Kernel Pop

The future screams. It is not a comforting sound. Tap tap tap at the side of the head – his TV-eye has bad reception. He watches as the group scoping him to see whether he might be plunder-worthy are bringing their tech to bear on breaking through his nano-baffle. The dispersal pattern, his dress, and his general demeanour might suggest to most that he is not a vulture-worthy pick-over, but these wolves are a little smarter than your average bears.

A car pulls up in the parking lot. A Texas steps out and moves towards the building – people part and let him through. He’s holstered and a strong and silent type that invites no kind of close quarters consideration. Is he here to reload though? That’s what they are wondering. Why is he so far out of his jurisdiction? That is what they are wondering.

Pointer doesn’t like these bastards getting so close. He unleashes a low level meme-loop to crash their poke and prod routines. Is he going to get home safe? He thinks about calling Piecer Delivery whose motto is “Twelves Inches and Six Shots to Take You Home!”. He doesn’t want to have to kill anyone but he is a getting a little desperate as they follow him around.

He sets all of his weapon systems to stand-by with heat and proximity triggered decision making capabilities. This is the last time he comes out this late to the supermarket. How stupid is he? Popcorn does not balance out very well when you weight it against your life. They are prodding him and playing with his security to test its limits, but his security isn’t that stupid; it acts when it needs to.

When the right hook swings in, tiger in his tank roars and bites back harder than any of them were expecting. And then all of them are on the back foot. Too late. His defensive has gone offensive to handle this issue. He is firing heavy duty body shots at them while his locked in and locked on exo-skeleton is moving him towards home at a rapid clip.

Over his should Pointer sees Texas get in the middle of their mess, twigging immediately to what they were doing, and he cleans up. What a mess. Still, now he has his popcorn and can watch his movie in peace.

truly homeless

They step over him. He doesn’t wow them with the shell game anymore. He doesn’t do the street magic he picked up from watching carefully anymore. There are no amusing little anecdotes on the placards he sets around himself to request money. Give money or don’t – it has nothing to do with him. He knows that no one wants to speak to him, because he is a non-person.

Except her. She sits down cross-legged opposite him.

‘You gave up,’ she says ‘And that’s wrong, because you know the war is still going on.’

She chuckles: ‘Now, does that make you a traitor, or does that just make you a coward?’

‘I’m so tired.’

‘I’m so disappointed. Do you know how many bodies I have dragged around to fight this thing? How long I have lived out here in the cold? Out here in the dog-piss alleys? Do you have any conception? I may be alternative girl culture cute for the moment, but I was dragging an old man carcass around less than ten years ago. The standards are dropping though. You, Mercutio – you used to be someone I could rely on. The rapier wit turned to thick-tongued self pity – what’s that worth? Not a damned sight, right?’

‘Girl, stop harassing that man,’ said a half aware emissary from the shining kingdom of society.

‘Old lady, step away from something you do not understand. I commend your concern as a citizen, but we are of another world, and in that place you have no jurisdiction.’

The old lady stepped away with a confused expression on her face.

‘What would you have me do, Titania?’

‘Ah, you are a leaky battery indeed if you charge me with providing the mission with which you were instilled back when you stepped away from the warm streets of the shared dream.’

‘Yes, indeed – that is exactly the problem. I am truly homeless.’

‘What a sorry state of affairs. What magic would it take to restore you? Charity? A Death? A victory? None of it is cheap, and none of it presents at the asking. It requires some doing; it always did.’

With a flourish, summoned from somewhere where the dream still sparked, he tap danced through the parking lot. She smiled at him. He smiled at her. She bumped fists with him – time to continue fighting that war again.

It Tastes Of Sour Jazz

He is chewed fingernails, bloody cuticles, he is gum disease, he is fidget, St Vitus Dance. He makes them all uncomfortable. He has been smoking powdered baby for a week non-stop and the painted clouds that thought bubble above his head are nightmare landscapes of imagined futures and pasts that smell like rotten meat. No one wants him to detox because this slow reveal just shows what a little pustule of poison he is. They want Clancy to be dead already.

She is a different matter. If boners were iron filings she would be the magnet making them dance. Everyone loves her. She’s been smoking Kahlo, but she has a drift cloud screen that pumps out her visual poetry in a much more aesthetic way than he has ever been capable. So you ask, what the issue? They love her and they hate him – seems obvious what they should do, doesn’t it? Except that Butler loves Clancy, and she somehow pulls something good out of him that nourishes her in a way that no one else has been able to do.

Vampiring the two of them, drawing all their energy from the interactions of these two pulsars, it is kind of fitting that as failure rears its ugly gap-toothed head above the parapet and takes an arrow in the eye, that the leeches should suffer as much as the principal actors.

It tastes of sour jazz. The plant that is growing weed-like in the petrol-rainbowed puddle is a fractal challenge that creaks out of a cocoon of melody into a tottering architecture of feedback and electronic blips. This whole place made sense – the maps led where you wanted them to, and then they started to disagree, just like that. How does location break down like that? Walk in the direction of one place and find yourself somewhere else.

Get enough people taking enough different drug-lines and the harmonic frequencies start to attack some deep crystalline structure of reality and pull it apart. The hologram was stroking – left and right rupturing apart and one side going spastic and lazy. Things just didn’t look the same.

Clancy as an old man is sat there writing an elegy for Butler, and he remembers her as Dorothy Parker speaking through a vision of Snow White. He was Bukowski wearing a Bogarde mask. He is thinking of a rare moment where they were sober. Because he writes it down, and because the new dreaming vampires read it and incorporate it into their philosophy, his nostalgia inadvertently saves the world.

It tastes like cotton candy. It smells like vanilla. There is a hummingbird marking time as it drinks nectar. This is the word in random motion.

the mirror room

It was an intersect point that could reconcile different vibrational frequencies, and therefore allow interdimensional communication between different iterations of the same agent. The Quantum Agency had been running them on and off for close to fifty years. The weakening integrity of the spacetime structure in several adjacent areas of localspace surely had nothing to do with their operation.

Golding looked at the sixty year old version of himself and the female version of himself, and he was unsure whether he disliked them because of who and what they were, or whether they just showed to him something he loathed in himself. They had to meet anyway – all brought together by the spindle-line running through the multiversal nexus. It was never pleasant – relativistic time and the effects of stepping back into your own spatio-temporal index felt like a more distorting version of the nitrogen bends.

They were trying to run to ground a group of Freelance Editors who were operating off some kind of Dadaist program and had been making a pig’s ear of the throughline. Agents would crash in, crash out, change appearance – they were having trouble maintaining individual subtext these days, only able to maintain the supertextual truth that the individual in the seat is an agent. It could make for disorientating meetings, but it was what they were trained for.

Golding had been edge-running a bleed-zone in South London all week, trying to peg who were the pawns and who the grandmasters; the map of Tooting high street didn’t look anything like it had a week ago. Who would remember? Only him. Sixty year old said that the head honcho was Peregrine Soot from his dimension, and female said that his assistant was Delius Herg from her dimension, and that they were operating from the work of Hugo Serin.

Two varying kinds of reality anchors meant the need of two types of disruptors – that was what made these collaborations invaluable.

‘We’re looking at Colony Collapse imminently, we won’t meet again,’ said sixty year old. ‘The spatio-temporal key-stones of this dimension were logic-bombed last week. Last week I was eighteen. Entropy is accelerating.’

‘We have an integrity issue too,’ said female. ‘This meeting is our attempt to at least help you – to do something before we cease to exist. That’s the one comfort in these Mirror Rooms, they let you see there are other possibilities.’

‘It was nice knowing you,’ he said, and he knew it sounded cold, but he had work to do, and he had to get to it quickly.

The assembled team, the manufactured disruptors, the location – all of it in place. Now they just had to wait for them to show up.

the act of translation

dead astronauts collecting on the windscreen. time buckles and some unknown agreement retracts the laws of physics. he is in notional space and the atmosphere is a little strange; doesn’t seem to work the same way as navigating physical space. some days it is like flying through the heart of a remixed scrapbook … some brion gysin, lee ‘scratch’ perry dub session version of reality. somewhere in the distance augustus pablo, recast as a god, chuckles as he coughs out huge clouds of cannabis creation.

when he set off in HMS headfuck he, for some reason, hadn’t expected it to be quite this strange. he had slipped under the semiotic skin of the universe and he was finding the syllogistic logic broken and the syntax coming on like some glossolalia cut-up equivalent of cognitive dissonance. jenny looked kind of happy – like she had managed to plug into william burroughs head and now she had become a walking talking orgone generator.

what were they hoping to get to? well, the idea was that they were going to find their way between the apparently sane surface of text universe and seemingly insane subtext; the context engines were propelled through the space in their act of translation – which served to get them where they wanted to go and explained to them where they had been.

three days into the more extreme symptoms and memory started to leak; cognition started to curdle, and neither of them really recognised the other. what could they do? there was no way to input the data they needed to control the situation – the terminal was broken. or it wasn’t. just maybe it wasn’t. something was happening – maybe the something they had been looking for. time stretched, space collapsed, and they found new meaning.

it would take some time to understand it all. or maybe it wouldn’t.

Never Tired Of Hanging Around

He has enough independent wealth to do whatever he likes. He likes to be around humanity stripped raw – something he has found harder since his worth grew a hundredfold. So what is he doing today? He is sat in the gridlock he spent the early morning driving to find, wishing really hard for it, driving just well enough not to die, and just badly enough that he might be a stone sending out ripples across the surface on the pond and create the perfect storm that would bring this standstill into being.

He likes standing in line. He likes waiting rooms. He will get himself embroiled in all kinds of things he should probably keep out of, just to feel that peculiar pressure of people packed in like sardines and feeling uncomfortable; tension building. Is this Freudian womb desire? Is this, as his hypnotist told him, derived from that past life experience of being buried alive in a mass grave? Too complicated – drive towards something simpler.

He adjusted himself inside his tight blue jeans. Odd – a boner? In such a sexless and sex-thought-free life his body acting this way actually surprises him. Was he unconsciously aroused by the girl in the convertible next door? Her smile curdles into a sneer when the light shining in her eyes lessens and she sees he is older than she thought he was at first – she doesn’t need or want a sugar daddy; she is an independent woman. He turns his head and smiles to himself, a thing he knows she would misconstrue. He doesn’t mind witnessing arguments but he doesn’t want to be part of one.

The horns have been getting louder. The colourful epithets are getting more colourful. It is music to him. For him this was something he did a lot. Not many people knew about it, but those who did wondered if there was something loose in his noggin. He felt he was totally sane, and that these actions he indulged in actually contributed to that. This was going to last quite a while.

His money brought him in contact with those people who wanted to find some way to wrestle control of his life from him for his own good, and those who worked hard to make it known it was not important and then it came to occupy a different kind of place in their relationship. Sat here, all this humanity pressed in close, this felt real – it was artificial, but it gave him what he needed. Hendrix came on playing Crosstown Traffic – what a perfect day.

See Horse Bleed

Look through the right eye. Look through the left eye. Look through both. Binocular vision is an interesting thing, makes him feel a little alien within his own skull when he becomes aware of it. He thinks of the idea of the bicameral mind. He wonders about the holographic universe. And then he ponders how having someone to talk to can have a similar deepening of perception.

He is alone. He is confused. And all the people in the cafe move around him unaware. They smile – and his lazy reflection fools their surface read. He comes here for this, even just for this … it’s something. It is something.

She refills his coffee cup, and he salutes her and she giggles. If she weren’t this friendly to everyone it might mean something, but it doesn’t. The country-fried breakfast sausage platter tasted good – he might regret it later, but for now it hits all the right spots. He eyes up the pies – he is thinking chocolate velvet, and maybe pumpkin. A couple of slices. He is getting out at least, right? Right.

How long has it been? How long is it since the break-up seemed like a legitimate excuse for the depression? Did it ever? It stretches thin over everything and it was a worn drumskin from early on. He doesn’t even have the energy to pull off even a vague echo of the early rhythm he used to throw into the patter that became his rehearsed excuse. He feels sad. And some of that sadness is that he keeps relying on this shorthand distancing mechanism to handle people. Keep pushing and see how many people continue to push back – it saps the energy.

A mouthful of chocolate velvet. A mouthful of pumpkin pie. A mouthful of coffee. He smiles like a big kid. The waitress sees him transformed into the younger man he has forgotten how to be most days, and it pulls forth the smiling younger woman that she has forgotten how to be. The moment is brief but it is a a little sacred interlude in the everyday.

He remembers the seahorse he saw at the aquarium last week, he remembers the facts about them – the whole male pregnancy thing, which frees the female up to produce more eggs. Wasn’t he a seahorse for a while? He smiles. They called it Couvade Syndrome, named for the old spell that used to be cast to transfer the pain of childbirth to the man. But as she said – he didn’t really know what it was like to have a life growing inside him – something spiritual and not purely physical. For him it was a symptom. He told her he felt the loss like she did, but even as he said it he knew that couldn’t ever be true. It was the wrong thing to say. That thin tenuous link between them ruptured and blew away in the strong wind of her grief. He did feel grief, but it felt like such a selfish thing.

Another mouthful of chocolate velvet. Another mouthful of pumpkin pie. They have turned to mush. Another mouthful of coffee. It tastes lukewarm and muddy. He doesn’t even know that he is crying. Anyone who sees it turns away. This isn’t the place for that kind of thing. A middle aged man crying in a family diner? Who ever heard of such a thing? It just isn’t right.