Writings, photos, politics and rants... *Original content - may not be reproduced without my consent.*

Monday, 30 May 2011

The Village - The President

I questioned her methods.  Not very often, because mostly when I arrived on a timeline with a target, I knew I was preventing someone from doing something horrendous. I knew exactly what would happen if I didn’t change the timeline.   We were playing Gods, but for a higher purpose.  We were going to create a unified timeline – and when this happened, Earth- humanity – would join the rest of the universe. 






I began to notice subtle differences in the briefings in the missions.  With some, I was given a full rundown of the lives from beginning to end, and sometimes the detail was horrific.  Other times, I was given the physicality’s of the mission, the address and routine of the subject, but little more. 
And then it happened.  One day I entered the timeline room with what I had began to call, "a hasty brief," and, emulating what I had watched her do, I moved my entry point to 15 years after the hit.  15 years in an un-manipulated future.


The information download was instantaneous.  I had the power to do what she did.  The woman whose future I was supposed to manipulate away from certain meetings and experiences, or kill, was to be inaugurated as President. 


She had told me that only she could upload a brief into my mind. She had told me it was a complicated process, doing the research and bringing together the strands needed to do the hit.  But here was I with information about this person - knowledge of her previous life and her future, without the need for Her... how could this be?


The -machine- the box, had arranged everything.  This was the first shock.  The Box was acting like a conscious entity.  Where we being controlled by a higher intelligence?  And why was it working against her?


I was shocked at what I had learned about the “hit.”  I could see why there were gaps in my original brief, because the knowledge I had now was complete.  She had wanted me to manipulate this woman’s life away from the inevitability of this Inauguration or if I found that difficult (sometimes to change a future depended on more than one event and sometimes on more than one series of events- sometimes the *inevitable* could only be delayed and therefore...) kill her.


President Vera Sophie Arrow stood behind the bullet proof glass lined podium, the wave of applause and cheers crashed against my soul and as she held up her hands, it ebbed and with every word she spoke, my soul grew and my fears about my missions solidified into an informed rebellion against Her missions. 


Shouts of “Arrow!  Arrow!  Arrow!” rose from the crowd. 


"Citizens of the world...  I stand here today your servant, knowing we have a long road to travel, but confident we can do it together.


I thank President Windsor for his service to the world, and for helping us in the transition to our new programme.




76 Presidents have taken this oath, and with each, we have watched the world change and learn.  Sometimes putting into practise the obvious path has been difficult, but you have given me the strength to ensure our Team changes the world to how we need it, and not how a minority want it preserved.  Sometimes “remaining true to our forebears” has been negated into something they clearly did not see, and at times this great country has been the block to progress in ensuring all in the world have a fair share of what they deserve and own as citizens of this planet. 


Each President has come up against a blank, solid wall of money power, preventing real change.  Preventing change for those who struggle in life -those who create the wealth for the rich and powerful. 


This wall must be tore down.”

There were gasps from the crowd.  A slow, rumbling, rising cheer as people realised this speech was no ordinary speech.  This speech was going to challenge, not capitulate.  It would not be more of the same. 


She held up her arms and the crowd calmed.


“The crisis the world has lived through in the past 100 plus years – a crisis of war and poverty, enslavement and division, has been the result of a war not out with our nation’s borders, but a war between those in our country with power and money and resources they can never use in even their extended lifetimes; a war against the people who create their wealth- the poor who sell their bodies for the scraps they need to survive.


President after President has capitulated in the fight to change this great country, and indeed the world, into the new age.  Fighting for resources that only enrich a few has ensured this nation is the enemy of all – and I say that to make you think.  We have always called “them” the enemy- the rest of the world who live outside our razor-wired borders; outside out “economic zones,“ which are, and again this will shock, in effect, our walled cities created in other lands to enslave and exploit labour and resources our elite need to keep their walled, ivory cities to themselves.
Electing me and my Team, you, the people, have done many things.  You have opened your eyes to reality around you – the poverty and the pain that lies outside the Virtual Realities created to make you feel good and you have rejected the lies pumped into your homes minute by minute.

Electing me and my Team, you the people, have rejected the lies of the billionaires and trillionaires.  You have rejected the lie that has you working until you are 70 and dying, while they now have augmented lifespan, some predicted to live 1000 years. 

Electing me and my Team, a strong Team, a Team that is ready to fight their private armies through the donations you have made, you have rejected the lie that it is evil to work together, share our toils and share the result of that toil.

To quote the President we look back to with fondness and equal disappointment, “The time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.”

I take up that challenge.  My Team and I will fight to ensure the people who built America, the labourers and the sweatshop workers, the enslaved and abused across the world, will see the fruits of these labours in a healthy, free, tolerant world.  A world fit for their children in a world where their children will live 1000 years and who will see worlds beyond this planet.  The days of privilege through strength, blackmail and lies is over.  Capitalism has run its course and has nearly destroyed us.  It has created the society that our forefathers such as Orwell, Chaplin and Fritz Lang warned us of.  It has created an underclass, which have no hope of becoming anything only automatons.  It has created a vast people who the liars and oppressors have named “subhuman.”  Well this subhuman, this person who, through your fund raising, determination and secret fight, is here to help you wrestle the world from the worthless rich.
America, let us now begin a history that our children’s children will look back upon and say, “my forefather was brave, my foremother stood up to oppression, my great -great grand parents aimed for utopia through the myopia of lies, deceit and threats.  They laid the foundations for everlasting life.”

This, America, is it.  This is the day things changed.  As we speak, my Team are taking over the Virtual Realities.  As we speak, the owners of the economic zones are being arrested.  As we speak their armies are being brought into our control.  As we speak, the bank accounts and treasures of these oppressors are being seized and will be used to make your lives the true, valuable lives they should be.

Our work will take generations.  But it has begun. 


Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.”

Electing me, YOU become part of a Team.  A Team that will change this world to a world in which everyone has equal rights to life, liberty and safety.

God bless America and the poor billions of the world, because today we take back what was stolen from us.

Thank you, all of you.

Let the new America begin its journey.”

I knew this woman should not be stopped.  That was the first day of my rebellion.  I became part of her Team, fighting for her, keeping her alive to lead the world into a better future.  This timeline had to survive.   

(Other Chapters of the Village - a novel in progress - can be found HERE)

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

This person seriously unfucks things

Trill Zapatero - a real unfucker!


Unfuckitup Website

Her Unfuckitup SL teeshirts - HERE

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Working Class Hero.

When I heard the man shout that the needy and the poor should take control of the means of production, I knew what my politics were.  If I wasn’t poor and needy, who was?

I was standing by the shipyard gates, begging for a job, when the Union leader came out, followed by hundreds of men.  He stood on the small wall that surrounded the shipyard works and held on to the metal railings.  His message was clear.  We should rise up.  And then no-one would starve.  There would be jobs for the likes of me when socialism came.  I cheered the loudest for socialism.  It would give me a job.

The strong, hard, muscular, clenched fists punched the air.


When I got the job, I entered the man’s world.  Up until then I had been living in a world where my hair would be spat down by my mum and told what to do by her.  She told me I was special.  She told me I would be a great worker.  I was now the man of the house.  My wage was more than hers and I could now tell her what I wanted in my sandwiches.

My place was in the union.  It was the way to the top.  These guys could work a crowd.  I remember Jimmy saying, “You have to be in the Union to fight for your class.”  I agreed.  The bosses wanted to screw us and I wanted the money shared... with me… and my comrades.
All the top union men – the ones who could make the speeches and gather in the crowds, slowly, one by one, became Members of Parliament.  Heroes.  People loved them.  Men loved them.  I knew what I had to do.  My dad, if he was still here, would love me.

I shouted and ranted about Imperialism and the fat cats getting the cream, while the rest of us were left with sour milk.  The scraps from their table.  I led everyone out when our wages didn’t rise with the cost of the things we needed.  I sat with the bosses, smoking cigars and eating salmon sandwiches through the night while I negotiated my pedestal.  I deserved this.

I began my speeches talking about the wee boy who played outside with no shoes, and how he went on to lead the Labour Movement.  I told them about my mother and my sisters working their hands to the bone to keep me in clothes and food.  If I wasn’t needy, who was?

I became a supervisor.  The bosses confided in me, “Billy, the last ship went out at a loss.  If this strike goes on another week, the order will go to Lennoxes down the river.”  I managed to get the extra quid for the cheering men and the orders came in.  The men loved me, the women sent me cakes and Mollie was made pregnant at the fancy do the Owner invited me to at his country house.

“Billy, we’ll back you for Parliament,” the boys said at my wedding.  Her da’ was happy because I had prospects.

It was a shoo in.  The Docks were for Socialism.  I was to sit in the place in London that had been controlled by the millionaires and the Shipyard owners.  I was to tell them what the Class needed.  And there was no doubt about my credentials as I stood for my maiden speech, “I am here to represent the men who work hard for a living.  I am here to represent the poor and needy.  And sitting here amongst you rich men, I know which class I belong to.”  Amongst them, I was poor and needy.

The wine flowed and the cigars were sucked and I made speech after speech against the bosses until they started to notice how needy I was.  A new Saville Row suit if you introduce me to Lord so and so.  A weekend at Cliffson house, swimming naked with the women, if you make sure the order goes to help the workers of the North Side.  I deserved these things.  The wine, the women and the cigars.  I helped the people.  And if I had these things to give, I would give them out too.  ‘Bread and Roses,’ after all, and some of the young roses at Cliffson house were oh so pretty, and they benefitted too.  I threw fivers and tenners at them like confetti at times.  And The Shipyard owner paid them off if we “went a little too far.”

“William, as an MP, you can sit on the board of The White Star Line.”  With this, and my salary, I was able to buy a house in which I felt comfortable entertaining these men of fortune.  I never had felt they were better than me.  I was one of them.  The Shipyard owner and his wife became regular diners in our house.  My wife enjoyed a trip or two to Paris and New York, not through my books of course.  But she deserved it.  We knew what it had been like to be poor.   If we weren’t poor and needy, who was?

After years, my working class accent, admittedly exaggerated for the media as time went by, was used on the telly to justify or to excuse what they did.  They did it because there was no other way.  I just persuaded the people like me (hard workers) that it was in their best interests to give all to the corporations who are working to give them jobs.

The poor and needy are not like they were.  They have shoes.  They have tellys.  They have DVD’s.  But they are alien to me living in their ghettoes, taking their drugs and dying young by the silenced river.  Why don’t they just get on their bike and find work?  I managed to ensure there are huge amounts of minimum wage call centres across the country.  They are guaranteed that money.  They can’t be ripped off with lower pay.

The Shipyard Owner moved his building to some eastern European country where workers didn’t demand so called “rights.”  And he and I played golf on the day they helicoptered the machinery out over the heads of the striking workers.  Back in my day, you were lucky to have shoes on your feet.  I bet the workers in that country have some poor and needy politician rising through the ranks like I did.  I helped them get work.  Feed the World.

My wife left me after the scandal.  It was stupid really.  I deserved her, the young woman who cleaned the rooms in the hotel.  It wasn't a hit, just a slap to calm her - and it did.  The police said that she had left the money in the room and called them straight away.  Bread and Roses.  If she’d have said nothing, she would have had lots more bread and roses than that crap cleaning job could ever give her.

I’ll be out in a few months, they say.  And when I do get out, I’ll fight again for the poor and needy, because as I sit here in this small room, if I am not poor and needy, who is?  The men – the real men – men like me, will listen.

Thatcher's Town

The town was grey and shabby.

Whole towns and villages had been razed to the ground after the war and rebuild in post war utilitarian style. They were soulless replacements of street layouts and buildings that had evolved over centuries.

Not this place – it didn’t have the excuse of pre-fabs to quickly house the returning soldiers and refugees. This place had missed the war – the Luftwaffe had never gone near it. It’s ancient, evolved, robust buildings had been razed and replaced by the post war want to replace everything with pre-fabricated homes and flat roofed shopping precincts.

 Stalin himself could have brandished the pencil that had given the workers the new town and “houses fit for working families.”



Only nowadays, post Thatcher, post industrial, the town was a shabby, grey, dreich, depressed place for working class people with no work. A place where dissatisfaction was fed with satellite antennae and OK! Magazine. A place where a generation had passed since working class people were politically educated by their unions and previous generations of working fathers and mothers. A place where drink and drugs glued the economy together.

We set up our table and laid out our political shop. We had driven from the nearby city to save these souls. Our manifesto spoke about care of the elderly, a good free education, work, a fully funded health service and decent housing. We weren’t being unreasonable. We weren’t being revolutionary. We wanted for these people what bankers and billionaires had stolen from them.

A livelihood and pride.



Some people came to us and spoke about footballers being paid too much and the fact they had lost their heating allowance. Some bought our paper and some nodded sagely as Jim told them of the vision of a socialist world. And some said, “but look at Russia! It didn’t work there.”

We had answers; we had a vision of how to make a fair world for them and us. And then the baseball capped pensioner walked up to us, walking stick in hand; tweed, shabby jacket open revealing a maroon woollen pullover pulled tightly over a large stomach.

“Young fella,” he said. “C’mere and I’ll tell you something. You people haven’t a fuckin’ clue.”

I tried to placate his obvious anger. I told him I did understand; I told him how their chemical plant, once owned by Alfred Nobel, had moved to the east where workers could be poisoned without the world knowing. I told him his plant – the one he worked in twenty years ago – was still making the same things, but people were working 15 hour shifts and being paid less than a quarter in the wages he had twenty years ago.

“Shut up, “ he said. “Listen to me. We won’t be voting for you, we want the Tories out of Parliament. We’ll be voting Labour, because they give us our heating allowance. They won’t take our bus passes off us. We’ll keep what we have. They aren’t Margaret Thatcher.”

I said to him, “But they’ve been in power for thirteen years – the chemical plant isn’t back!”

The junkie stopped to laugh at us being berated by the old man.

“G’wan, tell they fuckers! Vote BNP!”

The old man looked at the junkie and looked at me.
“I’ll vote for none of yis – yer all the same.”

My pleas that it could be different fell on deaf ears. He went to walk off, but turned for his final shot.

“It was a shite place to work anyhow!”

The racist, lumpen junkie cackled and I saw Thatcher’s children.

today's 15 minute dash word was "placate."

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Tania

She kneeled by the river, her long dark hair, matted with dirt, her face smeared with blood, sweat and tears. The excreted blend of war. Her fatigues were ripped, blooded and torn, the Kalashnikov lay by her side. But her beauty shone through.

Her goodness was why she was fighting. She bore her enemy no malice; she abhorred their malice for their own people.

The struggle through the undergrowth; the barbs of the vines and bites from unknown insects would be worth it when all were free. But she was exhausted and longed for cleanliness and linen sheets.

Her gaze was unfocussed. She knew the fight would be won. Their years of planning and subversive words and pronouncements would change people’s thinking. The world would rise from its knees and cast off its chains.

He had led them here. He would win, alongside his small band of comrades. Her fight would have to be somewhere else; from the safety of their land; the land they had won from the selfish.

She slowly turned to look at her comrade. He was sprawled awkwardly, broken where he fell. Her head fell, her slim young neck unable to support its weight and she sobbed from her belly. She realised she would not see the new world.

Saliva and blood dripped from her mouth.

She thought, “We will win!”

She slowly raised her head and smiled, and the final shot propelled her back, broken but defiant beside her comrade.


From today's 15 minute Dash - the word given was "Blend" - the piece is based on the Bolivian struggle led by Che. Tania was one of the fallen.


Saturday, 7 May 2011

RAWA Fundraiser

http://www.rawa.org/

SL Left Unity (the group I helped set up in Second Life) are running a fundraiser for RAWA (see website). It has been suggested that we add any funds we possess over L$50000 to what is raised at the event (at the moment we have L$81,946 - which would mean L$31,946 going to the organisation - £73 or $113). Anyone with any objections to this, should contact SLLU Alecto.

For details of the event, please contact Siri Vita.

ABOUT RAWA HERE

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

SSP Campsie Election Podcast!

SSp Campsie Election Podcast, featuring tracks from Thee Faction, Tears of Sirion, MC5, The Exiles and Roy Moller - plus the voices of the Scottish public!

(Bonus Thee Faction track at the end - check out theefaction.wordpress.com for details on their new album, Up the Workers!