A letter to a friend from the heart of the sun
“Hey You! Don’t help them to bury the light”
Hey buddy!
I was listening to Pink Floyd on my drive to toy town today and all I could picture was Bombay in 1989 and smoking the strongest weed we could find as we played Scrabble on the balcony overlooking the cricket ground. You remember those summer nights Jack? Getting so stoned we could barely make out the game worn letters on those forever pleasing tiles as the sun set on our rampant and reckless teenage lives?
Whatever became of those teenagers Jack?
I was pondering this very question this morning as I watched some Aussie Rules Football and on a Thursday morning as I busily distracted myself from my afternoon task ahead but it wasn’t the afternoon yet my old friend. So I settled in for some odd shaped football on a Thursday morning which, because of the strange vagaries of the time Matrix was actually late Thursday evening in Australia and on a day that I was convinced had the feel of a Saturday about it too. All I had to do was tattoo “Never Answer The Phone” on my thigh and I’d be living in a Christopher Nolan movie and it was this in-joke that received absolutely no love whatsoever within the madhouse of Twitter and I went into a tailspin, spouting “we all live in a VAR World now” and yes, this dystopian joke received zero fucking love either and as I was wondering why I’m utterly dreadful in the maddening Matrix game entitled “Social Media”, I thought I’d calm myself down by inhaling industrial strength limescale remover in the smallest bathroom known to man, and that’s when the madness really descended in earnest.
After an hour locked inside a bathroom with only some playful unicorns and the phantasms of present and past for company I needed an escape Jack and as you know me as well as anyone else in our entire upside down world, I headed for my spiritual home once more. It was pleasantly warm but alas too late in the day to see Samantha, she of the innocent sexual flirtation and Jeremy, my favourite Welsh Englishman, but “Bruce” the Basset Hound was all present and correct in toy town’s doggie daycare of delights and boy did he look magnificent today! All sprawled out on the grass, long floppy ears just waiting for someone to come along and play with and just the supreme ruler of his own kingdom. He’s a handsome boy Jack, and I bet he’s broken some hearts in his time. You too my old friend. Remember the Copacabana in 1997 and poker on the beach with the locals until dusk, night after glorious night? “Never fold a pair of deuces” remember that night? You broke someone’s heart that night my friend, and I doubt he’s forgiven you to this very day. What larks eh Jack!
Suffice to say the “Grand Old Lady” looked a picture in the early evening sunshine and I was rightly pleased I’d returned once more to my home away from home away from home. Our home city has looked a picture too in recent days and especially so today as, via the medium of The Matrix, I ventured home and to pictures of a proud city so inextricably linked to both of our great wars. There’s a third coming but I doubt we’ll be sending warships this time. The cyber war will merge with the war of machines, drones and soldiers playing a remote game of death as we all await the mushroom cloud of a forever nuclear winter. Remember our games of snooker Jack in the Naval Social Club and our pride at both announcing, time and again, that we were the sons of proud sailors of yesteryear?
Halcyon nihilistic days my old friend.
Halcyon nihilistic days.
Remember when the crazies said they were going to put face masks on cows and Bill Gates started chopping trees down like a demented fucking lumberjack whilst insisting we all ate insects and laboratory grown meat to save our prehistoric rock spinning through the vastness of an unquantifiable infinity? Good times weren’t they Jack? Today we had a COVID ghost of Christmas past state that all cows in America should be tested for bird flu. Yes Jack! Bird flu. You couldn’t make it up and yet someone has, just as another someone just made up all the humanity draining restrictions during a “pandemic” they created, before every country in our space rock followed suit, lock-step, yet someone had just made it all up. What larks eh Jack. What larks.
No-one will ever be prosecuted for the collective damage inflicted upon the human family, and we’ll all be told to believe our lying eyes once more as yet another distraction bamboozles us until another is loaded into their poisonous gun. I say each and every one of these ghouls and goblins that lied on behalf of their demonic paymasters from the 5th Dimension are rounded up, shipped to an island, and then, we release a ravenous pack of wolverines. Do wolverines come in packs Jack? I’m fucked if I know but I do know this game show has legs and with TV cameras installed throughout the island I feel sure this to be a ratings winner and most importantly of all, a warning to anyone else to never fuck with our human family ever again.
I’m a dreamer Jack, and I’m not the only one. Sadly this joke went the way of my previous attempts recently within the madhouse of Twitter. It’s a game I’m destined never to win and much like this silly game we all play called “blogging” but before I reach a denouement that will hopefully tickle your funny bone, here’s another image from today, and from a piece of heaven on earth.
This letter hasn’t transpired or been accurately transcribed from the rattling shell of my crumbling mind in exactly the fashion I pictured it earlier Jack, and I’m sorry my old friend. I was sitting on “Stephen’s Bench” in my spiritual home, feeding the pigeons scraps from my box of chips whilst singing “Parklife” by Blur even though I detest both that song and indeed the band who spawned it, but that’s me Jack, contradictions to the end and from the heart of the sun as always. I was thinking of penning a letter to you detailing an existential angst I can’t shake, a fear of the future that hasn’t arrived and how I’m living in a Christopher Nolan movie and I’m waiting for Michael Caine to appear at any time now.
I’m forever creating enigmas and riddles for myself that I can’t solve and quite frankly I’m one step away from inking a tattoo of a stranger’s car number plate on my arm, but what really irks me Jack, what really boils my piss, are those dastardly Medium Facebook Groups and a final proof, if one were needed, that we all live in a Matrix of electrical doom.
I’ll explain why.
You see, I avoided Facebook like a pandemic plague until 2021 when I decided it would be a fine and dandy idea to share my writing with my old friends and remaining members of my family. Big mistake. Aside from one or two notable exceptions, my writing garnered zero attention or interest whatsoever and so I’ve given up sharing my writing there. Then I made the mistake 18 or so months ago of sharing my writing within those Facebook Groups of vexatious vacuity and now, get this, I have 10 (count em!) 10 articles being held in purgatorial limbo on one group, numerous groups now “hold” or presumably check all is well before releasing it into the wilds of the group and I can’t believe how fucking furious I am about this.
One group has the temerity to permanently place 10 (count em!) 10 pieces of my original writing, not copied and pasted garbage from the internet or AI generated or chatgpt created dog shit which reads as though it was written by a 7 year old with blunt crayons no, original pieces of writing complimented by pictures or videos I created and curated, lovingly, from original ideas from a human being who sees writing as his raison d’être and an escape from an upside down world so upside down it’s now upside down squared to the root of utter abject insanity.
I was going to call the administrators of the group holding my writing to ransom cocksuckers but that would be unfair as I doubt many are actually human and if indeed they are, they’ve clearly lost their humanity. I reckon they can’t stand the competition, relying instead on copied and pasted rubbish written by someone else as writing isn’t their passion it’s just another grift in a life of grifts in a game of life of pyramid schemes for pyramid dreams, and a game they won’t win as the house holds all the Aces and if it doesn’t, well it has a couple of spare 2’s up its sleeve just in case.
Someone is holding my writing to ransom Jack, and I want them sent to the island with the other demonic, anti-human infidels.
Those wolverines sure are hungry.
This rambling musing was brought to you in association with the numbers 6, 6 and 6 and the letter M.
Thanks for reading. I hope this message in a bottle in The Matrix finds you well, prospering, and the right way up in an upside down world.