Many Worlds

I've been intrigued by the many worlds concept for some time, particularly since watching Fringe, and seeing the possibilities of encountering another version of yourself. Genetically identical but with a different set of experiences. 

A while ago I wondered how this could be used in a story, and started thinking about what could be achieved if someone were somehow able to communicate with their alternate selves, and how that would manifest. 

I've started a bit of a narrative, mostly to get a feel for the protagonist(s), but also to see what possibilities and hindrances present themselves. This is, at this stage, just an experiment, but I welcome your thoughts. Also, I am not a scientist, so all of the pseudo-science is guesswork. Feel free to point out any glaring flaws that need to be edited. 

=_=_=_=_=_=

It started with the dreams. Lives he'd never led. Memories that belonged to another Louis. Sometimes he was married. Sometimes widowed. Some iterations of the dream had him a proud father, others a broken man, unable to move past the death of his wife and first born. Each seemed as real as the next, and on waking there was always a period of confusion as Louis tried to remember which one of the many was his actual life. 

The one that kept coming back was the dream of the twins. As ever, Louis plays himself in the reverie, but unlike in all the others, he is a twin. His identical twin, Michael, and he, have been aware of the crossover for some time, and are researching ways to make the connection consciously. Ironically while they focus on making connections, they are unaware of Louis' presence in his counterpart. 

All the presences that Louis nightly inhabits, seem dimly familiar, as though each of them experiences the same connection, yet only one has ever spoken of it, one whose public ridicule and eventual committal, serve as a subconscious warning to the others to keep the secret just that. 

Not so the twins, who each confided in the other, after methodically waiting through a year of the connections. Each individually running their own tests in solitude, trying to establish whether the dreams stemmed from science affecting them, or science manifesting as delusions in their own heads. 

Once each was certain he wasn't mad, and that these dreams actually were happening, he instinctively knew that the other had reached the same conclusion. 

"So what now?" Michael wondered aloud

"Now we try sleeping in separate faraday cages" Louis offered - secretly delighted to be able to tease his brother once again about his namesake. Though the experiment was a logical step, in spite of the jibe. 

Solitary Louis did not see his brothers for some days after this, and he got the sense from each of his counterparts that he wasn't alone in having noticed their absence. Each night without their appearing, swelled the growing sense of unease Louis felt. It felt like two of their number were missing, and the ersatz-hive mind was quiet without their chatter. 

After six days, Michael declared that there was nearly enough data, though both twins were drawn, and irritable, and eager to return to shared dreaming, now that they knew the cost of avoiding it. They had slept, but it had been a slumber without the rejuvenation they needed to properly think and function. After the third night they had changed the parameters so that they both slept within the same faraday cage, and though that had allowed them to dreamshare at least with each other, the three days of absence from the hive mind to which they were accustomed, brought about a panic and a desperation that each felt even more acutely while sharing the other's consciousness. They elected to get by with what little data they had acquired on that night, and returned to separate cells the following night. 

It was after nine days of absence that Louis once again dreamed of the twins. His counterpart felt tired and sluggish, but there was an overwhelming sense of excitement and optimism that pervaded every thought. Progress had been made, though since Michael was not to be seen, Louis would have to wait to find out what the progress was. While inhabiting his counterpart, Louis found that he could not access his host's memories, only feelings, so he had to draw conclusions based on those feelings and what memories he had of his previous visits. 

After the dream when the twins first admitted their discoveries to each other, each of the iterations Louis visited gradually started researching faraday cages. Louis had considered trying to fashion one himself, to see if it helped the experiment, until he saw the enormous amount of work involved in constructing one. He convinced himself that he was better waiting to see what his brothers found, though only to avoid admitting that he was just lazy. He was pleased to see that one of his others had apparently paid attention during physics lessons at school, and was slowly acquiring random pieces of metal, and various discarded bits of tech that might eventually serve as a cage. 

During the nine day absence of the twins, the most noteworthy turn was when for the first time, Louis awoke as Louise. The self was familiar, though less self-assured, and the perception keener. Louis was troubled by the almost unbearable ache in his abdomen, but was slightly reassured by the sense of familiar resentment that came with it. He wondered if the twins knew of their apparently sole female other. 

The cages had been daily tweaked and reconfigured to give more useful results. The twins had established that as they seldom occupied the same space as their others, there had to be some kind of neural link joining them to the collective consciousness, and the faraday cages, as Louis had hypothesised, severed their link from it. On one occasion, Michael had been surprised to link with a new other on day four - a welcome, though disorientating merge. The other must have been occupying space in the geographical location of Michael's faraday cage. 

The link between Michael and Louis was unique among the many worlds connection. The fact that they had started as one embryo which split, and the fact that they seemed to be the only iteration who had, meant that Michael had no other, yet as he was genetically identical to Louis, he had always had the same links. They always happened at the same time as Louis, and it was always one or other Louis that he woke up as. 

The readings that night had been wildly different to the other nights, and the fact that the crossover happened at all demonstrated that the faraday cage blocked whatever was causing the link, but that it was only effective geographically, not universally. Two brothers in the same physical space could still join within the cage. 

The chance finding led to the brothers forging out a plan to get several Louis iterations in one place at one time, to see if joint communication were possible. Each should be able to remember their own self, and follow instructions to answer specific questions on a sheet. They spent the next few days working on a list of questions, to ask of each of their visitors, then they each memorised the GPS location of their shared lab, where the faraday cages stood, and started sleeping whenever they felt tired. Any hour of the day or night was fine, as each presented an opportunity to meet with an other, and note down the coordinates on whatever paper they could find. for the other to find and puzzle over once they regained their own consciousness. The hope was that either they'd be intrigued enough to investigate the location, or that they would each in turn visit the lab in their own sleep, where they would see Louis and Michael's message:

You are not alone. You are one of many. You exist in the same space and time as do each and every one of us, but one degree away on the dimensional plane. We are all one, and many. We alone, Louis and Michael, are identical twins. Our unique vantage point has allowed us to study what you have all long believed was madness. We believe that by occupying the same space and time, within a faraday cage, we can communicate safely. Please answer the following questions and begin looking for these coordinates in your own dimension. 

I dreamed I was a robot

Two robots are having a conversation. A human observer, one newly awoken from cryo-sleep enquires:

"Why do you employ melody, and harmony in your communication? There are much more efficient, more mathematical ways to convey ideas". 

The robots converse briefly, in their melancholy accents and then reply to the human: 

"Because it's beautiful"

Run Time Error

Going back though my youtube subscriptions and stumbled across this little gem. Run Time Error was probably the most fun I've had in a band. Four nerds, no agenda, no egos. We did about four gigs over two years, and they were mostly weddings. the rest of the time was just spent jamming and being nerds. Lee, the lead guitarist started documenting our jams, with the hope of eventually releasing a rawkumentary to accompany our album. We never really got round to either, though we had a lot of fun along the way.







 

Painting

So, I recently had to do a painting, to be used as a prop in a play I've been involved with. It's really not my field but they needed doing and no one else had time. Figuring they didn't need to be any good, as they'd only be seen very briefly, I set about painting for the first time since I left school. I found it to be a thoroughly enjoyable experience and so after the play was over I set about doing more painting. I've done three now, all clumsy and slapdash, but have really enjoyed the process and am now actually looking forward to getting more materials and doing some more.

Trees:

Royal Albert Hall:

London:

Love

Love is different.

Different people feel it differently and to different degrees.

There is no test to determine if you love.

When you are in love, you will *know* that you are in love.

You will know it in the same way that you know if you drop an apple it will hit the floor.

In the same way you know when you drink water it will quench your thirst.

You just know.

If you don't know whether you are in love then that's fine too. It's completely ok not to know.

One of the most beautiful things about love is that it can't be measured or proven.

It can't be seen or heard or tasted. Only felt.

And only by those who are in love.

Being able to say anything definitive about it would somehow take something away from it.

And when you love, the only one you need ever tell, in so many words, is the one you love.

If you truly love, then you do not need to say it, but for your lover to hear it will be as sweet a sound as ever they heard. So do say it. And feel it reflect back.

And if you do love, everyone else will know anyway.

Protopolis

Subject 17 worries at a patch of skin under his sleeve for a moment, then stops, as suddenly as he started. The action suggests itching, and irritation, though the face betrays no sign of discomfort. His hands fall, limp once again, by his sides and moments later there is nothing to suggest him having moved at all. Clarence glances at the plain, schoolroom-style clock on the wall to his left and notes the time in the green book, alongside number 17's details, together with a brief description of what he has observed. Clarence neither knows nor cares the significance of this information, but knows that the data miners are insistent to the point of rudeness in their need for detail. When first he started at Protopolis, he was decidedly uneasy around the subjects. He'd been told over and again in the training sessions that they are as cattle - substantially less aware even - that they can respond to basic bodily impulses but have no consciousness, no sentience. Clarence remembers watching the training video, and learning that the island's denizens are manufactured - grown in laboratories and then kept here on Protopolis for study. they are fed, watered and exercised, their physical health monitored. Their diet is uninspiring but balanced, and served to them via a drip-feed. Physically they are doubtless healthier than the majority of truehumans on the mainland. They have no vices, no desires, no ambitions. Save for the appearance and the carefully controlled and monitored bodily functions they have little more in common with a truehuman than does a potato. As to the exact nature of the experiments, Clarence is not possessed of any driving curiosity and moreover is fairly sure that the less he knows, the better.

He is semi-consciously aware that ethically, the subjects reside in something of a grey area. Lab-grown human beings give scientists the opportunity to trial medicines, cosmetics, biological weapons, on subjects who are physiologically identical to the consumers and targets of the fully-tested products, without having to test on animals - a process who's drawbacks had been twofold. The first was one of biology: Effects of a particular compound on a human, could only be categorically concluded when tested on a human. While different species of animals have varied similarities to humans, none are exact, and different species are needed to get the closest match for the various areas of human physiology, meaning that the facility to have available the closest matches to humans entails the keeping of a diverse menagerie, none of which is an absolute match. The second drawback was one of morality - the tendency of certain groups to put a value on the innocence and subsequent lack of choice of animals, that outweighed, in their minds, the intrinsic value of their own species. The need to defend animals on the grounds that they are not equipped to defend themselves had led to campaigns in the forms of variously politics and sabotage, whose outcome was ultimately the banning of all animal testing. Coupled with the high risks of releasing an untested product to an increasingly litigious public, meant that manufacturers had to either prepare to defend their products in courts of law, or find a rigorous and robust testing mechanism that did not involve tests on animals.

Clarence is aware that those of a more sensitive disposition than he, might question the rights and wrongs of the testing on protohumans, leading to endless debate and legal posturing, but he is paid handsomely enough to include indifference in his job description, and has never really been the type to ask questions anyway. The subjects are not self-aware and are kept in good health. Save for the occasional specimen who goes missing once in a while, they are more well looked after than most truehumans. Clarence's post is far too mundane for him to ever be privy to knowledge about where the lost ones go - he speculates that they are moved to other locations, or harvested for organs, maybe even stolen, and sold as macabre sex toys on the black market - but the initial unease has long since faded into boredom and disinterest, after watching them stand statuesque for months, save for the occasion tick, or itch, so it does not burden his conscience. The operation is, by necessity clandestine, but to hide it from the public, not from the law, which as yet has no position on the rights, or lack thereof, of protohumans.

Protopolis is an island, large enough for employee lodgings, and few administration buildings, a canteen and some sparse recreation facilities, but small enough so as not to attract attention. There is a small, mirrored glass building near the centre of the island, against a rock face, a building Clarence has never been inside, but which from the number of people he sees going in, he has been forced to conclude is either disconcertingly claustrophobic, or continues under the island - the latter seeming to be the more likely. On the few occasions that he does give it any thought, Clarence supposes that this is where the subjects are grown - the process used is something of a mystery and the facilities even more so. No one outside the main protofarm knows anything about how the protohumans are grown. The island isn't on any major shipping routes or flight paths, so the projects remain largely unmolested and unobserved. The tunics and shifts in which subjects are clad, are long and plain - anyone seeing them would only register them as beasts of the field, or possibly monks, if they happened close enough to recognise the humanoid form. the geographic location of protopolis is such that the weather is never very varied: Too far north to get any remarkable amount of sun, too far south for anything as unpredictable as snow. a more or less constant drizzle leaves the island as blank in expression and as lacking in emotion as its inhabitants.

The research is classified - Clarence's friends and family believe he still works on an oil rig, though even the wells which have not yet been completely plundered have long since dried up to the extent that only a skeleton staff is ever needed to keep the rigs working, and so promotion to Protopolis is not unusual for a redundant rigger. This is not public knowledge of course, but with very little in the way of social connections, having spent most of his adult life on the rigs, keeping secrets is not something which causes Clarence to lose any sleep. The pay is very good, and the work laughably simple.  Just watch the herd for eight hours at a time, making a note of any and all behaviour which strays from the default of standing still. In the early days, the cold, vacant eyes had been what troubled Clarence. Faces completely human and so effortlessly familiar, but for the glazed-over eyes, and too-relaxed jaw. Nobody home. No lights on even. Spending 8 hours a day watching them, So similar to people, yet missing anything which fundamentally would define them as such, the unease soon faded to boredom. What he had at first seen as sinister apparitions, he now saw just as fleshy automatons. No A.I. - a human brain, empty of all functions save those required for breathing, digestion and perambulation.

As Clarence replaces the green book on the table, he fancies he sees, on the very periphery of his vision, number 17 look over at him mournfully, almost pleading, but when he looks

again, 17 is stood, as ever, motionless and expressionless. Clarence rubs his eyes and determines to switch off the gambling interface earlier this evening and try to get a proper sleep.

   *   *   *

As he rests a hand on a trembling shoulder just above his waist height, the doctor delicately moves a tiny switch just within his reach, from one to zero. A quiet, unintrusive piece of

hardware just behind him issues three short beeps, then an unbroken tone, reminiscent of a phone giving a busy signal before abruptly cutting off. The shudders of the shoulder in his hand become slightly more pronounced and the doctor gives what he hopes to be a comforting squeeze. For a moment he catches sight of his reflection in the frosted glass of the window opposite and is struck by the irony of his playing God as he stands, arms outstretched, giving with one hand, taking away with the other. He masks a bitter smile and inclines his head slightly towards the bereaved, and is momentarily taken aback as his voice, even softly rendered, seems loud and intrusive in the small room, thick with grief. "I'm sorry. Please, take as long as you need. The orderly outside is James, he'll see to any requirements you may have"

He squeezes the shoulder again, turns, and moves with soft, considered steps towards the door, which he pulls to, noticing the sobs become more intense as he does. He puts a hand

on James's arm and makes eye contact.

"See that she is as comfortable as we can make her. When she's done, move him down to the prep suite"

James looks back, "Protopolis?" he asks

The doctor indicates the green tick by the "donor?" sign on the patient's door, and nods, then heads off along the corridor.

   *   *   *

In another city, a different world, a consumer with a clear complexion and conscience to match, browses the hypo-allergenic facial cleansers, and finally settles on a subtle seagrass scented one, in an appropriately deep green bottle. Under the reassuring fonts of the Protopolis logo, it proudly, and truthfully proclaims "Not tested on animals".

Who Cares For The Dead? - Extract

Following on from the previous post, this is the opening of a story I started a while ago and never finished. As with many of my story ideas, it was written in a fervour, from an idea and the desire to put words together, so without an ending, I floundered. So, here then, is chapter 1. Or part of chapter 1. Or the prologue. Or half a short story. Time will tell.

Who Cares For The Dead

that the means by which he eventually found equilibrium in his life was by helping the dead, surprised no one more than Callum himself. it had been a slow, meandering journey from humanist to misanthrope, each step as significant as any other, though he had been unable to recognise their importance at the time. as a child he had been fascinated by people, and he observed them whenever he was able, speculating on what drove them to behave as they did.

He recognised patterns in behaviour and attitude that allowed him to categorise them into groups, for easy reference, but it could never be an exact science, he soon realised. though he could sort flowers by colour, which allowed for some understanding of their patterns, he would end up with identically coloured roses, tulips and lilies in the same group, which led to confusion when he then tried to categorise them by genus and species. and so it was with people too.

as a young man, excited about the possibilities that lay ahead of him, the new people his adulthood would allow him to encounter away from the repetitive restriction of seeing the same faces every day in school, all long since categorised and assessed, then re-assessed as raging hormones turned them into impulsive, irrational things barely distinguishable from beasts in the fields. Callum yearned for greater exposure to new and intriguing people and peoples, and so went to university to study anthropology.

at first, it felt like a revelation, like he was not alone in his search to understand people. here were others who not only shared his fascination but, having come from places Callum was barely even aware of, all were bursting with new data - new attitudes to categorise and new social stigmas to take into account when ascertaining what the triggers were that led a person to behave a certain way in a given scenario. here were new ideas and tools and theories to help him refine his own system of categorisation, now much more complex and intricate than his original flower model. He had learned that rather than trying to put people in categories and groups, it was actually less effort to accept that people are simply too unique and discrete for generalisations to ever be a useful tool in isolation, and instead to view each as its own entity, with a set of traits that could be assigned to each, like the badges he had earned as a cub scout to acknowledge different skills learned.

his system had developed over years of observation and conclusions, which would be scrapped and re-concluded time and again - graphs to plot shortness of temper against tendency towards aggression, graded and colour-coded mood groups, with different shades to indicate the level of an individual's propensity towards a certain behaviour. when he looked at people he imagined them each having series of embroidered, triangular badges stitched to their sleeves, each with the symbols Callum had assigned to character traits and moral values, and each a carefully calculated shade of an even more precisely calculated colour, to represent where on the graph fell the intensity of that trait in that particular individual.

So focused was he on understanding people that it was some years before Callum realised he knew little about himself. He had categorised himself in a hundred different ways and even fantasised about making his own badges to wear, to make himself easily readable to other people, if only they would adopt his system. he didn't see that though the precision would allow the circumnavigation of most of the Waltz of Awkwardness that was constantly being danced by people who did not use his system, the end result would be to circumnavigate so much of what makes us human as to render the system void. he had devoted so much time to understanding people, he had forgotten the importance of interacting with them. of course, he did interact with them, but it had reached a point where the emphasis was far more on the "act" than the "inter". he played a role - a flawless performance every time, but it was just a means to an end, a method of obtaining the information he needed, and all consisting of behaviour observed in others and then mimicked.

Callum realised that though he had all the data, ultimately he had no idea what its purpose was. he could read people well enough to be able to respond in a way that was pleasing to them, or at least inoffensive - his every action towards another human being carefully calculated to keep them interested and engaged, but with the sole purpose of collecting data so that he could improve the system. he realised the system was the means, but also the end - it was self-perpetuating. he was collecting data to improve a system which he then used to gather more data more accurately in order to refine and improve improve the system so that he could obtain more data, and so on.

this realisation insinuated its way into his psyche over several months, the change too small to perceive, so that gradually each interaction started to feel more and more frustrating. he became angry, but couldn't understand why. his only real fulfillment had always been the data, and now that fulfillment was ebbing, and having never aspired or desired, beyond the data, Callum was at a loss to replace it. one morning he awoke before his alarm, and for the first time in years, he wept.

to begin with it was a barely perceptible sob, and the feelings that went with it were so alien to him that at first he thought it must be a hiccup, or a twitch. then it came again, and the feelings inside him intesified. Feelings he had observed in others for years, and analysed and catalogued and graphed and plotted, but never felt. he had no idea what he was feeling, only that it did not feel pleasant at all. the sob became a whimper. the whimper became a cry. before long Callum was foetal, on the floor, wailing and beating his chest as year upon year of repressed emotions and sadness all clamoured to be released. the desperation and despair was worse than anything he had ever felt - no physical pain could ever come close.


* * *

whether hours passed or days, Callum was uncertain. So overwhelmed was his fastidiously organized brain with the realisation, that sensory information reaching it was more or less ignored, as he struggled in vain to understand the magnitude of his error. Had he wasted everything in his search to understand? Could anything be salvaged from the car crash that his life so suddenly had become? Would he be able to learn, so late in life, to interact with people so effortlessly, as other humans seemed to? So accustomed was he to conversation being a tool for extracting information that he never dwelled on the possibility of there being any other motivation - at least for him. He understood that conversation was important for forming bonds, but he had only ever really considered the means, not the end; The only bond he had forged was with his data.

By the time Callum was able once again to stand up, to observe his environment, he felt sure that so much time had passed there would be no one left who remembered him anyway, so he was surprised upon switching on the TV to find that it had been only a few hours since the revelation. The TV was a long-standing source of confusion for Callum - he had bought it some years ago when he realised that much of peoples' conversations revolved around things that were either specifically made for TV, or reported on by one of the many news programmes. He had felt he was missing out on vital information by having no frame of reference when people inevitably turned their attention to the ersatz-firegazing they spent hours at a time watching.

It was confusing to him for a number of reasons - having only ever been interested in the way people express certain things, and what that in turn means about that individual - he had failed to notice the importance of simply being entertained. Oftentimes he would overhear snippets of conversation which he took to be gossip, but would realise after a few exchanges that rather than sharing information about a mutual acquaintance, the participants were in fact discussing something they had both independently learned from watching TV. Partly to allow him to understand the references and relevance to an individual, and partly to enable him to contribute to such conversations, Callum bought himself a TV. It was an old cathode-ray behemoth from the 80s, now long since shunned by society in favour of flat screen plasma, but as Callum was interested in the content, rather than the qualiity of the picture, he was oblivious to benefits of a clear screen and high definition, so it was no hardship for him to tolerate its gargantuan bulk in the corner of his modest living room, so long as it was a useful tool in his quest to understand people.

Having always spent his leisure time either talking with people, or writing up salient bits of information gleaned from them, Callum had never really, even as a child, paid much attention to television, and so at first he found it very disorientating. He was regularly and consistently confused by the distinction between drama and reality shows: because he had always sought out people to converse with, to study, he had never bothered with media as a distraction, and so assumed that everything on TV was intended to be factual. Though he would never have recognised it to be the case, Callum could spot a bad actor within seconds of their first words. so used was he to observing body language and its use in reference to speech, that the incongruity of the words being said, and the body language which accompanied them, confused him immensely. Where others would simply identify it as bad acting, Callum would struggle to reconcile why the body language and spoken word were so at odds - it was a good few months after starting his exploration of television that he finally realised that much of the content was intended solely as entertainment, though this itself was to be the cause of further consternation as there seemed to be little discinction between reality and fiction, and the purposes of each.

Seeing the TV now, was as though seeing in colour for the first time. Suddenly the people he saw weren't just dumb animals, driven by instinctive impulses to do one thing or another - they were self-aware and contemplative, and rational: each doing what they did for their own, carefully considered reasons. He could categorise them all in an instant - all their behaviours recognisable as things he had analysed and studied and pondered - but the realisation was dawning for Callum that just understanding that how a person acts or reacts is based on a number of stimuli does not give any insight into their motivation. He knew the how, but not the why, and now, for the first time realising he needed purpose - the why was had become all that mattered. There may be a way to use the data he had collected, looked at in the context of this new epiphany, but it would mean going through vast swathes of information and re-analysing and re-concluding. It would be like looking for a needle in haystack, but without actually knowing what a needle looks like. Just the thought of going over the data again made Callum feel physically sick, as he realised that every morsel of information would serve as a reminder that he had wasted so much time, and life, on an ultimately pointless search. He eventually had to acknowledge that catalogues of information were all but rendered moot by their lack of any kind of conclusion of motivation. Having always been most content in his own company, safely analysing the traits and peccadilloes of his subjects, Callum suddenly felt very alone, and foolish. He felt his eyes once again fill with tears, and as though knocked by a great weight, he once again fell to the floor and sobbed.

* * *

Resolution - Extract

A while back, my friend L-33 (who designed my logo) was working on a comic, called Resolution. The concept, and the artwork, were awesome, and I was pretty humbled when he asked if I wanted to collaborate on it. The plan was (is?) to go for a mixed format, some plain text sections and some graphic sections, not unlike the balance between the main story and post-chapter pieces in Alan Moore's Watchmen. At the moment, being signed off work long-term, Ive entered into a phase of what i've taken to calling guerrilla creativity - the idea of just trying to be creative as much as I can, every day, in whatever medium I can find, and in a very ad hoc, let's-just-do-this way. With that in mind, I'm going to be posting some existing work which has never seen the light of day, in the hope that it will spur me on to new things, or to continue with existing projects. So that, in essence is why I'm posting this now. I'd be grateful for any feedback.

Resolution - Chapter 1

"shut it"
"i'm just saying you're not going to like what you find"
"i'm not looking for entertainment"
"you don't know what you're looking for"
"i'll know when i find it"

The light reflects off the saftey catch and for a moment Anna would swear the gun has just winked at her. She's spent the last 3 years consciously trying to control her perceptions. Now, at 24, she can cope with even the most horrific travesty as long as she allows herself to perceive it as a slow-moving scene, watching it unravel as though time has slowed to point where she can control it. She only allows the most traumatic information in a piece at a time, allowing the rest to blur until she has a handle on the current horror.

As soon as she entered the room she'd had to put the gun down. The need to have it near versus the repulsion it induces in her is a delicate balance. having it so close to her, insinuating, suggesting, all the way here had made Anna's head ache. a dull throb, distracting, distorting. it had to go on the table so she can longer feel the clammy coolness of the metal, which never seems to tarnish. It was bad enough that she let herself believe it was talking to her. If it were to start wearing a smug expression as well it might interfere with her work, and there were enough real, actual people doing that without her adding the disruptive influence of an insubordinate firearm.

Anna feels guilt when she thinks about the gun. the kind of guilt you feel when you think about a wayward relative. you shouldn't hate them because they're family, but some things can't be forgiven and so you're left with the disparate emotions of unconditional love, unrivalled loathing, and guilt for the two emotions being so contradictory. The gun had saved her, saved her mother, but damned them both to imprisonment. The cold stone walls of her mother's imprisonment as much a weight on her conscience as the dark, silent prison she finds herself in, knowing she will not taste, or smell, or feel, until she serves the penance for her crime. Not the crime of killing her father, but of allowing him to remain here, to torment others as he once tormented Anna. Anna reveres and detests the gun, simultaneously talisman of her salvation from the ceaseless abuse, and the cause of her current suffering.

It's evening and the orange light through the window from a setting sun makes the room seem calm and belies the violence that still looms, like the tinnitus after an explosion. dust falls through a shaft of light and to Anna almost looks like a lazy sunday but there is a metallic tang in the air that tastes like fear and Anna can feel the bile rising. Always this contradiction - it follows her. A glimpse of normality, of happiness and absence of fear - but always there is an undertone of unspoken filth, waiting in the shadows to taint and corrupt.

Anna looks to the gun, vainly hoping for some words of comfort, or encouragement.
"are you waiting for me to rust?"
Anna sighs
"be brave Anna"

*  *  *  *  *

It's late and this time the orange light that pervades Anna's room is the phosphor of a street lamp. She is seven years old and wide awake. It's never properly dark and so sleep is a hard won prize which she nightly fights to attain. The curtains are busy with fairies and pixies, and myriad other tired clichés of things girls are supposed to like, but which are meaningless to Anna against the backdrop of a harsh reality of violence and pain, where fair folk would never dare tread - in daylight they are faded and inocuous - backlit by ancient sodium lights, the colours invert and Anna sees a hideous chorus of demons, all looking at her, accusing, judging her, blaming her for the ruckus down the corridor. "What are you waiting for?" they demand, "You know where he keeps it. You know how to use it. He taught you. You didn't want to learn but he taught you. Made you squeeze the trigger while he held the gun because your hands were too small and weak. 'A boy would be able to fire it,' he told you. He never wanted you. He wanted a boy. If you were a boy you'd protect her. What are you waiting for?"

Without even realising it, Anna has walked to her parents' room. She's kneeling on the floor, holding the box with the gun inside. It's heavy - heavier than it should be, as though it's weighed down with the enormity of the task. Anna can't work out if she's too tired, too scared, or just broken, but she swears the gun is aware of her, willing her to take it, and do what she has to do.
"are you waiting for me to rust?"
Anna gasps, and nervously slides her hand round the cool metal grip of the handle.
"be brave Anna"

*  *  *  *  *

Cut Through the Bollocks and Make Things Better

a rant by P4-810 on star wars day and mental health

i used to like star wars day, when it was just a thing that fans wished each other, and a nice play on words. now that it is an excuse for star wars merchandisers to get us to look at the overpriced tat they want to continue to rip us off for, i am slightly less enamoured with it. so, in the old-skool-pablo-rodriguez-the-geek style, Happy Star Wars day. in the new and improved Peefour-Eightwunoh-let's-make-things-better style:

RIP Adam Yauch. I was never evangelical about the Beasties, though I do like a lot of their work. Adam Yauch though, was an unsung hero of freedom, having kickstarted the Tibetan Freedom Concerts ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tibetan_Freedom_Concert ). While I despise pricks like Bono, who abuse their celebrity in the name of righteousness, I have a deep respect for a practising Buddhist and vegan, who uses their contacts and influence to genuinely raise awareness of actual issues. In the end, as with so many of us, it was cancer that got him. I'm not really one for mourning famous people I don't actually personally know, but I am all for highlighting the good work and legacy of an actual Good Person. If you feel grieved by the loss, remember that you can continue his work.

Happy Weekend. Being unemployed as the result of years of ill-treatment by an employer who has no concept of best practice, or fair treatment of staff, or even obeying the law in respect to the same, weekends currently have little meaning for me, but i remember their importance to those who work a standard week, and would urge you to use them for relaxation, and remember that you already work X number of hours in a week, the weekend is when you should recoup and regroup, ready for the next working week. Don't feel bad if you don't feel to have achieved much at the end of it - enjoy the fact that you have given your brain and body the respite they need to function properly. Which leads me on to the final point:

Remember (or if you didn't know, be aware) that it is Mental Health awareness week: http://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/our-work/mhaw/

irrespective of who you are, and where you live, someone you love has been affected by mental health issues. Because of the stigma around mental health, it is something which is often hidden away, for fear of what people might think. Often mental health issues are not even identified as such, and sufferers are left to suffer alone. If you are one of these people, know that you don't have to talk to someone you know personally - frequently it's enough just to talk about what is making you struggle, and to know that you're not alone in feeling the things you feel. you can talk to the samaritans free of charge, even from mobiles, so don't try and carry the burden alone (details here: http://waveringoptimist.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/uk-and-eire-calls-to-samaritans-now.html).

I have long had issues with mental health, and am quite open about it, in the hope that it might quell some of the stigma around it. If you are comfortable with it, I can recommend doing the same - you'll be surprised by the number of people who admit that they have similar issues. Mental Health Awareness Week is about just that - Awareness. If it means anything to you at all, try and be aware of your own mental health -and that of others.

Day Two

Been playing about with various stop-motion and video editing apps and have got a rough grasp of what's going on now. Of course having found a useful and interesting new medium in which to make high-brow thinkpieces, I immediately set about filming my GI Joes. Here's the updated version with today's footage.