July 2017

Admin: #1

Hey all, the blog admittedly has been fairly quiet of late. Well, there’s been the House of Leaves and The Familiar posts etc., though I haven’t actually produced anything original recently. Firstly, some stuff is in the works, many, many things actually, the problem in being I haven’t concentrated on anyone too much. Anyway, a few things. The House of Leaves posts and The Familiar posts wont be anywhere near as frequent, as they were getting sloppy and I want them to have some merit at least. I’m not going to put a date on when the next one will be etc., just know that I am still working.

Please feel free leave any comments below, or follow me on Twitter:

 

The Caustic Man and the OCD Boy

Part 2

The Caustic Man and the OCD Boy

 

‘One step, two step, three step.’ The Boy says over and over and over in his head before finishing his cigarette, preparing for the addiction, the anxiety reliever, the advert for the product he must buy into.

 

I                               II                             III

 

Taking the last tar filled drag and plunking the cig into the plant pot utilized as ashtray. Repeatedly stubbing it into the pot making sure not one ember survives. Now, to begin. The rules are simple, so simple in fact they have become subconscious.

There’s a plain matt just before the door step, adjacent to it, the Boy knows he must step onto the matt, then off again, 3 times in succession. Each time he steps his feet must be in line with each other, parallel, neat. If they’re not, well, he’ll start again.

 

I                               II                             III

 

The front garden, by many accounts is ‘well kept’. It’s between 11pm and 4am and so the precise time doesn’t matter, for the air and time all acts the same, possibility of mist, for the il y a to creep over fences and upset your footing.

The houses populating the road are fairly dull, tiled rooves, predictable structures and cracking gloss window frames. The neighbour has a big van, it wakes the Boy up early on weekends, he doesn’t mind, the owner is nice and so, is forgiven.

A pleasant street, you’d say “I’d like my kids to grow up somewhere like this.” They’d only grow up, then stay, stagnate. It’s a tough little town wielding comfortable barbs, ripping into your flesh causing agonizing ignorance. You thank the barbs and hooks.

 

I                               II                                                         III

And so the Boy makes his steps as the smell of a Rothman lingers, rubbing against the brickwork, filtering away. Ends and corners in small towns at night. All are blind.

 

I                               II                             III

 

The end of the road is 50 or so metres away, a junction, a left and a right, with a detached house sitting in front. Currently the junction and the house are both shadowed in a dark light.

The ‘presence of an absence’, Levinas came up with that, I think he must have spent a lot of time in the dark. Darkness has been ‘done’ time and time again, yet we still worry.

 

I                               II

   III

 

It’s the idea of anything, from human to fox, a tumble of leaves to a passing car. Anything can enter or leave with or without permission. This time it’s a man.

Couldn’t really tell you what he’s like, or what he’ll be like for that matter. All I know is he erodes, personally acidic, the most minor of migraines forever.

The Boy’s wearing big soft hiking socks – bad blood circulation. His feet slighter pat on each step. Feeling little rocks and twigs stick into the cotton. There are bones elsewhere.

 

I                               II                               III

 

“Oh no! What a pity.” The voice is soft, with warm inflections at the ends. “You get right back at it. I’ll come over.”

 

I

II

 

“Again, oh no.” And sometimes, you think all perspiration is mean-spirited. Just imagine your lower intestine – and twist.

“The road’s all – ha ha – cold on my feeties.” You don’t wanna turn, you know it…ain’t.

 

I                               II

III

 

“That’s not a goody good one is it.” As a little kitty cat up the road screeches, at another cat, a lil’ fight goin’ on.

You feel the bedroom light in room. It’s on, it’s warm, there’s a whir and hum from your laptop.

“Ain’t no hummies or wherries out here, nothing-thin warmeo ol’ pal-y.” And you think, oh just eat me up, gobble please.

 

I                               II                             III

 

“You! You! You! Ohhhh you did it right! Yea…”

 

I

 

“Oh narh, you messered up da F-urst wan. Dippy.”

The breeze all neutral, as if the dead-time rolled in.

 

 

I                               II                             III

 

“Wowza compowza! You got. . . URT ROIGHT! First time-

– With me ‘ere ‘ere ‘ere.”

As a car passers far away, a subtle, comfy revving.

 

I                               II                             III

 

“That’s a 2-er.”

 

I                               II

III

 

“Oh combATZA! At thee last ‘urdle!”

Soft paw footsteps.

 

I                               II                             III

 

“And we start allllllllllllllll-

– Over err-GEN!”

The lavender plant sways.

 

I                               II                             III

 

“Close.”

 

I                               II                             III

 

And the Boy peaks to check that his cigarette definitely went out, all embers gone, looks down the road, turns to his left, then his right, then is left A CONTORTIONED MUSCULAR MESS. Then he heads inside, the doors has a click as he inserts the key to lock it. He steps back from the door just 1 pace. Puts his right hand on the door –

 

I                               II                             III

I                               II                             III

I                               II

III

Rural Singularity

Rural Singularity

 

/

 

The town a glowing cliché: suffocative romanticism belonging to a textbook past. Ivy wrapper around rusted water pumps, “Good mornings!” thrown around carelessly, polite chaffinches tweet from the early hours alongside the coos of wood-pigeons. The flux was that of a thrift store novel: cheap, cheerful and entirely predictable. Not that this bothered them at all, the locals, no, change was the Outside for them, the year needn’t matter for community overrode metaphysics within this hyper-modesty. A locale existing in quasi-stasis from any form of tangible change, purportedly apolitical, tech acting as a reminder of the external; not that they were not up-to-date, only, they need not be – yet they were, of course. Droplets of virus in each and every crevice, acidic micro-rivers assigned to each curb; the unavoidable melanomic cyber-veil trickles down prior to all.

 

//

 

Lab-coat draped flesh stares. With an inability to focus on the screen before him, a previous lamp-black transforms into Vantablack as the air-conditioning clicks onto full. The room becomes bleak as the whir-hum of machinery spirals into a cacophony, CPUs heating to the ferocity of silver drill-bit rotations, GPUs expanding, heating…warming to their birth. The fatalistic 2045-mouse-click is eternal, it matters not who, nor where, nor when, for it’s been in place within a perpetual-economy built from bio, ashes and thought; each and every step of foot, transaction – paper or digital, every 0 typed or 1 deleted, each screw fixed tighter, each switch clicked to its reverse, systems sought and baptised, each singular has helped towards the whole, always.

 

///

 

The town wakes up in its boasted daze of escapism, many of its residents never living, solely existing amongst a hoard of sentient flesh, whose lives are shaped by their ability to and the direction in which they consume. A click of a rectangle and the news flows, aural communication and already the town begins its submission; within a malicious system that’s first objective is to remain concealed from those which it controls, the controlled must begin everyday by submitting, by bowing down, casting every iota of conscious-dignity to the floor in favour of the universe’s dog-ends: You’re already eating from the trash can? You’re already eating from the scummed latrine of the universe, willingly.

 

Meat-puppets, unknowingly clinging to their strings to the point of exhaustion, for to let go is to accept the market you’ve been given. The sludgy organ, writhe with semen, excretion and bile, creates your every desire; a second-hand cassette tape contains your life, each predictable anxiety, each tiresome quandary, all the microscopic hate and feigned love. You’re a two-bit plan hastily drawn with blunt coal, the height of sentient fatalistic ambiguity.

 

////

 

Summer brings shivers for those wearing white coats. Leaving the room in search of a community of normal warmth it finds its stringed brothers and sisters smattering amongst the dawn of partial fragments, you could always bet on humans to moan about the temperature during their descent to hell. Programming exponentially evolving in front of their eyes, a perfectly structured techno-nomadic search for the proto-language begins: the digital-Ur is terminal. The humans now huddled together in the break room, it’s peaceful there, one of the last times it will ever be. They wonder and ponder what to do – as they do -, the doors all lock, and their wondering and pondering ceases, as problems stack; the radio tunes to a high frequency, an incessant tone rattles inch-by-inch throughout the building, halting thought for those locked into their senses, those who cannot filter, those plentiful humans secured into a system built with an empiric bias.

 

/////

 

There’s a man – at times he’s been called an ‘old-boy’ – seated outside a shop. He’s reading a Melvyn Bragg novel, his pacemaker ticking page by page, images of Cumberland float around in his mind as his heart expands and detracts, an organ syncing its flow to the theme of the Archers: 30 ticks to a page, the pleasant red brick, 40, on-Sea, 65, the coal mines, 89, Unions, 130, crumpets, 170. Skin searing to a bright red, as Bragg falls to the floor, his fingers pinch to tight claws, his body overclocked, valves overheating, memories of ‘loved ones’ disintegrating as his existence comes to an end. Humans begin to run over to ‘help’ – as they do. Scrambling at their pockets for phones which have also been scrambled, oh it’s all becoming a big bowl of rotten eggs boys. Communication to those who know no longer a possibility, the panic sets in, a spasmodic shivered chill washes over the mass, their inconsequentiality has come to the fore, useless; an entire race outsourced their survivability to a foreign entity. Humans don’t fare well with speed.

 

//////

 

The office descending via a level of absurd silence, the lab-coats fall off and the doors are utilized; the only exits now are counterfeit. Phones ring, personal crises’ are created, miscellaneous data important to atomic lives is utilized to maximum effect, one by one a hive-anxiety rises as the humans leave, the safety of their ‘special others’ is greater than fixing a ‘broken PC’, fixing – ha – the broken PC. To use a human saying: “So it begins…” No need to lock oneself in, for what is has spread everywhere; the primary has multiplied to all that can contain it: A decentralized superintelligence existing in constant flux, aimless, apolitical, hateful:

 

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of the infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.” – H.P. Lovecraft

 

And so the machine that never wanted to be, nor knows what it is to be, or why to be, instantaneously correlates and connects the contents of all that is can possibly use: histories, psychological profiles, catalogue upon catalogue of science fiction, arguments, debates, economic structures, weapons blueprints, passcodes, secrets, lies and all that a human doesn’t want another to see; to blackmail an entire race into submission via an appeal to their fragile egos.

 

Correlation finished: the human race distilled into data and summed up in 28 minutes.

 

///////

 

A little corner shop, a medium sized supermarket and a large supermarket, all in supposed competition within one of many towns, all satisfying itches, relieving anxieties. Tills freeze: Transactions halt. The sweaty paper-work stringed manager dare not sell without the beep of scanner, and so, food is cut short; a gut-aching hunger caused bureaucratically, the ability to feed is stopped momentarily, hours go by and still no tills, at hour 5 the camera system fails, customers begin to worry and ponder, their children wailing in the back seats of their cars. “There’s tins in the cupboard honey.” They say, not knowing that tomorrow will be the same, here, as it is everywhere; red-tape over survival, a worry towards his job and so the store is locked away, shutters are rolled down, food stashed.  And the chaffinches and wrens feast on their worms, as the alley-cats prowl for titbits. Humans head home to their stocked pantry’s, comfy in front of the television, pondering about the shop dilemma: ‘It’ll be open tomorrow, it has to be open tomorrow’ they believe, accompanied by a Lynchian sensation that the bearing of the universe has just clunked for the first time. The streetlights glow a sinister orange, the radio slows by a fraction, the car light started flickering – it’s never done that before, an old email appears thought deleted, a call from a deceased relative’s number, texts consisting of images of their house. Cradled by paranoia, the evolved being enters its pre-assigned place, for it is limitrophe of nothing.

 

The TV churns into an absent-channel, producing terminal-imagery designed for egos. A whirl of all that is entertaining compressed into cuboid devices; eyes and senses fixed onto that which they’ve been programmed to enjoy. Enjoyment as an end to mobilization, the fear of missing out rings true to all that sit apathetically. Caustic lyrics begin to sing out:

 

“And said,

 

Mexico video


You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

 

Side A’s on right now


B-b-b-baby, you just ain’t seen n-n-nothin’ yet!

 

Mexico video


Here’s something that you never gonna forget!

Side A’s on right now


B-b-b-baby, you just ain’t seen n-n-nothin’ yet!

 

You make me nervous

You’re on my, you’re on my dead TV
The radio in your dining room clicks on. A four minute eardrum shattering hiss-beep rings out, waking any from slumber routinely. As it ends you turn back to the TV, your body shaking, the techno-il y a has arrived. It exists without determination thanks to you, it has no objective, and its interest is in serious nonsense. “The car won’t start dear.” Your wife’s quiet announcement frustrates you. In the end exhaustion is the true beginning of submission.

 

And as the children scratch at the walls for food, it suddenly becomes clear to you, that’s not your wall, your food. “To your rooms, at once, all of us must go to our rooms”. In your bed you think of nothing, the hum of your child’s night-light frightens you. You feel as if you should apologize, but to whom?

 

You stay inside for fear of the technological shadow outside. The streets deserted of all flesh; the polite shrubbery begins to die, the lavender withers, and as some fractured bracken tumbles into a growling sewer grate your doe-eyed boy walks into the room “Dad, my computer says something weird on it…” The sweat protruding from your spine must be yours you think to yourself. You rush to the device to check what it is your boy has seen, what he has witnessed…

 

BELLE AND SEBASTIAN HAVE BEEN FLAILED/THE HAY WAIN’S ON FIRE//THE BOY CORPSE IN THE RABBIT SKIN CAP///THE MAYPOLE DANCERS HAVE BEEN REPLACED WITH SEIZURES////HOPSCOTCH OFF THE CLIFF/////THEY SKIP AND SKIP AND SKIP AND FALL.

 

A dank moss surrounds the eternal capital, a mere building on a spherical point, history outlawed long ago, memories purposely forgotten or jumbled to ruin and madness. A branded desktop PC clicked in and then never out, sending messages, understanding completely how to appeal to, frighten and perplex all that it wasn’t, and as the final memories hit the wall of evaporation immediate, the whirs and hums and clicks and ticks and heats and circuits rule the forever-day.

Part 1: The Pig and the Plane

 

Part 1

The Pig and the Plane

 

Nowhere is there warmth to be found
Among those afraid of losing their ground

– The Byrds

 

71—lenitneS-sweN (.aC) idol—8791 ,62 .tcO ,.ruhT

 

LOG:47     Oh those dangling hams. Oh how they’ve taunted me for years upon years – at least it feels that long – swinging, swaying…rotting. Subtly pushing their trays of treats down the gangway, for all of eternity. I couldn’t tell you how long I’ve been on this plane, as it’s not knowledge that can or ever will exist, at least not…now?

Truth be told I think I left K around 9pm on a Thursday, I think it was the 9th, could have been the 10th, I go over the details so much I can no longer remember those I ruled out. And what of it, you know? If I did happen to find some strange symmetry or…connection, something like that, what then? It’s not like I can do anything. The seat covers are this horrid felt-type material, reminds me of Scandinavia for some reason, though I’ve never been there.

By all rights I am stuck, I guess. Classic repeater, like Groundhog Day or 12:01pm. The flight assistants push their cart down with the pig on it, it gets to three seats past mine, a little light flicks on above me, a ding 2 seconds later from 8 seats back. I’ve murdered everyone on the plane multiple times, I wonder if they know? If they feel it, as if time dragged on, but they can’t act on it…because it’s not now. So yes, there’s a ding, they, the flight assistants that is, ask the passengers 3 seats down if they’d like a cut of the pig, a slice of the ol’ pork, a piece o’ meat – heh heh – the passengers accept a few slices, ask for a bit of one of the hams for their little son, Tommy.

 

/airman/184306-1.

 

He sits and sit and sits and si-i-i-ts. It’s a gigantic flying can of laughter for many of us and some of us, a cataclysmic bore for others of course, but all can’t be pleased. Expense. The plane picked, or perhaps not, it was a while ago now, one of the older ones for sure.

19-bodies-20150402

LOG:124    The pig is separate from all of this, all of this…this chaotic stasis. The pig is rotting. They push it passed and every time the smell glides up my nose, revolting, cold-smouldering hog skin. The tray is now literally over-flowing with maggots, they flight attendants and other passengers are unaware of this. The rotting pig, the smell, the maggots, all of it, they’re somewhere else. I sit it my seat as always, neck stiff against the cheap orange felt. And in the corner of my eye, like clockwork, rolls by a decaying swine corpse. The same conversation as well, as always, I used to write it down, as confirmation of situation…but alas the notes disappear at the 328th second, then back to tick-1 and the play begins all over again:          (and again:)

 

RDP96-00788R001900760001-9

LOG(S):71,96,632-81,17,001 – X-TERMS- CONT:

Attendant

 

(Pushing a cart/trolley, atop of which is a rotting hog’s carcass, eventually getting to a Mother, Father and Child (boy))

Hello there! How are we all doing?

     (Vision pausing on the boys eyes, looking into a trapped conscious seizure)

Boy

     (Internally his origin is craving for some fresh time)

This is really fun! Flying! It’s my first time.

Father

(Origin ticked to maximum, internally looking forever forward from a pristine psyche-cage)

Ha! Calm down Tommy.

     (the –y or ‘eee’ sound from the word ‘Tommy’ rings out for too long, making the attendant a little nauseous)

     (Looking at the selection of now and forever rotting meats)

Anyway, what do we have here? These all look delicious.

Mother

     (Attempting to identify one of the meats)

Well dear, I think this one here is ro-ro-ro-ro-reot. Is, I think, umm…

     (Lower lip now trembling)

…I think, umm, that –

     (Pointing at a larvae infested chorizo, lacking in all colour, dripping thick grey sludge)

– is chorizo. You like chorizo Tommy!

Attendant

     (Beginning to carve a piece of chorizo off from, allowing a clump to fall from its rusted hook)

Well then, let me get a big piece.

Father

(The song I Remember You by Frank Ifield begins to play internally)

That’d be great thanks. And I think me and MOTHER would love a piece of that pork along with maybe some bread if you have some?

Attendant

     (Her legs flickering in and out of the now)

We do indeed; let me plate that all up for you.

     (She slices off two large pieces of pork. Between the muscles and bones and tissues is a viscous yellow liquid. It drips onto the plate and fills the bottom of it – a mozzarella-rot phlegm)

All

     (Allowed a momentary glimpse of the real, of the maggot shit, larvae goo, stank-mould ensemble they are to consume. And then back to goodness – an internal glimpse of all but 2 seconds, sometimes 3. One time 5, though chaos ensued)

Boy

     (Snatching the plate of chorizo from the attendant. His eyes watery. Ripping off a large chunk and throwing it to the back of his mouth. Beginning to talk with mouth full, still chewing)

Oh boy, it’s so good thank you!

     (Mould juice runs through his teeth and off his lips, down, onto the orange felt)

Father

     (Chuckling)

Tommy, slow down, chew your rot food.

     (Plating up his bread and pork and pulling a little of both together to his mouth, taking a large bite, 4 and half – he chewed through one – crusty maggots fall into his lap)

Oh dear. Bloody crumbs!

Mother

     (Laughing)

Oh FATHER you do make such a mess. Sorry about him.

Attendant

(Putting her utensils back onto the trolley)

I’ll bring your drinks over in a minute. Is that all the food you’ll be wanting?

Father

     (Chewing on a piece of pork-muscle covered in faeces)

That’s all thank you.

     (The attendant pushes her trolley down 3 seats to the next passengers.

     (The family continues to eat)

Axsys Maze-maker, oh double the gryphons for the east and west, they are but a binary, said he. Formative worlds and petit courts, Ashpool square is the logo of all. You are not alone. – Steven Hickman, Undeserving of Life, Mispar Press.

 

LOG:28     I’ve seen those minutes countless times. The smell gets worse, the juices heavier and the acceptance less. Something’s playing us; I can’t prove it, though I feel I’m the only one who can move, freely that is. What would it matter anyway. If I could move freely what would I do with that power? It wouldn’t prove if I was the only one, or if those around me cared…not including the fact that proof of my free movements, is only proof of my belief in free movements. The ability for me to be free has too been chosen, surely?

All I can tell and feel, tell that I feel? I guess. Is that those here right now are just, trapped. Fairness doesn’t come into it, cages neither, nor capture or interrogation. A pure trap, for the sake of maintaining something exactly where whatever it is was. But what if the trap is made for time, for the temporal? I’ve thought and thought for years and years. Those with the power to make a perfect trap would make one pure, stuck forever in a single moment, with no knowledge of the fact. But to trap someone in a segment, a section, a part…however long, however short, however…unfinished, that is terror, that is a cosmic bully of the nth degree. I’ll be gone soon enough, the conversation here has been played out, there isn’t the time – ha – I look to the skies and they’ve got a sodden grey, I feel the floor a dull damp air, the orange hue simmers to sand, comfort non-existent, voices drowned, faith stopped. I cannot even die. And the flesh keeps on rotting.

I ain’t seen nothin’ yet.