The truth about people who lie

They cant help it, they mean well, they are desperate, they have reasons, they are misunderstood, they are good really, they do it for the best, they do it for kicks, they do it to protect you, they do it to gain power, they do it to take power, they do it to cover up, they do it because they drink, they do it because they have something to hide, they do it because they feel inferior, they do it because they don't like you, they do it because they can't think of anything else to do, they do it because it's easy, they do it to spite god, they do it in spite of god, they do it because they need the money, they do it to kill time, they do it for fun, they do it for sex, they do it for no particular reason, they do it because they are possessed by evil spirits, they do it because you are in the way, they do it to entertain and amuse our alien overlords, they do it for sweets, they do it because they are compulsive liars, they do it for political gain, they do it for nothing. All this and more exist out there, such things are hidden in the deep store of riches awaiting the explorer of the world of lies and debased language.

No time for time

“The Bolivian Rain Forrest!” I was shouting out to myself and to nobody, my voice drowning. “Truly amazing!” We'd just walked through a cave behind the waterfall and under the flow, a hot jungle and jumble of rainbow sounds and water spray opened up and performed wildly. The crazy jangling water, the steam and the vapour, the intoxicating heat and strange foreign coolness of the droplets hanging in the air before plunging into the chasm below and the crashing ceaseless noise. A dense white thunder pouring and churning, burnishing the life out of the smooth rocks, polishing them into glass, foaming and curling down, down into the deep pools and fast flowing channels that pushed the torrent away. My shirt was soaked, my brow wet with sweat and spray and steam. I looked across at Debbie, her combats dark with the water, she was holding her hat, her rucksack on one shoulder. Her eyes glazed with the wonder of the falls and intense sensory experience of being here, caught up in this rare and unfamiliar place. In this place she was even more lovely, the free wildness and energy framed her in a burst of raw power. Our hands touched and she smiled, we both spoke but the words evaporated in the blast furnace thunder of the falls. We mouthed more superlatives. I turned and looked up into the white haze, drops fell like silver bullets onto my face, I caught some on my tongue as the droplets shattered. From the corner of my eye I say a khaki blur, Debbie was slipping, the surface wet and shiny like a machine room floor. My arm reached out, a blind panic and mad scramble, I was spinning towards her but staying on the spot, not really moving. There seemed to be no time for time. I kept turning but only to see that she was gone. Over the edge. There was a huge white gap in the universe and the waters, well they  just kept on tumbling.

Bad apple

"One bad apple doesn't spoil the whole barrel" a wise apple and barrel owning man once said around about the end of the season for fresh and wholesome apples. It was a time before transport, food hygiene, sanitation and whispering campaigns sponsored by the twisted media circus. Some other century or so it seemed because it was. Anyway times changed as the clocks stepped forward  never backwards but still that clutch of soft fruit stubbornly refused to stay fresh and ripe. Each year they slowly rotted in their barrels and pretty soon despair set in along with seasonal apple famines. It was the worst of times and never the best of times. Then some thunderclouds passed over, lightening struck and evolutionary gearing kicked in, rain splashed into muddy puddles. We invented steam ships and aeroplanes, hot chemicals and market gardens and plastic tunnels and import duties based upon post-colonial economic models in order to service mass markets via supermarkets and then hypermarkets and we irradiated foods with a vengeance. Then we shrink wrapped them in trays shaped like multiple bosoms so as to encourage the sex trade but only discretely. It was the beginning of a long running and spiteful end and still the apples turned out to be bad inside under the healthy looking skin. When I did finally complain I received a nicely worded letter from the customer services department and a discount coupon to use on future purchases.

Over zealous use

That uncomfortable feeling when hungry cats are watching you eat, some black and white thought processes unleashed in survival mode. Sure of something but unsure of anything. I might have indeed woken up to find myself in the body of a strange large insect, or just asleep and restrained by the over zealous use of commas and colons and other instruments of torture. Culture and kidnapping, treason and fertility, all that had conspired against me in my death sentence. Of course none of those things happened, only the uncomfortable feeling that remains. Those cat's eyes drilling into me and complaining wordlessly with that sense of animal injustice that cant quite be understood by mere humans. Why do I eat while they go hungry? Why do I refuse to share these common scraps with a simple animal? They have padded away for the rich opportunities that I can only imagine.

I have accepted my status and place in the food chain. I shushed and kicked the cats away and they left without complaint. "There are better mice out there" I thought. I think that they also thought that. I reflected on how the cats could squeeze back through the cell's bars and how I,  bigger and better fed for the moment could not. For a few seconds I thought I'd have gladly changed places with a cat or even an insect. My own plight was perilous, here in this filthy jail, dark and damp. But then again I have been fed and all my lessons of living life in any given moment seemed to make sense. I applauded my own bizarre circumstance, I denied the cat's their free power over me and I sat back against the stone. All round was a prison's silence, as if all the others had reconciled themselves and quietly remained in deep reflection. No calling out or abuse, no rattles and cries, just a heady gloominess and reserve. It was a dungeon indeed but I was, in this space, at the top of the heap.

Lab Rats

We were of course worried when we heard that the bees were dying. That lasted a while and then, like the way of most things the worry was replaced by acceptance and then, more menacingly I suppose, indifference. So the bees died back, gradually. Brown areas opened up in gardens and parkland. Some fruit crops and orchards failed, prices rose, demand increased and then flagged. It was all a familiar cycle of warped supply and demand. People got used to not seeing or tasting apples, almonds, cherries and blueberries. It was of course a blow to the food industry and there was the hype of over-advice and trumped up alternatives. Not all of them went down well. Summers were rainy and the buzz and erratic flight of bees became a memory. Other, more successful insects filled in the gaps, flies and mosquitos, pests and nuisances that could replicate neither the charm nor the pollination skills of the bees.

Various attempts were made to replace the bees' pollenating action with synthetic alternatives. It was a chemical Holy Grail, like the cure for cancer or HIV. Billions of Dollars worth of business was at stake and the big boys took it seriously. We never really thought that our little lab, busy with test schedules and contracted forensic work could figure in such an industry until it all happened. I read the threads of the tests, the fails, the close but not close enough results. Apparently desperate measures, hoaxes and failures. The bees, no longer quite so busy, still dying, here and there and of course the ongoing alternative (and mostly madcap) attempts to save them or at least reverse the trends. The world is always hungry for something and conversely something is always hungry for the world.

As part of the research programme to seek out a synthetic pollen, batches of material were sent out for prescriptive testing by a wide range of randomly selected labs. It was a government initiative. They realised that, in this kind of science, there was an X factor of probability that suggested he answer was close but unseen. It was under our noses but the white noise of the corporate and the size of the problem might well be masking the obvious answer. There in the details. Rumours abounded of course, mostly around the research being carried out by the Chinese and the Brazilians. They were the hot teams, under pressure in the fields, up the Amazon, deep in africa. Big game hunting for a robot insect, a spray, and accident, a petri dish of answers, mould, DNA, fungus or just some identifiable magic scraped from the back end of a bee. Where it was a bumble, a honey or a killer hardly mattered. We just need an answer.

Our batch came in a Fed-Ex jiffy bag. Three 50cc plastic bottles of material each with a unique bar coded label. There was also a sheet of tests and website where the data was to be deposited once the programmed work was completed. It was Mark who carried out the work, I supervised and backed up the notes. We were both pretty meticulous on this and as a government cheque was always welcome I hoped for some repeat business in this lottery. The high price of food these days meant that every penny was counted and pinching. We did the tests and analysis and in the prescribed manner wrote up the notes and uploaded them into the the greater machine. We would be informed about our success score the website said once other corresponding data had been collected. The three plastic bottles and the residual material in them was to be Fed-Ex'd back to the centre for correlation and recheck. The process just seemed to be running on and on in some bureaucratic spiral. We took in more batches, did more tests and the cheques kept coming. After a few months I'd to take on an extra graduate to help with the work. Our little lab was scoring well and the repeat business was welcome.

Repetition can be good but it can also be dangerous. It breeds that awful familiarity and carelessness that comes with simplification and a regular dumbing down. I never thought that it would come to us or indeed happen to me but it did. It sneaked itself in, a rogue result, a bad figure. We were on our 99^th test, months down the line. Lots of data and results and submissions and we were running on auto pilot, cruise control, whatever. We got lazy, other things were going on, we lost focus and we'd forgotten what honey ever tasted like and how bees sounded. Numbers on a page, flickering data on a screen. In the slip a percentage test was compromised, unseen, we fudged the numbers, we assumed the quality matched, a batch was spoiled and we missed it, we missed the bastard. The jiffy bag was returned but the match was wrong and we went out on the weekend blissfully unaware. We drank beer, sat out in gardens, talked about sports and beefsteak, moaned about the weather, looked at the patches where certain flowers and foliage had been, got annoyed by the new strains of dominant buzzing non-bees whatever they were, didn't think about Monday.

On Monday I picked up the automated email, a “do not reply” one. It said that our data was compromised and that a follow up call would be made. Mark and I ran over the last test results and we found the rogue. There was a mild panic. “That's the fuckin' gravy train derailed”. They called about 1130. The robot voice said a new batch would be sent but we had to replicate our mistake, the data we'd submitted was described as “of interest”. When the batch arrived on Wednesday I followed the two processes, right and wrong, meticulously. If we'd fucked up then we'd do it consistently, we'd prove our integrity. Our systems might have a flaw but we could repeat and understand (and eradicate) error. That seemed a statistically important answer to be able to stand by. Good systems equal good science.

We uploaded the new and repeated data. I sighed and sat down. There was other work to do and I got on with it hoping that the previous incident would evaporate. It surely would.

To be continued...

Into the blue

Here is the world as it is. The world of unfair imperfection, troubles and inventions, questions and buzz word rhetoric. I am stranded in the aftermath of the accident. I fit myself in , here in the remains of my wrecked space craft, I sit and observe. The city is cranky and steaming. It’s foreign and far away and I am an interloper. I guess they know I’m here. They’ve  seen the crash on far away screens or monitoring devices, they’ve mobilised, they are on their way. The horizon is a dull distance away, over the head of the city. I’m in an area, maybe waste land, I’m aware of distant traffic and activity. Beads of light and flurry but I can’t understand the scale. Perhaps I’m injured, perhaps my brain has been affected. The trauma, the shock. Perhaps my straight thinking is not so straight. I feel I’m falling asleep.

Now I waken, on my back, lights and voices, the smell of … chemicals. I’m restrained, bolted down. Ready for inspection or repair. The slow terror begins to claw at me, here, on a table, lost and injured and under observation. I black out as the hands draw themselves around me, investigating, hopefully healing behind the terror I’m falling back into.

Next I’m roused, water on my face, or liquid or something. My eyes open. I’m in a wide dark space, starved of light. Movement and activity, small noises but no communication. Fear and terror bites into me again. There are no restrains, I’m free from pain, I move, slowly. The light is coming on. Figures approach, vague and cloaked, human like and expressionless. An arm is stretched out, a hand beckons and I rise and follow. No pain, just some hangover and apprehension and I step out as a light from somewhere, all around dawns.

I look across, through a vast open door, there is the city, steaming still and hot. Distant and by the direction I’m shepherded in clearly not where I’m going. I’m set in some vehicle, faces and controls are hidden, no words. I stutter a few things, clear my throat but I feel that talk is not expected or necessary. The vehicle is fast and smooth and there I am back at my space craft. The hatch prised open and, as far as I can see repairs have been done. I’m directed in and with that forgotten snap, last heard on  Earth some time ago, the hatches closes behind me I’m suddenly alone. I stagger and cry. I look around, everywhere all at once. I’m alone.

In the control room, the cockpit the lights and gauges shine. The meters show green, greener than ever. Timed and primed. A big hand has repaired thing.  Another technology has stretched out over the ship, cloaked and clothed and energised the dead carcass. I sit and consider the instrumental message. I seem to have no choice. All is primed, fuelled and ready to go. The system’s calculations done and expressed and ready for me to read. I wonder where I am in time. I look across and see the auto system kicking in. My journey is not mine, it’s theirs. They aim me, prime me and fire me. Out into the black cosmos and watery grey spiralling gas. Suns and planets circle in my head. New explorations and happy trails into the blue. I go without knowing anything. Lost and manipulated like a human cannonball , they crank up my flight , my hidden trajectory  and I’m gone. They are watching. Perhaps they always were.

What a drag it is getting old

He's a lot older now but the car remains  a classic.

The onset of age induced dyslexia. The older I get the less capable I seem to be of a) actually writing clearly and b) whatever the medium being able to spell. Now a) is simply down to skill fade (I hope) and an over reliance on typing and/or doing nothing. All I know is that if I have to write much more than my scrawny and indistinct signature I double up with wrist pain and cramp. I look at the fine collection of pens and pencils on my desk and think, “when was the last time one of these wore down and was used up?” For b) there is a strange paradox running; as I write less but type more my spelling gets worse but my vocabulary increases. Now the spelling failure is obviously brought by my reliance upon spell checkers and predictive text etc. It's laziness really so I deserve all I'm getting. There is also the phenomenon of bad typing where I seem to knowingly mis-type a word not just mis-spell it. The word comes out, beautiful typed with all the correct letters but they are in the wrong order. What's that all about? These acute symptoms and effects may well become a huge stumbling block in the way of me finishing the great Scottish/American/SteamPunk/Time Travel novel that I believe exists hidden inside my woolly head. On reflection and taking my mental condition into account it may be that the best writing technique to employ should have a chaos basis to it. I just type and type for 200 pages or so and then let the spell checker run riot and accept all the changes, it would be art and it could be brilliant. What are the chances? On reflection maybe that's all I've been doing for years.

Options for Change

Staying Alive: So I was going through a phase of drinking full cream milk. For some reason, a random magazine article read in the barbers perhaps, I thought that it would increase my sperm count. Of course there was no need to do that, my little swimmers had long since retired to the beach and were lounging about waiting on some happy hour and watching the Mediterranean sun go down. I'm sure I expected the milk to do other things for me, build bones, repair brain cells, that sort of thing. The fringe benefit is that if you do eat healthy things (?) and do a little exercise then you do feel a bit better and less susceptible to the unplanned attacks of some passing grim reaper.

Exercise: It was about this time I discovered that my only semi-smart phone contained a pedometer. I was called the Walk Mate Eco and it required of me, without me setting it up or entering into any formal agreement, to walk 10 kilometres a day, whatever the weather. I took this as something of a challenge, man v phone as it were. If I did this then a direct benefit would be, according to the App that I'd save 1000g of CO2. Now that sounds impressive until you think about it, then it quickly becomes meaningless. So I decided not to think about it. Unless you get the bus 10k from home, get off and walk back it turns out that 10k is a lot of daily walking, unless you are a postman or a professional walker of some sort. I did try valiantly and I got close but other things, seats, couches and cars got in the way. I did find that by sitting down and in a non exercising way bouncing the phone on my lap I could fool it into thinking I was walking. That was cheap and cheating so I just lowered my expectations for myself a little and let it all be.

Food: Back to food then, oily fish in particular (usually in another kind of oil) and a few olives as well and leaves and olive bread and that super anti-cancer fruit/vegetable the tomato. It's hard to get a good tomato these days, most are like red golf balls if they are the normal size. The smaller ones are like gob stoppers and they are too small to cut up and too big to stuff in your mouth but you do. Then you get that unpleasant kangaroo testicle sensation when you bite into the tomato and it explodes like a burst abscess inside your mouth. It's worse if, as is the custom with modern food, it's been trapped in a refrigerator for week. The tomato then becomes an icy hand grenade going pop against your inner cheek. Not good but good for you. That probably sums it up unless it's an avocado which is good and rare enough to be a treat and good for you in a Mexican kind of cool but Latin way. Lets get more avocados.

Dairy: Then the dairy cabinet opens up it's bountiful world of sanitised promise. Yogurt, so full of mysterious, helpful cultures and formulas that you understand why previous generations just curled up and died, they had none of this for their working class digestions. Just brown ale, potatoes and herring with the bones in and facing the wrong way. Times were tough. Now we can eat yogurt of all types, though they all taste the same. Some promise you the arse of a Greek horse, others a huge couch cuddling experience with the Spencer Davis Group, others find a swift route round your struggling innards like some white python, cleansing and purging and pulverising any non-yogurts that get in the way, then there's the thin ones you just drink like a shot of bovine voodoo placed in your fridge by the Dharma Foundation. It's brilliant what they've now done with all that underpriced sour milk and jam and they've put it all like a sci-fi elixir into aerodynamic containers that are smaller on the inside than they look on the outside, like a busted Tardis, but it's fresh, clean and it fits into any lunch box or designer handbag easily.

Eyesight: I can see most things but when I cant I apply a conveniently located pair of pound shop bought reading glasses to the situation. These are set at somewhere between +.5 and +3 whatever that means. Putting them on is like giving yourself an instant hangover. Nothing in the room makes sense except for the cooking instructions that you're trying to read on the upturned back of the M&S ready meal. The cooking, well heating or warming really, instructions are seldom given pride of place in the packaging and a deliberately small font is mischievously used to baffle the consumer. The information is there but masked by the various lists of ingredients and chemicals – as if we're bothered or believe any of that bollocks. Once you've got the time from the packet and ceremonially pierced the film (always film to pierce) with a sharp knife you can set the oven. Of course after going through this you realise that it's yet another homogenised product, they all need twenty minutes at 180 Degrees, it's then ready to burn your tongue on, whatever it is.

TV volume: You can never get it right. I'm sure there's a master volume somewhere in the broadcaster's box of tricks and they just fuck about with it behind the scenes. They turn it up at the beginning of a programme to shock you into attention with the sonic booms of music and title sequences and then, slowly, trickily they turn it down. You are struggling to hear and then you turn your remote up so you don't miss any of that vital dialogue. Then just when your volume is on the up they turn theirs up so that as the commercial break comes you're at hit with a Tsunami like blast of some heavy metal band grinding into gear to sell you...yogurt or Vauxhalls. Bah! The sponsors love it I'm sure, nobody sleeps round here when Sky Atlantic's on.

Fruit: Plums are ok but overrated and they've no silent d in them, just a pip.

Different Question

He's answering a different question than the one you asked. The one you asked was about power costs and the system's overall efficiency. He's describing something quite different, the inherent and inevitable waste that's in the generation cycle. It's one of those apples and oranges things, communication failure. We're talking about different things, it's all unintentional and well meant but it's common, a typical, a regular thing. Questions and answers that fail to produce clarity and understanding and so away we go again, in the wrong direction. 

What we wanted was a moon rocket and we got a Mars probe with an instamatic camera. We needed a time machine but we just ended up with a device that allowed me to explore parallel universes while cleaning the toilet. Then there was the great alchemy failure, we tried to make gold and ended up with platinum – edible platinum. We built a tower, taller and grander and housing all the collected artworks, knowledge and wisdom of the world. We were locked out when we lost the key. We tried to synthesise artificial intelligence and then found God. Then God, perversely but predictably confounded us all by denying his own existence. Who could argue? Science, theology and convoluted conversation, chat and mindless goals, tyranny and mutation.

Chrissy Amphlett

I love myself,

I want you to love me.

There was a certain soft sexual fantasy in there. The word risque was made for this. I remembered her as softer and blonder for some reason but she clearly wasn't. Not quite so rasping and husky. She was older too, the grainy video never lies it just gets more recurring hits. This version has four million hits or so. I suppose that's good going and inch for inch, groan for groan a lot of on screen sexual fantasy. I didn't ever buy the single, I probably hummed along to it myself. It was all about self really and in truth it was a tacky piece of embarrassment. Just about acceptable on Radio 2 in the afternoon and probably talked over by some inane self important DJ. Self rules again.

The guitar was nicely out of tune, thin and squeaky, a Les Paul Jnr. and she was writhing about and pouting, touching wispy hair and moving in and out of shot. The editing was deliberately annoying, never settling on anything long enough for it make sense and it was all interiors and a soft focus muddle. It look cheap and probably everybody was surprised when it became at hit. You can imagine the high times and the celebration meals, the hope of building on this foundation, world domination beckons. When I heard that she was dead I played it on You Tube, I got about three quarters way through it before I clicked back onto the BBC. That was enough. The Huffington Post had some link to her Facebook page, there were a few tributes there. She was older, a bit puffy, defiant with two illnesses, the pop career long gone and filed out only by the vague memories of some floating generation of innocent voyeurs like me. There was a Judy Garland episode, that's entertainment for you.

I guess that that kind of fame, short and burning then settling into a more conventional arc, bit parts and the possible creeping income that goes with it is better than most achieve, it's a living and a video archive existence. Art in suspended animation, a kind of media art anyway and everything is a kind of art. Innocent, angry and at it's peak full of dangerous, latent energy then gone, replaced by some other, younger piece of titillation.

A while ago I went into work and a dumb receptionist was singing along to it and giggling without irony. The radio again. It was proof of how blatant rock and roll innuendo misses so many listeners, lost in the ozone layer. All they hear is a glossy beat and a lah lah lah lyric. You feel sorry for the Dylans, Cohens, Mitchells and Waits with their blunt pencils, typewriter fingers and their researches into fine literature. All that work and depth recognised by the few but missed by the masses, that's the problem with entitlement, education and the black hole of erotica. “I don't want anybody else, when I think about you...” it does say a whole lot. That's culture and value and meaning all grasping their respective nettles when all you need to say is what it is you really mean. Direct messaging I suppose. I thought about her back story, somewhere in New York, seeing the downhill path, becoming sick, some medical expenses. Cancer and Multiple Sclerosis and five minutes of fame and a promising career on the stage, a curious set of gifts. That's too cruel an ending at fifty three. I hope she's still dancing and pouting some place else.

I forget myself,

I need you to remind me.

So in all this

"So in all this I remain, forever and a day, essentially unknowable."

I realised that I'm of a certain age and that, as it stands it is my sworn and solemn duty to remain alone and unknown in this life. The truth is I've never really been all that interested in other people, their lives or their ideas. I'm happy enough for them to be there, for them to be let be and for them to let me be. They can busy themselves with factories and farms and fighting pointless wars but as for me – I'll try to stay out of it. The goal being the vigorous anonymity of passing through.

Thinking about it, it's all down to friction, tone of voice and smell. Other people just make me uncomfortable, they produce those things and really I've no need to be overpowered or lambasted by their ideas, odours and their unconscious need to rub themselves against me. My space is vital to me and I would, if pushed possibly kill in order to maintain that space and restore a safe and some kind of untouchable distance.

So I'll remain in orbit around myself, self destructive but also self sustaining. Taking in those dim exterior shots like a lazy camera and occasionally, by slim gesture or a faint word broadcasting back into the void, that'll do for me. As I pass the tree a leaf may fall or a twig may snag. That will be the sum total effect of my presence in the world. I'll lend nature a little help, a whispered piece of aid as I drift pass like some ether ghost, here and there and nowhere. I'll suck up some oxygen and soak water and wine and bread but in the end the smoke and vapour will all be self consumed. The footprints I leave will not be mine even though I made them. I've bequeathed them to the desolation of the nation, the space and vacuum in the modern consciousness that I almost but not quite might occupy.

There is no proper answer in patience or humour either, I've tried these things, they get you nowhere. Sucking in a received word or idea and sparing the enemy the return death blow, holding back and waiting. Some clever retort that will only be misunderstood. Patience is like so many other pointless things a virtue, as far as the self styled virtuous are concerned. I tried that and I didn't enjoy the space and the trace or anticipation...it just made me nervous and as for humour. We laugh for a time, we laugh like rocking horse headed idiots. Great stadiums rolling in a perverse agony at the bidding of some comedian peddling irony and common experiences, rolling in the aisles. Then once back on the street the memory is erased, blinking in the street lights, sober again, like a blank pub conversation that was all about something but you've no idea what. Maybe a bland happy memory is enough, some dumb good experience but one that has no staying power. I marvel at the evaporation of thought and memory. I marvel but I refuse to participate.

So I remain religiously alone, my own defender and saviour; finding comfort in a rare book, an article or a vulgar screed on a website that somehow rises above the back lit screen and, as if written or printed on a quality paper actually has some meaning and substance. One thing's for sure, I've no intention of going out and really looking for any of that stuff...it can find me and I wont break sweat. I'm sure that's the essence of some universal truth. If there is truth, if it exists at all then it will find you, there is no need to seek it out.

My head is a mess of thoughts and clouds

So here's the lens cap open

A thousand images distortion free

Trapped in a billion pixels

It's just the tear in the fabric of me.

He stood outside the imagined house and observed the scene. For him what made it all really interesting was the knowledge that at any moment everything, all he was, all he stood for and had built could just come crashing down. He imagined that crash, what it might look like if it happened. The first cracks, the slow motion collapse, the sounds of things breaking, the creaks and the splintering. All those elaborate constructions reaching a critical point of loading and that point being overtaken by consequence and action. Pings and wisps of dust fly out milliseconds before the bursting point is reach. Structural failure. Then it happens, a cacophony, an explosive chaos, like a orchestra being hit by a tidal wave, an earth quake in a clogged up city centre, a thousand punches in a thousand faces. Recoil and tremor, explosive criss crossing fragments and great slouching balustrades and buttresses falling in the sick syncopation of destruction. That would be his life, come the day, the hour and the comprehensive doom.

He thought about the opera “Carmen” by Bizet. The stupid Don Jose, run down and grounded by the tempestuous Carmen, an exotic gypsy girl who leads him away from his military career and family with disastrous consequences. She loves the toreador Escamillo, a sin too far for Don Jose who overcome by jealousy and passion stabs Carmen whilst in the background Escamillo receives the applause of the bull fighting crowds. The thought of normal and extravagant human behaviour, the extremes and the unreasonable. How they might be like puppets, more puppet than people sometimes. Willing participants in the fatal collapse, bringing it all on, sowing the seeds of destruction whilst building some solid illusion. Songs and dancing and lights and costume, the contrived drama of all relationship and humanity. You will pay dearly for your passions if you allow them their full vocal range. Never getting better or easier just getting...

Then he was back at his own situation, still turning himself inside out to be the strange sum total of some kind for his appetite of sexual perfection. Like an operatic performance, pomp and drama and song carrying archaic language in which to frame all that useless feeling, bloated and pretentious as if it was incapable of standing on it's own. He thought more, he considered himself and the worth and merit of gaining knowledge and holding opinion. How useful is any of and what difference does it really make? You can have knowledge and informed views but all the effort and turmoil of sustaining such a position is pointless if they are not shared or exercised. There in your own head striving only to be placed in an intellectual bubble, alone and aloof and impotent. It makes your position no better than that of a dumb ignoramus, contributing nothing. It was an unfortunate debate, a one way street of conjecture, a spiral. He realised this for the thousandth time he was stuck in a loop of an unresolved perpetual and perplexing issue. The ultimate worth and value of knowledge and the point of study.

His head was sore with it all and he moved to the lounge. There on the far wall there was a large drinks cabinet. He poured four fingers of malt whisky into a crystal glass and sat down into a battered arm chair and began to sup on the drink. Outside, through the glass he saw a robin in the garden. It hopped from branch to branch in the hedge. It cocked it's head back and forwards jumped a little higher and sat on the window briefly making eye contact with him. He took and deep draft of the warm liquor. It seemed at that same second as the warm alcohol hit the back of his throat the little bird winked and twisted it's beak into a cheeky little smirk. He heard a voice in the back of his head, “you'll be ok, trust me.”