Remembrance Sunday


I’m working today. Start at nine so up at seven for breakfast and a shower. Walk the longer way into town. It’s greener, and the rising autumn sun makes the autumn leaves glow and sparkle. I arrive at work early, and play the augmented reality game Ingress, a virtual war that never ends and never has casualties, wandering around the Princesshay shopping centre. An old guy stops me, to ask where he can by a newspaper. For a second, I think of Queen Street News, then remember that it closed, and is now some kind of posh toiletries shop. I advise him to head for the Coop on queen street, they sell papers. He tells me he has a problem with his phone, and that “the U2 shop doesn’t open until 10:30,”. It’s like talking to a real life Count Arthur Strong.

In work, I set up equipment for a workshop, and manage to avoid having to present it. Lots of people arrive, some not booked in. A couple have brought in their dog, it’s very friendly and I spend lots of time fussing it.

Then I have to teach. A half hour session. At the end of this, we are planning to observe a two minute silence for Remembrance Sunday. My colleague reminds me, and my customer . The customer I’m with completely ignores it, and carries on asking questions. Two old ladies chat away across the store. We probably should’ve made more of an announcement.

It feels somehow compulsory to observe the two minutes silence, as though in defeating the nazis we have absorbed some of their ideologies and beliefs. I don’t believe my father and grandfather fought so that I would feel obliged to observe a silence. They fought that I may be free. Still a long way to go on that one.

I’ve not wore my poppies today. I have a red one and a white one. I’m worried that the whole thing glorifies war, and death, and destruction. It’s like an annual sacrifice to the War Gods, as Robert Rankin suggests in one of his books. I am also aware that right wing extremists like the BNP, EDL, Britain First and UKIP, try to hijack these times of remembrance to peddle their evil racist ideology, the same ideology that my father fought against.

Leaving work, I see lots of individuals in military uniform. Although my dad fought in the Second World War, and my Grandad in the First World War, I still find uniforms disturbing. That it is considered normal to have an entire section of society as state sanctioned murderers seems very worrying, and very wrong, to me.

I eat lunch at the Boston Tea Party, an overpriced pulled pork bap. There’s a nice dog sat near me, a whippet/Bridlington terrier cross. I say hello, he’s very friendly. I walk home along the high street, the low setting sun casting long shadows ahead of me.

At home, I sit down, and an alarm goes off on my iPad, reminding me to write this.

Sewage


Rains streams down
Like my tears
Flooding the sewers
Full of my personal shit
Forcing it to float
Not hidden, contained,
By a surface of artificial normality.

My tears flow,
And wash away the facade
Of normality
My tears flow,
And I become,
An open sewer of emotion.

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Corporate Slime (not what you think)


I work for a large corporation (from Latin corporate ‘combine in one body’). I guess its like being part of a huge jellyfish, a complicated system made of smaller, specialised cells. In a corporation as in a body, cells need to be maintained and repaired, or those cells will die. Some cells can be replaced, the body can generate new ones, some cells, such as neurons are lost forever when they die, slowly absorbed into the body after being broken down by microglia.

So inside a corporation, employees need to be nurtured and cared for at all levels, especially those who are hard to replace, or have very specialised functions. A way round this is to have a corporation where no one is a specialist, all like stem cells that can adapt to any function.

This is similar to the way slime mould functions. Slime mould are individual amoeba cells which live independent existences until there is a time of food shortage, at which time they join together and work to find the quickest way to food.

Slime Mould

Looks like a more decentralised, adaptable slime mood model is the way for corporations to go!

Blue Bird of Happiness


A huge blue bird is covering me, mothering me, as I sleep by a river. The bird transformed into two small dolls of parents. These grew. I was then their doll. The mother offered to look after me until I found my own definition of mother. I was sad that she was a surrogate. 
 
Blue Bird?
I am walking through Tiverton and have deja vu from another dream. I’m going to visit a friend but instead sit under a bridge, drinking. I walk back to town for a better view, cutting through a netball game. 
 
There is concert in a hospital ward, a full orchestra. The conductor/surgeon eats a patients sweets. She isn’t happy. I am snogging a nurse in the audience. I can’t find her as the seats are being disassembled at the end of the performance. Leaving the ward, flying to get ahead. A beautiful girl beckons me but is out of reach. We catch each other and hold fast. She says I am all emotion and no brain. 

Lucid Dreaming


I am at a theatre. There is an animal act on stage. There’s a dog, a ferret and a mongoose. They race across the theatre, through the audience. On stage a kiwi contortionist squeezes into a tiny box.

The Earth is hollow. there is a land that is simultaneously underneath Brazil and the Forest of Dean. the walls of this underground kingdom shake, another reality brakes through. These people are like giants, descended from Vikings. They capture a tiny soldier and call him Centurion.

An Office. I am buying stamps to post some CDs. I buy the wrong value, and the lady behind the counter tries to sell me more stamps than I need. She is upset when I spot her ruse. There’s a gent there too, I realize I am dreaming and Identify them as Loki like tricksters. I decide to walk through the tiny city outside. I slide back a glass door, and weave my way through wooden statues. One is a white violin. I strum it and other instruments resonate to the sound. One of the statues is a tribal man. His eyes follow me. He is alive. He asks “Do you know anything about black magic?” I reply “Sadly, there isn’t much call for it in Woolwich.” and walk on.