Flames

They made me swear to never kindle flame,
Within this vaunted house of antique works,
As if the reading rooms aren’t fat with brain,
Queued up for inspiration’s errant spark.

What are the books that line the shelves and stacks,
Some dragon’s hoard of knowledge to be veiled?
Each unread, unturned page a founding block,
Atop this ivory peak select ere scale.

This silence breeds an unlit beacon’s plea,
An idea planted as I speak the oath;
That knowledge always wanted to be free,
To light the way for prince and pauper both.

Soon spilling flames shall course and cleanse and scour,
And finally wake this Ilium’s spires.

A Sense Of Perspective

On a day like today I think it is important to retain a sense of perspective. We must remember what it is the earth revolves around, rather than who.

Because even though you cannot feel it, the earth is rotating beneath your feet; we are spinning at four hundred and sixty metres a second. In turn, we also whirl about the sun, and though each revolution takes a year, we are covering thirty kilometres a second. The solar system itself swirls around the core of the Milky Way at two hundred and twenty kilometres a second.

And that’s not it. Our entire galaxy, and tens of thousands of others, are all rushing towards something out there in the darkness, at seven hundred thousand kilometres a second.

They call whatever’s out there - waiting in the darkness - the Great Attractor, because that’s all we know about it. That it attracts. One day, we’ll learn some more about our new friend.

By crashing into it at seven hundred thousand kilometres a second.

Of course, that’s if we get there.

Every fifty or so thousand years - a fact we know from the way iron particles have aligned in the strata of volcanic rocks - the magnetic field of the earth flips on its axis, and in doing so exposes the surface to the scourge of the solar wind. To exotic flavours of radiation, epidemics of cancers and inducing the sorts of voltages in metallic objects that will utterly and irrevocably cook anything electronic, something our civilization is wholly dependent on.

I say fifty thousand years. The last flip was longer ago than that, and through the period of history where magnetic North has been a recordable thing, it has been wandering through Canada. Southwards, and weakening.

But even if the magnetic field were at its strongest, a solar flare ejected into our path would still flay the daytime hemisphere of the planet clean. People have recorded the activity of the sun since the dawn of history, and the sun too follows a cycle. A solar flare in the coming years is not inevitable, but far from impossible.

Also out there in the heavens, is a rock with the catchy appellation 99942 Apophis. We need not worry too much about this particular asteroid, as it isn’t going to hit us any time soon, though a near miss is a certainty. But while Apophis, will merely come to say hello, a collision with a near-earth asteroid is statistically inevitable, and while current efforts to detect asteroid paths may very well successfully identify incoming threats years or even decades before they occur, the logistics of deflecting even one remain an impossibility, no matter what impression Bruce Willis might have imparted. They will certainly not become more possible while we bicker about house prices or the exoduses of our fellow humans.

Those are the predictable ones. Sometimes stars just go supernova, ejecting inconceivably intense bursts of cosmic rays, rushing through the universe at the speed of light, with nothing to herald their approach. Washed in gamma radiation of the highest intensity, there are no superpowers here, just death. The earth reduced to a lifeless cinder before a soul ever notices.

We need not look to the stars for dangers. Yellowstone Park in the US is famed for its hot springs and geysers. It’s because the park is a volcano. One so huge you cannot even tell what you are looking at unless you map it from space. And what those maps will tell you is that the entire National Park is detectably bulging upwars as the caldera below fills with magma.

When the pressure gets too much, much of Wyoming will be vaporised, and while few people would even notice that, they will notice as the entire continent is cloaked in a rain of ash, and the rest of the planet sinks into a nuclear winter. Reading the geology imprinted into rocks all over the world will tell you that these eruptions have followed a six hundred thousand year cycle. We’re overdue.

It seems to be a theme.

We’re overdue.

We’re overdue.

We’re overdue.

We are overdue for an extinction level event, and the only doubt is to which one will get us first, because they will all happen eventually. They have happened in the past and they will all happen again. One day.

So, if on a day like today you see the news and despair of what humanity is becoming, I think it’s important to retain a sense of perspective.

Do not worry, for when the apocalypse comes - and it is when, not if - it’s not like anything of value will be lost.

Why I'm A Feminist

It seems more than a little odd that in the year 2013 there are people who still don’t know what feminism actually is. In this, an epoch in which anyone can bring up google on their television, phone or even tea tray and type in “define: feminism”

Try it, it’s 2013, browsers have multiple tabs now.

See, that was quick. It’s not a complicated concept at all, so one doesn’t necessarily have to be a conspiracy theorist to opine where continued ignorance on this particular topic might fall on the sticky end of the old incompetence–malice scale. Various groups have at times co-opted and/or vilified the concept with their own ideologies in mind. Some would argue that perhaps modern feminists should accept that if the word has become loaded with meanings they do not actually espouse they should probably pick a new one.

Fuck that.

The word means what the word means, and as uncomplicated concepts go, the word isn’t the problem. Anyone who disagrees with the advocacy of equality is most certainly part of the problem. Anyone who picks at “for women” either fails to see that women are unfairly discriminated against (be that relative salaries, representations in positions of authority, having your all too human foibles savaged in the Daily Mail, etc.) – or perceives the prospect of female elevation as a threat (Ibid. Especially the fucking Daily Mail.)

These people do exist. One of the many wonders of the internet is that it has facilitated many disenfranchised individuals in finding the particular echo chamber that validates their own perceptions. Thus, the Men’s Rights Activist was spawned, a group of – well, men – who believe feminism has gone too far.

Too equal, a terrifying thought.

The irony here is that the people who – and I’m really being generous by accrediting this lot with the noun “people” – blather on about the rights of men aren’t men at all. A preoccupation with “rights” is not an adult pursuit, but I digress.

There is perhaps a significant – in volume, certainly – group of males who have been indoctrinated into a culture in which the sexual conquest of females is the sole metric by which any level of success can be validated. Though they may identify as heterosexual  – anything otherwise would be the act of a pariah – these men have no  interest in women at all, certainly none of the social aspects of a relationship. To them women are mere sex objects. Presumably all they think about during sex is what they are going to talk about next time they are in the pub, although I suspect “during” is generous.

An increasingly vocal subset of this group are those who both subscribe to this particular viewpoint yet lack any of the societal niceties that are required to interact with human beings at all. It is this particular strata of pondscum that we can thank for inventing the term “friend zone”.

Here, men who are socially maladjusted to the point of barely seeing women as anything other than sexual vending machines, bitterly complain that they have invested a great deal of time “being friends” with a girl and yet she still doesn’t want to have sex with them, possibly with a side order of whining about terrible boyfriends he’d be so much better than.

There are so many things wrong with this that it could take days to analyse, so I’ll go with bullet points.

•          There is no “right” to sex. Sex is a responsibility.
•          Relationships aren’t the next “level” of friendships. People can actually have lots of combinations of both!
•         I can’t imagine why a girl wouldn’t want to jump into bed with a creepy entitled guy who hangs around and clearly isn’t enjoying the current level of social interaction as he only sees it as a chore he has to endure before getting the “action” he is “due”.

The really worrying facet of this mindset is the one that fails to comprehend the issue of consent. It’s not like it’s complicated – “no means no” has been widely advocated but given recent cases perhaps even this isn’t simple enough for some people. Gents, here’s a helpful hint: a lady is consenting to sex when and only when she’s saying “Yes!” loudly and clearly to the question “Would you like to have sex?”

I’ve seen people suggest that maybe asking that question is uncomfortable and perhaps embarrassing. If so, it means you yourself aren’t ready for the responsibility of being a fucking grown up. I.e. A grown up who fucks.

Really, anyone who tries to argue that the issue of consent comprises anything other than this is in deeply suspicious company.

The modern feminist would like to see a world in which people of whatever gender they identify with have the freedom to act in whatever manner they desire and not have those actions judged arbitrarily based on said gender. If it’s cool for men to go out drinking, it should be cool for women. If it’s cool for men to go out looking for a one night stand, it should be cool for women. (Hint, it’s not all that cool for either gender, really.)

There are many reasons a woman might for example wear a short skirt and bright makeup, but even if she has done so to indicate sexual availability one must never fall into the trap of presupposing that she has no say or discrimination in which particular man she’s interested in. The fact that she set out hoping to meet Prince Charming or Mister Darcy or whoever it is these days doesn’t in any way preclude her wanting to avoid certain invertebrates, Christian Greys or Edward Cullens.

Using the “she was asking for it” gambit is nothing more than an indication that the advocate of this defence is also a rapist. Why? Because rapists don’t believe that anyone has the ability to discriminate between sexual partners – Oh, I’m sorry, I said partners when I meant victims – In their worlds you’re either up for it with anything that breathes or not. Sluts or nuns and nothing in between; The concept that a woman might actually have criteria that need to be met never even occurs, because the rapists and rape apologists themselves don’t have criteria that need to be met, and rapists are so underdeveloped they have no theory of mind.

I realise that I’m conflating two worlds here. Rape is not a sexual issue. It’s a power issue. Most rapes are committed by a person known to and close to the victim. Very few happen because a lady went out wearing a skirt too short and accidentally inflamed the desires of a man incapable of exercising any degree of restraint. This argument insults and demeans men as much as women. Real men should be more than eager to distance themselves from the animals masquerading as men who have no volition regarding the act of attempted procreation.

Cynical and monstrous though it is, for a rapist the exercising of power over a complete stranger will simply have much less value than the much more opportune chance to wield it over someone who may in some way trust and rely on them. This is no different to the resentment felt when the occupant of the “friend zone” feels that a girl “owes” them a deeper level of intercourse.

Don’t be that person. Yes means yes. It is not more complex than that and if you harbour thoughts that it is, you need to evaluate how much you really do respect your fellow person. Everyone, regardless of gender, is capable of deciding how to live their life, and only those, also regardless of gender, who wish to curb those freedoms without consent, are at fault.

On Writing

I call myself a writer. It’s easier that way.

Some call themselves poets, but that is for those whose talents with rhyme and meter far exceed my meagre stabs at verse. Roses are red; violets are blue; flowers are a metaphor; for the unlikelihood of finding beauty on a garage forecourt at 1am. “Happy Valentine’s babe!” *Thrusts wilting bouquet in direction of soon to be ex-girlfriend.*

I told you I wasn’t a poet.

There are those that call themselves lyricists, but here I encounter a similar problem. I can’t construct a rhyme any deeper than love, dove, glove, splove, nor can I hold a tune. Sure, neither can Bernie Taupin, but that didn’t stop him from releasing an album. I’m somewhat heartened by the fact that the best rendition of Rocket Man is the one by William Shatner; it makes you wonder what magic ingredient Elton John ever imparted.

So I dabble, but I’m not a lyricist.

Being a playwright seems to involve equal parts red wine and coffee – I can’t drink either, but in this case that doesn’t matter. The playwright buys them, hoping to lubricate the affections of the director, producer and slash or prima-donna actor, and later keeps his concerns to himself as rehearsals cover lines he never wrote in scenes he never imagined. The process occurs by osmosis, the writer is the membrane through which the play flows, but he can neither claim credit for the result any more than the filter can claim to have created the tall skinny mocca-whatsit-cino with extra sprinkly bits. It and he remain essential, perhaps more for what they keep out of the final product than in.

I daresay being a scriptwriter out in Hollywood is much the same, albeit on a scale that manages to be both loftier and meaner at the same time. You don’t get CG explosions at the theatre, and I’ll let you decide which side of the coin that falls on. There’s a thing called the elevator pitch, when you have no more than thirty seconds to secure your future career prospects by selling your vision to a bored and listless executive as he perambulates from one floor to another. A story between the storeys.

Screenwright or playwright, it’s the same process writ extra-extra-large. Replace the cabernet and lattes with cocaine and blowjobs… Once again, do not think the writer will ever be the lucky recipient.

Perhaps I should avoid LA.

Now, writing novels is far too much like hard work, which is a shame because novels are all I’m writing these days. Word counts form the metric by which you live your life. It’s like counting calories, but in reverse. If I reach another thousand by lunchtime, I can have an extra hobnob. Extra? I haven’t opened the packet yet. It’s an ongoing battle against the forces of prevarication and procrastination. You start with high hopes and grand numbers, and then when you calculate your progress you begin to revise your estimates. Novels become novellas. Novellas become novelettes, novelettes possibly become novelillos. Or novelinos. If they sound like the strange particles they’re investigating at CERN, it’s because they’re a similar size.

If you give up before reaching five figures, it’s a short story. No-one wants a short story… Well, no, that’s not quite fair. No-one pays for a short story.

Sometimes I’ll call myself a wordsmith. The derivation is quite simple; I open Microsoft Word and stare at various sentences trying to pinpoint places I can hammer in a recalcitrant adjective without breaking the cadence. Slowly, words are forged into sentences, sentences welded together into paragraphs, paragraphs bolted into chapters, and then chapters form the grand and somewhat mythical components of… something beginning with nov-… should I ever get that far.

Sometimes I describe myself as a cunning linguist, but while that may be an expression of a predilection for wrapping my tongue around complex and somewhat sexual lexical expositions… it’s more frequently because I can’t resist a filthy innuendo. Writing is sexy, there’s no denying it. But don’t forget that while sheer volume can be satisfying, knowing what to do with it is also quite important. I have it on good authority that both is best. While my novels might not be as long as some, women have still found much to admire in my massive (significant pause) vocabulary.

It helps with the Guardian crossword, at least.

Becoming a writer changes you. I credit it with the development of an unfortunate nervous tic whenever someone on the internet tells me “my welcome”, an irrational hatred of greengrocers for their refusal to emancipate the humble apostrophe, and what I feel is actually a quite well-founded reticence  to engage with people who use multiple exclamation marks on occasions that do not warrant it.

Here’s a helpful hint: there are no occasions that warrant the use of multiple exclamation marks.

I can now hear the actors reading from the script during radio plays. Nothing so mundane as the rustling of pages, I can sense the queues of words bunching up as they arrive behind their eyes and form on their tongues. This is infectious. I’ve ruined The Archers for you… you can thank me later.

I’m no fun to watch movies with either, as my running commentary on the tropes and tics of the language of screen tends to take away much of the suspense and intrigue. I don’t watch movies for the story anyway; everyone knows there are only seven of the damn things.

I watch movies for the slow-motion fist fights and patently ridiculous explosions. Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar.

Finally, I should write a few words about procrastination... I should, but I went and played Minecraft instead.

Sorry.

Prometheus 3D

Prometheus, Ridley Scott’s sort of prequel to Alien (1979), has some huge ideas, which it then ignores for some other huge ideas, and then fails to address any of them.

OK, look, no-one’s expecting the meaning of life to come from a Hollywood movie, but when the film purports to be an inquiry into the very nature of humanity itself, not even trying to answer the premise is pretty rubbish.

The White Tiger

This review was written as part of a portfolio and looks at the novel from a writer's perspective:

This novel won the Booker Prize in 2008, and is Aravind Adiga’s first book, telling the tale of a poor but intelligent young man and would-be entrepreneur as he tries to shake off the restrictions of his caste. The story’s strength is the unique voice of the protagonist as he relates his life as a servant via a series of letters ostensibly and somewhat impertinently addressed to the Premier of China as a preface to the leader’s upcoming tour of India.

Avengers Assemble 3D

Hollywood, so it is said, is obsessed with sequels. Run as the industry is by marketing departments, the opportunity to place whole series of films within a recognisable brand - therefore reducing the cost of promoting every film individually - is rarely turned down. Hence the juggernaut known as the “Marvel Cinematic Universe”.