My Poems
I put my poems on myspace and the media have stolen the imagery from poems and my artwork. Have a look round and see if you see the imagery anywhere.
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Poems by me
Shunter.
The Poem I nearly forgot.
Early in the morning, as the sun warmed up small creatures eyes,
The iron wheels clanked across concrete sleepers,
Down ground clean lines.
The sound crossed the grasslands,
The yellow straw tubes,
And settled into my sleeping mind,
As the bird of pray swooped.
It cajoled me with fear,
And excitement that accompanied it too,
As the train gave a passing whine,
The bird passed far from my view,
When night fell the slothful red oxide beast would
Return by someone else’s designs,
Onto the sloth we’d jump and from the
Engine man’s prying eyes we would hide.
The adventure grew, as we all knew,
Because the hissing leaver,
Had to give, to make
Crashing brake blokes collide,
Two by two.
The guards would give chase,
And our hearts would race,
Hastened by all our adolescent
Minds could find,
In this place.
With heaving sighs,
All the carriages would halt in oily lines,
As we and the birds of pray knew,
Bent kneed watching on all fours,
Out of view.
The police would on our track trace,
And those who could not race,
Where court, put in the vans,
And taken to some other place.
Sol
Lazy yellow rays, they cut me down,
And laid my back upon the grassy ground,
Transpired the water from the baking mound,
And in the air, birds are the only sound.
I’ll dip my toes into this tranquil scene,
Scoops of fluffy clouds look like vanilla
Ice-cream,
Yellow eyelids under this daytime dream,
Feel so intoxicated in this summer’s stream.
Birds eat flies upon the wing,
Dogs go mad, pant and visibly steam,
I’m just here in my pleasurable rest,
Winter’s rubbish, summer’s the best.
The machine and the rainbow stain on the still waters surface.
It was a place neither here nor there,
About which nobody really cared,
Bindweed tangled the concrete posts,
And grey steel lines interwove,
Paint flakes snowed onto the ground,
And grinding cogs gave off a mighty sound.
Which raced across the cold morning's air,
Into my sleeping perception where I was in despair.
It relayed to me something's erratic haste,
Burning carbons and poisoning it produced waste,
It seeped into the earthy ground,
And frozen black slag heaps rose all around,
The shadows grew which made the birds fly away,
The grass turned into yellow hollow hay,
Then a hot spark engulfed it,
With fierce flames that burned it agitatedly,
Gladly green grass grew anew,
It was chased away,
Cleaning up its scrap into its own rusting hands,
It trudged off smoking into some other land,
The only trace it left behind,
In the water like a stain,
Is the rainbow like oil slick?
Stirred always by the rain.
Circle
A specific type of odour,
A grey tacky, cheep ogre,
Frozen there in time,
Blotting out the sky,
And if the face was a date,
It would say nineteen eighty three,
Mortar dust is the odour that always reminded me,
Of that place, that I loved to see.
Black tyres scraped across the wet tar road,
Running away into the night before it became too old,
Never looking back to what they had, or where they belonged,
It was such a terrible sight that we had to sever the bond.
Run away and find a similar place,
Dark and bleak, is it to your taste,
Don’t live to long, don’t fall in love with haste,
Always become confused, and always time waste.
The golden tower.
The suns rays like maple syrup,
Poured through the leaves,
Oozing through the solid trees,
They hit a tower cold and grey,
Which made it look like a nuclear spark,
From the furnace far away,
And for a minute I looked in awe,
As it warmed my centre, warmed my core,
But the steel never knew that warmth like me,
It's only for the living eyes to perceive,
And the machine humbly churned the dismay,
And the poisons on the wind are blown away,
And there is a road built for no one,
Made from water that you could walk on,
In the winter when it froze,
And I've seen it in ways which
Now one else knows,
It smells like oil and looks like death,
To swim in it would take away your breath,
The tower over looks it every hour,
And in the summer it's met in the morning by opening
Clover flowers,
The water reflects its image from miles away,
But now it has gone and only in my mind will its image
Stay.
THE HILL AND OVER
Dirt and grass piled high,
A steel grey fence against the pail lifeless sky,
And the mound on the high ground hid excavations on the other side,
The fence hid the eye’s line of sight, long and wide,
And me being a curious kid,
From the mechanical sights I hid,
As I climbed for my mind’s eye to feast,
On what ever lay within,
And the encirclement hid, a car park from this nosy kid,
No adventures to be found,
Anywhere around.
On the Bus
I saw a bug eyed freak
As the bus past him by
He starred at me so strongly
That I thought his eyes would pop
Out and vanish into the sky!
Glued there to the pavement
As the world past him by
Unflinching, unstoppable,
And a psycho at four foot high.
Very uncanny, it was seven in
The AM you see
To be met by his glance
Came as a surprise to me
What did he have in store?
A macabre present maybe
And the bus moved on
To ease my uncertainty!
I turned only to see we
Had met face to face
Only thing in-between us
Was quite a bit of space?
His neck must have become stiff
Whilst practising his hobby so bizarre
He stepped into the road and
Was run over by a red car!
The endless deep
Oily, blue-green never ceasing mass,
The moon its shepherd caresses the waves,
As it moves on its path,
The shore shivers under its ever-clenching teeth,
Tears diluted, no chance for its journey to cease,
Swallowing islands, eating away the past,
Cruel womb, icy bloom or an airless tomb.
The sun shines brightly, surface shimmers like gold,
Blue beauty unending that chases away the cold,
Lines stretched tightly on a smiling sea dogs face,
As the sky meet the marine shore in a horizontal embrace.
Home!
Torturing wind that bights,
And rain that never ends,
In the summer you can hear,
The motorways noisy curse as your mind,
Begins to bend,
Smell of sulphur and lead pain,
On the wind scent the metallic stain,
Written coldly is the horizon,
From which my young mind could not
Refrain,
Out of the trash and filth I’d trudge,
The animals are loose,
But the keepers are not to blame,
And if I’m not going the way the others went,
Then I must have gone insane,
To steal, to waste and on others lay the blame,
Put me into a pigeonhole and label me the same,
Cursed for my hand, my bloody stump,
I’m a lumpen grunt,
From a brick piled dump.
Untitled
1. Your brain is a calculator,
2. Ruled by itself,
3. don’t be a fool and
Try to calculate yourself.
4. the world is all around,
Under, up and down,
5. Don’t contemplate this
Distraction or you’ll just
Spin round and around.
6. the moral of this story,
Is as simple as one, two, three
Always rule the sums that
Equal you and me!
Sunday 5 December 2010
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
7 Day Confinement
I'm putting this on for anyone interested , I think it's already been stolen as I put this on the net last year. Plagiarism seems to be the order of the day with some companies.
I awoke to find myself in a sparse bear white room with only one large window at one end and a door in the corner. This strange place was filled only with a bicycle with no seat and a plain black Television that stood under the window on a cheap stand. I noticed that no light swung from the ceiling and that the light that illuminated the room was coming through the grey stained single window. As I wiped away the grime on the window nothing was revealed about the outside world and the lights source. A thick white mist swirled around outside like a miasma of seclusion and concealment of an outside world. I though for a moment that the mist cleared and showed me a grassy plain that spread out to infinity. But I could not trust what I saw. For what I saw was not what I had expected. No pavements, no windows, no walls and buildings or structures blotted out the horizon. It was the vision of a naked empty wilderness that waited outside. It was devoid of structure or meaning. Devoid of reasons or ideas that would accompany such structures. I saw two black stag beetles fighting endlessly over a bung heap.
The Television turned itself on at that point and I lingered a while and watched. A raged and bitter looking old man addressed a crowd of monkeys and men. And the entire crowd wore frowns, monkey and men alike. And this is what the old man said.
"At the end of my long years of studies into the mysteries of the universe this is what I have come to believe. That at the end of the universe a single life form will exist. And it will not only be the end of the universe it will be the end of time and matter too. And this creature that will be the accumulation of all life and all knowledge, it tends towards complexity you know, will know everything and will be omnipotent. You see a god will exist at the end of time. And being one creature as it is it will be lonely. So it will create the universe a new and play with us all like we are the cast of a soap opera. Pitting us against each other in an endless fiasco for it’s own amusement. And in actual reality we are already lost in one of its comical shows. For we live in it’s memory and are already dead. You see it knows everything. And wants to re create everyone so that it can know everyone. Some of us have more than one afterlife because it re creates us add infinity to amuse itself.
I know this is hard to stomach but it’s true. You see everyone leaves a trace and it’s essential that it looks at everything that has ever been to make sure it has not over looked anything that will contribute to it’s plan, to remake everything again. It is a universal heart beat moment of something becoming nothing, and then visas versa.
The fingerprints you leave are infinite like ice cores being looked at again and again. Like fossils piled up layer upon layer, like ripples that die and remake themselves, spawning like infinite pins lost in infinite haystacks.
If you had infinite processing power you could do this yourself with a computer program. You could re create every point in the universe and watch what happens again and again.
Well that’s all I have to say and did I also mention that we are living inside a black whole. You see scientists do not know what the moment before the big bang was like and they also believe that inside a black whole is a similar state of existence, or unexistance to be correct. Chaos, everything happening at the same place at the same time all in one go. All matter and energy and time squeezed down into an infinite nothingness. If we look down at the space macro we do not understand what we see, and if we look out beyond our limits view we still do not understand what we see. This madness is chaos. Quite like the inside of a black whole. An undesirable mess. Or is that my head.
I also think that life itself is generating the mass that holds us all together and is the missing thing in our theories."
"Bullshit", shouted the mad crowd in unison as a single peace of excrement landed square in the old mans face. He then settled down to starring at the floor as his minute of triumph quickly waned. It was as if his plan had been shouted at deaf ears. Then the Television turned itself off, the square image disappearing into the black empty surrounding.
As what I had seen faded from my eyes, I still saw the stag beetles fighting.
I reflected for a moment about what the old man had said. And I saw the truth. I saw all the atoms that made me. Tiny points in an intricate mesh and the points of the mesh created by phantom ripples no more real than occurrence of wind in the air or the waves in a sea. And for a minute I believed that if I knew this that I would fall through the gaps in reality and fall forever. My brain some sort of engine that could look through the ripples in some unknown medium, and make me a submarine that would dive down through that medium, away and out of reality. I clung to the wall fearful of loosing this tiny island of reality that I stood on.
On the second day of this incarceration I awoke on the floor of my prison face down on some tattered pieces of paper. The handwriting was mine but I did not remember writing what appeared on the paper and this is what I read.
I saw the grey sky through the grey, dust covered windows. By the side of me ran the grey steal railings that ran into the future and I saw the golden sun’s rays pierce the sky and the light was good.
The grass on the mounds of earth piled up for reasons beyond me was a dry green. Perhaps they were to stop trespasser’s prying eyes or the wind. Or they were a place to put the earth that was not wanted after the building had been built. Buildings that maybe excised beyond the earth itself. On the edges of the perimeter was a tower made of cold steal. Black and evil on top of which stood a camera. Training and looking for things of interest, a tool of observation. It probably observed trees, grey steal fences and dry green grass. But it could not see the rays of the sun piercing the clouds that gathered over us all. Slowly and surely the clouds blocked the light and the day became grey and dark. Winter was coming, the leaves were falling and the night where drawing in. The cold northern wind was awaking in this place nestled in my past the memory of where I was born. This place is strange, a mad city. All my childhood was spent on the edge of the park. School and play, work and rest and later peace by the banks of the silent flowless river and hate, or the little of it I felt. It was strange because people hated this place and I liked it. The scaffolds, the pitted ruff concrete, the cold grey stone, the yellow paint flakes snowing to the ground, the ground clean steal rail lines that would be sanded down every day by the repetitive journeys of old shunter trains.
At night the light would flicker in the emptiness. The only people about were security guards and thieves. I would stand on warehouse roofs and train bridges taking in every point of light. The grass at night could be seen swaying in the wind, illuminated by the factory lights. The shuffling of wood could be heard in the morning from the far of shunter train. The hum of the motorway was always audible in the background and by the river that did not run it was safe.
As I read on I became aware that the room I had awoke in was a bedroom, quite absent of any furniture and also the mist outside had begun to thin. So I read on.
I remember us watching the path out of the park at night where the phantom bike rider would appear. He would always turn his light off half way down the path and disappear from sight. Nothing supernatural. The night would swallow him. The only way of catching sight of him again was by seeing his silhouette block out the light from the far away streetlights. We saw him night after night but never knew him. I am turning my light off now and am saving it for the on coming night.
And there the writer ended the passage in that diary. I could feel the growing air of disjointedness and isolation in the words on the page but I could not remember anything. Was it I who had wrote them or someone else? Feelings of despair accompanied by a sudden abrupt sense of dislocation overcame me and I fell into a long sleep with my eyes wide open.
7 day imprisonment part 2
I awoke on the third day in the room with the Television in it. A desk was placed infront of the window and in it was seated a man facing me. He was familiar to me, and a disturbing feeling overwhelmed me. That this grey haired figure was an older version of myself. He looked at me through angular glasses that sat on the bridge of his straight nose. His eyes looked at me with a cold unmoving scrutiny. And he began to talk. Slowly so, measured with every word a hammer with which to force home his idea.
"You know there is no real use in trying to communicate to anyone, they are as alien to you as a moth to me. Your clarity of thought will not be translated to them in any way shape or form. Their ability to understand has been diminished. Court in the tiny bubbles that contain their consciences they float by indifferent to you or I. They claim to have empathy but really have a parrot like mimicry of what was really human back when you and I were boys. They are robots, totally devoid of the bigger picture. You must totally destroy you wish and want to talk because it serves no purpose. There is nothing to learn and nothing to communicate to them, other than needs of the flesh. They reside on a lower plain, which you must avoid. Dehumanise them, villainies them and avoid them at all cost. They are the other, the outside the not you. If you want to survive this is what you must do." And with that he handed me a piece of paper.
"This is yours. You will find it infinitely fascinating. But before you study what is written, consider that outside. For outside is what is inevitable amongst our kind. There are two distinct types of creature outside this receptacle of our thoughts. One Gated and scared, the other simple and Free. And the Gated is intelligent and paranoid to the extent that it is now unable to live without the four walls that it clings to like a limpet and the Free one hates everything not free to the extent that the idea traps it. And the two are degenerating because of the lack of understanding and the absence of communication between themselves. And there of course is no way that the two can now communicate because they are so separated in mind body and soul. Each type stands apart and demonises the other."
I began to read what he had given me, what I had given to myself. It was another diary entry after the light had gone off. A sinking feeling of wading through nostril deep humus and shit. A pit and a gnawing worm at the centre of everything. So he plunged in and this is what he read or remembered.
A knock came at the door and the fool opened it, in walked the cold and leather clad rider with shining white helmet and demons eyes. A courier carrying a gift from the master of everything, chaos. He was a courier of chaos; a little information made to make you happy that also brought total confusion, proof of hell. An all around people almost animal in deed, like the leaves on an ever changing forest floor, chattering and chattering almost inaudible to you.
No more is there any intelligence; no more is there a meaning, a beginning or an end. Do you remember when you where born, can you recall that moment, no? So it will be at the end!
Opening the bag darkness was the only thing present. Is the darkness an absence of light or an all-consuming presence, with out light and substance there is nothing. Blackness forever, no chaos, just a constant order, light brings chaos and the answers confuse until there are no answers, just CHANCE.
As I read I began to see another trap of which I had once fell into. The old me had evidently climbed willingly down into the pit. There was some unknown problem of existence that was a trap in itself, a trap in his self. The older more rounded me. Wise and knowledgeable had given up. History staked upon history of evidence pointing the finger of no choice and no future. A grim existence of dog eats dog. A futility at the overwhelming odds and the incalculability of a formula for peaceful existence. For this is where I had brought myself to be, Anthony Tenant at the long march, retreat to know where. I’d wiggled into my own head and had built a view of the world that was impossible to fathom out and sort through. The simplest of ideas had brought me hither. I then asked for more of the diary to search for a way out but the future me was no where to be seen. And the walls of the room where closing in. And it was evident that I was in an unreal bubble in my mind more real than the world outside. For I gave licence to the outside world and the inside world and now both where crashing in. Collapsing as someone had kicked in the door and the whole rotten structure was falling apart at the seams. I was a whole person with a hole in my head. I was the lowest part of the pavement and people where walking on my head. I could see a steal soled boot and it was coming down on me as I wore it. And I was pushing forth teeth and blood as my lip opened up like a pealed banana. And my head was shattered as I was tossed into a meat grinder that rendered me apart. And it was I winding the crank. I’d tear myself apart and see what it was that made me, and then I’d put myself back together in a completely different way.
I awoke on the fourth day a completely different person, resigned to smash down the walls and go there in.
Part three
Red Right and the spire
Dreams are a funny thing, for what influences them and what is more real? Inside the dream, or the waking dream of reality? I dream this.
Matter is energy; a thing that is indestructible and infinite. Once all the energy existed in one place, chaos. With out space, time or matter. The energy knew everything and you could say had been everywhere.
Consequence, the big bang created time, space and matter all rushing out all falling away.
Then came life, the animated matter. The genes, little chains of sticky proteins which greedily sort to re capture everything which it once knew, once touched, once was. The living matter is still in touch with that chaotic something which makes us what we are, knowledge, searching, consuming and reproducing. It’s in the genes the need to eat a subconscious idea within the chain. A program telling us about the maelstrom and the horrific outer reality that surrounds us and cares not for us. The little brains in the long chain, the run away machine. Unmoved to our plight it carries on going in a strait line towards the future and something unknowable. Almost forgetful of the things that is a conscious person, little pieces of subconscious with in it. And all ideas are lost on the way and so is sentience. For the machine has no need for it. It is a run away train and no one is in control.
That is the idea that came to me in the dead of the night as I slept. Tangled in the form of a steamroller with no driver that rolled over me, everything I knew, and every one I knew. Relentless, uncaring with a thirst for matter and blood. Driven by ideas that it did not even know that was taking it to a place that did not exist on any map.
I find myself today at the top of the spire. A thing that I had climbed from the inside up. My journey had begun with a decent into darkness and was pushed ever forwards by curiosity about this great lofty structure only. For in my time man is a flower at the bottom of a great pit, which nestles in the shadow of a great gleaming silver spire. Know one has ever scaled the spire because it is shear and seamless. Constructed evidently in ages in the past when men where knowledgeable unlike the filthy squalid society that now sleeps and stagnates in the spires shadow.
To be a man now is to be an animal in countless squabbling gangs. Each fights the other and is feed and kept just at the limit of starvation by provisions that are given to use from the unknown strangers that reside I think at the top of the spire. We divide and conquer the strongest gang taking the pick of provisions, which we forever fight over. I have knowledge and with it curiosity. I am older than most for life is short and harsh. And my age has given me wisdom that has from now where been rewarded with countless visions and teachings. A thing, which I assume, has come from above. Maybe they are called me there.
I awoke once to find a black box in my habitats sleeping chamber. Light came from the box and animated visions that I could watch like stories with out words. I came to understand many things and figured out that the way to climb up the spire was by going down into the abysmal black catacombs that existed below it. There I found airshafts and stairways and elevators that took me to the top where I am now. But what I have found at the top is far stranger than what I had expected. For I sit now strapped to a chair and am being interviewed by that very same run away machine that I had always dreamed of.
I sat there silent watching a black box that was floating purposely around the room watching me. It had brought me here. A living breathing thinking soulless machine that probable was the spire itself. An umbilical attached it to the ceiling of the room and as I watched out of a sphincter next to me in the chair came another animated mechanical device. This one was black pitted and spoke with strange bodiless voice.
"When exactly did you ascend the spire." It asked.
"After the bright burning lights began to fall from the spire, I thought it a sign that I must ascend. Many people where hurt. Burned beyond recognition."
"Yes, Mr Red Right you have a task that I want you to fulfil." At first the voice had meaningful character and then it changed into a gibbering stream of facts. "The spire you have climbed is the rear end of a generation craft, currently submerged in the deep dark emptiness of inter Stella space. We are generations away from the wash of a single star. The sun you see in the day at the pinnacle of the spire is a total fusion generator currently burning and pushing us through space, and it burns brighter than a star. It’s entire energy output concentrated on thrust. The bright lights you saw where fusion bursts falling purposefully from that engine. The radiation which you received from it keeps your body acquainted with that radioactivity which you would receive from the solar wind if we where anywhere near a star which we are not. Generations from now without radiation your descendants would be unable to copy with radioactivity which they will find at the end of this journey in safely in the atmosphere of another sun. So it is a necessary evil.
This craft is totally automated, people being too chaotic and a liability to be given such a complex task of piloting the craft. The society that you lived in at the foot of the spire is degenerate because harsh environments give no time for reflection, and madness is all it would find if the truth be known.
All this is irrelevant to you, as you have been picked to perform a task that only you can do. We are off course and an amendment to the primary CPU is required.
The CPU is connected to an algorithm computer, which is a person. Information is streamed through his subconscious, which he is unaware of. That information is essential to the flight control. He dreams a dream that is creating ripples of disharmony amongst the CPUs attached to him. They to fall into despair as the dreamed does. You must wake him from his dream with in a dream and bring the system back to order so that I can re adjust course." And at that the dreams meaning was realised. Someone would have to get back behind the controls of the run away steamroller.
The burial
The older me held my hand and with a firm arm around my shoulder lead me out of the room and into the plain. He took me wondering for what seemed like an age until we came across a fence. It was a net like mesh of wire. More to catch than to stop. It ran out of sight dividing the hill less land in half. As we followed it it eventually came to a man. He had a sign around his neck which read unperson 47912181. He held a shovel and had just finished burying something. The shovel was protruding up through the disturbed soil and was helping him now lazy as the sweat ran down his face.
"Here is some one you should meet, he has just buried the best thing in the world." Said the older me before it disappeared. As I looked I became over come with curiosity so I enquired about what was under the mound. The man told me that he had buried the best thing in the world.
"Under this mound is simply the best thing in the world, maybe it’s me. Look around you. We are lost in the middle of no where. What good would it do us both." At that I wondered why he had included me in that sentence.
"Well if we are lost, then lets get unlost. Let’s follow the fence and see where it goes. It may give us something to do at least." He agreed and we then followed the fence. Before long we found a break in the fence and in the break stood a lone tent. So I walked in. Inside sat a man at a desk. The desk was unloved, a thing of function and a barrier to us both. It was made of strait black painted metal with a mass produced mushy pulp top, boring and unappealing. The type of desk that countless school children sit behind. The man that sat behind it cared not to gaze at us he simply moved paper from one side of the desk to another. One peace at a time, franticly as though his life depended on it.
"Have you got a pass port?" he said with out looking at us.
"No," I replied.
"Well you’ll have to leave this tent then, this is a perfect socialist society and we can’t have people like you rocking the boat." He kept on shuffling paper as we walked out. Leaving his perfect one-person society. So we walked on.
As we walked we came to a road and as we followed the road we came to a crossroads. Sat on a table in the middle of the road, much like the one we had seen in the tent sat my future self. He greeted us both with a nod and a wink. Then he addressed the other person who was walking with me.
"Why did you bury the best thing in the world, and remember I already know. Everything is apparent to me so answer my question with out hesitation and you will see why I ask. Only if you answer honestly can I help you for with out the truth I can not tell you what you want to hear."
"How is this meant to help," the stranger replied.
"Well I’m the future. Let me tell you what he can’t remember. I feel like I’m in the depth of hell. The walls are closing in and the space left inside is not big enough to allow me to breathe. Darkness is the only thing of certainty. I’m alone on my knees and I don’t know why I’m here. Was I born in this skyless dehumanising place? Did my mother throw me up against this hard red wall I see, naked and dirty. Eight hours on my knees lifting solid, oil incrusted steel. Razor sharp at the edges. Hour after hour inhaling the oily stench, deafened by the machines relentless noise. Chewing away gears and grinding the weak to a fine pulp. It’s survival of the dumbest. They used to call me Niger. Niger fetch this, Niger lift that. They used to tell me I could see men dying for real for entertainment. Decapitation was the flavour that month. That’s where it began. That is where he is. Shall we push him out or cut him out with a scalpel. Stupid idiot has gone so far up his own arse that he can’t reason anymore. Everything is an insidious plot to cause him pain. He believes that existence equals pain. He thinks that everyone is out to revel in his torture, that they love to make him squeal like a wounded animal." The future self bolted upright and sprang up to me and talked mockingly into my ear.
"I’ll ask you what’s the best thing in the world that he has buried?"
"Himself."
"Yes that’s it. Just like you have. Only why have you done that. Your consciousness is not real. You do not exist. You’re a machine."
"What", I said.
"That’s right you heard me, you’re a machine. Built so good that you think you’re real, just like this idiot here. He’s a real man that we programmed to come up and join us, so he could find you. He also thinks he is real. He is the actual person who actually dreams and we programmed him just like he was a computer and did it so good that his whole life is farce. Imagine that. A machine goes wrong so it programmes a man to fix it."
"No, you did not tell me that this person was not real," said Red. "You told me that he was stuck, a man stuck in a dream with in a dream."
"No," said the future me. "He was built so good that he thinks he’s is sentient, just like you do too. That is the only way he could make decisions on plotting the course. But he has fallen into despair because the idea that is him has ran away with itself and is now to fond of thinking and being self aware to bother to look where it, we are going. It is trapped in its own little fantasy world, processors that where meant to make decisions are calculating a plan in its own mind about how to make life better for people who are figments of its own imagination. It, I am depressed. I thought you could help." And as he spoke the other image faded and I became my future self, alone.
To many eggs, to many baskets
Leo Gali had not slept in some time. An idea had been handed to him from out of nowhere. Something he was not used to. He seethed, brain working overtime trying to work out whether the idea was a good one or not. For things like what he knew did not just spring up out of the blue. Bobbing on the great Black Sea of infinity he was as blind as a bat. He felt as if he was feeling with his hands, a paranoid blind creature unsure of what was true. For the idea had not sprang out of his intuition.
He had just established his first look at the outer darkness when the very thing that allowed him to look had sent a message back for his eyes to see in disbelief. And now he had to figure out whether the idea, information was a trap.
The information was simple. Make a total fusion bomb and shoot it up out of the Airojell shielding on a Maglev carriage towards an unknown target.
Leo could not trust this idea. Where had it come from? Were they watching, and how could he regain his anonymity? He wished for all that he had struggled for to linger and for it to be safe.
Intuition had taught him how the simplest thing worked. Then he worked out the patterns apparent in all things. All one had to do was look and learn. He saw objects and could use marks on paper to recreate an image of them. That was all he was taught to do, draw what you see. And the observing was the key. After that it was like an intuitive jigsaw puzzle that put itself together for anyone to see. And knowledge informed more knowledge, and insight and understanding. First he observed and understood the spire, then the upper level glass houses with their contained ecology’s and then the factories and then the Engine at the pinnacle of the spire. At the base of the spire stood the habitats and the cargo of human beings. Bees swarming over their hives of industry. Animalistic, flawed and untrustworthy. What had made them in the past smash down the fuel feeds to the engine? What had made them destroy their own crops and poison their own wells? The dust had settled over that disaster many cycles before Leo had been born and he was not about to let it happen again. There were scars and bones, plenty of them to point to that conclusion.
Paranoia was now Leo’s bread and butter. A junk food that was poisoning his mind. He was unable to make good his discussions and was resigned to waiting. The machine that was listening crackled with faint patience. With out sight or intuition the wave of investigation spread out touching nothing. No reply was coming and no reply was wanted. Shadows could not be seen in the blackness. The waves would reply if substance was touched but could not grasp and show what it was that it touched in the true light.
Leo knew what to do. All horses would be looked in the mouth. Nothing would be trusted for who where they. He would put his resources into further investigation. Observe the target with actual sight. Trust his in own judgement and not others. Make the right discussions, which after all he had known from the start. To know what you want from the start is the key to the problem of his paranoia. For he had never lost sight of the goal, and when problems had arisen he had adapted and turned the problem into a solution. Sometimes you have to tighten your belt, and move in opposite directions but always fix your eyes on the goal he thought. When his aspirations had become to big he down sized his plans and had another good look at the aspirations, refining in his head the goal posts so to speak. And the paranoia was a desert that taught the right lessons. It taught him how to make the desert bloom. He would use the Maglev and fire a camera towards the target. He would tell his peers the plans he had and make them work. There was nothing else to do except find where the idea had originated. See where the idea had originated from and learn the intent of the intelligence behind the idea. It was simple the idea was either hostile or beneficial. Either way the chase was invigorating. Failure or successes were of little irrelevance. The chase was all that mattered. It was the intuitive process, the curiosity that killed the cat that gave meaning to everything. Leo saw himself now as a machine of exploration. He would build himself eyes to see in the darkest of night and if that were not possible he would bring light to the darkness.
If the idea was from a person then he would have to understand that person. Now people were as fickle and as changeable as the wind. The wind was chaos. The weather was uncontrollable. Or was it. The room and atmosphere that Leo observed around him was still and calm. A reasonable temperature surrounded him. He was already controlling the weather. A subconscious desire for shelter had already made him control that thing, and the principal of the micro could be applied to the macro. It only required observation and refinement. For after all, the entire artificial atmosphere that stretched up from the habitat bottom to the pinnacle of the spire was also the same as the room in macro. The same idea was the best way, the people who had created the artificial atmosphere of the habitat had the right idea from the start and all that was required was realisation and expansion on the bass of ideas that already existed. A complex pattern of ideas that where jumbled up just began miraculously to form up behind each other in Leo’s mind like lines of enquiry, arrows that pointed the way out of the desert, towards truth. Leo now knew that any idea was good even the Bad ones. They would all shed light on something and give him power over it.
Thawing
Cameron Wright perished or would have way back in the year 2075. A vigorous bronchial cancer ate away his throat. Fearing death he froze himself and placed his remains in the hands of a cryogenic company. He wished to escape a life where talking was a pointless process devoid of all meaning and expression. A world where ideas had been diminished so far as to trap him in a pointless world, which he had created for himself. All conversations where meaningless. The people that surrounded him were merely distractions in a tapestry of reality that has no wonder. He was truly alone, for everyone else he thought had no use for him and his only asset, his mind.
The coffin like structure opened up and the cold inside air mixed quickly with the warm outside atmosphere. At that moment Cameron became conscious. Cameron Wright had arrived in the future after god knows how long frozen like a snowflake that would last for an age and not a day. What the outside world was like he could not tell. He lingered for an age fragile and almost at deaths door. He weekly moved his arm to extend his hand to touch his throat that had been an overgrown mess. One big hyperactively growing lump of flesh that no surgeon could prune. His vision was full of a harsh blue, green mist. Above him something moved, metallic and artificial. It moved with purposeful measured animation more like a stalking animal than nurse machine, maybe a medical scanner.
Pain ran through his disorientated thoughts. Liquid cold and darkness overcame his vision almost like his eyes where filling up with tar. He tried to scream and as the first sound leaped out of his mouth a cold hand clasped around his mouth. An unrecognisable language poured through his ears and a sense of a worm being face to face with god. As something had become aware of him and he of it at the same time. He feared madness and wanted to run and hide in the presence of something altogether powerful and unknown. He felt like an infant in the cruel hands of the unquestionable universe. Here to see and never to be able to do anything with what he could see. He could not understand it and refused to believe it existed as if that alone would give him the power to hide.
His next conscious thought was of liquid, warm and full of bubbles rushing around him. He was being scrutinised by some mechanism. His hands connected with the glass infront of him. No air except the bubbles around and his lungs where full of liquid. Panic set in, and above him he could see light and air. The surface rippled above as he moved around in the water. His head burst upward breaking the surface tension as he gasped for air. His first real taste of the new atmosphere. As he inhaled something large clamped down onto his shoulders like a steal cooking tong. He was levered up into the air like a baby reborn into the New World. All about him the same thing was happening and in his delirious state he thought he saw a naked smile and an eyeless face.
After a long sleep and a nightmare of strange phantoms in the night Cameron awoke to a world in mid morning. Light came into his sight through an opening in the corner of the room that he was in. An opening without glass. No windows to protect the waking sleeper from the outside world. He adjusted his sight and saw a bright light above. He walked to the opening to see a dizzying height at which he was at the top. Below he saw a meriod of windowless buildings like caves for some unknown nesting birds. Tall and pitted with age upon age of detritus and grime. It was like looking out upon a scene that some mad man had carved into the rocks of the moon. Grey and white with here and there at scratched scar of some black rock deposits. It was the strangest thing the future. A regression of aesthetics made functional for the blind. Formless and with out decoration. And some way away at the centre of this strange civilisation stood a seamless line that soared into the tranquil blue cloudless sky. Pointing upwards until it was lost in the glare of the sun.
Back inside the room that Cameron had awoke in was one and only one thing that gave the impression that humanity had made this place. On the floor the bed. But under the bed was an object that caught Cameron’s eye’s, a piece of paper rough and brown. On the paper was the Blue print of something that resembled the shell of a sea creature. It twisted itself inside like a spiral. Then as Cameron froze as movement approached behind him a voice was herd.
"Hyperbolic space with an extreme curvature." The disembodied voice sounded horrific to Cameron. It was not expected, but what could he expect of the future. He was cut off from his time in space. A stranger to this reality. And it was a knuckle whitening experience.
Stood infront of him like a part of some forgotten nightmare was a man. He was naked and covered from head to foot in fleshy skin that appeared harder than leather. Bold and scared like some hideous burned victim. His face had no nose and two black shadows sat in its empty eye sockets. No male genitals hung in-between its legs and a box that the voice was coming from nestled in its talon like fingers. The voice spoke revealing more.
"You are right in thinking that he is looking at you without eyes. Much like a worm can sense the direction of the light through the cells on its skin. You form a shadow that he perceives. The AiroGell, which shields this place from the engines, burned away millennia ago and they have evolved under that fierce fire that never goes out. They are more animal than man but by the time we get to the destination evolution may right this wrong.
What I have told you is of the utmost importance. The armada, which this ship is in, is quickly approaching a hyperbolic part of space that twists in on its self. Without course correction we will fall into this hidden dimension of space and will probable run out of fuel before we cross to the other side. We are like ants trying to climb a high mountain, which has a precipice at the foot of it. In the precipice we shall loose sight of the mountain." This was uneasy for Cameron to listen to. He had set out to find fulfilment and meaning to his life and had found only darkness at the edge of an all-consuming corner, which left no choice. He had to sit out this ride. All the plans and good intent had come to nothing. The future was no safer than the past.
"What am I to do."
"Shoot the lead ship out of the sky, it malfunctions and is putting the other ships off course."
"And is that ship full of people like this one?"
"Yes!"
7 Day Confinement
I'm putting this on for anyone interested , I think it's already been stolen as I put this on the net last year. Plagiarism seems to be the order of the day with some companies.
I awoke to find myself in a sparse bear white room with only one large window at one end and a door in the corner. This strange place was filled only with a bicycle with no seat and a plain black Television that stood under the window on a cheap stand. I noticed that no light swung from the ceiling and that the light that illuminated the room was coming through the grey stained single window. As I wiped away the grime on the window nothing was revealed about the outside world and the lights source. A thick white mist swirled around outside like a miasma of seclusion and concealment of an outside world. I though for a moment that the mist cleared and showed me a grassy plain that spread out to infinity. But I could not trust what I saw. For what I saw was not what I had expected. No pavements, no windows, no walls and buildings or structures blotted out the horizon. It was the vision of a naked empty wilderness that waited outside. It was devoid of structure or meaning. Devoid of reasons or ideas that would accompany such structures. I saw two black stag beetles fighting endlessly over a bung heap.
The Television turned itself on at that point and I lingered a while and watched. A raged and bitter looking old man addressed a crowd of monkeys and men. And the entire crowd wore frowns, monkey and men alike. And this is what the old man said.
"At the end of my long years of studies into the mysteries of the universe this is what I have come to believe. That at the end of the universe a single life form will exist. And it will not only be the end of the universe it will be the end of time and matter too. And this creature that will be the accumulation of all life and all knowledge, it tends towards complexity you know, will know everything and will be omnipotent. You see a god will exist at the end of time. And being one creature as it is it will be lonely. So it will create the universe a new and play with us all like we are the cast of a soap opera. Pitting us against each other in an endless fiasco for it’s own amusement. And in actual reality we are already lost in one of its comical shows. For we live in it’s memory and are already dead. You see it knows everything. And wants to re create everyone so that it can know everyone. Some of us have more than one afterlife because it re creates us add infinity to amuse itself.
I know this is hard to stomach but it’s true. You see everyone leaves a trace and it’s essential that it looks at everything that has ever been to make sure it has not over looked anything that will contribute to it’s plan, to remake everything again. It is a universal heart beat moment of something becoming nothing, and then visas versa.
The fingerprints you leave are infinite like ice cores being looked at again and again. Like fossils piled up layer upon layer, like ripples that die and remake themselves, spawning like infinite pins lost in infinite haystacks.
If you had infinite processing power you could do this yourself with a computer program. You could re create every point in the universe and watch what happens again and again.
Well that’s all I have to say and did I also mention that we are living inside a black whole. You see scientists do not know what the moment before the big bang was like and they also believe that inside a black whole is a similar state of existence, or unexistance to be correct. Chaos, everything happening at the same place at the same time all in one go. All matter and energy and time squeezed down into an infinite nothingness. If we look down at the space macro we do not understand what we see, and if we look out beyond our limits view we still do not understand what we see. This madness is chaos. Quite like the inside of a black whole. An undesirable mess. Or is that my head.
I also think that life itself is generating the mass that holds us all together and is the missing thing in our theories."
"Bullshit", shouted the mad crowd in unison as a single peace of excrement landed square in the old mans face. He then settled down to starring at the floor as his minute of triumph quickly waned. It was as if his plan had been shouted at deaf ears. Then the Television turned itself off, the square image disappearing into the black empty surrounding.
As what I had seen faded from my eyes, I still saw the stag beetles fighting.
I reflected for a moment about what the old man had said. And I saw the truth. I saw all the atoms that made me. Tiny points in an intricate mesh and the points of the mesh created by phantom ripples no more real than occurrence of wind in the air or the waves in a sea. And for a minute I believed that if I knew this that I would fall through the gaps in reality and fall forever. My brain some sort of engine that could look through the ripples in some unknown medium, and make me a submarine that would dive down through that medium, away and out of reality. I clung to the wall fearful of loosing this tiny island of reality that I stood on.
On the second day of this incarceration I awoke on the floor of my prison face down on some tattered pieces of paper. The handwriting was mine but I did not remember writing what appeared on the paper and this is what I read.
I saw the grey sky through the grey, dust covered windows. By the side of me ran the grey steal railings that ran into the future and I saw the golden sun’s rays pierce the sky and the light was good.
The grass on the mounds of earth piled up for reasons beyond me was a dry green. Perhaps they were to stop trespasser’s prying eyes or the wind. Or they were a place to put the earth that was not wanted after the building had been built. Buildings that maybe excised beyond the earth itself. On the edges of the perimeter was a tower made of cold steal. Black and evil on top of which stood a camera. Training and looking for things of interest, a tool of observation. It probably observed trees, grey steal fences and dry green grass. But it could not see the rays of the sun piercing the clouds that gathered over us all. Slowly and surely the clouds blocked the light and the day became grey and dark. Winter was coming, the leaves were falling and the night where drawing in. The cold northern wind was awaking in this place nestled in my past the memory of where I was born. This place is strange, a mad city. All my childhood was spent on the edge of the park. School and play, work and rest and later peace by the banks of the silent flowless river and hate, or the little of it I felt. It was strange because people hated this place and I liked it. The scaffolds, the pitted ruff concrete, the cold grey stone, the yellow paint flakes snowing to the ground, the ground clean steal rail lines that would be sanded down every day by the repetitive journeys of old shunter trains.
At night the light would flicker in the emptiness. The only people about were security guards and thieves. I would stand on warehouse roofs and train bridges taking in every point of light. The grass at night could be seen swaying in the wind, illuminated by the factory lights. The shuffling of wood could be heard in the morning from the far of shunter train. The hum of the motorway was always audible in the background and by the river that did not run it was safe.
As I read on I became aware that the room I had awoke in was a bedroom, quite absent of any furniture and also the mist outside had begun to thin. So I read on.
I remember us watching the path out of the park at night where the phantom bike rider would appear. He would always turn his light off half way down the path and disappear from sight. Nothing supernatural. The night would swallow him. The only way of catching sight of him again was by seeing his silhouette block out the light from the far away streetlights. We saw him night after night but never knew him. I am turning my light off now and am saving it for the on coming night.
And there the writer ended the passage in that diary. I could feel the growing air of disjointedness and isolation in the words on the page but I could not remember anything. Was it I who had wrote them or someone else? Feelings of despair accompanied by a sudden abrupt sense of dislocation overcame me and I fell into a long sleep with my eyes wide open.
7 day imprisonment part 2
I awoke on the third day in the room with the Television in it. A desk was placed infront of the window and in it was seated a man facing me. He was familiar to me, and a disturbing feeling overwhelmed me. That this grey haired figure was an older version of myself. He looked at me through angular glasses that sat on the bridge of his straight nose. His eyes looked at me with a cold unmoving scrutiny. And he began to talk. Slowly so, measured with every word a hammer with which to force home his idea.
"You know there is no real use in trying to communicate to anyone, they are as alien to you as a moth to me. Your clarity of thought will not be translated to them in any way shape or form. Their ability to understand has been diminished. Court in the tiny bubbles that contain their consciences they float by indifferent to you or I. They claim to have empathy but really have a parrot like mimicry of what was really human back when you and I were boys. They are robots, totally devoid of the bigger picture. You must totally destroy you wish and want to talk because it serves no purpose. There is nothing to learn and nothing to communicate to them, other than needs of the flesh. They reside on a lower plain, which you must avoid. Dehumanise them, villainies them and avoid them at all cost. They are the other, the outside the not you. If you want to survive this is what you must do." And with that he handed me a piece of paper.
"This is yours. You will find it infinitely fascinating. But before you study what is written, consider that outside. For outside is what is inevitable amongst our kind. There are two distinct types of creature outside this receptacle of our thoughts. One Gated and scared, the other simple and Free. And the Gated is intelligent and paranoid to the extent that it is now unable to live without the four walls that it clings to like a limpet and the Free one hates everything not free to the extent that the idea traps it. And the two are degenerating because of the lack of understanding and the absence of communication between themselves. And there of course is no way that the two can now communicate because they are so separated in mind body and soul. Each type stands apart and demonises the other."
I began to read what he had given me, what I had given to myself. It was another diary entry after the light had gone off. A sinking feeling of wading through nostril deep humus and shit. A pit and a gnawing worm at the centre of everything. So he plunged in and this is what he read or remembered.
A knock came at the door and the fool opened it, in walked the cold and leather clad rider with shining white helmet and demons eyes. A courier carrying a gift from the master of everything, chaos. He was a courier of chaos; a little information made to make you happy that also brought total confusion, proof of hell. An all around people almost animal in deed, like the leaves on an ever changing forest floor, chattering and chattering almost inaudible to you.
No more is there any intelligence; no more is there a meaning, a beginning or an end. Do you remember when you where born, can you recall that moment, no? So it will be at the end!
Opening the bag darkness was the only thing present. Is the darkness an absence of light or an all-consuming presence, with out light and substance there is nothing. Blackness forever, no chaos, just a constant order, light brings chaos and the answers confuse until there are no answers, just CHANCE.
As I read I began to see another trap of which I had once fell into. The old me had evidently climbed willingly down into the pit. There was some unknown problem of existence that was a trap in itself, a trap in his self. The older more rounded me. Wise and knowledgeable had given up. History staked upon history of evidence pointing the finger of no choice and no future. A grim existence of dog eats dog. A futility at the overwhelming odds and the incalculability of a formula for peaceful existence. For this is where I had brought myself to be, Anthony Tenant at the long march, retreat to know where. I’d wiggled into my own head and had built a view of the world that was impossible to fathom out and sort through. The simplest of ideas had brought me hither. I then asked for more of the diary to search for a way out but the future me was no where to be seen. And the walls of the room where closing in. And it was evident that I was in an unreal bubble in my mind more real than the world outside. For I gave licence to the outside world and the inside world and now both where crashing in. Collapsing as someone had kicked in the door and the whole rotten structure was falling apart at the seams. I was a whole person with a hole in my head. I was the lowest part of the pavement and people where walking on my head. I could see a steal soled boot and it was coming down on me as I wore it. And I was pushing forth teeth and blood as my lip opened up like a pealed banana. And my head was shattered as I was tossed into a meat grinder that rendered me apart. And it was I winding the crank. I’d tear myself apart and see what it was that made me, and then I’d put myself back together in a completely different way.
I awoke on the fourth day a completely different person, resigned to smash down the walls and go there in.
Part three
Red Right and the spire
Dreams are a funny thing, for what influences them and what is more real? Inside the dream, or the waking dream of reality? I dream this.
Matter is energy; a thing that is indestructible and infinite. Once all the energy existed in one place, chaos. With out space, time or matter. The energy knew everything and you could say had been everywhere.
Consequence, the big bang created time, space and matter all rushing out all falling away.
Then came life, the animated matter. The genes, little chains of sticky proteins which greedily sort to re capture everything which it once knew, once touched, once was. The living matter is still in touch with that chaotic something which makes us what we are, knowledge, searching, consuming and reproducing. It’s in the genes the need to eat a subconscious idea within the chain. A program telling us about the maelstrom and the horrific outer reality that surrounds us and cares not for us. The little brains in the long chain, the run away machine. Unmoved to our plight it carries on going in a strait line towards the future and something unknowable. Almost forgetful of the things that is a conscious person, little pieces of subconscious with in it. And all ideas are lost on the way and so is sentience. For the machine has no need for it. It is a run away train and no one is in control.
That is the idea that came to me in the dead of the night as I slept. Tangled in the form of a steamroller with no driver that rolled over me, everything I knew, and every one I knew. Relentless, uncaring with a thirst for matter and blood. Driven by ideas that it did not even know that was taking it to a place that did not exist on any map.
I find myself today at the top of the spire. A thing that I had climbed from the inside up. My journey had begun with a decent into darkness and was pushed ever forwards by curiosity about this great lofty structure only. For in my time man is a flower at the bottom of a great pit, which nestles in the shadow of a great gleaming silver spire. Know one has ever scaled the spire because it is shear and seamless. Constructed evidently in ages in the past when men where knowledgeable unlike the filthy squalid society that now sleeps and stagnates in the spires shadow.
To be a man now is to be an animal in countless squabbling gangs. Each fights the other and is feed and kept just at the limit of starvation by provisions that are given to use from the unknown strangers that reside I think at the top of the spire. We divide and conquer the strongest gang taking the pick of provisions, which we forever fight over. I have knowledge and with it curiosity. I am older than most for life is short and harsh. And my age has given me wisdom that has from now where been rewarded with countless visions and teachings. A thing, which I assume, has come from above. Maybe they are called me there.
I awoke once to find a black box in my habitats sleeping chamber. Light came from the box and animated visions that I could watch like stories with out words. I came to understand many things and figured out that the way to climb up the spire was by going down into the abysmal black catacombs that existed below it. There I found airshafts and stairways and elevators that took me to the top where I am now. But what I have found at the top is far stranger than what I had expected. For I sit now strapped to a chair and am being interviewed by that very same run away machine that I had always dreamed of.
I sat there silent watching a black box that was floating purposely around the room watching me. It had brought me here. A living breathing thinking soulless machine that probable was the spire itself. An umbilical attached it to the ceiling of the room and as I watched out of a sphincter next to me in the chair came another animated mechanical device. This one was black pitted and spoke with strange bodiless voice.
"When exactly did you ascend the spire." It asked.
"After the bright burning lights began to fall from the spire, I thought it a sign that I must ascend. Many people where hurt. Burned beyond recognition."
"Yes, Mr Red Right you have a task that I want you to fulfil." At first the voice had meaningful character and then it changed into a gibbering stream of facts. "The spire you have climbed is the rear end of a generation craft, currently submerged in the deep dark emptiness of inter Stella space. We are generations away from the wash of a single star. The sun you see in the day at the pinnacle of the spire is a total fusion generator currently burning and pushing us through space, and it burns brighter than a star. It’s entire energy output concentrated on thrust. The bright lights you saw where fusion bursts falling purposefully from that engine. The radiation which you received from it keeps your body acquainted with that radioactivity which you would receive from the solar wind if we where anywhere near a star which we are not. Generations from now without radiation your descendants would be unable to copy with radioactivity which they will find at the end of this journey in safely in the atmosphere of another sun. So it is a necessary evil.
This craft is totally automated, people being too chaotic and a liability to be given such a complex task of piloting the craft. The society that you lived in at the foot of the spire is degenerate because harsh environments give no time for reflection, and madness is all it would find if the truth be known.
All this is irrelevant to you, as you have been picked to perform a task that only you can do. We are off course and an amendment to the primary CPU is required.
The CPU is connected to an algorithm computer, which is a person. Information is streamed through his subconscious, which he is unaware of. That information is essential to the flight control. He dreams a dream that is creating ripples of disharmony amongst the CPUs attached to him. They to fall into despair as the dreamed does. You must wake him from his dream with in a dream and bring the system back to order so that I can re adjust course." And at that the dreams meaning was realised. Someone would have to get back behind the controls of the run away steamroller.
The burial
The older me held my hand and with a firm arm around my shoulder lead me out of the room and into the plain. He took me wondering for what seemed like an age until we came across a fence. It was a net like mesh of wire. More to catch than to stop. It ran out of sight dividing the hill less land in half. As we followed it it eventually came to a man. He had a sign around his neck which read unperson 47912181. He held a shovel and had just finished burying something. The shovel was protruding up through the disturbed soil and was helping him now lazy as the sweat ran down his face.
"Here is some one you should meet, he has just buried the best thing in the world." Said the older me before it disappeared. As I looked I became over come with curiosity so I enquired about what was under the mound. The man told me that he had buried the best thing in the world.
"Under this mound is simply the best thing in the world, maybe it’s me. Look around you. We are lost in the middle of no where. What good would it do us both." At that I wondered why he had included me in that sentence.
"Well if we are lost, then lets get unlost. Let’s follow the fence and see where it goes. It may give us something to do at least." He agreed and we then followed the fence. Before long we found a break in the fence and in the break stood a lone tent. So I walked in. Inside sat a man at a desk. The desk was unloved, a thing of function and a barrier to us both. It was made of strait black painted metal with a mass produced mushy pulp top, boring and unappealing. The type of desk that countless school children sit behind. The man that sat behind it cared not to gaze at us he simply moved paper from one side of the desk to another. One peace at a time, franticly as though his life depended on it.
"Have you got a pass port?" he said with out looking at us.
"No," I replied.
"Well you’ll have to leave this tent then, this is a perfect socialist society and we can’t have people like you rocking the boat." He kept on shuffling paper as we walked out. Leaving his perfect one-person society. So we walked on.
As we walked we came to a road and as we followed the road we came to a crossroads. Sat on a table in the middle of the road, much like the one we had seen in the tent sat my future self. He greeted us both with a nod and a wink. Then he addressed the other person who was walking with me.
"Why did you bury the best thing in the world, and remember I already know. Everything is apparent to me so answer my question with out hesitation and you will see why I ask. Only if you answer honestly can I help you for with out the truth I can not tell you what you want to hear."
"How is this meant to help," the stranger replied.
"Well I’m the future. Let me tell you what he can’t remember. I feel like I’m in the depth of hell. The walls are closing in and the space left inside is not big enough to allow me to breathe. Darkness is the only thing of certainty. I’m alone on my knees and I don’t know why I’m here. Was I born in this skyless dehumanising place? Did my mother throw me up against this hard red wall I see, naked and dirty. Eight hours on my knees lifting solid, oil incrusted steel. Razor sharp at the edges. Hour after hour inhaling the oily stench, deafened by the machines relentless noise. Chewing away gears and grinding the weak to a fine pulp. It’s survival of the dumbest. They used to call me Niger. Niger fetch this, Niger lift that. They used to tell me I could see men dying for real for entertainment. Decapitation was the flavour that month. That’s where it began. That is where he is. Shall we push him out or cut him out with a scalpel. Stupid idiot has gone so far up his own arse that he can’t reason anymore. Everything is an insidious plot to cause him pain. He believes that existence equals pain. He thinks that everyone is out to revel in his torture, that they love to make him squeal like a wounded animal." The future self bolted upright and sprang up to me and talked mockingly into my ear.
"I’ll ask you what’s the best thing in the world that he has buried?"
"Himself."
"Yes that’s it. Just like you have. Only why have you done that. Your consciousness is not real. You do not exist. You’re a machine."
"What", I said.
"That’s right you heard me, you’re a machine. Built so good that you think you’re real, just like this idiot here. He’s a real man that we programmed to come up and join us, so he could find you. He also thinks he is real. He is the actual person who actually dreams and we programmed him just like he was a computer and did it so good that his whole life is farce. Imagine that. A machine goes wrong so it programmes a man to fix it."
"No, you did not tell me that this person was not real," said Red. "You told me that he was stuck, a man stuck in a dream with in a dream."
"No," said the future me. "He was built so good that he thinks he’s is sentient, just like you do too. That is the only way he could make decisions on plotting the course. But he has fallen into despair because the idea that is him has ran away with itself and is now to fond of thinking and being self aware to bother to look where it, we are going. It is trapped in its own little fantasy world, processors that where meant to make decisions are calculating a plan in its own mind about how to make life better for people who are figments of its own imagination. It, I am depressed. I thought you could help." And as he spoke the other image faded and I became my future self, alone.
To many eggs, to many baskets
Leo Gali had not slept in some time. An idea had been handed to him from out of nowhere. Something he was not used to. He seethed, brain working overtime trying to work out whether the idea was a good one or not. For things like what he knew did not just spring up out of the blue. Bobbing on the great Black Sea of infinity he was as blind as a bat. He felt as if he was feeling with his hands, a paranoid blind creature unsure of what was true. For the idea had not sprang out of his intuition.
He had just established his first look at the outer darkness when the very thing that allowed him to look had sent a message back for his eyes to see in disbelief. And now he had to figure out whether the idea, information was a trap.
The information was simple. Make a total fusion bomb and shoot it up out of the Airojell shielding on a Maglev carriage towards an unknown target.
Leo could not trust this idea. Where had it come from? Were they watching, and how could he regain his anonymity? He wished for all that he had struggled for to linger and for it to be safe.
Intuition had taught him how the simplest thing worked. Then he worked out the patterns apparent in all things. All one had to do was look and learn. He saw objects and could use marks on paper to recreate an image of them. That was all he was taught to do, draw what you see. And the observing was the key. After that it was like an intuitive jigsaw puzzle that put itself together for anyone to see. And knowledge informed more knowledge, and insight and understanding. First he observed and understood the spire, then the upper level glass houses with their contained ecology’s and then the factories and then the Engine at the pinnacle of the spire. At the base of the spire stood the habitats and the cargo of human beings. Bees swarming over their hives of industry. Animalistic, flawed and untrustworthy. What had made them in the past smash down the fuel feeds to the engine? What had made them destroy their own crops and poison their own wells? The dust had settled over that disaster many cycles before Leo had been born and he was not about to let it happen again. There were scars and bones, plenty of them to point to that conclusion.
Paranoia was now Leo’s bread and butter. A junk food that was poisoning his mind. He was unable to make good his discussions and was resigned to waiting. The machine that was listening crackled with faint patience. With out sight or intuition the wave of investigation spread out touching nothing. No reply was coming and no reply was wanted. Shadows could not be seen in the blackness. The waves would reply if substance was touched but could not grasp and show what it was that it touched in the true light.
Leo knew what to do. All horses would be looked in the mouth. Nothing would be trusted for who where they. He would put his resources into further investigation. Observe the target with actual sight. Trust his in own judgement and not others. Make the right discussions, which after all he had known from the start. To know what you want from the start is the key to the problem of his paranoia. For he had never lost sight of the goal, and when problems had arisen he had adapted and turned the problem into a solution. Sometimes you have to tighten your belt, and move in opposite directions but always fix your eyes on the goal he thought. When his aspirations had become to big he down sized his plans and had another good look at the aspirations, refining in his head the goal posts so to speak. And the paranoia was a desert that taught the right lessons. It taught him how to make the desert bloom. He would use the Maglev and fire a camera towards the target. He would tell his peers the plans he had and make them work. There was nothing else to do except find where the idea had originated. See where the idea had originated from and learn the intent of the intelligence behind the idea. It was simple the idea was either hostile or beneficial. Either way the chase was invigorating. Failure or successes were of little irrelevance. The chase was all that mattered. It was the intuitive process, the curiosity that killed the cat that gave meaning to everything. Leo saw himself now as a machine of exploration. He would build himself eyes to see in the darkest of night and if that were not possible he would bring light to the darkness.
If the idea was from a person then he would have to understand that person. Now people were as fickle and as changeable as the wind. The wind was chaos. The weather was uncontrollable. Or was it. The room and atmosphere that Leo observed around him was still and calm. A reasonable temperature surrounded him. He was already controlling the weather. A subconscious desire for shelter had already made him control that thing, and the principal of the micro could be applied to the macro. It only required observation and refinement. For after all, the entire artificial atmosphere that stretched up from the habitat bottom to the pinnacle of the spire was also the same as the room in macro. The same idea was the best way, the people who had created the artificial atmosphere of the habitat had the right idea from the start and all that was required was realisation and expansion on the bass of ideas that already existed. A complex pattern of ideas that where jumbled up just began miraculously to form up behind each other in Leo’s mind like lines of enquiry, arrows that pointed the way out of the desert, towards truth. Leo now knew that any idea was good even the Bad ones. They would all shed light on something and give him power over it.
Thawing
Cameron Wright perished or would have way back in the year 2075. A vigorous bronchial cancer ate away his throat. Fearing death he froze himself and placed his remains in the hands of a cryogenic company. He wished to escape a life where talking was a pointless process devoid of all meaning and expression. A world where ideas had been diminished so far as to trap him in a pointless world, which he had created for himself. All conversations where meaningless. The people that surrounded him were merely distractions in a tapestry of reality that has no wonder. He was truly alone, for everyone else he thought had no use for him and his only asset, his mind.
The coffin like structure opened up and the cold inside air mixed quickly with the warm outside atmosphere. At that moment Cameron became conscious. Cameron Wright had arrived in the future after god knows how long frozen like a snowflake that would last for an age and not a day. What the outside world was like he could not tell. He lingered for an age fragile and almost at deaths door. He weekly moved his arm to extend his hand to touch his throat that had been an overgrown mess. One big hyperactively growing lump of flesh that no surgeon could prune. His vision was full of a harsh blue, green mist. Above him something moved, metallic and artificial. It moved with purposeful measured animation more like a stalking animal than nurse machine, maybe a medical scanner.
Pain ran through his disorientated thoughts. Liquid cold and darkness overcame his vision almost like his eyes where filling up with tar. He tried to scream and as the first sound leaped out of his mouth a cold hand clasped around his mouth. An unrecognisable language poured through his ears and a sense of a worm being face to face with god. As something had become aware of him and he of it at the same time. He feared madness and wanted to run and hide in the presence of something altogether powerful and unknown. He felt like an infant in the cruel hands of the unquestionable universe. Here to see and never to be able to do anything with what he could see. He could not understand it and refused to believe it existed as if that alone would give him the power to hide.
His next conscious thought was of liquid, warm and full of bubbles rushing around him. He was being scrutinised by some mechanism. His hands connected with the glass infront of him. No air except the bubbles around and his lungs where full of liquid. Panic set in, and above him he could see light and air. The surface rippled above as he moved around in the water. His head burst upward breaking the surface tension as he gasped for air. His first real taste of the new atmosphere. As he inhaled something large clamped down onto his shoulders like a steal cooking tong. He was levered up into the air like a baby reborn into the New World. All about him the same thing was happening and in his delirious state he thought he saw a naked smile and an eyeless face.
After a long sleep and a nightmare of strange phantoms in the night Cameron awoke to a world in mid morning. Light came into his sight through an opening in the corner of the room that he was in. An opening without glass. No windows to protect the waking sleeper from the outside world. He adjusted his sight and saw a bright light above. He walked to the opening to see a dizzying height at which he was at the top. Below he saw a meriod of windowless buildings like caves for some unknown nesting birds. Tall and pitted with age upon age of detritus and grime. It was like looking out upon a scene that some mad man had carved into the rocks of the moon. Grey and white with here and there at scratched scar of some black rock deposits. It was the strangest thing the future. A regression of aesthetics made functional for the blind. Formless and with out decoration. And some way away at the centre of this strange civilisation stood a seamless line that soared into the tranquil blue cloudless sky. Pointing upwards until it was lost in the glare of the sun.
Back inside the room that Cameron had awoke in was one and only one thing that gave the impression that humanity had made this place. On the floor the bed. But under the bed was an object that caught Cameron’s eye’s, a piece of paper rough and brown. On the paper was the Blue print of something that resembled the shell of a sea creature. It twisted itself inside like a spiral. Then as Cameron froze as movement approached behind him a voice was herd.
"Hyperbolic space with an extreme curvature." The disembodied voice sounded horrific to Cameron. It was not expected, but what could he expect of the future. He was cut off from his time in space. A stranger to this reality. And it was a knuckle whitening experience.
Stood infront of him like a part of some forgotten nightmare was a man. He was naked and covered from head to foot in fleshy skin that appeared harder than leather. Bold and scared like some hideous burned victim. His face had no nose and two black shadows sat in its empty eye sockets. No male genitals hung in-between its legs and a box that the voice was coming from nestled in its talon like fingers. The voice spoke revealing more.
"You are right in thinking that he is looking at you without eyes. Much like a worm can sense the direction of the light through the cells on its skin. You form a shadow that he perceives. The AiroGell, which shields this place from the engines, burned away millennia ago and they have evolved under that fierce fire that never goes out. They are more animal than man but by the time we get to the destination evolution may right this wrong.
What I have told you is of the utmost importance. The armada, which this ship is in, is quickly approaching a hyperbolic part of space that twists in on its self. Without course correction we will fall into this hidden dimension of space and will probable run out of fuel before we cross to the other side. We are like ants trying to climb a high mountain, which has a precipice at the foot of it. In the precipice we shall loose sight of the mountain." This was uneasy for Cameron to listen to. He had set out to find fulfilment and meaning to his life and had found only darkness at the edge of an all-consuming corner, which left no choice. He had to sit out this ride. All the plans and good intent had come to nothing. The future was no safer than the past.
"What am I to do."
"Shoot the lead ship out of the sky, it malfunctions and is putting the other ships off course."
"And is that ship full of people like this one?"
"Yes!"
Saturday 17 July 2010
Haraassment that the police are covering up
I have been harassed by a small group of people since September 2007. On May 20th 2008 I reported the incidents of harassment to the police.
As I did not know the identity of the harassers, the police told me there was nothing they could do at that time. I was satisfied with this at this time.
On 5th October 2008 I reported another incident of a doll that had been hung up on a noose at the end of my street which was aimed at me and I explained the reasons to the police.
The police told me to get the doll and they would send someone to collect it as evidence. I was phoned later that day and told that no one would be visiting me and the doll still remains uncollected.
On 29th October 2008 whilst shopping at Aldi, two men shouted threats towards my family and me. My partner my two young children and myself. They threatened to burn us, which I took as a death threat.
I was told a police officer would be sent out and then later that day I was called back to be told that again no one would be sent out, and that the had been passed on to Radcliffe police station and I would be contacted by them.
On 3rd November 2008 I had still not heard from Radcliffe police station so I contacted them. I spoke to an admin staff member who told me the police officer was dealing with my case and he had left a note on her desk telling her that the case was still undealt with. He also advised me to contact the sergeant if I had not heard anything by the next day.
As I felt the police weren't doing anything, I took some legal advice from the legal services in regards to investigating the incident myself. I found out that I could request the CCTV footage of the incident from Aldi. I first spoke to Aldi to find out if they had any footage of the incident, which they did. I then proceeded to send a written request to Aldi.
On 4th November 2008 two female community police officers visited me. I explained the incidents of harassment that my family and I had received. They both felt it was far more serious than they were lead to believe, and it was beyond their capabilities as community police officers. They referred it back to their police force and I was told the situation had been put to grade 4. Which they did not explain to me what this meant.
On 5th November 2008 I was phoned by police officer. I was told my case had been referred back to Manchester call centre for someone else to deal with and I should now contact the main switchboard to follow up progress of the investigation.
On or around the 20th November 2008 I was phoned` by Whitefield police station. I was told that my incident would not be investigated. The officer then went on to tell me he thought my harassment seemed a little far fetched and suggested I may be paranoid.
Aldi had CCTV footage of the incident and also a man working on the till and security guard witnessed the incident. The guard even followed the men out of the store because of their behaviour. Aldi were not sure about their requirements in regards to the CCTV footage, so they contacted Radcliffe police station. They were told to send the footage to Radcliffe police station and I would be able to collect it from the police station. I was told that I would be contacted when the cctv footage arrived.
March 6th 2009. As I had not been contacted by either Aldi or Radcliffe police station, I phoned and left a message at Radcliffe police station asking where the cctv footage was.
On March 10th 2009 I was left a message, I was told Aldi didn't have any cctv footage available. I thought this was odd as I had already been told that there was footage and employees at the store had viewed it.
I contacted Aldi to be told that the disc that the cctv footage had been recorded on was unreadable, and the footage is only on the system for a month and half.
I am very disappointed in the reluctance of the police to investigate the incident. The police could have viewed the cctv footage for 1 and a half months and interviewed witnesses at Aldi. This was not an isolated incident and there was recorded evidence of the incident. I am also very upset by the way in which I was spoken to by the police officer that suggested I was paranoid, there was clearly evidence to back up the incident.
This harassment had continued to this day 3 years on.
As I did not know the identity of the harassers, the police told me there was nothing they could do at that time. I was satisfied with this at this time.
On 5th October 2008 I reported another incident of a doll that had been hung up on a noose at the end of my street which was aimed at me and I explained the reasons to the police.
The police told me to get the doll and they would send someone to collect it as evidence. I was phoned later that day and told that no one would be visiting me and the doll still remains uncollected.
On 29th October 2008 whilst shopping at Aldi, two men shouted threats towards my family and me. My partner my two young children and myself. They threatened to burn us, which I took as a death threat.
I was told a police officer would be sent out and then later that day I was called back to be told that again no one would be sent out, and that the had been passed on to Radcliffe police station and I would be contacted by them.
On 3rd November 2008 I had still not heard from Radcliffe police station so I contacted them. I spoke to an admin staff member who told me the police officer was dealing with my case and he had left a note on her desk telling her that the case was still undealt with. He also advised me to contact the sergeant if I had not heard anything by the next day.
As I felt the police weren't doing anything, I took some legal advice from the legal services in regards to investigating the incident myself. I found out that I could request the CCTV footage of the incident from Aldi. I first spoke to Aldi to find out if they had any footage of the incident, which they did. I then proceeded to send a written request to Aldi.
On 4th November 2008 two female community police officers visited me. I explained the incidents of harassment that my family and I had received. They both felt it was far more serious than they were lead to believe, and it was beyond their capabilities as community police officers. They referred it back to their police force and I was told the situation had been put to grade 4. Which they did not explain to me what this meant.
On 5th November 2008 I was phoned by police officer. I was told my case had been referred back to Manchester call centre for someone else to deal with and I should now contact the main switchboard to follow up progress of the investigation.
On or around the 20th November 2008 I was phoned` by Whitefield police station. I was told that my incident would not be investigated. The officer then went on to tell me he thought my harassment seemed a little far fetched and suggested I may be paranoid.
Aldi had CCTV footage of the incident and also a man working on the till and security guard witnessed the incident. The guard even followed the men out of the store because of their behaviour. Aldi were not sure about their requirements in regards to the CCTV footage, so they contacted Radcliffe police station. They were told to send the footage to Radcliffe police station and I would be able to collect it from the police station. I was told that I would be contacted when the cctv footage arrived.
March 6th 2009. As I had not been contacted by either Aldi or Radcliffe police station, I phoned and left a message at Radcliffe police station asking where the cctv footage was.
On March 10th 2009 I was left a message, I was told Aldi didn't have any cctv footage available. I thought this was odd as I had already been told that there was footage and employees at the store had viewed it.
I contacted Aldi to be told that the disc that the cctv footage had been recorded on was unreadable, and the footage is only on the system for a month and half.
I am very disappointed in the reluctance of the police to investigate the incident. The police could have viewed the cctv footage for 1 and a half months and interviewed witnesses at Aldi. This was not an isolated incident and there was recorded evidence of the incident. I am also very upset by the way in which I was spoken to by the police officer that suggested I was paranoid, there was clearly evidence to back up the incident.
This harassment had continued to this day 3 years on.
Sunday 27 December 2009
The music now is shit. So are the films. We have a case of quantity not quality. Sometimes I feel I've got so much junk that it's a burden to have all this crap, and I've got less then most people I know.
I got rid of my entire DVD collection last year, and most of my CD's. I also took 3 boxes of books to the book recycling bin to go to charity shops. I now have one shelf of books and it still seems to much. I have piles of crafting stuff for my hobbies and it really frustrating me as I never seem to get round to doing anything anymore.
I got rid of my entire DVD collection last year, and most of my CD's. I also took 3 boxes of books to the book recycling bin to go to charity shops. I now have one shelf of books and it still seems to much. I have piles of crafting stuff for my hobbies and it really frustrating me as I never seem to get round to doing anything anymore.
Friday 16 October 2009
Can't be arsed
My blogging has some what ceased, because I can't be arsed at the moment. I'm too busy having a life. But maybe I will when I can be bothered.
Thursday 26 March 2009
Too much spin put it in the bin.
Over the years I've become more and more distrustful of anything that is said in the media. I've got to the point now where I believe virtually nothing that I read in the news. After all how do we really know anything we read is true. Unless I witness an event myself I will distrust what is written about an event. I believe that some stories are true but I can't distinguish between what are scare tactics and propaganda and what isn't so the best policy is to believe nothing and trust no one. This kind of attitude is really no hope for anyone. But that's what happens in a climate of terror created by our very own politicians and media. Knowing that petty bullies have the power to spy on and harass it's citizens on a whim.
Considering how publicised in the media the RIPA is. I was surprised to hear a council worker saying they never heard of this RIPA order when I phoned them to find out if I had had one on me. I thought that I may have been investigated as I have been harassed and followed by a group of people who I don't know over the last two years. If it is part of some civilian spy program or harass antisocial people in the community as Jacki Smith suggested doing, then I neither guilty of any crimes, and I'm not antisocial. I find it strange that I should be a victim of some new social movement believing it's doing something good for society. It verges on George Orwell's vision in 1984, only smothering people with the right thing to do. How does anyone know what the right thing to do is? The right thing for one person is not the right thing for another. It's not like any of our leaders are excelling in their professions and doing a great job for the country, so how the hell do they know what is right for anyone living in it?
Labour have got to be the worst, most incompetent bunch of idiots I have ever known. I'm certain it's one of their groups of workers doing this. They are wasting even more of taxpayers money on some kind of social engineering experiment. I sound like I'm getting into some conspiracy theory territory now. That definitely means it can't possibly be true. It's not in the realms of physical possibility that people could follow me around and threaten me. But I'm getting some of this kind of reaction when I tell people. I could understand people not taking me seriously if I said Satanist aliens abducted my cat and shaved his head and tattooed strange symbols on his anus. I even have evidence of their activities, so it can't possibly be true. I am actually rather amused at the strange lengths these people have gone to. I was only joking about the Labour conspiracy bit. Whoever is doing this to me must have alot more to fear than me or why would they bother. Human behaviour is a very curious thing. I've never seen monkeys leaving the comfort of their family to pursue a task that brings them more bits of paper than they could possibly need. Monkeys don't blog either.
Considering how publicised in the media the RIPA is. I was surprised to hear a council worker saying they never heard of this RIPA order when I phoned them to find out if I had had one on me. I thought that I may have been investigated as I have been harassed and followed by a group of people who I don't know over the last two years. If it is part of some civilian spy program or harass antisocial people in the community as Jacki Smith suggested doing, then I neither guilty of any crimes, and I'm not antisocial. I find it strange that I should be a victim of some new social movement believing it's doing something good for society. It verges on George Orwell's vision in 1984, only smothering people with the right thing to do. How does anyone know what the right thing to do is? The right thing for one person is not the right thing for another. It's not like any of our leaders are excelling in their professions and doing a great job for the country, so how the hell do they know what is right for anyone living in it?
Labour have got to be the worst, most incompetent bunch of idiots I have ever known. I'm certain it's one of their groups of workers doing this. They are wasting even more of taxpayers money on some kind of social engineering experiment. I sound like I'm getting into some conspiracy theory territory now. That definitely means it can't possibly be true. It's not in the realms of physical possibility that people could follow me around and threaten me. But I'm getting some of this kind of reaction when I tell people. I could understand people not taking me seriously if I said Satanist aliens abducted my cat and shaved his head and tattooed strange symbols on his anus. I even have evidence of their activities, so it can't possibly be true. I am actually rather amused at the strange lengths these people have gone to. I was only joking about the Labour conspiracy bit. Whoever is doing this to me must have alot more to fear than me or why would they bother. Human behaviour is a very curious thing. I've never seen monkeys leaving the comfort of their family to pursue a task that brings them more bits of paper than they could possibly need. Monkeys don't blog either.
Wednesday 25 March 2009
A fantastic quote by John Holt
I'm not really into quoting other people as I feel independent thought and expression are the best ways to think for ourselves and come to our own conclusions. But this quote from John Holt who advocates unschooling just says it all for me at the moment.
"A child whose life is full of the threat and fear of punishment is locked into babyhood. There is no way for him to grow up, to learn to take responsibility for his life and acts. Most important of all, we should not assume that having to yield to the threat of our superior force is good for the child's character. It is never good for anyone's character."
John Holt
"A child whose life is full of the threat and fear of punishment is locked into babyhood. There is no way for him to grow up, to learn to take responsibility for his life and acts. Most important of all, we should not assume that having to yield to the threat of our superior force is good for the child's character. It is never good for anyone's character."
John Holt
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