The personal politics of eugenics

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Tuesday (still yesterday as I write this) was Suicide Prevention Day, and I avoided becoming a statistic of male suicide by keeping myself out of harm’s way. It’s hard to escape yourself when you live alone though, when the only person you have to talk to is you.

Eugenics tree

I’m having a rough time lately: I recently lost my brother-in-law, and was unable to see him before he left; I don’t know if my dad will know me whenever I see him next (he has a degenerative Parkinson’s-related illness); after making some money for my adopted sister, she’s gone off the radar without paying me; and I’m only seeing my kids every six weeks or so.

Social exclusion is partly anxiety on my part, but it’s exaggerated by government, denying me the means to deal with everything by starving me of funding. Much to their annoyance, I’m still here, as evidenced by me writing this.

My battle with the social cleansing machine (DWP) is now a year old, and despite the intervention of my MP, the waiting list for appeals is still over a year long. It hasn’t killed me yet, but the fascist regime’s project eugenics has worn me down. I’m at war with myself inside, while the rest of the world is against me outside my own. It’s paranoia, but that bedfellow of depression and anxiety makes itself very much at home on the fold-out futon I use for a bed.

My depressive sufferposting seems endemic among my social circles online, away from the people I once considered friends, who use the remoteness of social platforms to tell me to buck up, get a job, and earn the right to a life. It’s easy for them to say from afar, when they’ve not spoken to me in person for several years, and none of them were stabbed in the throat during a robbery like I was, leading to the first of my many diagnoses of PTSD. It’s all on this blog, which they don’t read. Instead, they’re narrow-minded, blinkered, reactionary, short-sighted and dismissive on my Facebook author page and personal timeline. But I don’t mind being a billboard for their ignorance.

Of course, I let my drinking take over, became an alcoholist, and I ended up homeless, but that’s all they see: always an alcoholic (because all alcoholics are, by medical definition), and just taking money from the state (one which does at least recognise me as being sufficiently mentally disabled to be placed in the ‘Support’ group for my ESA (Earnings and Support Allowance), rather than the ‘Working’ group, which expects one (me) to work).

These are the people who don’t have time to talk, read, listen and educate themselves; people I shouldn’t waste time on, but they trouble me (deliberately), like they don’t trouble themselves with this blog, or their own lives. Frankly, I don’t care about them, even though they’re just a small step from personal disaster if they lose their jobs, then their homes, if ever their protective bubble should burst, like mine did. I was like them once, and I’d tell them they’re only a few steps removed from me, if they took the time to listen.

But then, even though I’m waiting for the return of my main ‘benefit’ (the human right of personal independence), I have a more fulfilling life than most in a job which just pays the bills. I’m free to explore for myself, which is what social cleansing would deny me if it could. I just have to keep telling myself that.

The UK and the world will soon need more people like me, when my fascist ex-friends are either out of a job, made redundant by technology, or simply working so hard they don’t have time to look up and see what’s going on. Human eugenics doesn’t just focus on the poor, but on the free. As one who’s free from corporate employment, I can at least see that, and think about how we can deal with it. The game of life favours the long-term thinker, which is why they’re so determined to march over us and stamp us out, like those friends of mine.

My kindred spirits are the people with time to think, who aren’t in a regular job, who don’t have great prospects in convention, but who wear their hearts on their sleeves. They have time to confront the world now around them. One such posted on Facebook yesterday:

I feel myself changing. I don’t laugh the same any more, I don’t smile the same or talk the same. I’m just so tired of everything, mentally.

Like so many of us, conditioned by the world we live in, which at the moment is Hell on Earth. I’m afraid what this describes is ‘The Human Condition,’ (which a book reviewer said I have a deep understanding of) and it begs the question: What have we become, as a species?

The counter to that, is you’re not alone. This condition is a common foe which we can unite against. We have to, because we’re all the same. We are humanity, and we need saving from ourselves.

I have my personal issues, but I’d find them easier to deal with if it didn’t feel like the whole world was at war with me. The biggest paradox is the guilt I live with daily as a sober, penitent person, and the people I damaged being the same ones who keep me alive, not directly, but it wouldn’t be fair on them if I chalked up a statistic.

In these divisive times, it’s worth considering that we’ve never before had such an historic era in politics, both domestic and international. If this means that more young people take an interest in politics, we may be living in the eve of a generation who can make a difference. I believe our children can change the world, and as the consumer generation which brought them to this (and our parents before us), we owe them our support.

This whole inescapable nightmare starts again tomorrow, but only if I let it. If I kill myself, I won’t give it the pleasure, but if I keep surviving, I’ve kept battling on my own. I’ve been conditioned by what humanity has become, but I can see what unconditioned humanity is capable of.

It’s hard to escape yourself when you live alone, when the only person you have to talk to is you. That’s why I write, because I have you. It’s easier to talk like this. Thank you for listening to me. Even if this is a solitary read, it’s a human connection.

Eugenics Burden

Success in the game of life is surviving. If we’re alive, we’re still winning.

Baby Fistbump

 

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Best delivered by Brian Blessed

POETRY

Sometimes people play a greater part in another life than they ever realise. And we regret never telling them. I needed to write. I needed to get out what I was thinking, about my own mortality, and how I might express myself when I say farewell to a departed friend. Poetry seemed the best medium for a return to nature, and in my head it’s recited by Brian Blessed…

Moth Effect Poem2

Safe journey mate. For every push-up we didn’t do, there’s a daisy to do one on in the afterlife. Gordon’s alive, in the world of missing persons x

A decade in a haiku trilogy

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Since the good ship Simon set sail, I’ve been going through some old family photos on Facebook. Never one to shamepost pictures of my young adults when they were kids, the memories are nevertheless contained in the ten years I was married, when Mountsfield Park and Manor House Gardens were my 100 Aker Woods. The young ones are pure Catfordian, from Kentish and Irish blood, and that decade in the London Borough of Lewisham is where I learned Japanese and wrote 51 syllables…

WHEN WE WERE VERY YOUNG

Lollipop

THEN WE WERE FOUR

Dinner lady orange

I’LL ALWAYS MISS YOU,” SAID EEYORE…

Ambulance police

…to Piglet and Pooh, Kanga and Roo.

You can take the poet out of Catford, but that Two-tone cat will never stop scratching me.

catford se6 cat poem

A personal absurdist obituary

THE WRITER’S LIFE

This one goes out to my brother by another mothership, who set sail today when he reached his expiry date of best before 56. What’s quite disquieting is how my life has suddenly become normal.

In fond memory of Sundays spent tearing up News of the World colour supplements and ripping gender-specific glossies apart, when the grown-ups were inside with the kids and we were out the back, smoking, drinking, and talking at ease, observing the obscure and often floating on a tangent into absurdism, like Alexander Armstrong and Richard Osman on Pointless, like Bob Mortimer and Paul Whitehouse on a fishing trip, people like us being people like we were…

Claudia Winkleman Banner‘Swimming saved my sanity’: Gym-phobic Claudia Winkleman reveals why she’ll be swimming a mile for Sport Relief (2016). Photo: Jay Brooks (Daily Mail)

SHOWBIZ

Claudia Winkleman has confirmed what many have suspected for years: That she’s part-dolphin. In an article not appearing in this month’s National Enquirer, the Head and Shoulders advert and minor national treasure reveals how researching her family tree helped her understand a rare genetic mutation.

I’ve known all my life,” Winkleman says, “but my fringe covers by blowhole, so only my close friends and family knew until now.” I decided to come out after my trip in the TARDIS, she adds, referring to her previous appearance on the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing as a dolphin.

Claudia TARDISAnne’s TV Blog

Claudia uncovered the origin of her quirk while filming for a cancelled edition of the BBC’s Who Do You Think You Are? “I got hooked on genealogy,” Winkleman says, “and I just kept going back further and further through time. My ancestors were winklers, who harvested molluscs from the sea. I traced my family line back to the first humans, then even further.

Eventually I arrived at a common ancestor we all share, about 60 million years back. My 3 million times great grandmother was a flatworm, and her species followed many evolutionary paths, creating such diverse creatures as dolphins, octopuses, and humans.

We still share 90% of our DNA with that common ancient ancestor, and even though the Human Genome Project unlocked our genetic code, we’re only just on the threshold of understanding.

At a sub-atomic level, a single strand of DNA can store more information than is held in all the world’s libraries. We only just understand which bits do what general things. Deeper within the code though, beyond the 10% which is pure-human, ancient history lies dormant, in all the DNA programming which went on to evolve separate from us into things like the octopus and the dolphin.

So what I have is a genetic blip. For some reason, that part of my family’s DNA which has slept for millions of years has stirred. I haven’t spoken about it before now, because I feared the reaction. Perhaps a part of me was worried I’d be used for experiments. But I believe in being me, and I think everyone should be free to be themselves and to express that. We are all part-dolphin.

And I think it’s a gift. If it’s a trait I pass on further down the line, then perhaps I’ve helped kick start a tiny revolution in human evolution. Because the more I thought about the blowhole under my fringe, the greater I became aware of other people’s thoughts. And many scientists agree dolphins might be telepathic.

I’ve learned how to manipulate the blowhole like a mouth, and it’s operated by a different part of my brain to the one which controls the mouth below my nose. With my upper mouth, I can speak another language without really thinking about it.” Claudia blew her fringe from her face. “Mais non, je ne vais pas me couper la frange. Merci.”

Magners

Safe journey Si, a kindred inner spirit floating in a tin can, out there where surrealism is part of normal life x

Cigarette ends

Pessimistic sufferposting therapy

THE WRITER’S LIFE

In an update on a previous post, my brother-in-law Simon passed away today. He’s survived by his mum and four children. Safe journey brother x

Si died
Di died
Dodi died
The Dodo died
Dando died
Doddy died
Dido’s alive
and Danny Dyer
So’s the Dingo
in the dryer
Life is a game
of Bingo

When I can’t make the words in my head conform to any discipline, I just shit-post, then think of a picture to deface. Sometimes I put it on Facebook, more often on Twitter, then I regret it. Interpretation is the real artistic pursuit, and things just pop into my mind. “Don’t let it control you. Celebrate it.”

Grumpy cat depressed GOOD

I’ve made the inside of my head a place full of friends. It’s the only way to deal with people you can’t get rid of, and it can make for a good game of 8-Ball.

ginger cat-on-laptop poem2

Meanwhile, we all have a bigger game to play outside: Let’s save this burning home of ours. We were only ever guests of those who were here first, and we owe it to them, if not ourselves.

Art Chimp Phone

To be anxious is to be human right now. All we need to do is keep talking.

These images never leave, but they hide unless I curate them for hanging in my gallery of thinking, where I can trust the public to steal them. It’s what I call sociology.

 

Typewriters as carry-on luggage

THE WRITER’S LIFE | POETRY

My typewriter uses magnets to get the hammers to hit the paper, because I need help to press the keys. Don’t ask me why I eat my cornflakes from a coffee mug with a small spoon: I’m quite content and I know what I’m doing, putting my writing into the overhead locker. 

It’s been like that since my right wing broke and I crash-landed on the streets. Unlikely to ever regain the heady financial heights of running a company into the ground and milking it for all it was worth, the left wing poet started crowing.

The lead is still in my chest, the flapping in the gutter never allowing me an escape through the portcullis of a wrought iron drain cover. Sober now but always an alcoholic (a medical fact), and forever toxic to some of those whose lives I touched, writing is my therapy and an escape from social isolation. Sometimes that’s just a few words to the gathered audience of myself.

We wrote a poem about what’s in and out of the Cerberus head, for one a micro fiction tale of several thousand pounds used as a bankroll to play poker, before I had to pay a supplier to keep my knees, when he called round at my converted manor house flat. I needed to be shot down.

TWO-WAY X-RAY

Broken right wingIf I had a hammer and a fuzzbox

With my mind full of ghosts, it helps to spew into the typewriter. If I were to exorcise everything, I’d need an eternity in which to remain awake. That’s when I talk to myself, often all night. There’ll usually come a point where I realise everything I’ve said can be edited and condensed, which is why my longhand notes fill a wall (I keep a notepad next to my bed).

How you’re feeling in your own room is like the 19-word synopsis for this post in the verse above, about the fuel at both ends of the candle, all day and every day: depression.

But the strange thing is, that thing which envelops me is also a comfort blanket. When you’re alone, your own brain can become your enemy, so you make friends with one of its quirks.

Let’s go.”

Why?”

Because one day we won’t be able to.”

That’s why, if someone gave me a big red button to switch it all off, reset my brain and be ‘Normal’, I’d refuse. I’ve seen what’s considered normal, and I don’t like it. Because when you find a place where you can be yourself, where you can have a ball playing you on stage, that’s a place you want to be yourself, even if you’re only dancing in front of the mirror. Typewriters carrying on as luggage.

Orange typewriter poem

In here, I can meet you, me, and everyone we see. I can explore the universe and tell tales of what happens to us in the future. You are the spaceport security scanning my typewriter, and you don’t mind sitting next to me on a spaceship. Thanks for travelling with me, even when we have to land the ship at Jumbo Harbour to refuel.

Every night has a day, and every day has a night, depending on when you sleep. That’s meant to dictate when you eat. Thanks for not questioning why I use pencils as chopsticks.

Set adrift on memories’ rift

UK NEWS | THE WRITER’S LIFE

We are free to choose, but we are not free from the consequence of our choice.

Recently I noticed some UK government forms now include ‘British European’ under ‘Race’ as an identifier. As a journalist without borders, I’m apparently guilty of treason for identifying as European.

I’m not proud of what I represent (a white, British male), but I reserve the freedom to choose how I see myself. As a benefits claimant, I’m part of the demographic which the UK government is keen to cleanse. As a socialist, I’m in the same boat.

borisbrexitmigration2S4RK (B3ta)

bCaAwHNTribs (B3ta)

Like thousands of other Guardian-reading arty-types, I’m an economic and social refugee, fleeing the persecution of a fascist dictatorship. I identify as a pansexual, from before the time of imposed genders, and with a black heart from the motherland. I’m a citizen of planet Earth, and a thorn in the side of dictators who’d gladly put a harpoon in my dignity dinghy.

I’m also an eccentric, and my queer self-expression needs freedom from boundaries. Once we’ve worked out what floats, we need to make sails. Curtains are good.