“Freedom” said The Doctor, “is the attainment of The Past as a resource. What came before was your confusion, your hurt, lashing out.”
He looked his new companion over, appraising them. They felt unnerved, patronised.
“You’ll figure it out.” he said, “Then we’ll be ready.”
“Ready to be a team.”
“We save Earth.”
The Doctor frowned. “I’ve done it once or twice before, you know. Even saved a whole solar system of Earths.”
“There’s no such thing!”
The Doctor smiled. “That’s what you think, is it?”
He set the controls and The Tardis came fully alive.
When a species overcomes the reactionary stage, when they begin to understand their own stories, they become members of The Alliance, which opens the gates to The Future and the free use of Time itself.
There is a cycle, of worthless, lazy, sad, loser children. It’s not true, it’s just what people hand down, a learnt behaviour, something they themselves have internalized. It gets passed down in written notes, verbalized frustrations, and even casually.
The least miserable child I know has ability to rise above it but they can’t perform miracles upon themselves. They are loved, but the words sometimes leak out.
I’m told it’s just me that causes this “You ARE scum/a dog/a cunt/worthless/a miserable child.” This is not true.
It’s a cycle that can’t be broken without recognition that the internalization has been damaging.
No-one is perfect. Some have a worse problem than others and it runs in families. That is the painful truth that has to be accepted. The child was told awful things and they took them inside, believed them, and they spit them back out.
playing dangerous games. Yet the relationship with the son is good for him. It’s healthy. I don’t think I could manage without it either. Everyone else in my inner circle is either gone, shut down, or negotiating razor wire. New friendships take time to build. I don’t have this intense schedule that brings people together.
I don’t have the emotional support to play this game. I’m worried about psychosis. I’m letting people down.
I can’t allow my feelings, my loneliness, my hurt to be delegitimised. Yet I am. I make allowance after allowance for her.
It has to stop for his sake if no-one else but I don’t know that she knows a better way to protect herself.
Operation Vanilla Pod is the name given to the heinous practice of euthanising small business owners, especially in the creative industries, in Shoreditch, Stoke Newington, and Crouch End during The Decade Of Perfect Vision. Complacent liberals were unable to mobilise to defend themselves when, surprisingly, the Govestapo came first for the Proprietors of tastelessly monikered cornflake cafes, VJs, Digital Media Executives, Peddlers of Bric-A-Brac, Copywriters, Record Producers, and The Entire Marketing Collective. These incalcitrant liberals were always at risk of finding themselves in the camps, and the surely temporary nature of their independence had fed a growing sense of uneasiness. But death? They had been sure it would be the disabled first, then maybe a few Muslims. Public intellectuals. Those kind of people. They were prepared to wait it out. That was the insidious genius of Operation Vanilla Pod. They had taken a brief glance at History, but no-one guessed Nathan Barley would be incorporated into the blueprint.
Fight back against Operation Vanilla Pod:
Struggling toward the Light, we fought against Belief. Then came Death & His Riders savouring their own stench; We had No Choice but to embrace The Ones Who rode along unseen. His Bride, His Mother, She Who Would Not Be Harnessed & Seven stinking child demigods, each uttering but one Word, tumbling along with a Terrible Wind, quarrelling heartily, slashing at each other with every weapon imaginable, from long talons and razor sharp teeth to blades of light and the Fires of Time itself.
They cleaved themselves Again & Yet Again, onward in a Rain of Blood, first dividing in two, foolishly forgetting Time flows neither like water nor emanates like the air but burns in the eye and heart of every-thing. Thus they saw only a Red River, and they drank and belched, thinking they propelled The Master toward where I stood empty handed. Yet I was not alone. They had their millions but I had billions and billions, and the secret of Alchemy.
- I know what happens at their dinner parties. I know what they talk about. And I know your life.
– You do !NOT! know my life.
– So true. I misspoke. I only know how you appear to spend your days.
Unconscious. I assess who, from appearances, may likely betray who at which point. I do not know the intricacies of past moments and future scenes that will make heroes and villains.
Three shrink away from the door and another does not. Who though? Depends on the door. My mind… full of doors. And doors within doors. Doors in the ceiling. Doors in the floor. Anyone could open a door and you never quite know just who might walk in. Horror of horrors… are they dressed for the occasion?
Compassion is not enough. Psychology is not enough. Not even the finest politics. And religion? Least of all. But myth! Myth is transformative, in the right hands.
Who would give themselves to make the future better? Heroic sacrifice could come from anyone, perhaps. What does it mean, though, to sacrifice? It may be bravery or cowardice to give up one’s life. Jesus was, after all, an ape. What example do we mimics set?
I know this. That the least gave up what they found to be most precious. I poured and drank. How much ritual, reciprocity, and desire?
Time is precious too. I thank you. There is much to speak of regarding Time and tension, if only we-