And then I breathe in, and everything becomes hexagonal and pixellated and then it spins clockwise and I cough slightly, from the smoke, and it feels like there is something in my mouth – this bothers me, it preoccupies me, and then the creatures in the golden room tell me to stop coughing, it's okay, to let go, just let go of it, you're doing it to yourself, and at first I don't, but they are beckoning me and they are so warm and so open and with such love in their eyes – so friendly, and I look for something else behind it, but there is no malevolence, no hidden agenda or slyness. Just love, and welcoming – and I am in a hall, more beautiful than anything I have ever seen before, so beautiful it takes my breath away; a cornucopia of colours and feathers and beckoning creatures, nymphs and all manner of magical creatures welcoming me towards them and displaying all of their finery, and I feel beautifulhappywarmsafelovedforgivenandblessed and the satyr, a man with a beautiful and handsome face, who has been at the forefront of those telling me that it will all be okay, to let go of every fear and insecurity ascends to the centre of it all, and as I look at him I become aware that his horns look very like the cube, suspended from the ceiling, swinging slowly and gently as though breathing out, and suddenly that is what I am looking at, an ornament suspended from the ceiling, and I cry out “No! Don't go!” and fling myself into the arms of the friend who is sat beside me, solid and real and warm and flesh and blood, and I half laugh half cry but fully neither, and tell him that I want them to come back.

(What he doesn't know is that I can still spy, elegantly, one of the nymphs discreetly pouring herself back into the rafters like some sweet nectar, around the edges of the room)

A note from last Spring

I think that the media characterisation of the instigators of riots in London last night as faceless, ominous 'gangs of youths' is a manifestation of the underlying fear of those currently in power (and I use that term loosely to describe all those who are at the helm of, and benefit from, the current socio-economic set up as much as the ConDem govt. itself) that the next generation have realised how much we are being royally fucked over and aren't going to take it lying down. They are taking our NHS, an hours wage buys fuck all, and those of us who are 'lucky' enough to even get jobs will be working until we drop to try and fill the bottomless pit of the previous generation's pension deficit. We are constantly hit with a barrage of images telling us that we are not real people unless we buy our selves from the shop shelves, shiny gadgets and made-up faces and fast cars and homes plucked from the pages of catalogues. We are grasped at by tiny invisible hands that try to snatch away whatever we blindly, naively accumulate in the hope of becoming one of those golden few 'winners' - the holy grail of aspiration, the myth that keeps us docile, submissive, in the hope that one day we too might receive a crumb from that richest of cakes. In a society geared towards winning, there will always be losers. Is it any wonder that a myth of human worth based around our ability to accumulate mass produced objects of desire is inevitably accompanied, when that ability is frustrated, by anger, resentment, and efforts to take by force what capitalism has told us we are worthless without? You told us we need these THINGS to be worthy of being counted as worthwhile human beings, and yet after hours of work and credit checks they still remained so close and so visible but just out of reach, behind the polished glass of shop windows. Of course windows will be broken when alls people can see in them is the reflection of a face that cannot attain what is concealed by the glass. Fuck being a real person. Fuck trying to 'win'. What did you expect?

and it is strange, really, that as our lifestyle meanders further and further into the realm of technologically influenced alienation, we yearn ever more deeply for human contact. Now, when you walk into the supermarket, you do not need to share a word or even a glance with another being - a circuit of the shelves, pickup a newspaper and your daily bread, and then to the self service tills. Small talk replaced with the gentle click-hum-whir of progress. Step out into the still summer night, and the two drunks seated besides the cash machine are calmer than usual. The Irish girl, who is often distressed, sometimes angry, has a softness in her eyes today, even a warmth. She asks if you are alright and you say yes, and smile, and keep walking