The Return of the Whovians

Today I found out where the phrase "Wilderness Taxidermy of Glendale" came from. No longer are these pages the only place on the web where you will find those words. They come from .... ahh - but that would be too easy. Go and find it for yourself. I remembered it as soon as I read it but that's no fun. Socially we are falling apart. I am so glad I do not wear black. Anyone for a game of Centrifugal Bumble-Puppy? Thought not!

It has been so dark today - like the quiet week, the start of every day, of every short story, a bleak cover to the beauties of autumn and what you will be remembered for. You could have gone with so much good behind you but that was really Mo and her super wig rather than anything you did. End one war and start another! That's the way to go. Admit it was a disaster? Never until the war is over.

Out of the this darkness comes the rush of winter gods, little gods but part of larger ones, each with their own little home behind the leaves, in the deep of the undergrowth, parts of poem maybe, like these lines are parts of a bigger story. Maybe you could take each paragraph as a separate thing, mix them all up, throw them up in the air and let them fall into their own new story. Or news Story.

I hear the low screech, the melodic buzz of some electronic device talking to another, linking thoughts more tightly than any humans could do. They link deep in to each other's minds; have a handle on the neurons and the very pulses flowing between them. Maybe one day we will tap into the memories of others in this way, picking up the tenuous hum of another person's mind. Falling in love is like that I think, a sudden understanding of the frequencies and handshaking parameters of someone else. It is just the accident of frequency and decency and how you want things to be.

I have lost the cursor; a new curse for technology. There are so many small annoyances caused by the lack of things we think we need just to survive these days. I’m not yet rendered blubbering by not having my phone with me, in fact sometimes I leave it behind because it means that much to me. Maybe one day I will understand irony. I am not even sure whether the Whale-Rider’s dilemma is actually ironic which in its broadest, simplest application means dichotomy between the effort and the outcome. I suppose that is the beauty of irony; that it is impossible to define without being able to understand it. My work is like that – sometime the mad rush to complete it leaves out the detail and it still works - never fails – ever. That is how beautiful irony is.

Time might go backwards. I have to put this paragraph in because it refers to the title which is my entry for an imagined competition in the way an acquaintance of mine has taken pictures from a non-existent movie, though that must be a common theme amongst photographers as much as making imaginary soundtracks is a favourite oblique strategy for some people. The brain has never done a soundtrack has he but his music is used to back all sorts of films anyway. Who are the Whovians? They live in a town that reflects back on itself, twists and turns though a dusty, Mediterranean landscape that seems to have been built on the exposed edges of a Möbius strip, never ending and having only one surface. I should take a giant pair of scissors and cut it along the centre band. Drinking from a Klein bottle is another difficult leisure activity.

I took a different route home yesterday, through the darkness of this countryside, listening to drumming - long drumming from some concert hall miles away, sounds that took the darkness and made it darker. I got lost for a few minutes, feeling like I was on the edge of the known world, that fiction of the table edge with the water falling away and the landscape fading away in my vision. Just before I imagined my fall to limbo patrum, I found a turning place and got back onto my proper road. I was not scared – though my end seemed inevitable for a few seconds – a fear of ceasing to be though not the blind panic of waking in the night with every possible future screaming through you. Safe in the company of dimness and winter trees, the demons slink back to their caves. You can never kill them – only lock them up.

I have exhausted the ideas I had for today until this idea of the end of ides came to me, a sort of extension of my old brain-jammer of trying to imagine everything in the universe and then instantly to try to imagine nothing at all, no space, no matter, no time and by extension no love. No cliché perhaps. The old architect of the War against Cliché was on the radio yesterday talking about his father and all the time I expected him to talk in this measured way designed to give him time to avoid the very mixtures of phrase and platitude that he rails against. He was eloquent and the odd stock phrase got away from him but it did not seem to worry him. I was waiting to hear him say he was a police (sic) but obviously he didn’t; he didn’t even mention the book it was from and I cannot remember. It was the best half hour of radio I have heard for a long time. They break us down to these little clichés and then build us up again into fully formed characters. Someone is writing me at this moment, deciding not only on how I am thinking but what I am writing at the same time, two levels of character in one. I bet no real writer ever really bothers in that way. I am back to my strange idea of not defining something completely and yet having it work all the time.