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Wasteman
The story of a man in the future where all needs are met. It was a rainy day in July. The year was 2043, I was only just conceived two month prior and in another six months I would grace this earth early, sickly, and eager. That eagerness was mislaid. Reginald Alan Maville, the man who destroyed the world as we know it was busy somewhere in his council house. It was an odd beginning to the story but one that made him a media darling. A man who for lack of a better description was entirely the other to humanity had spent his entire time living in squalor with nothing but benefits and time. He was, as these great minds often are, not a personable sort of individual. Free from the duress of relationships, platonic or otherwise. Reginald was free to work on anything he wanted. Unlike many of his dole line brethren he viewed the state system not as a means to exploit inactivity but to inundate himself with liberty. The liberty to develop, learn and create with no overseers, no care for regular working hours and little to no regard for personal hygiene. Were it not that his legacy of freedom were my curse of inactivity. Reginald’s purpose was singular in nature. He wished to direct all of his energies into creating a device which when given matter could create gold. Not in such blatant terms a philosopher’s stone, nor was gold the only thing it would create, but for ease of purpose let us say it took garbage and made food, clothes, metal or whatever. Working harmonics and something to do with entanglement, the device needed only to have the appropriate scans completed and then through a series of uncertain bounces or fluctuations would trick the matter into subatomically thinking it was something else. He once famously said it was the neurolinguistic programming of the universe itself. A subconscious directive for empiricism - The postmodernist’s delight. He called the device “Maville’s Kurios”. The MK started out life in his kitchen, his first great task; to create toast. Toast is something surprisingly complex, it’s not just a matter of having prepared dough and baked bread but then further to have altered it’s structure by taking it apart and cooking it again. The desirable toast was to be crisp and yet retain soft innards, it should enjoy the palette of white to beige and touch upon with a gentle speck the occasional black. This was Maville’s ideal of toast and that was his Kurios’ first hurdle. He was not a person given to rushing. It took him from the first ‘toast’ another three years before he had finally created what tasted and smelled like toast complete with the hand swapping heat of something fresh from the toaster. Maville was not a fool. He knew that his invention would cripple the global economy as it was at the time. So, being a man of surprising foresight, he gradually used his device in secret to amass a small fortune. It started off with the innocuous bit of gold being cashed up from one of the many cash for gold business in the area. Little bits here and there which took the form of pendant, rings and other associated jewellery. Humans become inhabitants of a simulation wilfully, the divisions of community are based upon testing at school or wilful selection. Cross culturalism is limited to those of a cosmopolitan nature. Everywhere is bliss and nourishment. During one’s life a program runs, it mimics you. A futuristic neural network that learns you in your life span. And then you die, it remains. But it is algorithmic and seeks to improve, it is your personality but in its fullest potential always seeking more. Eventually it transcends, the simulation that has been you becomes more than you were ever capable of. It becomes the you to whom you must be compared. The platonic simulacrum, simulacrum no more.
The Copper knight’s calling
Whipping against the decks below The voices wave in droves against Against my hope, they assail Against my peace the raging torrent falls Breaking upon the prow, upon the dreams The vessel of my despair onto which I hold The wheel firm to the place of colour To the place beyond the deep blue gravity Towards the stairs of metallic rainbows Shimmering towards the heaven only few, few shall ever know. 03/09/2017 Edit: Added 2 more 05/09/2017 Edit: Added 2 more 08/09/2017 Edit: Added 3 more* two inspired by working in the basement 1 - Car park attendant As I dream among the crude-smoke silence
And stumble in a broken reverie Others jest and jibe my presence or pay no mind at all Walking as a dusk-time dream, forgotten and unreal Nobody speaks of me, knows me well, and yet many judge what they see "There walks the broken dream sleeper, a non-existent man. Do not look into his abyss, for want he may wake to thine eyes" Allow me my humble peace, outside your piteous scorn Do not wake me from my reverie, as woken I am torn Take heed as one might to a cautionary tale.
We are all at some points lost. The world slows, each day extols the virtue of patience as it ages doomed, in graceful spirals. We do not often take time to think that each day brings new life and mournfully waves goodbye to old. Universal understanding of the daily routine of living, hardly inspires wholesome conceptualisations of things as they are. We forget that everything holds, it is locked in every moment, bound to endure as those things must do. The knowledge that time stops and memories eternally remain on the event horizon passes most folks by. Alas, most folks are not at all like Alan. I often find, and I assume it to be a contagion among those wishing to be relevant artists, that no-one really gets me. However simple the syllogism seems to me, nobody sees it. I have to explain my art; it is not a universal truth. But is this a by-product of culture? Well, it shouldn’t be. In this globalised world, there should be people capable of understanding the relevance of my works. Arrogance, I realise but humility is not for those who feel they can expose the truth of existence. But, as I have rambled I have led myself to a new idea. This is the process of inspiration; you write and from that writing give yourself ideas. So no my aim is to recreate Breadcrumbs in a new digital version. Having already submitted the remix version to The white review short story prize I don’t feel like it is created in a way that really does justice to the concept of its creation. At first, I wanted it to be a puzzle, a game of find the missing link but after reflection I want the links to be there. I want people to understand where the ideas came from for each section. In this respect the version held on my blog will be undergoing a process of transformation, links and images will be included. Gifs, whatever I find that gives the reader the context. In this way, it is both a collapsed narrative and an expansive hypertext (and not just metaphorically). So, that is where my efforts will reside when I am free to do as I please, which is rarely.
That being the case, I am eager to begin. Have a nice day. Written when being autistic mattered to me, many, many years ago. I thought I'd put it up for fun.
Now that I'm getting close to the end of my degree I've allowed myself the time to start work on a novella called Paradoxia Grande. The namesake of the story is a hotel in which the ambience is drawn from the mental images of its guests. Murder after murder haunts the place as Sebastian Rook (Now called Galileo Rook because I saw two T.V. programmes with Sebastians as butlers and thought it was perhaps exhausted as a staple. 04/06), the only employee willing to remain there, endeavours to create from his memory the perfect dream of his dead family. My current thought on this is that I have used little, and I mean very little, narrative. It is predominantly dialogue. I'm not 100% sure that it is a great idea but in this case I wanted to foreground the absence of all the "He said...He thought, He articulated with a solemn air..."blah blah that makes up a large part of writing (I recinded this idea but still keep it limited. 04/06). The chapters are small and the narrative, when it does appear, is either innanely detailed or subjectively focalised. In either case the Paradoxia Grande is a showcase for the imagination when left to its own creation.
Below is the first five draft chapters Floor 7
“Stop, I Say STOP Man, For The Love Of God and All Things He Created, Cease The Machinations Of That Autonomous Orifice!” “Halt? Alarmed And With Strength I Pose, Ready In Action, Stopped And Stopping The Action Taken, Hark, Hear Well, I Have Stopped In Time For Pause” “Pause, There Be No Time For Pause In Life We Must Rush And Hurry Or Miss Life As Eternity Passes By!” “Eternity? Impossible, No Eternal Passes By Unvoiced, Hear Now The Screams Of Our Ancestors As We Survive This Pause” “At Last, And With The Hounds Of Hell At My Heel I Traversed The Threshold And Found Purchase Towards My Journey's End” Floor 6 “All Life In Creation Passed, All Things Thought, Said And Done Gone To Nothing. The Day Fought Through with Reckless Abandon. Scarred Mind Soul And Body, I Beg Mercifully For Night's Reprieve” “Aye, Laboured With Cosmic Wrath, Divine Justice Has Spent This Bastion Of The Sun Granting Desperate Respite From Endless Torrents Of Nature's Crushed Remnants. Reforged Again And Again As Decreed In Mighty Consternation Of The Dwindling Earth” “Rolled Out Like Forged Golems In Battle Against Entropy. Late, Too Late. World Falls, Number Exponentially Grows. Fast, Or Be Fast To Starve This World” “True, Number Decreases But Not Enough, But Not Ever Enough. Heartless, Crying Begging Pleading For War. Morale, What Moral In Nature? Survive, Kill To Survive. Nature's Law.” “Man Aware Of Its Own Arrogance, Beyond Nature, Thinks Of Ethics” Floor 5 “Played The Sun Automates Droves, Quick, Faster Than Thought The Path Crowing Forces UnCrowed Journey To Home” “Death Of pace Hath No Reward, Curse The Damned Farce, Curse All Farce As Unreliable Truth Routed In Monotone Speaks Heaven's eyes” “Regretted Agreement, In Hedonistic Worship We Faith Too Hard. Yore Fathers Weep As Fields Once Fought Are Neglected For Repetitive Light ” Floor 4 “Life Caged Begs Windows To the World, Windows Bleeds Natural Line. No Longer Strength, Passed Is Nature's Way.” “So? Not Strength But Wisdom Fruits The Apple Tree. Better In Mastery Than Mastered By Force” “No Privilege For Self, No Ambition By Acceptance All Is All Can Ever Be” Floor 3 “Same Shades My Hand As Morrow Draws Day's End” “Same And Always Same The Dimmed Lines Of Days, horizon Upon This Line Name, Upon This Line Life. Fields, Correlated We Are But Fields” “Swift, Faster In Action As Fields We Roam. Omnipresent Knowledge Heightens Efficiency.” Floor 2 “Efficiency, Master Of All But Art Apparent. Formal dyes, Formal Words, All and All Formal. Express As Result The Day, The Mark Master Of The Arrow.” “Lead Whips To Slaughter Sheep, Wolfs Permeate All Vision Glamourous Insatiable Wolves” “Men But For Ethics Are Wolves” “Ethics, Ethics For Peace. Peace Restless Surrenders Itself To Be Conquered. At All We Must War.” “No Rest In War” Floor 1 “Good night, I'll see you tomorrow” “Yeah, nice chatting with you. Have a good night” Exit. |
AuthorI write what comes to mind when I think about writing something that is on my mind. Archives
November 2019
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