THE WRITER’S LIFE
While I’ve been away from the typewriter, I’ve accumulated a lot of notes in a pocket journal my kids bought me, much of which I need to make sense of. While I do that in the background, I’m using writing prompts to keep the writer alive. Opening 642 Things to Write About on a random page, I was faced with this:
Describe an image that is embedded in your brain in detail and why it remains there
It was time to place my nose to the grindstone, like so many humans before, as exhibited by the tell-tale hole in the face of any excavated human skeleton. I had the painters in…
Embedded in – consuming – my mind, is my ongoing battle to win back my independence from the UK government, a conflict now entering its sixth month. More on the incompetence of the social cleansing apparatus another time, as I wrote last time, when I also noted that it was the machine which was holding me back, preventing me from writing, and demonically possessing me. This then is a good opportunity to get to know that particular beast. There’s no point fighting what what won’t show its face, but while it hides, the inquisitive caller can infect its ears.
I should be intimate with it now, having spent so much time in its vacuous oral tubes. What began with a bi-annual assessment (for entitlement to a ‘benefit’ which ought to be a human right; the means to live independently after paying national insurance for life (which the UK government is using to pay off the national debt at the expense of the UK pension fund)) at the beginning of September, resulted in the expected refusal (denial is their default). Before appealing against the decision at tribunal, I had to request a mandatory reconsideration, where mandatory is the operative word and a further denial arrived as expected in December.
I’ve spent the entirety of this year so far using my mobile phone minutes listening to deafeningly distorted Mozart while on hold, often giving up when no-one answers after about half an hour (there’s no indication of when your call may be answered, no magic number in some imaginary queue, no genie in the bottle, nor in the magazine). It’s another part of the weeding-out process. Whenever I’ve made some kind of human contact, I’ve encountered questions I don’t know that answers to, and posed questions the machine can’t answer, so it hangs up. And so more enquiring minds like mine will give up.
I’ve been sent the wrong and incomplete paperwork to progress my case, just in time for deadlines to expire. I’ve spent many more minutes listening to Wolfgang Amadeus, more still trying to explain the ever-more complicated situation to the machine which placed me there, only for the apparatus to throw a spanner into its own workings by simply not dealing as one human to another. A deep well of tenacity and determination has to be plumbed to survive this far. Not everyone can find that. As things stand, I can only wait. I don’t know when the next shit sandwich will arrive in the mail, if it’s even headed here in the first place. The system creates the unknown to fertilise the anxiety it sows.
The greatest human fear is that of the unknown, and it applies to us as individuals just as it does the entire species. Although I have no control over the government’s economic murder agenda, if I can imagine the thing and describe it, then I’ve brought it out into view; I’ve exposed it, and once I’ve seen it, it’s no longer unknown. Well, that’s the plan.
Before I write of how it looks, let’s first consider what it is. It’s a part of the fascist machinery, as we witness a rise of the far-right in politics at home and around the world. Like the Nazis, the neo agenda is population reduction and short-term financial and political gain (bosses of the company the UK government out-sources benefits assessments to recently awarded themselves over £40m in ‘performance bonuses’), with no consideration for future generations. Theirs is a recipe for human extinction, including economic murder, through segregation and exploitation of the poor. People like me, and those who fell before.
Behind the machine is an engine, always pushing one step closer to a totalitarian fascist regime: Creating societal divisions in a “Them and us” rhetoric, using language to normalise negative racial stereotyping, creating fear in conditioned minds of an imagined enemy, breeding intolerance with ignorance, perpetuated by the right-wing media validating subconscious narratives. I am Them, like so many still fighting, not just for a ‘benefit entitlement’ but a human right, to keep talking through the noise of the engine.
It’s an apparatus which barely disguises an ideology as twisted as the mechanics of enforcement, a tunnelling machine burrowing into democracies and installing populist fascist leaders, like so many heads of the prophesied beast, with a false prophet installed as the leader of the free world, the Antichrist (see Trump’s United States of Terror). But what of what we can’t see, what of the machinations in my mind? In there is a microcosm of humanity’s place in the cosmos, one human in a universal brain. The theatre plays out on a sub-atomic stage, here viewed through a microscope.
My beast is a torture apparatus, and part-organic. It’s a mechanical animal. It’s designed by Jigsaw from the Saw films. It’s the kitchen in August Underground’s Diner. It’s a worm which burrows into the human brain, like the larva of a Tsetse fly. It’s not a clean machine, it’s one of infection and contagion. It’s steam, smoke and oil from the mouth, sharp edges and grinding surfaces, cogs, screws and pistons, an acid digestive system eventually spewing the waste of consumptive energy, poisoning its host.
It doesn’t have a face. Instead, at the head of the boring machine, protecting the egg-laying organism which follows, are interchangeable tools, a genocidal multi-drill. It’s part vintage sewing machine, a mechanical arm pounding metal stitches into open wounds, eyelids which might see, and lips which may speak. It has fangs the size of the wheel pistons on a steam locomotive, leaking venomous oil.
And that’s just the head, only the front teeth, the smiling unseen face, swallowing with no fear of regurgitation. Once the prey is stunned, it’s sucked back into a shredder of metallic flesh, and into a digestive system of oppression, which deflates the lungs, drains the kidneys, and stamps on the heart. If you can keep your head above the digestive fluids, the brain can regenerate.
That’s where I am now, in the belly, stuffed full of petrified souls. I still can’t fully describe the face of an organism which lacks one, but I’ve penetrated the facade, like a retro-futuristic steam punk space ship; a hybrid micro automata and organic plot device, burrowing into the retina of a host organism which invited me into its face. I’ve switched antagonists in this story.
So there we have it. I’ve faced my featureless demon, withdrawn from my head so that I can better describe it objectively as an outsider. It’s still full of unknown quantities, probably storing up a few bites or stings for me as I continue to fight it, but I have no need to fear it in the daily waiting and not knowing, when I can exorcise it like this. I can write.
If only divided Britain could take a step back like me, but from the politicians and media, to see Brexit as it truly is. If only the world could look objectively like this as the precipice it’s staring down as we face extinction as a species. Then we could agree to differ for a while, sort out the mess which is our common problem, and still have a table to come back to if we want to continue negotiating for whatever it is we don’t know we want. Humankind is largely bi-polar, with individuals and factions coerced into either extreme of fascism or communism, when liberal socialism is where the longer conversations are to be had.
That’s not how humanity works when democracy has been broken, when a social welfare system serves only to reduce the burden on the entitled, of those who are unable to work and therefore can’t be taxed, and instead an indirect tax is imposed on liberty and freedom (see The Tory plan for new housing: a social tax on climate change (satire)), including the withholding of a ‘benefit’ which would permit a person the human right of independence.
The greater beast behind the machine is the fascist ideal, which poses an existential threat to humanity and the only planet we have to call home. It’s always on my mind, another contributor to my anxiety and depression. I can’t beat the world, but I can keep my voice. I’ve beaten the system before, and I won’t be an existential statistic.
By the time this latest processing through the mincer ends, almost a year will have passed. Assessments are every two years, so I’ll face it all again 12 months later. The only difference between me and thousands of others is that I can find a way to deal with it through expression. What separates me from hundreds of others is that I’m still alive, and living in the belly of the beast to tell the tale.
Just as the problems in my mind are those of the human race in miniature, so the protagonists can be reversed too: thousands of humans won’t see tomorrow. They’ll lose a voice, and so will we.