Arc of least persistence

"I became a god for the modest sum of £299 (inc VAT). I opted for a wi-fi only model but a god's a god right?

Gosh it's liberating! At my fingerprints; anything I desire. Will I be a vengeful god? I guess it's my perogative. I'll have to think on that. First let's get organised. A desk, I need a good desk. Something simple, let's try...no, that's, well, ugly. Dampen the colour, remove whatever organic er..thing that is. Pretty good. End procrastination. That'll do. No, shit, pens, paper, wait no I don't need that. Okay; I'm a god. I'm, a, god.

It's been ten minutes now. I have creation at my feet and a gun in my hand. Lose the gun; silly idea, don't want to wake people. And a glass of wine, but I bought that from the yellow shop. I have creation at my feet and Prince on my iTunes. Where to go?

Okay, this is silly. I have a baseball bat, a complete Subbuteo set of the 1992 Spurs team, Prince's cloud guitar, a tub of green jelly babies, a boob and a dildo, self modelled, just because. I have the Bible! I'm pretty sure I could've got one for free anyway. I have seven Zippos, I just couldn't get it right, and 200 straights, because I figured that out at least. I have a watch which is giving me a rash and is not helping my early start tomorrow.

Focus. What would Orwell do? What would Hume do? What would Prince do? Wait, I could ask them; I could print them! No! I can't do that. It's Orwell. How about, I don't know, Berkeley? Hmm...pretty confusing. Pretty...fucking...confusing. Schopenhauer? Fuck no. Wittgenstein? Wrong tack. Kant? Erm..Serpico? De Tocqueville. De Tocqueville.

He seems confused. Understandable I suppose. I told him I was a god. He didn't seem impressed. I showed him the printer. More so. I feel kind of guilty. When he looked out the window and spotted a couple of kids smoking weed in the tennis courts he got rather excited. I told him this was London but he wasn't impressed. Don't really think I can let him out. He just wants to walk. He doesn't like Prince. Fair enough. A glass of wine and some Mogwai placated him a bit until it kicked in. Sigur Rós may be better. He's spotted the dildo. I should have thought of that.

Bit of a tantrum. Can't let him out. Not until he's trained. Fortunately he's found the book shelf. Semi-illiterate but he's content. Cormac McCarthy seems to work, and The Pretenders on iTunes. Not a big fan myself but nevermind, my own fault.

He's asking more questions and I'm printing more guns. "Is that a good idea?" in his strange voice. He likes being called Alex. He tolerates a cheese sandwich. I wonder if he's tired. He says no but he looks tired. But I'm not sure. He keeps walking around and mumbling to himself. Reminds me of a film.

If I open the door will anybody know? I don't know if there's any trail? Probably. Of course there is. But what harm can he do? I'm pretty tired. I'll give him a key. And a piece of paper. No, no piece of paper.

He promised to return. Not sure why. Maybe he will. Would be nice. I miss the little fellow. For me, though, sleep."

Something evidently isn't

The obelisk erupted from the riverbank uncontested.

“Come to me, come to me” it sang for our eager ears.

“What can you possibly have to offer?” we demanded by way of reply.

“Come to me, come to me” it persevered.

“Tell us why” please

“Come to me, come to me” was all it would say on the matter.

Somewhere near the summit were diners whom we knew. I say ‘knew’ for the sake of conversation. I ‘know’ thousands upon thousands, I know dozens, I know none, probably.

We made our way there as the sun sank, taking turns to navigate and to row, but by the time we arrived it was too dark to find a mooring. Pulling against the current we mulled the problem over but no solution presented itself and no sun rose. We held our position until we could no longer do so and then hauled in the oars and laid back to let the water take us.

Flight Ready

"Today I'd like to talk about headroom. The space, previously exclusive, that I now share with selected users on a temporary basis to a greater or lesser extent. The procedure which began with our hitching rides on the minds of celebrities, once we realised that the celebrity we might ourselves attain was no more real, has broken from that petty desire. I suprised myself in embracing the idea.

As Einstein once said when confronted by a bemused sports journalist: "The measure of my mind is mine alone, unfortunately I lack the tools. Were I to find them, I would find myself irresolvably displaced". I paraphrase of course.

When I set off on this journey I mused on how I would continue my life in the presence of these freeloaders. They have paid, of course, yet they freeload on my actions. As has been oft remarked, the issue has never materialized. Self conscious initially, I act and reason as I ever did. I'm saddened to learn that so do they. The me and my actions transpire to have an utterly different relationship than I'd thought. It hurts, strangely enough.

Perhaps the only change is in the process of rationalizing what I've done. Whenever I think "I can't believe I'm doing this", I allow myself an 'out'. Of my achievements, of course, I deny myself this 'out'.

When the moment came to test my fledgling position it passed, or failed. You decide. The test was simple; do the unthinkable. I shot a man in Reno. Yes, a cheap laugh. You laugh now, a knowing laugh, but it's true. By the time this laugh fades and the truth dawns on you I will be gone. This ship which has sailed towards such a terrible task is abandoned by its captain/first mate/chef, whatever. I'll have stowed away on a new vessel, probably oblivious to these facts, oblivious to what I committed, oblivious to what we have lost.

Thank you for listening." A smattering of applause

Another Space

From out of nowhere these offices sprang. They confuse me every day. I've been looking for a place where strangers lived, where children used to play. I was looking for something different to this but it seems it's all the same, every change identical, distinct only in name. Wherever I tread is overtrod, a moment mine to catch but I'm thinking things that you've all thought and I hoped for more than that.

I was hoping osmosis would be my friend but I think I put her off by hanging around, outstayed my welcome. She doesn't like me very much. Everyone else is indifferent, they just go about their jobs and charge from corner to crossroads, a suspicion their time was robbed. When I hunt for culture or character, I find I peer to close. I'm staring at trees and wondering why, a narrow view at most.

I read that Dickens once walked this street or was it maybe Holmes? Was it neither? I couldn't be sure when or whether each once roamed. I read that we will walk this street just until the plans are passed. Then the street will be slightly brighter, that year than the last.

Notional Salute

Wave to me! Wave to me god damn it. Yeah, that's it. Why so confused? Okay, so you don't know me but I've been jogging this park for a couple of years now and I know you. You're that dj off of the seventies; proper punk man, proper punk. You were mates with one of my favourite bands. Love that film you did. Shame about Joe. Tragic. Don't worry, I'm no stalker, just out for a run.

Mm, she was pretty. Wonder if she'll do another lap or if that's... Fucking hell, is it...yes it is. I follow you on Twitter. Hey, no need to be nervous. We're neighbours, you and me. Love your writing, The thing with the priests is drop dead classic. Shame about Dermot. Tragic. But yeah, love your writing give us a smile. No, not going to look up? Those dogs aren't doing anything. No? Fair enough. I'm just a bloke running, you know?

Might get a steak. Haven't had a steak for weeks. Maybe some boiled spuds and peas. Pretty sure I've earnt it. Not far to g... Hey, that's that singer guy; piano, jazz, pretty girlfriend. What's her name? Cooking and all that. Famous name, shit what is it? What's his for that matter? He's looking at me, knows I recognise him. Yeah, you're on that advert. Shame about the music. Tragic.

I love Kensal. Might get some red wine for the steak. Mmmm....

A bedrock of passion

The city is a patchwork of life at this time of night. You can roll down a street stopping every few metres for drunken, screeching weekenders waving shoes or slopping plastic glasses at the windscreen in appreciation. Always in pairs; by this time of night, no longer constrained by the walls of a bar, communication with more than one other person is available only to the gifted.

That's just one patch though. Hang a left and you will find a tight street glazed with the breathe of Moriarty. Under inspection there is light behind the curtains but a light in denial of the street, not as reaction to it. Hang a right and you hit a slab of traffic moving as one.

He wondered why he liked to drive at night. He spent some time slapping the wheel in frustration but most lost in boredom. He got pulled over every couple of months. It's hard to explain to a police officer that you're just driving, no more, no less. He'd try asking them what their hobbies were but the attempt at conversation would usually be rebuffed. Occasionally one would find a flash of 'wit'.

"Drug dealing. And you?"

"Driving. I'm quite conservative."

"Alright smart arse, out of the car."

How would driving the city be in fifty years? Would he still be finding new roads? Would he find one that led somewhere? For that matter, where could it lead?

Suppose It Wasn't

As a child Sally was an irrepressible rock turner. The view from every window presented a world of opportunity. She would explore gardens and, much to the annoyance of her parents, dustbins for whole afternoons. What she would find was mess, an infinitely varied and unexpected and beautiful mess. The wonder at studying a disgarded shoe, inhabited by industrious insects and caked in traces of life old beyond imagining, never faded. That what she found was an experience of hers alone, never to repeated and never shared, was not lost on her.

Through teenhood the world grew faster than she. Though others stepped into view as never before, they could not mask the secrets that remained. There were boys, occasionally, but she tired of them even as she confused them. The initial nuances in their behaviour and character quickly revealed themselves as habits at best and calculated affectations at worst. Where they craved sense in their adolescence, she longed for surprise.

In class she was drawn to the sciences but all she found was the encroachment of order. Maths made her physically sick, not that the teachers believed her. She was incapable of playing team games, despite a naturally athletic constitution. Free jazz exploded into her life, for a weekend.

The worry her parents suffered ended with their lives on a country road in the north of Wales. Lightning felled a roadside tree, startling an errant fox into bolting in front of their car which swerved in reaction and flipped as it hit the ditch so that it landed skewered from passenger window to driver's window on a 19th century gate post. Sally accepted the news.

Now independently wealthy she abandoned plans for university and set sail for Borneo. In the jungle she immersed herself in the minutaie of life and matter, holding out as long as her luck held.