He wakes up. A swollen whale carcass washes up on a beach. The enormous expanding metaphor terrifies the local residents with the underlying meanings that could be drawn from it’s rotting stench, it’s enormous size and whether or not it is possible to connect it to the worries in the centres of Capital or the Palaces of the powerful. He sees Matt Dillon. He sees Forrest Whitaker. They are strangers with familiar faces. He stretches his psuedopodia out of the gelatinous mass of the public extending out to these two famous people reaching with his fronds to stroke and experience their physicality perfectly and completely. They look confused. He looks horrified. He doesn’t know them. They do not know him. He stares at the familiar masks that entertain him rictus on bodies that movie erratically below as if they were powered with hydraulics attached to steaming tubes trailing along the ground to a reeking back room full of engineers and chief scientists desperate to continue the facade that dreams are real as real as the misty mystery of reality. The joyful meandering debate continues about the nature of humane execution as there ever could be such a thing. Perhaps hemlock and milk would be the best way in the manner of Socrates. Everyone a philospher sent to their own existential oblivion.He reads that we are now in a post-antibiotic age. More end days. More fear. More enemies at every gate physical, mental, spiritual. He is winded by his orgasm. He lies back on the bed light headed and unable to breathe properly. He is old. Rob Ford is old. Rob Ford is going into rehab. Rob Ford is going to stop being a late night punchline for a while as he battles with his various illnesses. Jimmy Fallon misfires a number of jokes into an audience who, bless them, are willing him to succeed. He will have to try again tomorrow to satisfy his relentless hunger for approval. He squanders the rest of the day surfing the web – trapped in the web – stuck in the web. He eats a burger. He eats fries. He plays a video game called Risk of Rain which is not about the weather. The 234 girls abducted from Chibok school in Nigeria are still missing and unnamed but a swelling tide is rising to have them remembered and saved. He hopes that they will be remembered and saved. The world is awful. The world is not so bad. The world is full of people. People are awful. Except for the ones who are not awful. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He has the smooth soft skin of a young Cindy Crawford. The radio attempts to do an emergency warning test but it doesn’t work. What would happen if it wasn’t a test but the real thing. What if the real alert didn’t work? What if we are all dead. It didn’t work at the weekend. Tornadoes tearing down alarm systems. A terrible racist is banned from basketball for life. All the excellent racists go unpunished and carry on with their day, untrammelled. He looks at a poster. He is told that an elephant will be killed while you wait for the bus. Is this a threat or a promise? A warning but phrased as if a butcher waits at your pleasure ready to slice up pachyderm cutlets for your dinner. Is there an app for that? One button press away from watching those enormous loving eyes glaze and darken. There is a man shouting in middle distance. He can’t hear what the man is shouting about. Possibly Jesus. It’s often Jesus. No guarantee it’s Jesus this time. A police car sounds like it is wolf whistling other cars. Sexist police car. Objectifying civilian vehicles. A man is wearing amazing water proof shoe coverings that are red and make his real shoes look like clown shoes. A bold man unafraid of ridicule. The best of men. A man on the bus is reading Brave New World. Braver Newer World. A Lady in spectacles. Is she a Superhero in disguise? Wet blossom stuck to a car like confetti. A memory of catching thrown money as a child after a village wedding. Fistfuls. Fists full of coppers and silvers excited tumbling home down the hill to count the collected booty. The Voice contestants sing, desperate to cling on to the frayed edges of fame. Tasted. Addicted. Cold Turkey pain moments away. Chalmers Johnson mumbles into his hand about Rome and Russia and the decline of American power and Portia justifies her violence on the Housewivesof Atlanta reunion. Brian Williams has a serious face but it seems like there is nothing behind his eyes. An artificial glow added to his pupils by special effects artists who are well paid and unionized. His mouth opens and closes. Words come out. Ukraine, South Korea, tornadoes, a smile, warmth enough for what remains of the collective American soul and a promise to be there tomorrow night. The judges of The Voice could run the world. It would be an imperfect system but it would provide definite results. Carson Daley says they are singing for their lives. If this were actually the case then there would certainly be higher viewing figures but also police inquires and no doubt criminal proceedings. Unless society found something like that acceptable in which case there would only be police there earning overtime as crowd control and security before returning home to young families and suburban contentment. A music awards ceremony promotes a new song by Michael Jackson. He does not know what to make of this. He is saddened by the mental collapse of George Monbiot and the moral collapse of Tony Blair. Citizen arrest website performance art. Waiting for Bardot the most beautiful animal loving fascist in Europe. George Monbiot and Tony Blair star in Waiting for Godot. They sit under a fake tree waiting for two more actors to appear. The two actors do not appear. George and Tony are reading from two different plays. The coughing audience applauds the experiment and it is well reviewed on theater blogs. When he was a child no one told him how pungent and how quickly his genitals would smell when he grew to adulthood. No one told him. No doubt it would be frowned upon to talk of such things to children these days. It is raining hard outside. He eats lots off near for his supper and he drinks a number of beers. Lifetime ban of a racist basketball owner. But he still owns a team. A bald man screams. Does it mean anything? There is a funnel cloud warning. There is a funnel cake warning both dangerous in their own way. Bob Hoskins is dead. Who will save Roger Rabbit now? An execution is botched. A man is tortured to death with chemicals and then his heart explodes. The crime for which is he convicted is awful and the way the state destroys his life is equally terrifying. There is no respite from the abyss. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He likes being asleep so he is unhappy to be woken up by the light and his body and the requirement to go to work for a living so that he can get money to buy food and shelter. He reads more of Thomas Piketty’s book Capital in the 21st Century and starts to read Beyond the Whiteness of Whiteness by Jane Lazarre. He listens to a skinny young child talk about taking a year off. Words like ethnic, exotic, experience, character-building fly thick and fast out of the young child’s mouth. Does it mean anything? Other than signifiers of white male privilige not very much or that the rest of the world is a playground and a classroom for the paler peoples of the planet. Life is happening elsewhere. He drinks some elderflower drink. It transports him back to many years ago to a lovely time when he picked elderflowers with a friend and subtle elderflower champagne was made and fermented and he probably spent far too much time at his friends house but everyone was too polite to say anything but he is old now and on another continent so it probably doesn’t matter how we make mistakes and don’t see the signs and overstay our welcome and try to escape the inescapable. He watches Cosmos and it fills his heart with joy and he naps. He walks past a wall and on the wall there is a piece of plastic. The piece of plastic flaps in the wind. It makes a hard noises as it hits the wall. It does not seem to serve any purpose. It is not covering an opening or a broken window. It is just nailed into a brick wall.. Maybe it is street art. He saves some fake animals in a video game. It is not satisfying. He reads about Tony Blair. Tony Blair seems to be going insane. Maybe he has always been insane. Advertising is destroying the planet. It is destroying humanity. As has always been the plan. He drinks a French Coffee and eats a Jimmy Dean Breakfast biscuit. He opens the Jimmy Dean Box. The frozen layers are wrapped in plastic. He opens the packet. The biscuit looks like plastic. The egg looks like plastic. The bacon looks like plastic. It looks like a child’s toy. He wraps it in paper. He unwraps the second one and does the same. These two plastic toys are put in the microwave. He sets the microwave for 2 minutes then changes his mind and resets it to 2 and a half minutes. Then he stands by the microwave and waits for 2 and a half minutes wondering at how many times the West will be said to be wringing it’s hands as it stands by unable to do anything as darker hued people attack one another in a vacuum with no connection to any complex global interrelations that may or may not be connected to governments of the west or corporations of the west we are the good guys we are the good guys we are the good guys. Then someone uses the phrase Hobson’s Choice when he actually means Sophie’s Choice but no one seems to notice and no one seems to care. The sun is pleasant outside and there is a slight breeze. He eats some cake flavoured m&ms and he has mint flavoured m&ms and he eats some cookies and cream hershey bar. He is getting fat and he isn’t sure why. He remembers that he has forgotten his Jimmy Dean Breakfast biscuits. He returns to the microwave. They are soft and cold. He heats them up again. He chews them. They are very hot in some parts but there are still cold pockets of wet meat. He puts ketchup on them. He does not feel any better about himself. At least he is not being sentenced to death. He wants a pair of sunglasses. He wants to be drunk. He wants to forget. He wants to remember. He dives down the rabbit hole but only his hand will fit. He is not the space trader he wished to be when he was a child. He rends and he tears at the sky but it does not respond. He plays he talks he thinks he hopes he fears. He ignores grammar and spelling and syntax. He bores. He bores deeply into his head with a drill. There is just air inside his head. It is hollow like a jar. Like an old jar found in a cave. He goes to sleep.
The BBC compares grassroots womens peace groups stopping war in Liberia and stopping the disappeared in Argentina with the British State trying to get the muslim community to inform on their men. It is an interesting comparison. He wonders if it is a reasonable comparison. It probably is not. From nail art to footage to the front line of war. Big history big science big politics big big big complexity game theory slavery consumerism cheese dogs and cat videos chewing up the planet. Negotiations are happening for the release of people, for the cessation of war, for reparations for the poor and the disposessed. The Possessed remain untouched. A barrel bomb is literally a barrel full of high explosives. He plays The Room 2. He escapes a room only to find himself trapped in another room. It feels like life. It feels like it’s time for bed. He goes to sleep.
He doesn’t wake up.
He wakes up. There are orphan Farms and meat orchards. Families are sliced apart like butcher’s mutton. Nutrient paste hosed into expanding bellies. There is saturation. Everyone is terminal. The telomeres shave away every year and the DNA glitches build up silently in the backrooms of the thewish tenement. There is asthmatic excitement at company profits. Greed the never to be satisfied desire for everything. All cleaning and caring and dressing and bathing the monster that will one day consume us all. The insidious truth of the Racial Contract. Hidden from view from those who wield it. Wilfully ignored by those who wield it. The ignorance of a system they built yet at the same time a terrible fear that if it were to disappear their destruction would be assured that the pain and suffering that they have inflicted would be returned a hundred fold. The automated slaughter-bots patrol the streets of the near future clearing up the afternoon rush. Confusion abounds as to whether people are running the Boston Marathon or attending a rally to free Ukraine. Hoax factories churn out elaborate lies, sprinkled with shredded facts. Varnished, packaged and delivered they line the aisles and fill the post boxes brimming, overflowing, gushing, drowning. Desensitized and reeducated Desiccates sit quietly engorged on an endless production line of glowing addiction. The day has not been too bad. There was love and there was happiness and laughter and joy and heart beating wildly and smiles and sweat and grinning and beard hair and the possibility of a better tomorrow and too many Cadburys chocolate eggs and Hershey eggs and that is no supper but it was supper and a bagel and maybe something that was fish or the memory of the death of fish. He probably falls asleep. He cannot remember.
He wakes up. He eats a cold banana from the fridge. The peeled skin is cold on his hand like wet flesh. He eats the banana. It has the texture of meat. He is not sure he is awake yet. The banana disappears slowly into his mouth as he chews trying to ignore the peeled back skin limp on his hand. He drinks a hazelnut coffee. He can remember no dreams. He watches as bag after bag containing South Korean children are lined up on the shore as they are gently gathered from the ship that was their tomb. There seems no end to the line of children. Their parents heavy with mourning heave nearby. He feels his belly distending with food. He gorges on a pizza he doesn’t really want to eat. His knee still aches. He finishes reading The Racial Contract. It is brain-changing. It is mind-blowing. It is clear and precise. Someone on the television says an event was unimaginable but it was not unimaginable. It was a very imaginable event. Most events are imaginable. Especially the terrible ones. He is haunted by his memory of dead leaves. He does not go outside. The sun is shining but he is afraid of pollen. He brushes his teeth. There is lots of blood – blood dripping down his chin filling the sink spilling over the sink and filling the small blue bathroom sloshing up the walls the door shut tight as he drown in his own blood. Then he finishes all of his laundry and he plays the piano and he is still not very good at playing the piano but noone is listening and he enjoys pressing the buttons or keys or whatever they happen to be called. He has no ethical map or moral compass. He wonders if they sell them at the surplus store but it is unlikely, given the world as it is, that there would be a surplus of ethical maps or moral compasses. He vacillates. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He farts himself awake. A long low rumble like a motorcycle in need of repair. He falls back to sleep. He wakes himself up again with his unhappy bowel. He makes a coffee and drinks a coffee and eats some toast and honey and he reads a depressing paper about the illusion of democracy in America – it is an oligarcy, a plutocracy, a kyriarchy. It is not the lush open grassland of opportunity that the myths would have everyone believe. It is not the tourist experience of snapping pictures and pointing at natives and eating new food and drinking specially prepared psycadelic medicines. It is the grey grinding gears of the every day drudge the mulched down foundation of the power elite. He eats a banana. He eats a sandwich with meat and cheese and mustard and spinach. He drinks a French vanilla coffee. He can never tell the difference between French vanilla and plain vanilla. He is probably uncouth. He doesn’t care. He wonders whether he should wear guy-liner. He will come to a conclusion some time later in the year. His inner thigh aches. The sharp pain is just out of the reach of his fingers. He cannot position himself in the chair in order to stop feeling the pain. He stands up and the pain disappears but then a new pain appears in his left shoulder. It is dull and constant until he sits down again at which time the sharp pain returns. Then it disappears fading like a scream on a moving train. He watches an incredible film called The House I Live In. He has to take breaks for crying. He plays Hearthstone a game on the computer that uses digital cards. He is regressing. He reads The Racial Contract. He takes some photographs. He does some monochrome oil painting. He does not do any laundry. He should do some laundry. His left knee starts to hurt. He itches his right eye for a while. He takes a nap. He watches a talk by Eugene Jarecki and Chris Hedges. It is at the same time bleak and hopeful. Perhaps the prison-industrial complex the pharmaceutical-industrial complex the military-industrial complex the [insert business here]-industrial complex will be dissolved to form a more amenable society and the poor won’t be warehoused because they are no longer of any use to the 400 people who own the same amount of wealth in America as the bottom 150 million. When you are calling the bottom 150 million the bottom, he thinks, then you really have a problem with how you are defining your terms. He lies down in bed hoping that he will be able to sleep.
He wakes up. Biology is not Destiny. He senses the impending doom of a new mass extinction like animals before an earthquake or tsunami or war. He has a shower. He has a hazelnut coffee. He drives through suburbia. It looks like a film set all flimsy fronts held up on wooden supports. Abandoned yet well kept. A dog barks and then runs with the car. Then Noises but only in the distance as if activated by a sound engineer. Lawn mowers, water sprinklers, children playing, the spit and sizzle of a weekday cook out. He sits in a parking lot and watches dreams crumble geologically. He wonders why medical help has to accord with patient values in America where the prime question might be will this make me better and will I have a good quality of life not does Jesus cry when I get this kind of surgery or is big government also benefiting from my good health in which case let me die let me die let me die I want no part in hurting Jesus or helping big government. He takes photographs of strip malls, artificially aged signs, a discarded school baseball stadium, a supply store with the same name as a German war hero. The light is adequate. He sees street names that remind him of Scotland. He is irritated when a woman orders her drink before she pays even though she is behind him in the queue and she gets her drink first even though he did things in the right order. There is no justice in this world he thinks and then his mind travels to more important matters like accidentally appearing in pornography and anxiety about the terminal velocity of life. When aliens arrive from outer space the reason they will destroy the human race will be the continuing toleration Jeremy Kyle. This is the one solid conclusion he reaches from his morning thinking. He smells the fall of Rome, tastes the last days of Marienbad, hears the dismantling of the Ottoman Empire. Oceans of old white men rise up with claw hands to drown everything rather than share -grasping and straining their staring eyes pleading for undeserved sympathy. Give us more their gnashing teeth grind out myths over and over and over. Ears bleed. Meanwhile he enjoys a chai tea latte and a chocolate brownie. The sun comes out and the day looks glorious and washed clean through the Windows of the Starbucks. He takes up too many seats but he is in a selfish mood so he treats himself to this unnecessary but joyous extra leg room. He listens to strangers talk about secession and revolution and the overreach of the federal government as they sip their frappuccinos and soy lattes on comfortable couches. He finds a beer branded with the Caricatured face of Edgar Allan Poe brewed in Baltimore which seems very inappropriate as he died drunk in a gutter in Baltimore. He watches Dancing with the Stars and weeps as they glide across the stage. He eats salad and then falls asleep.
He wakes up. The police are at tyson’s corner so are the fire brigade. Three floors of an apartment have been evacuated because of a funny angel emanating a funny smell emanating from one apartment and the occupier threatening the police through the door with a gun. This is the story this is the police narrative. It is raining. It is wet. The pollen has a sharp taste in the eyes and ears. It burns oh how it burns. There are discarded pistachio shells all around the busstop. They were there yesterday. Perhaps they will be there tomorrow. He hopes that the pistachio nuts were enjoyed but sad that the enjoyer should not have collected the casings in a bag as the inner goodness was eaten and not cast them aside like bullet shell casing around the memory of a bunker mounted machine gun in war. food war. Trash war. He buys a hazelnut coffee. Workers wait in the store away from the rain their shifts not begun yet but already looking tired. He stands outside the bus shelter using his umbrella giving distance between him and the women to Dow to them that he odd not a threat. It probably doesn’t work. They probably wonder if they give him any thought at all why he isn’t standing insider the bus shelter because there is, after all, plenty of room. He accidentally calls a lady bus driver sir. He feels bad about this. Maybe she had no opinion but he uses his imagination to imagine her imagining why a passenger imagined she should be okay with being called sir in a heteronormative world. One day it might not matter but today it does to a lot of people it does because of prejudice and reasons and judith butler is nowhere to offer clarity and assistance. He eats a burger and drinks a sangria and children apart at host place of work except his work is different the geography is different and the kids are soon out of control and posting buttons they super be pressing and acting in a threatening manner to all the adults and then to him and then a masked intruder begins starting fires and he chases the pyromaniac on a scooter through the city and he catches him with webbing like spider man and it turns out the intruder is just a bullied kid who wanted friends and then the wrestling team attack but he protects the child and her is a child but then he looks in the mirror and sees his belly distended all veined like a pregnant belly and he thinks of he farts it well deflate do he farts and it does not deflate so he shrugs his shoulders and puts his shirt on and winners if he is dreaming as he locks eyes with a homeless man who is trying to sleep in a bus shelter. There is no conclusion to the stand off at the apartment that began in the morning. Perhaps everyone forgot and drifted away from the scene to other acvities. He keeps walking as he falls asleep.
He wakes up. He is tired. There is heat in the air. There is pollen in the air. It sticks to everything. It has to be waded through. It stinks up the air. There are people collapsing in the street as the plants go to war as the trees go to war as the explosions fill the air fireworks destruction asphyxiation. A visit to a sanitarium shown round by a tired ghost who just wants to disappear into the mist of the past. Squeaky wheels of patient gurneys and the soft weeping of the trapped rabble. A visit to an enormous apartment complex that feels like the set of Rosemary’s Baby with windows down to the floor and no obvious means of securing the safety of residents how many people have fallen or were pushed or jumped from these terrifying dizzying heights to end it all on welcome concrete below? No answer is given to that unasked question. Gadaffi’s son looks like George Bluth Sr. in a bad disguise or possibly George Bluth Sr’s brother in disguise. Oscar Pistorius continues to be interrogated by the prosecution lawyer. He writhes and moans and trembles. He learns about colour and colour theory and human comparative blindess when given the scope of the complete light spectrum of the universe. Then he eats a sandwich and then he lies down. Then he reads. Then he sleeps loudly and with movement and he wakes himself up and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He doesn’t know if he slept or if he is awake. The sun is beading light down the wall so it must be daytime. It buttons then slips into thickening ropes until it spread and make a small lake on the floor. It is hot outside and he dresses incorrectly wrapped up in a winter coat so he sweats and fumbles his way to work. He sees a woman picking her nose. A man playing flappy bird. A family sitting silently staring into the distance. A man tripping on a stone. A woman diving across the road before the light changes and making it just in time before large vehicles crush her body. He reads about capitalism in the 21st century and he is confused by it. He feels that he is constantly just one corner away from understanding. One corner he has to walk around and there in front of him will be the answer he is searching for. It is always the next corner. Always when he reaches it the answer has moved on just a little further. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. His chest is tight. So much rain spatter. Peaches Geldof is dead abhorrent tragedy. He gets his driver’s license. A weight is lifted he is elated drained shorn of feeling and emotion yet giddy with a feeling that he does not have a owrd for. he sits in a car and listens ot the radio. He wishes his phoens was working but it is not working it is broken but he has a driver’s license and Mickey Rooney is dead. All nature is repetition. All hope all love all hate is repetition all has happened before every breath every thought infused with every previous thought and hope and moment nostalgia shell shock battle fatigue ptsd a new term is needed war truth reality on the road home but he will never arrive home broken forever to be walking the homestead just over the next mound the welcome vertical of chimney smoke never to enjoy the heat of the fire. Morseless bravery in the blasted bunker. He has a driver’s license and finally learns why it has taken so long because his name was too long and now they learn their error they blame him with their eyes but they reset a scanner and they give him his license and finally he has it in his hands and he is a driver and a human being and a productive member of society again. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. His life is all acoustic pulses and repetetive beats and repetetive beats and grilled cheese and stomach ache and neck ache and back ache and ache ache. He is swelling up like a balloon. He worries about imaginary pain and ignores real pain. He stares at the wall for a while. He drinks a coffee. He draws some pictures. He wipes his hands until they are red and raw. He sneezes but he is not sure whether it is because of allergies of because he is dying from some unknown disease or if he is being tickled by angel wings. He goes to sleep having wasted the day.
He wakes up. He glides through the day passing people on every side sliding between the spaces in time and space. He bathes in an ocean of information. It drips off him as he walks through the digital storm. He sees spy cameras everywhere and electronic nets collecting swarms of data. He is content but it is veined with trepidity because he is not normally content and generally contentment is a prologue to disaster but he decides to enjoy it for the moment. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. His body is held together by sweat and shame. It continues from there. There is no diaper on the sidewalk as he walks along the sidewalk where it has been for months fermenting so at least there is that. He writes lists he eats food he drinks coffee and hair grows out of his body it keeps on growing and it does not stop. He writes his name on his forehead but he does it backwards so that he can see it in the mirror. No one mentions that his name is written on his forehead. He eats trail mix and he strokes a pet hamster and he takes some pills that help him sleep and he watches succesfull people succeeding on television but he isn’t sure whether they are really succeeding or whether it is just edited that way for happy endings and triumphs while the detritus of their lives is washed down a long dark tube. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up to the sound of three alarms. The sun has not risen yet but then it rises like a button. However that may be. He waits in line in the cold and the chill and nearly gets what he wants but then fails at the final hurdle and realizes he will have to return to this purgatory again but at least for now he will get to leave wherever this may be wherever he may be going whatever he may be doing. Then he eats a donut and drinks a very poorly made coffee and there is fun and there are games. There is grocery shopping and eating and reading and watching things. There is waking up on a planet that has poisoned rain and being attacked by creatures with smiling faces and digging for coal and for copper and for iron and cutting down trees and dying and being reborn and dying again and building a space ship that doesn’t take off properly and being a spy and inhabiting worlds and worry and sadness and joy and trepidation and excitement and love and more love and laughter and then he goes to sleep after having experienced lots of verbs in real time he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He finds some vodka in a glass by his bed which has some cranberry juice in it. There is no time for breakfast so he drinks this and the bitterness wakes him up. He has no time for a shower. He wears the same clothes from the day before only just making the effort to find a new pair of underpants. He puts the underpants on backwards and the takes them off and puts them off the correct way. Then he stares at the new art of George W. Bush. It is aesthetically very basic yet utterly compelling because of the identity of the artist. The average art works of a teenager become something more profound and powerful because the hand that painted them contains the fingers that wavered over the red button for eight years. He wonders if Paul Bremer is jealous that he is not getting as much attention for his art his flat landscapes and barns and bridges of madison county. He wonders why he doesn’t wear more dresses. Dresses are pretty and it would be nice to wear one but he thinks that his hairiness would probably fight against whatever pretty dress he chose. Then he eats a donut and then he has a coffee and he buys some groceries and he does his laundry and he ponders whether he should paint his nails and he paints his nails in lots of pretty rainbow colors and they look pretty but they go with none of his outfits so he takes nail polish remover and gently dabs a cotton ball with nail polish remover and he removes the nail polish and he prepares himself for whatever the day may bring tomorrow another trip to the mva a driving license the wind the sun the rain the cherry blossoms whatever the world wishes to drench him in he is ready. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up to the mellifluous sound of a radio presenter and then he falls back asleep again. Then he wakes up again and he has a shower and he has a coffee and he plays Fruit Ninja and breaks a sweat which shouldn’t be a thing that happens. Then he goes to work and he has another coffee and he feels better and he drinks some water and he works hard and he snaps at someone and regrets it and then he goes to an art supplies shop and feels like he has found a new heaven. Then he forgets to eat lunch then he plays some more Fruit Ninja then he walks walks with his legs just walking until he doesn’t need to walk any more. Then he brushes his teeth. Then he feels nervous about his driving test and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He immediately regrets eating six microwaved White Castle tiny burgers. The rest of the day is unpleasant and should not be described. He enters his bed with trepidation not looking forward to sleep or what will replace sleep.
He wakes up. He is in a hotel. It is the best feeling to wake up in an old hotel with someone you love after a night of fried chicken and donuts and cocktails and not to be woken by bad dreams or unyielding horrors at the fringes of perception. He drinks a blueberry coffee which tastes like someone accidentally dropped herbal tea into his coffee and then he drinks a pecan coffee which tastes glorious flavour explosions in his mouth. Then he feels the rain on his face and then he feels the sun on his face and then it is dark because he has closed his eyes and they are pinched tight but then he opens then and everything is still the same and there is sun and there is rain and there are bananas to eat. We are all dehumanized. The word is used to refer to things that we don’t like to acknowledge are all too normal. Human is all things it is not just the good things. Then he listens to tired questions and tired answers and the games continue and the nothing changes. Then he eats some fries and then he eats a pop tart without first toasting it and then he watches The Blacklist which is a show about daddy issues in which James Spader plays a wonderful villain who is really the main character’s father but maybe isn’t but probably is but everything is put in place to make it seem like he is even if no one is saying that is the case. Then he wonders about freedom and he feels it crushing him and then he falls asleep.
He wakes up. He goes to the gym and experiences nausea on the running machine and the rowing machine and the step machine but it is good nausea then he worries about tumors and journalism and journalling and the moon hoax axe murderer who claims that the missing plane is on the darkside of the moon with the Nazis having been sucked through an artificial black hole that was made by a secret superweapon. Who controls the news birth market looking at purple tears weeping down a man’s face. Museums closed early and passport missing and slowly growing fear pushing it down as the spiral begins not to worry but without his passport he has no identity and he will have to get a new one and this will take six weeks and then he will not be able to take his driving test and then he will not be able to go to court with it and he will be put in jail for months and he will lose his job and he will be deported and he will need to renew his visa and thousands of dollars and time and effort will be expended as he then has to retake all the tests for his driving licenese again and come back to the country for court and then finally his passport is found and he is tearfully grateful but at what cost was it found and will it ever be better and how shockingly bad has he turned down the wrong path into the misty valley and he cannot see the end of the valley he can only hear noises in the dark that he does not like the sound of but then watching Veep and True Detective in Russian and eating tasty burgers becalms and relaxes and everything is okay again for a while but it will not be okay again in the future as the long winding road of comprimise crumbles before and behind him. The birth of the modern world, puzzle palace the masters of literature the power of the media news religion genuflection truth all of it mashed up together into a pulpy mess that can only be absorbed through a straw rammed into the forelobe of the brain as slowly conflict over water becomes a mainstream idea as Thucydides teaches about politics and war and Chekhov teaches about human relationships and jelly splash teaches nothing and there is walking and coffee and chocolates and Frisbee and Belgian brownies and a student making ricin in his dorm and matt taibbi’s book of eloquent rant and Andrew Jackson is a psychopathic maker of modern America and British are let of the hook once again for oppression native Americans and slaves. Bill Murray appears in Razor’s Edge in a beautiful powerful vanity project that nobody remembers and everyone is watching everything and everyone and no one is contemplating or compromising and everyone is afraid and tired and stressed and broken and beaten but double fried chicken almost solves everything and the sense memory of double fried chicken almost solves everything but there are still naggging doubts that remain like where is the plane and is Putin going to invade Finland and is there any milk in the fridge and does this blackberry infused coffee taste good or does it not taste good and why is sport and how do life and it is only lunchtime on another Monday in the 21st century so he does the only thing he can do and that is go to sleep.
He wakes up. He feels exhausted but the sleep tracker tells him that he slept well. He does not believe the sleep tracker. The sleep tracker is lying to him. It is sucking out his life force – digital succubus. He will not wear it again. He watches a trailer for a documentary about the role of women in the world today that is presented by a man. He wonders if the people who made this programme are aware of how this looks. He imagines that they probably don’t care. He smiles. Then he is sad. Then he stops caring and thinks about something else. He thinks about the poor quality coffee he is drinking and wonders if he should download the app that tells him how much coffee he is drinking and how much caffeine he has in his body so that he will then know when he can go to sleep. He considers that if he needs an app to tell him how and when to go to sleep based on the amount of coffee he has then he has no right to expect to be allowed to be unaccompanied out in public. He gets paid. He gets a free mug from the new health care provider that work is offering. It is a pink mug that changes colour to purple when cold liquids are put in it. It has GO YOU written on the front which seems the more he reads it like to disconnected words that a drunk might shout at him in the street at night. Everyone is being ridiculous about Ukraine and no one knows what is going on. Everyone is being ridiculous about the missing Malaysian plane and now black hole rapture theories are being brodcast by the mainstream news. He is tired. He goes to sleep. He has only been awake for an hour but it is enough. He will try again tomorrow.
He wakes up. There are many worse things than socks and sandals. He sits in his chair at work staring at screens for hours doing nothing productive just staring and then trying to lick his own eyeballs which is impossible because his tongue isn’t long enough and then flicking through web pages and then doing the same on his phone and then on his kindle and looking at the same things and pressing buttons and staring and eating and drinking thick black coffee like tar and he can’t tell the difference between reality shows and drama and the news and sitcoms and documentaries they are all the same they are all the same they are all the same they are all the same. Captain America smeared all over the media landscape. A mother who worked in a hospital is dragged behind a police car in Brazil. She dies. There is uproar. There is no ned to it. It is called inhuman but it is entirely human because human beings as always did it and using the word human soley for the good things humans do seems to be a little one-sided. He is never his best self. Humans are never their best selves. There is no such thing – just the time before composting begins. He sees an Illuminati eye hovering above the road. No one else seems to see it so he ignores it and heads into Dunkin’ Donuts for a donut flavoured coffee and a coffee flavoured donut. His confused tastebuds do not thank him. He hears the endles screams of a Mother who wants to know what has happened to her missing son and the plane that her missing son is on. She is dragged away by men. Others scream and ululate journalists parents officials a multi-limbed gaggle staggers towards the open door that soon closes behind the woman locking the questions out. Hope is held out for the resolution to the disappearance of a little girl and now perhaps a serial child rapist holds the key. Then an amber alert for a young girl missing for a week because the mother didn’t want the shelter manager who may have taken her to lose his job and bits of the plane may have been found and then it may not have been found and maybe Courtney Love knows where it is after all and Michael Gove is criticising the Cabinet for being full of old Etonians and then he is being criticised by a poet for giving school property away to private companies and then he eats a burger and enjoys sangria and reads some Chekov and some Bible and some Shakespeare. He puts a sleep tracker on his wrist and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He wakes up. He wakes up. He shouts. He wakes up. He turns. He wakes up. He spreads like butter over the bed. He is like a deflating balloon. He lopes to the bus stop. He lumbers to the drug store. He gambols to the grocery store. He swipes accidentally at strangers. He forgets to post a letter again. He reads a goverment written report about food and water security and he is terrified by it. There is no security at all. He hears the Revolution rumbling just over the horizon. Jimmy Fallon calms him down. Nothing can go wrong when Jimmy Fallon dances and frolics for the camera. He reads about freed slave girls and science for sale to the highest bidder and wears a double standard like a cheap suit that goes over the cheap suit he is wearing. He goes to sleep. He will wake up but for now he sleeps.
He wakes up. Snow piled up in thick hills mountainous ripples. Ukraine is independently tied to Russia. People cheer. Some weep. He buys bread and then accidentally makes a sandwich with three slices of bread but is too embarrassed to fix it so pretends it is what he meant to do all along. Then he eats a nut bar a chew nut bar that he purchased with the bread and the meat the meat that he did not mention before but that is also in the sandwich. Then he can’t remember what happens next but all of a sudden it is the evening and there is a man caught in a car in the river and a snow plough is on the wrong side of the road and his shoulders are sore and he finds some apples in his fridge which he eats and then he thinks his favorite theory on the missing plane is that it is a viral campaign for a movie version of Lost. Then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. His muscles scream at him to go back to sleep. He goes to the bathroom instead and empties his bladder and then he goes to the kitchen and fills his bladder with coffee but not directly rather by way of his mouth to his throat and beyond and then outside into the heat of the day and then there is sweating and the sun and the joy of summer and then without warning it snows and there is snow everywhere covering everything and they eat tapas and stand in the wind and then he watches people make up things and it is hilarious and then Veep and Julia Louis-Dreyfus is hilarious and then there is reading of Sartre and napping and other things and red wine and the joy of Spring curtailed by Seasonal television programmes that will probably not last more than three episodes because of nervous advertisers and short sighted television executives and then there is writing and sleep.
He wakes up. He is waiting at a bus stop. There is an Old Man waiting at the bus stop hunched up and silent against the terrifying cold. He gets on the bus after the Old Man ushers him on. The bus is slightly warmer but empty except for the Old Man who huddles in a seat near the front of the bus. Then he gets off the bus and he walks and gets on another bus and the Old Man is on that different bus and their eyes lock and in that moment they both know that they are the same person at different points on the time line and their eyes are full of fear and sadness and hopelessness because there is no escape from the tightrope path from one point to the other and only one direction toiling forever forward to the broken bodied Old Man. Then he sees a woman singing in a bright red coat. Then he hears somewhere in the distance vibrant arabic rock music. He shudders at the grinding cold and worries at the hobo filter that seems to exist between him and reality. Then he accidentally kicks a woman in the shin. A crowd gathers. There is unpleasantness. A man appears and offers cold Starbucks. Crowd confusion causes crowd diffusion and he slips away. He is tired of everything. Moments like arhythmic palpitations stuttering into the sunset. Icicockles hang limp. Tablet tablet tablet buttonless computer Gods law Scottish sweeties. He will never solve the environmental problems that the world has. It is too late. Time to move to Mars. He simmers in his inability to complete anything. He meets a friend and then spends all that time telling her about himself only after sickened by his inability to be a generous conversationalist listener ear. He eatshot pocket chicken donuts chips coffee stolen salted limbs gin and cranberry juice. Passwords are missing and forgotten from everything as is the Malaysian aeroplane as drink driving death increases because of fake id cards. Birds attack humans and Jimmy Fallons keeps playing and dancing and telling jokes as the world burns. It is exceedlingly cold screamingly cold. People die. Ice cream is named after historical massacres. They do not sell well. He is in a library collecting ideas in a line balling them up and throwing them at the teacher. Then he is told that he is supposed to collect books and read them. This confuses him. Then he meets a friend in a dream and there is mutual betrayal. Then he realises it is not a dream. He has been awake all along. He has never been asleep. He is tired. He is a butterfly. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He feels good about this. He feels that today he will get his driving license. He should not feel good about this for today he will not get his driving license. He is not to know that later on in the day he will pass various tests and fill in various forms and be elated but then be told that one test he took earlier is now expired and he will need to take that test again and by the time he takes that test his verification will have expired and he will have to be reverified which could well take longer than the expiration date on the tests he has already taken which he will then have to take again and then he will be in jail and he will have no job and he will be deported so it won’t matter anyway. He doesn’t know this now in the morning when he is munching on bagels and drinking coffee and packing his bag and preparing for the day full of energy and hope after his morning run the first run of many mornings. He should never have woken up. He should have stayed in bed and gone to sleep.
He wakes up. He doesn’t understand waiting in line or burueacracy or forms or filling in forms or the law or dayligh saving time or the structure of society or his place in it. He remains in bed for the duration of the day from sunrise until sunset. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He feels his eyeballs stroking the rasped flesh of the inside of his eyelids. He showers in coffee. He washes his face with milk wet cereal. He feels imaginary limbs sprouting from the dark recesses of his body and grasping at his shadow. He smells death in the air. The sickly sweet smell of life a distant base scent. Goats wander around a digital landscape. Goat skulls plunge softly into the dry desert. Animals speak in tongues. Badgers dress as businessmen. The desperate dance of the lost is pointed at by tourists. Child soldiers play video games. Drones drone. Bees buzz. Wind whips. He has functioning teeth. They sing and they dance. They are a popular sitcom on a kids network. He is not afraid to smile. No one can see his lips. He watches Happy and Happy and Happy and Happy and Happy and for those moments the world isn’t a monstrous suppurating molten ball of pain shooting through the blackness of space. Sport happens. War happens. Corruption happens. Birth. Death. Etc. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. Everything is dry like the desert. He looks around. He is in the desert. The sun is small and round and white and the sky is pale pale blue but almost white as well. His underwear is white but it is a dirty white. The sand is grey. His eyes hurt. He sees a small child in the distance. It is a small child or a very small adult. He gets closer. It is a frog wearing a bowtie. Then he is on the bus. Then he reads more about the Ukraine and Russia and doesn’t understand any of it and there are cheers in the western media when Abby Martin criticizes Russia and when Liz Wahl quits RT and there are broad views on this one is hooray the evil propaganda machine is being eaten from the inside then the other is that it is still business as usual for RT so why did they decide now to do this and the conclusion is self-promotion and then the other observation that no one did the same on CNN Or MSNBC or FOX or BBC or SKY or ITV or CBS or CBC or NBC or ABC when Iraq was invaded or Afghanistan was invaded or the Black hawks went down or when South American coups were plotted and that is not to say that anyone would because they are right all the time and the West is right but he would have thought that at least this might have been commented upon but of course it is not and then there is some criticism of Lupita N’yongo for being too black and for being a token and for being something that she can never be and then he watches the trailer for the new Annie starring Quevenzhane Wallis and Eric Marlon Bishop who sometimes likes to be called Jamie Foxx and it looks entertaining and moving and Cameron Diaz overacts in it too and that seems reasonable and then he eats some ice cream and a hot pocket and some cake and has a coffee and he has some cranberry juice and he stares at his swollen padded belly as it splits and spills over his belt and then he wonders and the career of Jack Whitehall and he doesn’t understand it and then he marvels at the career of Michael MacIntyre and he does understand it but it saddens him and then he embraces the miserablism of Stewart Lee and it keeps him warm and safe as the sound of Chris Morris interrogating him in a black and white smoke filled room calms him as he falls asleep in the desert.
He wakes up. He chews on his soul. He spits it out into the bowl. His lip swells. It is bleeding. Blisters swelling on his lips. His beard down to his knees. He sits on a mountain. Then he plugs in his ipod. He listens to Shel Silverstein reading poetry to the Dalai Lama. Johnny Cash comes round for tea. A slide is set up from the top of the mountain down all the way down to a tiny little lake at the base. It is cool and fresh and is for drinking only so when they all slide in the water is dirtied and rendered spiritually and medically unuseable. Everyone gets sick but they do not die. Then they are healed. Then the cat litter is taken out and is spread across the mountain and all of the ice and the snow melts and poisoned with cat litter renders the area unliveable but he goes back to the city because his holiday is over and he can get back to the regular monotony of his life. He forgets about the damage he has caused because he will go somewhere else for his next holiday. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. There is snow and ice and cars slip and slide and there is hopelessness in the air. People talk but there is no sound. People stare but they cannot see. People record everything but they do not remember anything. People rebel but they are crushed. People reach for the skies but fall off cliffs. Everyone has a glow around their bodies but under their skin there is just hollowness and shadows. There are talks and swagger and promises and threats and sanctions called for and lies revealed and it’s just another day it’s just another day as more people watch The Voice and watch Jimmy Fallon as the news pretends the world is collapsing as families sit at the dinner table enjoying their evening meals not worried about the inevitable entropy of the Universe. All is luck and chance and very little is skill and talent. He goes to sleep satisfied at this thought.
He wakes up. The Ukraine is heavy with tension. Venezuela is heavy with tension. There is no milk in his fridge. He doesn’t have a car. John Kerry casts shade on Ben Affleck. Seth Rogen complains when no-one turns up to his capitol hill deposition. The House of Cards is teetering. Futurama is never coming back. His thumb drive isn’t working. His work appeared in the Corcoran. His work is going to appear in New York. In a tiny studio. Uncredited. No one will know. Which will be fun. Christians attack Muslims attack Christians attack Buddhists attack Muslism attack Sikhs attack Christians. Faces melt. Imaginary money dissolves into the air. He strokes his beard. He drinks some wine. He stares. He eats some bean dip. He stares some more. He thinks. He ponders the robot future. He ponders faux-Elysian past. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. There is snow still the snow it keeps snowing there will always be snow and there will never not be snow. He has a coffee and he eats some toast and he gets on the bus and he arrives at work and he learns about rotting gold filling up the arteries of the world. There is no hope. There is no end. There is an endless end ending itself on the beach of this desperate futility. There is cake in the kitchen at work. This is a delight. He eats some of the cake with a coffee that he makes for himself in the large machine that makes the coffee that is most likely the son of HAL. It is going to kill everyone one day sucking all the oxygen out of the office as it sings Row Row Row your boat softly into infinity. There is weather everywhere. He learns about beard implants. Beard implants. There is such a thing as beard implants. He has never needed a beard implant. He has spent his life in a world in which beards and hairyness was not looked upon with delight but with disgust and now as he gets old it is all the rage the in thing all the cool kids are doing it and the most popular implant is the Brad Pitt because of course it is why would it not be and why does he feel this rising sense of bitterness at the world and at the past and at his history he does not know but the cake helps. He looks at the faces of strangers and he can tell nothing for certain. He believes he sees tiredness and boredom and sadness and some happiness but these are all projections he is none the wiser as to their internal lives and their hopes and their dreams and then he plays some more Candy Crush. He watches as all the cameras in the world start losing control and taking pictures and recording things and storing them and a turning into a heaving gelatinous blob of oozing images blinking whirring collating and preparing for some future court date where you will be found guilty after all the evidence they collected is presented to the robot judge. Then he eats a sandwich and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He is cold. He wants to be warm. He is hungry. He wants to be sated. He is tired. He wants to be awake. He is told by the dentist that he has wonderful clean teeth a small mouth and that he should floss more. He should floss more. He should floss. He goes to Starbucks to celebrate his clean teeth and celebrates with a coffee and some cake. He watches House of Cards which is entertaining but inexcplicably it quite without warning jumps the shark when it has no need to. It lands adequately enough and carries on as if that scene hadn’t happened but it leaves a confusing and not wholly pleasant taste in the mind-mouth. It is still a good show. He eats pizza and he drinks some bourbon and then he drinks some more bourbon and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He is standing in a grocery store. He may not be wearing clothes he cannot remember. He knows that he had an envelope in his had moments ago but now it is gone. It is not in his hands any more. This is a problem because it contains many important documents and he thinks he has left it on a bench or on a train or on a chair on at a movie theater or at a coffee bar and it has his passport and his driving license and his address and his social security card and he feels his clothes tight against his body but he feels nude in the refrigerated aisle. And his car title and his whole paper being and his identity is in there and he starts buying things at random in the grocery store – he buys some donuts and some ketchup and then he buys some cleaning products as he waits for a call from someone who might know where this envelope that contains him is if it is on the train or under a bridge or in the bag of a thief and a forgerer and he sees his whole world collapse buildings crumbling and explosions pluming into the air and he is ruined utterly ruined and he will go to jail and he will never be let out again and he will go on the run and he will be hunted by dogs and Tommy Lee Jones and then a call comes through and as he places the onions and the meat flavoured tofu and the large wet lettuce and the other items down on the ground in an artful display it turns out that he left the envelope in a safe place and it isn’t out in the world and his indentity is safe in the envelope and later his heart rate slows and he is calm again and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He is ready again for the bureacracy again as he walks to the bus stop and waits for an hour as a bus fails to come and his hands are cold and finally he get on a bus and then gets off the bus and waits in the cold again and farts loudly in the empty street and then round the corner many joggers appear but where are they appearing from it is so early in the morning and they are jogging and he is still farting and he stops but they run through his cloud and they know that it is him because he is the only one there on the street as they struggle through the stinking cloud he has created and then the bus arrives but it is too late they already know that it is him. Then he is at the mva again and this time he manages to explain what is going on and he is told he needs new proof of address so he walks to the nearest Staples. It is an enormous warehouse of stationary and there is a nice lady who helps him and a nice gentleman who helps him and he feels like he is the only person in this giant quiet pleasant smelling cavern. He prints out his new proof of addresses and hopes he remember to change his passwords later for his accounts because he does not trust public computers. Then he returns to the mva and he gets his number and he waits for a long time and then the lady helps him and lo and behold and hallelujah there is a record of his passing his driving test so all he needs to do is to be reconfirmed by Homeland Security and retake his legal test and he will have his license and hopefully they will not put him in prison and throw away the key for 60 days. He reads a sign that suggests he become an organ donor. He reads about Assange and it is insightful and a hatchet job and both or neither depending on your current view of him and what he was and is and will be as he sits in the Ecuadorean Embassy slowly going insane trapped. He hears families waiting and friends making inappropriate jokes. He walks by the Mexican food truck which is one of the finest food trucks he has even eaten from. There is sniping about the Gold Medal being given unfairly to Russia for the figure skating. There are arguments about words sniper or marksman terrorist or freedom fighter chips or fries crisps or chips potato potato. A teenager has overpowering perfume sickly sweet that fills the bus. Paperwork madness ordered into meaning. Homeland security background checks. Something has happened. Something that is important and meaningful. There are buses and cancellations and donuts and coffee and pain and lasagne and house of cards and very quiet tension and so so so so so so many car commercials. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He is wearing lacy underwear lying in a bath full of ice. He puts this down to experience. He only needs one lung after all. Then he goes to bed.
He wakes up. The pall of death is still on him. Then it leaves him after a coffee. Then he is on a bus and his hair is everywhere. Then he wades through the mire of human sadness. Then he eats a bagel. Then he plans how to save himself from jail and he gets a lawyer and he prints out some forms and he fills in some forms. Then sees that the Dalai Lama is visting the President and he wonders what machinations are afoot. Then he heads to his house and he fills in forms and he buys some breakfast cereal and eats the breakfast cereal for his evening meal because he is an adult and he can do what he likes and then he prepares himself for the mva which is his second home and he watches graceful olympic ice racing and marvels and the beautiful slow motion replays and then he watches and listens and people scream at Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon ushering everyone to their doom on the sinking ship and he watches as they rap and dance and do impressions and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He is ready for court. He puts on a suit that his headmaster gave him one time and he puts on a thin black tie and he wears his only smart shoes which happen to be a pair of hiking boots. Then he charges his phones and he walks to the bus and he gets on the bus and he walks to the train and he gets on the train and then in a tunnel the driver tells everyone to get off train but they are in a tunnel so no one can get off the train. They all sit there silently wondering if they do have to get off or if there has been a mistake. There has been a mistake. An army of children – small and inquisitive don’t touch that woman’s hair stop singing that song sit next to your grandmother and then they leave the train. He sees a Dunkin Donuts which he will go into after the trial and he will treat himself to coffee and donuts just like the policemen who will later be milling around the court room the huge policemen with their barrel chests and their hip holstered power. He walks through the heavy security playing words with friends and candy crush and jelly splash and break out and quietly soiling myself and watching as more and more people enter the court with their families or lawyers or friends or alone for parking or traffic violations and police with guns and swagger and cars turn in the road outside through the window and babies and boredom and standing and squatting and strangers talking about the day they will miss because of this and understanding bosses and second chances and paper work and worry and dressing in unfamiliar suits to appear before the law. Then all enter and he sits down but then he is told to stand up and line up for the state prosecuter and he realises he has no idea what he is doing he really should have brought a lawyer but it’s fine he’ll just plead guilty and get a fine. His throat getting drier expecting to be thrown in an airless dungeon. He needs some water but there is no water and there is no food and no food or drink are allowed into the court house. Then he is asked by the state prosecuter if he needs a lawyer and he says no and she looks at him strangely as he mumble something about his guilt and he realises he really doesn’t know what he’s doing and he is told to sit down and then the Judge enters and everyone stands and he seems like a nice old white gentlemen and power crackles from his fingertips in the most benign way imagineable. He tells everyone that this court is for jailable offences and suddenly it doesn’t seem to relaxed any more and that 60 days in prison and a fine and no possibility of immigration because of a jailable offence on his record and he goes up with five other men all need a translator and the judge explains what is going on and the translator translates in beautiful Spanish what is going on and his heart sinks as he realises he really has no idea what is going on and he thought that he would be okay but he is not going to be okay and the judge suggests that he gets a lawyer and suggests that he gets a driving license and he doesn’t ask if he can just never drive again but that doesn’t seem to be an option and then he is told to sit down and he is given a bit of paper to sign and a bit of paper to take with him and then he leaves stressed and confused and he goes to dunkin donuts and he drinks coffee and he eats an apple turnover and he tries to be witty but he is really not witty at all and he calls the airport and he is called by NPR and his car will be called on Monday. Then he watches as more factories blow up and Ukraine is alight and Venezuela is alight and the Keystone Pipeline will be alight and it was all predicted my mathematics last year and a simple story is a single piece of yarn. Life is a ball of yarn made up of an infinite number of pieces of yarn all different lengths. More factories blow up David bowie favours union. The debate for Scottish Indepencene takes a terrible blow from the Old White Duke. The Satanist lady probably a liar say the police and her father. Millions of women on the bus that he studiously ignores so that he doesn’t get accused of visual assault and he eats some candy for supper. He thinks back to court not going well. He does not understand the system and is told he could go to jail and get fined and have his chance at becoming an immigrant blocked he does not do well and he is stressed and he makes a terrible joke that ruins the day and then he plans for his car to be taken away on monday everything is repeating in his head and mashing down like mash potatoes and then he is wandering the city eating some chips and drinks an hawaiin soft drink that reminds him of childhood and Musselburgh, the pompeii of scotland. It is sugary and sickly and nothing like Hawaii or how he imagines Hawaii. It makes him feel cold. Then he wonders whether he is a potato or a strawberry as he remembers a conversation his headmaster once had with him and he does not understand it but then he is given an explanation that makes sense that the potato is dull and a staple a mass product of use but no particular delight but the strawberry is a bright shining beacon of flavour and colour for the palatte and the soul and the choice between being a work drone and someone who will stand out was what he was being offered and it all came from shoes not being shined and it took 20 years to get the answer but he is happy with that answer and whilst he is okay with being a potato he would actually much prefer to be a stawberry. He watches Jimmy Fallon who holds back the coming storm of chaos with jokes and unreserved happiness as the Titanic sinks into the ocean he falls asleep.
He wakes up. The Ukraine is heavy with civil war. The new Primeminister of Italy looks like Mr. Bean. Tony Blair was giving advice to Rebbekah Wade about her News of the World travails but that’s okay because surely it’s okay to give advice to friends who are in trouble and then he watches a man smash an ancient vase painted with industrial paint by Ai Wai Wai that was in a gallery and was worth millions of dollars and then a woman gets shot outside of a bank in the Ukraine and then Tony Blair suggests that Rebbekah Wade carry out a Hutton Style inquiry for her phone tapping problems but he wonders what that means does he many carry out an inquiry that will exonerate her and her lackeys or does he mean as he says he claims he means carrying out an open and fair inquiry which will get to the truth of the matter. He couldn’t possibly comment on which one Tony Blair means but he has been watching a lot of House of Cards recently so his mind is certainly turning itself towards one of those definitions. Then there is yet more ice dancing and yet more House of Cards and he is in a hospital and he is being x-rayed and the x-ray technician is talking like a fashion photographer and telling him how perfect his shoulder is and that he is text book and that all the other shoulder would be jealous and give me blue steel and pose like that and make it feel so good and then he goes to the doctor and finds that his shoulder is just stiff and he didn’t need to do all of those things just some stretches but it did make the morning pass by so at least there was that. Then he watches Jimmy Fallon take over late night television even more and he ponders the amount of space that is taken up talking about this and how much importance it is being given and he smells the smoke and he sees the mirrors but he does not know what the final reveal will be – an empty beach stretching out forever lost individuals wandering around aimlessly as they take breaks between scrabbling for sustenance in the wet sand. Then he looks at a list of unusual hotels which includes a caravan inside a warehouse, a mineshaft, a model intestine, a building shaped like a giant cartoon dog, a building shaped like a trojan horse, a hammock and a hotel made entirely of salt. There are people out there now in the world collecting these experiences even as children walk with their families over the desert to escape a war and then find themselves in a famous photograph which misrepresents their already awful experience. Then he worries about the American legal system then he worries about the man who is being crushed by the makers of Candy Crush because he made a similar game before them but now doesn’t have the means to stop them destroying him and even as he wonders if the whole story is a hoax he plays one more game of Candy Crush before bed as he buries the guilt deep down inside himself falling into sleep that will last for hours.
He wakes up. It is not a snow day but it is a day covered in snow. He talks to a Governor who is polite but doesn’t aim his considerable charms at him because he is not important enough to warrant such affection. He eats some polenta which tastes unusual and then he realises he doesn’t know if it tastes unusual because he doesn’t remember having ever eaten polenta before so it may be perfectly good polenta but he remembers joking that it might taste like soap and because he has implanted the idea of tasting like soap it now tastes like soap but because it is not soap and because he is hungry he eats it and manages to enjoy it as he watches the graceful ice dancers compete with one another. Then he gives his car to NPR and finally it will be off his hands and now all he has to do is to deal with the stress of going to court because he was driving with his British license which was apparently not the right thing to do and he hopes the court will have mercy on his ignorance and he will not be sent to Guantanamo Bay or deported. Then he listens to the radio and he is glad he is giving his car to NPR because he only once paid for a subscription and he has listened to at least a cars worth of radio since he has been in America and even if he is giving them a low quality car it is still a car so he may be able to listen for a little while longer without feeling guilty for not paying regularly when they beg him for money. He listens to Noam Chomsky talking calmly and patiently as he describes how the skin is being pulled back from the skull of the world and the whole planet is doomed because of rapacious capitalism. He has a hot chocolate and this makes him feel better. He reads a sad story about the shooting of a young girl because a she egged a car and the violence is thick in the air and the fear is thicker and there seems to be little hope for anything to go well but then he watches Jimmy Fallon hosting The Tonight Show and he forgets for a moment all the awful things and he eats a pie that contains mostly salt and fat and sugar and some meat and that helps him forget the horror of the world and then he watches more beautiful ice dancing and graceful freestyle ski jumping and ski ballet which is also graceful and slightly comical. Then four old men get stuck on a roof in New York and no one will let them down until they sing songs to strangers. Then he is impressed by some snow art of Lincoln and a mini Mount Rushmore all made of snow all made in driveways and somewhere else old people slip and break their hips. Then he enjoys more of Jimmy Fallon and then he smiles and then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. Sluggish shoulder weeping bright blinding snow economic disparity rolexes for breakfast. Horror in Central African Republic. Horror in Syria. Horror in England. Horror in California. Horror in Indonesia. Volcanoes, carbon dioxide trapped in the ocean ready to be released in one giant fart that will poison us, James Lovelock concluding we have already passed the tipping point. A world in which the phrase earmarked for investment fills the heart of local people with terror as they watch the enormous mouth swallow them up into the lightless belly of capitalism and empire. He watches a white man let off for killing a black man but convicted of attempting to kill three other black men and and it doesn’t seem to matter that a black man was murdered for playing music too loud. Then a female skiier shatters her spine. A co-pilot of an Ethiopian airplane hijacks it and flies it to Geneva to ask for political asylum. Then he watches House of Cards. Then he watches as miners in a mine collapse refuse to be saved because they have been digging gold illegally and do not want to be arrested and prefer to remain in their tomb than face the law. Then he moves his vandalized car and he calls NPR and they agree to pick it up and then there is snow and more snow and then even more snow. Then he drinks too much coffee and too much gin and too much whiskey and plays too much flappy bird and gets fifteen points which he is too happy about and then he despairs at the quality of science debate in the world and then he falls asleep.
He wakes up to a monochrome world. A crispy marshmallow sliding and dying on broken hips world. A snow day and sled day and trapped day world. He checks on his car and finds that the wing mirrors have been smashed. He puts it down to the storm at first but then he wonders how the storm could have torn off one of the mirrors and then placed them neatly in the thick snow that rests on the bonnet of the car the hood of the car he cannot think of a storm that could do that and puts it down to a will o the wisp or a gremlin or an early morning gang of miscreant youths or a pissy neighbour who earlier in the year called the police to remove the car because it was unsightly but now cannot do that because the car is registered to the home and all they can do is wreak their bitterness by way of vandalism or maybe it was the storm. Then he drinks a coffee and he eats some toast and he uses uber for the first time and barrels down the road later on with a driver who is pleasant but wears too much aftershave which bites the back of his throat and doesn’t know where he is going even despite having GPS and despite having google maps but they arrive and everyone within their small temporary community is still alive. Then he feels sick and exhausted and lethargic and he watches the snow melt at the Winter Olympics and the marionettes broken and tumbling down the wet mountains for medals and he thinks again abuot his brutalized car and the wing mirrors hang sagging and sad and the aerial bent horizontal. Then he swerves to work on slushy roads interrogating the spaces between the few abadoned cars before arriving in a small icy lake which he wades through with his bag like an adventurer to slip and slide on the marble floor in the lobby of his workplace. Then he feels exhausted and thinks he has probably taken too many pain killers so he has a coffee and some cookies and cream flavoured milk and then he is taken to the wrong building and it is already the end of the day and he is not sure where the day went and then the driver apologizes but it’s okay because it means being in the warmth of a car for that much longer and then he is in the warm. Then Matt Lauer presents the Winter Olympics from the Fortress of Solitude but not in a Superman costume which would have made it perfect and then he falls into aching dreamless sleep.
He wakes up to aches and pains and kisses and he he can’t breathe through his nose so he can only breathe through his mouth and his eyes and his ears. Then it goes after he showers and drinks water and the sun comes up and his shoulders scream and he naps and eats a sandwich and snow is coming and the storm is coming and it feels warm later in the day when he walks home and the snow drifts gently down and he plays Flappy Bird and he hates it and he plays Candy Crush and he hates it and he plays Jelly Splash and he hates it but not enough to stop playing any of these games as he listens to NPR pledge drives begging for money and Ken Cucinelli on the side of privacy and against NSA spying and the desperate people of Homs used as examples of why invasion would be a good idea and his farts do not smell pleasant and he thinks he feels blood coming from somewhere inside him and he worries about his court date and he rejoices at his tiny tax return and he rejoices at the new credit card he has and he ignores the life insurance man who keeps calling and he misses his beard and he eats some cookies and an ice cream and he has a hot chocolate and he wonders at the staring eyes of the man he saw by the train earlier and hopes that he found a place to stay. Then he watches some more of Pandora’s Box an old German silent film that he has been watching which is entertaining and dark and complex and epic and melodramatic and he learns some more Spanish and French and he is determined to one day be fluent in a language other than the one he was born into and he cringes with embarrassment at his failure to communicate with someone in both those languages on Friday and then he lists more philosophers and then he decides not to explain that and even as he falls asleep the snow still has not begun to fall but it will fall and it will lay on the ground and everything will be covered in snow. He falls asleep.
He wakes up. He sees balloon animals and balloon swords and balloon flowers and dinosaurs and poodles and giraffes and then he watches the snow rise above his ankles and his knees and his hips and his nipples and his neck and his forehead even as the snow melts in Sochi. He wonders how many naked videos have been made of him as he sits nude and firm in front of his computer over the years his webcam’s unblinking eye judging him and recording him like HAL. No more than any videos and pictures he has regrettably made himself and disemminated through the sludge of the fetid swamp that is the Internet. Polio is making a resurgance. He hopes that he doesn’t get polio. It would be a talking point at dinner parties but he doesn’t like dinner parties nor is he a particularly good guest. His beard is a good guest but he is not. He dreams but it hurts. Then he hurts as he dreams. Then he burps. Then he stretches his back. Then he listens to a man who is called Mark Lewisohn talking about The Beatles and as The Beatles US playlist is revealed it appears that except for Richie Valens most of the artists are African American and rather than address the idea that some of The Beatles success came from the fact that like Elvis they repackaged black music in a white box for the white music buying public a lot of time was spent on vague discussions of the original genius of the gentlemen from Liverpool and how the Potato Famine in Ireland was actually a larger inheritance. Interesting but dubious and then chicken and donuts and cocktails and cuddles and amusing conversations overhead on the platform about naked selfies and a loud conversation that will just not end about that time when you were having problems and you sent me a picture and it was hard remember that let me find the picture yes it was difficult and you were having trouble remember please be quiet the old man on the street upstairs can’t here you and then he falls asleep.
He wakes up. The cold it never ends. Hazelnut coffee wakes him up. Scary monkeys are playing cymbals on the television genuflecting to a car. Preparations are made for drowning in snow. A new credit card arrives. He pretends it is real money. A new car title arrives. He gives his car away. His albatross will now be used for charity dragged away rusting and weeping through the snow. Then he watches olympics and men and women sliding over the ice and even more is coming and Al Gore is on the $500 note in Futurama themed Monopoly money and maybe one day he will be on the real $500 note when all that will be will be one slim jim at the gas station except there will be no gas stations because gas will be illegal or it will have run out. Then he walks past the diaper again and now it has become a fixture, a sculpture that neither wind nor snow nor rain nor civic duty nor public employees will remove and it will no doubt stay in the sidewalk forever and pilgrimages will occur to the dirty diaper and babies will be blessed and lepers will be cured and it will have a cordon and people will pay to see it and a ticket booth will be set up and a shop will be set up and soon it will be part of the Tourist itinerary. Then he falls asleep thinking and wondering in equal measure.
He wakes up. Where has all the time gone? Amazon and Google continue their robot arms race making their automated armies in secret factories inside volcanoes and underneath the tundra of unnamed continents. He watches as newsgathering becomes a religion and besuited priests intone the holy mantras of the moment and then we all know what is happening in nicely packaged three minute bite sized chunks of liturgy and genuflection and praise the truth and the light and the order of democracy and don’t think too much that what you are being told is crafted and structured and moulded and there might be more to the story than meets the ear and the eye. Then his shoulder hurts and he takes some pain pills and it stops hurting and then he drinks some alcohol and he feels delightfully muzzy and then he listens to some music at a gig and the first song is like the second song is like the third song is like the fourth song and then he realizes that it’s one long song broken up by the singer pretending to drink for a champagne bottle and giggling nervously but his pocket isn’t picked and the one long song is acceptable and the company is delightful so it is no crime to be there. Then the legalization of cannabis seems to be going well and perhaps if it is legalized everywhere then young black men will have less to fear of long term incarceration but then some other thing will no doubt be found to stop them and search them and imprison them and then he wonders if thug has been taken up as a word that white people can now use with impunity in public and in the media when referring to young black men and young African American men when really they mean these white people and these commentators are, in their heads, using the word nigger. It seems that this is the case and the hate keeps on spewing and the hate keeps on flooding and the hate keeps on drowning and then The Beatles are lauded for changing rock music and selling American Music back to the Americans and everyone claps and cheers and Ringo sings and Paul sings and no one mentions that the music that was sold back was mostly African American music but that’s okay because everyone can be Accidentally Racist sometimes as we learnt from LL Cool J and Brad Paisley and it is just a shame that they don’t sing that song again as they are both there celebrating The Beatles. Then he makes some lizard stamps and then he makes a heart t-shirt and then he plays flappy bird and he hates it a lot and he plays some more and he continues to hate it and then he almost meets the President of Haiti who seems to be a very charming man and then he lies down and then he has a coffee and then the President justifies NSA spying and none of us have anything to worry about and then he wonders if there is any job that cannot be automated and it seems like there is no job that cannot one day be automated and the best we can hope for is to be either inefficient batteries for robots or human playdolls for the very few rich who make money of the automatisation of the future of civilisation. Then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. His shoulders ache. He is cold he is warm he is cold he is warm he is on a bus he is on a car as he slides on the bonnet off into a ditch and rolls and ducks and covers from the mushroom explosions that drift from the horizon. He is in a neon desert resting under a neon cactus waiting to be buried in a neon grave. His bones are neon and his teeth are glowing. He feels strange creatures travelling through his arteries and his veins and collecting in his heart and his brain and his elbows and his lobes. He realises that there is no escape because the thing he is trying to escape from is already inside him and if it gets out he will die so he gives up and eats a string cheese and then some toast and then mourns the bag of brown mash that used to be bananas that is rotting in his cupboard and then he has to decide between Candy Crush or Sartre two competing Totems of the western world. The music, the popular culture the wrappings and the odors of wealth simmering every so slightly in the approaching storm of revolution. Inequality requires rebalance at some point. Rome knew, France knew, Athens knew, Ashoka knew, Britain knew, will we know. what we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history and then We become water droplets in a cloud that at a distance looks like a solid surface upon which to walk. Then there is bliss and blues and coffee and bagels and laughter and old episodes of Magnum and The A-Team and Saturday Night Live and Justine Bieber and failure and there is a murder at a mall and it is another sad day in America but of course guns are not the problem they are never the problem. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. Robert Redford looks tired. Independent film isn’t. His flourescent pen has run out. He watches the end of the world over and over and over again. He showers. He finds words and puts them in a bag. He wonders how many coming of age films need to be made. It seems that there is a never ending desire for everyone to think that their perspective on something that everyone experiences is important. It isn’t. He wonders why it seems that The Commonwealth Games is always taking place in Glasgow. He is not sure if this is true or if it is just his poor memory. More talks about talks occur to think about talking about stopping the pasting and the crushing of human beings for land and power. Today the end of the Mexican American War is celebrated commisserated and somewhere in an alternate universe the map looks very different. Then he watches two old Sean Connery films one called Wrong is Right an interesting and now problematic satire on the news, terrorism and the modern world made in the seventies and full of all the racist stereotypes that you would expect and The Offence about a policeman in Scotland falling into madness as he considers the horrors he has experienced and committed through his long career. Connery is game and applies himself as best he can. Then he walks in the cold and is beaten half to death by the temperature and the brutality of nature assuaged only by cuddles and hugs. People are born and die as he falls asleep.
He wakes up. There is chocolate everywhere. Justin Bieber drinking and drag racing in fast cars. Sizzurp is scaring the parents of America. Everyone is wealthy in Des Moines. Gender lines are still kept hard and fast on morning television. Civil War bubbles in Ukraine. A gang rape is sanctioned as suitable punishment in a small village somewhere in West Bengal in India. Somewhere the sun is rising. Somewhere it is setting. Somewhere apparent and actual reality meet for a cup of coffee and a cup of tea. He watches as story after story is condensed and misrepresented in little chunks of two to three minutes long. Everyone will be injected with cameras and phones one day. One day everyone will be their own reality show. One day the Oscars won’t be predominantly white. One day the moon will be colonized and Mars will be colonized and beards will go out of fashion again and South Sudan is collapsing but it’s okay because George Clooney is trying to buy a satellite so that everyone can watch the implosion in real time until he has a new hobby. Then there is ice and cold and blizzards and death and the embrace of a dreamless sleep.
He wakes up. He reads Malcolm X and a drinks a bottle of wine from a plastic bag. He wanders past the same diaper that has been open on the sidewalk for more than two weeks now ignored and swollen as it displays itself onto the concrete. Batman is an assassin in purgatory a merchant in the hedonistic league. Wet leaves look like squashed mice.
Cold fog rolling in. Blizzard bites and scrapes. News full of violence and death and sex with children along with reports that human beings are getting less violent. The rich sit on their little mountain in Davos and declaim and weep and gnash and claw – begging to be given the chance to fix the problems that they have created. The Biggest Loser causes weeping. The Syrian War causes weeping. The Holocaust causes weeping. No more hot chocolate causes weeping. The mashed up paste of experience and choice trivializes everything. JFK is dead. Jimi Hendrix is dead. The King of Love is dead. Plastic cutlery and wooden chopsticks are destroying the planet. He does his taxes. He registers his car. He eats bread. He drinks coffee. He worries. He stops worrying. Life continues. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He discovers that it is New Year’s Eve. He wonders where the rest of the year went. It went so quickly. He has lots of thoughts. He keeps them all to himself. He ponders the reviews and the reviews and the reviews and then he drinks some red wine and does some chemistry experiments and thinks about those who he won’t be with and those who have already celebrated the new year and the days that he has missed and the thoughts he has had and the experiences he has had and he will save all of that for tomorrow when it will be a new year. He goes to sleep after midnight and wishes everyone a Happy New Year.
He wakes up. Thor 2 Anthony Hopkins seems half asleep but everyone else seems wide awake. The Hunger Games tiny little Peeta Mellark gets beaten up by everyone. Captain America is more nuanced that he thought it would be. The Dark Knight Rises is excellently entertaining but it’s plot is held together more by faith and goodwill than solid writing. Then he goes to a Chinese Tea House and eats lovely food and drinks lovely lime and ginger infusions except the lime looks suspiciously like a badly disguised lemon but it tastes so good and he makes a racist joke which is awful so awful that he cannot repeat it so he doesn’t feel he can ask for a lime instead of a lemon and he didn’t want to make the racist joke but it just came out without thinking and clearly he is still not the enlightened being he likes to pretend he is. Then they have a lovely caramel apple spice and then he is taught about the secret Starbucks menu and his mind is blown and then he double checks with the staff and they smile and nod knowingly at him and he is suddenly in a very special club. Then he reads about the Arab Uprising and it is no longer called the Arab Spring because there have been too many Springs now and one long awful winter and there is no freedom and joy and cafes and employment and meaningful change and then They Syrian Civil War continues and the horror continues and it continues and it continues and then his love makes a glorious winter drink with grand marnier and milk and cinnamon and it tastes like Christmas and there there are cuddles and love and Martin Luther King writes the letter from Birmingham jail and many years later people read it and are inspired by it and then there is ice skating and horses are being used for medical research and then being sold into the food chain but what if the research is for super strength or invisibility and those powers were transferred to civilians surely that would be worth the price of a horse shank to get super powers and then antiobiotics are going to be banned in beef but how is he going to get his medication now and how will he protect himself from mrsa and disease and death if he does not get all the cow and chicke medication through his eating of cow and chicken. He is worried and feels he will have to take more pills for his various imagined ailments. Then there is cranberry flavored ginger ale and cranberry flavored sierra mist cranberry flavored cranberries and everything is wonderful and everything is more and it is late and a boop made frmo bits and data is not a flesh and blood boop but as boops go it is better than no boop at all and then he sleeps.
He wakes up. The world is covered in ice. He falls asleep and misses his shower window and he slides and slips all the way to the bus stop and takes twenty minutes to walk a ten minute journey and watches the bus drive away far away from him and then he get the train and then he gets a seat and it is warm on the train and he falls asleep and nearly misses his stop and then his work day is very busy and then he has some lunch which is old pizza from the night before that he brought in tupperware and heated up in the microwave. Then there are interviews and meetings and then he goes to American University library for a party and then there is a lockdown and everyone is told to shelter in place and this is the first time he has had to do this and it all seems very calm but there is the potential for horror that never goes away but there are secure areas that he checks out as he wanders and there are cookies and there is coffee and water and even as the heat increases and teenagers make out in the shadowy corners of the library life seems to continue and then it turns out that it is a false alarm and the armed man was an off duty police officer but a false alarm is better than a nightmare massacre and as long as this country is drenched in guns and bullets and psychosis the false alarm will always be preferable to the it will probably be okay that’s probably fake gun that person is not to be feared let’s just go on about our lives and not warn anyone that their death is imminent. Then pizza then cuddles then sleep and sweet safety and relief.
He wakes up. It is 4am. He turns the television on and watches the Nelson Mandela memorial service in the stadium in South Africa and he watches as Bill Clinton glad hands and Hillary Clinton hugs and kisses and Barack Obama and Raul Castro shake hands and he thinks he hears nearby in Washington the sound of Republicans exploding and anti-Communists melting and Joe McCarthy clawing at his coffin desperately trying to come to the surface to wreak bloody meat-tearing havoc. Then he sorts out some photographs and then he has a coffee and then he eats some cereal and then he listens to Obama’s resounding speech which is full of wonderful phrases and delightful ideas but unfortunately bears no relation to the real world but what does that matter in this day and age where lofty rhetoric is more important than ground level progress. Then he walks through the snow and takes lots of photographs of the snow and then he misses the bus but he cannot run ineffectually or efectually because of the slush and the slip sliding snow and then he waits for the bus and gets on the bus He learns words in Spanish and words in Mandarin and then he gets on the train and he falls asleep and he wakes up and arrives at work and a friend arrives from Palestine and he talks with him for a while and then he has a coffee and then he eats a cookie and one of his bosses is leaving and another boss will take his place and he eats some food and he eats an avocado and he plans the holidays and he worries about his budget and he talks on a web camera and he laughs and he jokes. Then there is the selfie that rings out throughout the world and Obama is smiling but then everyone is smiling but then one frame captures Michelle Obama not smiling so everyone assumes she is unhappy but it probably just caught a moment when she was giving her face a rest from smiling because the arena seemed to be full of joy and life. Then he feels exhausted and has a little nap his head resting on the table in front of him then he does some more work and then he trudges home which takes a long long time and it is cold and yet the air is incredibly clean and pure and finally he returns home to pizza and love and left over breakfast coffee and then he sleeps.
He wakes up. He drinks coffee. He eats cereal. He eats cookies. This is not a healthy breakfast but he is still alive so it can’t have been too bad. Then he walks to the bus stop and gets on the bus and then gets on the train and there are no seats on the train so he walks through all the carriages past tired looking commuters until he finds a double seat where he can spread himself out and not have to intefere with the personal space of strangers. He watches the inside of his brain as it spreads confines triggering hopes and dreams as the world continues turning. He watches as the magnification of Mandelification on all news networks over bears everything else. His glow extends to all comers and he is repurposed and remolded in whatever shape is seen fit for the moment. Everyone gets a piece of him and is thus cleansed but for a moment of their hideous acts. Everyone uses him passing him around using him for their own purposes but there is real Joy and happiness and what is wrong with that? Wrong when it is used to distract from the horror of powerful men and the system that keeps them in their power. But is that so wrong? That is so wrong he thinks. Then he goes to the National Christmas tree and looks at the tree and the toy trains and the White House with a flag at half mast and he feels love as he walks to Shake Shack and eats a glorious burger and is accosted by an army of drunk Santas and he thinks he may be hallucinating but then he realizes that he isn’t hallucinating and it is men getting drunk dressed as Father Christmas and he hopes that no children see this horror-show. Then there is lots of snow and there is Gingerbread custard which is the best flavour in the world and it would bring world peace if it were given to everyone he is sure and then he thinks that someone would probably try to control the supply of gingerbread custard and tax it and ban certain people from having it and then there would be a gingerbread war so perhaps it wouldn’t bring world peace after all. Then he watches Aziz Ansari and he is very funny but there is some victim shaming which makes him like the jokes less and then there is more walking through a beautiful cold clear Washington DC kept warm by love and then late night talking and idiot students driving a car covered in snow without any care for those who may be hit by the snow as it slides so fast off the bonnet as they drive down the highway. Then Protests banned at The University of London which seems to be something that doesn’t happen in free and democratic countries but then are there any free and democratic countries he thinks probably there are but he is just being polemical. Then the creator of The Wire talks about two Americas and Marx and he wonders if this means that there is a revolution coming but he always thinks there is a revolution coming and he is always wrong. Then he watches Saturday Night Live and he thinks that the new cast are doing a great job and the fact that a large chunk of old guard recently left is actually going to be a very good thing for the show and not a bad thing even though they still don’t manage to do very well with race or gender and there are too many white men who may in fact be one white man with different wigs he isn’t sure. Then he gets into bed after taking photographs in the mist and the cold and he falls asleep wondering if terrorists using World of Warcraft is actually a good thing because they’ll get addicted to the game and then have no desire for terrorizing.
He wakes up. It is early. It is mild. He is mild. He gets into the shower and he turns all taps to the correct temperature immediately. It is going to be a good day. He has a coffee and he eats a slice of pie and even though his car is now dead again and he still doesn’t have a driving license his life could be a lot worse and he thinks this is probably what love does it probably makes those things that were monstrous and awful that much more manageable at least for a time until love fades unless it grows and enrichens like a fine whiskey or expensive mouldy cheese. Then he reads about the way white people have tried to destroy black people in America and then he reads about someone who is developing a warp drive space ship for NASA. The Alcubierre Drive looks exciting but it may just be a case of NASA again desperately trying to get funding because everyone keeps ignoring them and forgetting how sexy and exciting space travel is so they trawl their memories of childhood science fiction stories for hooks that will snare the goldfish brained media. He learns about alien planets and birth control and listens to Birdland and the myth or reality that Russel Crowe is a fan of knitting the theft of lots of passwords and the chasm dividing girls toys and boys toys and the movies of 2013 none of which he has seen he does not watch them any more even though he used to love them he finds them empty and unsatisfying and they bring him no respite of relief or delight and they are all artifice and all surface and dripping in money. Then he eats his lunch which is chili and corn bread. Then he spends the afternoon planning and then the death of Nelson Mandela is announced and everything changes and he is moved and he has a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes as Jacob Zuma gets to read the announcement and bask in the golden glow and then the newsroom is a hive of activity and pictures are gathered and obituaries are broadcast and thoughts are requested and slowly the internet unfolds itself ever fast like a great tidal tongue licking and slaking it’s thirst on the information and everyone has a personal thought and a connection and then within a very short amount of time it is not about Nelson Mandela it is about politics and it is about famous people who met him and it is about who can post the most profound quote or the most interesting photograph or the most unusual interview and the icon is trundled over until it is time to watch the performance of A Sound of Music live on NBC the first live musical performance on American television for 50 years and it goes very well and everyone gives it a college try and makes a valiant effort and then people start using Mandela for their own purposes, to defame others, to question others, to prop up their own positions and it has not even been but three hours since his death was announced by the compression of time on the internet allows information to have the life cycle of a fly at the speed of a humming bird and there is no time for quiet reflection or meditation or why Russel Crowe was allowed to sing in Les Miserables or why Pierce Brosnan was allowed to sing in Mamma Mia or why Sean Connery was allowed to sing in D’arby O’Gill and The Little People and that Stephen Moyers is not that bad after all and as the hagiographies are corralled on the networks and the genuflections are given no one discusses the CIA involvement in Mandela’s capture or Mandela’s time as a supporter of violent resistance because then he would be in Guantanamo serving out a sentence without trial or hope of release and that would not be a good example for anyone to set. So Mandiba dies and he joins the pantheon of Ghandi of Lennon of Theresa of King of Russell of Sagan of Zinn of Addams of Coldicott and then the sweep of history continues on ever on and new trinkets are glanced at and new diversions and focused on and on the bus a lady hears of the death of Mandela and says who and her friend repeats the name and she says who again and then the name is repeated and the lady says who he he don’t pay my bills and then finally she finds somewhere in her memory the recollection of who Nelson Mandela is and she says a final time I hate to sound cruel but like I say he don’t pay my bills and this is true and he doesn’t pay her bills and whoever does is who is important to her and she leaves the bus now knowing who Nelson Mandela is and that he is dead but his life and his death have had little impact on her life because she has greater concerns the concerns of staying alive and paying her bills and feeding herself and her family and the heaviness of sentimentality for someone she has never met is not something she has the luxury of infusing her body with of considering of musing on as she carries on through the day after day after day living and dreaming and hoping for a better life for herself a life which does not touch the death of a man who don’t pay her bills. He considers this truth as he falls asleep and wonders what he can make of it. No one will dare to say what this woman said in the press or on the television. Everyone will emphasis the historical moment the storied history the game changing event and then they will all play candy crush in the commercial break and congratulate themselves on their book deals. He falls asleep to these conflicted confusing thoughts.
He wakes up. He is happy. A cat proceeds to press his buttocks into his face. He takes a shower. He drinks a coffee. He eats some toast. He is at work. He goes to the bathroom and he stands at the urinal and then he realises that he needs to shit so he manages to get to the toilet in time and he does a shit and he also urinates and he sits and thinks because that it was that little room is for for shitting and pissing and thinking and then he fills in a list of black writers and he has only read two books on a list of 100 and this makes him feel he has a large gap in his knowledge even though he is familiar with most of the books on the list. There will always never be enough time to read all the books he wants to read. Then he watches Glenn Greenwald eviscerate another journalist. Then he prepares for work and then he reads about ancient literature in Timbuktu and then he reads about white privelige written by someone with that thing which is rare and then he watches white people running things or ruining things but probably running things and then he hopes his car will be fixed and then he worries about money and then he thinks about amazing sex and then he worries about money again and he wonders what next year will bring and he hopes that he will get to see the national Christmas tree and he wonders why Joe Biden keeps getting let out to say things but perhaps he’s being let out because he says things and his filter free word soup is what his bigges strength is to obfuscate and misdirect like a political magician. Then he reads about black face in Bolivia and how white people said it wasn’t racist but of course it’s racist he thinks to himself then he eats thanksgiving for lunch again which is amazing and then later on in the evening he wonders how he got here and he really wants to drink wine but he has no wine so instead he writes words and adds the words up together and they are a lot of words but they don’t mean very much but he keeps them together anyway because in a few days time he might look back at them and find that they do mean something. Then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He forgets something terribly important and regrets it horribly as he desperately tries to make amends but cannot make amends because he finds himself balancing between two poles that may never balance themselves. Then he has a coffee and some lean pockets and considers the pain in his chest and the pain in his shoulders and wonders if they are related to his insensitivity or to his diet or to the stress that his car isn’t working again and he has no money to fix his car again or the fact that he ate pie for breakfast and now he feels nauseous. Then he worries about his job and he worries about his salary and he worries about Noam Chomsky and he worries about Glenn Beck and Jeremy Paxman and Russel Brand and Brand Name Cereal and Serial Killers and The Killers. His beard is enormous and it keeps his face warm now that it is cold. He despairs of leaders but does not have the desire or the capacity or the skill to be one himself. He despairs of mainstream news and he despairs of alternative news. He despairs of facts and of analysis and he despairs of opinion and objectivity and power and oppression and then he has some chicken and some salad and then he has a very deep and powerful conversation that highlights his insensitivity and he hopes that he will do better and then he reads and then he falls asleep with The Daily Show bubbling in the background and then he wakes up unable to sleep and makes his tiny little army of men attack another tiny little army of men as, nearby, two bears snuffle in an abandoned campground.
He wakes up. He frees himself from unpleasant dreams that only leave ominous after images in his brain of a relationship gone horribly wrong and overbearing men and unsatisfied desire. Then he eats some more left overs from Thanksgiving and he tries to start his car with a battery starter but it does not work but it does make the radio work so he sits in what is now his four wheeled radio and listens to the adventures from Lake Woebegone for a while and then he takes the batter starter back inside and he wonders where the Thanksgiving weekend has gone and he reads some more Moll Flanders and he plays some more Words with Friends and he reads about Jeff Bezos’ new plan to deliver packages to people via drone and he does not trust Jeff Bezos because he seems more and more like a villain in a Dr. Who episode laying out an incredibly complicated plot by making it so the world ends up being owned entirely by him so he can then impregnate us all with whatever he wants to impregnate us with. Then he eats some more pie and he feels that this Thanks Giving weekend is getting too long and he is getting bored with it and then he has a nap and then he learns that Paul Walker is dead and he died yesterday in a car crash which is very sad and then he sees that The Republican Party are being made fun of because they celebrated the life or Rosa Parks by saying that she ended racism which is amusing for lots of reasons and then he watches an episode of The Simpsons and then an old episode of Family Guy where Brian is still alive and he wonders if Brian is going to come back to life and it will be a complicated Time travel episode and the shock value of a death in the famil will just be an extended punchline and then he plays Age of Empires III and he directs his tiny little avatars to move around the landscape to cut down trees and mine for silver and hunt deer and trade with native americans and no doubt later on down the road sell them pox ridden blankets and worthless legal documents regarding their land and property. Then he goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He has slept well and long and his alarm has not woken him up and he has nowhere to go and no-one to be so he lies in bed reveling in the sheets and the morning and then he is bored because he wants somewhere to be and someone to be with but this is not possible right now because of various reasons which will resolve them after the weekend and he prepares a bowl of cereal and he prepares a coffee and then he watches a discussion about Israel by the Council on Foreign Relations and he starts watching a film by the film director Oscar Micheaux starring a young Paul Robeson in his first starring role in a silent movie about a compromised priest and he watches Chris Hedges hectoring rhetoric from 2007 about the rise of Christian Fascism in America and he reads some Moll Flanders and he thinks about masturbating not that this is connected to Moll Flanders and then he washes some dishes not that this is connected to Moll Flanders and he brushes his teeth not that this is connected to Moll Flanders and then he eats some more Thanksgiving Food not that this is connected to Moll Flanders and then he reads some more Moll Flanders and this is connected to Moll Flanders. Then he plays a video game which is morally troubling and then he plays a video game which is not morally troubling. Then he takes a photograph of a pie that he made and then he eats some of the pie. Then he plays words with friends and loses and loses and loses and almost wins but loses again. Then he goes to the bathroom and does the things that one does in a bathroom and then he reads about the trial of the two alleged murderers of the soldier on the streets of London earlier in the year and he is surprised that they are pleading not guilty to the murder of the soldier and then he talks with his lover and that is wonderful and glorious and then he watches the blank wall for a while as he thinks about his life and wonders why it is and then he turns off the light and then he goes to sleep after listening to his landlord snoring through the wall in the other room for a while it is gentle and relaxed and soothing.
He wakes up. He has made no plans for Thanks giving he has no plans for The Indigenous Peoples Sunrise Ceremony but he is not in San Francisco today so he cannot travel by boat to Alcatraz to mourn the genocide of tribes he has no direct connection to. He sits in bed and ponders whether to invite himself to various dinners but Boston is now too far away and North Carolina is too far away and his car won’t start again so he walks to the store and he is going to buy a turkey sandwich but then he sees all the families buying food and wine and cheese and he decides to make himself a thanks giving dinner so he buys potatoes and he buys spinach and cream and butternut squash and turkey balls and gravy and stuffing and beetroot and potato salad and wine and cider and he remembers with delight the spare banoffie pie in his fridge that he spent hours making and he remembers with delight the sweet potato fries that are left in his freezer from earlier in the week and he buys some macaroni and cheese and then he walks home and strangers wish him a Happy Thanksgiving with real joy and happiness in their eyes and he responds with similar joy and smiles and he is happy as he enters his house from the cold outside and he drinks cider and he watches the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and Matt Lauer and Savannah Guthrie are a delight and Al Roker is a delight and the celebrities are more excited to see him than he is to see them because he is an institution – the Nation’s Weatherman which is no small title. Then he enjoys the floats and the balloons and there is a Hello Kitty and a Finn and Jake and a Santa and a Smurf and a Sonic the Hedgehog and with each comes the sales patter massaging everyone for Christmas and there are Zhu Zhu pets and muppets and dancers and singers and it looks cold but they keep on going in a relentless beautifully choreographed marketing pitch for the toys of the season and the gifts of the season and then there was the Oneida Indian Nation and then there was the Native Pride Dancers and then there was and the Cherokee Youth Choir and there was no talk of revenge or anger but only of sales and dancing and singing whilst the simmering beneath the surface rage was kept there and acceptance was demanded even if on terms of the kyriarchy. Then he read some stuff about race theory and then he played a video game called Deponia which was entertaining but who had a male character who was an idiot but he was supposed to be lovable but in actual fact just kept the same tropes of unreconstructed buffoonish sexist deceitful maleness that seems to sell a budget Guybrush Threepwood he thinks to himself and then is sad that this is a reference that lots of people will get because he used to enjoy the fact that video games weren’t mainstream because he is a snob. Then he drinks some cider and then he watches a documentary about Jung and then he watches an interview with Jung and the he watches a Ted Talk given by a man who deconstructs the worst of Ted talks and his name is Sam Hyde and the performance is quite brilliant and subversive and will probably do no good at all because nothing ever does and then he tries to learn how to replace his laptop screen and he watches a video and then he feels qualified but it also terrifies him because he knows that the moment he starts he is going to destroy his computer and it is never going to work properly again but he does not have the money to fix it professionaly and as each day passes more and more lines appear on his monitor screen creeping down from the top like vines covering up the screen and one day he will have to guess what he is doing by the sound effects that emanate from the speakers until the speakers break too and then he will fix them but they will not be fixed so he will be typing and clicking at a computer that is to all intents and purposes fully functioning but will have no video or audio clues as to whether he is writing a classic novel, surfing for porn or hacking into the NSA. In all these scenarios the middle option is the most likely. Then he makes his Thanksgiving feast and it is very tasty and he eats food and he drinks wine and he listens to a talk given by Aldous Huxley which he enjoys and he listens to Glenn Greenwald Eviscerating some journalists and then he drinks some more wine and then he worries that the NSA have been following his porn habits for the last few years and hopes that he will not be shamed in public but then he remembers he is not an activist of any kind and not important in any way so they probably do not care about his porn habits so that relieves him so just to be sure he goes to check the porn he has been looking at in the past and it still all seems to be there so he is satisfied that the internet is still okay and then he reads some more and he eats some banoffie pie and has a coffee and he has some more wine and then he goes to sleep.