One of the projects I’m working on has the physical attributes of a book. It looks like a book and it reads like a book (or will do when it’s finished). In its present state it contains about 80,000 words all typed up in the same Word document. The content is snippets from diaries, journals, and scraps of paper going back to when I started writing such things half a century ago when I was twelve or thirteen.years old.
I’ve got a few more bits to type up – say a couple of thousand words. When that chore is complete the real work will begin and I reckon it will take about a year. The idea is to then superimpose a story over these seemingly random unconnected scribblings, so the end result will be a kind of meta-fiction-autobiography-fantasy type of thing. So far it looks like there’s a Magic Elf and a thirteen-year-old Alien girl involved in the plot.
I will probably publish the book at the end of it, but I’m trying not to let the thought that someone else may read it influence the way I’m writing it. So, as you may have guessed this is not a commercial project. (I’m also writing a three part detective story which is commercial).
Anyway, here are two snippets, first a piece that was actually written last week followed by something written around 1969 when I was seventeen.
Written November 2015
According to an article on The Guardian website there is some guy who’s trying to sort out the inconsistencies between quantum mechanics and the theory of relativity. If I understand the article correctly, part of what he’s trying to prove is that the universe is composed of discreet chunks of something indivisible and does not go on forever either out to space or in to the sub-atomic level.
Who knows, it may be true, but if it is . . . well, it just can’t be, can it? I mean even to me, who is definitely not a scientist, it’s obvious – there is no beginning and there is no end, in a space or a time sense.
Sometimes I think that some sort of God is playing tricks on me; for example when we bought Pulse Wholefoods in 2007 and remortgaged ourselves to the hilt to do so, there was an undoubted bounce in the economic air, and a big move towards organic wholefoods too – we couldn’t lose, and we didn’t; that year, well 9 months of it anyway, was brilliant. We increased the turnover and the profit margins, we had a great new life at the heart of Cardiff’s professional creative community – if there is such a thing, and we made loads of new friends.
Then – boom bust. The global economy crashed and directly affected us big time.
And now, as I’m writing this book which refers constantly to parallel universes, quantum mechanics, chaos theory and suchlike, those very concepts are being challenged, thus rendering my witterings as a pile of bollocks.
The idea I get is that since I can only experience the universe (or whatever it is) through my own senses, and since I can only interpret it with my own mind then in some way everything in the world – that I’m aware of at least, is unique to me personally. That is, the financial crash happened because inherent in me is some perversity that creates global financial meltdowns just to piss myself off – similarly with the quantum relativity thing.
I’m probably going mad, though I don’t feel mad in any way. Hmm, maybe that’s a sign, if you feel normal then you must be mad, because what the hell is normal about this existence? It’s completely bonkers, whether you look inside or outside.
But hey, just chill, and remember to breathe.
Written in 1969
Irrelevant
What was that noise, a screech, no just noise. Noise of what, thought the tramp, noise of excitement, he concluded, what excitement, he restarted. Round the bend of the car park came a gathering, hippies they were, all together, messing about with a skin-head.
‘Okay,’ shouted the skin. ‘Okay.’ Louder. ‘So you prove your point.’ Hysterically. ‘Okay – O-bloody kay.’
They all stopped, gave him his boots back and offered him food from a bag, a brown paper bag. Irrelevant. Brown paper bags were very common in town on Saturday. Everybody had one, under arms, in bags, trolleys and other convenient spaces, It was the day of the brown paper parcels, conform, buy your brown paper parcel today. Horror, I’ve got one round my bubble-tube, get rid of it, ceremoniously execute the conformity of brown-paper parcels. Irrelevant. It’s Christmas, a change, bells, green leaves, red hats, and multi-coloured paper wrapped parcels. Irrelevant. Brolly time, out of nowhere comes the dreaded rain, my God you must not get wet. What a disaster. Wetness, put up your brolly, tuck your parcel more securely. Irrelevant. Do you feel secure? Irrelevant. Of course. ‘I’ve got a house. At least I earn my living.’ Irrelevant. Living, are you living? Are you dying? Are you preparing? Comfortable? Irrelevant. I like my work, well it’s better than hanging around doing nothing. Nothing at all. Sleep long. Watch the taxman, watch the Axeman. Worked hard, got bread. Irrelevant.
The smiling face of Mr Punning caught me in the eye, yes sir, no sir, bollocks sir. ‘Ah well,’ thought, then said Mr Punning. ‘Restless these youngsters today, never had it so good. Lucky they don’t live in the same place as those,’ a sudden twist to fascism, ‘Dirty Red Bastards.’ He sighed heavily, that was hard to get out, but he’d said it. Pity no-one heard him though. He was sitting in a park eating his packed lunch out for a change. ‘There you are duck,’ he said, thinking how kind he was, yes the English were kind to animals.
‘Excuse me, man.’ Punning jumped agitatively. ‘I heard that.’ What had he heard thought Sir. ‘What about the bomb?’ said the man. Irrelevant. He hurried off tucking his brown paper parcel and putting his brolly up for a spit of water. Irrelevant my foot. My foot? Irrelevant.