I ran into myself at a bar last night. It was an unsettling experience to say the least.
“Hello!” he said, quite cheerfully.
“Hello,” I replied, trying to look busy with my phone, “how’s it going?”
“Pretty good actually!” he said, annoyingly cheerily. “I’m just having a few drinks. Care to join me?”
I tried to shuffle away but he wrapped a strong, snake-like arm round my shoulders and guided me to a table. We sat across from each other and he slid a beer towards me, which I sipped grudgingly. A group of girls walked past and he eyed them up with a lofty little smile on his face. One of them glanced at him and he raised his glass in a toast, to which she giggled and returned to her friends.
“You have a girlfriend,” I reminded him.
“I know, but there’s no harm in being friendly,” he laughed.
This was getting on my nerves now. I was ready to stand up from the table and just leave right then but… well, he was irresistibly handsome. I couldn’t do anything but stay.
“So what’s up? You seem a bit weird lately. Not bad weird, just weird weird.”
I sipped on my beer while contemplating the answer. “True. I’m just a bit disillusion at the moment. Don’t worry, give it a month or two and I’ll be normal.”
“Why’re you disillusioned? Watched the back of a magic show again?”
“Smart arse. Remember that party?”
“Oh God yeah. What an awesome night. And morning. Not the best afternoon though.”
“That’s not the point. That walk-”
“-and that epiphany.”
“Yeah, I tried to recreate it.”
He paused in mid sip of his drink. A smile spread across his face.
“You cock. You know how it works. A moment’s all you can ever expect from perfection. Anything else is greedy.”
“Yeah, I know it was stupid. But the feeling’s gone now. I just wanted it back.”
“It’ll come. You know it will.”
“Yeah, I know. Like I said, I’d be better eventually.”
We clinked bottles and finished them off. At that moment a girl wearing a short, thin white skirt came over to our table and flashed a pearly smile at us. Her fingernails were tinted pink and a waft of flowers emanated from her soft blonde hair.
“Excuse me,” she asked, “do you have a cigarette?”
In less than an instant we had both produced cigarettes for her.
“I only need one.” She smiled.
“Yeah,” I said, “but you might need one later.”
“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my friend over there.”
“Oh,” my counterpart commented, “take two anyway. As a gift.”
“Thank you!” she giggled. She walked away a few steps before turning on her heel and coming back. “So, tell me, why did you start smoking in the first place?”
There was a pause as I looked at myself, and then, almost synchronised, we both chorused “He has a girlfriend.”
“Oh, ok,” she blushed, “have a good night then.”
And she left.
“My round?” I asked, and left the table to buy more drinks. When I returned he was gone.
This is probably why I’m going to fail psychology. Ha ha ha I don’t really care anymore.
As the results have shown, gender is a significant attribute in a person’s spatial awareness whilst handedness is not.
The gender section of the experiment has showed that men are, characteristically, more aware of their surroundings and navigation than women are. This may seem of little use, but it could help the leader of an expedition choose who to entrust the map to, or to help a blind woman understand why she is finding it hard to cope compared to her similarly blind counterpart.
The handedness section of the experiment might not seem like it was worth it, but it does add knowledge to the list of things that is known about the mind. By doing this experiment and knowing that handedness does not affect spatial perception, another psychologist has been saved the time and effort to find out for themselves. This does not sound like much, but by knowing that this experiment has already been carried out, that psychologist will no longer have to do it and will move on to another subject of spatial awareness that will help further understanding of it. Again, this does not sound like much, but psychology cannot be filled with breakthrough after breakthrough, it has to be filled slowly and incrementally, with little segments of information gently increasing our knowledge of the brain like rain increases the volume of the ocean.
A problem found in the experiment would be the effect that the gender of the participant could have upon the handedness section of the experiment. By using two groups that have been proved to affect spatial ability in different ways, the results of the handedness experiment could have been skewed. However, the handedness experiment was not significant at all, so it is doubtful that the gender of the participant could have affected it to such a serious degree. Yet, it is something to consider in future iterations of this experiment, and in any experiment using two factors to govern an outcome.
Hypocrisy
- a poem by Jonathan Mercer
Sleepy headed fires that scorch smiles
into lush green landscapes.
Hairs sprout from carpets that groan and
heave with
unheeded desire.
Thoughts and secrets are told and retold
in the soft serenity
of a screaming ballad.
The heart thunders a whisper which
refuses to stop no matter
how
hard
one
tries.
Naked in its most clothed form
amidst thread bare skins
of fears and woes.
The charmer is the thief
of the thoughts
and the soul
and the soft, supple flesh.
The prisoner is the prison guard.
The falcon is the falconer.
The sinner is the saint.
And in the distance, a saxophone screams.
I know there’s no reason, rhyme or madness to make me feel this way. No, wrong, FUCKING WRONG, because there oh so obviously is. It’s just in my head. And not in my head.
There’s a difference between thinking the whole world conspires against you and knowing the whole world is conspiring against you. I learned this years ago. Thinking breeds hope, knowing breeds death.
But despite all this hope and promise and delusion and dejection, I feel as if I am slowly and surely going completely insane.
- and the enigma of the book is one based solely in its name, where it gives all the information you need but, no, wait, not quite enough it seems. Chapter after chapter, word after word it becomes more and more and more confusing and you think that there has to be a point to it, there has to be a point near the end that sums it all up in one glorious epiphany and the world will be a better place for it. And the ending comes and goes and all you can think about is how there was no point, how all you’re left is with the same confusing, sadly poetic lines. So you read it again, to try and see what you missed, and again, and again, and aga-
and you stop
because, you suddenly realise with a slap on the forehead and a goofy smile plastered onto that supermarket face of yours, that it’s not supposed to make sense!
so it’s read and it changed you, because things don’t make sense. things have never made sense, but there was some force in your brain alight with nuerons that convinced you there was a bigger purpose. but it’s not true
and the best part is tha
t rules don’t apply
to you
2 u
the rules don’t apply. because the rules make no sense.
so you refuse to use grammar, punctuation speling and u live ur life the way u wnt and fck whoever else decieds different until u decide to take all the power you have and condense it into a razor blade to tattoo your veins with shining silver strips that pulsate with every ocean of red and-
but it’s all ok. really.
because it just doesn’t
make
sense
Scene: Bedroom on one side and hallway with door on the other. Bedroom is in darkness while there is a light on in the hallway, illuminating the front door.
Phone rings. Light turns on in bedroom
Mercer: Hello?
Audience cheers as they realise actor is famous character actor Jonathan Mercer. Mercer smiles and gives a small wave to the audience before returning to a disgruntled face.
Mercer: Why wouldn’t I let them in? Are you coming up now?
Climbs out of bed in nothing but his underwear, audience whoops and laughs at semi-naked body. He opens the door and audience cheers again, realising it’s the famouse character actor’s brother, Michael Mercer (hence referred to as Michael). As he comes in two other men try to come in too and MErcer has to hold the door closed.
Mercer: What’s happening?
Michael: Just don’t let them in!
[audience laughs]
Door bursts open and two men fall in.
Rob: Let me see him!
Alan: No man, just lets go home.
Rob: I just want to fucking talk to him!
[audience laughs]
Mercer: Michael! Rob really wants to talk to you!
Michael: (offstage) Tell him he can fucking DIE!
[audience laughs uncontrollably. Actors have to pause whilst laughing finishes]
Mercer: I can’t let you in Rob, he doesn’t want to talk to you. You’ve been drinking and talking to him would be a bad idea at this juncture.
Alan: He’s right. Come on.
Rob: NO! I want to talk to him! I want to fix this!
Mercer: Rob, it’s 4am. I’m standing here holding you back in my underwear. I’m fucking shattered.
[audience laughs]
Rob: Just get him out here!
Mercer: What did you do?
Rob: I kissed Kelly alright! I want to apologise!
[audience makes that annoying "ooooooh" sound]
Mercer: Look, it’s not going to happen tonight. Just go home and get some rest.
Michael: (offstage) Tell that mother fucker to get OUT OF MY FLAT.
[audience laughs]
Mercer: Rob, get out. Seriously. I’m not letting you in any further, and if you don’t leave then I’m going to have to force you out with Alan.
[laughter]
Rob: Fine! Fine! Fuck it, I’m going! But I’m going to fix this! Tell him I’m sorry ok. Tell him I didn’t mean it.
Michael: (offstage) Go to fucking HELL Rob!
[audience: aww]
Mercer waves bye to Alan and Rob as they step out the flat. Offstage the audience can hear Michael pouding the walls with his fists. Mercer rubs his eyes with weariness.
Mercer: God, what a fucking night.
exeunt stage left
[audience claps and cheers and laughs. Curtain pulls closed]
“So, what would you consider yourselves?” and the room fills with quiet. Everyone’s always buzzing and moaning in a lecture until the precise moment that the lecturer turns on her pretty little high heeled shoes and looks directly at us with that usually monotonous mouth forming a wide spectrum question. The room falls silent and I noisily wriggle in my chair as the desperate searching of the lecturer sweeps over me. It was in vain. No one is perking up with a response as their own attentions are fixed irrefutably and unendingly on their navels.
I wriggle again and my chair creeks; the twig snap in a forest of leaves. Hungry eyes bore down on me and my mouth opens and shuts like I’m taking in air through my gills. I provide a half hearted shrug and the eyes look away in disappointment. She begins to pack away her things and the rest of us shuffle hopefully at the chance of leaving the room a full fifteen minutes early. It’s only when she is about to tell us to go away before I realise that I actually have something to say.
“I’m a public sociologist,” enunciating my words so every shoelace analyser would hear and know that I am delaying them from the extra fifteen minutes of freedom. The lecturers eyes are like Christmas morning and her smile spreads ear to ear. “How so?” she asks quickly and with too much eagerness dancing on her lips. I pause, for effect, and answer.
“I was thinking about what you said when it came to sociologists and power. Through study and analysis we basically know what will work and what will not work, and we also know what makes sense for the well being of the population without any bias agenda running behind it. Now, you mentioned that sociologists can only speak out against the government so much before the government gets pissed off and shuts us down, so that’s why we have professional sociologists to sit and debate and pass on knowledge to political parties who use it at their own discretion. Well, to me that seems wrong. As we all know; knowledge is power, and we have more knowledge than the government do. We know what’s right and what’s wrong,” another pause for effect as I drink in the admiration that fills up her big, watery eyes, “so we have a responsibility to see that it’s adhered to. It’s like having a firebomb of knowledge that’s made dangerous by setting it alight with statistics. We can’t just hold it smugly while people screw themselves over. We have to lob it at someone. Take aim and fire what we know and change the world.”
And that’s it. Two birds with one stone. Not only has a debate sprung up between even the most passionate of notebook doodlers and the lecturers face filled with more joy than I’d ever seen her, but I also came figured out, in the exact moment of that speech, what the story line for my third novel would be.
Hot damn that made it a good day.
Just as a little point of interest; I’ll be guest writing in Letters of Bother for the next two weeks. So, if you want to see more of me and my writing (and, honestly, who doesn’t?) take a sidelong glance at the site. And stick around after all is said and done. She’s a good writer.
‘The baby I’m carrying is human,’ she whispered, ‘but it is in danger of having a heart attack.’
We’re on the Great Wall of China and a sunny breeze is sifting her hair into my face as I hug her. She whispered the news almost sadly, but I knew in her heart that she was happy. She never wanted a baby anyway.
I move away and step into the mansion, the vibrant reds and golds welcoming me with a smile. My mum comes over covered in an assortment of fabrics with only her hands and face visible. ‘Time for the banquet,’ she calls, ‘lets go.’ But I’m not done yet. I walk over to the light switch and rest a finger on it while looking up at the overly priced chandeliers. With a grin I flick the switch on and off, but the lights stay dark. My mum looks at me confused and I laugh heartily before taking flight and spinning round the room. I shoot off as fast as I can and burst through the brick wall and spiral into the sky. With a wave of my hand I populate the ground with people, happy people who dance and sing as I curve round mountains gazing at the steam engine that shoots down it.
With a look at the blue sky and clouds I fire upwards. The wind on my face is exhilarating, and the clouds part for me as I travel faster and faster into the stratosphere. There’s a moment of peace, a moment of silence where everything stops for a moment and I see the great plains of the universe stretched out before me in every direction. I then make the utterly foolish mistake of opening my eyes, finding not Orion or the Big Dipper laying in front of me, but a ceiling. I smile and twist and fall back asleep.
Lucid dreaming is fucking awesome.
Three bricks in tow, each one clutching a strip of paper in an elastic band grasp. The driver leans forward and lights his cigarette from my lighter before I snap it shut. He laughs maniacally and drums his fingers along the rim of the wheel. I smile at him through my glasses and buckle up as he speeds up, thundering down the midnight streets with youthful reckoning. The speed was fast enough to wrench our heads from our necks if we crashed somewhere, but something about the speed set us free. We slowed to a stop in front of a huge plate glass window. Behind the portal laid hundreds and hundreds of books, lined against walls and floors with each cover shining virginially in the light. The place was deserted so I stepped out the car and ground my cigarette. I could see all the books inside, I could see all the whore pages that would be read over and over for a penny a fuck and I could see their shallow shit encrusted little faces become lost in mediocrity and dying in memory. the window made a satisfying smash when I threw the brick into it. My carrier pigeon took my words and guided them safely to a solid crack on the floor, and I wondered what people would think when they read what I wrote. I stepped into the car, shuffling glass away with my feet and we drove off deeper into the city and deeper into the night. We still had two bricks by our feet and we still had so much to say.
We were starting a writing revolution.
