Vote, Vote for Us!

The state has abandoned you, the forests are on fire.  Your material possessions will not give you comfort nor rescue you.  Where are you representatives now?

The Nationalists are here, the Centrists want your vote.  You are of the wrong skin colour, the wrong heritage.  Vote for us or your body will line the unmarked graves that we have prepared.

Your voice has been silenced, the villages are burning and will never be re-built.  The sun does not forgive, your body will dry out in the desert.  The oceans are acidifying, the animals are dying.

They are perverts, scum, ignore them and vote for us!  Watch as the poor burn in their vertical prisons.  Watch as the taxes rise and the services are cut.  Watch as the rich profit from the misery of the poor, and the ill die in corridors.

Become one of us!  Rip your heart from your chest, castigate all that you love, throw away any semblance of charity.

Join us, become us.  Give up any hope of hope itself.

Shot on Lomography Lady grey film using a Pentax S1a. If shared please credit as appropriate.

 

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Variations on a Thought

I am having trouble conveying the feelings that I am having, the fact that I want to write, to keep writing, but cannot quite formulate exactly what I want to say.  At the moment I am finding a deep release through music, either through live gigs or listening to albums as I drive across the northern landscape of the country I inhabit.  Often, on a morning when I wake, I play the album in the CD player and wash myself in the tones of whoever is playing.  It is a sweet relief.  There is an immediate sense of  feeling, of a placement on a particular chord or orchestral swell, that rush of recognition that can only come with time when reading the words of others.  Yet I feel there is a deep kindred between these two methods of communication, two of the most important for me.  Yes, of course we talk, we can express our desires, worries, love and anger through talking, we gesture too, we can laugh or howl with derision, but there is something in the beauty of the written word, in the musical note, that is lacking from the babble that vocalizes forth from the mouths of both myself and of others.  What does this say about me?  I am not quite sure I want to know, that maybe I value the thoughts and beliefs of others, but worry about giving a voice to my own?  Perhaps.

This isn’t the piece or the time to give voice to such ill thought out ideas or half formed theories.  I want to keep writing, I want you to keep reading, I want us both to keep being creative, to tap into that font of magic that cannot be commercialized, crunched down to size for productivity measures or customer service satisfaction.  I feel in limbo, between the world of what is expected of us all as individuals, in a market where we have to pull our weight to feed our commercial gain, compared to a more utopian paradise where the value of a person is not placed on their output, or their labor.  It is ridiculous to think of such thoughts, ridiculous to think that I am free to think such thoughts, to moan about a life well lived.  But I do, we all do, no matter our position, social standing or inherent bias built into us.  We are all individuals and we are all a collective.  Together we love, destroy and displace.

I am having trouble writing.  I am staring at the computer screen each and every day. It is, I realize with a disgusted shudder, a proxy for human interaction, for skin on skin.  Yet still I come back for more, in the vain and vapid belief that this is a life well lived, that this is life itself.  Humans need the company of the animals and plants, of the soil itself, to know that we do not share this planet alone amongst our kind.  We are but one of many and I feel that this is forgotten more and more.  Ignorance is bliss until the world collapses around ourselves, and we are left choking on the markers of productivity.

Death has become a familiar friend as of late, in this last year of my life.  This may be the last year of my life, I hope it is not but we never quite know what is around the corner.  Surely we should grab it, if we believe it is so?  Yet still, I lie in bed an extra hour, to soak in the sonic variations and textural tones of the current album spinning in my CD player. Content to know that, for the time being, this is where I belong.  My limbs relax, my eyes flutter and close, finally my breathing shallows.  It is a mere shadow of true sexual ecstasy, but it is close.

On Health and Safety: Part 1

Q.1. A strong light has been misplaced so that it shines directly onto your computer screen.  What problems can this cause you?

Please select one of the answers below

a. The light isn’t warm enough to crack the dragon’s egg that has been
carefully placed on the desk.  The light needs to be turned around, with the
main focus of the beam on the top half of the egg, to ensure that the dragon
gets enough vitamin D.  This is so that the baby can crack through the toughened egg shell once it has grown enough.

b. The light has taken the form of a forgotten nightmare and thus
stirs in your soul a form of deep dread.  You break down crying in
the office, demanding that your line manager produces a bucket of drugs to
calm you down.  You lose your job and, eventually, your hair due to the
recurrent nightmares.

c. The light is so bright that it blinds not just your eyes but also the
eyes of the people either side of you.  You thought that this may occur at
some point in your much vaunted office career so you took careful
preparation and learned braille on your free nights.  You laugh in disdain
as your so-called office friends scream for help and you carry on with your
work as any good office worker would.

d. You bloody move the light!

Freeway

She sat in the docks at the nearby industrial town, all tied up, the crew silent and still.  The cold February waters lapped at her hull, silent save for the call of the coastal birds skimming the water, intermittently casting shadows on the metal hulk as the last rays of the afternoon sun pierced the grey clouds.  I can see the seamen now, walking on the deck or talking in the control room, all able and ready to roam the ocean’s waves.  ‘Where are you off to and where are you going?’ I want to shout across the divide that separates us, the land from the sea.  ‘What do you do in your spare time aboard and where do you hail from?’  Those are the questions that plague me, make me desperate to jump aboard myself and skip abroad.  That great seabird, the silent albatross, could be my constant companion, my faithful friend as we roamed seas new and old, cold and warm.

A Perfect Mistake

Can it be a mistake if she failed to spot the error that the corrector made by marking her work as an error when it was not an error, or is it a simple rectification that is needed?  What we certainly cannot have is a process by which the error spotter makes errors when there is no actual original error, and so their reaction action becomes an error in itself.  Unless of course their error is spotted not by the person whose work it is they are checking but by another person whose work it is not.

Therefore an original piece of work which was miscategorised as an error remains an error unless the originator spots the error made by the error checker, and not by some itinerant passer-by.  Do you see how clearly the system works?  It obfuscates the real impacts of a malformed and mis-trained workforce by allowing mistakes to go on unimpeded by the right and wrongs of the ‘business laws’ to which the lower workers are subjected to.  Any formal declaration of a contrast of interests, of an appeal, is buried by email after email after email and, with any luck, forgotten about by the original appealer whose work has, supposedly, already been checked and corrected.

It is, I think you will agree, a perfect machine, hiding its imperfections in plain sight but sparing no blushes when it comes to the highlighting of work well done, if it is done at all that is.

So yes, she should have kept quiet about her work that was an error but was not spotted by her alone.  Rather time is well spent going through the errors on her behalf of her own errors, if she deems that she has time to do so.  Work is, after all, a timed affair where targets must be met, money must be spent, satisfaction must be the number one customer benefit even, they say, at the cost of an efficient process.

So surround yourself with cronies during employment and you will never have to work again, but deliver your work out disguised as work that others should do and divide it piecemeal fashion to those that are not within your circle of influence.  Merge those relationships between friend and foe, between boss and employee, and you, my friend, have a recipe for most businesses today.

Of course she will remain disenfranchised, chained to a system that not only pretends to acknowledge her as an active agent within the workforce but progressively attempts to ignore her even during an appeal.  After all the work still has to be done, the targets must be met.

Profound Bullsh*t

Snippets of Profound Bullshit:

After an operation the best course of action for a swift recovery is to eat good food.

Affer an operation the worst course of action for a swift recovery is to eat hospital food.

Like every other human being he thought too much about the past and worried too much about the future.

No matter how fast you run you cannot outrun life itself.

A warm room in the begining and a cold grave at the end, life inbetween is just a waiting room.

Your next punch is always the hardest.