When God was a chicken

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Lately I’ve been spending time with Lenny, the chicken which hatched from a Campbell’s soup can painted by Andy Warhol. I’ve been accused of making Len up, as though the cure for my social anxiety was all in my mind. In any case, we’ve been touring the places I know. We’ve been out in my village, and anyone who saw us will know we’re real.

poulet3_0

As Helen (as she turned out to be) had grown restless in the studio, we first visited the local charity shops. As an assistance chicken, she was allowed in, which eased a burden of pressure on me. Len could choose her own toys, which she did by pecking and clawing at various pieces of plastic tat. She also took an interest in the books, vigorously headbutting a children’s bible. It was a win-win for me: Money to charity, and a happy self-educating chicken to boot.

Len was keen to return home with her toys and book, but we still had shopping to do. As we walked through the village, she was tugging at her lead in various directions she considered to be toward home (she was no pigeon). The zebra crossing on the high street contained poultry for much of the afternoon, as we crossed repeatedly from one side to the other.

Eventually we made it to the supermarket, where I stocked up on food for us both. Len stayed close, perhaps sensing my relief that this was the last stop and we’d be home soon.

Back at the studio, I unpacked the shopping while Len made a bed with her toys and started leafing through her children’s bible. I asked her if there was anything she fancied for dinner, and she headbutted an open page in her book. It was Jesus and the feeding of the 5000. I made us fish finger sandwiches.

While I was cooking, Len read some more of her bible. As I was putting our sandwiches together, I heard a tapping on my typewriter. Craning my head around the doorway, I saw Len at the desk, on this very laptop. I saved what she typed:

I am God.”

Maybe my chicken couldn’t speak to me directly, but she’d found a way to communicate. I had to reply:

What makes you say that?”

My family are dead. I am the only one left.”

Who were your family?”

Those in the supermarket, the Indian, the Chinese and the kebab shop.”

No wonder we’d crossed the road so many times. Thankfully there isn’t a KFC in the village, and Deliveroo don’t deliver(oo).

I am God.”

How do I know?”

I couldn’t ask for proof besides her survival outside the local food outlets, because that would deny faith. Even though I’m an atheist, I at least had a chicken for company. My chicken – imaginary or not – had helped me overcome my social anxiety.

You’ll never know,” she wrote, “my beautiful typewriter.”

Why?”

But there was no reply. My chicken had disproved herself, because I’d asked.

As an atheist, I don’t pray to any false deity made in man’s image, but Lenny the chicken will forever live in my mind.

Kentucky friedKentucky fried | Protect me from what I want (Michel Koven Blog)

© Steve Laker, 2019

 

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Andy Warhol looks a scream

THE WRITER’S LIFE | FLASH FICTION

With my fight for independence still very much ongoing with DWP, and mindful of a personal promise to keep writing and not let them take this from me, I remembered I’m a part-time surrealist, and I’ve not written much which is real or unreal lately.

Initially I thought I’d write a short story about poverty, food banks, and the UK government’s economic genocide. I decided that could wait, after I spotted a writing prompt which might permit me wider thought: ‘A can of soup’.

So I mixed up some paints to tell the real and fictional lives of a writer…

Chicken soup

CAMPBELL’S CHICKEN SOUP

I was hungry and lately I’d had a cold. I fancied chicken soup and CBeebies, or repeats of Doctor Who with Tom Baker and Matt Smith. But my cupboards were bear and my pre-pay meter low, so I decided to use the last of my electricity to heat a tin of Campbell’s soup given to me by Andy Warhol.

This being a piece of art history, the can displayed no use-by date. Given who it was from, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found an egg inside. Instructions too. I was to place the egg in an oven at the lowest possible setting, checking on it every two hours until it hatched.

My cooker is electric, so the lowest setting is 70 degrees. Fearing this might be a little warm, I left the oven door open. An egg was unlikely to attempt escape, but it would eventually hatch. My anxiety dictates I don’t go out much, but I had someone else to feed now, so I ordered some seeds on the internet.

After a couple of days, a yellow chick hatched and began frantically chirping at me. Too small to peck at the seeds I’d bought, I fed it liquidised food from a syringe I happened to have lying around.

It was impossible to tell if my chick was a boy or girl. In any other setting, if it’d been a girl, she’d have been reared for egg-laying, or fattened up for human consumption. A boy would be discarded, often destined to be reptile food. I called it Lenny, or Len, after Leonard Hofstadter, or Helen of Troy.

For the first few nights, I slept in the kitchen next to the warmth from the oven, waking every couple of hours to feed Lenny. In return, she (I’d decided) gave substance to my lonely life, where lately I’d have put my head in her home if I cooked with gas. After about a week, Helen was pecking at the seeds I’d bought.

I let Len live in the oven and left the door open. If she wished, she could have the run of the flat. She grew quickly and after a month, she was of a size which wouldn’t look out of place in a supermarket freezer.

Some birds are born with very large head-to-body ratios (the corvids, penguins, parakeets and parrots), and many are as intelligent as dolphins or the great apes. All birds are born with instincts. The first is imprinting the face they see on hatching as that of their mother.

I was Leonard Hofstadter’s mum, noted psychologist Dr Beverley Hofstadter. As though prompted by that, Len developed some strange behaviour, and I wondered if it might also be instinctive.

Lenny kept getting out of the cooker and pressing the buttons on the front. She started plucking at her feathers, as though preparing herself for roasting, like an old Doctor Who on a carving trolley at The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. I had a depressed chicken. Was it because mine was the first face she saw when she’d hatched? Or was Helen actually Leonard, burdened with a childhood lived in shadows? I switched the oven off at the mains.

Just lately I’ve been so broke that I’ve had to choose between eating and heating. Now I’ve got Len, I took a doorstep loan and put money on the electric key, so she wouldn’t need the oven to keep warm. It means she can watch TV as well, and she loves CBeebies.

Tomorrow we’ll visit the local charity shops to buy my chicken some toys. We’re out of food, so we’ll have to go to the food bank as well.

© Steve Laker, 2019

It all started when Andy Warhol painted a Campbell’s soup can. I just wondered what happened to what he painted. Can’t tell them apart at all.

A personal data tax could pay for a Universal Basic Income

DEAR DIARY

Imagine a world where everyone’s basic human needs are taken care of, a world with no homelessness or poverty. In this same world, people are paid a basic wage, simply for being who they are. Difficult though it may be to imagine, it’s a world which doesn’t have to be too far away. In fact, it’s one we could live in right now, if we think differently. Not as a hive mind, but as a colony.

steampunk_observatory_by_akira_ravenlier-d4mlbeqSteampunk Observatory by Akira-Ravenlier (DeviantArt)

Here’s a radical idea: Imagine if data were taxed. That’s not to say that we – the average internet user – should pay a tax on all the data we access for free. Rather, the companies who make huge profits from mining and selling our personal data, would pay a rate of tax on the volumes of information they use. It’s not an entirely new idea, but it’s still radical and would require a lot of work to come to fruition. But it’s an idea which could work, and which could solve many other problems as a fortunate side-effect. Big ideas need big money though. New ideas need new money. Is there such a thing as social capitalism?

For over a generation now, human kind has had free access to more or less all human knowledge. That’s the internet by design, and the way things should be: sharing and co-operation, mainly for the greater good. The cost of this free access is personal data, which is a fair exchange for most, although there remain those who are ignorant of this: Some people really do think they can have something for nothing. But when we sign up to Facebook, Google and all the rest, we agree to give them our personal data in return for the use of their platform (it’s in the Terms & Conditions, which very few people read). The internet companies then use this data to sell targeted advertising, keeping their sites free to use, and it’s a model which works well for the most part, and to monetise it in any other way (subscription sites aside) would go against the whole ethos of Sir Tim Berners-Lee‘s genius (my insertion of that hyperlink was the basis of Sir Tim’s brainchild: a link to further information, stored elsewhere. Rather poetically in this illustration, that’s the father of the internet himself). And yet, here sits this unimaginably huge thing which we’ve made through co-operation and altruism. Sir Tim’s wish was for it to remain free forever, and so it should. But might there not be a humanitarian way to monetise it?

Because at the same time, we have humanitarian issues to address: causes which require revenue. Close to home, and close to my heart, is homelessness. Cutting through many debates to get to a point, is it not an immoral government which presides over a public, who see a home as more of a luxury than a necessity? Let’s not get into the many debates about individual liberties and how we got here, this is about a new idea which – like all – would need development. For now, I’m trying to keep it on that track. But homelessness is just one of many social issues which could be addressed by the introduction of a Universal Basic Income.

In its simplest form, a universal basic income is an amount given to everyone, regardless of status. It’s just enough to put a roof over someone’s head, feed and heat them. It’s the means for people to live modestly. What have they done to deserve this? Unfortunately, that’s the most common question. Instead, I’d ask, what have they done that they should be deprived a home? We’re not talking about Acacia avenue semis here, but basic accommodation, a bit like I have.

What I have, is a studio flat: a 12 foot square room, with not even enough room for a bed, once my other stuff is crammed in. I use a futon, which I could write a whole blog post as an ode to, as it’s at least a bed. And it’s mine. I have a small separate kitchen, and I have a toilet and shower room off-suite. As I’ve said before, it’s not an ideal flat, but as a studio which I use as an office, it’s fine. It’s as much as I need.

My rent is covered by the housing benefit I receive from the local authority, and it’s paid to a social landlord. I’m a social tenant, because I’m recognised as a vulnerable individual with a disability. Mine is invisible, but I’m no less deserving after the years of work it took to get to this place in my life. As well as housing benefit, I receive benefits commensurate with my needs, as I’m mentally unwell and unable to work in the conventional sense (for anyone else). With my basic needs taken care of, I can concentrate on being the best at something which I enjoy. From that, I gain satisfaction, and I hope that others gain from what I do too.

I’m perhaps not the best example, but I’m an example nonetheless, of someone who has been given their basic needs, so that they are free to do something worthwhile. For many others, this might be finding work with a company, or forming their own. For some, they may wish to study, then enter employment later with higher qualifications. And there will be some, to whom the basic income is enough, because they want for no more. Even so, the problems of poverty and homelessness could be solved with a universal basic income. As an ex-tramp myself, I know that all a human needs is a secure base from which to build the rest, whatever that may be. As the benefactor of that rare modern phenomenon, the social landlord, I know how that works. The greater debate about the way things came to be like this eventually becomes moot, as people realise what happens when everyone is given their basic human needs, in order to live as a human being. For the most part, it’s a positive thing.

Society as a whole needs to adopt a wider view, and just like those given a home to sort themselves out, so everything that’s left behind will get cleared up too, because people will be free and available to address those things.

Many countries already operate a Guaranteed Minimum Income system: Canada, Ireland, Finland, Denmark, Iceland, The Netherlands, and many of the United States of America. Other countries are advocates, including many in the EU (including the UK, while still a member). And the founders and CEOs of those online giants are supporters too, because they see the long-term advantages of happy people and nations. It’s those people who hold the keys.

While the rest of the world lags without a universal income, such a societal change requires not only a different mindset, it requires capital. In the UK at least, we are not of a sufficiently evolved mindset (as a nation) to accept a simple tax-the-rich policy, but this overall point I’m striving to make ought to transcend current politics. Because I believe there is a way to effectively make the necessary money appear, as if by magic. And all it is, is a radical idea. At the moment, it’s a case of throwing it out there and seeing what happens.

It’s no secret that the internet giants pay very little tax. That’s another debate which can be left aside for the purposes of this, because there is another way. It’s a far-reaching vision, but many of the founders and CEOs of those online behemoths are true visionaries themselves, thinking long-term of future worlds, not necessarily run by their companies.

Elon Musk made his money from PayPal. Ask the average person in the street what PayPal does, and they’ll have an idea, but most wouldn’t be able to tell you how the model works, and how that fortune came to be. And yet the idea is a very simple one. Essentially, PayPal is a means of exchanging money, which is simple and free. I myself have a PayPal account, which I use to receive some freelance payments, then make small online purchases with. For me, it’s a micro account which I run completely independently, and for many people, that’s the simple solution it represents. Others use it in more sophisticated ways, but in total, there are tens of millions of PayPal users with sums of money sitting in the limbo which is PayPal, a holding house between merchant and buyer. Many of those accounts lie dormant most of the time, and all contain funds. To a business, this is a cash asset, and it has liquidity. All of those millions of currency can be used, to invest, to speculate, and to grow. PayPal exists on the money made from what are effectively stock market cash trades. Give a good investor your funds, and that investor will grow them for you. And that’s what Elon Musk did very successfully, while providing a free service for many others. Now we have the Tesla electric car and all of that company’s research into producing power which can be transmitted, just as Nikola Tesla himself envisioned. Musk is also one of the pioneers of commercial space travel and exploration. His long-term vision is to change the world and humanity. Elon Musk made his initial capital so that he could pursue this greater goal.

Jeff Bezos, Founder and CEO of Amazon, envisions a future world where his company’s infrastructure exists in ‘cloud cities’, manufacturing and distribution facilities constructed above the earth’s surface. His vision is to return much of the planet to nature, while some of mankind moves into these vast cloud cities. The sci-fi writer can be a pessimist in seeing a two-tier dystopia in that, or a natural utopia. In any case, it’s long-term vision. And it’s that of the internet entrepreneur most likely to be labelled a capitalist, because Amazon sells tangible goods.

Returning to Google and Facebook, they make the majority of their money from our personal data, which they sell to advertisers. In return, we receive free and unlimited use of their platforms. It’s a simple business transaction of an intangible product. But what if we suddenly said, “Hold on. I realise I’m receiving something in return for giving you my data, and that it’s in the terms and conditions of our contract. But I think my data is worth more than that.”

Naturally, there would be objections and much debate. In an ideal world, we, the serfs, would say to our governing classes, “Hey, we’d like you to tax those companies for mining our information. We accept that they use it for their own gain and to improve their business and our lives, and we accept that they are very tax efficient with their business affairs. We also see that you don’t have sufficient means through tax collected, to use that as a government should: to benefit the tax-payer. So we wonder if perhaps we might make a suggestion: could you could place a ring-fenced social tax on our data please?”

Once the mechanisms are calculated and agreed, the revenue raised from placing a tax on personal data could be sufficient to finance a universal basic income sustainably. Like I said, it’s a very simple but radical idea, but one which governments and the internet giants subscribe to. Unfortunately, the machinations of government (especially in the UK) are painfully slow. Politics can be radical, if the elected politicians think differently, or if someone just thinks differently, perhaps by listening. There is a rumour of Mark Zuckerberg running for US president. For my part, I’ve tried to write all of this in such a way that it’s accessible, and I hope it’ll be shared.

It’s power to the people. It’s about addressing the balance of power and returning that to the people. That’s anarchy. But could human kind use what it has created, to evolve as a race? I just wrote a late night diary entry. 

But I’m just part of Earth 2.0, the organic supercomputer designed by Deep Thought in The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, to work out why the answer is 42. The computer only works if all of the component parts co-operate to the greater good of the machine.

steampunk_goggles_11_1_by_ambassadormann

For an alternative answer to the greatest question – that of life, the universe and everything – I wrote a ‘Sci-fi Rom Com’ (it’s now been called): Cyrus Song. It’s about what happened when three humans were able to talk to the other people they share this planet with: The animals.

Streams of soda consciousness

THE WRITER’S LIFE

If I don’t write this now I’ll be conceding defeat, not to one nemesis or tormentor, but to life. The Tory social cleansing machine nearly got the better of me today, so I have no option but to write about the constant scream of consciousness.

mixtape_christmas

This blog was once the daily diaries of a homeless drunk, written during an hour of public access time on a library computer. Lately I’ve not been able to find any time to collect my thoughts, let alone convey them. Rather than sit around all day, confused and wondering what to write, I thought I’d spend an hour like I used to in the library, writing, like I haven’t been lately.

Everything whirling in my head has become almost overwhelming, and there’s been plenty of it. Keeping it to myself while I contemplate how to address it meant that I didn’t confront it. Tired of life and the world, I have to write to save my own little place in both.

It’s pretty clear to all but the most ignorant that the world will end, one way or another, during our lifetime. It’s completely obvious to me and thousands of others, that the UK government are a bunch of fascist murderers. And it’s plain in my mind that I’ve not been right lately. Unless I can sort that last one out, I’ve got no chance of playing any part in doing anything about the other two.

The writer’s block is because my mind is so full of all that stuff. There are potential solutions and suggestions in there, but what’s been keeping them at bay is the world of me at the front of my head, the face I haven’t shown.

My ongoing battle with the Department for Work and Pensions is now well into its sixth month, not through inaction on my part so much as incompetence on theirs approaching Vogon levels. More on that another time, in a different post, where I’ll free another hour to write.

For now, the world of me has been laid to waste by the government’s best efforts to kill me by proxy, by denying me (like thousands of others) the so-called benefit (some would say a human right) of personal independence. They’ve taken away the money I’ve been judged entitled to for the last four years, which allowed me to live an independent life, while suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) picked up from mental and physical abuse I encountered while living on the streets. But of course, I put myself there by being drunk. As if the daily guilt wasn’t enough. I was ill, and I still am. Always judged.

I’ve been judged as deserving of personal independence by those qualified to do so (tribunal panels) in the past, but the system is designed to make people kill themselves, with out-sourced assessors deliberately ignoring evidence of entitlement to massage the government’s figures and pay their private sector employers’ and shareholders’ bonuses. It’s a murderous apparatus, employed by a morally bankrupt dictatorship. Like the wider world, the UK is a victim of the wealthy minority running government so that fascist capitalism trumps a more socialist approach which might otherwise save our species and our home. That’s another hour of writing a separate post.

When I used to write this blog in the library, it was my way of keeping in touch with my world and the wider one beyond, whether anyone gave a toss or not. It was always therapy. Lately I’ve assumed no-one cares, because I’ve been caring less about myself and most things beyond. I realise that even dealing with myself is not something I can do on my own.

I’d become convinced that if I felt as low and little about myself as I’d been ground down to feel by the social cleansing machinery, then anyone else would give even less of a shit. But every hour that I’ve stared at this blog I spent the last five years building, I can’t help notice that quite a few people follow it, and therefore me.

Most of my followers hitched up when they read one of my short stories, but others have climbed on board the wagon through empathy. I know my watchers here aren’t like those necrophiliac perverts at DWP, and you don’t want to see me fail (as in, die). How does knowing that make me feel? Honestly, I feel better.

I have a better life now, one where I don’t have to commandeer a public access computer to get all my thoughts down in an allotted hour. But actually, setting an hour aside to simply write is the best way to do that. Because the time we have together is allotted by me now, and it makes me feel better just talking to you. And whether I’m heard or not, it helps to talk.

This blog was once the daily diaries of a homeless drunk. Then it became that of a writer with mental health labels, writing about being a writer with mental health labels. I’m sober now, and I have a home. Then lately that stopped, and it was because of the killing machine. It was that which made me write for an hour tonight. I’ll stop now. I could go on, but if I stop then I know I can come back and write for another hour another time.

There’d be no point – indeed no point in being me – if I didn’t have readers. Hopefully this brief diary provided some insight (for voyeuristic perverts). I’m stopping now and not re-reading or revising. This was stream of consciousness stuff, like I used to write in the library. Once that meter ran out, I was cut off for another day at least: See you again soon.

There, I said it. I wrote it. I feel like a writer again. Lost and in need of rescue, but you can’t be rescued if you don’t shout. You can’t write if no-one can read. I feel better. Thanks for reading. For everyone who got this far, there are many who didn’t. But they might read this sometime. They wouldn’t if I hadn’t written it.

Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.” Baz Luhrmann. Keep moving. Keep living. It’s too late to floss my teeth, but I won’t let fascists dance on my grave.

mixtape_main-870x580

I need to pay my annual hosting fees soon, and fascist Tory human rights policies mean I can’t afford to. Donations always help me to keep writing this blog ($1 per follower who could afford it would be massive), and there’s Cyrus Song: a perfectly plausible solution to all our problems, available for less than a decent coffee as an eBook (also available in paperback, like the rest of my books).

Leave heavy lifting to the reader

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Whatever the length of a story, each word has a load to carry, and it’s a writer’s job to make sure each pulls its weight. Where a key rule is ‘show, don’t tell,’ words often have to carry passengers, in meanings, parallels, and analogies. Writing a story of six words is good exercise for the longhand pen while away from the typewriter, where I’ve been with a notebook.

German times tables

Like many writers, around 90% of what I write is never published: it’s all notes and thoughts in journals. From some of those (less than 10%) something more might emerge, and one of my favourite writer sandpits to play in is the six-word story. Even within such a tight word limit, a story can have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but I try to use the minimalism of the format for more than one effect, even if it looks like I can’t be arsed.

I try to make my fiction evocative, invoking memories and questions: ‘What if…(…he’d finished the job; I just end this…)?’ The six-word story lends itself to that (leaving the heavy-lifting to the reader). Those stories then languish in my notepad, and some become more. Others remain just thoughts, but ideas shared might find another writer looking for an idea or a starting point. There are a finite number of plots and writers to write them, but infinite ways of telling the stories.

Being anonymous John, Malkovich (Malkovich, Malkovich…)

Malkovich-Banner-1024x576

Watching TV tonight, I jotted a few things down in my journal. I ended up with seven six-word stories, some final drafts, and others the seeds for my own longer stories or those of other writers. To a reader carrying their weight (of interpretation), seven stories of six words could be seven chapters in a story of 42 words.

Together, we can write books which have many more pages in the mind than they do in reality. ‘Leave heavy lifting to the reader’ is a story in itself…

Lonely dog seeks new homeless human

Innocence, learning, losing; life’s only path

Butterfly lands, human blinks, humanity sleeps

To their utter astonishment, it flew

A benevolent armada, above the clouds

I asked if they had music

In the beginning was the end

There are many more of the briefest tales at the online repository of such things, SixWordStories.net. My longer works are available from Amazon (other bookshops are available, and all of my titles can be requested from most (and at public lending libraries)).

In the beginning, this was new

I go everywhere, you go anywhere

I ask why, you tell me

At the end, we leave together

1. Message to campers? (2,3,7)*

THE WRITER’S LIFE

There was a time when if anyone asked me how I was or what I’d been up to, I’d just tell them to read this blog. Lately I’ve been distracted, consumed, and my posts sparse. My story continues, but nowadays it’s tales around the campfire with old friends, as I edit what’s in my head.

burning1981The Burning (1981)

It’s probably not gone unnoticed (least of all by me) that I’ve not written much that’s new lately. It’s equally clear that’s because of my preoccupation with fighting for my independence with a fascist regime. But as I’ve noted recently, I’ve accumulated a lot of longhand notes, scribbled at random times in a journal, but not evolving into anything.

Two things occurred to me: that I’m spiting myself by allowing the social cleansing machine to wear me down; and that in any case, I only have a finite amount of time available.

So I’ve made a kind of belated new year’s resolution, if only to myself and for the sake of my sanity, to keep me writing. As part of that, I’ve been fleshing out some of those notebook ideas and building the beginnings of plots.

The message to campers is a statement of intent, and of me building personal goals, as I lay foundations for a third collection of short stories and a possible novel in the next year or two. This then is me setting out my stall and committing myself (but without strict deadlines attached, I’ll just go at my own pace).

Some will be flash fiction, others long-form (and the possible novel, or at least a novella). All are working titles and subject to change, not being written for quite some time, or at all. These are not synopses, as I don’t want to give anything other than intrigue away. Just hints, in the hope people want to read the stories they become.

This is my sandpit too. There are a finite number of plots, but infinite ways of interpreting and telling them. If any other writers reading are struggling with the block, perhaps I might provide seeds, and stories could be told which I’d never have written. Others are free to join me in my playground:

Homo equus: The discovery of bones (possibly ancient), some human and others from horses. Perhaps to be expected in a battlefield, but like many of my older stories, there’s a twist which very few will see approaching.

Message in a bottle: A story arising from plastic pollution, where new bacteria are found to thrive. Could they be an effect of plastics we haven’t yet considered, given the problem is so recent?

The extraterrestrial typewriter: From a writing prompt in the writer’s block-busting book I have, 642 Things to Write About, specifically What your desk thinks about at night. With my laptop running the SETI@Home screensaver, a form of first contact is made between my typewriter and a signal from the cosmos.

Andrea: An android, who – like so many others – wonders what life means. It’s a well-used trope, usually addressing immortality, but I’m building a twist in, kind of an opposite of Philip K Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Technological beings are made from the same stuff as us organics, the dust from the stars. They just had an explosive evolution and worked out they’d quite like to live.

Neo Anominati: Human DNA is hacked. Can’t say much more.

The genomic riddle: DNA can travel vast distances and carry huge amounts of information. What if we’re looking in the wrong place with SETI and radio astronomy?

The plastic population: Imagining another world, with strict controls over the introduction of foreign bodies, and where any human free of all traces of plastic is free to visit. Such a shame that micro-plastics pollute our first home to such a degree that they’re now in the rain, and every living organism.

We are the swine: A neo-apocalyptic Lord of The Flies, some Animal Farm, and a bit of 1984.

August underground overground: A companion piece to the original August Underground’s Diner (near Hotblack Desiato’s office in Islington), launched in pop-up form in Wimbledon and staffed by recovering horror icons (think Pinhead with Elastoplast, Freddy Krueger with skin grafts and a manicure…). It might have some Wombles as antagonists.

hellraiserfaceswab2Beta (atomic)

Those are the ones with some literate flesh and bones. There are others besides, some ideas so surreal that they might not make it out of the journal or my head. But it’s enough to be getting on with, to check back on and to work through. Knowing people besides myself are watching adds another (very pleasant, quite thrilling) dimension.

*1. “To all intents” (announcing intentions to the campsite)

When I started writing this blog (over five years ago), it was because I had no-one to talk to, notes-to-self while I lived on the streets and transcribed my scrawl on a library computer. It’s still that, albeit on the typewriter, on my writer’s desk, in my studio: an attempt to write what’s on my mind, whether or not I had plans for that material in fiction or reality, but always wearing my heart on my sleeve.

To be continued.