Friday, June 22, 2018

'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.12

Our mutilation is to gain from the system
~ Jeff Buckley ‘The Sky is a Landfill’ 1996

Flower of Soul ~ Chie Yoshii

Historic concepts of fame and stardom fall firmly outside of Peye’s worldview, given that her family name is deeply entwined with the Kulture’s historic concepts of wealth and power.
Don’t judge me by the actions of my class, she would say if she felt it would make a difference to say such a thing aloud.
She’s never been one for sentimentality either - never mind the social aspect of standing on a stage to entertain - even attaching some dressing to the interaction always seem to her to be an act of falsification; a fabrication; as if to dress it up as anything but a creative need to communicate an idea is to undermine the validity of the idea.
Peye’s ideas for her Tales come from a need to be the one telling the story rather than the one listening to it; - for reasons of control perhaps - and since it is self-evident that ideas and ideals come from the same root - it is probably true that Peye is an idealist.
But even idealists must deal with the real, and even if she is the black sheep of that family; the reality of her position in the Carny is a compromise of those ideals. So, while she has her own life within those parameters, she hates it when the ideal and the real overlap. In these instances, she tends, like many idealists, to withdraw to the room in her head there to wait the whole thing out.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Ignorance Abides


e   c   l   i   p   s   e

Which is not to say that all is lost; start throwing the horses overboard in the hope that the lessened weight will allow the current to take us away from these doldrums.
Since hope, while powerful enough to carry us from here to eternity, is still a fragile construct, held together with spit and dust and the blood of our children; propped up by ignorance of the past and the knowledge that the future is unknowable – even as we chip away at the prospects of that future with the blunt cold chisel of our ignorance.
The blind observance of faith.
The zealous adherence to what we are conditioned to believe.
The sound of the crowd as it bays for the blood of the condemned.
The coarse weave of the media noose.
The trapdoor of global oblivion.
And what of this darkness that exists in broad daylight?
It robs us of our hope, our ability to think outside the parallel lines of apocalyptic dogma; unlike the night, it robs us of all our senses, shuts down the imagination, the creative urge, and in its place, hands us the seeds of destruction; the glossy surface of primary-coloured celebrity-based eternal life; blinding the eye of the beholder.

Monday, June 18, 2018


Friday, June 15, 2018

'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.11

You’ve only got one finger left
And it’s pointing at the door
~ Beck ‘Lord Only knows’ 1996

Adelaide Hanscom's Rubaiyat

The silence grows between them like a river neither is willing to cross.
“I need to speak to Giles” says Ellie “It’s urgent”
There’s a short pause while Peye chews over what she’s just heard.
“Are you out of your fucking mind” it’s not a question, “What could possibly go right with a meeting between you and Giles?”

Wednesday, June 13, 2018


Mathilde ~ Carel Willink

Out we fly, our cargo crude and underdeveloped, ill prepared for the prospect of quantum eternity, this vessel’s fragile skin a dancefloor for particles of ancient light; scarred by supersonic grains of dust. Take-off and landing fees apply.

The sun warms one side of my body only; I harbour a sense of loss at the fact that I have not been included in that which is now being discussed after that fact.
What does this tell me about their regard for me?
I am, and always will be, the outsider; even as my crust, too thin not to be hurt by the actions of others, develops scar-tissue to be baked hard but brittle in the furnace of time.

Our new home is back-lit by the passing of relative time; for while we’ve been travelling mere days, we have been gone for centuries, lost from the minds of the immortals we left in memory. Fertile ground awaits our fragile seed to mend.

Tales for an attention deficit world