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Fear (Scribbling)

You Fear the moment won’t last and you Fear you won’t get the chance of it again. You love because you Fear not being loved. You love because you Fear you’re unlovable. Every decision you make you do because you Fear you will miss becoming something you’re not now. You Fear the regret, the shame, the broken-heartedness. You Fear time, that it will wander by while you edge closer to the end. You Fear the end. The final silence, where you have no more opportunities, no muddle of choices, no more to make of yourself. The end, where you are complete. A product of your Fear. To be forgotten by omnipotent time. You Fear the pointlessness of your effort. You Fear that what you thought to be futile actually is. You Fear hope for hope’s sake. You Fear yourself. Being alone, only with you, the self you Fear, the one you made. You are to blame. 

From this Fear you cannot run. It runs with you. You are the factory. You are the instigator. The inspiration. You craft it with your own body and your carry it with you like an unburdenable tumour. It weighs you down on your already heavy journey, causing you to turn where you shouldn’t, seek refuge where you mustn’t, take you where you strive not to go. It obscures your view and stains the maps you make. It slippens your grasp and bloodies your tracks. It rips and tears and keeps fresh the wounds, cuts deep the new, suckles and chews. Nurturer. Provider. Murderer. 

You are the devourer, the taker, the glutton of experiences. You are the creator, the crafter, the twister, the giver. You create wrong. You create pain. You create tangles and messes. You scribble over time and doodle on delusion. You continue to fail to make the answer. Still. 

STILL.

How heartily Fear feeds. 

Would you deny her sustenance? You want her to think you a selfish creature? You would distrust her for yourself? Feed the belly that feeds you. Unable to uncreate. 

How heartily she feeds herself. 

You will never do it right. 

It IS pointless, and continuous. 

I am here too. 

You ARE already the answer.

You are sharing in silence with a world of messes, and Fear allows no entry. 

You are creating with another who is creating with another, and together you build the intangible elephant that groans with its lonely lack of acceptance. Time, alone, listens to its only companion. 

Which time is the one you’ll pick?

Will you recognise it when it comes?

Will you have killed too much of yourself by then?

How do you know?

How, when you are blind?

(You are never wrong, only scribbling.) 

Pluck loved his mound. He’d made it himself over the years, adding bits of skin here and there and laying Matilda’s babies safely inside when her time came. Flies aren’t that fussy where their babies hatch, as long as it’s warm and moist, with some form of breakfast nearby. Pluck always saved a bit of meat from the dinner table to put in his skin mound. Mother usually liked everything from a human carcass but she wasn’t that fond of elbow meat, so father didn’t mind if a few bits went missing while he was cooking. He even gave Pluck scraps of skin before crisping the rest up in the fire. Mother’s favourite!

mound 1 

One piece of skin had been taken from the forehead of the great crustie warrior Fionn MacCumhaill, so his father had told him. It had the dark shiny patch from the burns of his own spear, a technique used to keep himself awake to protect the citizens of Tara from the fire breathing man of Sidhe, which proved it was the genuine forehead, said his father. True or not, it did look pretty in pride of place at the top of his fleshy mound. Until he’d had to remove it to make a choker for a girl he’d liked at the Bodyarium.

She was a trainee doctor and he’d served her some toe gruel in the staff canteen. She came over before she left to thank him for the lovely meal, which was unusual in itself. The staff canteen wasn’t renowned for its culinary prowess (blamed by the head chef on the doctors stealing leg, hand and feet ingredients from the cool tunnel). But it was the way she smiled at him, the way her eyes flickered slightly as she gazed gently upon him, and how she had touched his fingers like a whisper as she’d left that made Pluck sure she would pick him as a potential suitor, IF he got the gift EXACTLY right. He crafted the choker out of dried gut and hairhemp and prepared the story from the crust of the legendary MacCumhaill. He waited for ages until she finished work and gave it to her on the Bodyarium steps. She didn’t say much, and he didn’t see her or the choker again. At home his father had given him a large cut of shoulder skin, saying that Mother hadn’t fancied her human crispy that night. Unusual.

Anyhow, Pluck covered his mound entirely with that skin and vowed never to forsake his fleshy friend for a girl (or any subterranean for that matter) ever again. As he drifted off to sleep, Pluck caressed his clammy friend, and, in a way, subtle but affectionately, his mound snuggled him back. 

mound 3

 

Inspired by Russel Cameron’s Fleshy Mounds, which you can find here, and more over here…

http://russelcameron.blogspot.co.uk/

https://www.facebook.com/RusselCameronArt/home

https://twitter.com/russcam79

https://www.instagram.com/russelcameron/

Dark Matter


Nothing can travel faster than the speed of light, literally. We travelled through there long ago.

When we were the nothing of the universe.

The nothing of matter’s something.

The dust that settled, then gazed up at its maker for the answer.

We are the universe trying to understand ourselves.

Multiverse Me! [Cats and Ladders]

Today I have noticed the kink between the multiverses.  
Yesterday I noticed an abundance of wall sitting cats. I concluded it must have been their AGM, where they share intelligence on walls and their various attributes, prime spots, with good pouncing cover, etc. 

The AGM of wall sitting cats

 

Unfortunately, Terry couldnt make it

 
 

And Shirley tends to get a bit confused

 
But that was only the beginning of the phenomenon. I put it down to just noticing them, my brain having decided it was a ‘thing’ (It does that). But there is a definite increase in wall based cat doings. And they noticed that I noticed, and I noticed that they’d noticed I’d noticed. Etc. 

Then…

My doppelgänger tried to carry out Evil Plan 2.1 (a) by taking out my 2D self and replacing me with a 70 year old version who would then sabotage this universe’s me’s 2D friends and thusly take over the whole multiverse by inciting a 3D (actual world) riot via a joystick of words. They have since been eliminated by the Forces of Facespaz. For now. 

And…

Some mysterious ladders have appeared in my back garden (not a euphemism). 

 

Artist’s representation

 
They were not there yesterday, and though the note shoved through the letterbox says he’s been today the window cleaner has not appeared all day (detailed surveillance notes available). Even so, why would he leave his ladders and not return? I’ve checked for fallen bodies: Negative. 

In conclusion, the cat revolution is working in collaboration with the multiverse’s mes to send this me (the me me) into mental meltdown so that I am confined to a duvet covered room (shed, please) until I expire. THAT’S how much of a threat this me is! Who knows why? Until then, I have recruited two renegade pussies, using covert opposable thumb blackmail, as informants, and will be keeping well away from any blackholes. 

 

Im watching you! (as much as NASA lets me)

 
-ENDS-

I’m An Alien

Im an alienI sometimes feel like I’m an alien in this world, watching these odd creatures via my moving pictures box who insist on trying to wipe themselves from their own planet. The only planet capable of sustaining them (or stupid enough to have made them in the first place).

 

 

I’m interested in working out how people work. The experiences individuals have in their lives that determine their future selves and their behaviour. And most are usually quite obvious. An angry environment breeds an angry person. An honest and encouraging environment breeds a self-secure person. And the subtle nuances in between all serve to make each of us truly individual. Some end up in prison, some end up conforming to the definition of ‘successful human’, some end up rebelling against that definition (and are, in my world, the most successful).

Without condoning the severely disturbed humans (or idiots) that are ISIS, ISIL, IS, or whatever the current ‘so called’ media ‘so called’ term is today, I can still just about wrap my head around why they’ve ended up doing these things because of the environment in which they grew up and live. That certainly doesn’t excuse the choices they have made, just like any murderer. I must admit though that I’m absolutely stumped by one particular human of the species. Donald J Trump, and his apparent supporters.

He’s been an anomaly to me since I first came across him, but then he was poncing about in his own TV series having decided he’d like to be a celebrity, and was basically a harmless greedy fat cat in that Land of the Fucked Up (America, duh!). But now, with the same disbelief I felt when Arnie first launched himself as California’s saviour, he actually thinks he can run a fucking country! The ultimate corporate takeover, with the added networking and contacts icing that makes the mightiest Cake of Power that no human should consume alone. If he wasn’t getting so much support it would be entertaining to watch. Unfortunately it seems my frame of reference re cultural norms of human reasoning is skewed. I have never encountered any fellow human (including those based on that bit of Earth over there) who thinks this guy is a good idea. I can only presume his supporters are a different breed of human, especially if they are able to agree with his reasoning to treat others with the same racist distinctions as the very people which you’re supposed to be against.

 

This sends my mind into an infinite loop of dead ended ‘But why?’ Trump thinks that in order to fight ISIS he must become a terrorist in his own right and punish a generic lump of humans in line with his ignorant (and vote winning) way of thinking. Yes, he is a homunculus of America’s finest business school and his cash hungry real estate father, but does that really mean he should be THIS self-serving, greedy, unfeeling and stupid? Is the only thing that sparks some kind of pleasurable nerve ending sensation in his second (maybe primary) stomach brain the sound of wads of cash being dumped into his vast bank vault hidden in his secret lair located in Switzerland, Dubai, Monaco and Timbuktu all at once whilst paying all taxes owed on paper in his own country, of course. Sorry, I need to sneeze (BULLSHIT!). Bless me.


You could say he’s the primary product of our time. ‘Modern Civilisation’ defined. After all, none of the other participating countries had a thought about how they could help the innocent people of Syria to escape from death roulette in their home country BEFORE they dropped billions of tax payers’ money in bombs.

 

Imagine the country that organised a full scale evacuation programme for these helpless victims of our own species, each country accommodating them, helping them deal with the fact that life as they know it, including all the good parts, has changed dramatically into a fearful Unknown. How refreshing and truly deserving to represent the human species of the Earth would that country have been? Imagine the media outlet that sought to deliver messages of help and resources and hope to its valued viewers and fellow humans of our home, Earth. How refreshing and deserving to communicate our world news would that media outlet have been?


Too utopian for you, World? Okay. How about a sensible debate, without petulant name-calling, both private and public, with facts uncoloured by any particular media outlet’s brand pallet, with transparent points of view of instead of sleight of hand, hidden mirrors, under the table, back handed whips of PR’d ‘statements’, ‘party lines’, or deliberate confused gibberish to keep people busy. The price of bread cover up is a classic that will always be in the politician’s toolbox. At least Strictly’s still on, eh?

 

So as I watch this alien planet try very hard to destroy itself through its own inventions, run by 0.00003% of its population, to the detriment of over half of its total population under the manipulated marketing strategy that is labelled ‘democracy’ I stare at the screen of my Western you-never-had-it-so-good iPhone and think I should really clean this screen.

“There’s never no evil, only a different kind of evil.” – A Human

 

 

All artwork by Casper Arp Knudsen. Please go take a look at his amazing 2D and 3D work here…

http://casperaknudsen.com/

http://fuzzymelox.deviantart.com/

https://society6.com/casperarpknudsen

© Casper Arp Knudsen, under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0) http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/

Haiku: cat #1

Cats can’t do haikus
Cos they’ve got no thumbs to use
The tree is purple

Brand: Writer

anxiety_by_morrison3000-d8j3revThe dreaded workshop. Creativity on demand, under the scrutiny of other far more competent creatives. Yes, I attended a couple the other week. It took a lot of courage and many self pep talks to even get myself into the room! I spent the few days leading up to it gathering the neurotic thoughts I could find – you’re not as good as everyone else, they’ll all laugh at your ideas, you’re not clever enough, you can’t write, give up – which inevitably led to the usual anxiety attack just before leaving for the first workshop. The difference between the me now and the me I was this time last year being I ACTUALLY WENT! I didn’t cop out. I really MADE myself go. The few experiences of doing this previously had gone well, and so finally my brain has seemed to reach an equilibrium between the neurotic thoughts and the experiential evidence to show that it’s never as bad as I can very competently make out it’s going to be. I held onto that thought like a toddler with an ice-cream. Also, it’s about self-confidence *looks at self-confidence bucket, status: empty*. It’s about realising what could REALISTICALLY go wrong, and knowing that you do have the ability to get through it if it does. Unfortunately us humans must go through a few harrowing experiences to realise this fact fully, but hey, life’s a bitch on steroids sometimes.lightheaded_by_morrison3000-d9biw0q

Anyway, back to the workshops. So, I was nervous about attending this workshop full of literary geniuses. When I arrived there were 20 other people all sat round a table like the class of 1992, silent, ridged, and concentrating very hard on their pencils. After what seemed like a lifetime plus one, the teacher arrived. Sorry, ‘workshop leader’. As a plan was drawn of the names of the people in attendance and ‘just a little bit about what style of writing you do’ I could see that every single person was bricking it as much as me. Everyone feels the same in these situations. If they don’t look like it then they have years of practice behind them meaning they’re bloody good at covering it up!

Most writers I’ve come across are like this: full of self-doubt, unsure whether their audacity to fill pages of dead trees with their words is justifiable. Of course, some new writers are very confident, some rightly so, and for some it can be their downfall. A bit of humility can go a long way, and it is essential for learning and creating. As writers in the world of open communication we are expected to be brands in ourselves. We need to be personalities which our audience can buy into, like a character in a book. The thought of selling yourself as a package of writing brilliance is incomprehensible to writers, most of whom will openly admit they don’t know everything there is to know about themselves, never mind present it to the world neatly tag-lined and photo-perfect.

hidden_beauty_by_morrison3000-d7x5fbm

Writers are natural introverts, observers rather than participators. Writers are used to hiding behind their writing. Writers want their writing to be their brand that represents them. But to the hungry wolf that is social media being a writer is not enough. sane_and_insane_rivalry_by_morrison3000-d7fc3dmWe need to form relationships with our readers before they’ve even read anything we’ve written, and we need to do it in such a way that it represents our writing style so as to fulfil our readers’ expectations when they do finally skim through the opening lines of our stories. Brand Writer must deliver what it promises.

Again, we come back to that illusive rogue, time. Having time. If I was a social media guru I wouldn’t spend as much time writing. Simple. I’m currently working on how to do both. My brain is complaining about this distraction, but I will come to a mutually beneficial compromise at some point.

a_mess_by_morrison3000-d7k7jnd

The workshops? Loved every second! I didn’t appear to cause offence to anyone, and I didn’t turn into a blubbering jellylike blob, and my head didn’t explode all over my fellow participants. Once I’d forgotten to worry about those things and became absorbed in the whole thing the time passed way too quickly and before I knew it I was leaving that once terrifying room feeling self-sanctimonious, telling myself that I told myself it would be all right, didn’t I, hmm?

It was great to hear what others were writing, and it was great to come up with ideas amongst such creative people, even if certain ideas wouldn’t pop forth on demand. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a test. It was for us workshopees to learn something. The stuff I did come up with inspired a whole new story with a great character I can hardly believe I created, and I was able to grasp a sense of where my particular comfy cushion of ‘Me’ sits within the writer population. I know more than I think I do is really what these workshops taught me, and I should have confidence in this fact. I came away from my two days of learning feeling super confident about my writing and where I’m going with it. I decided, in comparison (as humans do) that I’ve actually got a head start on some, and that my slight apprehension about attending things like this is actually a good thing: I go there feeling I don’t know everything, and that’s exactly how it should be.

euphoria_by_morrison3000-d7qemab

All artwork by Dolores A Morrison. Please check out this fab artist here…
http://www.doloresmorrison.com
http://morrison3000.deviantart.com
https://www.facebook.com/Morrison3000Art/

What the Hell am I Doing?

Good question. I’ve been writing various things for ages, with no real focus or theme. Really just enjoying myself. But I’ve decided enough is enough, I have to take this thing-wot-I-do more seriously, even if it’s just to get my mother off my back asking me why I can’t write something like Jane Eyre. So, I’m kicking my insecurities and those who gift them to me up the proverbial back passage and exposing a full frontal bucket load of confidence by sorting my ‘stuff’ out. This starts with stopping something. Stopping giving away my writing for free. Yes, I’ll blog (much more often, I promise), and there may be the occasional bit of creative writing shoved in here and there, but the point is I need to get something published.

Now you know the situation, here’s the question. I’ve got a few dark/freaky fairy tales sitting patiently waiting for others to join them so that I can publish a full themed collection. I’d like to illustrate them too. I’ve also got a book sized story on the go. Not one for giving myself an easy time, this story has required a full world building exercise which has all been dumped in a wiki of its very own. I have some characters in mind, but they’re no way near developed to the point of clarity, neither is the plot line. I basically have a lot of narrative, most of which I don’t want to use as narrative. So there’s two projects, and deciding which one to dedicate time to is really annoying! The fairy tales is a bit more developed, well rounded, focused, easy to see the step by step process kind of project. The book isn’t. So my kind of logic tells me that I should focus on the fairy tales, get it finished, get something produced, and then start all the marketing malarkey, then I’ve got ‘something’ to show. Whadda you think?

Another part of sorting my ‘stuff’ out is sorting out this site, my ‘platform’ (I went to a ‘marketing your book’ workshop this weekend, so I know aaaallll the lingo now ;)). I’m spending this afternoon taking off the miserable ranty stuff, all the complete stories that I want to do something with, and generally giving it a good ol’ clean out. So it may seem a bit thinner than before, but…well…tough! I’m reassessing my social media presence too. I’ve spent some time away from it over the past few months and I’ve really, thoroughly enjoyed not getting caught up in the global distraction of narcissism and 2D ‘friendships’. It’s only with a massive reframing of the purpose of social media that I’m venturing back to it, now with my I’m-A-Writer face on. I was going to start completely afresh with a new Twitter and Facesplat account, but, thinking about it (I’m good at that y’know), I’ve decided it would be silly to neglect all you wonderful people who’ve already been so kind as to mark your interest with a ‘follow’. I hope to take you with me on my meander through this insane world of the business-of-writing from the point of view of a business-of-writing-phobe. I’ll probably need your unending support and proclamations of adoration in difficult times, but I won’t write about you if you don’t (maybe). Just a ‘like’ or maybe a ‘buy’ would be as good *smiling sweetly face*.

So, all change, but all good. Thanks for sticking around Thinking Chimps!

Thighs…

I make a lovely cat bed,
My thighs are soft and pliant. 
Tortured by the shredding claw, 
Until they are compliant. 
And if they think of moving,
Or are at all defiant,
The sharp hooks of autocracy,
Shall render due chastisement.  

Ow. 

So, we’re getting towards recording the final scenes, so I thought I’d share the only edited scene with you so far. This scene was written by me, it is not in the book, as a prologue. Hope you enjoy!

You can follow the progress of Radio Rivers on Twitter @RadioRivers.