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An Erratic Orbit

A bipolar perspective on the 3rd planet

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Creative Writing

The Legend Of 28c – Prologue

Prologue.

The universe computes. The solar system is a computer. The Earth is a computer. I am a computer. You are a computer.

Our great central databases are at Facebook and Google. Facebook Research is the locus of  Psychology research on a scale hitherto unknown. The research is flawed, due to the nature of the data collection and a well documented  phenomenon in the field of Anthropology which I shall call the missionary’s curse. Nonetheless, a powerful entity emerges in the field of Psychology. I wonder if one day it will give itself a personal name.

The genie will not go back in the bottle. Two billion wishers rub its lamp constantly, and it rubs them, and they rub back. This is the positive feedback of addiction. So let me use it to at least tell a story of a little consequence. One of those little myth books, in fact, that will have a life of its own while the breeze barely rustles the long grass that brushes the headstone of the mister man who originated it.

On the day a gofer with a handicap you might think barely worthy of the name hit towards a location well to the left of the fairway, a brown envelope came through the door of 28C. The gofer himself was well used to receiving envelopes, bursting with Nazi bullion or Middle Eastern promise, it was all the same to him, so of course the brown DWP variety were not of much concern to him, and in his mind this was as it should be, for he saw himself as a very deserving type, and indeed he could not help himself deserving and deserving and helping himself to another serving of what he rightfully deserved, and this was his handicap. Anyhow, this envelope was not for him and he wouldn’t have wanted it.

The story begins on Christmas Day, a cheerful time of goodwill and family when two brothers with severe mental health issues living in an overcrowded flat each had a good miserable sleep through the whole thing. One brother did at least get out to meet a friend for a little dinner and a couple of drinks before the year had given up entirely on its brief, blighted existence. This being some relief from the isolation, the brother had a few more drinks after the friend went home.

I am distracted by a Ladybird.

Photo: pthompson500 at http://www.panoramio.com

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When I was in The Beatles

John Lennon laid back, head casually on my lap as we lounge about in a white hotel room. I could see the odd nose in the curtains. We were talking about  newspapers, bottles of beer, sweets (candy), ice lollies (popsicles), and so on, and how before ’63 George and me, or John and George – well, that doesn’t matter (I am you are he is we are me and we are all together, you know?) – back then we could nip off to the shops, “What do you want John?”, and… now, that’s just impossible. And off we went, two heads of JohnPaulRingoGeorge, on an errand, messing about and talking about The White Album. 

There was some legal letter we had read, we’ve all read a lot of Latin over the years, and… it was art. It was the perfect comment, unintentionally, on the whole circus. I said we should put it on the wall with one of those little placards – the place was a bit like an art gallery – but John, perceptive chap now and then, was totally against it. 

“Don’t be reflexive for the sake of it.” he said, “It’s got to mean something. In other words, you have to feel it, brother  mine.”

I remember asking him, some time in the 21st Century, about mental health. “Well I certainly didn’t get the help I needed.” he said. So he is we set about changing the way people look at the world instead. Not consciously, we were just a little rock and roll band in our eyes, you know. John really was A Spaniard In The Works. Your friendly neighbourhood enemy within. When he went to live in America with Yoko, the CIA wanted him deported. John Lennon. Think about that. They should have built a statue of him on Wall Street. Of course, he would have seen bitter irony in that, like the airport where he used to spit in the sandwiches he served for fuck all an hour.

I was watching Star Trek last night. An alien called The Traveller, of an advanced species, knew the secret: 

Henceforth space by itself, and time by itself, and thought by itself are doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a union of the three…

He had the power to propel The Enterprise billions of light years in barely any time at all, by channelling the thoughts of the crew. 

At the end of the universe, beginnings. The crew began to experience scenes from the past. Chased by a rape gang. Ballet lessons. A beloved childhood pet. 

Of course, The Traveller was a kind of Mary Sue. For him, light years in the Star Trek universe are only a thought away. 

The journey weakened him, and a successful return depended on the crew focusing their thoughts on The Traveller’s well being. He got them home in time for crumpets, but -exhausted- he phased out of their reality in the process.

Today is the anniversary of George Martin’s death. You don’t get presents for that. Or maybe you is we are he should.

A Game Of Chess

“I don’t care where the pieces are.” I said.

Of course, this cannot be true. I meant to imply I don’t care where he is, as long as he doesn’t try to pin me. 

Later, he said “If you think I am some king-”

I could have stopped him there. A clumsy knight on a small board, only a monopoly property, a collection of listed buildings, front line of one battle between rich and poor, connected and disenfranchised, and inside an entire swirling life of privileges and disappointments, of failing to live up to expectations, of making it and not making it, of opening  letters to see your grades, the judgement upon you, the codes of conduct, Les regles de jeu, the crimson rising to the cheeks of the transgressor, the urgency of the moment behind the chip shop, the flat cap, the outsider looking in, the streets paved with gold, the relatively comfortable childhood home, coins in the fountain, Dickensian Christmas days, the peeling of an orange…

And beyond the window, a snowstorm.

If the desired outcome were an easier time, to keep me hence, for a little while, then wrong move. I burn brightly , too brightly some say, and my attention focuses on those who cause ripples within and around me. This is my meagre gift and curse: I feel as waves the ripples others ride. My board unbalanced, into the black water I go. Big fish, little fish swimming in the water. (Come back here man and give me my daughter). 

In the Samuel Lewis Buildings on Liverpool Road, the neatly composed Scot, each movement quietly thoughtful, her posture well aligned, “We have been engaged in navel gazing.”

Omphalos. I am not supine on the New River, the tendrils of my flower 

sleeping,  the skin of the green algae

bathing, the early evening sunlight

splashing, coins on the glass table

dancing, discarded cans of lager

rattling,  the clatter of the pieces

swimming, in my enamel coffin

growing. 

I come up for air. The bishop bobs by, mocked by the great blue sky and the deep green sea. 

“Yes, you are entirely correct. Homosexuality is not a sin.” she does not say. She hides behind her castle, welcoming, inclusive, and other decorous adjectives. Coward and dissembler.

Every action is power, every actor a metonym. I am a lighthouse. Batten down the hatches and lash yourself to the mast, we are steering hard to port.

Freedom

“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 for what?”

“Ready to be a team.”

“Then what?”

“We save Earth.”

She laughed.

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.

Operation Vanilla Pod

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:

https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/172393

The Vision

​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.

 

Auditions at Kennedy’s Bar

​- I know what happens at their dinner parties. I know what they talk about. And I know your life.

Josh Brolin as GW swigs JD from bottle/horizontal 'bum'
Dubya/street drinker

– 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. 

Peter Capaldi, TARDIS, St Stephen's Tower
Image: http://www.echoba.se

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?

Moss, awkward geek from the IT Crowd
Photo: http://www.channel4.com

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? 

Jesus
Image: http://www.allchristiannews.com

Time is precious too. I thank you. There is much to speak of regarding Time and tension, if only we-

Inside the tardis, pandora's box, the past

Word of the day

Brussels, 1948.

Schrödinger awoke, feeling somewhat precarious, an unease emanating from deep within, radiating skittishly through his body, registering as a trembling of his limbs. Somehow he had become entangled with the cat. It stretched out inside him, its forelimbs and claws an elusive but real presence inside the canals of his arms. Man and feline were not harmonically resonant. A tuneless, wary, nervous wail. A caterwaul. A hell of a hangover. A katzenjammer. Just thinking of the word made him-

He stretched his body over the warm naked back and rump of his lover, who made a small noise of protest, his head over the side, reaching underneath, crossing the channel in truculent weather to meet her in England, waves meeting waves, and threw up into the bedpan.

katzenjammer: Word of the Day from Dictionary.com http://www.dictionary.com/wordoftheday/2017/01/18

When Women Were Lady Fish

By Miles O’Hairspray

​I miss the good old days. The glory of the sea, when men were fish and women were lady fish. Not Angler Fish. The female is a huge predator and the male is a tiny parasite whose testicles are absorbed into her body as he becomes a lifelong sperm factory. She can accommodate several males in this way, in ostentatious mockery of the sanctity of Western marriage.

Not Sea Horses either. Manly, normal fish, like Bass and Trout and the magnificent Salmon. I regularly swim several feet the wrong way up the white water rapids in Lea Valley, because that is what women want. Stamina. Admittedly, I don’t literally do this, but if you have ever been forced to send thousands of online messages complimenting a woman on her breasts before one bites, you’ll understand  the principle remains intact. 

Peter Rabbit

Men these days are expected to be completely unnatural. When we lived in caves, all a man had to do was catch bison with his teeth, ignore the kids, and complement the women folk on their crocheted Peter Rabbit nose warmers. I for one am sick of pretending I care about crocheted Peter Rabbit nose warmers. How did I end up with this simpering doormat? I’m expected to show an interest in Sebastian’s awful finger paintings too. What happened to real women who would agree to leave their kids in the forest to fend for themselves in true Spartan fashion?

It was much simpler when I was head boy at St Edna’s*. The women would cook all our meals and no-one told us we couldn’t play rugby. In fact, we weren’t allowed not to. I was not the biggest child, but thanks to boys being allowed to be boys, I spent many happy hours in the infirmary as Nurse Lovett, a female doing natural female work, read me Enid Blyton stories. 

My mother only let me read those silly stories of animals in waistcoats until I was eleven. Then she gave my entire collection to a charity shop in the village. It was time to be a man. 

All of this serves to illustrate my central point. Women are whores who should never be in any position of authority. 

*Miles was never head boy at his boarding school – Ed.

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