These electric words iv

I'd say this text refers to this blog.

“And so how did you come up with the idea for a… /Looks at clip board for the correct word/ ‘wicker tuffin’ that releases birds as a defensive agent?” said the interviewer grimly.

“Well to be honest I’m not entirely sure. I’m pretty sure I didn’t plagiarize it if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Said Brendan-Gus admirably

“Oh no – no not at all – just wondering where you came up with the concept” Said the interviewer radiantly.

“I am not sure to be honest – I think I came up with it whilst… /looks at clip board for the correct words/ falling to sleep one night” Said Brendan-Gus, coldly.

/interviewer nods - he’s very interested - then looks at his clipboard for the next question/ “ So tell us about where this small text is set Bren-Gus” said the interviewer naively. “What is going on there?”

“Well I’ve always had this fascination with the post apocalyptic world – not your barren Madmax kind of Waterworld future. I’ve always been more interested in how people of the Western excess would deal with the fact that they are now so softened by comfort that they have lost almost all survival instincts. This explores that”. Brendan-Gus said as if newly and totally immersed in his own notions /he then nods as if deciding something and smiles at the interviewer as if he forgot about his presence momentarily/.

“Interesting,” the interviewer wailed “Do go on”

“Thanks. It’s not a social statement or anything. It’s just what I see as the truth. I know one thing- if I were cast out into a survival type scenario. I would struggle. Well initially anyway. I would have to adapt – learn. But it’s more than just the physical barrier of survival it’s the mental facet too. I can imagine many people simply not being able to function without that familiar comfort. I think that is interesting. I believe this excess of comfort is quite bad for us – depression levels are always higher amongst those that having nothing to live for. We should be living to survive – not living to make payments on a personal loan or in a rabid hunt for excess” said Brendan-Gus vulgarly.

/confusion pops on to the interviewers face/ “Wait isn’t that then a statement you’re making about society? That we’re soft and spoiled?” Said the interviewer charmingly.

“Well no actually because I don’t give a sh*t if people hear this message or not. I’m not a modern Jonas – it’s just what I think” said Brendan-Gus plaintively.

“Hmmm, so if you were told to or felt motioned to you would preach* about this human status?” said the interviewer patiently.

“I’m not sure. Who can know how you would react when a) you’re confronted with the truth and b) confronted by not only the command of God – but the will of God. Look how Jonas rolled with it. He legged it - ran off. Thus I imagine being face to face with the will of God is a terrifying thing.” Said Brendan-Gus joyously.

“Perhaps like being devoured by twenty odd hungry screaming hawks?” said the interviewer emotionally.

/Brendan-Gus nods and chuckles/

“Oh I know what it reminds me of!” said the interviewer clapping his hands like a preacher with a banjo on his knee teaching rhythm to the young, “The Birds - it reminds me of that Hitchcock movie The Birds”.

“Yes. True. I haven’t seen it in a while but yes I guess the savagery of the birds is very much a similar theme. I used to be scared rigid of birds when I was young. I remember feeding big flocks of them as a kid and been very scared” said Brendan-gus nomadically. “These days I… /looks at clipboard for the correct word/ love them. Wondrous creatures”.

“Indeed” said the interviewer nodding sardonically. “What if it’s not a terrifying thing though?”

“Being confronted by the will of god?” said Brendan-Gus sensibly. “Well I think it would be a shock thing. You’d be forced to take into account the bigger picture – the realization that you are in communication with the “God”. You’d have the starkness of all that brings, as the word “God” has connotations of omnipotence, control and all those other things. And not only that, you would have a feeling that you are evidently in the right place if you’re receiving that communication. Maybe? Then I guess the fear would become of being without. What do you reckon?” Brendan-gus asked inconsistently.

“Dunno but it’s all very interesting point. Okay so next question. /looks at clipboard for the next question/”.

These electric words iii

Their noise through the bush grew louder. They couldn’t have stormed a deaf loner let alone a capable one such as himself. His assembly was ready in the large wicker tuffin and they were hungry – he knew that. The man waited – silently – almost breathless. Not exactly wanting them to attack, he was no sadist, but self defense is what it is - necessary . He knew they would loot his hold, and thus he was ready for them and did what he had to. His string alarms attached to his fingers had ‘gone off’ long ago but the clans pungent odor had awoken him well before that. He had calmly sat up on the side of his cot with his hand ready on the top of the wicker tuffin, waiting. Silently – almost breathlessly.

They had reached the edge of his hold – slowed and were whispering. Planning, no doubt. He waited. All he needed from them was the call of attack. They always made a big noise when they attacked people – to frighten them. To urge them to flee. Although he had heard of other groups that would take people silently in the night before committing atrocious deeds upon them. They were quieting down now, which meant they were about to launch. And then he heard them – their low pitched roaring and the thrash of the bush around him. He slammed down the lid of the tuffin hard and then quickly ducked under his cover sheet. He could hear the birds – the assembly - screaming out of the tuffin and could hear their devastating hunger. Then he heard the confused shriek of men amongst the furiously flapping wings. It curdled his blood.

He lay there for what seemed like an age until the beating of wings had died down and not a murmur was made from the dieing assailants. He lifted the cover sheet and peered around. The dawn was breaking through the trees and the devastation that lay before him was grim. Perched amongst the tree was his assembly. Twenty one hawks sat majestically amongst the branches. It would seem they hadn’t started cleaning themselves yet as blood clotted their feathers and small pieces of flesh still hung from the beaks of a few of them. His appearance created a brief unease amongst them with a few stooped heads and tense wing beats – but they were fed now and mildly sedate after the feeding frenzy his unfortunate attackers had provided to be.

There were a few drawbacks to his defense mechanism. One being that they now owned his hold. It would take days of him tip toeing around with a large platter of flesh in the center of his hold until they slowly departed. Then of course there was the clean up of the attackers – razor sharp beaks could create quite a mess when coupled with the fury of animal hunger. He hadn’t fed them in quite sometime and he had never seen an aftermath quite a messy as this. And of course once he had his hold hawk free he needed to catch them all over again – one at a time. The down time of the tuffin defense in this regard was a drawback. But the price of protecting his hold was worth it. He hoped that one of the would-be attackers had managed to escape. It was always helpful to have rumour spread through the clans to discourage attacks. Rumours about the strange ungodly defense mechanism were growing nicely. Of course these were always coupled with superstitious blatherings. Some claiming an animal revolt against humans. Some that there was no human living there, just some demon possessed birds or animals. He had even had heard tales of rabbits fighting battles against humans. Never underestimate the bounds of stupidity within the human rumour.

These electric words ii (two electric worlds collide there).

And so now it is time to wander – cathartic and we do this these days without legs – most of the electric words we read take us places – sometimes to opinions – sometimes to news - sometimes to the history we never knew we had coming – sometimes to sin and idols (new and old). Within my electric words there are special places. New areas to go, a frontier waiting for me.

Go.

An electronic highway surges and I’m standing on a ridge. Angular. Sparse except for all the trees. Windy, apart from the stillness. So busy, with no one else here but me and the thumping remnants of my habits. It is both night and day here. Almost like it’s every day there ever was or will be. Colours come and scorch the horizon - like some kind of distorted aurora borealis it strains to impress me, to make me run from the empty tree line in to its pulsing hue. The colours? Pretty much all of them. Pulsing, swaying, capturing me and so exquisitely that I am in terror. It touches me! It pierces me! It destroys me. It breathes into me everything I ever needed as I die and am born again. Like a new baptism bursting through the seams of reality. Colour spraying everywhere, covering all and pouring from the ridge, a driving river, a deluge, cascading down. A waterfall of colour so vast it has no end and there now it pours ceaselessly from my mind as I lay at the edge of the trees. My darkened pit far below slowly fills and a vast lake of my colour now shimmers. And I lay there at the edge of this ridge, over looking my lake. And for an eternity I rest there. This world I occupy changes and I am raised and leveled, and raised again. I am an ocean floor and I am a canal and more. Then back to the unrelenting waterfall over looking my lake of colour. I made this lake. I made it with my electric words.

These electric words.

Will they be creative?

Will the help me?

Who should read them?

I should write without limit – fearless of who should happen to read them.

Can I insult you? Am I allowed?

Do they all have to be questions?

Who knows?

Why is my heart down? Why so gray? The pencil! It’s because the pencils are disgraced and now seldom embraced.

If I had a house and it was made up of these words, what colour would it be?

If it became a ghost town, would it last through the ages?

How long would that house stand without inhabitants – a decade, a century. A week. Would it flicker as it was put on to auxiliary power?

These electric words flicker and are spoiled by my temperance.

Where has my creativity gone?

These words are unspoken, never to be uttered – maybe just to sit on a hard disk gathering age, time – no dust like the honoured copy of old.

So much is said and pulses in this transient world, these electric words. These people sit entombed in a world they can’t touch – and so quick the vipers tongue to damn their fellow inhabitants.

I will never use the word silicon.

These electric words have no sound – not unless they are translated for the hearing impaired.

Sometimes I’m scared by how much I can do with words – and how little.

I am often scared to cull – the standard hacks regulatory feature. It’s like finding the frontier, walking ten steps and then setting up camp and colony.

Like creating a metaphor and never sharing it’s depth with the unknowing. Like knowing the grace of the world and never showing its reflection to itself. Have you ever wondered how a King would learn a musical instrument? I guess it would be the Lyre. Who would have the courage to teach him? Would he flatter himself with how brilliant he had become. Perhaps not if he had learnt as a child, from a wise teacher.