Friday, August 29, 2014

Ye Who Enter Here

Zdzislaw Beksinski

They are taking names at the door, comfortable in their role as doorkeepers to the only show in town.

Inside we dance as we have been taught to dance; all etiquette and procedural compliance – as if we hadn’t a care in the world. We are the crest of the wave; the cutting edge of cultural sophistication; we are the children of unencumbered freedom – we have everything; we have no needs save those we’ve yet to imagine or invent.

But nothing is ever everything and everything is not enough.

We are ringed by the doors that require passwords to enter.


One by one we enter, dutifully, each believing he is unique in having overheard the password.
“White Sheep” we utter with various degrees of trepidation, half expecting to be caught out, but to each the door gives unquestioning admittance.
Inside we join our silent predecessors lined up in a silent and crowded room, smoking or picking at our nails; afraid to move further into the labyrinth, each newcomer compelled to follow our lead for fear of breaking cover from safety of the herd and being revealed as imposters.

It is not long before we become accustomed, comfortable in our blinkered insignificance, our self-hatred a secret, licking the barrels of pornographic weapons or bowing before the gleaming, the chrome and the carbon, voicing incantations to the logos, the badges, the beast in our breast that beats we’re the best, the only one in the room besides the audience that have come here to love us - not for our bodily perfection but for who we are.

Imposters we are, we have no need for restraints, the severing of which serve to give us the edge over our fellow actors; fellow practitioners of hypocrisy and self-aggrandisement ; fellows of The Society of One who cannot live without the audience of the many that come here to adore us for the perfection of who we are.

And when we have convinced ourselves of our invincibility we move deeper still, passing through doors we alone can see, entering rooms where passwords are not sufficient to guarantee access, encasing ourselves in bubbles that amplify all sound inward. We, the chosen, sing to ourselves in voices unencumbered by doubt, in words bereft of meaning save that defined by personal gain.

They’re giving names at this door for it is here that we become who we are: the gilded, the lauded, and the loudest; it is here that bureaucracy inscribes those names on the decaying pages of time.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Stop me if you’ve heard this before.

Episode Nine

“You know, when I was first brought here from the Complex, they said I had the potential to go right to the top”
Atom groans from his bunk.
“I’m not repeating myself am I? I hate it when that happens.”
Atom hears the naked old man shuffling about in his corner of the room and tries not to create an image in his mind’s eye.
An image appears in his mind’s eye.
“You know, back in the old days all this was done manually; hands-on kinda thing… I lost count of the number of times I had to apologise to Pinky’s predass… preediss… ah… the bloke before Pinky for the bloody mess I made on the tests”

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Commuter Belt Unbuckled

Down endless halls
Of unwound clocks
The token ghosts
Of Tick-box negligence
Inept key-card carriers
Push to catch the late-running 7:15
Silver bullet train
Adequately crammed
With self-mutilating mice

Wednesday, August 06, 2014

Pinky’s Dream (I could’ve been Raskolnikov)

Episode Eight

Still from Bela Tarr's Turin Horse

A man’s work is not always a matter of choice; some are called while some are merely washed into the shore by the current of their lives. Of those that are called to violence by psychological damage or genetic predetermination, not all are comfortable with their professionalism. Some seek to justify their negative image with ideology; some merely suppress the negative, while others bask in the glory of their cruelty.
Pinky chooses to believe that his career in the Long-term Induction & Education Section and the personal sacrifices required in the performance of his duties there serve not only the greater good but the advancement too of his own personal integrity.
Mother Nature has other ideas.
Pinky runs through the dark and empty corridors of the L.I.E.S. complex flicking at light switches, none of which serve to illuminate the source of his anxiety. He can feel his anxiety tipping into terror with every faulty switch; the black horses of his dread amass, threatening to overwhelm him with their white-rimmed panic eyes.

See Mad Scientist’s Notebook (Entry No 2.2)

Friday, August 01, 2014