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a time for fear
 
Thursday, July 31, 2003  
If you're not prepared to act on the basis of murky intelligence, you're going to have to act after the fact, and after the fact now means after horrendous things have happened
Paul Wolfowitz

Don't borrow, don't spend, hold tight, keep still. Here's an idea: run away, hide, stay secret, stay silent. Don't get involved: don't burn anyone, don't get burned. The bank want your money back and The State wants your time and Everybody wants a piece of you. Or nobody does, and this is worse. Somebody wants you, but all you can do is hide. And they really want you. And you don't know what to do. All you wanted, really, absolutely, after all, was to be wanted. And to return it. Then it happens, and you can't. That's tragic. It's more tragic than Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth. It's as stupid, but more passive, pathetic, poisonous. Defiance = self-contempt. Pride = fear. No: this is only part of the story. Nobody can catch you. (Somebody catch me!) December. Antarctic base. Alone. The weather >>> I don't carry: Tesco Clubcard, Sainsbury's Reward Card, Boots Advantage Card, no Air Miles, no Nectar Card. I pledge alleigance to no one. But you can catch me on: EU passport, UK driving licence, HSBC cash card, LT Travelcard, RSPB membership, Foyles payslips, National Insurance, NHS medical card, Switch receipts, Freeserve traffic, Hotmail account, British Library Membership, CCTV, speed cameras. Now you know enough about me to pick me apart, smooth out my skin, open up my gut, pick out my brains, seperate my arteries, uncoil my appendix, tease out my nerves, string up my veins, pool my blood, admire my eyes, sculpt my bones. You know too much, and you're not even paying attention, you're not even asking. Pay attention! Ask! Stop watching me all the time: I leave traces all over the city, spectral aspects, transparent trails, wraith routes: make my way down these every day and forget to think, leave a mental shape, empty. It does not disperse: it's recorded. I detest that image. You got my bad side: look at that nose! Every image I arrange in this highly arranged imagination ruined by a scratchy, gaunt security monitor, watching at the wrong angle, watching at the wrong time. Thought I had control of things. Cower in the loo, that's control. How indecent. How undignified. Still the larks flying, singing, in the sky. The Great Kings of Israel. The Fertile Crescent. The Mountain. The Ocean. I laugh at a friend as he shouts, amusingly: I'm better than this, God damn you! Stephen, you are, you are >>> "I'm not paranoid, I'm violated" >>> Light breeze. Starlings fly past at dusk. A swell of shiny black bodies. Ripple and cluster of silhouettes. Light breeze. Cormorant flying overhead at end of day. Wind paths. Sea swells. Four lighthouses on a horizon, no residents. A swell picks up. Oil tankers anchored offshore. Evening encroaches. Tankers light up like small towns. In the wind and rain, like ghost towns. Lightships wink softly. Heavy seas, caused by the accumulation of strong frontal depressions. The sea's teeth. August. Return of the equinoctial tides. First fresh gales. Moor the yachts. Don wellington boots, navy Guernsey, yellow oilskin, woollen hat, handsome stuble. Wait for the fresh, ferocious dawn. Nova Scota, Iroise Sea, Cape Horn, Galacia, Bay of Biscay. Off the coast of Cornwall, morning: strong south westerly gale, grey-green waves roar in from the Atlantic. Smash rocks, curl up and over onto sandy beaches. Some people walk and watch, some people ride waves on gaudy boards, some people tackle the angry sea and kill fish. Tonight we shall eat beautiful fish by a log fire. Tomorrow there will be mist, thick white mist, and you'll hear foghorns. Foghorns make you feel alone and lost and they are comforting. It's strange. From the vantage point of the sea, we wade into winter, chaps, all pipes and pints and sea shanties and fresh air and danger! Ha ha! and foreign competition and overfishing and broken infrastructure and families below subsistance level They stopped manning lighthouses and I lost a million dreams. They used to sell fish in a big warehouse at Swansea docks. I was young and mum would take me to buy fresh plaice on a Saturday morning, and the fishermen would give us fishheads for the cat, and then we'd go home and have fried plaice for lunch. That was fun! Buying fish at the docks was exciting. They had all sorts of weird things for sale, and you could watch them unload the catch. They don't do this now, it all had to stop. ...we wade into winter, chaps, in our rusty boat on the waves surrounded by storm petrels and manx shearwater, auks and gulls, a speck of dust in a gale, emerald waves with frothy white peaks, they rear up like snow-capped mountains, and dwarf us and they could crush us. We catch fish in our big nets, plucked out from beneath the maelstrom, where it remains calm. Later asleep, sound asleep. With you darling. An owl across the reeds. Somewhere else. That calm we lost. Locked in memory >>> I am a Siberian tiger and I have lost my tigress and my heart bleeds >>> South of France consumed by vast flames. A gift donated by Corsican or Basque seperatists, nobody knows who. These fires are all deliberate. It is the apocalypse. Aircraft scoop up water from the Mediterranean and drop it onto the flames. It is desperate. Residents hose down their houses, and then flee for their lives. Their houses are destroyed. Roads jam. Resorts and campsights are deserted, then they are consumed. A thick black, brown, orange cloud engulfs the sparkling coast. White yachts shine bright against a horizon that resembles medieval hell. The sky turned orange, the smell was too much, ashes were falling into gardens and onto rooftops. Fire rips through dried-out wood. In the hills above St Tropez. Tourists flee in their swimsuits. Last night fires were moving closer to the 19th century £1.5 million home of David Beckham near Bargemon >>> Yet another dream in the feverish night. The walls collapse around London Zoo. The earth is spiralling towards the sun. Windows and wire and mesh melt. The bird cage dissolves. Lions, tigers, pumas, lynx, starved and crazy, dash through London streets, leap on pedestrians, steal meat from supermarkets, claim territory in London parks. Gorillas, apes and monkeys invade city offices, clamber onto famous monuments, swing beneath Thames bridges. Snakes and lizards terrorize the sewers, the tube, decimate the rodent population, it's a hard fight between them and the rats, mice don't stand a chance. Exotic spiders crawl into people's homes, someone finds a black widow in their wardrobe, someone else finds a tarantula in their bath, someone else finds a bird eating spider in their pantry, looking for birds, ridiculously. Giraffes meander through Soho, to the scent of bananas and latex. Rhinoceros rampage through Clerkenwell, hopelessly lost, terrifying, devastating. The sky is alive with rain forest birds, a violent rainbow picked off by white gulls. Lovely penguins crowd the south bank. I pack my bag and go on safari >>> A scientist falls in love with a biometric scan

Whereever you go you carry a message of hope - a message that is ancient and ever new. In the words of the prophet Isaiah, 'To the captives "come out," and to those in darkness, "be free".'
George W. Bush

You didn't appear here because you happened to be the context for everything >>> Sau Paulo is a modern Cairo. Medieval Cairo updated, uploaded. Dense, dry chaos. Enigmatic sprawl. Spirtual devastation. Riddlers, story tellers, whores, street venders, thieves. Human squall. Silent murder. Superstition and apocalypse. Spells vs. deals. Bruises, cuts and scars. The flow of alcohol. Street parties. Unpassable streets. The stench and colour of human traffic. Moral eclipse. Love passed freely and tightly bound too. Class disintegrates. Or it just hides behind high walls and iron gates and festers in shanty towns. Divide so wide it disappears. Come out. Be free. Sau Paulo is a modern Cairo. Your soul could die there so easily. Watch it sliver onto the pavement and into the road. Stabbed by high heels. Crushed by wheels. You are healed by a witch doctor. An old Indian lady, a face with lines like battle wounds. A kind of pagan potion. Lose your Catholic roots in desperation. Healed, and then descend further. Meet a devil on the streets of Cairo and Sau Paulo. Kill a priest. Fornicate in the alleys. Drink the poison elixcir. Lost in a dream until you wake up which is never. Sunk in the Arabian Nightmare with a monkey and a prophet. And you're all dead >>> Spitfires flown by chaps over English fields buzzing with bees during a hot war during a hot English summer. Swifts and swallows dart between Spitfire and Nazi bombers. On TV, a black and white film >>> A hot English summer, a sign by Lea River says: On Sat 5th July 03 between 11am and 1pm an incident took place involving a child carrying a fishing net and a man pushing a bike. Did you see them? Or can you assist in any way? In strictest confidence phone: 0207 275 3437. Don't want to think about the gaps in that. I used to love this river. Coot feeding her tiny, ugly chicks (don't worry, you will be beautiful), sense me, swim away in fear. I mean no harm. Continue. Pick through the algae. I'm less dangerous than that damselfly. Sit and watch Canada geese hustle down river. Sit on a concrete river bank. Tower blocks, disused factories, pylons. Hollow, lonely squalor resonates. A rare tern swoops and stops in disgust. Strictly post-industrial now. Action happens in open plan offices. Skin is assaulted by strip lighting and air conditioning. Life is lost as soon as ink dries on the contract of employment. Thou shalt not refuse to work. I sit by a river as the air hums around me. Walk back. Missing: black and white cat. Last seen 16/07/03. 'Stanley' - very friendly 11-month old kitten should be wearing a black collar with blue name-tag. Reward offered. I hope they find their kitten >>> Off to the white of the Antarctic then, my last option. Everything white, so I can disappear into the whiteness. Then the icebergs turn out to glow a ghostly, beautiful blue. Between sky and midnight. Somewhere between there. Another dream? Or a desire? Disappear into a dot on the horizon. My atoms dissolve in a blizzard. Don't like it here. Go North. Fly like an Arctic tern. Do not stop.

Why is life so tragic; so like a strip of pavement over an abyss.
Virginia Woolf

Beneath the pavement - the beach!
Situationist slogan

12:24 AM

 
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