Word Vomit #1

A new series I’m calling word vomits. This was a stream of written prose that has not been edited at all since it was first written a few days ago.

To the bottom of the pit, the dark dark pit to the bottom of the pit, the dark dark pit, where devils met and there they sat and decided which was which and wat was wat and which was to do with Jonathons and Matthews and Chris’ and Georges and Tommy boys too, and all this time I never said that I even wanted to. And then the lies and the theives and the beggers and the jokers and the Christians and the stupid and the sick and the loved and the abdominals and the hopeless and the unlucky and the carpenters and the summer dress designers and the vets and the skiers and the starving and the blessed and the holy and the unholy and the powerful and the rich and the ignorant and the well-read and the committed and the lazy and the writers and the whole grain of it all makes your head want to explode sometimes from a compounding anxiety that so much of the world is here right now and happening before your very eyes, but mostly, in fact the vast vast vast amount of the things that are happening are nowhere near you.

A young woman lost her keys this morning on the way to work. She’d become distracted politely declining the advancement of a young verbally erratic man, who although handsome like a cherub, offered little promise of revere beyond his carefully arranged colour scheme of greys, blacks and a little gold (on his tacky ill-hanging chain). He asks her where she’s getting off, the woman replies that she’s ‘meeting her boyfriend’; a quickly dispatched riposte to the intended purpose of the question, as the youth is only trying to put his penis into any of the woman’s consented orifices.

Then at the same moment a spider 3 miles away is hit by a train after choosing to build its web in the space between two railway tracks, the spider was just being a spider and the train was just being a train, but there is a melancholic sadness evoked from the spider’s demise, pity derived from the spider’s lack of knowledge of the very notion of trains or railway tracks, and it is in this thought that it occurs that humans are really quite alone in possessing any knowledge at all of trains or the concept of train-ness as Plato would have see in his cave. But then in four days time, it will be seven years to the day that Miss Floyd got married and became Mrs Williams when she married her husband Pete. Their wedding was a low-key affair which was a good thing in the bride’s mother’s opinion as Pete couldn’t possibly have chosen a more run down looking reception hall if he’d tried, partly to do Pete’s modest salary and this being his 3rd marriage; the novelty of the thing was beginning to wear off. Paramount to the low-key setting of the wedding, however was Pete’s total disregard for self-imposed sentimentality, instead he believes that if you feel in love, you show it by being loving, not parading your families together, akin and derided from the ancient function of marriage to bind families together. Or to consolidate wealth for the working class, unconsciously marrying together small scraps of land acquired through a combination of hard labour and occasionally lucid gestures of generosity bestowed by nobles down the generations.

All of a sudden a mouse has been caught in a mouse trap long forgotten behind a dusty abandoned fridge. It will remain trapped there for more than 3 hours before silently dying and eventually adding its own atoms to the film of dust that clings to the abandoned furniture in the kitchen. Then a dog dies. A man wins the lottery. An old lady breaks her hip. A sand dune sheds a sheet of sand as a child rolls and plays. A woman is caught stealing money from her son’s room. A teacher fantasises at home about one of his teenage students. A curtain is woven in someone’s back garden. A magazine yellows beyond the legible in the sun. A barman drops a tray of cocktails and is forced to apologise to the drunk dick head who wasn’t looking where he was going. A police officer kicks a teenager in the head. A florist is kind with her time and helps a clueless husband arrange a bonnet for his wife’s birthday. A shower is cleaned the same time every week by Wendy who uses routine as her crutch. A prostitute corrupts her mind and soul, unable to face the shame of raising her children in poverty.  A banker sits at his desk and dreads heading home to his boring wife. A phone rings and no one answers. 10 babies are born at the same instant that 3 die.

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Author: Atlas Stood

Human society is changing at an unprecedented pace. Political ideologies from less than 10 years ago appear out-of-touch already to a dissatisfied voting public. In the West, we can see that the days of the politicians making the rules and people largely voting between two options are disappearing. The internet is creating pockets of societal divides, now any idiot, such as myself, can blurt half-baked ill-informed opinions online. In contrast, there is now more scope for good journalism, the public can now check exactly what a politician said in the past without having to trawl through pages and pages of library newspaper archives. The ways in which music and art are sold is changing. A successful YouTuber or blogger can feasibly collect an audience from across the world. One or two people from each town across a continent and you can now garner an audience of thousands or even millions. When this generation grows old, each pocket will have different things that they remember from their youth in this era. The iPhone and Facebook will be all that unites us; if things keep going this way, then no longer will nationhood, musical genre, taught trades or local communities be the things that bring us together in our nostalgia of the past. It will instead by the account created on websites put together by large corporations and how everyone had a Facebook, even though they didn't and they don't. This blog, in short, is anything I feel like externalising that's been playing on my mind in the hope that I can maybe make others more cynical of what they see, read and hear.

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