Hold Up

16/09/08
1004hrs
Incoming Communication
Subject "Hold up"
Sender: Unidentified
Transmission Begins...

Wow, wow, wow, let's hold it there a second people. Let's rationalise. Let's get things in perspective; this isn't some complicated theory you're grappling with -it's the opposite. What's freaking you out, man? What's the problem? Everything's cool. Everything is completely beyond our control. Relax, let's not get ahead of ourselves.

It's a mathematical certainty that our entire civilisation and everything we have ever, or will ever accomplish will one day come to an end, forever. Our entire species is merely a brief, flickering abnormality in the infinite complexity of the universe and there's nothing we can do about it. We pretend it isn't the case, they put up cameras everywhere to watch us go from place to place but none of this nonsense really matters. None of it means anything -so the markets are toppling and Mrs Hinkledumplings can't afford the same brand of tinned salmon for her fat, spoilt house cat? So what. So the ice is melting "It's melting man! It's melting!" Ice melts. Deal with it. Our young people are burying sharp metal blades into each others' ribs? Let them do it. Let them learn. The planet's over-populated anyway, maybe one or two knifings isn't the end of the world. Take it in my friend. Take a long, deep breathe and think it over.

"It's too damned hot." complains an elderly man to the other elderly man at the bus stop.

"I hear that." said the second elderly man -now completely deaf.

Slow it all down again people; let's take a moment to consider the bizarre, the insane, the quirky, the hilarious the NONSENSE. Let's flick from the tweed jacket of our honesty one or two of those unsightly clumps of self-importance, pretension and pride and try to have a bit of a giggle at the way our planet, our race is going.

We read a lot of stuff: angry stuff. People being angry. People seethe, man, they fucking seethe -I get it, you're angry. It's ok to be angry, but do you know what's making you angry? Do you have any solutions? Or are you just going to froth and spit like a tiny, inconsequential volcano? Or are you going down in a blaze of demonic glory: a barrage of automatic rifle fire at your local high school, a satchel full of exploding shrapnel at your shopping centre, a shotgun under the chin when the news crews start rolling? Are you? Probably not. you'll probably just seethe and then lie to yourself about the "why" and the "how" and just bask in your own spewing vitriol like some kind of righteous prophet, but really you're not. You're no prophet, nobody cares what you have to say, man. Wake up and understand that nobody's listening to you, it's just part of the game.

"Why do you waste your time with this shit Micky?"

Micky didn't know. He had never known.

And for what? Where's this anger going? Is it toppling the world's financial markets? Is it pinning up CCTV -or tearing it down? It's nothing, that's what all this fury accomplishes; it's like Cognitive Behavioural Therapy -it's just about getting it out. Once it's out, it's no danger to anybody; it's only when it builds up and bubbles and snaps that it becomes real and terrible. This "information superhighway" is more like an information traffic jam: half-baked, under-researched and ill-informed opinions sit bumper-to-bumper for as far as the eye can see and everybody's leaning on their horns. Everybody's leaning out of their fucking windows emptying their clips into the air wailing all the time "listen to me! listen to these opinions!" but it's just noise, man, it's just fucking noise and nobody's listening and we just sit in the traffic jam like doomed lines of cattle awaiting the slaughterhouse.

"I've never seen anything so huge in all my life!" Exclaimed Melissa, with delight.

"Wait till you see this one then," began Max, a cocky, lopsided grin clinging onto his unshaven features, "it'll blow your mind."

But none of this means anything. We walk along and occasionally put up our umbrellas if the rain is falling in a straight line and there's not too much wind. Occasionally we joke and drink and watch the sun rise and set and make love and drive too fast and we're suddenly reminded that this is what it's all about: not the whole cake -not the whole fucking stodgy doughy mass of unsatisfying and empty garbage, but the little moments. The fact that we're beasts -but beasts that have evolved to derive some kind of enjoyment from these tiny, fleeting moments. It's these instants which make any of this ballgame worth playing: the feeling in your stomach when your car speeds into a dip; the single instant whiff from a frwshly opened bottle of claret the glimpse into the eyes of the red haired girl across the room -all of these moments add up -they build sense and they mock the everyday mechanics of our pitiable existence. They mock the anger, the empty, relentless, ranting rage. They put this whole puzzle into some kind of order.

"They fucked me up man!" Wailed Cindy,, the tears making her mascara run down her face like she was fucking melting. She leans over the mirror and blasts another line, switches nostril, blasts the other. "They fucked me up so bad!" She cries and nobody cares.

So take it down a notch people. Take it way, way down and think about what any of this means. You getting it yet? This is it: this is as good as it's ever going to get but this is also as bad as it'll ever be. Go do something strange; go out and surprise yourself -make friends with all this nonsense, it's the only thing that really makes any sense, as "sense" itself is flawed. We can't give order to a chaotic universe, we can only blind ourselves with the illusion of order.And that ain't no way to be blinded. Embrace the nonsense, it's the very flavour of existence.

A young woman empties her washing machine. Bedsheets, socks and t-shirts flop out onto the lino like entrails from a soggy beast. She begins to sort them, and as she does she weeps at the emptiness of it all.

Go be bizarre, it'll make you feel more alive.

Message Ends
1040hrs
16/09/08
TRANSMISSION ENDS