writing

The Great Bore

Bring forth The Great Bore, an ecstatic hologram projected 20 feet high across a classroom wall, for those teleschooling it’s projected directly into their living room, the audience dull, anaesthetized, their eyelids heavy.

The Great Bore,” the teacher remarks “was a period in history dating from 2012 to [emitted from transcript]”.

The students ears glossed into an aural mainframe, their eyes panning to and fro searching for the next glimmer of excitement, hands in gloves allowing touch from another time, all is incredible, awe-inspiring, technology wrapped around humanity causing thrilling vibrations…and all are bored.

The compressed strains of Western hedonism, complacency and ignorance combine into a virulent mixture of perpetual malaise. The strain is caught easily, thrown into nation upon nation until all that matters is the strongest psychopath. Genuine absorption into knowledge no longer exists, attempts are made to find those who will listen, those who care for the past and for thought, but no such soul lives. Turn your heads left and right, witness the forever-end of the human race, overweight, narcissistic, discipline-lacking husks of being, fawning over their individual screens, messaging nothings back and forth, engorging on the sweetest of goods – “Am I hungry? Or am I just bored?” asks the sweat-laden, breathless hollow-man. Misanthropy heightened for all, and for all no sense of belonging.

The universe wont even throw you its scraps, not even a mere morsel, you beg chaotic zero to give you something for your hunger, but it wants you famished, an animal race deprived of soul-food for eternity. Scattering humans on an apathetic sphere, attempting to scrape up the most minor of events, trying to find their meagre portion of life.

The mass wishes to be freed from this mind-numbing, wage-slavery of nothingness, one minute away from nothing, an event, a moment, some unique instant must exist. The mass that live their lives in mediocrity, neither dumb enough or smart enough for pure-fulfilment. We are the grey matter of life, playing out our time until death, just waiting ‘round.

I would sum up my fear about the future in one word: boring. And that’s my one fear: that everything has happened; nothing exciting or new or interesting is ever going to happen again … the future is just going to be a vast, conforming suburb of the soul.” – J.G.Ballard, Re/Search no. 8/9 (1984)

We’re bearing witness to death of fantasy, wonder and play, examples of the latter that survive only help curate the demise of others. Evolution, adaption and natural selection will all accelerate into the micro. As depression rises, tiredness evolves and we select our mental misadaptation towards the future. You say you’d love a world without work, but just take a second glance into the eyes of the jobless. Those free to do as they please, without financial worry or burden of fatigue, stability and security amount to very little in a world without event. Wondering ceaselessly from entertainment to entertainment, the monotony continues for those without interest. Those without mandatory occupation for survival end up addicted to consumption.

We used to list the amount of terrorist attacks by the year, now we list them by the month. How long will it be until they’re listed by the week, by the day?

“Not a bad few hours, 2 bombings and a shooting.”

Less than 100 deaths is a good day in the future. All extremes pushed to their limit, excitement exists only in further dreams of unique failures. Less than a million people care that we may get to Mars, or that AI might take over. And as the apathy rises, constructions begin not only to dismantle, but to fall off altogether; bring forth the rude, stinking, unpresentable, tyrannous, self-centred, overweight, unemployable, untrustworthy, emotionless and ultimately indifferent human-race. Only worthy of spit and shun.

I’ve seen entertainment beyond imagination, guns shots, explosions and car crashes blend into a static haze of boring filler. I can click into any channel any time, wildest desires in the morning, compilation of misery at lunch and vomit-comps for dinner. I could listen to albums of death metal at full blast and remain exhausted. In a few years I’ll be injecting high fructose corn syrup into my corneas for sweet relief from The Great Bore.

Perhaps Foster Wallace’ posthumous novel The Pale King rang the loudest truth, at least for the coming era:

To be, in a word, unborable…. It is the key to modern life. If you are immune to boredom, there is literally nothing you cannot accomplish”

No wonder so many of us are excited by North Korea vs USA, perhaps the only thing that could possibly break boredom is a nuclear blast.

No one told me acceleration was going to be numbing.

A Patchy Discussion: Part 1

 

A PATCHY DISCUSSION

PART 1

 

I

 

It was a brisk night in November, and Toby Norant is heading to a bar. Toby had arrived in Pel-Co a day prior, spending his night in an appointed Traveller’s Motel, of which he’d now used up his allotted time. He has plans, large wobbly plans that couldn’t help but make him feel uneasy at heart, plans which are the reason for his visit to Pel-Co, where his father resides.

The motel’s reception was quiet except for the sound of Toby’s suitcase clinking and ruffling as he moved on through. The woman at the desk tracking him condescendingly as he approaches. “Right, that’s me.” Toby said.

“Let me see, Toby -”

“That’s ri-”

“You still have 8 hours on your permit. What are your T-plans?”

“Sorry, T-Pla-

“T-Plans…terminal plans. Look, what do you plan to do at the end of the 8 hours?”

“Ah, I see. Well, I’ve just got to head to a bar, then once that’s closed I should be back at the shuttle for a collection.”

“Which collection shuttle is that Sir?”

“It’s the one heading to DiviLet, the DL-3 I believe, leaving at 23:30 I think.”

“The DL-3 is to be arriving at 23:00 and leaving at 23:30. Please make sure to give your ID card to the E-booth before leaving. Until then make sure it’s viewable at all times, preferably around your neck.”

“Will do.” said Toby adjusting his lanyard, making sure his ID hasn’t become stuck in any way.

“Which bar is it you’re heading to?”

“Unither’s.”

“Ok, well make sure to stick to the eastern wall for at least a mile. You should see signs for the bar after that.”

“Ok, ta. Well, I best be getting off then.”

“Bye. And remember to hand your card over to-

“An E-booth yes. Bye.”

Awkwardly shuffling from the desk Toby reaches for his ID card so he can open the motel doors. Pastel coloured policy posters line each side of the door, along with a stand of official Pel-Co booklets to its right-hand side. The scanner plays 3 long low confirmation tones before it opens, a click, and Toby is away, entering into the street.

Toby follows the directions given to him, the eastern wall’s presence engulfing his entire form, as well as the houses to Toby’s left. His eyes scanning the surroundings hastily for a sign, yet always being drawn back to the wall, the faraway chatter descending from its top walkways. After a short while Toby begins to worry, he’s yet to see a sign, but as luck would have it a stranger’s passing by. The passer-by a tall, stocky man walking with a sense of determination.

“Excuse me, Sir?” Toby asks the passer-by.

“Yes? Sorry, hello.” Replys the passer-by, a little startled.

“Sorry, I was wondering if you could possibly give me directions to Unither’s Bar?” The passer-by’s focus flickering between Toby’s face and ID card.

“Uh, Unither’s?” The man looking a little confused, as if this was an entirely new piece of information. Drawing his hands from his pockets and putting them to rest over his stomach.

“Yeah, Unither’s Bar. I was told it would be roughly a mile from the Traveller’s Motel?”

“Ah! You mean The Legacy. It changed from Unither’s a few years ago now.”

“Oh ok.”

“Anyway yea, it’s about another 5 minutes or so. There’s a band playing tonight, so you should be able to hear it fairly soon. Enjoy.” The passer-by already on his way.

“Thank you.” Toby says loudly.

The man was correct, it was another 5 minutes give or take. Toby hears the twanging of guitars playing a folk type set – coincidently Toby’s favourite genre – as he approaches. Picking up his case just before the front courtyard Toby begins to look for his Father. The bar itself a quasi-British bar, complete with multiple taps of dark ale, worn carpet and a varied assortment of barrel-gut bearing middle aged men. Toby heads to the front door, which is currently being held open for an old man.

“Sorry mate, just gonna let the old boy through.”

“No worries.” says Toby, wheeling his suitcase out of the way.

“Cheers. Night Rod!” says the old man passing by.

“No wor-” Toby attempts to say.

“Night Steve!” bellows the man holding the door. “Come on then, come on in.”

“Thanks ma-”

“Wait, I’d best check your ID as you didn’t use the scanner.”

“Oh, sure thing.” Toby holds his ID up from around his neck as for the man to view it.

“Ah, I see.” says the man. “Well, to be honest I think you’d best scan it.”

“Umm, sure.” Toby drops his ID down to door’s scanner. From behind the bar come 3 low, but faintly distinguishable tones.

“Right, in ya go.”

“Cheers.” says Toby, finally entering the bar. The barman watching him intently as he approaches.

“Excuse me, do you know if David Norant is here?”

The barman lets out a faint yet audible sigh of relief, his shoulders slump down a little. “Ah, you’re David’s boy. He said you were coming. He’s just through by the pool table, through there.” says the barman pointing to a set of double doors.

“Thank you. Could I also get a whisky and coke please.”

“No alcohol for you I’m afraid mate.”

“Oh yeah, sorry I forgot. Just a coke then please.”

“Sure thing, I’ll bring it round.”

Toby heads through the double doors and towards a small bar, unaware his Father is to his left checking some information on a touch screen. Toby places his suitcase next to the bar and sits on a stool just as the barman sets down his coke.

“How are you paying?” the barman asks.

“I’ve got that Henry.” David says calmly “Place it on my tab.”

Toby turns his head as to face David. “Ah, sorry Dad. Didn’t see you there.”

“No worries boy. Doubt you’d have recognized me anyway, what has it been…10 years.”

“Something like that, and the beard’s…quite something.”

“Grown quite fond of it actually. 10 years you say, quite a while.”

“Around that.”

“How’ve you been then boy? All good back at home? Mother well?”

“I’ve been fine. And home’s home, you know it’ll never change, and Mum’s just taken early retirement actually.”

“Ha. She always did work herself silly.”

David heads back to the bar, where a drink has been poured for him. Perched up straight on his stool and with both hands on the bar. All that’s to be heard is the band.

“Folk music. Jesus Christ.” David says chuckling. Toby smiles and relaxes into his seat.

 

II

 

“I’ve got to be honest Toby, I was really surprised at your message.”

“A bit out of the blue I know, but I need to tell you some news.”

“We’ve not too much in common son, I know that, but you know you were and are always welcome to visit.”

“Of course I know that Dad.”

“Good, I didn’t want you thinking I’d abandoned you.”

“I don’t, I know how difficult communication is to non-networked Corps. Don’t worry. Damn, getting the pass took me at least 5 months.”

“How long is the pass for?”

“1 night. Well, 24 hours to be precise. From the time of arrival onwards.”

“Still as strict as ever. Good.”

“Ha, you haven’t changed.”

“And neither has PelCo which is relieving.”

“Aye, I hear, well I can see the wall’s getting thicker.”

“Yes, our side!”

“Christ, still have the pride then.”

“I don’t want to have the same discussions we used to have, but I must admit, I’m a bit disheartened your ideas are still the same as they were at 18.”

“What, open-minded…fair?”

“Right, yes, those things.”

“I don’t understand what’s so bad about our system back home?”

“You know I hate cliches, but you’ll have to forgive me for this one…because it’s true, you weren’t there son.”

“Where…when?”

“Before you were born, prior to any re-arrangement. Looking back now, God, it’s like the past is a fever dream. I just cannot for the life of me figure how it got so bad.”

“But what? What was so bad?”

“It’s so tough to put your finger on it. It was our way of thinking, our general scope of thought, it was just so suffocative.”

“That’s not really an answer Dad.”

“Indeed it is not. Well for one thing we ignored many crucial facts. We ignored our findings, our knowledge, as if much of what we knew was merely a part of its own time as opposed to ours as well. There was this entire part of history in which we, as a collective, ignored our roots.”

“Roots?”

“Evolution, the process of our creation.”

“I still don’t really see why that would be such a huge problem though.”

“Because to forget evolution is to forget this kind of…exterior, if you like. It’s to forget the real basics of life, of survival.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the fact we need water, food and shelter. That we need to be safe from harm.”

“OK, but they were all catered for…”

“They were and they weren’t. It was strange as I’ve said. Sure, we had water, food and shelter pretty much 100% of the time but that in itself was a problem. The ease at which this all came. To be born into a world where all of your basic survival needs and instincts are catered for on a platter, is to lose something of yourself, to forget something of your ancestry. But, really, most of all, you forget that other people also want these things…need these things. So we all just forgot about this kind of cosmic competition and became apathetic to instinct.”

“This seems a little, uh, rehearsed Dad?”

David takes a large swig from his pint, before composing himself a little. “One key part of living in such a society as PelCo is transparency.”

“Transparency?”

“Meaning, to live here, one has to understand the why of the system, if not, you’ll never understand your place, if you do, you come to respect it. Especially when you’ve come from a past such as mine and your Mother’s.”

“So you’re saying they have classes on it or what?”

“Nothing so formal, well, at least it’s never appeared to me that way. At first you receive a booklet, pamphlet type thing, and to be quite honest from that I’ve never known anyone to not want to understand further.”

“Sounds a little cult-like Dad.”

“I’d agree, except for one key factor.”

“Let me guess: ‘Exit’.” Toby sighed.

“Exactly. Generally cults aren’t too keen on you ‘Exit’. And it might seem obvious and easily attainable to you, but Exit isn’t just the physical type of exit.”

“I know, I know, you were locked in. Prog-virus ‘n all that. I still remember the dinner time conversations Dad.”

“Your Mother always hated me using ‘prog-virus’.”

“Well, she still is a hypochondriac.” Toby quips grinning.

David briefly chuckles, before taking a few quick gulps of his pint. The bands string banalities still mildly filling the airwaves. There’s a brief moment of silence.

“Anyway, back to the evolution thing.” Toby says inquiringly “We have come a long way since, you know…the ‘survival’ days.”

“Ha. Have we? I mean Earth is 4.5 billion years old and humans have inhabited it for what, like, 200,000 years, which is way less than 1 percent of its lifetime…way less.”

OK your point be-

“And of those 200,000 years we only have record of 5000. And of that 5000 years anyone with a little time and patience can see the underlying patterns haven’t changed. Yes, we have all this new technology etc. the intent of which is to make life easier, but behind all that is still the same old human needs, the same old humans, who, if don’t get what they need get aggressive.”

“But you told me that you learnt evolution at school? And with your schools it was the same curriculum for everyone, right?”

“Indeed we all took the same classes and lessons, read from the same textbooks. But in that time it was taught in an odd manner, when you were given this shabby textbook, which had already clearly been used for years, you began to form this idea of obsolescence. As if what we were learning was more history that universal fact. It didn’t helped that psychology and sociology were massively popular at the time.”

“Wait wh-”

“Sorry, yes I know, they both have their merits. My point being they were…advertised, or broadcast in such a way as to be superior, as if one could outsmart evolution with them. In fact, it was a little of that, but in reality we just seemed to ignore this…this elephant in the room.”

“Was it really that bad though?”

“Of course not, not then it wasn’t…but now looking back. Back then of course everyone wanted to ignore this elephant because it was the age of utopia! Of everyone holding hands and getting along all of sudden. Despite years of differences.”

“I kind of understand. How come that ignorance had such a bad effect near the end then?”

“Because if you don’t build your foundations for all that’s not cumulative on something factual, then you risk losing them all together.”

“You’ve lost me…”

“Ethics, politics, society…communities, all these lovely constructs, contracts if you like. If these are not built on the fact of difference, of variation, of our needs, then there’ll come a time when they down-right fail. They still teach not to build your house on sand, surely?”

“Ha, our system still loves it’s parables before assemblies. And don’t call me Shirley.”

David quickly put down his pint and laughed. “At least I taught you good taste in film.”

“You still think the sequels better?”

“Indeed I do…mostly for the bridge scene. One of the few times a comedy caught me off guard.”

“Has there been a pure-comedy to top Airplane!?”

“Maybe Withnail & I, or Office Space.”

The chuckles settle into a silence between them, whilst the folk music continues. Henry, the barman, brings them two more drinks.

“Cheers Henry.”

“Thank you.” Toby says shyly.

 

III

 

Toby takes a sip of his drinking, realising it’s a whisky and coke. “Thought he might do that.” David says upon noticing Toby’s expression. “Henry’s an old friend, don’t worry.”

“Couldn’t he get it trouble?” Toby whispers.

“Yes. So keep quiet.” David says sternly.

“Will do. So where were we?”

“Comedy films I think.”

“No, before that?”

“Human…needs.”

“Ah yea. I still thi-”

“I remember you saying you didn’t like talking about this kind of stuff?”

“I guess there’s nothing like nostalgia.”

“It does remind me of home I must admit. Your Mother’s face when I used to read the newspapers and grind my teeth.”

All the News That’s Fit to Print.”

“Don’t, I’ve already visited the dentist once this month.”

Toby laughs. “So, yes. Human needs.”

“What about them?”

“Well, OK, even if all of what you’re saying about evolution is true, and that our basic kind of need is survival type thing.”

“Yes…”

“Well, isn’t that a bit of a miserable life? Like, our entire existence is controlled by needing security or wanting to survive. I mean, what of happiness or health?”

David hastily sits his pint on the bar. “Happiness, well there’s a callback I didn’t think I’d hear tonight. God, the ambiguity of it all.”

“What’s wrong with happiness, you know Dad…being happy is quite nice, you should try it some time.”

“Very funny boy. Nothing is wrong with happiness, well at least not now, once it’s understood. But truthfully, the way I see it, if you want a fulfilling life, or at least a life in which fulfilment is possible, happiness has to come second…or third, it cannot be your first priority basically.”

“Eh, OK, I really don’t get this one.”

“Once again Toby, I’ve been there, it was an odd time. When I was younger it was seriously like living in this weird malaise.” Toby releases a large sigh. “When I was younger, well, more in my teens, everything was about happiness, and I mean everything. But it wasn’t the same as the happiness of seeing your kid grow up” Toby smiles and looks to the floor “or finishing some large project, you know that kind of happiness, that’s of real substance, right?”

“Sure, like when we built the shed in the garden? I was like 8 I think…”

“Exactly that, but you still remember it. The happiness of my youth, the one they sold us day-in day-out via any medium they could…as a way of control, now that happiness was toxic. It was just vacant. Go on holiday, eat some ice cream, watch some TV…you know, binge a fucking TV show…that was our example of happiness.”

“I mean, those things are a little dumb sure, but what’s wrong with ‘em?”

“Nothing…in moderation, I guess. The problem lies in their accessibility, everything was so easily attainable. Happiness was this easy thing, and the problem with that as a goal, or a criteria for a meaningful life, is that most people don’t really question it.”

“Why not?”

“Why would you? All humans have that unchangeable existential dread in them and it’s not nice, we all know that, so why would you question the thing, in this case ‘happiness’ which gets rid of that dread? Especially when happiness is so hedonistic and fun as well.”

“So then…why didn’t people?”

“Because that was the seen, well…subconsciously seen, as the end. The end-game of progress is happiness.”

“So what’s wrong with it then? I mean if it’s the end?”

“Because that entire fucking belief system was wrong son, this is what I was always trying to get through to you before I left. That belief, that belief in progress was…is just a delusion, a blindfold that gets tighter and tighter with each and every fact that comes to try tear it off. The problem is all these facts, all our human needs that are outside of the blindfold don’t change, cannot change, even if what’s behind the blindfold has.”

“Christ, OK. I got it, try not to be happy.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean there’s always more to it. If something is fun, easy, cheap and in abundance it’s either bad for you, or a method of control.”

“Alright…Chomsky.”

“Hey…you know full-well I’m not Chomsky!”

“Why’s that?

“…because you’re not asleep.”

Toby laughs into his drink “True, you haven’t turned into a mumbly old fart just yet.”

“Yet…”

“So, back then, you weren’t happy, you know…when you were younger?”

“Sure I was, well, maybe content is a better word for it. That’s how I felt everyone was, content. Content with every-fucking-thing, however bad or transparently shitty and deceptive it was.”

“Shitty and deceptive?”

“The politicians. The worst part wasn’t that they lied. It’s the fact it was clear from the start and no one really questioned it.”

“Really?”

“I mean sure, it was in the newspapers if they had lied, but the problem was it was so fucking common that it became part of politics. I’d hear people say they voted for a certain party because they ‘lied the least’.”

“So how did that all end?”

“It didn’t. It evolved, it changed, just like everything is.”

“Into what?”

“Oddly enough, promises.”

“Promises?”

“Indeed kiddo, promises. What should be the backbone of any system, not promises in themselves, but kept-promises are of the utmost importance.”

“I feel like I’m from a different planet right now to be honest.”

“And I feel like I came from one…”

“Well, feel free to talk about this planet some more.”

“I’m glad I can talk about it as a part of the past. You’ve got it real good now kid. You don’t even really have to listen to ‘promises’ any more because, well, there’s no such thing. What used to be a promise is now an action, and it’s undertaken prior to you even being part of wherever it is you live. But back then, a politician would promise something and it just wouldn’t happen.”

“Sounds a bit like a Kafka novel.”

“It was! – and you finally got around to Kafka.”

“Yea, and frustratingly I agree with what you told me when I was 17.”

“I don’t recall.”

“You said: ‘The first time anyone reads Kafka they wished they’d read him sooner.’”

“Still true.”

“Indulge me in this Kafka-world then…”

“So yeah, as I said promises were, well, meaningless. I’ll give a good example. You go to a coffee shop and ask for a coffee, what do you expect?”

“A coffee.”

“Sure, but notice I said expect. The same applies for, well, pretty much any form of business. Say you went to that same coffee shop and they just didn’t give you a coffee, or it was pretty shit, what’d you do?”

“Go somewhere else.”

“You get ‘Exit’ yet?

“Just about.”

“Good. Well my point would be, a shit coffee, or a badly fitted window, or a late bus…all these things are harmless. But they’re also all a strange kind of unspoken promise, right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“So what happens when you put your literal human…animal needs in the hands of someone else; you know needs like water, food, survival…security, and then they don’t fulfil them?”

“I guess there’s not much you can do.”

“Not when that’s the only system, and one that many people don’t know they’re ever in, no. You’re in the – bear with me – physical fucking embodiment of a social contract, one that’s supposed to keep you alive, and not only are those promising you security etc. not meeting your needs, but also, they’re apathetic to external factors that are actually anti your needs!”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.” David slowly sips at his beer.

“Right, I gotta take a piss. We got about 2 hours before I need to leave, so hopefully we can have, a more, you know, chill conversation when I come back?”

“Ha. Maybe. You still gotta tell me your news remember.”

“I know. Right, back in a minute.”

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.

ESCAPE REDUX P2: FAREWELL EGO-CORPSES

The actualization was original, truly. Until the harpoon came forth, a golden-white curved spear straight through the heart of a divide. In a textbook panic outlets opened, stapling their lips high and low, never letting the sound-hole shut. These were neo-97 tears, held back, kept in stasis for just this occasion, they trickled on the concrete and released a pure-truth.

 

Two letters never meant so much, literally, up until now there was no mention, and now the bandwagon rode forth, the axles of which crushed dignity on repeat. Never discussed, always discussed, never mentioned…what are you on about? We always spoke of it, where have you been? And you had to leave. The reasons spewed from a root of idiocy and fatigue, if ever something is actually going to change watch as the crowd devours itself. And those to one side allowed their faces to eat-themselves once more, fingers peeling back, nails left afloat.

 

Android-decision for the divide towards or away from 2 letters. And the entire was given the vote, yet some chose not, some knew not, some believed, it was close, some percentages and some not-so-bothered…and then they were.

 

A screech from the left revolving around inner-lobes, glued to a flash of reductions, all became compressed and opinions were ZIPs. Attacking your own attack and defence simultaneously, the bones pulled from the bottom out, without pain, a skin-tube left floating: mouth aghast. Arguments with the consistency of silent-drool were at the mercy of gravity, and those without chamber watched as they limped over lips, joining dried-tears, an accumulation of nothing, only proof there was only that. And as democracy shattered before the eyes of the believers, the mass still held to their scripture, more scared than ever…more sacred than ever.

 

Right, correct, good, moral, perfect, right-way, nice-thing, we were, we were, we were. And yet you want to prove you were wrong, but you do not see.

 

A system flawed from birth, an ideological zygote, dragging itself to its miserable death.

 

The others told non-truths, to us, US! I can’t believe it, yet I’ve seen it more times than truth, more times than they’ve continued, lies work better than promises towards no-change. Made of meringue, atmosphere glass, air like candy, in a world without matter, oh-they did believe.

 

United in their shared love of ignorance, a union of pathetic. Welcome one-and-all to the communion of ego-corpses. Vessels forgetting they’re for minds, clamped by shadows of thoughts they never knew.

 

It’s a short match; the reverberations of whining, existent only when you allow them to be seen or heard, and the roundest laugh was launched from a gut, revolving into the gutter. Bouncing down their organs and awakening more tears, pulling emotion strips from the lining of the stomach, the acid belched…again from the left, burning whatever it hit, another revealed, where bitterness lay.

 

A flesh suit on a peg had been held 22, hooks from afar helped it become pieces, a slow rip as the tendons said farewell to the dumb-home. As the weeks passed, the hooks no longer needed, flesh moved on its own, hollowed curves of skin evaporating in the saline-air. As the organs found their – and then they too left, clocking in and out repeatedly until. And the care-free gears were given, and down.

 

Cogs directionless, motionless matter, emotionless matter. A revolve of choice, the only given is to allow knowledge of the prior. True kindness is being given the ability to stop in a world of continuation-admired.

PART 1: https://www.meta-nomad.net/?p=91

ESCAPE REDUX P1: BECOMING-PHANTOM

The programming was as it was, to-be as meant, I was never to question the possibility of an outside, nor conceptualise it. A collective-solipsism; realities too current. Ignorance, ignoring, refusing-to-see, not-wanting-to-see the rip, a tear in front and of my eyes.

 

Dialogue content on rebounding ad infinitum. We, we, we. Correct continuously, as it should be, do you not agree? The direction of our efforts gives way easily because it is the right way. Wait, it couldn’t be that the ease of our ascent is because we are being allowed to ascend? Never, maybe, I refuse. No one wants to erase their programming in fear of inability to return, of return.

 

Linearity, continuity, spatio-temporal objects and beings are known completely, thus erasure is a threat and so…I do not. What if I could? Even if that is bad, it is said, but that could also be erased I think…to myself? A loop I’m in, I must and I must not, but the must-not seems controlled.

 

What’s clear? Everyday realities are very, very difficult to see, let alone witness. The muscles of the neck near-rip in an attempt to look at what’s right in front of it.

 

Another rotation in which the expected became deceased, there was shock this ‘time’. Those who left were connected to the inside, many of them held high some of the original inside dreams, some of them saw the original dreams, some of them lived them, perhaps, even, some of them helped in their neo-invention.

 

The possibility of change was actualized, and thus a nation became confused with conflicted emotion: The decision was right, the decision was wrong, either way the system doesn’t work, a realisation of democracy, we can change things, what do we want to change? What do we want? And they became scared. And retreated, to where they felt warm, a womb of solipsism, “Things are wrong, incorrect, immoral, dreadful, silly and without-help if they are not in agreement with my opinions.” So sings the bird that’s come to love its cage.

 

There was another person, a man; this is of merit. Words flowed, for some these words had been caught, locked up, never to see the light of day and they saw this as tyranny. For others the words arose from the sewers relics of a past, bitter acidic twists. For others they were one and the same, they came from a tunnel they knew was only to get smaller, and light and bitter accepted the tunnel’s suffocation ignorantly, willingly.

 

Supports made of hinges, opening and closing within a transparent cocoon. The man and the actualization of change made real the transparency, the feeble supports reluctantly came forth from concealment, weeping. As soon as they did they had orders, orders they knew not, and neither did the viewer. They had to direct one towards a possibility of other. Heading for any door is better than standing in apathy incarnate.

 

Encased in rheum it was hard to move. Organs leapt first, the body followed, gears that had long since existed appeared in flux, motions ever present, a cacophony of stutter. The waxy encasing of apathy is an acquaintance of nihil, as such the smallest of independent movements were to become reverberations of a revolution authentica.

 

To wander from the anhedonic womb was to wonder of apocalypse. Cylindrical holes from erosions long forgotten, beams of the suffixes ism and logy free-floating, a need to fit. Some beams seemed large, others small, each existed in its attempts to glow brighter than the next. One walked on beams rotten, without care for thought of structure, for those walked upon clearly couldn’t work, why would they stay so low? And the gliding became a scrape…

 

…a turn thought impossible was only 90 degrees, either way, it needn’t matter. The beam neither snapped not bent, neither did it stop or sneer, it never slowed or hastened, it kept at a pace and forgot what fell in an instant. Becoming-phantom. Phantom-become.

 

Figments of a thought-schematic left unattended. Yet to enter without knowledge is risk of entry into many: temple, dungeon, prison, home, camp, nothing, corpse, cadaver, once within possibilities cease. One seems to have a real difficulty breathing whilst being suffocated.