The storm has been blowing all day. At the tube station the dust was mounting up on the stairs. As I veloed home the sky gloomed monstrously and the roads were scattered with bits of tree and restless litter. The future is always in the present, and that’s why storms.
I work at the Public Tree Service, so it was a busy day. Only two of our remaining trees succumbed, but I fielded comms all day from people who doubtless voted for the Vermin Party who wanted a public service to sort out their private problems. We’re not allowed to scream ‘The Vermin Party don’t believe in public service’ down the phone at them until they start sobbing in apology for their selfishness, so polite refusal is the order of the day.
The vermin didn’t cause this storm, they merely ensure its dominance over us, our helplessness in the face of the future.
After dinner I’m off to see the Red Flash. She and I are trying to put together a podcast, the sound of defiance spoken in reasonable tones. Perhaps we should abandon the reasonableness. What have we got left to lose? But I am tired. Isn’t everyone in Londres?
I wrote today to Dynamo Sparkle, who is unafflicted by weariness, feeling affectionate towards her. The future and the past have been casting a pall over both of us, so I wanted to say some words, mention the future. If we are not kind to each other, there is no-one else who will be kind.
The news from the Orient is grim. The madmen are still in control of large areas. Efforts to contain them are in place, but savagely compromised by dubious alliances and the presence of fuckwits in the coalition of the goodies. The madmen will not bring the end of the world as they would like to. They are less important than that. It is the coalition who will play a more important part in our end. Warnings of this future are everywhere, but they have no idea how to avoid that role, headed as they are by men with crippled imaginations and led about by the nose by the money men.
Londres is the centre of it all, and the violence of far away haunts us only in ways we struggle to understand. Debt is rising. The baillif is knocking, knocking.