Kingdom of Fear compilation - out now!

I Am Legend

I never really thought of myself as a writer, more like someone who wrote things every now and again to pass the time. But now, for my sins, a writer is what I am. I received in the post yesterday my first 'official' piece of published work, in a journal called Abraxas Unbound. The story is entitled Chorus and is a story in the style of Edgar Alan Poe, maybe a bit of Raymond Carver thrown in (just because its brief and gets to the point). It's not a particularly long or adventurous story, but it's mine nonetheless and I'm happy beyond words to be able to have something on my bookshelf with my own words inside.

If you're interested, you can pick Abraxas Unbound up from here: http://www.lulu.com/content/4617742

There's essays within by Colin Wilson as well as academia on all sorts of subjects. It's quite poetic in a way that the first issue of Doghead was almost entirely dedicated to Wilson's first book, and now here I am sharing pages with him. It's a funny old world.

Rut Roh...

Today I finished the first four pages of Doghead the Second.

So, this will definately be out before the world caves in on itself.

If not, I'll kiss your bottom.

Amid the Chaos of the Day

Pacing like a caged animal, left to right, right to left, drinking water habitually, not even thirsty. Can't stop moving, not even for a second, to break this momentum could let the tiredness take over, leave me an exhausted disappointment for everyone in the crowd. The only way to go is forward, so on and on I pace, waiting for the rest of the band to be ready. Finally, silence dawns, and my cue follows.

'We're called Deal With It, and this song is called War Against the Machines.' And with that I brought my fist crashing to the ground. All self control exploded into fragments moments before the song kicked in, and while the first note was struck I was already flinging myself headfirst into the crowd. I was once again running on empty, my energy coming from some deeply sickened deposit of pure survival instinct. Alternating between low singing when I could cope, and bloodcurdling screams when I ran out of juice; the first two lines of one song came out as a garble of nonsensical shouting. I had more important things on my mind, truth be told. I wanted the audience to understand and appreciate fear itself, to feel a great unease, some sort of sick fascination. I didn't care whether they loved or hated us, I just never wanted any of them to forget.

In between songs I'd pour half a bottle of water over myself, in a vain attempt to bring down my boiling blood. I'd fling the rest into the crowd with full force but no deliberation of aim. Time after time I threw myself off stage at anyone stupid/brave enough to stand close by. Grabbing people by the scruffs or collars and flinging them about like rag dolls. I had no idea where this strength was coming from, it was certainly not the sort of power I could muster on a day-to-day basis, instead was something akin to drug intoxication, like my body was riding a high on tension and rage. I throw the mic at people, take pot shots, swing my fists at full force, all the time screaming bloody murder, act after act of psychological warfare, a battle of attrition between me and the rest of the world. Noone in this town will ever fuck with us after tonight, I have neutered the lot of them, laughed in the face of their affectations and puffed chests, shown them what violence really is. I walked amongst them as we played, as though king of their realm, and they bared their bellies with no fight.

I put every last vestige of energy I had into our last set, and in 15 minutes it was all over. I felt cheated in a way, like it should have gone on for so much longer. Battles should last for days and weeks, not have to fit into a slot to let an instantly forgettable act try and fill the void. This should only have finished when I was put to rest, dead on the floor, a sigh of relief breathed out by the world at once. As it was I walked out the venue shirtless and wandered off, steam coming from me like a boiling pan. As I walked away to nowhere in particular I noticed heads turning to watch me go by, either a minor curiosity to them or a momentary distraction from conversation. I deflected their gazes. Even if they thought they knew what had just transpired inside, they had no idea whatsoever. I hated them for their ignorance, but by the same merit I paid them no heed. Ahead I could see a bench by a copse of trees, it seemed as good a place to rest as any. On sitting down the force of my surroundings hit me like a one word poem.

On the grass before me were rabbits by the tenfold, calmly feeding and socialising amidst the hubris of human culture all around, amidst the chaos of the day. The sheer contrast of what I'd experienced less than a minute before, and what I looked upon now was deeply profound, though I had no real idea how. Instead I sat and took in as much of the peaceful scene as I could, basking in its innocence and simplicity, yearning for a time in the future when I could do away with the pretensions and complexities that ruled my waking life.

I hadn't time to process this chain of thought before various people from the venue wandered up; talking and kidding around and causing a ruckus, disturbing and dispersing the rabbits with their prescence. It didn't seem right to sit there any longer.

so much for the six month plan

I looked at the staff directory at my new workplace today and was astounded. Of 60 odd staff working here, at least 50 are managers! That's like a 5-1 staff to manager ratio. Boy, either the staff really need a close eye on them, or the company really likes promotions!

Alas, I fear the reality is much more mundane. It's all part of this 'streamline', work-from-home, 'open plan', modern workplace BULLSHIT. End of the day, you might be able to call yourself a 'manager', but your job's just as shitty as it was 2 years ago.

Where are there job openings for peasant? I want to sit on a haystack flinging mud at my inbred family for a sack of potatoes and a bucket of milk and catch dysentry, it's got to have more meaning than 'employer investments in people'.

barf

My first rejection!

I feel like I should be bummed out. After all, they're saying my story doesn't meet the prized standards of the intellectual elite that is Black Static Magazine. But instead I feel a sort of elation. I think in a way this tiny slip of pre-written, badly-printed paper gives me the sense of legitimacy I always lacked before. I am a writer. A talentless, shitty writer, but a writer nonetheless. Here's to the hundreds of rejection letters to come and the ever increasing gloomy sulks that will inevitably follow. Lord knows I'll probably not be this stoked second time around.

Milestones of Graphics Design

There are some very mundane things in this world that I nonetheless hold dear. Matches are one of those things. I think it's all tied in to machismo and primitive survivalism or something, but I find it a very satisfying pastime. Mastery of fire is something all male personalities aspire to have, and matches go some way to helping us acheive that dream.

Matches can make every one of us like Prometheus: he who stole fire from the gods. But the power of the gods doesn't necessarily come packaged with their wisdom like a tesco 2 for 1 deal. We all know some dunderhead who accidentally set fire to his room, or burnt off his own face. That's why the thoughtful people at Swedish Match decided to put a warning on the back of the box in case any of us hadn't yet heard the breaking news that fire can actually be harmful.

Now, if you're going to go with a health warning that's integral to your product, you'd likely go for something eye catching, but tasteful. Maybe hire a couple of ad guys or some dude with a graphics design Phd to come up with something. Not Swedish Matches. They went for the less conventional path of doing a picture on MS Paint of a burning stickman. It was a risky manouvre, but as you can see for yourself, the results have really paid off. The combination of the stick man's imploring eyes, its half casual, half worrisome cry for help, and its flaming arm, really create a lasting impression. I don't think you could get someone with a salary of a million pounds an hour to design something that good. And to top it all off they include a recipe for rice pudding, magnanimously trusting that their customers might one day try cooking something more inventive than sausages and beans.

Thanks to Swedish Matches I will never forget that fire kills children or that I can have my very own ricey dessert in less than two and a half hours.