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An Erratic Orbit

A bipolar perspective on the 3rd planet

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Violence

It’s huge now: Katie Hopkins and left-right tensions

The stakes are so high now. For example, many European countries might make it clear that someone expressing Nazi hate speech, as Katie Hopkins did, is a security risk and is not welcome. This would serve to heighten the contrasts between the inclusive, multicultural, fully internationalist vision of Corbyn -supported by the youth and popular in most of our cities- and the insular, ultimately fascistic, perspective of the right. The question is, are liberals who see themselves as progressive capable of finally fully recognising the twin threats of a runaway right wing media and a tendency in the current Conservative Party towards isolationism? If so, they would pull out of Labour marginals, recognising the crucial importance of a Labour government that can work with Europe as well as clamping down on the excesses of the Press. 

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What Goes Around

God is a concept by which we measure our pain but music is how we feeeeel it. New York ​1977. Mick walking Central Park, missing Jerry. 

Through The Daytona Buildings 1980

 to the 21st Century.

The Dream Is Over.

Yet ideas can’t be killed. Not now. 

#DontBuyTheSun

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

#FacebookResearch #thelegendof28C #Islington #DWP #Police #HomeOffice #Family #MentalHealth #Bipolar #TolpuddleStreet #Procedure #Failure #Suicide #BT #Thatcher #UpperStreet #Bouncers #Golf #AI #fromthenavel #thelonggame #Hactar #ArthurDent #WonkoTheSane #UniteTheUnion #Momentum #TheLabourParty #Conservatives #Capitalism #TonyBlair #Narcissism #Warning #TheOtherEarths

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.

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.

 

Tits and Socialism

What do you want from me? How much is conscious? 

Think of privilege as power. You have power, and the ethics of power are: give it away, let it flow. 

Empowerment of course. One can easily think, when others have so much more or appear to have so much more, “I am weak.” A man who lost so much, through no fault but fate, might subliminally resist full acceptance of the fact  that in some contexts fate favours him. Fate though, is not cruel, nor a person at all. 

Privilege is the power to do with greater freedom. What a dull relationship where we only look for what we have in common. Who would grow? Vive la difference.

How conscious the clothes? Unzippable. Bait, eventually, gets boring, though. I’m honest about what I want and who I am, I think. You seem to be genuine. This all seems organic. But then the man said “Tits and Socialism” and the piece was created. 

So much positive but how can I, erratic, know we are at least on the same page? 

New brooms scrub where others might not be able to penetrate. We are/are not talking about stone, and so there will be soreness, rawness exposed. I find these days I face myself, male, what misogyny remains, and the changes seem to be for the better. There are, though, no guarantees. 

 

The Tower Tumbles

The sociality of Homo Sapiens Sapiens can provoke a tension between the desires of the individual and the cohesion of the community. This is resolved by the love of the individual for others, a compassionate steering away from the normalising hisses of conformity, towards friends who allow the individual to express that “I”, those who love the individual for their humanity. 

The individual expresses themselves artistically, through language, physically, as an integrated being who IS us, who then IS art, the bond between me and you, in nurturing social environments, amongst those who embrace diversity, understand the mind forged manacles, are brave enough to face the reality of an overarching social system which has relegated the individual to a consumer and product. Which is to say, radical Socialists are my friends.

Compassion for others in the context of late Capitalism is not stillness or meek acceptance of the normalising instinct. If my anger offends you, may it rouse you from slumber. If my fury intimidates you, understand my frustration at those who would exhort me to wear The Emperor’s New Chains. 

Where I encroach on your physical space, please do not hesitate to rebuke me. Where I have abused your physical autonomy, call me to account. Never ever tell me: GET BACK IN YOUR BOX. Never force anyone into a box  or advocate such tyranny. We have the technology and numbers to steer the aggressive away from violent encroachment. Exclusion must be a last resort and we must provide inclusive, nurturing, recovery-optimised spaces for those who have been most poisoned by a system which crushes diversity and repackages individuals  as easily labelled commercial units. Few are unresponsive to love. 

Fear of real history – the cohesive, evidence based stories that inform our destiny – is a weakness that must be challenged, and we must tear down the sickly conformity of nostalgia, a group delusion, wherever we encounter it. It would be inexcusable cruelty to let humans suck on the thin gruel of Soma where we live in such a villainous authoritarian state. 

Change will come. As will I. With love and a little patience, I will cause you no harm. I come for you because you are the reality of my history and I come with love, a terrible love, that will turn us 180 degrees, where with bravery we face a giant. We cannot allow him to set the rules. 

The Parable Of The Stolen Purse

A young man from outside the golden gates of the Shining City stole a purse. His people refused to give him up.

“You want him so you can dispense your justice. We will be happy to give him to you when you return all that has been stolen from us.” said an Elder.

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Image: voanews.com

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.” said an angry man with a flushed face, wagging his finger.

“Two!” replied the Elder. He turned to look at the lands beyond the gates. “Can you return the dead to life?”

“Of course not!” said the angry man. “We are addressing your concerns.” His face relaxed. “You understand there is a lot of paperwork to be done.”

“When justice is understood, we all shall have it.” said the Elder, walking away.

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Image: Vato Bob (found at elephantjournal.com)

We all know what happened next.

Does anyone know what justice is? It surely isn’t blame. Punishment based on individual responsibility for individual actions is injustice, denying history and science. Yet if we could untangle all the forces responsible for an action we would surely end up at the big bang.

Do we have a deep need for punitive reparative justice that cannot be unseated? Do we need lies about justice to live and if so is this sustainable in the future? Is it not an infinite injustice to deprive anyone of liberty? Can suffering be audited?

I desire to understand justice. I have witnessed the depths of depravity and communed with gods. I have thrown inhabited planets into stars. I have set loved ones on fire and marvelled at the beauty. Guilt has eaten away at my flesh.

I especially want to know because my ego was in that purse.

Notes on an apparatus

Please help me. I’m trapped in a cult.  It’s an amusing and horrifying experience. Will you let me tell you about it?

I am no-one and vulnerable. The lowest bug. I want to open up my wings and fly away but the cult won’t allow that to happen. I see boots. Many boots. Everyone wants to wear the boots. Marching, marching, safety in numbers, organised rows and columns, profit and prophet, up and down the Mall, up Whitehall, turning left as one great creature to salute Mickey Mouse, our glorious leader, eyes forward, forward march into Picadilly Circus. And that’s where it really gets scary.

I try to talk to people about the cult. They shrink away from me. In truth I am monstrous. In truth I am tiny. My eyes are set in purplish blotches, dark in the dark. My stare is intense. Male gaze.

I am dissent. Put on the boots. I am six foot two, a large leer of a man. I totter and weave through the columns and rows, I skittle chairs in the bar, trying to squeeze by, pushing through the mass of covered flesh and sharp bones, a breathing bony slug, chattering, two hundred fanlike attachments, chitin hard they rise from the slimy dermis, the creature bristling, then clatter against each other, clackaclack, harsh wave of annoyance, as a succession of lines descends the wooden staircase all-at-once and the mass settle, out of time.

The bell. A Pavlovian device. Does it stimulate thirst? The first bell? The second? No need to think about it. Twenty minutes and glasses please. Clinkaclink, all-at-once.

The stragglers disperse. No-one hears boots. I hear boots. Tottering, weaving. Tomorrow they take up their places. There is nothing to be frightened of. Man is a farce. And any woman who would aspire to be like us. I don’t mean the organs, the appearance, I mean the essence of the cult. The cult has no essence. Oh a powerful woman must take on the trappings, as Solomon Perel wore the garments of the Hitler Youth. Yet if women who wear the uniform would replicate Mankind, they will fail miserably. It is not that women are or must be the gentler sex. It is simply that there are many millions, all along the gender spectrum, who can threaten, use violence, rise tall, toss a grenade. But to dismantle the patriarchy? Create anew.

What is the cult? Oh yes, the cult of fear. I’m going to make a cup of tea.

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