,
the cat

slipped on the wave whilst waiting for the tortured souls of the dead, look at them dance towards the sunset, the faraway

gets farther, but the wave always returns to lick your
moustache, I've seen death

face to face, face of love, scarlet with hanging ears in the
expanding desert

she is green, blind and demanding, sadly she has no friends
who are worth the

effort to speak to, she is very tough, like a cockerel, but her wings
are black, she

often changes lovers, she prostitutes herself for some and sells herself
to the,

man who gambles the most money, on a red lucky number seven
bus.

Bowling for Dickwad

2003-07-31T13:57:00.000Z

Rented Romantic Insanity

2003-07-23T01:26:00.000Z

So i looked up. Interrupted, by a mug of tea and a smoking ashtray. And looked up at the wall hanging. Guinevere curled up into Lancelot on a white charger, rearing up against a background of black pen curled waves. Immobile in cotton-dust glory above the battered piano.

In winter we light the fire. It is a tradition; passed down by second-hand generations. Remembered from each dent in the blackened coal skuttle, to each singed hair on the horsehair hearth-brush and a pair of well used brass fire-tongs. It is winter, the fire is lit. Salamanders dance but do not sing. And i look at the wall hanging, a blush of salamander fire across my turned cheek.

Coldplay sing Yellow live, and my thoughts turn to composing. Coldplay are on the television but the sound is turned down. I know it is Yellow because of Chris Martin's hand gestures and more fluid than usual movements. He bounces and I know it is Yellow. Like the dull gold threads in the wall hanging "Look at how they shine for you". But in my head the brass and choir accompaniement come together in an altogether different arrangement.

And so I exhale. The fire pops. In the red reflection of the salamanders lovemaking, Guinever and Lancelot embrace.

I vibrate inside, as my toes press gently down on the brass peddle. This long note isn't a finale, it's an introduction, a crescendo that unbuilds. The kind you feel in the under-depth of your belly. The kind that stays long after the toes that once pressed gently down on the brass peddle, have curled sinuously around the ankle of the other leg.

And so i close my eyes. Seeing is not about what can be seen but what can be felt. At certain moments this is absolute. Jamming to my moi-je.

Fingers and hands hold a fascination for me. I like to see them move. Take flight. From the hunter fox and the running hare shadow hand-show against a frontlit wall, to the lythe masked juggler, juggling with florescent scarfs at an underground club, camouflaged by Manchester's redbrick railwaybridge arches.

And so supple fingers cajole dead elephants to live again. Telling the story of Guinevere and Lancelot from old memory. Improvised rhythms and the insinuation of hollow drums vibrating in the nearground, somewhere east of the sun and west of the moon.

On the behaviour of buses

2003-07-14T00:40:00.000Z

Collective intelligence should be observed when a large number of unities muster. The final outcome is not planned, but emerges out of the multitude of simple interactions between unities. If a certain number of these interactions are amplified, one obtains a structured organisation. This process is illustrated by observing the behaviour of buses.

Why, when a bus is running late, is it always over-crowded and closely followed by one or sometimes two empty buses?

Consider a six stop bus route, with each stop regularly frequented by a steady flow of passengers.

1st case: No instability. The passengers arrive at a uniform rate at each stop. Therefore, buses n°1 and n°2 pick up about the same number of passengers each. There is no perturbation or instability, the buses continue to arrive a regular intervals.

2nd case: Manifestation and amplification of instability. Bus n°2 has to wait for a passenger and is subsequently delayed leaving stop n°1

Because of this delay, the number of passengers at stop n°2 increases. When the bus arrives at stop n°2, the bus must pick up more passengers than usual. As a result the stop time of bus n°2 progressively increases at each stop. On the other hand, bus n°3 progressively catches up on bus n°2, as the number of passengers to pick up becomes less and less at each progressive stop. (They were all picked up by bus n°2). Bus n°2 is now over-crowded and is followed closely by the practically empty n°3 bus.

So there you go, it goes to show that if you don't run, rush or jostle, you'll be guaranteed a virtually empty bus, or a tube train, or a look, or a smile from a man you like, or a woman. It all depends on you, sunshine can always be found on a cloudy day