i just finished alister reynolds new novella slow bullets, it's a great read, as all his books are. anyway i liked the term 'slow bullets' and i guess it got me thinking... and i wrote this in a kind of tribute to him.... 

the first thing you notice about a slow bullet is you don't notice it until the second thing. the strange way vision impairs, things begin to fall out of shape, contents leave their boundaries, time folds in on itself so what was behind you is now in front and what was yet to happen happened. it's an effective weapon which is why both sides use it.
eventually some sort of mental overwhelming occurs where the personality itself disengages and falls apart, assembling in a reformatted equivalent. 
the quanta force militia were on my heels, i was leading them towards my own unit but my satellite nav com system must have taken a hit as i slipped off line and found myself in the dark. the territory was vastly alien, we were shooting it out on some hostile world. a neutral planet with low gravity and two suns. the militia had been chasing us for several years now we had even   skipped through the wormhole technologies several times but they were like glue on our backs, relentlessly pursuing their targets.
the commander had signalled the base station for back up but that was several years ago, and we were still waiting a response. 
i took in the darkness momentarily, the night vision was erratic and my helmet had taken a battering but it worked well enough to guide me into the maze of rubble ahead. chances are they would find me, i was outnumbered and outgunned, my technology was failing fast. i had to work out a way to slow them down, get my system back online at least. 
an explosion to my left send me reeling down a natural bunker, out of sight.  rained down upon me. these guys were not messing around.
i checked over my suit, i had a few smart bombs left, my zap gun was almost deplenished. i estimated i had a few charges left. i took out the slow bullet and held it in my hand, it would have to be this, one shot at their chief would at least confuse them. i placed the silicone unit in the plasma weapon. my hand was shaking.
okay. i clambered out of the bunker and made my way along the maze like a rat, vision began to go on the fritz but it was good enough for me to sight a position up high where i could launch my defence. 
i clambered up and laid out my tools, this would be it.
keeping down i could hear sounds of the approaching enemy, there were three of them. it didn't take me long to work out who the leader was. i could zap the other two and then i'd be in a dog fight to the end. soon they would be in range. 
jessica was running towards me, what was she doing here. she had long dark hair and wore a simple dress, her face all radiant in the sunlight. 
'jess, jess, over here,' i called.
she waved and wandered over. 
'get up soldier'
what happened to her voice, i must have looked confused, as she grabbed me forcefully and brought my face to hers. the stench from her mouth was terrible, her nostrils seemed to grow larger than possible and her voice began to get much deeper and masculine.
'you've been hit solider, a slow bullet is inside you. we won. you're a dead man walking.'
'jess, what's happened, a slow bullet inside me, jess, is that you jess, i miss you so much jess, i really miss you. all i want is to feel you in my arms again.'
they could have left me there, they could have abandoned me to the delusion but for some reason they must have pitied me. maybe i just reminded them that they had wives back home, maybe they were lonely and frightened and they had endured enough of war, pointless war, maybe they just were human after all.
they took me back and took the slow bullet out with their technology and machines, they put me on a blimp ship and sent me back to my people, and as i float through space in my suspension pod my dreams are of jess, and home and holding her in my arms.

Leonard Cohen - nevermind

not sure what that guy on the train was babbling on about, it was a dead language he uttered, words dribbling out that had no place in time. he shuffled out the train along with the rest of the people, leaving me in contemporary peace. i closed my eyes and hoped to be home soon, before night came at least, mission control offered some familiarity. i liked being at home these days, i was going through my baking bread phase in life, only i was baking cakes and muffins, lonely years i guess, even my dog was never home to greet me, often exploring the wilderness or sleeping next door in the comfort of a proper family. i didn't have all those trimmings anymore, just lean living. i'd made friends with the ravens, crows and rooks. they often flew down as soon as i made an appearance. sometimes i'd offer a bit of cheese  to them but mostly they just liked to make their presence known. we were on good terms. 
the ravens and the crows were different to tell apart at first but i became familiar with their subtle idiosyncrasies and behaviours but also their calls, the crow being more of a single loud'caw' followed by a series of shorter ones. 
the ravens call was much deeper less sharp and more croaky. the most obvious difference was the fact ravens are bigger, some the size of chickens. the raven when it's wings are spread open are huge, much bigger than a crow. 
i also noticed that ravens are more confident, maybe this is in relation to size but they seem much more assertive. the beaks of the crow are sharper and shorter than a ravens whose beak is almost hooked. one last difference is the crow makes a racket when it flies whereas the raven is silent. 
sometimes i get home and there's a row of the beasts on my balcony, they sit there in silence, all looking into mission control. it's most peculiar but i figure they are just hanging around for food. 
i try to be pretty unpredictable about feeding these beasties as they often end up training people, at least this way they know we have an equal footing in the friendship, they make no demands and accept my offerings in the most unconditional of ways. 

drifting day to night, night to day, it's the endless drive of times arrow, going the wrong way, towards decay. 
we are all on this train and there is no way out, only those occasional stations we pass through until the end of the line.
i gaze out the window, the views not bad, it's relaxing and distracting, my mind slows down and slides out of destination anxiety into observer. 
the observer knows it can never really just observe.
the observer knows it cast influence upon its observations.
therefore the observer cannot observe objectively, the objective universe is unknown to us, beyond our minds comprehension other than a concept. i think that is the point of hp lovecraft's work, to offer a map of the universe and a infinitesimal point where man faces the unknowable strangeness and overwhelming unknowableness. he uses monsters and alien ancient gods from which man has no escape or ability to fight. 
he is absorbed into the alien and discarded as nothing significant, as a flea may be to humanity. 
that's the universe of hpl.
the train speeds up as we get closer to our destination, or it feels that way. in fact it's consciousness that increases, our awareness of time and the limits it places upon us. 
then along comes a cultural perspective of time that challenges us all. 
tribes have no tomorrow, native american indians did not make appointments based upon divisions in time, theirs was a natural harmonious understanding, sunrise, sunset, big boulder shadow passing over the tree time. no great meditation upon time because it was never trapping their culture until european man came and they knew... the end was near. 
in south america the same applies, indigenous cultures embrace a shamanistic knowledge of time, it's malleable and can be manipulated, one can access it for information, travel to past lives, future points. they brain hack time with dmt and enter plant consciousness. plants are active beings, they move at a different speed but if you speed up a plants movement over a few seconds, say the camera films for two three years non stop, the observer would see the plant in an energetic dance of movement. 
yet the plant in our time is slow.
there are many different types of time, the mayans understood this, building an 8 division calendar that has practical applications for every individual.
thus hpl stops short in his view of the universe, for individuals and humanity in general can alter the universe and interact with it in a meaningful way, the weirdness and fear is really beauty and trust. the monsters are just energies we are unable to perceive due to our brains limitations, but what we can control is our response to them. fear attracts fear, hpl lived in fear his whole life. he wrote about it beautifully, and that is why he is considered the greatest horror writer. 
his amazing contemporary thomas liggotti also writes about this nihilistic approach to the universe in a slightly more twisted way but his protagonists are just as defeated by the universe as hpl's.
non locality has meant that entanglement happens, distant particles can be influenced by manipulation of the other. this can be applied to the mind, thoughts influence as do words, and there's a realm of writing whereby the writer reaches a stage whereby meta programs operate through the words. william burroughs did this, a lot of songwriters, prophetic science fiction writers and a small strain of magickians who are meta programming through narrative where by the unconscious writes using symbolic representations and the writer casts out his work whereby sympathetic elements recreate the future for the author. the new age stuff is all based around this but generally misses the point, in fact misses the point! 
anyway it seems to me that the nihilistic approach only gets you so far. the fatalistic approach is something different. it implies that the future is written and inescapable. fatalists accept defeat as part of winning, not quite beating the universe but breaking even with it. there's a poetic beauty in fatalism, it's not fear based but acceptance based. 
personally i don't believe in either as a philosophical condition under which i live, although i have moments of both. the great engine that drives my imagination is based upon the idea that humans have one quality that cannot be destroyed despite the brilliant 1984's heart breaking conclusion. 
i know that unconditional love, forgiveness and grace cannot be destroyed by the terror of the known or the unknown, even the betrayed can forgive the betrayer. it's tricky and emotionally difficult but it is indeed what humanity is capable of. 
jesus the jewish rebel said, 'forgive them, they know not what they do'  and he bestowed a quality of love never witnessed before, mercy, thus escaping that last stop on his mythic train ride. there's grace and beauty in what we leave behind, the trail of our actions and interactions. mine falter on being honourable, no matter how hard i aspire, i fail over and over when the conditions overwhelm me, but i guess what don't kill you makes you stronger, and the fact is i'm stronger. 
humanity is self destructive as a species, trapped in a hateful cycle of stupidity that no politics can redeem us from. religious institutions are political now, even atheists have their own militant agendas. all these things formulate the idea that i am a libertarian at heart, i don't believe in institutions telling me how to think or live, i want the freedom to find my own way and be responsible for it. this is liberalism.   

strange weather has arrived, the sun is blotted out by dark clouds and the heat is sucked out of my bones. i have a day off, i have nothing to do, no where to go, i've been talking to myself for hours, pacing up and down the library and opening and closing the fridge, symptoms of a hp lovecraft disposition. what slithering nefarious horror awaits outside my door, some abomination from the stygian underworld. oh no, it's just the postman delivering a parcel of amazonian books. 
i place the package down upon my table and collect the scissors from the kitchen, the package is proving difficult. even with scissors. 
inverse echo's of john cale opening his gift as i slow down and remind myself to take care and be patient. ah yes, i find a seam and draw the sharp blade along it, revealing a pile of books i must have ordered a while back. (i often order books and forget i ordered them which makes their arrival a pleasant surprise) 
i pull them out one by one.
norman mailer's 'castle in the forest'
kornher- stace nicole's  'archivist wasp'
and
kevin kelly's 'what technology wants.'
so much reading to do as the pile of unread books grows and grows. i need to hire a librarian who can catalogue and arrange the system, mission control is pushing it's tardis like qualities to the limits, books are bulging out everywhere, spilling out from under the floorboards, cupboards and draws, the walls are fully lined and under the rugs lay volumes of ancient science fiction from the golden age. i walk upon robert hienlen, asimov and step over ee doc smith. when i brush my teeth i stand upon micheal moorcock, edmund cooper and john brunner's 'stand on zanzibar' ironically.
i need sympathetic assistance asap. 
maybe i'll build myself a very long book case today.

i get the car fixed, it drives good although the interior requires a decent clean. papers, cds, receipts, feathers, crystals, stones, blankets and books strewn around everywhere. i gather up all my loose crystals and stick them away in the glove box. these stones have all been given to me over many years, i'm not sure why i keep them in my car of all places but i figure it's as good a place as any.
the weather is changing, big black cloud wipes out the whole sky, i tune in to the radio and hear that a mile up the road it's snowing or some kind of freak hailstorm. i drive into the black cloud but turn away at the first roundabout, i hate rain. i get home, get stuck into my new etgar keret book, seven good years, it's already brilliant. 
i wanna smoke a joint but i figure i'll try to detox instead so i make some flaxseed, polenta muffins, throw in some hemp seeds and nigella seeds, some organic honey and whatever else i can find. twenty minites later, yummy.

my return to the water is pure and blissful, like the global womb  i am embraced and nurtured. every cell and atom in my body knows itself in the ocean, the waves are gentle and inviting and carry me a few meters in a slow acclimatising velocity. i float around, get under, follow the currents, feel their temperature, embrace it's latent energy, let it enter my body, let it fill my thumping wild heart. clearing damage, healing some residue, fixing up my shit.
i can't explain this sensation, my relationship with the sea is powerful and necessary for survival on the land, i don't think about it to much, just let my process happen. 
later i travel to a small town, it's  strange place where an ice epidemic is apparently ravaging through, fifty percent of the population are the walking dead, my god their eyes are deranged, faces haunted by some chemical weirdness. the other half of the town is brilliantly alive and breaking through, and i'm pulled into one specific place, the apocrathy. the woman inside is quite beautiful, she wants to look into my eyes but i'm very self conscious, i've been awake all night, looking haggard and crazed, like a fugative, 'have you any acacia tea?' i suggest hoping my english accent will disarm her, looking at the rows of herbals and desperately avoiding eye contact should she notice my anomalies.
trying to be normal and cool i blow it by asking her, 'are you a witch?'
for a moment she will not answer but then says, 'yes, but i'm a good one, not a black one. i'm a green witch.'
'oh i'm fine about all witches, i love them all, black blue, purple, pink, green, i'm very witch friendly.'
she smiles.
i smile.
we laugh. 
'i think i'm going to have to return.'
'you need to give me the latin name of the acacia you want, there are so many thousands of variations.'
'okay thank you, i will find out.' 
she steps out from behind the counter and my perception kicks in, very attractive, vital intelligent energy within her eyes, hair picking up all sorts of transmissions and her voice is a labyrinth of wisdom. 
suddenly i don't want to leave that apocrathy but circumstance is closing in, outside a friend waits in his van. what can i do but leave. but before i do we both laugh at the way there's all this unsaid energy between us that we ride nowhere. i know she felt it. i have to let it go, chances are she's married or engaged with some athletic heroic type, me, i'm just a quiet bookworm who dislikes crowds and society. 
on the drive home i ponder the green witch and wonder if i will ever see her again. i wonder if she has already cast her spell upon me or is that my own flight of fancy. i look out at the car dealers and big chemist shop, i look across at the commerce and industry, i close my heavy eyelids and sink back into my chair. 
one day that witch is going to look into my eyes and i will be seeing her.


   



  

this is an important interview and well worth listening to.
i must agree with graham's view on everything he mentions here, 




i'm looking forwards to reading his new book, magicians of the gods, a sequel to, fingerprints of the gods.

another elected govt. revolts against the people. a pm no one voted for vs a pm half the population hate. very strange and dangerous position especially after the last 6 years of labour green govt where we had rudd, gillard, rudd. where does democracy start when the people are forced to vote, yet the person they vote for can be removed and replaced by someone who undermines sabotages and white ants their leader. politics is a game of thrones, it's no place for any one with integrity irrespective of party. these people vote for themselves, they should be dragged out into the guillotine courtyard. 

super position, supposition, imperfect perfection of perfect imperfection, the cause is a glitch in my random generator, maybe a blown gasket or some kind of fuse. being incapable of engineering and mechanical thought i have to rely on the kindness of arcane gods, delve into the mythos where some have incredible industrial power, those bloody hellish worms burrowing underfoot dig tunnels the way we would chew through breakfast, perfect symmetry, all directions, an underground labyrinth akin to the tube system but on a global scale, shoggoth things, the old ones know far more than we can fathom. 
stranded at the side of the road i pull out all stops. passing trucks rattle by, a few drivers gaze my way but can't afford to stop. deadlines i guess. 
above me the stars, and as i lay upon my machine i look at them, strands of whispy things overhead, cosmic and precariously blessing us or cursing us with perspectives. 
later i figure i will have to act, sometimes action is better than inaction and i'm gifted with the knowledge of knowing the difference thanks to my studious involvement with the book of changes. 
i cast some hieroglyphic invocations and focus my attention upon the beast. failing this i kick the tyre, hurting my foot in process. my screams are unfettered by social conditions, it fucking hurt and everyone will know about it but there is no one to hear my scream, not a soul. 
i'm stuck in the purple night, highway to nowhere. maybe i should ride the giant worm, just like paul in dune. in some psychotic impulse i check the colour of my eyes, still abyssinian brown. damn, i have an impulsion to clean my teeth. as i get older these strange impulses become more demanding. i hunt around the interior, finding a vast range of useless items, papers, toys and crystals. i forage around the crystals and find the rudrakasia seeds. i hold them in my palm. 
outside i can feel the colder temperature creeping as midnight approaches, i place the strange orbs in a circle and focus my thoughts. i keep them in formation as i turn the key in the ignition. starts first time. leaving the engine on i collect the seeds and place them in the glove box. 
i drive back to mission control, crystal powered, just like star trek. 

'how many freckles are on my face?'

'why your face is like the stars. infinite. easy to be lost in, yet i feel...found.'

captain mission's guide for the perplexed. 

1. Ground your attention on yourself. Be conscious at every moment of what you are thinking, sensing, feeling, desiring, and doing. 

2. Always finish what you have begun.
3. Whatever you are doing, do it as well as possible.
4. Do not become attached to anything that can destroy you in the course of time.
5. Develop your generosity ‒ but secretly.
6. Treat everyone as if he or she was a close relative.
7. Organize what you have disorganized.
8. Learn to receive and give thanks for every gift.
9. Stop defining yourself.
10. Do not lie or steal, for you lie to yourself and steal from yourself.
11. Help your neighbor, but do not make him dependent.
12. Do not encourage others to imitate you.
13. Make work plans and accomplish them.
14. Do not take up too much space.
15. Make no useless movements or sounds.
16. If you lack faith, pretend to have it.
17. Do not allow yourself to be impressed by strong personalities.
18. Do not regard anyone or anything as your possession.
19. Share fairly.
20. Do not seduce.
21. Sleep and eat only as much as necessary.
22. Do not speak of your personal problems.
23. Do not express judgment or criticism when you are ignorant of most of the factors involved.
24. Do not establish useless friendships.
25. Do not follow fashions.
26. Do not sell yourself.
27. Respect contracts you have signed.
28. Be on time.
29. Never envy the luck or success of anyone.
30. Say no more than necessary.
31. Do not think of the profits your work will engender.
32. Never threaten anyone.
33. Keep your promises.
34. In any discussion, put yourself in the other person’s place.
35. Admit that someone else may be superior to you.
36. Do not eliminate, but transmute.
37. Conquer your fears, for each of them represents a camouflaged desire.
38. Help others to help themselves.
39. Conquer your aversions and come closer to those who inspire rejection in you.
40. Do not react to what others say about you, whether praise or blame.
41. Transform your pride into dignity.
42. Transform your anger into creativity.
43. Transform your greed into respect for beauty.
44. Transform your envy into admiration for the values of the other.
45. Transform your hate into charity.
46. Neither praise nor insult yourself.
47. Regard what does not belong to you as if it did belong to you.
48. Do not complain.
49. Develop your imagination.
50. Never give orders to gain the satisfaction of being obeyed.
51. Pay for services performed for you.
52. Do not proselytize your work or ideas.
53. Do not try to make others feel for you emotions such as pity, admiration, sympathy, or complicity.
54. Do not try to distinguish yourself by your appearance.
55. Never contradict; instead, be silent.
56. Do not contract debts; acquire and pay immediately.
57. If you offend someone, ask his or her pardon; if you have offended a person publicly, apologize publicly.
58. When you realize you have said something that is mistaken, do not persist in error through pride; instead, immediately retract it.
59. Never defend your old ideas simply because you are the one who expressed them.
60. Do not keep useless objects.
61. Do not adorn yourself with exotic ideas.
62. Do not have your photograph taken with famous people.
63. Justify yourself to no one, and keep your own counsel.
64. Never define yourself by what you possess.
65. Never speak of yourself without considering that you might change.
66. Accept that nothing belongs to you.
67. When someone asks your opinion about something or someone, speak only of his or her qualities.
68. When you become ill, regard your illness as your teacher, not as something to be hated.
69. Look directly, and do not hide yourself.
70. Do not forget your dead, but accord them a limited place and do not allow them to invade your life.
71. Wherever you live, always find a space that you devote to the sacred.
72. When you perform a service, make your effort inconspicuous.
73. If you decide to work to help others, do it with pleasure.
74. If you are hesitating between doing and not doing, take the risk of doing.
75. Do not try to be everything to your spouse; accept that there are things that you cannot give him or her but which others can.
76. When someone is speaking to an interested audience, do not contradict that person and steal his or her audience.
77. Live on money you have earned.
78. Never brag about amorous adventures.
79. Never glorify your weaknesses.
80. Never visit someone only to pass the time.
81. Obtain things in order to share them.
82. If you are meditating and a devil appears, make the devil meditate too.

working in garden, digging up earth, planting some seeds. it's all pretty as the heavy lifting takes shape, you gotta sometimes seize the moment as behind my house a digger has dug up some deep fertile soil i intend to use in my own garden. it's strenuous as i do not have a wheel barrow therefore carry each shovelful by hand but it's none the less a worthwhile project. the garden appreciates it, the bamboo and tiger grass are happy, the ferns seem content and the rubber plant is undergoing a growth spurt. but the palms are powering through their youth, soon will be heavy with bananas. it's getting tropical, suns out cloud free, fish are jumping and i'm high. hash cookies. 
speaking of which i enjoyed a day visiting my friends val and olga, laughing and generally chatting away at our own ridiculousness. 

in the realm of metenoia where everything is beyond intelligencia, the principality of singularity, bone and blood, mind magicks and psychological anarchy unbound. shadow warrior. plato cave, full moon rave, beach tranquility and the mind control of neuroplasticity. keep the eye in the sky, keep the eye on the mind, keep the eye in the try angle, of the angel.
saturation polotik black man smoking big spliff, in a bar 
downtown, words like syrup, falling from fat lips.

'these days it's all secrecy and no privacy, shoot first!'

there were days in old avalon town where i used to go out buy some milk for the family and come home three days later, that's how the life was in them olden days of tangents and tributaries. no one minded as the whole place functioned like that, heading into the village i'd meet keef who would want to talk about something, we would pick up erika and end up smoking a spliff on his boat down at pittwater. erika would get all enthused and wanna go sailing down akuna bay so we would motor off. down akuna we would meet chris and tim on their big yacht, go for a sail out past the island, smoke more weed, watch the sun go down as we moored on some obscure prehistoric secret spot listening to the stones 'black and blue' hanging over the atmosphere like a time travel bubble of a favourite party. in the early morn i'd watch the sun rise and have a swim, maybe read a little. chris would organise some food, and we would feast upon some incredible meal he would rustle up from a few eggs and bread. the sun would sparkle above and we would languid away the timeless space between the ocean and the skies, smoke more weed and someone would invite some girls from a house boat over, the day just melted away. 
on return i'd hop into the supermarket and return to the family, who had also had their own adventure. that was the way it was, no one got uptight with explanations and bullshit, we just had that trust and understanding, avalon man. that's all it was, the nature of the place. 
i liked those years, loved them. but you can't live like that forever and i needed discipline more than anything and when it all came down, everything changed anyway and i moved away. 
there's something about being free, it's an impossible thing to sustain but the secret is knowing when you are not free, because from that point you are halfway there. acknowledgment these days is deceptive, maybe it's getting older or more weary, maybe memory ain't so accurate, maybe i did get in strife for forgetting the milk but for a while there was some kinda magick in the place, it took me places, non rational, non logical, non linear, it all made perfect sense.   

the olive branch wilts, the peacekeepers tilt, towards the single point we are all focused upon, a shimmering illusion of rorschach patterns, chaos matrix fundamentals. neurone processors, electrical, chemical, psychological networks infiltrated by chance. the random disorder is just lost information. 
times arrow aims for entropy, our own runs opposite, assembling patterns, looking for clues. the true detective has to throw chance into the mix, i ching is not just divinatory, an engine throbs in the heart of every sky star, a crystal structure in the atom, the jewel is also truth.
     

new day, feeling to good to be true, yeah i pull apart the kitchen cupboards, finding all the ingredients for my favourite cake, and begin to bake in my frenzy of james brown like kitchen madness. this don't happen often so when it does i shift into fifth and put my foot all the way to the metal, blasting simple minds 'big music' doing some majestic kitchen wizardry. it's over real fast as i clean up after myself, cake on the rise i take a break and have a smoke at the spots. then i notice the ceramic stove top is on burning away a small spillage of coconut, date and apple paste. i give it a wipe accidentally smearing it across the surface so out comes my handy spray and wipe, and i blast the area only to be emerged in a cloud of chemicals burning in a foggy haze that i inhale and poison my beautiful clean lungs, heart and blood with. i choke up, gagging and spluttering confusion at my own stupidity. what idiocy, i spend my whole life keeping my body chemical free and in one act of stupidity blow the deal. my final thought before i pass out coughing and choking on poison fumes is what a beautiful cake and i think it's probably the best one i have ever made. 
i gulp down a litre of water, flush my body, clean my teeth but my tongue has swollen up and my mouth is numb, i can't taste anything but some kind of ammonia, it's awful. can't even eat the bloody cake. what a fucking cruel act. that lumberjack cake looks perfect.

struck down by the gut wrenching plague i made my way down to hospital 7 where the local authority were providing vaccinations and antidotes. apparently warnings were everywhere but i don't watch tv and hardly venture out into the city. the government announcements declared not to panic, that it was a curable illness and the health authority would now have the powers of state, and by the way they also were heavily armed.
as i walked through the town i saw the bodies being carted away, hundreds of them and my suspicions kicked in. 
an official in clinical white spacesuit type clothing confided in me the whole thing was sponsored by the united nations under the population control programs. they were tired of subtle attempts and were now just using chemical warfare through various chemtrails, i asked him about the antidote and he just shook his head sadly.
outside the hospital armed guards stood and from a distance i noticed hordes of people queuing up to enter but none exiting. i felt a wave of nausea and smoked a quick joint. 
i wandered around the back of the hospital where the trucks all lined up, large military black trucks shunting of corpses.
a doctor walked passed as i hid behind the wall, i followed him along an outdoor corridor that eventually led to a quadrangle of grass. he sat down on one of four benches and began to cry, sobbing into his white coat. 
as i approached he must have sensed me and turned around shielding his face.
'it's okay, i', not going to hurt you.'
'who are you?'
'i'm just a civilian, one of the people. doctor, what is going on?'
'it's population control, we have a quota. it's fucking impossibly large.'
'the un?'
'yeah, the un.'
'is there a cure for this?'
'cure! are you fucking mad?'
i looked at him, young man, probably in his mid thirties, he looked tired. defeated.
'yeah cure. for what i have, this gut bug thing.'
'there is no fucking cure, just like there is no virus. it's all mass hypnosis, chemtrails are not fucking real, don't you get it. you just believe it to be and your mind does the rest, it's all psychosomatic. we ran the campaign so successfully everyone made themselves sick. there is no virus so there's no cure. if you don't die from the believe you get to the hospital where we finish you off.'
'i saw the trucks.'
'that's nothing, it's going to take six months. a third of the population, that's global. we have only just started.'
i sat down with him, offered him a joint.
'what are you going to do?'
'i have to get back to the hospital, they will start asking questions otherwise. i have to go kill people. but if i were you, i'd get the hell away from here as possible.'
'i'll warn as many as possible.'
'they won't listen. the mind control program is to good. even you won't listen really, i'm wasting my time.'
he stood up and walked away with me shouting out, 'i hear you, i'm listening but it's difficult to believe such a thing is possible.'
i stood up and began to follow him but my guts ached and i felt my chest seize up with pain, air become restricted, lungs attempting to suck in some air. a warmth came over my whole body and i found myself quite unable to move. how had this negative placebo become so powerful. fear, i pondered, kept in fear, anxiety and a state of stress we believe anything from any authority, even if we know it kills us.
the world started to swirl around me, and i felt my eyes were about to burn, the wrenching plague was upon me. 

here i am at the golden dawn, substantiated in immaculate light, these moments only caught by the early birds of the town, fishermen, swimmers, dog walkers and joggers. we are blessed in light like this, filtering down through some miraculous engineering. how can people not believe in a creator of this, an invention of pure bliss, why does it appear beautiful and spiritual, fill the heart with something more than reality tv, why is it that the incredible perfection of the wave and shells have more meaning than going to the bank. why indeed?
because it's real.
and mornings, dusk and moments of peace are when the real shines through, fracturing the stupid mess of politics, religion and stupidity, presenting clarity like charity upon the unwashed dazed and confused.
there's an edge in the air, a fatal factor that forbids me to enter the water, it's a strange fear boundary i have always had, the cold, but it's almost time for it to change as spring turns.
i begin with a huge house clean, mopping, dusting, wiping and sorting. mission control is looking better but it sure could use a paint job. 

my book's out now, you can order a hardcopy from amazon, it's packed with 50 stories all true. there's lots of fucking stuff in each story, spiritual truth and rambling narratives of space time and mind. if you like hunter s thompson, william burroughs, william gibson crossed with some classic pulp science fiction i'd invest in a copy now. or e mail me your details and i'll send you a copy with an inscription. they cost $20 and that includes postage or $15 plus postage from amazon.
i have to thank tanya for reading through the final edit, and none of this would be possible without tez and jean my friends from brighton who really put it all together. 

http://www.amazon.com/Adventures-Captain-Mission-One/dp/1514277530/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1439436168&sr=1-1&keywords=the+adventures+of+captain+mission

city streets are busy with some running ceremony, joggers snorting like horses as i brush past them on my mission. 'city to surf' makes no sense to me on my opposite trajectory. i'm travelling from the surf into the metropolis looking for two books that popped up on my radar. 
i grab them from the jap bookshop and a copy of 'slow bullets' alastair reynolds new book 'slow bullets' from galaxy and jump back on the train. i have my head buried in the final pages of my novel when a guy called adam introduces himself. 

'you look switched on, ' he says in a strong germanic accent.

'positively,' i say. 

i deduce from his general demeanour that he is indeed a time travelling anarchist, he's wearing clothes that are from another century and has that mad glow in his eyes that only prophets, born again christians and time travelling anarchists have.

anyway i settle down in the train to hear what he has to say, apart from complementing me in my sunglasses he seems to think i should pass a message on. he's quite intelligent and i kinda like the fact he has also embraced some contemporary music.

'what ya listening to?' i point at his i phone.

'shriekback, english band from the eighties, still pumping them out.'

'ah yeah, i like them to. saw them in london and i saw barry when he played in xtc.'

'okay that's impressive. i knew i chose the right man.'

'for what exactly?'

'well you gotta get the word out there mission.'

'what word and how did you know my name.'

'i know far more than i should, it's true. now i heard you wrote a blog, and sometimes i even read it.'

i'm surprised, i didn't know people read my blog, i know a few people say they have heard of it but i never think that they actually read it. so i sit back and relax in the chair, the city seems to pass very slowly.

'the message is this...'

i raise my hand. i know what your message is, i know everything about you,'

'i'm impressed.'

'it's a shame man, your message was stolen by a guy called marx and made famous by his work in which there is no reference to you.'

'yeah plagiarism, he took my ideas and wrote that wretched book.'

'das kapital.' 

'yep, but it's a perversion of my idea.'

'yeah and yours was a perversion of something else.'

'are you suggesting i stole the idea.'

'no, it did originate well before you, i think you can follow it all the way back, all the way to solomon.'

'okay, i'm offended. i'm getting off here, next stop.'

'hey, you said i was switched on adam.'
'illuminated indeed. see ya mission. i'm heading back to bavaria.'