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the streets of the mind are long and twisted, dense with buildings and with people, shadows, ghosts of men. the metropolis built of mind alone, wrought from hard facts, and loose feelings, contorted by strange logic, and the malicious witch words of the constant noise. it was there i found her, amongst the broken bathrooms and bleeding halls, crying into her tangled mass of hair, weeping lavish tears into elegant gowns. we got talking of men and the things that they do, we got talking of the things we like to do at night when no-one is around to watch.
at first we could only talk by distance, shouting our words into the tangled web of gold and diamond wires. she would appear in my bed with me, only for a night. we made love in those days, those first days, we talked for days. but the rain in came down hard and cold. the days were grey, over clouded, and so many people, so much life, so much movement, so much concrete. nature at war, battles on the pavement, seed vs stone, people vs place, bio power, cracks showing here in the northern reaches of this empire of man.
can you hear that? drr drr drr drr. a drum beat, battle is now, war in the hexagon house on the hill, treachery and mutiny, and me a poor worthless lout. pursued across the fields and farms by the dread birds, war ostriches. i see a prison on an island, way out in the harbour. a face of a man hewn out of the rock by tides and tempest, he speaks to me in the dusk and i do my best to listen but cannot hear. the snap of sails. the roar of the engine. nuclear power makes the horizon.
now im running, running from the fight in the light. the first place to take me sits squalid on the shore, canals worming their watery way into the heart of the city. and that fight, the fight with place, plant vs people, that fight is here too. the squid boats gleam bright in the night. the cool, salty breeze blows right through me. the machines reach fingers of iron and steel into the sea. under the bridge, out of the way, past the sign of no trespassers, there is a tv set, playing nothing for the no-ones who watch it.
and you can't go back. you can never go back. so go forward and far in the strange light that acid brings, dissolving the world thin into images and imagination. the thousand bird caws around the sea of giblets. the bandit hero bold on the wall. the sun sets over the house, trees, and amusement park, over and down behind the cliffs and mountains sides, where the temple to the rich sits pretty in place. walk for miles, heart pounding like a pneumatic drill, the dappled light is fading. steal money from the gods, pass the point of no return.
lost in the dark, with the blue half light shining down on you. the city is pretty at night, cozy living rooms glowing orange, grotty apartments and pipes and power boxes, concrete cliffs with lone girls walking. which way is home? which way to go? you have a lovely lady waiting for you, you have a warm bed, what more do you want, out here, in the dark? what more could you need? how fare the wounds of war, the bruised ribs and battered ego. no revenge for this one, he just walks it off, no time like the present.
grey skies, grey city. grey walks to great grey parks of glittering grey glass pyramids, towering soil and concrete mountains, and falcons ever circling. no jazz club for you, not slow boat. depressed in capsules, drowning your sorrows in digital drugs in the smoking room upstairs. glittering great towers and simple little rivers. ramen noodles, rice and kimchi. entitled opinions flowing through your headset. cold wet rain, and tiny box fields. bus bored, and backstreets. rice balls, and sweet tofu. fast walk to the top of the hill past babies' bibs on tiny gods, forest trees, cable cars at night.
on the train to the house of tomu, wifi in dark schoolrooms letting in the girl. cold leafless trees, and autumn's red blaze blinding in the midst of the maple trees. two towers from the dark of the winter forest frozen, sky fields brown and rotten in the pre snow chill. chairlifts and covered walkways a plenty. pipes and machinery, and blinking power boxes. ruby red fire alarms, and resting guests. tall towers of blue and white and black, and fountains of concrete, bars in the basement, and the view from the top is spectacular. ramen noodles warm in winter.
what have i forgotten? oh so much. i sat on the cold floor, watched. the little man in the little room, light on, watching me across the dark road. i make a phone call, and another. this is my welcome to japan. the police are called. the police come. the police talk. the police can do nothing. the police go. what have i forgotten? oh so much. dog walks in the cold air, cold coffee in the morning, podcasts, and ostriches. 69 lovesongs, and a girl i have lost. forgive me father for i have sinned. i dont know, i
he didn't understand what he'd done to her, but he would by the time she was finished. cyber psychic onslaught, blasting over the web ways. no more late night chats, no more late night anything. she's gone in a blaze of fire, dancing on the digital gravestone of the relationship. no more friends for, she'll see, bomb every bridge, burn every horizon, and high tail it to the city of angels. oh how i wished i could go back, but i no longer wish show, i want to go forward not back, now, away from this mess, away from this.
i dont know what to write about in these things, like what am i supposed to say. i used to think one hundred words was a tiny amout, but now it seems absolutely massive, like how do i write one hundred a day? by waffling? i have run out of original ideas, if i ever had one, which i doubt, originality in the age of the copy paste and the meme seems a tad far fetched. the best we can hope for is some thin veneer of 'freshness', a slight tilt onto already existing ideas and categories. right? is it?
another day, another one hundred words. all of them filth, utter garbage, written quickly into a word counter. i smell. like really smell. but my clothes are not dry so i cannot change, so i cannot wash. i guess i could wash, but then just get back into clothes that are dirty? what would be the point? i write about my smell, my filthy smell, because the scent keeps assailing my nostrils. you would think that you would get used to it, but i guess not. maybe it increases at a level that keeps overwhelming my capacity to adapt, huh?
i really enjoyed my dreams last night. it was a horror dream, yet somehow pleasing. i cant quite recall it, but somehow the main character a girl, who was also me, dream stuff, managed to solve it by the end. escape. or her children could escape, something like that. i enjoy how my dreams fit together and overlap, how images and places will come back, how the whole metropolis of the mind is built and builds, how tangled the streets up there can become, truly mesmerising. like that dream i had about a procedural world built to colonise, good shit.
just write about anything, anything at all. like the fractured and fragmented dreamscapes that are quickly become one of the best parts of my life, lying blasted out on hypnogogic drugs scattered all the way into a thousand tiny pieces of psyche, with each new setting and setup reflecting and refracting new ways of being hashed together from old memories and existing avenues of thought and physicality. from the low down rotten city book tunnels, to waiting for nuclear holocaust in a penthouse party, to running mad max style gangs, to shooting monsters in a post apocalyptic outback south africa.
last night i failed to clearly recall my dreams. i have been failing to participate in my witchly activities. my sleep hygiene, even my normal hygiene, my exercise, all have been bad. i am extremely tired all of the time. i sleep late, and live sluggishly. no doubt that this is mostly to do with my medication. my mind feels groggy, and mostly empty of interesting thoughts. i cannot write, i barely read, and i haven't left the house in days. i wonder if this is the best i can think of for myself. what am i doing in life?
writing muscles i am flexing, but they are weak and puny; not much of a gun show. last night i dreamed of karate and running. i keep trying to write science fantasy fiction, but to no avail. i cant seem to get a story going. images, yes. settings, perhaps. but no story, no characters. maybe i just am not cut out for this writing lark. doesnt mean i will stop trying however. i have basically turned 100 words into my journal at this point, which i guess is fine. would have been nice to write 100 words of fiction everyday.
today i saw arandhati roy talk, and shook her hand. i bought a book just so she could sign it, though of course i will read it too, along with her other books, which i shall get from the library. the talk was good; anti-capitalist, anti-fascist, pro-fun, pro-literature. the questions afterwards were terrible. im not sure i like that 100 words has become a diary. it ruins the aesthetic somehow, and the challenge. i can write one hundred words easily if they are about things i did today, no challenge whatsoever. i have almost finished andy warhol's awful, awful book.
the ship was white gold and glittering amongst the many bright buildings of the ring. he stood on the edge of the balcony, gazing down, out, around into the unfurling ring of white gold. bridges beautiful against the glimmering water of the canals and streams the criss cross the golden landscape. he hoists himself up onto the footplate of his spaceplane, its guns bristling, its cockpit hidden behind reams of wires and cables that connected the pilot to the thousand fold sensors and systems. a brilliant war steed, built for the depths of space battle, burning walls of fire evading.
thoughts slide, interlinked, as blocks, interlocked, and built on the basis of these foundations sprout worlds and empires of dreams. the high mountains where flash cars depart from guarded garages. drive down roads of black melting tarmac. people in the drains and canalised streams beneath out very feet. running, hunting us, out manoeuvring our best defence teams. and cities begin to rot as the termites rise, and all across the vast plains the screens give out their strange light. the scarecrows mark the way to the right place, the place we need to go, behind the bush, and the beetles.
the empty box sits before me and i type and it becomes less empty, it fills slowly with my words. i write because i have to, 100 words a day demanded. once again this box becomes a diary entry. today i read a book. today i watched tv. today i played games. mostly unfulfilling, mostly empty, another day gone, another day closer to the end. what end? what is the end? fuck this stupid box of word sucking vacuum. i want to be free to write whatever i want to write. but the words do not, i cannot find them.
today i went for a walk. i saw plants and trees and rocks and things. america america. new zealand actually. today i re-watched the fellowship of the ring. my first interaction with new zealand. what a spectacular film. how is it that we can put so much time and energy into grand projects like cities, and yes, even films, and still not feed everyone. still not house everyone. the world is ridiculous in its scope, myopic in its vision, and criminal in its workings. once again i wish i was a better writer than i am. this is just freeflow.
pipes and cords dangle from his mask and suit, trailing off to the nest of wire outlets and gas taps that feed. he sits on his balcony, staring out into the wide expanse of the wastes. dust blows across the sky, dyeing it orange. here on the barren edge of rock and desert he sits calmly, serenely watching the changing light play across the cracks and crevices. he takes deep breaths, savouring the densely perfumed drug wind that flows from its bubbling tower, letting the waves of cool comfort wash across him and break upon the rocks of his mind.
i cant remember my dreams of last night. i have begun many a story but i cant quite seem to finish a single one. hopefully with time and practice i can build up some meagre writing talent, to turn loose on telling the stories i want to tell. i just want to tell a nice story, but i wonder if im up to the task. another day gone by. another day of endless nothings, the routine, nothing special. i miss the days of passionate writing. whenever those were. i try, i do try. but these 100 words are utter drivel.
the galaxy is awash with humanity, drowning in the stuff and the life it brought to the stars. here is sinopec space, the gas giant, harvesters of jupiter and saturn, and all the gas giants this side of the milky way. there lie the archivists, descendants of nasa, the space agencies, of universities and academics, keeping their records, writing down the epics. the sun worshippers, the star acolytes. the planets of green, and brown, and red. something whispers in the dark, something on our breaths, burning. a home in the stars we built, yet not far from home our worlds.
the yellow cat cabs are looking for me. their headlight beams are searching every street, road, and side alley. the dusk around me is blue fading to black, and the houses packed and stacked on top of each other all along and around the rolling hills are filled with the warm light of home. flies and moths and bugs and things all mill about the sodium street lamps, buzzing, bashing into the mucky plastic covers. i wait outside the temple, the great grey green corroded bell above me, silent and serene. the cat cabs crawl over the walls and rooftops.
when i grow up -if i grow up, for maturity does not seem all that fun- i want to be a wizard. i have yet to decide what a wizard is, what a /real/ wizard is, but i know they have beards and wear robes. i must learn how to make robes, and care for a beard. surely a beard alone does not make a wizard, so what kind of magic can be done in this world? this is what i must discover, with age and wisdom and experience. a wizard knows how to fight for what he believes in.
my name is ren and i travel with the mendicant monk, mater gin. alms we do beg from whoever looks might give it to us. we eat cheaply, and sleep rough, all across this world, and the next. i write poetry, a haiku, one everyday. none of them are very good, but the master, gin, he encourages me. says its good for the soul. i'll tell you a secret about old gin; he's got no eyes. no ears. his hands are scarred, and his body all but broken, shattered, now fixed with devices and mechanics the order would consider heretical.
growing up is realising you will never amount to anything. you will never be famous, you will never be rich, you will never be powerful. why you would want to be these things, i do not know. i like the little fame -well loved by discerning fans of a niche interest, even if those fans are really just your friends, and the niche interest is the little niche you occupy in the world together-, the little riches -having enough food to put on the table-, the small powers -the powers to forgive and forget and move on with your life-.
the sea is tremulous, quivering, shaking, like no water should ever be, vibrating, bulging. the thing comes from the deep, comes from deep. its bulging body breaking the small waves and ripples that rise and fall faster and faster all over the surface of the sea. i like the smell of it, the taste on the air, spice and rot, a deep sea smell. it rises from the water, tentacles slapping, reaching, pulling. i wonder if it knows we are here, watching it. i wonder if it knows us, and what we have done to it. i watch it watching
i swam out under the star speckled sky, the water cold and black, sucking and tugging at my skin, its salty embrace harsh, its taste bitter. out there i can see it, the city, the boat, a golden gathering of lights sitting just on the edge of the horizon, always teetering on the edge, out there, over the waves rolling by. i swim for it, but it never seems to come closer, and on the sea breeze i hear a sound, music, washing over me in waves, shattering into fragments and playing endlessly with the soft sound of the surf.
auckland is a warren of overgrown parks and sewers, intertwined colonial housing, rotten wood, and brick. the outskirts and slums are a nest of thieves, murderers. the centre rises to a glittering cybertech spire of sheer glass and concrete, filled with bureaucrats, bankers, and business men. to the north and south east lie the pirate nations and breaker communities, eking life out on the spoils from the sea. bikers have run of the lanes riding south and into the central north island. wellington stands a beacon of butchery and bad tempers, the beehive buzzing with barefaced lies and blatant deceit.
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