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Reunion Voices Sing

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I can tell you that I didn’t ever think I’d see her again and if I did I would have to talk to her instantly, away, by ourselves and tell her who I am and how sorry I am for what I did even though it wasn’t so bad and evil and all of that but still so wrong and stupid and that I know it now and that I am so very sorry and I would want her to talk, say whatever, say everything she thinks. I mean, Christ I have no idea who she is now or what she’d say or anything or even if she thinks the same or even needs me to say all of it out loud like I want to but as soon as I saw her, dressed in a nice proper dress and with her combed back and held back hair, walking into that room with a man on her arm I can tell you all of that and more came straight though me and I was transfixed and heard someone talking to me right next to me and that was the only thing that snapped my out of it and I answered and slurped down some beer and looked back at her but she was talking to someone and I thought “later”.

 

Look if I tell you now it’s going to sound…no, really, I wasn’t there for the high school reunion, and, as bullshity and improbable as it sounds YES I was there seeing a friend, yes also from high school, but it was coincidentally the time when he was moving interstate ok? So we had lunch and oh god what a bunch of unknown weirdos were congregated there that I had to sit near and because I was late I was at the crap ass end of the table where all the loser people who got pity invites were sat so I knew I was in for a bad hour or so but luckily being late meant lunch stuff was over and these morons where leaving. I only had to endure a few conversations like “what do you do” and I lied and they told me what they did and I said “that must be so boring” and like that until me and my friend and his now ex-girlfriend (thank god) were alone-ish to do the goodbye stuff you do but the real story lies ahead in that I was the same damn town that my high school reunion was in and for fucks sake the same old people I went to school with filed into the pub I was meeting my friend at so there we all were, me from the city back where I grew up and all of them touching me and drinking and being friendly so yeah sure I got caught up in it and yeah sure so I agreed to follow them down the road to the reunion.

 

High school reunions have all those people who come from your misty history and have maybe appeared as weird representations in your dreams where you forgot a whole bunch of information and you thought “I should have prepared, god damn it!” but of course you wake up and think fuck that I am glad I am not there anymore. That’s a reunion, being awake inside a dream and seeing pretty much the worst apparitions or reflections of your past because they are real and more horrific than you could have imagined. I walk around in the fog and every person I bump into has a big smile and so do I I feel and we say three lines and each one I can feel makes me seem so callous and theirs are so honest as if they are real people who actually live lives and believe the things they say. It happens so often that I end up sitting with those I have known for long time/were friends with in high school and they say “what’s wrong” and I answer “what the fuck is going on” and we laugh together.

It’s bad, straight away it’s bad, I mean the venue is bad to begin with, as if the pensioners have left because bingo is finished and there’s one middle aged woman behind the bar not knowing what the fuck is going on because there are people there after seven pee em and we want drinks. Oh god do we want drinks and after I’ve had maybe five glasses of wine she shows up. Oh man fuck I say in my head and I knew her and I can see what she looks like now and I think oh fuck that better not be my fault. She walks over and we see each other but she is hugged by some massively overweight ‘friend’ who I sort of remember but I guess they know each other since those days and I finish my drink and finish talking to this muscle bound moron who I used to know was ridiculed by everyone for being basically feeble and ugly so he pretty much found hid place bulking up and joining the army and I can only say over and over “you’re fucking HUGE” to my detriment.

 

She comes and sits with us because we are from the same clique, that’s how we met and in the most natural of implanted-in-our-psyche way we end up sitting next to each other, not listening to anyone else and talking. It is so lovely and we are smiling and it is as if the decade meant nothing. She had three kids and I have none. This doesn’t matter, I touch her knee and tell her she is so thin (we used to like being incredibly thin) and she says my face is chubby and I say ‘hey, I am healthy…fat and happy!’ but she reassures me in her way that I am not chubby and we laugh at ourselves now and how we used to be so incredibly insensitive to fat people. And we look over together at a fat woman we went to school with grotesquely kissing a much older beared male she brought with her and we screw up our faces and like “ewww gross” or similar and laugh and I light a cigarette and when she says ‘oh you still smoke’ I feel stupid. I try to make her see me as independent (i.e. different to her) so I say “Yeah” casually, blow out smoke and take another sip of wine.

 

Making my way though the idiots, trying to reminisce over things I could hardly care about anymore and some are really trying to sell me the idea of moving back and I can only say “Back? Doesn’t that sound bad to you? ‘Back’?” but they laugh because I have always been strange to them. I am next to her and she eventually finishes up the jargon to some other stranger and I say “Hey” and she says “Wow, you’re here. I didn’t think you’d come” “Why? Because I’ve always said reunions are stupid and weird and that I’d never come to my own?” “Well pretty much and also because why would you bother?” “Well that’s pretty complimentary, I mean, thinking I’d have way better things to do or even that I would b so occupied with my life that I wouldn’t even know about it or something” and she laughs dismissively remembering she knows what I’m like and all that so it goes on. I tell her I think about her every day and I can tell my her reaction that I need to finish off the sentiment by telling her “no not like that I mean you come up, you pass through, you are a thing that happens and, here’s the funny thing, as soon as you pop in I am forced to think of all the others, so funny, like a conga line, ha ha…her and then her and her, you know…it’s funny”.

 

It’s a weird moment, the end. We’re all getting up, finished reminiscing, finished watching and looking one another over. I am just looking at her. To girl I first loved. She is looking at me and we are smiling. I tell her I want to talk to her again and she promises me we will. I get an email address and I giver her my mobile phone number. It’s so terrible because we both know I will never write and she will never call. She has her family and her life and I have so much to write. I compose hundreds of emails every day, but to write her is something different. In the age of paperless transmissions, where we can communicate every five minutes or less, still there is something powerful in writing to someone who you used to love, and have seen them again, and have had that ting again where you remember what you had, and the beauty in knowing that you had to exchange something in order to let yourself go again, this time to a fate much different when you stupidly broke up over childish reasons twelve years before.

 

I get four more glasses of wine from the bar because I don’t want to go back there and I am sitting with them in front of me and she takes one and says “thanks” and I say “they’re all yours…”. She drinks half the glass down and says “Don’t worry. It’s ok.” “What?” “What you did to me” “Christ fuck, yes I know. That’s just so, oh man so fucking gross you know, I don’t mean you I mean me like, what the fuck kind of asshole juvenile dick was I?…thank you, thank you though for understanding…Christ I mean what has it been like, twelve years? Oh god its so,…I think about it every day. Really…every…day. I can’t even kiss a woman without thinking about it. And I wasn’t even drunk or anything!” “Okay okay calm down, geez. You’re acting all crazy” “Yeah? Ffff God okay I’m sorry. I guess, I’ve just been thinking about it, you know, in isolation, like, just my ideas and stuff. Can I say…I am so sorry for that, I mean, it was stupid and weird and wrong and…” “I get it, okay?…I was there you know, I was…pffft well, we were kids right, stupid little kids. I know, no.. I mean, I’ve been with a bunch of guys and you know, it’s always fucking weird, you know? It’s a fucking rape game this sex shit I tell you” and we laugh and chink glasses (plastic cups at this shit place) and we are smiling so it’s all good and I just needed to day it all out loud to her and it fades away; this sick feelings I’ve had.

 

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Westbury Academy Boy’s School Murders

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The Westbury Academy Boys School (or WABS as it’s known) is like Hogwarts if you replaced wizards with cunts and it’s where I teach English to a bunch of boyishly haircutted, ugly smirking, future banker types whose fathers are all assholes and whose mothers are all whores. There is no exception, there is no scholarship student with redeeming qualities who over the years gains the respect and admiration of his peers. Just a school full of lucky pricks with huge flat screen HD LCD TVs in their rooms. Perhaps the worst subject to teach is the one I’m paid ridiculously large amounts to teach to these seething pubescent furious masturbators because deep within their brainwashed mind they have come to understand that ‘English’; words, poems, or more accurately made up fiction is (a) beneath them (b) of no consequence and (c) cannot possible make you ‘big’ money. While they may be right in all three cases, i.e. (a) not accessible to them (b) philosophically arguable but not in the context they mean and (c) 100% true, and that this explains their general moronic behaviour when attending my lectures, it still does not excuse them from inciting me to slit each and every one of their throats during the night and in doing so know that I have made the future I plan on living in marginally better. The first ‘house boy’ I killed was a fifteen your old podge-faced red head, a crown to sole freckled little asshole. Nothing worse than an ugly chubby ginger scoffing at Kafka, so naturally I made the clever, life affirming move to mix in some/a lot of granulated sulfuric acid in with his white sugar the fat fuck heaped liberally on his wheat bix every morning. He actually managed to get through Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday like that, coughing and spluttering and otherwise woofing those bix down, not really caring that his insides were disintegrating and, god be praised, was too ashamed to tell anyone about the blood he was shitting out. Thursday was different, he didn’t feel like eating but, you know, the combination of peer pressure and general gluttony made him take that fourth and final bowl. Oh he got through it, sure, but lets just say I didn’t see him in fourth period English.
 

I just realised how horrible and animalistic and simple I must sound. Instead of going back and editing and perhaps all together deleting all of that I think it more pertinent to describe my situation more clearly. And again, no, I wasn’t harassed or had eggs thrown at me or whatever other horribly devastating things these low-level leaders of tomorrow could imagine would actually hurt a person, no, nothing like that. This is more of a…a…correction, to the world. I would be remiss in my duties as a teacher, a leader, a guide to these young men if I was to simply release these creatures into the world unschooled, unaware, unwittingly free to become the people we despise tens of years on throughout existence. And lets face it, if WABS, given its heritage, is in fact the breeding ground for future Ministers and Kings and CEOs then, yes, there should be some kind of test, some kind of conditions in which they are allowed to progress to such integral positions that affect all of everyone else. Right?

 

The term super hero has been, I mean, really misused and pretty much claimed by both the comic book kingdom and Neitzsche. Oh and god no I am not pretending I am a super hero, a regular hero? No not even. Let’s forget I opened with that. What I want you to understand is that, okay, imagine if there was a way to prevent the horrors of tomorrow’s bad decisions from every happening? Okay? And that’s what I’m doing. I’m stopping the worst people from progressing to their falsely pre-ordained if-the-shoe-fits roles that, ultimately, will end in the destruction of everyone/thing. Some part inside of you is agreeing I know, I know. I don’t like it either, hell, I strangled a thirteen year old down in the laundry room! How do you think I feel! It’s not about that though and I know, all you have to do is nod a tiny little bit and we can move on. Can I get a little nod? Not to killing children god no. I’m not about that at all. I just think you and I can agree that, hey, perhaps some of these undeserving close minded ‘borne to be leaders’ types, perhaps, maybe, actually don’t deserve to and worse shouldn’t ever be leaders.

 

Examples. Of course. Bradley McPherson (no relation to Elle). Oh my god you should have seen him (yes dead now). He looked forty five already, a nice round paunch, receding hairline, double chin! Really, a more suitable candidate for General Manager I have never seen. And he was sixteen! And this appearance, this sluggish gait and general under-qualified-but-a-prick-anyway demeanour wasn’t scolded, it was respected and (get ready to vomit) celebrated! He was awarded ‘most likely to succeed’, ‘leader of the debating team’, ‘executive on the student council’, ‘advisor to the bursar on excessive spending’ (after his year eleven ‘thesis’ on profitable school management). I mean, he cut off about 65% off gratuitous spending for students and was applauded. Now I mean, these are the people I am dealing with here, knowingly serving the body corporate, instinctually forgoing services in aid of revenue, approving negligent cut backs for the sake of shareholder (namely, their parents’) investments. I mean, to deliberately cut off your own amusement for the good of the insular economy of one (namely WABS) is existentially insane. He had to go.

 

Now as a teacher this one students’ contributions to the school did not disadvantage me at all, in fact, they actually heightened the luxury spending for the faculty because of the un-forecasted profits returned to the school. We have the most comfortable staff room in the country, replate with leather bound armoires, fully stocked libraries with many first editions, state of the art technology and 18 hour access to a fully stocked kitchen with a full time staff of eight. No, the exorbitance is not (or never) the problem in such regimes. It’s the complex balance between haves and have nots, the blatant disregard for your fellow man which results in a gluttonous over compensation for the ‘overlords’ coupled with the fact that this ingenious thinking is welcomed by those meagre individuals who (a) have been deprived and (b) see there depravation as directly enhancing their superiors, and worst (c) applaud and respect this outcome because in their mind they are working their way up to become the fat pigs in the upper echelons who will be rewarded in the end from cutting off and depriving the ‘lower class’ from receiving what they deserve or even what they had as a necessity.

 

Can I let you in on a secret? I really enjoyed this one way I dispatched this little bucktoothed capitalist prim-and-proper kid. I know it’s horrible to say but hear me out. In my position I was able to use the god-tool of grades to persuade this Bradley (no, it was not abbreviated to Brad for his friends, well, no one really had friends here, associates…yes they say that) that he needed help to up his English grade so that he could get into Harvard Business School. Almost instantly and without questioning (even though several of his housemates have died mysteriously) he agreed to meet me at seven pm in my office to negotiate a way to increase his grade. He arrived at seven on the dot, plonked a briefcase on my desk and opened it, clearly having watched too many movies, unclasped the locks and revealed, I don’t know maybe twenty or thirty thousand dollars in cash (all fifties…what the fuck is wrong with these kids?).

“Ah Brad., that’s…”

“Bradley”

“Yes, Brad, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You know that you, and several of your classmates, aren’t really doing well in my class and…”

“Who else?”

“Brad, it’s not about that”

“Bradley. And maybe you’re a shit teacher then? Maybe I should report you to the board?”

“The board? There’s no board Brad. It’s the faculty. You’re not in business yet son”

“I’m not your…”

“Shut up I knew you’d say that, that’s way I said ‘son’. That’s why I keep saying Brad. Do you get it?”

“No…I…”

“Of course not. I’ll tell you why, Brad. Subtlety. Subtlety. One word, very simple, but completely lost on all of you. You see Brad, you don’t care what you look or sound like, you just want results, is that true?”

“Well…yes…I came here with, this bag and…”

“Yes I know, and this the point Brad. Ahhhh let me think”

And after that I went to my drawer, and pulled out a long knife and was trying to pretend to explain something about life and fear and culture but was really just trying to get closer to him and when I was close enough I just sank it into his heart. Funny really, it just goes in. He actually looked up at me and then looked down at the knife and then died. There was blood everywhere and I rolled him up in the rug and dragged him into my en-suite. I didn’t know what to do so I went back to my room. Here’s the good part, the very god damned next day the police came and I, naturally was panicked out of my mind, I mean, there was a dead fat boy in my bathroom but what happened next was they shut down the school, all the boys returned to their rooms and the announcement was made to staff that Henry Thompson, Religious Instructor and Pastor, was being arrested for child sex offences and that he was responsible for the missing boys of late and that investigations were ongoing. Yay!

 

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MENTAL HYPERTENSION EXTENSION, IN WHICH YOU GET MORE THAN YOU BARGAINED FOR

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MENTAL HYPERTENSION EXTENSION, IN WHICH YOU GET MORE THAN YOU BARGAINED FOR

I am finding it hard to believe anyone anymore. The starving musician, the penniless artist, the aspiring writer, the greedy capitalist…anyone. What they have in common is they recreate a stereotype, an assigned and played out role that is apparent in an instant and yet still desired as real and a goal[1]. As if there is no other way to live other than to align yourself with a preconceived desire to become something that already exists, yet in achieving this formulaic pre-existing ‘truthfulness’ they have already failed because deep down they know they are choosing something, they are choosing this or that theme/appearance, choosing this or that aesthetic, and then the worst part is choosing ‘this or that stuff’ to think and feel[2], and the resultant choosing ‘this or that’ thing to say[3]. Self censoring with a gauge that is self-referentially checking whether or not ‘this or that’ feeling/sentiment/sentence fits in with the overall goal of the persona they love so much (admire) that they want to create[4]. It can become easy over the years to believe that you really are what you wanted (chose) to be, the more you cultivate and edit and asses your ‘output’ (clothing, speech, sentiment, opinion, musical tastes, themes, furniture, behaviour et al), the closer (you assume) you will be to achieving a sense of honesty in your persona because surely over the years of telling and demonstrating to that many people you are this and representing yourself as such will ergo make you ‘such’[5].

GROUPS CAN DEFINE THE INDIVIDUAL, WHICH COMPICATES THINGS

People know, by preconceived assumption, what they think is authentic. We are aware of truthfulness straight away. From this, there is a mental checklist, prerequisites, that need to be ticked off in order for like-minded associates to accept another as being authentic. This is the horror of reality. We can all smell a fake a mile off. How? Because they do not pass the ‘rules’ we’ve created in our insular, checklist-based ‘pass or fail’ test we force people to undergo in order to assume an inclusion in an invented, imagined and created-based-on-precedent reality. The better you are at concealing this, or more, the less aware you are of this, the better. Now, as a huge aside, there is nothing sinister and calculating and exclusive about any group that exists, you can pretty much ‘get in’ by simply knowing one person (ergo nothing is exclusive)[6]. But hilariously the hierarchy and the way ‘members’ are valued or exalted is remarkable, i.e. those who attain the highest ideals of the whole are the (oh god) leaders, or…what do I say…best of us[7]?

THE DESIRE TO BE AN INDIVIDUAL IS NOW COUNTER POST-CULTURE

We now hate everything that is manufactured, obvious, already done, conceived, born[8] and so the only option is to revert to the pre-aware days of tribe based living; community; circles; bands of like minded people you can shun the world together amongst etc. There is an amazing beauty in this, yet alongside this a fear in progress, as if the hands that reached out for something else where cauterised by the fear of not knowing what else there could possibly be[9]. By reverting in disgust to what has already been our sickness creates an inherently twisted new sense of both self-aware post-irony boredom coupled with a futuristic Hellenistic desire to re-emerge as better than any other ‘version’ of this sense of impossible commune honesty[10]. So now then what is the individual, but one of a group of individuals, unable to exist without some type of ‘banding’, hopelessly lost in the void between not wanting to exist in a band but inadvertently being in one per se. This new horrible world has rules, and in breaking the rules you are a rule. You say things that are expected, you think things that are expected (of you), you try so hard to say something unexpected, but you are trying, and we can see that. There is nothing between heaven and hell we have not foreseen. That is our new mantra and we are sticking to it[11].

THE WAY TO HAPPINESS EMERGES IN WAYS YOU DIDN’T ENVISION

I hope. But lately I’ve become attracted to transsexuals who look really really like women.

[1] Imagine in your mind a musician who works as a part-time telemarketer but he is really good at playing guitar and sings in a local bar. Got it? Really? You can actually imagine that? Well then…that’s exactly what they look like, without irony.

[2] Politics, ethos, reason, purpose you name it

[3] So many examples, let go with the underground musician/hipster/artist, who are so post ironic that they no longer care about anything. How the very act of creating is useless(!) so we are trying to find ways that are still expressive and real but not so all-inclusive, like it’s a way to make people feel again (when of course they have given up feeling beyond wanting others to feel). For example what would they (all!) say to the question: What do you think about privacy?

[4] Thinking on this level on the fly is amazing, either you are able to process that fast or who have brainwashed yourself, that is, convinced yourself of your (desired) true identity, being to be able to actually respond truthfully.

[5] It gets complicated here. You of course are who you are, and what you want to be. But how much of you now is really who you are in comparison to who you want to be and how far away are you from acknowledging to yourself that you are not only real but also seeking to achieve a desired version of yourself and how much importance do you give (or grace) to the intermittent transition whereby you are not what you want to be now but are in the transition of becoming who you think you should be.

[6] Really, have you been to a party? In fifteen minutes you’ve made a stranger a friend. And you don’t care about them in any way! They give you their number and the next day you make sure and delete it. Security overrides humanity.

[7] Jealousy etc

[8] Although it has become do bad an confusing that now things that are obviously abhorrent have found their place in a nonsensical neo-hate/ironic love sense that they re-emerge. I would like it to be a real love of something for the thing in itself (which can happen) but more and more it seems to be a quasi-performance art piece people play with their real (read: not real) sentiments…and it gets gross because we then buy our friends gifts based on their recalcitrant “post-modern ironic representation of ‘like’ as art” newfound beliefs that’s gets so complicated that they themselves don’t even know whether to say “thank you” anymore, but instead react overwhelmingly happy because they have to (performance art, remember) continue the reality that they are in love with this type of thing…and it goes from there.

[9] Let’s go: long hair, drugs, shitty clothing. Again and again and again, right? No? This is the problem, you can see it happening around us, we can see teenagers NOW wearing Nirvana t-shirts. Nineteen years after they made their first album.

[10] With the desire to preserve all the ideals of this, as insanely sick as they have become these days. Allow ALL? Are you CRAZY J

[11] See? The individual, the real individual is nothing but an insane moron unaware of what they are or what they mean (as an unartist, say). Any meaning can be attributed, any subversive sentiment can be categorised. We have created a reason for everything, to fight against it is the be another reason that already exists. What is the answer: to be completely and unequivocally honest, loving, open, true and real. Yet, who among us wants to sit for any length of time with that person?

 

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Lego Manifesto

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When I was a boy my bedroom wall was an evolving visual statement of who was at the moment. At maybe twelve or thirteen, when I was most interested in Lego, I had meticulously used all the available wall space to display every facet of the space Lego realm I could. That meant posters, cutting out images from the box the Lego came in (to the point of orientating various logo cut outs from the box to fill empty spaces), shelving and grandly displaying finished pieces, at varying times in stasis acts of war or invasion or even (in my egalitarian moments) functional cooperation[1]. My desire for achieving perfection in my representation of the wall paled in comparison to my actual ownership of Lego, or in fact my actual communication with fellow children of my love of Lego. It was a private thing that I had and a desire to show myself (and my family) the shame I felt in not creating a perfect homage to Lego. This guilt (I guess) spurred me on because even though I and my parents could not afford to buy the complete set of anything, I felt in this absence of ownership a resulting obligation in that I should create something that transcended the mere ownership of the objects, that the desire and single-mined earnestness to complete the collection, complete Lego™’s own desired “full” set, was meaningless compared to my desire to use my other Lego collections to as closely as possible emulate the dream-like scapes that they envisioned on their larger scale marketing inserts (when you buy a large piece they give you an extra brochure that outlays the entire scope of the world they desire for the complete interaction of their Lego army (for that ‘series’), a plan you do not get when you buy the smaller, ancillary pieces that most people get as presents from Aunts and Uncles who don’t really care about you that much, they are usually about $20[2]).

 

Invariably (and in a way attempting to destroying any reverence I had for Lego) every other child I knew had a mother fucking huge BAG of the stuff (which I found out was Lego approved, a common way of storing massive collections). They cared little for the dissemination of pieces and distinction between genres I had come to self-teach[3] was the proper way to control ones Lego collection (using various boxes and cataloguing systems, carful to archive the manuals and partition the pieces into their correct “brand” grouping. I was not insane after all). The large bag exalted a way of treated Lego as a pile of garbage, as a toy, as a thing you ‘got out, messed with and then collapsed into a incoherent mess’ with no deep value other than perhaps an aggrandised ownership. I felt no guilt in stealing amazing pieces from these heathens. They did not appreciate what they had, I appreciated it far more, they would not notice any losses for they were fools with gold (or swines with pearls, whatever analogy you want). So I left their houses with my pockets full with reward. My only disgust came when these ill-gotten pieces from incomplete collections did not fit in with my carefully matriculated collections. They stood out like sore thumbs, they were singular and abhorrent[4].

 

Back in my bedroom, sitting over my modest yet superior Lego collection, I stared at it, processing the confusing mix of anger, disgust and admiration I felt toward those with grossly overpopulated übercollections. I stared at the pieces before me and felt love for every piece (except for maybe the two-ers[5] which, let’s face it, are pretty perfunctory and not very stable). I began to build, using colour matched pieces which a Lego perfectionist would know is the key to creating master works, a working industrial complex replete with security and staff quarters, an open plan building mimicking a cross between Die Hard (the movie) infrastructure and neo-terrorist capabilities (for the infiltrating party…this is ‘space’ Lego after all, they need advanced clever tools). It quickly became clear that my ability to creating fully fledged finished Lego-company quality pieces out mastered the kids with massively ambiguous grey-goo collections. They had no attention to detail. They had no idea of how to get the most out of every piece. They had no idea even of colour matching! They built like imbeciles seeking to create the tower of Babel. Red, yellow, blue (colours foreign to me for I had sets of pristine mainly white space Lego) were used indiscriminately…they made pieces that needed explanation, they made pieces that were abhorrent to nature and architecture. “Where do you see buildings like that?” I’d say. And they would answer feebly and without heart: “In the future”. Like that was a blanket rule that allowed them to create ludicrous monstrous-cities (sorry), as if human evolution would do away with aesthetics. Bah! I knew what they were doing. Quantity over quality. Having my refined collection meant I had to be smarter, more aware. My impoverished collection forced me to become much cleverer, less like a blundering buffoon who used Lego as a way to fill in time, avoid boredom, to luckily connect pieces like an ape.

 

Imagine them, opening their big bag and hearing the pieces settling, but not hearing it in a loving sense, in a noise sense, white noise, or worse even suffering it as an annoyance. The sit and draw their hnds through the pieces, inspiration-less, trying to find a base to begin with. Finding a landscape plate that inspires them! I’ll build a house! And hey build an ugly house. That will do, they think. Even with this sea of potential they crate a stock standard replication of their surroundings, enough for the inhabitants of this brief existence. In their exuberant living conditions they managed to fashion a cold dead ugly reflection of themselves. No awareness of a desire to create beauty, to produce a version outside of the current world, to give value, to offer a better version of life. These are the privileged children who go into government, make the rules they think we al can live by. Devoid of choice, value, appreciation and worst of all awareness that these things mater at all. My understanding of the preciousness of a single piece sets me apart from these conglomerate spoilt for choice moguls who, with it all, instead chose to develop ill-formed, visually disgusting normalities. And we wonder why things turn out like they do.

 

Mainly, Lego built in disdain is built for destruction. The pieces are built without any longevity, almost deliberately brittle and hollow, only visually useful, but mainly, once boredom has been replaced by a need to build with Lego (which is the reason/purpose/point of Lego) the next level (only ten or maybe twenty minutes later) was to smash their creation back to noting, back to a pile. There’s more fun in the destruction for these unimaginative irreverent gluttonous humans. Joy in destruction. Satisfaction in wreaking their crappy inventions. And here’s the clincher, the fat that they knew it was crappy, that it was always destined for the junk pile, that their eagerness to create was underpinned by the eventual desire to destroy. This is the real reason why they didn’t care about their huge collections, or the attention to detail in creating something everlasting. They wanted a quick dirty build followed by a triumphant suicide. The joy in killing what they made outweighed their joy in creating.

 

 

THE END

[1] That’s the great thing about Lego, it actually promotes a level of excitement in mundane cooperative actions, like setting up a moon base, like sharing resources, like fixing a vehicle et al. The greatest socialist tool is not killing all of the upper-class, its aggrandising common perfunctory interactions. Socialist propaganda? Space exploration as a tool for global supremacy? Want to be a town planner?

[2] Further, and the horror again, you realise that the I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-you present you received from a somewhat distant and let’s face it probably poor adult you used to think were interesting and ‘big’ were those cheap as hell Chinese made rip-offs (fake crappy transformers) that I, now, would never consider giving to a friend’s child, or even as a gift to a acquaintances child let alone a true blood family member! These things happen over the years and you correct your history with them. The fact that you can add detail to historical events is bizarre, and it usually leads you to even further disgust for the moments you in your (youthful) gut knew were distasteful in the first place. You just couldn’t articulate them back then, beyond things like ‘this toy is CRAP!’.

[3] Thus creating a higher ideal I would hold all Lego owners unto.

[4] Not because they were stolen, no! Because they were orphans. Symbolic of the destiny I had rescued them from and juts didn’t fit in with the rest of the collected kits (mainly because I could visualise the finished kit just by seeing a single piece, hence the conceot of belonging).

[5] If you don’t know what this is either you are not versed enough in Lego or (being nice now) for some more or less common terminology start here http://www.themorningnews.org/archives/opinions/a_common_nomenclature_for_lego_families.php

 

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Teens have a thing inside that isn’t broken yet

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Sara(Sarah no h)’s mother made her break up with Alec because he wasn’t Jewish. She said “you’re not going to marry him so why bother?” and it wasn’t because she said it or the Jewish thing or anything but it was the sentiment of ‘why bother if you’re not going to marry him’. After that it seemed like she was just getting fucked and that felt wrong, even though she did like fucking before that sentence. Damn him & damn mum.

They were all kissing and drinking and vomiting and they said ‘have a drink!’ loud but he didn’t want to and he was skating out on the street and could hear the party going on and three guys came over, drunk and told him how cool he was and how they thought he was so cool all the stuff he said in class and he was weird and cool and like that (drunk style) and he thought you are fucking idiots and skated home.

What they do is everyday after school go to the small town of Lambert because they live in an interconnected line of small towns and hang out under the footbridge to the train station and eat hot chips with gravy and smoke cigarettes.

“Fuck you mother fucking cunt!” Mike yells out to a maybe sixty year old woman who kept looking over to us for being so loud and it’s hilarious; she just gets up and leaves and we’re laughing and Mike says “man, should I go and say sorry to that dried up whore?” and Ken says “fuck that old ass wrinkly whore man” and we keep going on and man Ken throws his coke on me and I leap up and punch him in the face and he tries to wrestle me and Kate says, “hey guy this is Newtown” and we get off the train because we are going to smoke joints in the cemetery.

I take the stem out of the bong and use a pencil to push all the resin out form the stem into a bowl and chop some tobacco into it to get it dry and smokable. We couldn’t get on again and it’s ten thirty so shit we have to smoke this shit and its funny, its funny kind of thing and it tastes like crap. I pack myself a nice soggy cone and smoke it down and I actually like it, sick fuck that I am. I give Brendan the bowl and he makes himself one and I feel good and relaxed and it’s all for free. Then my turn again.

They’re all standing around outside the hall waiting to see some bands and they don’t realise that they all look the same, all these individuals looking the same trying to be different and it’s beautiful like that.

Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All www.oddfuture.com SWAG

Years later:
I got a job because I could talk the talk, I know what it’s like, I’ve been there and done that and now I am the best equipped to sell product to these teenagers. They’re actually really easy because (a) they are driven by pack mentality (b) their non-conformity is easily adapted (Christ its 2011 and still they wear Nirvana and worse Ramones t-shirts) (c) they have no purpose other than what is presented and available (what I mean by presented is discovered, they have to think they discover it, and it’s east to ‘hide’ stuff online) (d) it is amazingly clear what they love and hate (as opposed to the general public who are more or less fickle and unencumbered by a role they need to design and live my, i.e. quasi-moral code).

DISCLAIMER: I have always been a fascinated observer. I just do not believe that I am alone in realising that actions are at their core fake and are a (loving) re-enactment. Also, to solidify my case, when pressed people have little depth so in that sense the cause and effect is one and the same; their reasons for living that way are irrelevant and the outcome is to achieve a version of a desired repetition (read: morose) that they know they want and so press to achieve. This is the way of death. The other way: honesty, indifference, soulfulness, depth, individuality…authenticity…keeps alluding us.

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Belief is only inside of you (four related parts of one life where belief is elusive)

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Dying because he loves her and she loves her god

When I went to visit Henry, when I was asked to go with Jane to visit Henry I thought ‘how funny: “Jane asked Alan to visit Henry”‘. His leg (her uncle’s leg, like she owns some of it!) had grown to the size of three legs and he would not get an operation because his new wife (of less than a year) was a Jehovah’s witness and those idiots think medical intervention is against god’s will whilst simultaneously believing that all events happen due to god’s will so that this god that they believe in wants him to have aggressive (reversible and curable also within god’s world) cancer that will kill him very painfully soon. He even shows it to us and it’s huge and lumpy and strange (the growth has made the leg look different, like a twisted muscle with patches of hair) and he is smiling for some reason so I smile too and ignore the fact that his leg is huge and clearly he will not be alive much longer and Jane is really upset, visibly upset but Henry’s wife is by his side smiling as emphatically as he is and all I can think of is that (a) they are happy and (b) they are fucking stupid as hell as we are in a hospital and maybe fifteen doctors pass by in less minutes and probably every one of them can (or could have) saved his life. She loves him so much but not as much as she loves her moronic faith so this love sick and cancer-sick fool will die painfully (no medicine) because (a) he loves this idiot woman (who is quite pretty lets face it) and (b) out of her love for him (and her basic pathetic religious beliefs) she thinks this is right and good and proper and loves him even more for sticking to her-version-of-a-god’s plans.

 

Thou shalt love no other god but me

She left me sitting there in my house and we never had kids because we wanted money and style and taste and holidays and she told me she was leaving because she wanted to have children and she found a man she knew would be a good father and she didn’t want it to be too late (she was 36) and I said ‘wait, you never wanted to have kids’ but I only said that in my own head, sitting there now on the lounge (part of the suite) looking around at our wonderful stuff that looks so good really and I laugh because it all looks so good but it is sitting there, not moving, sitting there being good to look at, being designed well, being perfect and I hate it all. It is not perfect it is disgusting, it is in place of a child. Did I want children? Did she trick me into not wanting children when in fact she did? The worst pain is that she did want children but not with me. I pour myself a drink at the bar and only now realise ‘I have a bar’. I am not me anymore. I became not me. I liked not being me because I was filled up to the point of emptiness and finishing another drink (of which there will be plenty more to come) I knew then why she left.

 

There is nothing left in this world without your god

Carpet. Feet. Drink. Cigarette. Walking to the window, looking outside. Sitting on the bed. Drink. Turning on the TV. Watching it empty inside. Hating them on the TV because they are dead and like corpses stink like decay and remind me. Drink. Drinking and walking. Carpet under my toes. Dirty feet. Dirty carpet. A picture on the wall of a bunch of flowers in a vase. Motel room picture, motel room bed, motel room sink that I vomit in. I didn’t need to vomit, I wanted to vomit. It hurts and I smoke again. Drink. I call for a prostitute to come and its going to be eight hundred dollars. Eight hundred dollars to not shower and get my dick sucked in a condom. I laugh and wait. Drink. Cigarette. Turn the TV on again. Its worse. Hang out the window and its midday. Cars and people moving about. I don’t wish I was them anymore. I fart. I drink. I smoke a cigarette and the knock at he door. I open the door and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen is standing there fresh and clean and so pretty. I finish my drink and ask he if she wants a drunk and she says no and I say ‘I’m going to take a shower. I go and take a shower. ‘What does she think, sitting there in my room, clothes and broken glasses and some cigarette butts on the flor. What does she think is going to happen. Is she repulsed? Do I care if she is repulsed?’ and I know, standing there with water running on my head, I realise I have changed, I do not care what she thinks. I will get her to suck my cock while I drink and I may not even cum but I will get this stranger, this young stranger maybe fifteen or more years younger than me to suck my cock in five minutes time and not care at all about her and perhaps even like not caring. That is how far away I am. That is what happens after all. After all that has happened.

 

Alone because you love your god and no one knows that god

You should come down. It’s speakers corner! It’s as old as the city itself. My great uncle used to come down because he hated the japs but of course you can’t hate the japs anymore and my grandfather said he was fighting in Turkey he had nothing to do with the japs but my great uncle, who didn’t actually go to war, was here when we might have had to give Queensland to the japs and they bombed Darwin and that’s why he hated the japs but he had another theory about what was wrong with them and his theory was that they were perverse and wrong because they didn’t believe in anything and anything could happen, ‘you just never know with those japs’ he’d say and that really scared him so anyway that was the type of stuff he’d go on about at the old speaker’s corner in Hyde Park. You should come down, is on the weekend, the best day is Saturday because old Bill, really that is his name, Bill! Old Bill he’s on about this energy thing with…and I listened to him a few times don’t get me wrong but it’s like, he says that we can all feel energy and some of us ignore it or whatever or know it and can feel it and I get what he means but he isn’t that good at explaining it but one time this chick all in tattoos was saying ‘yeah yeah’ with him and she wasn’t laughing and she was alone so I don’t know what she was doing or if she liked him or anything. But my idea is that, it’s the same as before you were born when you are dead and when you think about before you are born its all white and nice and soft and asleep and when you think about after you are dead it all dark and bloody and nothing so I think we need to change that and so I have this thing that I always say and its ‘when you die you will remember what it was like to not be alive’.

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There is something wrong with the world but I don’t know what it is yet.

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Wake

 

I had her hand in mine, I could see she was crying and I knew that she was upset but in my head I was thinking “how long until I can go for a cigarette, really, and if I go for a cigarette, and even if I make it last, maybe six minutes maximum, then I’ll have to come back in and I will have lost my place here with her because some family member will ‘fill in’ and so then I’ll be lost in a way and have to, fuck, talk to some of her family and that will be, just, hell” so I sit there still thinking of the cigarette because its probably some nicotine biology thing and not that I am an asshole and really I am not because what I want to do is say (yell) “HEY!” out really loud and then go on to yell (say) “this woman was absolutely beautiful and loving and caring and she only met me twice and each time she was so loving and beautiful and happy that I for one wish to go on celebrating how lovely and soft she was, not just think ‘oh no I’ll never see her again, oh poor me, I’LL never see her again’”. I drop her hand and take out my cigarettes and gesture that I am going ‘around the back’ for a cigarette. I disappear down the side of the house and sigh (what, for the cameras or was this a real sigh, like sighs actually exist?) and two little, maybe ten and eight year olds roll up on a scooter and skateboards respectively (what ages and what vehicles who cares) and I light my cigarette, blow out the smoke and realise they think I am cool (because I used to think that was cool and their faces tell me they think I am cool, so I don’t say anything and take another long pull on the cigarette then say) “how you kids doing today?” realising instantly that they just attended their grandmother’s funeral and that my fonzie-esque stance crumbled in about ten seconds but I am saved because the older one says “okay” and I say “your grandma was pretty cool, huh?” breathing out a huge plume of smoke. “Grandma? She was alright” he says, bashful, cute. And now I do my part with “Nah man, she was really cool. I talked to her once out on the back deck and I was like whoa man you know what you’re talking about. She was like was out there. Never met anyone like her”. They smile I think and turn their vehicles around and go. Can’t hang out with this bad ass smoking weirdo they’ve never met any longer. It’s not right because they are children and they have been taught their place and it’s not right because they are not worthy (they think).

 

Wedding

We kept making eye contact and it was strange and I didn’t know what to do about it because she was wearing a wedding dress and I was a guest (of the bride). She was making the rounds and I thought “oh my god she’s just making the rounds” and I said something horrible so she could hear and she got to me at some point and it was just me and she said “what’s wrong with you” and I said “nothing. What’s wrong with you?” and she smiled at someone else who came towards her and then she was gone.

 

Party

They look at you like you need to do something when you walk in to any party and this one was different because fuck you I have known them for ten years you weird-ass-looking-getting-there-early-probably-married-losers who have no depth or reason to look at me like that “hey Amelia how are you, wow fuck looking hot” I say and we kiss twice and I introduce Sandra and she is all shy because she doesn’t know anyone and I mistakenly do that thing where I don’t care about that and have to remember after about one painful (for her) minute to introduce her and make her feel comfortable but then of course that shit thing happens where she needs me way more than I want to be needed so we are (after pleasantries) in some corner sipping drinks and discussing how fucking retarded everyone is and I am telling her stories about each person I know there and it feels really bad and terrible to be there then and we have become the douchebags sitting and staring and judging people as they pour in.

 

Funeral

 

“Tell me you won’t let mine be like this”

“No way! I mean, look at all this, really. That song, yeah right like we need to hear that! No. I can honestly say your funeral won’t be like this”

“Thank you”

“I’ll tell you what the problem is though. The problem is people want this, expect this, like there’s no other way for this thing to happen. No other possible way. They need the usual step by step process, and then this happens where we do this and this happens and we cry now etcetera”

“Exactly. Oh please don’t do this for me”

“Mum, please, who are you talking to? My only problem is, by the time you, ha, need one of these, Ilm going to be…I’m going to, I don’t know, go too crazy, go too different”

“But that’s what I want”

“Yeah I know but like, no format, you know? And it will be real. Heartfelt and honest and none of this bullshit sentiment that means nothing. None of this selfish, blah blah she would’ve wanted this crap. Fake mind reading bullshit stuff, that’s, that’s designed to make you cry, as in, ‘I wrote this trite garbage to cause you to cry’ because that’s what you’re supposed to do i.e. you’ll feel better if you cry i.e. you will achieve the role in playing a funeral guest…complete the act! You must cry at that moment otherwise you didn’t love that person, right? You get what I mean. Fuck I have no way of knowing how to circumvent this”

“Okay, okay honey. How funny, they’re looking at us know”

“Ha yeah, like we can’t plan a funeral at a funeral. I’ve been to too many, like weddings, all the same. We all end up in the car park talking about our jobs, some of us smoking cigarettes. They’re ok at funerals though. You noticed that? No one complains.”

 

Relationship

 

“Really? Really? Really? Really?” the boyfriend exclaims, at last at the end finally not knowing her anymore than he thought he did, thinking her an insane woman, thinking that she has no idea about life or him or the words she says out of her mouth and he is hot and has tears forming on the edges of his eyes and if anything isn’t clenched he doesn’t know about it and for once his dick is flaccid and he can only see a strange person in front of him and trying to see if she can possibly say something that makes any sense by repeating the word ‘really’ over and over trying inside himself too to understand that this may actually be reality and something he is missing, struggling to come to terms with what is happening, with what she is saying and what she wants from him and what he has said to her before and none of it coming together.

 

Writing

 

All the letters on the keyboard, sitting there, making little three letter words, on the right there is p o l i in a weird pattern to inspire you to write p-o-l-i-c-e and then some story with police in it; I could write a story with police in it and drama and a crime and some (this will be clichéd) dumb police in it and then things will happen and one of the police officers will have an epiphany. There is too much cop drama available on TV, every episode they have an epiphany or realise their place in the greater scheme via betrayal, questions of right and wrong, corruption, role vs reality. It’s even already been written how a cop is stupid and simple and black and white and then has heart which is why they got into this thing in the first place: to protect (Magnolia). I would write about a police officer who is pregnant but hasn’t told anyone yet because it is only six weeks and can’t bear the thought of getting hurt because of the baby so actively ignores calls and knows she is letting violence/crime happen but has chosen her baby over her (what she things it is now just a) job.

 

Nightlife

 

The bar is about three people deep, we’re all drunk and it’s fun because some are posing badly, I am posing (in a posture I assume is ‘I don’t want to be here but I’ll entertain this place for a while longer because I am buying drinks for others who do want to be here, for now’) too but its far less complimentary than these guys with their shirts down and sunglasses on their head. I girl next to me says ‘hey’ and smiles and I say ‘hey’. In my mind I can tell she is stupid so I turn away and look around over their heads because I am tall and can only think ‘what is the neatest way for me to leave tonight? Seeing as I have to pretend I like this and like going out and like everyone and am a fun person and am entertaining etc’. I get to the bar buy the drinks (blah) and head back to the table, putting the drinks down and maybe some girl kisses me on the cheek “thanks!”. So I sit down and some other person says “what’s wrong” and I sigh and say loudly “nothing. Hey! Oh my god this dude at the bar was so lame! He glasses on his head like that Alex Perry dick! And there were these three losers just like standing there trying to get chicks, obviously never been here before and like, no idea about style. Shaved chests? Open shirts? What year is it 1990?” and they laugh and I keep going on and on with banter and get drunk like this with them.

 

Divorce

 

It’s a bright, they say perfect, day, the ex-lover sits in a lounge chair looking through eight centimetre gap in the curtain out to see grass and a clear blue sky. The ex-lover is wearing pyjamas, old pyjamas, flannel pyjamas. The ex-lover sits on the lounge looking though the gap in the curtain and imagines or sees birds flash by. The ex-lover sits and feels his fat stomach on his chest and thinks that’s something she didn’t like. The ex-lover feels his face and its unshaven and he feels sick and gross and needs to brush his teeth. The ex-lover is alone and can hear children playing next door and thinks of his children (of course), his son in the city, his daughter in the country married to a man he’s met twice with three kids and she’s fucked it up he thinks, not happy or sad just…she fucked it up. His son. Call his son. The ex-lover sits on the lounge in his pyjamas looking at the pyjamas thinking I don’t like these pyjamas, she probably didn’t like these pyjamas either. The ex-lover thinks of his ex-wife having a good day. It’s a good day, he knows it is a good day but instead he takes up the bottle of whisky that is left there on the lounge with about a third of it left and drinks it for no reason and it tastes good and he thinks this is not good by the ex-lover knows what he is now or wants to be this now. He wanted to be this for a long time and now she is gone so he can be this. He will finish the bottle, shower, dress, walk about ten minutes to buy two more bottles, drink some of one on the way back, sit back on the lounge, finish the bottle and call his son but his son doesn’t want to talk to him because he is drunk and makes no sense and keeps talking about the son’s mother which is not right.

 

Love

 

How do you know it’s not love? Because I know this is not what I want. But you have made that up, you have made it all up! But I will know when it happens. When what happens? Love. But you don’t know what it is! But I will know when it happens. But I love you, I love you now. With all your heart? With all my….no, not with all my heart. Then that is not it then. No, that is not it, it is what I have now. And I want more. So do I.

 

–

 

They all seem so real to me, but I know they are not. They can’t be, or else the world is nothing and we are nothing.

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Eight more short stories

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Her right hand was bent inward in a way in which she couldn’t use it, like a permanent lame half fist but the fingers were straight. She could use it by shaping it, like, to hold the sponge she used to wash her body in the shower or masturbate with it. Her fingers were basically numb so as she rubbed it back and forth over her vagina she could really let go as the only thing that told her in her head that she was doing it was the motion she felt in her arm. She hated her hand.

 

His left foot was like a worm as in he didn’t have any toes and the foot tapered off into a point but he could move it at will like a foot, or more like a foot with one large toe so it could basically squirm which even to himself looking at it was gross. He could wear socks and shoes and appear normal, he could walk around and no one needed to know it looked or acted like that. He had sports days in high school and instead of making an elaborate story to excuse himself he tried to quickly change shoes in the change room so as to get away with it and it worked for over a year until one boy saw the foot. Then he was lost amongst the crowd.

 

It was a malnutrition thing from his parents that left him with a tongue that looked like it had huge gashes out of it, basically if he poked his tongue out it would look like it had chunks missing from the sides. He ignored it when eating or denied himself the temptation to chew the bits that were exposed until when he met a girl and she kissed him for the first time he kept his shameful thing inside his mouth and after a few weeks of this she actually asked “what’s wrong” and he said “nothing, I just don’t like kissing like that” and she thought “ok” but it was weird from there on. They stayed together and after a while (as it turns out) he went down on her and she didn’t notice and he felt good to be using his tongue and was also eating properly now and wanted it to go away like his doctor said it could. The damage was irreversible.

 

She trained a lot, her natural talent for gymnastics meant she could maybe be in the Olympics and over the years she got so good and thin and flexible that as her friends all got their periods she didn’t and after a two years of this she asked her mother what was happening and her mother said “it’s because you are training so hard” and she thought that she was elite and different and so grew further and further apart from her friends who she now thought of as animals and so progressed closer towards gymnastic perfection. At fourteen she fell pregnant and her mother was crying and her father was yelling and she didn’t know how it could happen. Her parents aborted the child with a signature.

 

In the bathroom he kept masturbating using the wash cloth over and over and over in his teenage years so before he was fifteen he developed a hard callous growth under the head of his penis and even though he saw it growing and knowing he had to scrub harder he kept going until the day he felt regret at growing such a thing. It was when he met a girl and kissed her for the first time and felt his penis grow in his pants that he realised he would have to reveal this hard growth to someone at some point. Three evenings later he tried to cut the hard callous off.

 

I wanted to kill my mother because she had cheated on my father and I was now living with her and her lover and I felt sick and alone and was crying a lot for my Dad who I could only see on weekends in some clichéd modern sharing court based ruling. I took a kitchen knife out of the drawer and practised and imagined how I would plunge it into her chest or belly and took it with me down the hallway and opened my parents’ bedroom door and saw her on top of the guy she was cheating with moving up and down and really fucking him. I closed the door before they knew it was opened.

 

In her hand she held a letter that professed a type of undying love spelt out in a very basic kind of poetry but because he had written it for her it felt real and pure and better than anything else ever written. She went to bed with it next to her having read it ten or twenty times, imagining his face as he wrote it, remembering his face after they’d kissed with his doe-eyed love and blank expression. She started to drift towards sleep and her phone buzzed twice with an SMS. It said: omg Clive is pashing some slut at Empire bar! Where are you?. She read the poem again and cried herself to sleep.

 

Her grandfather was dying in the next room and there were so many family members everywhere that it seemed so strange to know that he was dying and she had to smile or nod or do things in acknowledgment of the situation like it was an event. She stood up and walked towards the room he was dying in and was stopped so many times by people crying or talking to her or hugging her and maybe it was ten minutes from one side of the room to the door. She pushed her way between her aunts and was at the foot of the bed and by that time he was not breathing and had died. She felt that she had been held back and denied the final goodbye she wanted by selfish role-playing family members who didn’t care as much as she did.

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I add, you add, we all scream for iAd

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See see see the problem is you want to do too much too soon. As if one sentence can make it, can make someone stand up and change their whole life. Their whole way of being who they have become after, what, forty years! If that sentence exists and you can just read it then its too powerful and scary. Its not even contained in any bible type thing (although sometimes proponents of written religious works think it is). So now the new advertising is a message that is spoken to you by you and can change you:

 

“Michael. Michael. Mi—chael…we know. We have been listening. Keep walking, it’s ok, we’re with you. Down this same old street. There’s something you need just down the way. Down the, no Michael not there. That’s not for you. That’s an adult theatre. You can walk past it this time. See? And we’re right here with you. What you want its to see this bedding. It’s soft, thick. Everything you need to be comfortable. Can you imagine being that comfortable, on a rainy day? Michael? Have a look here”

 

Slater & Slater were the first to invent “I” advertising. Not like radio, not like TV, hell, not even like Back To The Future II holographic stuff. This was the real future, the kind of real future you at first feel sick about and think is incredibly wrong but after only a few months accept and move on from. Basically what it is is everyone with an ‘i’ device or pretty much any other “smart” thing is automatically hooked up via either a wifi, 3G or Bluetooth connection to neighbouring users and so can be pinpointed by location and targeted thusly. Google were reluctant to get on board but in a meeting they persuaded them that it would yield more ad impressions and clicks on said keyword ads, warranting a new touch-what-you-want-wherever-you-are kind of point and click and so, they aren’t idiots…

 

Ok, here’s how it works:
You, with your iThing, walk around, plugged in like you normally are. Bing! a message comes in; a voice message. Through the speakers or right into your headphones. What? You didn’t sign up for this (and sure you can opt out but it’s hard because we’ve built it in to your plan. If you want to get rid of it you need to move to a different plan, a ‘free’ plan that will likely cost more (freedom is not cheap). So, a few discrete messages that you actually want based on who all of your accounts say you are OR anonymity at a price? You can choose of course but by default (check your contract) it’s ON. The outrage is subsided by relevance. Its almost like a friend cajoling you towards a destination. We don’t even like our friends, most of the time, making us go places and do things, so we can tolerate this. After all, it’s your own openly available, personally contributed to social identity talking to you. And who created that? You did, and you kind of respect yourself for being so careful about your online identity. Etcetera.

 

Read: it’s only your responsibility to ensure these invasions are not invasions so you must maintain a high level of connectivity and online presence to exclude you from unwarranted messages, i.e. the better you are at existing within this landscape the better we are at not bothering you i.e. delivering you what you actually want (and you agree that it is what you want).

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