06 June 2015, Bristol, some squat like
Acquiesce to them for a while. It’s not like you have any other choice.
Are you an army? All by yourself? Don’t look like one, I have to tell ya. Hate to break it to ya, hate to, but you know, if I didn’t, what kind of friend would that make me?
They asked me questions today about the way to tell people about the future, or indeed how to tell people how to tell people about the future.
What I’m saying may not by clear to you know, but it’s all based on a true story. The story of Raz.
It’s not a story many people have heard. Maybe it never will be. It’s hard to know which to hope for these days.
So they didn’t want me for the job. I could see it in her eyes. It was a fascist coup. Some guy in the reception was talking in dark tones about something political and the receptionist young hipster was nodding along cheerfully. Fascists.
But then I just sat in a café dedicated to Princess Diana for a while, drinking coffee and reading the pirate journals of Ramor Ryan, whom I once met in Chiapas. He doesn’t say ‘whom’ though.
He doesn’t seem to give a shit about grammar and punctuation, or even typos, and nor do his publishers. Anarchy in action, unlike the bourgeois scum of west London. Like the posh bit I mean. Not like Hounslow and shit.
I must have walked for hours, maybe even minutes, to find an internet café for my next assignment. I stared into the camera. They could see me but in my world it was just a small robot eye with a cheerful voice asking me how to resolve disputes between teenagers.
I was seriously considering getting my caravan towed to Cambridge and living a weird life on the edge of town, going in to busk with a mandolin to get money from all the tourists who come to see where rich kids learn about things no-one understands.
It wasn’t about the money. Not this dream. But the question was, where would I get weed from?
This question has still not been answered. Not by a long shot.
Out of nowhere, just hundreds of yards away from the seat of power, the big clock itself where all the guys and gals in silly costumes decide how to commit mass murder for rich people far away, I found myself talking to a concierge at a swanky hotel.
I felt intensely paranoid walking in there. I was wearing a suit jacket, but the massive backpack, dreads and mandolin would have been a dead giveaway.
I could tell they saw right through my act, but hey, I wasn’t there to nick anything. I had a realistic alibi, that was even true, however unlikely.
I was there for an hour, resisting the urge to drink more coffee, still reading the pirate journals. I had pretty much given up on this woman ever meeting me and went around the corner to look for a toilet, when a woman called me ‘Joseph’.
Was she a cop? No. A teacher.
It might all turn out ok after all. But no-one will ever understand it. What it feels like. To be stuck in traffic for two hours.
Who else has ever suffered this fate? WHO?
If you are one. Then. JOIN ME.
Join me in destroying the car world. By buying cars. And vans. And caravans.
The workers shall control the means of production.
Even if it means weirdness for a few years.
A lot of storytelling. And lying.
A lot of not really sleeping as much as you might want. Or having time to think.
Crazy man. But then. Are you an army?
Shall we be one together?
I am riding out West tomorrow. To the land of the GAULS.
They spell things totally differently. Really.
It’s actually a whole different country over there.
You’d better believe.
In two more days maybe I will know what’s going to happen in the future.
But in the past I thought that maybe I shouldn’t worry about the future too much, and simultaneously that I should constantly see the present in terms of it’s relation to the future.
How do you explain that? Professionally speaking?
I dismissed the idea of living in the present in the past in favour of living in the prefuture.
The present was a means to an end, which was the future.
It’s unwritten and we are writing it now, whether we are conscious of it or not.
That is, unless there is actually no causality in the universe at all and every moment is completely randomly following on from the next one for no particular reason. Who knows?
If so, then should we live in the present, or still see it in terms of the prefuture, as a constant expectation of random delights or terrors that may arise?
I am trying to decide whether to live in the present.
Perhaps I will in the future. So then now is the prefuture of the time I will live in the now that will be then.
I met a musician on the bus. We had somehow just gotten lost. It was insane. These people are paid to drive from London to Bristol, two cities with a massive straight motorway connecting them. All you have to fucking do is drive straight.
But no. You have to drive around the West End for two fucking hours, YOU PRICK.
Arriving in Bristol, it was a brisk stroll back to the squat, stopping FOR AGES, to get some REALLY SHIT chips. Don’t ever go to that chip shop. Seriously. You know the one, or you will when you get there.
It’s like, every fucking place that sells chips, which is a lot of places really, probably tens of thousands in the country, maybe millions, they fucking just fry them up all day, and keep doing it.
You know why? I’ll tell you.
SO THEY’RE FUCKING READY WHEN PEOPLE WANT TO BUY THEM, DICKHEAD.
That’s how you get customers. By fucking cooking nice food and giving a good service. Come on now
So that’s it, I’m getting out of this whole fucking mess of England and Englishness and bullshit chip shops. Welsh people wouldn’t stand for this.
This musician guy got paid 700 dollars a minute. Literally, sometimes it took him all week. All of this is true.
Simon Panrucker? I think that’s what he said. Look him up.
I’ll see you there.