Paranoia

So you have to understand that what I’m about to say I don’t actually believe is true. But that’s not to say that I believe it’s not true either, but it is just some stuff I thought so has no basis in reality, except that it angers me when people dismiss the idea that any of it could be true without reason. Paranoia exists because sometimes people really are out to get you. So if I die randomly anytime soon, maybe you should think twice about the things I’m about to espouse.

Have you noticed that most of the big bad things that have happened in the world recently have coincidentally all been in Bush’s favour? I mean it he wanted to plan some fucked up things to happen to the world to help his ass along the way, the things that happened wouldn’t be far off the things he would want to happen. Let’s start at the beginning. Well the beginning of this rant anyway.

September the 11th. Now I know you’re not supposed to say anything about that day except for what a tragedy it was, but let’s look at it reasonably. The world was a relatively peaceful place at the time, and Bush was a self proclaimed war president. His daddy had tried and failed to take over Iraq to help out his oil interests, so maybe Bush decided that he would do it. But people weren’t really up for another pointless war. People weren’t really afraid. So bang (x2) the twin towers go down. No one can miss such a thing. Everyone noticed. It was a tragedy. The tragedy from Bush’s point of view was that he was too dumb to realise that Al Quaeda (or however the fuck you spell it) was mainly based in Afghanistan and not Iraq, so however much he ranted about it, he was going to have to invade the wrong country. I doubt it upset him too much as he was after all a war president. And the fact that the Bin Ladens were personal family friends didn’t seem to bother anyone too much, so as far as he was concerned, no harm, no foul.

Fast forward. The Tsunami. America was told by that whole area that their companies would not be allowed to buy anymore property in the area as it was taking profits away from the natives. Whoosh a big wave fucks it all up. America rushes in without the UN to take most of the responsibility for the aid required to fix it up. Aid which can be denied at a later date unless certain property related view points are relaxed. And coincidentally an American military base is perfectly positioned to have created a tidal wave. Which is impossible. As far as we know.

Fast forward. July 7th. Bush is coming to Britain to make poverty history as far as everyone is concerned. 100% debt relief was the plan. Which really isn’t in the US’s economic favour, which is all Bush is really concerned about (his personal wealth would be fucked if his country’s was). If Africa was comparatively richer, then America would be comparatively poorer. Not to mention that the US just doesn’t want to chip in its fair share for international aid. So what happens? Our PM is taken out of the meeting to attend to terrorist attack issues. Coincidence? Hmm. And in the bargain, British people are meant to feel more afraid and therefore more up for war that their government is supporting the US in.

And then the hurricanes. Anti-American sentiment is at an all time high, so why not bring on a tragedy that no one could say they brought on themselves. Don’t try and fix it up too soon either, as the full impact must be seen around the world. We have to feel sorry for them. Other countries even send them aid, even though they can easily afford it themselves. But it doesn’t quite work. Contempt is felt for Bush at his apparent apathy to the plight of even his own people. So what happens? Another hurricane. And this time they do it right. Everyone is prepared. Bush visits as much as possible. The actual strength of the hurricane is over estimated until the last second. No need to kill anymore people. Just need to demonstrate that he does in fact care, and that everything possible will be done. P motherfucking R.

I can just imagine that little bastard telling his aides, “What no sympathy yet? Hit them again”.

I know you can’t cause a hurricane. But then if you think about it, why not? If butterflies flying in a circle can cause one, what about a machine made from the trillions of dollars that the US spends on defence? In the Second World War they hid bombs in rats and whatnot, and people would have said that was impossible at the time. This time the leader of the ‘free’ world is playing for big bucks, so why not go for the big bang? I mean, I can think of a few ways to make a hurricane machine off the top of my head, and I’m no science motherfucker. The same with a Tsunami. I know it’s impossible. But why?

As I said to start with, I don’t believe any of this to be true. But then, if someone told me it was I wouldn’t be surprised. Just like the moon landings. I believe Neil Armstrong went there, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. I mean, why was that flag waving in the wind? And what was the point in not staging it. If I was in charge, I would have. I might have even included aliens. But then I’ve always been a bit melodramatic.

Don't just look at me, hit back

I’ve seen far more fun than violence in these times that I call mine. I’ve drunk and smoked and laughed my own age tenfold. I’ve smiled wide at things that had only a hidden funny side. I’ve screamed out loud my mirth to make life laugh with me. But then there’s the violence. I’ve seen my married mother broken and divorce. I’ve seen my friends unspoken pain after a punch was thrown with no explanation why. I’ve seen the moon reflected in a puddle spattered with blood. I’ve seen racists scream and attack and never understood the reason even if I’ve known their reasoning. I’ve seen a lot. But most of it wasn’t real.

I was brought up by television basically. I watched and watch the flickering images on the screen and revel in the blood shed for my entertainment. I have been told that if you watch too much violent television, you become desensitized. But not me. I watch and I learn and I fear and I burn just as if the screen were a videophone letting me in on a fight which will only be so brutal for that one moment so I need to see what’s there, because if I don’t then it may all be gone without a trace before I notice it. Just like real life.

I travelled a train the other day standing in the shadow of all the passengers grumbles about how late it was. It was burning hot and any one of us could have died I heard mumbled and mumbled. And then I heard a scream. A garbled cry of the insane in pain. I looked around and found an old man finally broken by the heat telling someone in too many words to move. Telling a giant. And the giant far from ignoring him, hit him square in the face and the old man crumpled. And the giant leant down and hit him again. And again. And people moved out of the way without saying anything to allow this to happen with more ease.

The TV and me have no bond. I shout at it, and it just sits there, ignoring my cries. I call for blood and it isn’t spilt. I call for revenge and there is only justice. I call for peace and war rolls on. I call someone a cunt and they hear me.

Real life is so much harder and so much easier than I ever expected. Than I could have ever been told. You can try your hardest and get nowhere, or you can sit back and relax and it all turns out fine. I scowl sometimes and the world scowls with me. I growl sometimes and the world growls at me. I fight sometimes and nothing fights back. It’s hard. It’s different. But at least it means something.

I saw a pigeon explode as train hit it in front of dozens of children, the blood nearing their innocent faces before falling. I saw a pigeon squashed with its guts spewn out of it’s mouth in 2D. I saw a pigeon flattened into a picture of a itself in flight, more free than it had ever been in life. Whichever one of these you want your life to be, don’t ever forget that the choice is yours. I’ve seen more fun than violence in my life, but maybe violence is fun. Maybe. I fucking hope not.

Don't just look at me, smile back

In these times that I call mine, I’ve seen far more fun than beauty. I’ve drunk and smoked and laughed my own age tenfold. I’ve smiled wide at things that had only a hidden funny side. I’ve screamed out loud my mirth to make life laugh with me. But then there’s beauty. I’ve seen my saddened mother rejoice and marry. I’ve seen my friends smile with restraint knowing that the joy they feel cannot be explained with mere words. I’ve seen the sky open and swallow the sun, only to let it go again after missing the colours it’s imbued upon the world. I’ve seen foreign climes and foreign words unfold before me and known what they meant even if I didn’t understand what they mean. I’ve seen a lot. But most of it wasn’t real.

I was brought up by television basically. I watched and watch the flickering images on the screen and laugh and cry along with them. I have been told that if you see yourself watching television, you can watch it no more as the image of your zombie face will stop you craving the distraction. But not me. I watch and I learn and I love and I yearn just as if the screen were a videophone letting me in on something far away that I would miss if I didn’t look. I need to see what’s there, because if I don’t then it may all be gone without a trace before I notice it. Just like real life.

I travelled a train the other day sitting on the floor. There were seats available, but I sat on the moving ground anyway. Each stop that came the door hummed upon and the world appeared anew. A new view came and a new segment of life was shown to me. And then taken away. It was nothing. But it was beautiful. I could have licked the door in congratulations of its beautiful trick had it not been so filthy. But then I shouldn’t really lick things to congratulate them.

The TV and me have no bond. I shout at it, and it just sits there, ignoring my cries. I tell the hero to think about his actions, and he ignores me and carries on. I tell the villain he can repent and he does no such thing. I tell Lynn Scully she’s a stupid bitch, but she heeds not my words. I tell my friends I a joke, and they laugh.

Real life is so much harder and so much easier than I ever expected. Than I could have ever been told. You can try your hardest and get nowhere, or you can sit back and relax and it all turns out fine. I smile sometimes and the world smiles with me. I laugh sometimes and the world laughs at me. I cry sometimes and no one looks at me. It’s hard. It’s different. But at least it means something.

I saw a pigeon drop out of the sky in front of me once and flutter on the floor unto its death. I saw a pigeon have sex with another and then run from its conquest. I saw a pigeon make love to another and then coo and preen with it, until they could both fly away together. Whichever one of these you want your life to be, don’t ever forget that the choice is yours. I’ve seen more fun than beauty in my life, but maybe fun is beautiful. Maybe.

Passive Resistance

I’m walking down the street when I look up and see the police car passing by. I try to act normally, but they must see me silently mouth “shit” as suddenly they stop right next to me. Panic appears at my centre and permeates outwards, leaving me precious few seconds to rationally think out what to do. Should I cut my losses and slyly throw away the evidence? It’s my own often repeated axiom to never give up until the very last moment, but deciding when that moment has arrived has always been more trouble than it’s worth. Was this that moment? I won’t be able to tell until it’s too late. So I forget the moment and follow in Gandhi’s footsteps. I inhale deeply and hold down the toxic fumes I have grown to love while I pause on the pavement for seemingly no reason. After a second of looking thoughtful and confused, I turn my face to my oppressors. Betraying my lips, the smoke slowly leaks out of my cheeks and hazes my view. The passenger officer looks right at my clouded face, and for this moment we’re on opposite sides of something more than just the glass in his car window. He speaks softly into his shoulder. I exhale. A blur later and they are gone. I cross the street behind them, carrying on my innocuous attitude perfectly in my mind. I smile, and wonder what bigger fish they have to fry.

It’s not a sport unless you need a cigarette afterwards

So over two months has passed now and I think the dust has finally settled enough to talk about the events which occurred in London in July this year. And no I’m not talking about the “Terrorist outrages” as they are so called (which is a pretty stupid name really as I have been outraged many times, yet never enough to blow myself up, but I suppose that’s besides the point). What I am here to put to rest is the issue of the Olympics which my fair city has won for the year 2012. Now I know the fucked up events following the announcement of the Olympic bid kinda took the joy out of it for everyone, but can I just ask, where was that joy really coming from anyway?

I mean, fuck loads of people were celebrating in the streets the fact that in 7 fucking years some sporting event is going to happen here. I mean, I like monging out and watching exceptionally strong and fast and whatnot people competing with each other as much as the next guy, but why the hell would I want it going on in my city? Like most other people, if they were truly honest with themselves, I will be sitting on my ass in my living room watching the bits of the Olympics which have any interest, no matter where in the world they are held.

I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we beat Paris to it and all, as a new round of healthy French bashing is always amusing, but couldn’t New York or that Russian hell hole (no offence comrades) have won it? I don’t want to be getting the tube every morning and be brushing up against an excessive amount of sweaty jocks in lycra on the way to their event. I mean in theory they should all be running to “work” but the theory never works, especially considering that athletes are just stoners in disguise.

See I read once somewhere that doing exercise causes a release of the same pleasurable drugs into your brain as getting high does. So really all of those health freaks out there who are slowly by slowly getting smoking banned in all public places ,are just fucking themselves up in a different way. Those cheeky, hypocritical, self righteous motherfuckers.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, the Olympics. So as well as the tube being filled with sweaty meatheads, I’m also going to have to pay extra bus fair and shit to pay for the privilege of having the Olympics in my city. And I’m going to have to listen to any old dickhead spout some half assed opinion on the sports person of the moment at random continuously for like a year before and a year after. And I’m gonna become one of those dickheads and suddenly find myself having an opinion on the 9000 metres hurdles or similar.

So where in fact is this joy about ‘our’ winning coming from? I know it will improve England’s sporting ability for generations to come, but considering it’s the sporty bastards who rob kids at school for their lunch money, I don’t think it’s that great an idea to encourage them. I mean, I could eat a lot of lunch for the amount the Olympics is costing. Damn Tony Blair. Never taking my needs into consideration.

PS in the second paragraph where it says “interest” in the last sentence, instead read “bikinis”.

When you're strange

I’ve never been the office weirdo before and between you and me, it’s very strange. I mean I’ve been weird in an office environment before, but not in a way that makes people look at me any more funny than usual. You see, I started work at the beginning of a series of bad events in my life and others and it kinda knocked me back and back until I just couldn’t be bothered to speak to anyone as it been so long. I even appear to be accidentally giving them the impression that I disapprove of drugs. Life is strange sometimes.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like life being strange. There is no harm in freaks as long as they’re not cannibals, and there is nothing wrong with being freaked out, as long as you know where the floor is. Life is simple that way. Just like the numbering system I use to make sure I have everything when I leave a place. I have just five things on my at all times, which I need to take with me everywhere. Cigarettes, wallet, keys, phone and my mitts. What about a lighter and rizla and whatnot I hear you cry? Well I would be pretty damn pissed off if I lost things too, but I can only remember so much at a time.

Which reminds me (that seems funny somehow, but I can’t quite put my finger on it), how do you remember things? I mean is it a conscious effort? Do you need to be concentrating really hard? I find that I remember things at random, and other things I entirely blank out. But I don’t really choose these things. And even when I do try hard, what is my mind actually doing when I’m thinking about it. I just concentrate and sometimes an answer just pops out of thin air. It’s not like I did anything to get it, except thought about it until it appeared.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah, work. I have to go there soon, so best go to bed.

Oh bed
How I love thee
You comfy bastard

(vii) Mancuso on fire

I can see light. I can see the sun shining through the trees reaching out to touch me. I can see light. I can see a bus pass me that would have taken me from there to here in the same time but with less effort. With less effort than I use everyday to see that bus as I do. But still I see light. I see it crackle on the river I cross and sparkle up through the window. The window I look through that is covered with the grease and scratches of those who love or loath to leave their mark. But the light. The light that illuminates my desk, and shows all that I’ve done and all that I’ve missed. The same light that breaks through a tiny window on five broken souls and creates lines of shadow down their lives.

Five people arrested for the same murder. Five people waiting in that cell. Two lights watching them in turns. A third light waiting for them in hell. One breaking through the window, breathing the life of night with it’s death call. One burning from the ceiling, flickering every time we turn on the chair down the hall.

These five can see the light better than anyone. They can see little else. Than that flicker. Flicker.

Except the two tough ladies who somehow found each other from across the world who see only each other. And the girl who’s tears won’t stop exploding from her face in wave after wave of self pity. So it’s the yanks only who see the flicker when it comes. Who know what that light really means. Not that nuclear flash that they’re so proud of, but that quiet glow that shows the real difference between life and death. Just a flicker.

The light I see isn’t there’s though. It cascades across my fingers warmly following their contours, easily even with the movement I use to continue my work. I make a rabbit or a dog every now and then to play with this light, and when it goes I make paper planes of my work and float them out into the courtyard all the rooms share. I don’t feel like that today though. As the light goes dark, reminders of flight would be wrong.

I look at the dress on my desk and think of the corpse I took it off. How the fuck does this make sense? A man who flies and wears a dress? It’s like a superhero but without the sense of stature. Why these five freaks turned themselves in I’ll never know. This was the first man I have ever killed without a good reason, and it’s the first cover up I’ll ever get out of doing. Who to pin it on though? Who knows.

It’s dark outside now, but I still see light. It’s right where the pilot left it.

At the end of the tunnel.

flicker