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Curiosity. Apprehension. Eagerness. Enthusiasm. Pride. Amusement. Inspiration.
Embarking upon 100Words for the first time summons them all for me. I'm looking forward to it.
I think it's going to be a good month. (Or does that automatically jinx it? Ah, crap.) And if it turns out to be not, then dammit, I'll just have to make it one. Too many people dwell on just the shit memories, altering their little bit of history to suit their own private depression. If I ruled the past, as an Orwellian fascist temporal dictator, I'd rewrite the 1500s as the Bunny and Cake Ages.
Somewhere in the middle of my head, probably in between the bit that loses things, and the bit that keeps track of how long toast has been in the toaster, there's a door, and it keeps flapping open and closed like a prattling epiglottis, and I don't know if I should slam it wide open, letting everything (all the shit, all the Sun) in, or nail it shut; I've tried the latter a few times, but it always seems to blow open again.
How is it you can have so much power over me after so long a time?
Things that piss me off:
Pride. Grey mornings. Irrationality. Arrogance. People with a complete lack of perspective. A little knowledge (being a dangerous thing). Organised control over the masses. Missed opportunity (not immediately, but about a month after. For a week.) Solemnity at the inappropriate loss of jollity. Social blindness. Deliberate stupidity through apathy and/or laziness. Dependent thinking. Change when the original was clearly better. Jollity at the inappropriate loss of solemnity. Closed-minds. Spam. Profit despite inanity. Soggy cornflakes (pre milk). American superiority complexes. People with more money than experience. Microsoft descipleship. McDonald's. The human inability to cope with time.
"Tick, follow tock, follow tick, follow tock" -
Each and every miniscule second, each weak, insignificant atom of time. Rushing from the future into the dayglo incandescence of the presence, then dripping lazily like hot wax into the echoes of the past. Replaced by a clone to fill the void. And another. And another...
The antique clock, motivated by pendulum and progress alike, that hung on the wall when I was young, would delight in announcing its unceasing exploration of what was yet to come, always when I had no choice but to listen. Now I suffer chronolophobia.
Ho hum, end of the week, where did that one go? Sometimes an entire month goes past like that. I guess the same is true for whole lives. Stop for a moment to get a temporary job (because everything's just that - temporary), get pissed, get married, then look up and find it's the Friday before the weekend of your funeral, and all the people you don't know are lining up to drink wine and feel good in their condolences. Well done, you just became one of the crowd. Wow, a whole load of people die all the time. Next!
Strange mood, weird head, odd thoughts that don't go anywhere, or can't get anywhere. Too much booze, too little concentration motivation aspiration. Supposed to be not here, can't think outside of my own me, let alone today or yesterday. Just going to sit the hours out until I die, I guess.
Now then, where was I?
Time to make a move? Has the ivory of my mind successfully castled round the encroachment of the ebony that has been threatening en passant for the past months? The King is dead! Long live the Queen and all her pawns! What price friendship?
Marooned in a b2: The memoirs of a scheduled retail assistance control participant: The man who stood in a queue. Waited upon hand and scanner by true servants of the dead, whose only previous work experience was dragging the people across the Styx. Adrift in a puddle of bright names, extra-artificial lighting and disfigured-hand-made marketing botch jobs that would make Saatchi have Benetton's baby. "How to lie on the beach so you hide your wobbly bits!" the magazine cover whispers in my ear as I reach for some extraneous turkish delight.
Is this what it's really all come down to?
Wow, I'm a bit mashed so this might not make any weebles in the morning. Or at the end of the month, or whenever/wherever/whatever you/I/he is/am/are. Well, after being kept awake by melodious vehicular-mounted songbirds that sounded a hell of a lot like alarms, I woke up imagining what I could say to her and how I could say it. Planning, planning, it's always in the planning.
All I need to do now is say it.
I used to stand on diving boards wondering if I'd ever make it back to the surface if I jumped off. I always did.
0.001% of the world's population having 99.99% of the world's wealth. And the inherent blindness therein.
The trees on the Level that don't have leaves this year. Were they like that last year and I didn't notice?
Mankind's precedent of ignoring the past and doing it anyway. Do people never learn? No.
The increase of societal controls and restrictions rather than a decrease, despite a so-called "civil"isation. Have many other cultures succumbed to this downward spiral? Are we the first?
Whether capitalism will fall during my lifetime or not. Not fall as in Christmas. Fall as in Rome.
Skywatching flyswatting lie spotting
Tie-knotting ply-fitting try knitting
Pie eating wry fleeting glimpse meeting
Sweet charming all embalming disenchanting
Disarming this martian big warning
Good morning barn-dooring rain pouring
Butterflies maggingpies flutter-eyes
Matinee routed mesh
Sunder thunder plunder monday
Where's all the gunky stuff which makes the people do the things gone? Yes, the enthusiasm. It came in a bucket, but now there's no bucket and it really was quite a large bucket. It's not funny. (That's in a cardboard box.) The only thing I can find is a puddle of hope, but it's made out of glass.
Killing it. They're killing it all. Everything that so many people have worked so hard at for so many years is now being wrenched apart or packed into little boxes to become purely the plaything for fat moneymakers to make money and get fatter. Dreams of an entire hippy generation dangle on a thread whilst megaconglomerates do all they can to fuck the technology that made them powerful up its own arse. The innovators have become the paranoid delusionists that think they're out to save the world, when all they do is kick it in the head.
Well, screw them.
Things I've noticed since writing 100words...
I really don't like other people reading my words when I'm writing them.
I really don't like to read my own words once I've written them.
I can stop thinking about things once they're written down. Is this why girls keep diaries?
I seem to have more time than I thought I would.
100 words is very rarely just right. 9 times out of 10, it's either way too short, or seems like a marathon. Maybe that's just me.
I don't particularly think any more than I thought I might do. Or do I?
Fat. Boy. Right here. Right now. The sound, the lights, the crush, the scene. If you weren't there, is it possible to put it into words? Pictures? Thoughts so pure you could see by them?
5 hours, 3 DJs, 1 silly hat and God knows how many speakers. Mix to atmospheric taste, add a (large) hint of sunshine, alhocol and drugs, and rave until the people trying to get through the masses give up and wave their hands in the air like they just don't give a goddamned fuck. Serves 100-250 thousand people, depending on how fast you count.
Sometimes things just happen like that.
And sometimes you need a bit of inspiration. Something a little different from the usual to kick a few ripples into place. You can spend hours dreaming and plotting and scheming and rotting in your own innovative juices, but every once in a while, unless you have some smidgeon of external bearing, the whole venture is fruitless.
I think that's what I'm looking for now.
Not for what I want to say, but instead just to say it. The questions is, how long should I spend searching for it?
I think I'm about ready.
Today it really feels like things are catching up with me. A glimpse in the mirror, a thought lurking behind a curtain, a memory fleeting behind the image on the television screen; stories I remember as thousands, time and time again, casting themselves like flickering shadows onto her ear, as her eyes close slowly and her breaths draw more restful and we both slip into the world of our own dreams.
Edge of a cliff, infinite drop, no clouds, not a sound in the sky. Been here so many times before, and still I jump, because it's always more interesting...
"Why let the media entertain you when either it is depressing, or you are powerless to change the events portrayed within?" I am asked.
Why indeed? Why should I be disgusted at what can otherwise be termed as "Life" for others? Why should there be some force that keeps me from impressing my moments upon the world around me? Without persons, nothing would happen. Now is my time. Here is my place. To believe in futility is to give up immediately.
No, whilst I resent the bias so prevalent today, I require that sense of proportions to keep me sane.
And Jump. Oblivion abyss omniscience.
Plummet. Fall. Dive. Heart lurching one way, stomach the other. Feels like every muscle in my tired body wants to throw up and pretend it's all out of the way, all fine. The leap is always the worst bit, after that it's all momentum. Black white shadow grey bright nothing everything. At least if a parachute jump goes wrong, you die. The penguins on my wallpaper stare back at me, their snow disc featureless eyes laughing at me louder than ever. What do they know that I don't? Have they been through all this before?
Nothing borrowed, nothing blue. But wait for the old and the new and receive a free eye-opener, courtesy of the Bus Rule - wait a month for anything, a trinity at once. Never fails.
Boom badda boom badda boom badda boom. Drumming. The undiluted echoes of something unnamed.
Transition. Change. Graduation. I remember it well. But what greater changes we have seen since.
The year is 2002. No. The year is 1984. All the technologies we fear are actually here, in motion. I run.
And so I mull it over upon a tumbler of Lagavulin. Life, where is thy sting?
Stared back over her shoulder. Eyes radiated colours of grain and reflected old bus flooring. Hair fell about like a thousand old friends reunited under a wispy blanket.
The feather in the sky said nothing yet dictated all. It whispered to the right edge of the Sun, and to the wrong edge of the Moon. And then it fell away into the dusk.
She spins, encircling, trapping. Holding onto the tape that binds her to the world, nothing
matters. Only what the next moment is. Once it has passed, nobody can help it. Why would they want to?
There's nothing finer than having a plan, discarding it completely, and then not caring about it ever again. The ultimate freedom. And yet the opposite is also true - when you least expect it, when your perception is switched to another tact, something works just as you hoped but perhaps not expected.
If only all of life were that simple. I fear there are too many times when plans that shouldn't be vital, even semi-essential, become the focus of ambition, and thus when they fail (as do 50% of all), their reality is so much more bitter than should be.
And so it is decided. I hereby declare my will. I request, upon my death, a choir of at least 40 bodies to sooth the passage of my feeble mind into the next. Whilst the people who turned up out of guilt sojourn to inebriety and awkward social momentum, those who truly knew me shall gather in the mountains with a bottle of the finest Scotch to placate my memoirs. It will be a slightly overcast, but otherwise warm day, in a mild November.
Some think morbidity a social taboo, a la drugs, arcanity, Bridport. Pshaw, what do they know?
Tomorrow's society isn't that hard to predict, really. The human brain will evolve to automatically ignore all advertising - mouse pointers will automatically skirt round the edges of web banners, billboards will become large Sun blockers, and conversation will spring into life during television commercials. It's already started.
And someday, somebody in a suit will realise this, and work out a way to sell us things without the images, and the ideas, and the suggestions. Then, the world will be clean, but trapped. Nobody will need to
any adverts any more.
Then, triumphe les proles.
Kind of depressing, really.
There is none such sweeter in life than being able to look straight back at it and smirk, in the vain desperate knowledge, nay belief, that you believe in what you know, above all else. Naturally, this can lead to much conflict under certain circumstance, yet the whole flipside of internal confidence can achieve heights which dizzying undirection can only dream of. Something to build in times of strength. Something to cling to manically in times where hope and belief are the only things left.
Is this that which everyone looks for? The Holy Grail? The forty-two?
Rara avis indeed.
Can't think of anything.
Or I can think of things, but I'm not sure any of them are worth committing. Or deciding upon.
Quantum shelving. Reinforced spaghetti strands. Little world, big world. Look at me, mummy.
Older? Younger? All directions are good. Even here's a direction. Though some directions are better than others. They should make beds that you can just crawl into and curl up, and it wraps around you like some huge cat. Mmm... jammy dodgers. How long would it take to actually know everything? What should work be? What should work be? (And yes, there were two.)
One day, the man got up, looked around him, searched through his pockets, to find his friends had disappeared. He tried calling them, but no answer. He checked the pub, but nobody had seen them for a while. He sent them an e-mail, but it bounced right back.
That's funny, he thought, and didn't give it much more thought. He started cleaning the house. He dusted all the shelves, washed all the dishes, changed all the bedsheets, and when he sat down, he realised that all his friends had fallen down the back of the sofa.
So that was ok.
*beep* *beep* *beep* *beep*
"Brain, wake up. C'mon."
"No way, you first, body. I'm happy where I am."
"I can't move without you moving. Go on. Get up."
"Get that alarm, and then I'll think about it."
"That what now?"
"That one that's- Oh, wait, it's stopped."
"Maybe it was a false alert. Maybe a car thin, or an accident, or something."
"Yeah, probably, body. You'll hate me for this, but we should probably check it out anyway. Just in case."
"Good idea. That'd involve getting up, right?"
*beep* *beep* *beep* *beep*
The goth who grew up on a farm stands shaking her studded ears at the guy who lives on a houseboat off the shore of Bristol harbour, whilst the twins who grew up thinking they were each older than the other dance to the Cuban rap. A flash in the corner as the 24 year-old bald guy lights up. The girl who got a 50 quid tip after serving Monica Selesin a restaurant. The limping fish collector tells not of how his infliction came to be. Nobody else seems to mind. Or care, at that.
New people are always interesting.
Somehow, I don't get hangovers. I'm not good with alcohol, in that I'm not some heavyweight bastard. In fact, quite the reverse. I'm under the table before you can get the cork out of the bottle. But it doesn't stop me. And somehow I don't get hangovers.
I do, however, become braindead. Today is a braindead day. General level of interest - maybe an interesting shadow, or where towels come from. General level of physical activity - none.
So it's only natural that I write about it. Anything else would be a paradox. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Shit! An asteroid's going to crash into our heads tomorrow and we're all going to die or turn into cripples! Time to start painting ourselves white to deflect it!
Oh wait, no it's not at all actually. Heh.
WHEN WILL THE PRESS LEARN?
I can't believe I was even dreaming it was happening last night. In a barren, third person point of view, naturally, thanks to the spectacular-yet-realistic film director urges deep within me. Does everyone wake up wondering why they fear the thing they've already dismissed?
Tonight I shall no doubt dream of killer daises and haunting gay politicians.
Stuff and things, but not really stuff and things, do you see?
9 Down: Node mix up finished. (4)
If only everything in life were as easy as the cryptic crossword. If only there were parenthesised indications as to the number of days it would take, or you could work an answer out by filling in the gaps. Unfortunately, it's always the chess problem half a page before, the quest for sanity through insanity, order through chaos. Thirty-two pieces, sixty-four squares, a thousand possible solutions... but only one right answer.
Still, it could be worse. Could be the problems page.
Ahhhhh. Bliss. Nothing like it. An epoch away from work, dreams focusing into reality. Alcohol weaving like a bullet to the senses, tiredness seeping in slowly from the grey bits around the edge.
If you think you have something, lose it, then gain it again, it somehow becomes more precious than anything you could possibly have hoped for in the beginning. Something to remember and savour. Something unique. I like to savour the intimacy before the overwhelming, the calm before the storm.
Thirty-one. This is it. Goodbye "Jul", welcome "Aug". Here's to the next month, the next thirty thousand.
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