Some sun today, and a day off for me. Somehow I barely got out of doors, caught up in a to-do list with no end. No end but one, and that may take some time. Seriously, I’ve been trying lately to bring my to-do list to a zero point but it doesn’t work. Things grow there, as welcome as parasites in an eyeball.
Last night I saw the Red Flash and Power Fist. Everyone was tired but we gossiped while we drank a berry brew. Everyone is swirling around trying to find a way to live here without giving up all autonomy. The banks would pay us fine but then they’d own us. There used to be some culture where money was barely a factor, squats and dole and profit-free flats and skipping food. The Vermin have made it difficult for this to exist, and deliberately so. You are only the monetary worth to them, a set of figures in their spreadsheets, a flesh machine with potential to do some work for them.
But we had a good chat. I got to reveal that I used to work in the Palace of the Managers. That surprised everyone, even if I played the most minor of roles. I hated the corridors of that place, and I realised the Managers were playing a game in which I didn’t figure. That’s why Londres is the way it is now. That’s why we have to fuck them up.
The Red Flash told me about a friend of hers who, for her degree show, and amidst the government cuts rampaging through our lives, exhibited the names, addresses and salaries of all the senior poobahs of the university. She struggled to get her degree awarded after that. Soft power forms into hard so easily. Londres has sharp edges, right?
I was at the local ceremonial hut picking up some food ordered collectively from all over the world when I heard voices outside. Two men, perhaps street drinkers, perhaps drunk right now if their tones were anything to go by, were picking through the bags of clothes left out there for charity. I left them to it. Who was more deserving than those for whom Londres has already ended?