Bricker One - it's a short story from Phil

The application forms arrived on the doormat, a hefty wad of instructions, and endless pages of boxes to fill. Petra thought: paper forms? A little backward. She unsealed the brown envelope and scanned tiredly through the notes on completion.

“DO NOT lie on your insurance renewal application form. This will void your policy and prevent you from receiving your medical support.”

Petra exhaled slowly and thought about her mother. She had died from breast cancer five months ago, aged just 52. Petra’s mother, a dry yet vivacious woman, jolly yet cynical, dissatisfied but content, had been given a genetic test as part of her diagnosis. The clinician’s aim was to match the treatment to the type of cancer. They did so, but they couldn’t control its shedding of cells, seeding new growths in Petra’s mother’s bones. The test found that Petra’s mother had a mutation in a gene called BRCA1. Bricker One, Petra called it. There was a fifty per cent chance that Petra had inherited the mutation too.

The accident of a person’s birth has always determined their life course; this was truer than ever now. The so-called greatest revolution in modern medicine since antibiotics had reversed social progress worldwide. Nowadays, advantage was granted by the dealing of the genetic Tarot cards. Chit-chat about a person’s genome substituted for gossip about their family or prospects; everybody became armchair geneticists. Quite legally, managers hired and fired on the basis of genome sequences: ‘Dan, mate, turns out your genome isn’t quite shipshape. We have to let you go.’ And that was that; Petra was the breadwinner and Dan lay around and lamented his ‘hypertension predisposition’ genes.

Leaving the forms on the little plastic table and tapping Dan’s legs to get him to shift, Petra dumped herself on the threadbare couch. She was the taller of the two, skinny by necessity, looking older than she was. Dan used to be more handsome, but his sleepy and grizzled look of late did him no favours. The pair stared at the TV. The Minister for Health and Wellbeing was out justifying himself again. …Policy is predicated on unprecedented honesty about ourselves… tribute to our open society… advances in embryo screening… disadvantage needn’t be passed on…

Petra pictured herself, nano-ised, crawling along the Ministers DNA, yanking apart base pairs, karate chopping the double helix into ticker tape that would rain down on his innumerable diagnoses. She would swing proteins about like a hammer-thrower and give the bastard prostate cancer, non-Hodgkins lymphoma, kidney tumours… breast cancer, she thought numbly. Petra left Dan on the sofa and went to bed. She dreamed of an insurance form with a single question printed on pure white paper: Are you human? Yes/No.

On the next day, Petra awoke defiant, with the burr of a nefarious scheme snagged on her mind. She flicked on the TV and searched the web for ‘genome clean up’. There were countless links to government condemnations of the illegal practice, but eventually she came across Born Free Genomics. The website was almost devoid of content; there was simply an exhortation to call an international number to speak confidentially to BFG about ‘genome optimisation’. The domain was .kz.

She called and a suspicious voice answered. The woman asked Petra a host of questions about her life, seemingly to establish her authenticity and that she wasn’t an informer. Petra asked if the company could help her with her health insurance form, explaining the Bricker One situation.

“You will have to take a government-regulation blood sample, 100ml. Send it to us high-security. Our geneticist will correct any faults in the code in every cell in the sample, so it is totally clean for sending to the insurance company. This takes a week. Our charge is 1000 US dollars per sample.”

Petra whistled through her teeth, a habit her mother had always grumbled about.

“Your premium will be five times that per year if you have BRCA1 mutation,” said the voice down the line.

“Alright,” breathed Petra. “Give me the address.”

She hung up after writing it down and went out to the pharmacy for a sample kit. The pharmacist gave her a sympathetic glance as he handed over the plastic vial and sealed needle. “The bottle is pre-treated with anti-clotting compounds already, so no need for the gel.”

At home, Petra got Dan out of bed and into the bathroom with her. “You take my sample,” she said. “I can’t stick myself.”

Dan, when he had a job, was the sample taker for a company that checked other firms’ employees for genetic fraud; they could be called in at any time for spot checks ordered by the management. Dan had been involved in exposing dozens of dodges and lies by the genetically inferior; ironically, the more advanced testing developed by his company exposed his own potential blood pressure problems. Seamlessly, he tied a flannel as a tourniquet around his wife’s upper arm and tapped the veins. He opened the needle packet and drew out the huge sample. He transferred the blood into the bottle and screwed on the cap, while Petra sat on the toilet lid with her eyes closed.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Dan, as though exhausted by reprising a small parcel of his day’s work, went back to bed. Petra went and posted her sample special delivery, along with a money transfer chip holding $1000. It was ten days before the sample clanged back through the letter box. As though they knew exactly when she was receiving it, BFG called just then. It was a different person on the phone, a man this time.

“Petra, I trust you have received your sample. You can look forward to very low insurance premiums for the next ten years. Perhaps you will think of using us again, when your renewal is due.” He spoke quietly, carefully – like her mother’s doctors, thought Petra. She measured his words, sensing the implication.

“Why, will I need the clean-up in future?” she asked.

The man hesitated. “Are you asking for details on what we found in your genome?”

Petra pondered the power of such knowledge; and the terror. If she knew that she had the Bricker One mutation, she could do all sorts of things. But they were perverse things: prophylactic mastectomies, preventative chemotherapy.

“No,” said Petra, and she rang off.

a seventieth story...'cornelius obit, 1969'

Cornelius was a social hand grenade.  He was in danger of going off any given moment.  Taking the tobacco pipe out of his mouth was, on occasion, akin to removing the pin in the aforesaid projectile.  There was always a chance he would say something unspeakably vulgar, or ill-judged, often at a particularly audible volume, in a particularly voluble manner.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, in view of his volatile nature, Cornelius divided opinion.  Quiet subversive types secretly delighted in his volcanic outbursts; mild mannered, easy going types (often the types who also frown upon others) despised him; the gregarious and equally (though not quite equally) combustible characters felt both comradeship and revulsion (revulsion since they are often the types who do not like their thunder stolen, or broadcast air space invaded). 

In many respects, Cornelius was a soul divided.  He loved, and he hated.  One minute he would be caressing with his left hand, the next, fighting with his right.  There was little or no middle ground, no sitting on the proverbial boundary fence.  And, of course, his countenance was as ever changing as the British weather: when buoyant his features were as bright and gay as a Spring morning; when the crimson tide of anger rolled in, his jaw became set, his tone cutting and scornful.

Social hand grenade, or party popper.  It could be difficult at first hand to decide whether you would suffer Cornelius’ verbal shrapnel, or delight in the colourful puzzle of fluorescence, as he might otherwise come across. 

Drink was typically at the centre of things for Cornelius.  Often the brown stuff.  After several Whiskeys, Cornelius, if aroused would morph into a modern-day Lord Byron, if angered, he would kick around like a wasp-stung ass, turning over tables and chairs.  He had the wrath of a Roman God, and in fairness, every now and again, the poise.

When Cornelius was feeling affably drunk, he would clap me on the shoulder and remind me his name was of Roman origin.  But I could only bring to mind Dr Cornelius and then, without too much of leap (especially in present company, furthermore, if we were out picnicking on a Saturday afternoon in the municipal park) La Planète Des Signes.  There is (or was) also Cornelius Vanderbilt, an American rail road tycoon, and Cornelius, a third century Pope.  Amen.

It’s a shame the Cornelius I knew won’t be remembered (at least for the right reasons) by very many people.  Whether you liked him or not, people of his ilk are worth their place in your life, at worst, simply in the way the can help solidify your own sense of identity.  You can define yourself against them by saying: ‘Well, I’m not like him’, or, ‘I would never do/say that!’.  Thing is, more often than we care to admit, we are thinking, wanting to do the same thing, but we don’t let on.  Which is more noble?  Which is more true to the Self?

(Truly, I’m damned if know).

Anyhow, Cornelius had the potential to be a great artist, although he could not stick at any discipline for very long.  It would be sculpture one month (the perfect medium for him to let out his worldly frustrations), oils the next (more sympathetically composed amidst the crumbling remains of various busts, and half formed heads), acrylics thereon (hurriedly painted over sheets of glass taken from his own studio windows), and so forth. 

I remember he asked me to sit for him once, so I did.  I was rather intrigued.  But following perhaps half an hour of preliminary sketches, he emerged from behind his easel and announced it was time for lunch, a lunch from which we never returned owing to copious amounts of wine with our cheese course. 

After Cornelius’ death I tried to find the unfinished portrait among the dust, grime and general detritus of his derelict studio, but could not, and consider it a shame to this day.  It would have been the perfect memento mori to a fast, incandescent and yet unfulfilled life, brimming with, in the end, unrealised promise, now half buried in the low tide of collective memory.

a thirty fifth poem...'ding a ling'

My father doesn’t remember my name anymore.

When I ask him who I am

He cocks his head to one side

Looks at me quizzically, says: ‘Michael?’

I say: ‘Michael is your other son

I am Christopher’.

‘Christopher, that’s right!’ he exclaims,

As if an apple just fell from a tree and onto his head

‘Eureka!’ he shouts

(Although he doesn’t know why).

Then I take a picture from the mantelpiece

And give it him.

He holds it shakily in his hands

And rotates the frame around so he is looking at the backing card.

I turn it over again.

It’s a photograph of the family at a bluegrass festival last year.

‘The bluegrass festival’, I tell him

He clicks his tongue and grins.

Mum comes in

- she’s carrying a tray of biscuits -

I ask Dad if he remembers

He glances at me

Raises an eyebrow

And says, ‘ding a ling’.

a thirty fourth poem...'drugs and elvis'

When you take uppers

Your spirits are lifted,

When you take downers

You feel irrefutably human again,

When you take both at the same time

You end up proclaiming something like:

‘We all should follow Christ’,

In a Vegas hotel

Surrounded by fast food cartons.

a thirty third poem...'lewis carroll'

Tweedle Dum

Was also Tweedle Dee

Was also Tweedle Dum - 

You see

No jolly grapes

Rugby punter

Could tell the difference.

Both had:

Two good hands

At the end of

Two good arms;

Both could run fast

Like the Underwoods

Last

Two whole halves

Chasing an out of shape football.

Both had

Sports Science degrees

Bad

Brains between

Two good legs,

Explosive kegs

Was what Coach said.

Coach was 'big daddy',

And still he struggled

To tell them apart

For he never read

Or took to heart

At any stage

During his formative time at Loughborough University

(Or an other sportive institute,

Delete as appropriate)

The complete works of Lewis Carroll.

a thirty second poem...'jeff, i love you too'

Jeff,

I love - you - too

…But:

We don’t spend quality time

Together any more

(I mean, when was the last occasion we made love

On the living room floor?),

And

We don’t laugh as much as we did

(All you go on about is your wretched

Income lid)

(I mean, why don’t you just

..Get a new job?)

Then

There’s Bob –

He’s been very sweet with me,

 And let’s be honest

You can be

A short-sighted prick

..Some days..

Jeff

I want to kick

Your goddamn walking-stick

From under you, guess

What?

I even want to boot you

In your forty carat crotch,

Smash your (faux) golden pocket watch

With a claw-hammer.

 (I mean, what happened to all

The promises of glamour).

Jeff, 

I love you too

...But:

We’ve never been shopping

In Piccadilly Arcade,

For diamonds, pearls

A girl’s

Best friend

I mean, I would follow you

To the bitter end

But for Chrissakes!

You ain’t worth much

In the marriage stakes.

Jeff,

I love you too

But here’s your wedding ring back

You no good fuckin’ screw!!

a thirty first poem...'i get nervous'

I get nervous

When you say

You want to meet up

Any given day,

Turn the invite

Upside down

Inside, out, around

(and around).

- I can't see whether you really mean it

Over the bleedin' telephone - 

Still, my guilty feet

Adopt a will of their own

Lead me out the house

Further up the road

(on
..and on)

Until before long

I see you
(anon?)

Sitting, patient on the benches

Outside the bar,

Mercilessly photogenic,

Hair in a tousled bob

(No bra?

..Fresh from of the shower?).

And here it takes

All my residual power

Not to sidle behind the wheelie bins

On the corner

By the chip shop,

- A pre-fab, pink breeze block,

Belonging to the boss-eyed Turk –

And cower.

a thirtieth poem...'lowry's bride'

Lowry’s bride

Never was, never to be

Don’t allow yourself to dream

For the lonesome whistle

For the chime of the factory bell.

Chimney stack smog

Fog-

bound horizons,

Slate grey skies

Are the boundaries of your world,

On earth.

Soles of your shoes

As hard as the pews

In church,

When you bring

The communion wine to your lips

It could very well be blood,

And you sense the extra burden

On your child-bearing hips,

Recall in the same instant

His unkempt hair

Stubbled chin,

Sunken cheeks

Neglected thin

Lips

Scored in

A deeply carved brow

Red-ringed eyes

Hollow and piercing,

Imagined
Cries

Of the dead canary

Your youngest found

In the coal scuttle

Brought into the house

To play around

With.

a sixty ninth story...'the poet'

The summer of ’33 we rented a white clapboard house by the sea.  There were six of us in all:  Rick and Elise, Marty, the painter, and his wife Joanne, me and Robert.  For the most part we had a lot of fun – bathing, picnicking and going for long coastal walks during the day; drinking on the rickety back porch at night, singing songs around the barrel house piano, or simply listening to the tide washing in.  

Robert, by this time, was becoming very famous for his poetry.  Part of the Greenwich Village scene, he spent his evenings socialising with Eugene O’Neill and Freddie Burt.  I remember he turned up the afternoon we arrived with a trunk full of plays, short stories and poems he had either written himself or collaborated on with the likes of O’Neill. 

Rick was the only one of us who knew Robert – the two were old college friends, kept in touch since Rick was in magazines.  Rick gave Robert a leg up by publishing two or three of his early writings.  All of us had heard of Robert, of course, and in advance of the trip, the thought of having a celebrity in our midst for the two weeks was exciting, to me at least.  And Robert arriving in his Lincoln convertible with the top down, and all his plays and so on was the sort of entrance I imagined.

The first evening we went for a short walk before dinner among the laurel groves, and I got to know Marty, the painter, one of the most gentle and unassuming people I had met up to that point.  His eyes, bright and ultramarine, I thought were the eyes of an artist – all seeing, all knowing.  Joanne, a ceramicist, was also very lovely.  But Robert and Rick lagged behind discussing futures and pasts.

At dinner we ate devilled chicken Elise had prepared, and drank brandy Rick had bought up with him from town, it was holiday so it made sense I suppose.  And afterwards we retired to the living room, which, I recall had a nautical theme, and chatted some more, although Robert listened mostly and nodded politely along with the conversation.  For my part, I was still too shy to ask him anything directly; I guess people are in some way afraid of intellect, especially as it’s something everyone worries they don’t, in fact, possess.  Or perhaps it was just that being in the presence of fame had made me air headed and starry eyed.  I had to take myself to bed anyway, feeling giddy from all the alcohol.

~

I’ll say this now, I didn’t know from the outset Robert was in a relationship already, that he was actually married.  Nor did I, in my exuberant and youthful naïveity, even consider or care whether he had had many women before me.  I mean I think I really believed artists of all sorts, whether they were painters like Marty (although he seemed an exception to the rule), actors, playwrights, poets, were free spirited and promiscuous, somehow above yearning and, or petty squabbling sexual relations between a man and woman can descend into.  But I had not read a great deal, nor seen very much back then.

Had I known Robert was married I’m not sure my rigid and proper upbringing would have necessarily lead me to refuse his advances.  Was he attracted to my innocence, but also, in a way, my ignorance, that is of his state of affairs?  Thing is, I was a young girl, in her mid-twenties, and I was flattered to receive the attention of this famous and celebrated artiste: it was as if I had put Robert on a pedestal and yet he had put on one even higher.  I didn’t question why,  I just let it happen, I was easy and sweet after all.

Now I am older, I am easy and sad, and I realise that Robert was too.  In spite of his fame and recognition, his achievements in what was regarded as the highest (purest?) form of literature, when it came down to it he was just a boy who wanted very badly to be loved by someone.  Instead, he was afforded deferential respect at almost every turn – no wonder he came across as aloof, no wonder he used his poetry (which I did read that summer by the sea) to communicate, for it was his only way to make people listen.  In real life everyone heard him, but were too worried, as I was on our first evening, about coming across well to actually listen to what he had to say (ok, he didn’t say much, but still).

That summer by the sea in ’33, we made love in the kitchen (the others were out), the woodshed (the others were inside), in bed (the others were asleep!), and with every time I could feel myself changing, my whole being reoriented.  I arrived a girl entranced, left a woman enhanced, while Robert went back to New York, his world of literary critics, friends, paper, ink and pens, and, his unhappy wife.            

a sixty eighth story...'catskill pastoral'

Tam and I went back there, I remember it well.  I was wearing this red India dress I had just bought from a seconds sale the previous day.  We were looking for Tam’s old motor, a Purple Impala.  Or perhaps it was a Plymouth.  Anyhow, there was leftover clutter everywhere.  Skeleton cars - a crushed Bonneville (Tam pointed out the makes), a Pontiac collided with a tree trunk; and behind a deserted Air Streamed Trailer, we found a Chevy in a green field tall with rye grass.

Tam loved the whole experience.  He made me climb into the driver’s cabin of a junked pick up, sit on the decaying leatherette, tufts of yellow kapok stuffing erupting from hot-boxed holes in the seat lining, a few mean looking springs come loose at my feet. ‘Honk the horn!’ he said, tried to take a photo, but I complained it wasn’t becoming for a lady (Ha!).  On the roof of the pick up someone had scrawled some graffiti – an anti-nuclear, anti-nicotine hippy slogan. 

Before we set off that morning Tam asked me to bring a picnic hamper – I mean, I ask you! – but I had no idea how, or what to fill it with.  We bought a big bag of chips and a few beers in the end, sat on a hollow log, took in the overgrown wrecking yard: it was like a hurricane had been through, and time had forgotten to clear up.  Our Beagle puppy, Kid, was with us, and while we sat, he went exploring.  We found him with his snout in an abandoned Mircowave oven, full of nails, nuts and bolts, and things. 

My enthusiasm was beginning to wane, but Tam was determined to find his old car (the Purple Imapala, the Plymouth?).  He would never listen to me when he was like this so I just stayed quiet, besides Kid needed the run around.  Following a few more ‘discoveries’ – including a load of chicken wire, and chicken bones; a pile of Tonka toys Tam joked about taking with us – we came upon a green, copper wreck, blighted with streaks of rust, the trunk popped open, windshield shattered, rosary beads and the sign of the cross hanging from the driver’s mirror.  Tam stopped, tensed up, put his hand on my forearm.  ‘This is it!’ he whispered.  It didn’t look purple to me.  And the number plate was chalked over, still I didn’t want to spoil his moment.

The grainy, sepia tinged Polaroid is somewhere upstairs in the attic to this day – Tam, lost in his automotive past, fiddling with the long since defunct instruments on the dashboard, taken by me through the cracked windshield.  I can’t look at it anymore, even though I think about it every night now Tam is gone, and I’m on my own.  I should destroy the damn thing, should have destroyed it years ago, but when Tam was alive it was a curiosity rather than something that haunted me (us?).  I should explain:  it’s not Tam you see.  Instead, it’s the spectral image of a man standing behind me, in long workman’s overalls, the gleam of his metal teeth catching the early afternoon sunlight, and most chilling of all, the screw driver in his left hand. 

a twenty ninth poem...'just my luck'

My first proper wallet

Lives in my pocket
Along with a ball point pen
That once stained
The inside of my leg
Blue,
And a piece of graph paper
With the name, number
Of a girl at school
I want to ask out,
Can’t
(Yet)
Bring myself to.
She has big breasts,
Wears her shirt unbuttoned,
Pencil tie
Loose,
Smokes roll ups
Behind the CDT building,
(I've heard)
Her friends are into
Drug abuse.
(Marijuana, Hemp, Weed
Grass)
We’re in the same Maths class
- I borrowed her set square
..Once
Since then I’ve been saving up
Two (three?) months;
For when the fair’s in town
I’ll take her on the whirling waltzer,
Maybe the tea cup ride
Show off my aim
On the coconut shy
Win her a stuffed toy
(I don't know why).
But!
It would be just my luck
If my awkward guts
Play a mean trick
And I end up going home with nothing more
Than a toffee apple
(You could break your teeth on)
And a candy floss stick.

From Outer Space - A sad story by Phil

From Outer Space

Alberto rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and stared back at the screen. He switched to the physical representation view, rather than the stream of digits, and watched specks swarm the screen like snowflakes driving at the windscreen at night. There didn’t look to be anything out of the ordinary, but only a savant could see any pattern in the anarchic movements of the asteroids on the monitor before him. As it goes, though, Alberto was a savant, with a gift that was quite unique. He could see forms invisible to others, sense trends in the orbits long before the computer could predict their next move. In other words, he could spot order in chaos.

Alberto flipped a lever and tilted back on the unfriendly swivel chair. He rested his moist, meaty hands, fingers interlinked, on his ample gut. He was wearing a black AC/DC T-shirt and jeans. This was all he ever wore, apart from on his wedding day and the day in court when the restraining order was handed down. He had neat, dark hair, carefully Bryl-creamed into an old-fashioned side parting. His eyes were small and a little close together, and his nose leant over a downturned mouth. A scrubby goatee did little to conceal his double chin. He was the only person in the small room, stuffed with computers and printers and piles of paper. It was dark and unpleasant, but Alberto valued the privacy to concentrate. His job was to spot Earth-bound meteors and meteorites, and provide an early warning for the potential destruction of life on our planet.

Just a few weeks after the strike in the Urals, the UN had established an international early-warning meteor watch centre. It would receive data from the Hubble Space Telescope and other major arrays, such as Mauna Kea, and analyse it to identify approaching rocks. Naturally, the key focus was the asteroid belt, from which a perilous rock can bounce at any time, ballooning out of the normal orbit like a tennis shot clouted with the frame. For Alberto, this was the perfect opportunity to escape his colleagues at the provincial English university where he sloped through banal research and even more risible seminars. Thinking back from the solitude of his Brussels office, Alberto’s insides twisted when he considered those colourless, odourless undergraduates, sitting around on plastic chairs. Some would pontificate on dark matter, as though they knew more than anyone else; others would announce that Fred Hoyle was right, with his now preposterous steady state theory of constant matter creation. Still others would sit motionless, perfect hair and perfect disengagement. Alberto was also glad to put miles between himself and the women who tormented him. He thought of them as two women, although one was but seven years old: his daughter Ruth.

Ruth was opinionated, selfish and mischievous. She had long, dark hair with a fringe; dewy eyes, and a scar on her upper lip that gave her a slight pout. The scar was from Alberto snapping down the lid on a biscuit tin, aiming to get a laugh from his wife, as Ruth peered inside. Instead, he got fury from his wife and blood on the biscuits. Ruth had found that she could play tricks on her father that drove him crazy. For instance, Ruth would switch the salt in the shaker for sugar, or put a toy spider under his bedclothes. Most people would find this behaviour adorable, signifying a lovely, playful sense of humour. Alberto, however, didn’t see it this way. He took it as a personal affront. He thought it was a clear indication that his daughter hated him. He didn’t understand that there could be a sense of fun behind the little acts of monkey business. He sulked afterwards. The deteriorating relationship between Alberto and Ruth didn’t help shorten the gap between him and the second woman: his wife, Millie. Naturally, Millie defended Ruth to her husband, but the truth was she couldn’t see him changing. He’d never been able to take a joke, other than the simplest slapstick.

People said: “They married too young.” “She’s too good for him.” “I like her, but he’s always rather… aloof/antisocial/rude” (depending on how frank the speaker was). Whatever other people thought, it rubbed off on Millie. Somehow she hadn’t quite recognised, or had ignored, his lack of social graces when first getting to know Alberto. Millie had, perhaps, been dazzled by his intellect and passion for astrophysics. She was intelligent, but impulsive. She began to look at him as though he was from outer space. As the years went on, and Ruth grew up and away from her father, Millie’s patience became thread-thin. And so, they were divorced, a bewildering experience for Alberto.

He never understood why; he thought the pair was as happy as could be. Alberto considered their union very successful; they were financially secure and companionable. Ruth could be difficult, but they just needed to teach her how to behave. Millie didn’t get angry with him during proceedings; she just shook her head sadly. She only got angry when he kept on coming by on his way home from work. In the end, she couldn’t take it and reported him to the police. A police counsellor recommended to Alberto that he move away, convincing him that it would be better for his ex-wife and daughter. That was how the counsellor always referred to Millie – ‘your ex-wife.’

The pixels of light moved about the screen, some sauntering, some racing. Each pinprick represented one asteroid; generally, it was one pixel for one asteroid, unless it was a really huge one. Slight tonal variation showed depth. To any other eyes, the monitor likely looked like a detuned TV. Yet Alberto could see stories. He could see which rocks would collide and shatter; which would career off at a tangent; indeed, which ones would miss each other. Crucially, Alberto could see where large chunks spun out of the typical orbit with an Earth-bound trajectory. So far, there had been close-run-things, but no direct hits. One incident had given Alberto particular kudos. Some months ago, he saw a double-pixel rock deflect towards him on the screen. It looked concerning, but as he watched he could see, or rather instinctively feel, that it was not on course for Earth. A few hours later, when the computer spotted it, there was uproar in the observatory. Acrimonious accusations flew, people questioned Alberto’s role in the organisation if he couldn’t identify threats faster than the computer could. Although he was confused and distressed by the hostility, Alberto didn’t let it show. He just quietly insisted: “It will be a glancing strike.” What he meant by this was that the meteor would bounce inoffensively off the upper atmosphere. However, there was no trust in his intuitive sense of the rock’s path, and the threat level went to orange. Concerned phone calls from heads of state came through day and night. Alberto was the only one in the team insisting, “It will be a glancing strike.” As the meteor’s trajectory was mapped with greater and greater precision, it became gradually clearer that it was not on track for a direct hit. Hans, the team leader, started jovially saying things like, “Oh, but we can’t be too careful” to Alberto, who remained silent. He couldn’t quite comprehend why they wouldn’t trust him on this; after all, it was his job to do exactly what he was doing. Happily, for the human race and for the red-faced Hans, the strike was indeed glancing, and Alberto was lauded (quietly) as a genius.

As Alberto watched, two pixels collided. They recoiled, as usual, but one of the two instantly struck another and came away at an unusual angle. He hit a button that allowed him to watch that pixel alone, on a black screen, other than the fine grey gridlines. He didn’t know how he knew, but Alberto knew this was right on course for Earth. It was only one pixel, but that didn’t help much, since the rock could be up to eight hundred metres across.

Alberto watched intently a while longer, allowing the appalling knowledge to sink in, set down roots in his brain. He then swapped back to the orbit path view on the monitor. This was a seemingly incomprehensible string of constantly changing numbers, where each sequence of three represented the orbit of one asteroid. Alberto could instantly see the odd one out, and the figures confirmed his suspicions. Assuming the rock continued on this path, it would hit Earth in a few days. He ran some calculations to see if the gravity of the moon would affect it, but the meteor was resolutely on course.

He lifted the phone to contact the agency head, Maria, who was one step above Hans. Alberto checked himself and replaced the receiver. He thought about Millie, he thought about Ruth. Without really taking the time to ponder his decision, as though on a kind of autopilot, Alberto acted. The computer was set up to allow Alberto to remove lines of irrelevant data that could distract him from the real issues, such as the data picking up the International Space Station. He switched back to the pixel storm on his computer, selected the spot for the lump of rock heading to Earth and deleted it. He sneaked from the office and caught a cab to the airport.

He was landing back in the UK before the computer in Brussels noticed anything untoward. All the technicians were rushing about, trying to get some confirmation of the worst. Alberto’s mobile rang thirteen times before he switched it off. He was unreachable.

Soon Alberto was back in his familiar position on Millie’s doorstep. He rang the bell and saw the net curtains twitching in response. The misunderstandings, involving him coming by uninvited, were recent enough for Millie to still be very cautious. Alberto went to the window and pressed his face to it. He couldn’t see anything, but called out nonetheless:

“Millie, I need to see you and Ruth! Life on Earth will soon be wiped out!”

Inside, Millie thought: he’s lost his mind. She peered at him, hangdog and bedraggled on the threshold of her house. The pity for Alberto she’d felt straight after their divorce came back in a rush, but she suppressed it as soon as it arrived. Stepping into the kitchen, she phoned the police. Ruth walked downstairs and asked, “Who’s that?” Millie told her it was her father but she wasn’t to see him. Ruth made a face and went back upstairs to steal a look from the bedroom at the front. The police took the breach of a restraining order seriously, and arrived quickly.

Millie and Ruth watched from the bedroom window as Alberto was pulled away by two police officers, shouting all the while. Ruth looked at her mother, who had a curious, glassy-eyed gaze. Many thousands of miles above them, an unfeeling chunk of rock headed for them all, a terrible emblem of the lack of reason in the universe. Rationalising the thing was impossible. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that the meteor would hit the Earth, just as it wasn’t anyone’s fault that Alberto tried to hide it. In the back of the police car, Alberto squeezed his eyes tight shut, clenched his fists and rocked gently back and forth.

a twenty eighth poem...'acrobat falls'

Every day he stood in the park

Flipping a coin

And then he would sink his last penny

Into the wishing well

At the Saratoga memorial

Slathered in American pale ale

He danced

Fluttering against the bars

Of the children’s enclosure

Pirouetting

On the roundabout

In and out of

Coloured toadstools

The acid trip of a second psychedelic Sunday

Over

In his egg shell mind

Visions of utopia

Multi coloured, fluorescent and nascent

Trapezed white clouds

Touched with fire

Walked masts, w’white sails

Above an aqua blue, never ending stretch

Of the Sargasso Sea

Acrobat flails, falls, fails

a twenty seventh poem...'swallows and amazons'

I Love

(Patchwork fields

Dry stone walls

The colourful squares

On an old pillow case

Fraying seams

Torn,

Tumble down sheepfolds

Tangled tree roots

When we exchange arms and legs.

Silver foil

Kit kat wrapper in my pocket

Fond memories of last night

My plug in your socket

The smell of rain

And mist on the hillsides

Flasks of greased tea

At the end of the day

Your hand on my knee

Idly feeling it’s way

Up

Dying embers

Of a country pub fire

Our muddy clothes merging

In the tumble drier)

You

a twenty sixth poem...'conversation piece'

David was there. 

He was in my dream. 

Alive.

On the top stair.

A portrait in flesh. 

Screwed down hair. 

Wonky teeth. 

One green eye, octarine

Blue beneath. 

Armed with a stolen cricket bat. 

And the Wisden Almanac.

Asked me to trade

My tenor sax.

For a sequined glitter gown,

Pair of glam stacks.

But it’s a conversation piece

(Although I can’t play the damned thing)

So I said:

‘No thanks’.

a monologue...'what kind of human being would I be then?'

In between the good days, there are bad days.

Or should I put is this way: in between the bad days, there are good days?

Or does putting it like this make everything, even then, sound too affirmative?

- Everything, that is, in my life.

You see, people say to me when they meet me, perfectly innocently (I mostly assume), ‘how are you today?’

To which I wish to reply ‘not especially well’ (except I do not).

Nevertheless, I mostly assume they would pity me (if I told them I was unwell), and pity (and sympathy) are too often conflated in a person’s head (heart?) as love.

For they do not love me, otherwise they would never, or would not need to ask ‘how are (am) you (I)?’

They would know.

They would know I hate it (or is hate too strong a word?) when people ask me if I am OK, even if they do it out of innocence, or out of an attempt at being nice.

(I have spent my whole life in ruins because of people who try at being nice). 

I hate their asking/being nice (or think I do) because it only serves to remind me in a given moment, I am miserable (or think I am).

(And I occasionally assume an air of spite in their questioning).

And I have so much time on my hands.

And spare time is ruinous (Sundays in particular; not to mention Friday evenings drinking with friends, old flames).

I would work every hour of the day only if it were to avoid being asked the dreaded question, ‘how are you today?’ (to which I answer fraudulently, always).

Every – single – hour.

..But if I did where would I find the time to be miserable, to dredge up negative thoughts, to write this?

What kind of human being would I be then?

a reflection...'leaving facebook'

Do you go to bed with your iPad?

Do you dream of electric sheep?

This morning..

..I woke up and left Facebook.

~

The nature of my relationship with Facebook, however, is not the reason behind my decision to deactivate my account.

I am not a Facebook addict.  I do not have a smart phone with internet capability, or spend any more than five minutes a day on Facebook.  I also do not feel Facebook is yet supplanting my physical relationships – these (I hope) remain strong and grounded in honest reality.  I do not even have particular issue with people using Facebook to present a cleaned up version of themselves, or with them using Facebook as an avatar.

Absolutely not really.

No, I left because of a wider concern about what the internet and our relative dependence on it is doing to us, especially (why of course!) ME.

~

Facebook, the internet, and ME.

Facebook, to me, is a portal to the World Wide Web.  An alluring gateway to the endless prairies of the internet one can wander through while the outside world turns over; the infinite cyber space, where one can leap and bound from one hyperlink, one piece of infotainment to another.

While much of this is fun, and at times highly stimulating, is our (mine, yours?) recreational internet use worth anything beyond being an exercise in light amusement, a means of simply passing (killing?) the time?

~

My fear is that I am at least in danger of changing as a result of my internet use.

(oh no, not change!!)

As I use the internet with increasing frequency when at leisure (on top of the 7-8 hours a day at work, 5 days a week), I worry my brain is being re-wired in what in a neurological sense is a natural response to learning a new environment, or way of being.

However, though it may seem a hyperbolic parallel, persistent recreational use of internet can be thought of as similar to the experience of persistent recreational drug use, namely front brain stimulants such as cocaine.

There is the same alluring portal (Facebook or Your Happy Drug Pushing Friend), the energising and highly stimulating initial buzz (Your Favourite Web Pages or The Hit), the feeling of being in tune with others (or Being Online), and then as the transient effects wear off there ensues a futile search for more of the same which can last, have you trapped in a cycle, and leave you with a feeling of dissatisfaction and discomfort at having foregone more Real experiences, whether it be reading a book, painting a picture, walking in the countryside or enjoying the good company of friends, pressing flesh etcetera.

My experience is that if this cycle of being continues for a concerted period of time, one’s attention fragments, and one’s capacity for absorbing the information that one is presented with (the words on a page) or surrounded by (new blossom on a tree) on a daily basis deteriorates, as well as one’s real awareness and ability to internalise, reflect on the very same information, and be moved (what do the words on this page actually say; what do they mean?  How lovely the new blossom on the tree; how beautiful the world around me; how in accord with nature I feel at this very moment).

Here, the internet ceases to become an accompaniment to our lives, but one of the central components.

A central component that cannot satisfactorily account for three fifths of real life – touch, taste and smell; a central component that reduces us, partly, to emotionless hunter gatherers, continually in a heightened state of alert, on the move to somewhere or nowhere, unwilling to, incapable of retreat.

Facebook is, for me, the bejeweled and dazzling door to the incorporeal labyrinth of cyberspace where it is (too?) easy to get lost, and indeed lose a part of your Self; a part of what it is to be human, a unique event, and not simply a green-eyed infotainment junkie or a temporal novelty – cookies or no cookies.