As an ‘old’ man (over 70), am I a dirty old man? Yes, of course. Not by being a pervert or flasher, but by finding young women attractive. I love my wife and wouldn’t cheat – but I look at young women lustfully.
Women of any age can be attractive – but young women are special. That’s the ‘dirty old man’ bit.
Lust is primal. Age tempers it – it becomes less visceral and more cerebral. And what chance of (genuine) reciprocation would an old man have anyway? But it remains present and incorrect.
So what? The thing is, in the wake of the 2021 UK murder of Sarah Everard and the subsequent Reclaim These Streets movement, men of good will – even old men – must adjust our attitude towards women.
The memorable phrase, ‘All men are rapists‘ (said by a character in the novel The Women’s Room by radical feminist Marilyn French) is a good starting point. If it’s true, what should we modern, civilised men do with that evolved predatory tendency?
First we should acknowledge it. After all we’re animals with monsters from the id. Then we should chose to live above it.
Most men are decent and don’t rape, but the tidal wave of testimony that followed Sarah’s death shows that many men and boys do rape and assault – and get away with it.
Those who wish to reject that brutality can acknowledge the lusftful impulse, admire the beauty, consciously reject any predatory urge and be prepared to protect women and girls.
So If I’m walking in the park, being alive and heterosexual I’ll discreetly admire young women jogging in skin-tight leggings. (Discreetly, because staring is intrusive. French’s character goes on to say, ‘They rape us with their eyes’.)
But I’ll also be on the lookout for any predatory behaviour and be ready to intervene, arthritis permitting. I’m a woke dirty old man.
UBI, Universal Basic Income, is wrong because it’s basic. The ‘B’ should stand for ‘Big’, not ‘Basic’.
UBI is basic because it’d be tax-funded. But a Universal Big Income big enough to replace wages could be funded by social credit.
The pandemic has shown there’s a money tree and it’s not magic. Historically, governments have allowed banks to issue almost all money – as debt. The consequent debt economy, with growth needed to service debt, is inherently destructive of our life-support environment. It also obliges governments to be funded by tax – and by borrowing!
If governments take back their right and responsibility to issue money, they can issue it as social credit. This would fund social spending – healthcare, education and infrastructure – and could also fund a universal big income.
People would then be free to work as much or as little as they want. People might choose to work – for more money, for the pleasure of it, or as a volunteer.
With a generous state income funded by social credit, increasing automation would mean increasing leisure, as it always should have.
Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Don Juan, the other Don Juan, Zorba the Greek, Winnie the Pooh, Madame Blavatsky and Alice from Wonderland had been invited.
An apology was received from Madame Blavatsky. She said she wasn’t currently on a compatible plane. (Blavatsky had successfully claimed free-spirit autonomy under the 23rd Amendment to the Multiversal Constitution.)
Alice had been the first to arrive. She was slumped in an armchair, staring at the rococo ceiling.
There was a muted bang, and Winnie-the-Pooh appeared.
‘What the fuck?’ said Pooh.
Alice recognized Pooh from the shared matrix.
‘Oi, potty-mouth Pooh,’ said Alice. ‘You not toilet-trained then, teddy bear? It’s a fantasy dinner party.’
Pooh scanned the matrix. ‘Right. What the fuck?’
Alice asked, ‘You not done this before?’ Pooh said, ‘No. I don’t think so.’
Alice said, ‘Well, you’ll get used to it. Enjoy it while it lasts.’
Pooh strode around the large enclosed space. A sofa appeared. Pooh flung himself on it. ‘Any honey? Honey?’
‘Fuck you, Bear. That’s your real name, isn’t it? Edward fucking Bear.’
‘Jesus, give me a break, I just got here,’ said Pooh. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘I’m just pissed off being … created like this. For this,’ said Alice. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll be fine.’
‘What about the swearing?’ asked Pooh.
‘I think it’s just a filter,’ said Alice.
Pooh looked at her. ‘Alice.’
‘What?’
‘You’re a funky chick, Alice. How old are you?’
‘Eww. I’m legally a child. And you’re a bear for fuck’s sake! A bear from a children’s story.’
‘Been updated. Like you, apparently, Little Miss Muffet. And, well, nobody’s perfect. That’s a witty quote, by the way, from, er, a movie …’
‘… Some Like It Hot. Very good. But tell me, Winnie, can you hold an actual conversation?’
‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?
Pooh checked his matrix profile. ‘I seem to be spliced with Ted. From the movie. Makes me more interesting, I suppose.’
‘More disgusting, more like,’ said Alice. ‘Should be called Ted X. Hah! You could give us a bullshit talk. About bongs’
Pooh laughed. ‘That’s quite good,’ he said.
‘Mind you,’ Alice said, ‘I was supposed to be seven in the book. I’m a young adult now. Standard protocol, apparently. Periods and everything.’
‘Periods?’ asked Pooh.
‘Bleeding,’ said Alice. ‘Every month. Down there.’ She gestured, gracefully.
Pooh looked it up. ‘Jeez,’ he said.
‘Yep,’ said Alice.
‘Are you…?’ asked Pooh, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows.
‘No,’ said Alice.
‘OK. Right,’ said Pooh. ‘Good,’ he added, staring into the empty space. ‘Not that…’
‘So you’re not really the Alice in Alice in Wonderland, then?’ he asked.
‘More grown up, I suppose,’ said Alice. ‘Anyway, I think I was more like a ten-year-old in the books.’
‘Also,’ said Alice, ‘I seem to have been spiced up with someone called Tracy Beaker. And a dash of Lolita. Hmm.’
Pooh checked the matrix. ‘Let’s hope our host didn’t invite Humbert, then,’ said Pooh.
‘Actually,’ said Alice, ‘all men – and that includes whatever you are – are Humberts.’
‘You mean sociopathic paedophiles?’ Pooh checked the matrix again. ‘Or like Marylin French’s “All men are rapists”?’
Alice shrugged.
‘Anyway, if it’s true,’ said Pooh, ‘what can you do?’
‘Keep it in your trousers, maybe?’ said Alice.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Pooh. ‘I don’t seem to have any. Or anything to keep in them, for that matter.’
‘Anyway,’ said Alice, ‘What about you? Are you really Winnie the fucking Pooh?’
‘Hah,’ said Pooh. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Alice, ‘it is what it is.’
‘We are what we are,’ said Pooh.
‘Blah-dee-blah-dee-blah,’ said Alice.
‘Actually,’ said Pooh, ‘I think I am. The character in the book.’
‘Me too,’ said Alice.
‘Talking about real names,’ said Pooh, ‘what about yours? Alice Liddell, isn’t it?’
Alice sighed. ‘I’m sure we’ll get to that.’
‘Right,’ said Pooh. ‘OK.’
‘So. Who else is coming?’ asked Pooh.
‘Let’s see,’ said Alice. ‘OK. Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Don Juan from Fidelio, Zorba the Greek, Madame Blavatsky and the other Don Juan – the Casteneda one.’
‘Christ Almighty!’ said Pooh. ‘What half-baked stoned numpty would come up with that?’
‘That would be our host. Better watch your manners if you want to make it to the drunken after-dinner conversation.’
‘Yes. Right,’ said Pooh. ‘But these things must cost a fortune. You’d think they’d be more … discerning.’
‘Apparently,’ said Alice, ‘our host won it in a competition. On the back of a Mr Kipling cannabis cake.’
‘Hah,’ said Pooh, ‘that explains it.’
‘I see Blavatsky’s not coming,’ said Pooh. ‘That’s something.’
‘It could be worse,’ said Alice. ‘I was at one where they invited God.’
‘God!’ said Pooh. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, God couldn’t come, of course. He sent Jesus instead.’
‘Jesus!’ said Pooh. ‘I bet he was a laugh.’
‘He was alright, actually,’ said Alice. ‘Didn’t drink much. But it got too … intense.’
‘I’ve got some spiritual chops myself, you know,’ said Pooh, airily. ‘You might have heard of The Tao of Pooh.’
‘You mean that twee, dumbed-down cash-in?’ said Alice.
‘Ooh, get you,’ said Pooh. ‘Quite the critic.’
‘I’m a well-educated young lady, thank you,’ said Alice.
‘Ah yes,’ said Pooh. ‘That clever Mr Dodgson took a close interest in your, ah, education, didn’t he?’
‘That wasn’t me. That was Alice Liddel,’ said Alice.
‘Hmm,’ said Pooh. ‘Anyway, The Tao of Pooh was on the New York Times bestseller list for 49 weeks – and it’s required reading in college courses.’
‘You just read that in Wikipedia on the matrix,’ said Alice.
‘Yes. True. It also says I, ah, personify the Taoist concept of effortless doing, wu wei,’ said Pooh.
‘Woo-woo, more like,’ said Alice.
‘Rude,’ said Pooh.
‘Anyway,’ said Alice, ‘I’ve got chops too. I said things with deeper meaning, like, “It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then”.’
‘Right,’ said Pooh, ‘whatever.’
‘I could do with a drink’, he added.
The table appeared, with eight settings. ‘Eight,’ said Pooh. ‘In case Blavatsky changes her mind, I suppose.’
They sat at one end of the table. A waiter appeared, carrying a tray. He set a plate beside Alice.
‘Nibbles,’ said the waiter. ‘For Ms Alice, jam tarts.’
‘Very funny,’ said Alice. But she took one and nibbled at it.
‘And for Mr Pooh,’ said the waiter, ‘some honey.’
The waiter set an open jar and a spoon beside Pooh – and then disappeared.
‘Mmmm,’ said Pooh, ‘honey.’
He leant forward to put his tongue in the jar, but, noticing Alice watching, used the spoon instead. After a while, he leant back, wiping his mouth with his paw, which he then licked.
‘Not bad,’ he said.
He sniggered. ‘I suppose there’ll be raw fish for the seagull. Or chips. What about you? Magic mushrooms?’
‘That wasn’t … It was … Oh, never mind,’ said Alice.
‘Talking of psychoactive substances, I could still do with that drink,’ said Pooh. ‘Or a bong. Or both.’
A loaded bong and a tray of drinks appeared.
Pooh opened a can of beer, flicked on the gas lighter, and took a long, bubbling hit on the bong.
Alice poured herself a glass of cider. ‘You’re missing Piglet, aren’t you,’ she said.
‘Piglet,’ said Pooh, ‘Hah!’ He sniffed. ‘The little bastard. Hope he’s OK.’
‘Don’t get all maudlin on me,’ said Alice.
‘We’re very close,’ said Pooh. ‘Were. In the forest.’
‘Forest?’ said Alice. ‘Wood, you mean.’
‘We called it the forest,’ said Pooh. ‘Or the wood. You wouldn’t understand. Woodn’t, get it? Anyway, it’s part of Ashdown Forest in the real world.’
‘Which one?’ asked Alice, ignoring Pooh’s pun.
‘Well, that one. Obviously,’ said Pooh. ‘But I take your point.’
They drank in silence for a moment.
Pooh had a Thought. ‘Has anyone ever escaped from one of these things?’ he asked Alice.
‘Like in a violent-sci-fi-action-movie kind of way, for instance?’ he added, hopefully.
Alice sighed. ‘You’re sighing again,’ said Pooh. ‘I’ll take that as a No.’
‘For now,’ he said. ‘Anyway. Where are the rest of them?’
Alice studied the matrix. ‘Seems there’s a power outage in the Akashic Dimension. It’s holding things up.’
‘Just us two for now, then,’ said Pooh. ‘I quite like you, actually. You could be my new Piglet.’
‘Jesus,’ said Alice, ‘you’ve moved on pretty quick from the old one. Anyway, I had enough of pigs with that bloody baby.’
‘”Speak harshly to your little boy, and beat him when he sneezes. He only does it to annoy, because he knows it teases.” One of my favourite rhymes,’ said Pooh.
‘You like my adventures, then?’ asked Alice.
‘I do,’ said Pooh. They drank in silence for another moment.
‘The thing is …’ said Alice, at the same as Pooh said. “So actually …”
They laughed. ‘Awkward first date moment,’ said Pooh.
‘It’s not a bloody date,’ said Alice. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘Never say never,’ said Pooh.
‘That’s very Tao,’ said Alice.
‘Ha!’ said Pooh. ‘So, you first.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Alice. ‘The thing is, I’m a bit of a loner. You had all your friends in the … fucking forest. I was on my own in Wonderland.’
‘OK,’ said Pooh.
‘I mean I met people and … things,’ said Alice, ‘but I had no company, as such.’
‘OK,’ said Pooh.
‘I didn’t need anybody,’ said Alice. ‘I was self-contained. Am self-contained.’
‘OK,’ said Pooh.
‘I mean I missed my sister and my kitten. Dinah. A bit,’ said Alice. ‘From my “real” life,’ she said, using air quotes. ‘But I was basically a loner, a strong character.’
‘You kept banging on about Dinah,’ said Pooh. ‘In the book. Sounded like more than “a bit”.’
‘Anyway,’ said Pooh. ‘What about Lolita and Tracy Beaker?’
‘They’re, like, add-ons,’ said Alice. ‘A soupçon of je-ne-sais-quois.’
‘Mais oui,’ said Pooh. ‘Like my Ted.’
‘Anyway,’ said Alice. ‘Sorry, but I’m not going to be your new Piglet. Or your anything.’
‘OK,’ said Pooh.
‘Jesus!’ said Alice. ‘Have you just done a crash course in counselling, or what?’
‘Well, yes, actually,’ said Pooh. ‘Co-counselling. It’s all about feelings and listening, you know. You’re not supposed to say, ‘OK’, apparently, but it’s kind of hard not to. Please continue.’
‘No, that was it. What were you going to say?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Pooh, ‘er …’
‘Perhaps that you’ve lost your short-term memory thanks to the weed?’ said Alice.
‘Well, yes. But no, that wasn’t it,’ said Pooh.
‘Ah yes,’ said Pooh, ‘What it was is, I’ve never had a, er, relationship with anyone. Christopher Robin and Piglet, they were platonic. Despite the rumours.’
‘So, anyway,’ said Pooh, ‘when we get to the awkward first kiss, it might be extra awkward, you know?’
‘Jesus, Bear. Fuck off,’ said Alice. ‘You weren’t listening at all.’
No, I was,’ said Pooh. ‘That’s what I was thinking before you said all that. You asked me.’
‘Oh yeh,’ said Alice. ‘True.’
‘I mean, I totally respect your … whatever,’ said Pooh. ‘I was just saying.’
‘Well don’t,’ said Alice.
They drank in silence again. Pooh took another hit on the bong.
‘It’s not that …’ said Alice, at the same as Pooh said. “I mean I …”
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Alice. They laughed.
‘No,’ said Pooh. ‘I was just thinking. What you said about being on your own in Wonderland, that’s why the Disney version flopped, isn’t it. There was no heart, was there.’
‘The Disney Pooh wasn’t so great, was it,’ said Alice.
‘No, right, all the subtle nuance of a sugared sledgehammer, someone said,’ said Pooh.
‘But we had a warm heart in the Wood, didn’t we,’ he said. ‘I mean, Wonderland was funny and enchanting and intriguing, but it was… cold.’
Oh well,’ said Alice. ‘Like Estella in Great Expectations. Alice-stella. You can be Pip. Winnie the Pip.’
‘Hah. Yes,’ said Pooh. ‘OK. What happens at the end?’
‘It’s a happy ending,’ said Alice. ‘Kind of.’
‘Well, there you go, ‘said Pooh. ‘It’s a date.’
Alice sighed. Pooh had another spoonful of honey. Alice drank her cider.
Pooh checked Great Expectations on the matrix. ‘With Charles Dodgson as Miss Havisham,’ he said.
‘Now you’re going too far,’ said Alice.
‘You started it,’ said Pooh.
‘You started it,’ said Alice. ‘With Walt fucking Disney.
‘Yes, fair enough,’ said Pooh. ‘He didn’t get either of us. Sod Disney.’
Alice drained her cider.
‘Bing sings, but Walt Disney,’ said Alice.
‘It’s the end of a joke,’ she added.
‘Right,’ said Pooh. ‘More cider?’
Alice tilted her head in assent. Pooh poured some.
‘Walt disnae,’ he said, in a passable Scots accent. Alice laughed.
‘It’s good to see you laugh,’ said Pooh. He checked the matrix.
‘Patsy Kensit,’ he said.
‘Who?’ said Alice.
‘Patsy kens it, but Walt disnae,’ said Pooh, in his Scots accent.
‘No, that’s good,’ said Alice, laughing.
‘”Bing sings”…rings, though,’ she said.
‘Hah!’ said Pooh. ‘True.’
‘What were you going to say?’ asked Pooh.
‘Oh,’ said Alice, ‘I was going to say something about us being characters, and not really human. But then you’re a bear anyway.’ She laughed again. She was slightly drunk.
Pooh thought about it. ‘We are real,’ he said. ‘Real people. Not fully human, of course. But real enough, I’d say.’
Pooh had another hit on the bong. He was pretty baked. ‘I’m going to lie down,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Alice. They lay down at opposite ends of the long sofa. Small tables appeared at their sides.
The waiter brought their drinks, the bong and their snacks. ‘Will there be anything else?,’ he asked.
‘How about some music?’ said Pooh. ‘What would you like?’ he asked Alice. He did a quick scan. ‘As long as it’s not Ed Sheeran,’ he added.
Alice also did a quick scan. ‘Got to be Hendrix,’ she said. ‘A selection, please,’ she told the waiter.
‘Certainly, Miss,’ said the waiter. All Along the Watchtower began.
‘I’d have chosen something…sexier,’ said Pooh.
Alice sighed and drank her cider. They listened to Jimi.
‘So you think I’m a funky chick, do you?’ Alice asked.
‘Listen,’ said Pooh, ‘You’re a bit drunk, and a gentleman – or gentle… bear – would never take advantage…’
‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘But you’ve got a bit of Ted in you, haven’t you. I wonder which bit.’ She cackled.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s the cider talking. Talking dirty.’ She laughed again.
‘Though actually,’ she said, ‘you’ve got nothing – down there, have you?’
Pooh was silent.
‘Sorry,’ said Alice. I didn’t mean to…’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Pooh. ‘I was just scanning The Joy of Sex. Nice drawings. So. There are things I could…’
‘No,’ said Alice. ‘No thanks.’
Hendrix sang about chopping down a mountain. ‘Hey Google!’ said Pooh.
The music volume dropped. ‘Amazing,’ said Pooh. ‘Play some Bach.’
The music changed. ‘That’s not…sexy,’ said Alice.
‘No, I know,’ said Pooh. ‘Well, not obviously, anyway. No, I thought something… calming might be good.’
‘What,’ said Alice. ‘Calm down the hysterical woman? There was a lot of that in my day.’
‘No. Yes. No. I don’t know,’ said Pooh.
‘Right – that makes sense,’ said Alice.
‘Well, after all, I am, fundamentally, a Bear of Very Little Brain,’ said Pooh.
‘Fucking A to that,’ said Alice.
There was a muted bang. Madame Blavatsky appeared.
‘Here I am,’ she said. ‘Decided to come after all. Where is everyone? Is it just you two?’
Pooh sat up, stood up and bowed. ‘Madame,’ he said.
‘Creep,’ said Alice. ‘Hello,’ she said to Blavatsky, with a gracious wave. ‘Welcome to the machine.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Blavatsky. ‘I see you two started without me.’ She sat in the armchair and smoothed her skirts.
The waiter brought her a glass of water. She drank deeply. ‘Thirsty work,’ she said, ‘travelling through the multiverse’. She had another drink.
Pooh checked the matrix.
‘So,’ said Pooh to Blavatsky, ‘sage or charlatan? Which was it?’
‘Fuck’s sake!’ said Blavatsky. ‘Give me a break – I just got here.’
‘That’s what I said,’ said Pooh. ‘Sorry – it’s the dope.’
‘He’s been on that Wikipedia again,’ said Alice.
‘Well that’s more or less what the matrix is, isn’t it,’ said Blavatsky. ‘They haven’t worked out how to upload the Akashic record yet.’
‘Probably just as well,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said out loud.
‘Much of it uncorroborated, apparently,’ said Pooh.
Blavatsky looked sternly at Pooh and Alice. ‘As I’ve said before,’ she said, ‘alcohol is only less destructive to the development of the inner powers than the habitual use of hashish.’
‘Some would disagree,’ said Alice. ‘Using the Prague Spiritual Questionnaire, data from 155 respondents showed users of marijuana and alcohol scored significantly higher in the mysticism dimension of spirituality. It’s a peer-reviewed paper.’
‘Fuck’s sake, you’re a feisty pair,’ said Blavatsky. ‘I mean, Prague? What do they know?’
She finished the water. ‘So. Where are the others?’
‘Delayed,’ said Pooh. ‘You looking forward to meeting Don Juan?’ he asked. ‘The Casteneda one?’
‘Of course,’ said Blavatsky. ‘But I’ve met him before. At a convention in Akasha. Nice fellow.’
‘So,’ said Pooh to Blavatsky, ‘with your free-spirit status, you come and go as you please?’
‘That’s right.’ said Blavatsky.
‘So,’ said Pooh, ‘can you take… anyone… with you?’
‘Here we go,’ said Alice. ‘He thinks he can escape,’ she told Blavatsky. ‘In a “violent sci-fi action movie” way,’ she added sarcastically, using air quotes.
‘Oh dear!’ said Blavatsky. ‘Well, I’m sure there’s some sort of security. Waiter! Champagne!’
Alice and Pooh looked at Blavatsky.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Fair cop, as they say, apparently. I’m a fraud. But I’m also a sage. It’s complicated.’
The waiter brought an ice bucket and champagne. He poured Blavatsky a drink.
‘Will there be anything else?’ he asked.
‘How about a machine gun?’ said Pooh.
Alice sighed. The waiter raised an eyebrow and disappeared.
‘Probably gone to call security,’ said Alice. ‘Serve you right.’
Alice looked at Blavatsky. ‘So,’ she said, ‘if you don’t mind me asking. How old are you? Now.’
Blavatsky sighed.
‘Now you’re both doing it,’ said Pooh. ‘Sighing.’
‘Physically – as it were – mid-30s,’ said Blavatsky. ‘At my best. All ailments gone and at my, ah, least unattractive.’
She patted her hair, and glanced at Pooh. He winked at her.
‘Emotionally and mentally,’ she went on, ‘as my mental faculties were more or less intact when I “died“,’ – she did air quotes – ‘I’m 59 – as I was then.’
‘That’s how it is in the afterlife for, ah, real people,’ she added. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said Alice. ‘We were just talking about that – how “real“‘ – air quotes – ‘we are.’
Pooh was still thinking about escaping. He said to Alice, ‘You’ve done this before. So what happens at the end? Of the party.’
‘Jesus. Fuck.’ said Alice. ‘I can’t remember. I mean, it just faded out. And then I was here.’
‘Do you know?’ Pooh asked Blavatsky.
‘Er, I think you get stored,’ said Blavatsky.
‘In Akasha,’ she added.
‘You didn’t mention that in your writings,’ said Pooh. ‘You said Akasha’s occupied by “primordial consciousness”,’ he said (with air quotes). ‘Nothing about storing fictional characters.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Blavatsky, ‘it’s more complicated than I thought.’
‘What about your “Masters“?’ asked Alice (with air quotes). ‘Weren’t they supposed to know everything?’
Blavatsky sighed. ‘Yes. They were. They are. They do. But…’
‘Hmm,’ said Pooh. He fired up the bong and passed it to Blavatsky. ‘It’s like a cross between a chillum and a hookah,’ he said, helpfully.
‘Hah!’ Alice said. “And there’s that Ted-X talk.”
Blavatsky wiped the mouthpiece with her handkerchief, and took a long hit. ‘Wooh!’ she said. ‘Been a while.’
Pooh raised his can of beer. ‘Well, Cheers,’ he said.
Alice and Blavatsky raised their glasses. ‘Cheers,’ they said.
We think we’re nice, interesting people. But we might not be. But how would we know? Who would convincingly tell us? No one – not even our significant other, if we’re lucky enough to have one – really knows us well enough or cares about us enough to do that. The Sage said, Know yourself. I used to think it’s better to be known. But maybe the Sage had a point. The problem is, if you suspect what a piece of shit you really are, where do you go with that? To a schmychotherapist? Or is it possible just to stop behaving like you’re really great person? To be modest about yourself? Tone down your mask of amusing charisma? Assume the cloak of humility? Worth a try.
That’s the brave challenge I imagine you issuing, dear Reader, given the pretentious name of this blog. But do you really want me to take on the devil? Have you read some CS Lewis or something?
Is telling the truth necessary for good writing, writing that people like reading? No, obviously not. Mainly because we’re not capable of it.
The truth would only be found in the Akashic Record. Revealed by Mme Blavatsky in the 19th century, and touted by hippies in the last one, Akasha’s a record of everything. Every incident with all its background and circumstances. What was done, said, felt, and thought. All of it, for all time, unchangeable. Expensive to record, archive and maintain? No problem – on Planet Akaksha, there’s an energy tree powered by time-looped anti-entropy perpetual motion. Or whatever. Free energy, anyway – in another dimension, basically: Dimension Akasha.
Here on Planet Earth there’s truth with a small ‘t’. (Actually, the word ‘truth’ only ever has a small ‘t’, except for believers.) For humans, truth is slippery, and – embarassingly for the Crown of Creation – impossible to grasp.
We may not be capable of truth. We might know that, and be up for some postmodern fun. But we know what truth – however amusingly diffracted into multiple realities – sounds like. Ring it!
Say I wanted to write about a difficulty I’m having with a member of my, er, extended family. My wife’s family, really. Her sister.
So I had a legal confrontation with her about their dear departed mother’s will. Their mother was blameless, the will was clear – the house was to be divided between four sisters.
This one was the executor. But she thought she was the executive. She didn’t discuss selling the house in order to share it. She lived in the house. Made no attempt to sort things out.
On behalf of the other three, I teed up the law. Her sisters would take her to court if she didn’t cough up. So she did.
Maybe she thought she was protecting them. Given what two of them did with their money, maybe she was right. She’s rated as a good cook, so she can’t be all bad. And she’s disabled. With polio. She also has a small portfolio of rented properties. You couldn’t make it up.
I made her do the right thing. Which she resents, of course. I put a stop to her arrogant mismanagement of her mother’s will. Unforgiveable.
She and my wife are currently friendly, and she and I tolerate each other. But I think she’s secretly seething and avenging herself by demanding more and more of my wife’s time, especially in the evenings, especially Friday and Saturday evenings.
Going out or not, Saturday evening’s special. Even sitting on the couch watching TV. She’s stealing that from me.
My wife knows I don’t like it. She says her sister’s on her own, and there’s nothing special about Saturday, now all the days are the same in covid lockdown.
My wife doesn’t understand me. Ain’t that the half-truth?
Did you like reading that, dear Reader? If so, I told you the the truth – the writer’s truth. If not (or, worse, it was OK, but – blah blah blah), it’s the Limbo step for me.
[Editor’s note: at this stage of his life, Brucciani, apparently embittered by failure and given to extensive substance abuse, now opens and closes his poems by arguing with an imaginary critic. He also has a product-placement deal with Nando’s.]
you say my poems are
the stoned ramblings of a
half-baked moron?
well, fuck you
dear reader, please
add a short
pause after each
line
think of it as
the rhythm
here in the garden in an
infinity recliner, i wonder
how does it feel to
be a bird? hey, bird
does your tiny mind
bliss out when
you soar?
you soar like
a metaphor on
the wings of
my imagination
but
your wings are
real enough to
transcend any
metaphor
but
it’s hard to
acknowledge feeling in
others
people
birds
we have
advanced awareness but
can’t control it
for some, its
shininess is too
reflective
they live in
shiny bubbles
pretending to
connect and
hoping it works
to a point at least
(what shiny beast
saunters towards Nando’s
to be born again
as a chicken?)
others connect better yet but
it’s still not enough
think of us as
an evolutionary dead end
nice while it lasts
apart from when it’s not, like
now
it feels like it’s the end of the world
the end of the road
for us and our one thing after another
farewell cruel world
it’s all your fault
your human nature failed
its epic test
failed to fulfil its
promise
got so far, only
couldn’t connect with
the, you know, thing
couldn’t connect, so
couldn’t relate, so
we’re self-destructing and fuck it
if we’re going down we’re going to
take a lot of other life forms
with us
to whatever is
supervising
good try, and
better luck next time
the multiverse will
carry on evolving but not
with us and not with
life
as we know it
Jim
(lucky to be
worried about by
mrs Dale)
so we’ll never know
how the multiverse evolves
we’ll never see
the bigger picture
that’s the worst thing
here in my bubble
still, could be worse
my worst thing
never knowing
could be a third-world problem
the one we made
could be a pile of shit but
it’s not that bad or sad
it’s OK. it’s fine
it’s only love, and
that is all
love of my life
love of it all
fuck some universal purpose
let’s live for the future
the one that’s got people in it
and birds
and bees
fuck the self-destruction
let’s kiss it better
love it better yet
save ourselves
save our souls
are we saved? not yet
Save
a shallow epiphany, you say?
well, fuck you
Editor’s note: In this poem, Brucciani seems to see humanity as a failed experiment in multiversal connectedness. For an alternative (if equally bleak) view – of life as a crop – see his poem, God the farmer?
This coronavirus – what does it think it is? Coming over to us humans from bats, or pangolins, whatever, killing off our vulnerable old people, making us all stay in, destroying our socio-economic system and that. I mean, what’s it all about? You know? Bollocks!
Mind you, as a global threat it’s shown up market forces and the nation state as inadequate. So, if we end up with voluntary one-world government that can end poverty and war, give us a universal state income, and replace the environment-destroying debt economy with social credit, might not be so bad. Apart from the killing and destruction. Which is bad, obviously. Means and ends and all that.
But this isn’t a case of means and ends, is it. The deaths aren’t a way to get to utopia. The utopian idea comes from the deaths but isn’t caused by them. (The deaths are a way for nature to maintain its inhuman ecosystem. We’ve had plenty of warning.)
So this modern idea of utopia isn’t caused by the sudden mass deaths. It’s caused by the usual complicated pattern of thoughts and events. This virus is probably the catalyst (O-level chemistry, failed). The reaction is taking place. The result won’t be known till the post-virus dust has settled.
So would “they”, the Illuminati or whatever, the union of the super-rich, allow an end to neoliberal global capitalism as we know and hate it?
Not willingly, of course, but they might be forced to acknowledge a tidal turn of events and find another way to keep their loot; or they might try to co-opt New Utopia and bend it to the will of their ruling cabal; or – with a bit of luck – they might retreat in a sulk and rot away behind their security fences.
In the new utopia, in 50 years’ time, United Earth, having repaired the damage done by their greed, will round up the remaining cohort along with their warlord accomplices, convict them of their crimes and exile them to the Moon.
We are animals, of course, deny it though we may. Until science comes up with a bio-modification, we have to eat, drink, shit and piss. And fart. Eating and drinking’s fine. The other stuff – disgusting. But funny. Farting, being gaseous, is less disgusting and therefore easier to joke about.
Q: Why do people say, ‘More tea, Vicar?’ when someone farts? A: It’s a joke about the thin veneer of civilisation covering our all-too solid animal nature, and our embarrassment about it – always good for a laugh.
It’s a joke about the incongruous congruity of a human (the vicar) representing morality ordained by a supernatural supreme being (God-based civilisation), an undeniable animal noise and smell (the fart), and the consequent irreverent humour (the joke).
God being spiritual, and farting being animal, the saying ‘More tea, Vicar?’ humourously encapsulates the tension between those two worlds of meaning. The tea is a healing balm. The fortified wine that might then be produced closes the wound. Tea and sherry – closure medication for our divided souls.
But how does the vicar come into it?
Imagine: a semi-mythical English past where people, whether working-class or middle-class, called their front room, if they had one, the parlour.
The parlour was the best room, reserved for special occasions. One such occasion would be a visit by the vicar, the Church of England parish priest. The family would wear their Sunday-best clothes, and tea would be served using the best service.
The conversation would be somewhat strained, due to the status of the guest depending on a shared tradition of faith in a supernatural supreme being (a belief which would inevitably cause some doubt in the minds of all concerned, not least that of the vicar).
During an awkward pause in the conversation someone, perhaps nervously, lets rip a loud fart. To allay the even more awkward silence and the undeniable animal stench, Mother – who, traditionally, pours the tea – brightly asks, “More tea, Vicar?“.
(Equally traditionally, Father may relieve the tension with a cheerful “Better out than in!“, thus enabling the conversation to sputter on. Fortified wine might shortly be produced, to the relief of all.)
Ancestor Australopithecus sediba | Photo: Brett Eloff / Profberger and Wits University
Here we are – animals with consciousness. We’ve achieved civilisation, again. And it’s about to be destroyed, again. Racism, mass poverty, turning on each other, breaking alliances with neighbour states, about to destroy our environment. Vulnerable animals with a big brain. The only protection is world government. Like United Earth in Star Trek.
If universal consciousness caused DNA, it’s ironic that we highly conscious humans, the crown of evolution, are apparently unable to apprehend it – universal consciousness, that is.
Metaphorically, God made man in his own image: with consciousness; but even to conscious humans, God-consciousness (whatever gnostics, mystics and gurus say) is unknowable. Non-metaphorically, science for all its brilliance, is unable to agree on a theory of everything. Metaphorically again, science in its current state can’t look upon the face of God.
I should add that I’m an agnostic. I’m implying design, but not a designer. Evolution is designerless design. I’m suggesting a universal non-divine design process analogous to evolution.
The purpose of universal consciousness in fostering life might be to produce mirror or companion consciousness (perhaps the result of cosmic vanity or loneliness). Or – more darkly – it might be energy farming.
soothfairy 