Sedlins

Sedlins sat down on the one still upright half of a splintered mahogany bench and looked around the room, carefully avoiding one particular corner. He tried the lock again, but still it held fast, though his hand came away with a sooty residue of charred tin and phosphorus. Outside manic shooting reigned, punctuated by irregular metallic crashes and the occasional harsh wave of silence. He put his ear to the frame, to a point where some crude spike of antiquity had forced its way into the erstwhile sanctuary, and tried to hear through the noise to the sounds which he knew would be there, as distant though they may be. His ear twitched as bloody wave upon wave of chaos reached it, but for the third time that hour he was neither disappointed nor relieved to hear them free of that thudding, inescapable regularity. He reached behind his back, shivering as cold fingers brushed the tender peeling skin, and touched the gun holstered in his belt, taking small irrational comfort from the fact that at least he did not look helpless. As he drew his hand away another terrible lull swept through the compound; once against his ears pricked, and were this time met with the slow creak of a great oak gate, its plaintive moan of faint resistance spreading through the night air even to this concrete sepulchre two storeys below. For just a short moment a black film seemed to engulf his senses, and when he opened his eyes the gun sat in his hand before him. He saw the inevitability of his fate starting down at him from all corners of the room, and with a deep breath returned its gaze and looked to his left, where the two sightless eyes he knew so well seemed to lead the condemnation. A second gate slammed shut somewhere in the network of corridors around the room, twice as loud as the first, even though now numbed by the pulses of adrenaline pumping through his veins. The room was now shaking, cold grey motes covering everything in a thin layer of shadow. Wiping his eyes he cocked the gun and peered into the corridor, but was only able to make out the faintest of human forms among the storm of dust. A nagging throb of impatience was seeping into his consciousness, striving to make itself felt among the raging cauldron of hormones and terror. It was not something he understood, but the culmination of a month’s unrelenting stress bubbled up inside he until he could bear nothing more, he wanted only peace at any cost. One, two, three shots, the lock lay in tatters and his magazine empty. He realised now that any hope, any recourse he might have held out for was now beyond his reach, that if it was anywhere it was miles away and fathoms above him. A third gate crashed open, no less than a hundred metres from his lowly hold. Outside shapes were forming from the shade, still a distance away and advancing slowly, but so massive as to blend into the foreground. Shards of concrete fell around him, his shoulders scraped raw and a trail of red streaming down towards his elbow. He looked at the door, at the most important inch of wood to his life thus far. The figures were clearer now, filling the whole aisle and followed by a trail of prostrate humanity. The latch was off, all it would take was the palm of his hand. Sedlins closed his eyes.

“Ave Maria, orbae gloria, indignam animam tibi donavi”

He opened the door.

The criminal ‘justice’ system. Yeah, satire.

I am aware that in writing this post I risk coming across as unhealthily right wing. I also risk coming across as distastefully left wing, and as dangerously anarchic. My point here is that I am trying as best I can to distance myself from such reactionary labels, and to present a simple critique of a system which I feel consistently fails. Nor do I focus on one country alone, and call for any major shift in one way or another. My point is broader than that: the majority of people, of all creed and colour, are idiots.

I do not feel, on the whole, that sentences are too lenient. That would be fucking stupid, and I am not fucking stupid. One of the most striking things about last summer’s riots is that the sentences handed down were disproportionately harsh, and will most likely cause far more harm than good; a Mrs. Ursula Nevin, for example was incarcerated for five months for receiving a looted pair of shorts. That is five months, or at least two and a half with good behaviour, of her life reduced to sitting in a featureless exercise ground staring blankly at a rock-hammer; not even time enough to form a friendship with a likeable ageing black man and establish an illicit accounting business. She is a mother of two, whose children’s lives could now be severely knocked off course because she received – not stolen, received – one pair of shorts. There seems to me no reason to suspect that she would be more likely to offend in future than someone committing a similar offence in ‘peacetime’, as it were, as she had no previous convictions and was clearly caught up in the mob mentality of those few days; yet Andrew Gilbert QC thought it “proper” to disregard previous sentencing guidelines and deliver far harsher sentences than were warranted. This was repeated throughout the country. Some will claim that the harsher sentences were intended to serve as a deterrent for the wider populace; the problem with this is, of course, that riots really do not come along that often you fucking idiot, and if someone wants to burn down a carpet shop they would not take much notice of the consequences.

But at the same time I do not feel that sentences are, on the whole, too harsh either. Because when you look closely, that would also be fucking stupid, and it is this widespread fucking stupidity which forms the crux of my argument. The main problem in the majority of cases is the ridiculous dogmatism which underpins sentencing guidelines, and leads to such idiocy as the sentencing of Morton Belger for two hundred years for the possession of twenty items of child pornography. Now, while I do not condone child pornography – it is acceptable only in an incredibly small number of circumstances – I most definitely condemn the reasoning behind this sentence: two hundred years in prison, for twenty illicit items; ten years per item. This is so Arizonan and arbitrary as to almost entirely lose track of the original offence – if one possesses twenty such images, and another fifty, the most probably explanation is that the latter simply has access to a faster internet connection. To consider this worthy of three hundred extra years is irrational beyond comprehension.

Several hands over, there is the case of Anders Breivik. As the majority of the five people reading this will know, Andres Breivik killed 77 people in a militant Christian terrorist attack aimed against what he considers to be the inexorable rise of Islam in Europe; the majority of those whom he killed were fleeing children, and he has not even come close to expressing remorse. He has been declared sane, and as such is subject to the Norwegian law, and Norwegian sentencing guidelines. Unfortunately for me, and for society, these stipulate a maximum of twenty one years incarceration. Twenty one years, after which it is legally required that Norway lets this man go. I draw the line at the death penalty – I will never rule out the possibility of rehabilitation – but to assume that such a person can be rehabilitated in this time, rather than in a timeframe tailored to suit his murderously unusual needs, invites all manner of problems. Not least, the prospect of having a child-murdering racist roaming free. Rather, I would suggest that the existence of such people – in which cases the sentence is issued not for the sake of a deterrent, but for their removal from society and some vague hope of rehabilitation – calls for a sentencing system under which one can be locked away for as long as needs, until they pose no danger to anyone at all.

In short, it seems clear to me that the concept of a ‘justice system’ as it is understood now is too broad to be of any use. As has been seen, the all-encompassing remit of such a system leaves too little room for the consideration of individual cases, with the result that the ideal of justice frequently masks the smaller instances of injustice which it sanctions. And of course, as I say, everyone is an utter fucking idiot.

Charlie

An Endorsement For Good TV

This post brought to you by Jack’s Lack of a Social Life.

I switch on my television, and most likely there will be no quality programming on, even with my Sky subscription. However, if I were to want to watch My Super Sweet 16, or The X-Factor, or anything else of the ilk, I’d most likely be spoilt for choice. With this in mind, it is no wonder that films such as God Bless America are being created to express the anger of the remaining sane population. An hour ago, I settled down to watch some TV with a nice Chianti, and found myself instead turning the television set off completely, and returning to my books.

It would be unfair to say, however, that there is no good television on today. Recently, the adaptation of George R R Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire returned to Sky Atlantic for a second season, and with good reason. With the exception of some scenes that have been written in by HBO in poor taste, most likely to appeal to a wider audience, the series is faithful to the books. And what good books they are – easily accessible, a wide variety of characters, and a fantastic story. I’ve not been able to stop reading them (and will soon run out of books). It would be impossible to point out the best part of this adaptation, but Peter Dinklage’s excellent portrayal of Tyrion Lannister or the depth resultant of having so many point of view characters would definitely be in such a list.

The latter point brings me on to another of HBO’s productions – The Wire. This series also makes use of different points of view – on both the ‘side’ of the police, and of the criminals, resulting in empathy for both sides. Having run for 5 seasons, The Wire may have exhausted all possible directions, but is well worth a watch for anyone with the time to spare.

Also started recently is the new Swedish/Danish production The Bridge, in which police officers from both sides of the border team up to solve a murder. It is, as often the case when the Swedes are involved, well shot, well produced, and directed with such tact and subtlety that Richard Kelly would be proud. It does however, beg the question of whether it is a complete rip-off of the late Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy. For those unfamiliar with either The Bridge or the Millennium Trilogy, an autistic woman and a middle-aged man team up to solve a murder, whilst the killer and the journalist become inextricably linked, and the mystery threatens to shame the authorities. Perhaps Stieg Larsson is spinning in his grave, but the series is still worth a watch.

Back on the other side of the Atlantic, Community’s third season is approaching its end. Whilst very different to the last three shows, it is still well written and produced, if with a different audience in mind. The cast have superb comic timing, the writing is impeccable, and the directing is subtly brilliant. Starring the still-funny Chevy Chase, the characters are all so different that the resulting gang of misfits can go on such silly adventures without you, as the viewer, worrying too much about realism – in fact, one of the characters, Abed, acts as though his life is a TV show. This results in sharp, witty satire of movie and television clichés.

I fear I may have already given you more than enough television to be getting on with, so I shall save the remaining recommendations for another time. Have fun.

Things that annoy me now I’ve passed my driving test.

Right people, listen up because this is important. When I was learning to drive, I was concentrating so hard on not making mistakes and the actual business of, y’know, driving, I didn’t really notice the actions of those around me. Now that I’ve passed, I can afford to relax a little and take in some of the sheer stupidity of the people I share the roads and general area with.

I’m going to start with the one that annoys me most, people who don’t cross at crossings. For God’s sake, it is not that inconvenient to your day to walk the minute down the street to the nearest crossing and cross safely. If you do that, I will stop, wave back to your thank you wave and carry on my way, happy in the knowledge that I haven’t killed someone. If, however, you cross in any other place, I may still appear cheerful, but inside I will be hoping that the next time you do this, you will be run over. Or better yet, you will be hit by one car and thrown into the path of another. This may seem harsh, but it’d be your own stupid fault for not crossing in the correct position and if you had the audacity to take someone to court over this, I would vigorously defend them and hope you get prosecuted for wasting police time. The fact  that this is illegal in America (where it’s called jaywalking) and not here baffles me. Crossings were put in for people’s safety, but if you HAVE to get to wherever the fuck it is you’re going, this rule obviously doesn’t fucking apply.

Cyclists. Jesus Christ, cyclists. There are many things wrong with cyclists, so I’ll start with the apparent fact that red lights don’t apply to you. Like above, when you get run over after jumping a red light, you shouldn’t be able to run crying to the police calling foul when it’s your own idiocy that put you there in the first place. You should not be able to prosecute for something that is easily avoidable. My dad noticed someone doing this and rolled down the window to shout at the cyclist about it (as dads are prone to do) and the man had no argument, resorting to childish insults and eventually dismissing the argument altogether. And another thing, I know that I’m supposed to give you space when I’m overtaking, and I try to, but it’s fucking difficult when your bike is straight down the middle of the road! You don’t need that so much space that it requires me to drive on the wrong side of the road to overtake, and besides, your bike’s only a few inches wide, you could ride right up next to the curb, but no. You have to ride right in front of where my much larger vehicle needs to be, which means I either need to drive past you into oncoming traffic, or blast the horn which will annoy you and you’ll bang on my car’s window as I go past. I should not have to do this! Your bike is slower, smaller and more dangerous (to you) than my car, which means you need to drive in the safest place for you, which is either in the bike lane or as close to curb as possible. For God’s sake, move over.

Oh, but don’t think that this is only aimed at non-motorists. No, I have a few things to say about my fellow road users as well. Firstly, how hard is it to wave when I let you out of a turning or pull over to let you get through a tight spot? If it was the other way around, you would get all pissy with me, so just fucking wave, flash your lights, whatever. It may sound silly, but you saying thank you really makes me feel much better than if you didn’t. If you don’t, I’ll drive past you ranting to myself or whoever my unfortunate passengers may be about how much of a bastard you are, and I’ll basically shout out this entire paragraph accompanied by a sarcastic “You’re welcome!” I do realise this won’t affect you in any way, but if I’m so wound up by you not saying thanks and I crash because of it, I’m fucking blaming you. Also, on a similar vein, I realise that you may be in a rush, or on your way to an important meeting. But if you’re stuck in traffic, there is nothing you can do about it. So why, oh why, oh why don’t you let me into your giant metal traffic snake? I’m sitting at a junction with this wall of cars in front of me just waiting for someone to be nice and let me join the queue of irritated, frustrated drivers. When you pull in front of me and prevent me from coming out, I have to really resist the urge to ram into the side of your car. This is just something which irritates me because one extra car in this traffic jam is not going to make you any later to your poxey meeting, and by pulling in front of me you’re declaring yourself to be more important than me. Fuck off, I need to be places too.

Well, I think that’s gone well. I must point out that the majority of people I interact with whilst driving have been thankful, polite and generally fantastic. You may be a terrible person, but if you are nice to me when I’m driving I’ll regard you as Jesus-like. Thanks for reading, I’m going to be trying to get more regular articles up soon.

Sound

I saw a quote once that said “After silence, music comes closest to expressing the inexpressible”. Another is that “music at its simplest is just the silence between notes”. I don’t know whether I agree with either or both but I find them hard to disagree with at least.

I’m sitting here in bed using my newly downloaded WordPress App (iPads rock) and everything is in total silence. It is deafening; the nothing seems louder than the music I had on my headphones only minutes ago. There seems something ironic in that the more loud music you listen to in your life the quicker you reach the stage of being able to hear nothing at all. On a broader scale, the concept of nothing defining something; being essential to something else is common to us and yet it strikes me how little I think about it. Light and dark, good and evil are the obvious ones bandied around of course, but the concept can be applied to most things. Have a think.

Anyway, the reason this post is called Sound is twofold. Not only am I contemplating in this public space about the nature of silence, but “The Sound” is also the name of an album I’m currently working on. As a synth player, among other things, I manipulate sound. That’s the entire purpose of the instrument, if you didn’t know. So I was sitting at my computer, manipulating sound, when the gravity of my whimsical actions hit me. I, an ill-informed 17 year old, can with a touch of a button create entirely new sounds, never before heard. I can bring up the waveform of a noise and see it, edit it, enhance it. I have the full power of 46 vocal choirs, to take an example, at my fingertips. And this power is not only for sound of course; special effects in films are another good example of sensory manipulation. But is it really creating new sounds and new images? They exist only on the computer, the TV, the radio, the CD player but not intrinsically in reality; so are they real? What is real? Can we even conceive the idea of real without the idea of virtual, or of fake? This of course brings me back to my original point. A world without contrast is not a world at all. I believe this also affects people to the same degree. Don’t ask what you are, ask what you’re not. The answer is the same, much as there is no music without silence, but deeper, like the noiselessness that surrounds me right now.

I hope you enjoyed this post

Growing up

No one has ever come to any trouble here, they say. It’s fine, they say, as long as you bring a light. But they never say what happens to those who don’t heed the warnings, or who simply don’t know. I know it’s silly, I know it’ll be fine, but still. I’m fucking scared.

I must have been here for at least an hour now. Maybe two, it’s hard to keep track. It might just be fifteen minutes, and that’s the most terrifying thing; if something happens in here, no one will know for hours. No one will even care, the most human contact I’ve had since I left home has been the odd freebie here and then. They treat me like a beggar; a filthy fucking beggar. Do they think I can’t afford my own basic vittles? I may be young, I may be unemployed, but I’m damned if I’m going to take it lying down.

But this cave. Holy A, this mother fucking cave. It must be at least two hours now, bordering on three. I can’t tell which way I’m walking, I just know that I’m walking and whatever light remained is slowly and inexorably fading. There used to be light, coming from the mouth of the cave behind me; back then, I could have turned back, just turned my heels and walked right back out, into the blessed sunlight. But then I fell, right through the ground, and now the only hope I have of getting out is to just keep going. Because somewhere, no matter how far it is, there has got to be an end to this nightmare.

There are other people down here. I see them occasionally, but only ever from a distance; they stand, almost ethereal in their own light, and repel by their stony demeanour. I tried to talk to one, once, but it just stood there (there’s no way to tell gender in this light). I think they might be deaf; they certainly didn’t hear my call, just stood there, like some gargoyle watching over the path, but never moving.

But it gets worse, because it turns out that they don’t just stand; they can move – oh Hell they can move. Passing by, I happened to make eye contact; I can’t tell if I did it deliberately, half of me wants to ask for help and half just wants to stand as far the fuck away as I can. It went mental, utterly batshit insane; I don’t know what I did, but it screamed like I was the first moving thing it had seen in years; ran at me, shouting, told me I ‘can’t run’ or something. Needless to say, I ran.

And now I’m clear of it, I think. I kept running until I fell down a ledge in the rock, and by the time I was up it had left. So I keep walking, because I know that there’s not owt that I can do else.

There are other things here, skulking in the darkness. These things are not people, they can’t be – no one could live like this, alone in the dark; and yet, they’re not like anything else I’ve ever come across. I’ve never seen one, they don’t carry lights, but I hear them, hammering on rocks and fighting each other, all to a gross cacophony of apish grunts. But they’re not monkeys either, they’re like a reversion to Neanderthal man; I’ve found their footprints, and I’ve found their tools. They’re upright, and they’re clever.

I saw one, holy fucking A I saw one. It passed right by me, chasing some little rat with its shaped block of flint. This is definitely no fucking monkey I’ve ever seen, it came up to my waist and was completely bald. I swear it even looked at me, massive red eyes just glancing at me, sizing me up, and moving right on off. Wasn’t scared, wasn’t aggressive, just sized me up and buggered off on its little way. This place is like another fucking universe.

There is light! Sweet Bringers of Time and Space and all that is holy under His eye, there is light. I found a spot where a ledge on the upper level had collapsed, and climbed up those rocks as fast as I could manage without seeing a foot in front of me. And now I know I’m getting closer; there’s a glow which pervades this whole area, and for the first time in what feels like a day I can see beyond my own fucking fingernails. But now I can see the shadows, great long ones coming off every little rock. I’m not scared of them, not after walking through the rest of this forsaken pit, but it’s disorientated me like I can’t even tell how many dimensions there are any more. I can see where to go now, there’s a tunnel in front of me where it’s a bit lighter. I must be close now.

This place, O mother of A this place. It’s not even the dark that gets me any more, and it’s not the claustrophobia. It’s not even the terror that I might not get out, because I know that there is a way, and I know that I will find it as long as I just keep walking. No, it’s the fact that this place feels like it’s fucking haunted. There are things around me, knocking over rocks and bouncing off the walls, but it’s like they’re ghosts; I can see all around me now, although it’s still bloody gloomy, and not once have I seen anything to make a noise; no rats, none of those fucking weird little monkey things, nothing, but I know they’re there. I swear they’re following me; either that, or this place is fucking crawling with them; but still I’ve seen none, just rocks tumbling down and a scratching, like something’s running across right in front of me. But there’s nothing there, there can’t be.

It’s the rocks. The rocks are alive. These things, they’re not knocking the rocks; they are the rocks. I don’t know what the fuck this place is, I don’t know what kind of weird shit goes on here, but I’m not staying to find out. I’m speeding up now, the floor’s getting just about light enough that I don’t trip, and I swear it must be close now. It has to be.

Running. I’m running, I have to run. They’re after me, I can hear them. Rolling, roaring, racing, the rocks. The rocks. So many, crashing down, so close.

They’re closer, so near. So near, so near. I can hear them, their calls, their shrieks. But I see it, the light, the air. Running. Jumping. Falling.

And free. It’s over, I’m alive.

______________________________________________________________

‘Rock Tunnel’, they call it. Bollocks to that, I say. Those were no rocks.

Elitism In Music Is All A Bit Stupid Really

I’m constantly taking the piss out of my brother for his taste in music. A few years ago, he was into metal and screamy things, whereas now he’s (almost) as mainstream as they come. He listens to the likes of Example, Professor Green, Kanye West and especially Labrinth at the moment (He’s just read this and his only comment was “Labrinth is sick”). So of course I take the piss, his music taste is completely different to mine. I like to think I’m a mix of indie and rock, with some pop elements. For instance, my three current favourite bands are Foo Fighters, Coldplay and Elbow, but I bought a Florence album today along with a Foster the People album, and my iTunes library also contains the likes of Dragonforce, Elton John, Cee Lo Green, Madness and Nickelback.

Liking some of these bands means that I have to take a bit of stick for liking them, namely Nickelback, who are the whipping boys of the internet at the moment, and Coldplay, who are hated by many and called boring by many more. Going back to my brother (Marc, which is easier than typing ‘my brother’ every time), he understands that I don’t like his music but still gets a tad annoyed if I repeatedly call it crap and tell him that my music is far superior, so I don’t (usually) do this. In return, Marc doesn’t bombard me with his music, and a happy balance occurs. So why do so many arguments break out over music?

Let me explain what I mean. I am not referring to people debating about which bands or genres of music are better or worse. I’m talking about the wankers who refuse to believe that anybody can listen to anything but THEIR choice of music, those who constantly attack other people’s favourites and will defend their own usually shite choice until their own deaths. These people are so annoying, I would actually be happy to give them their own little bit of the world where they can all hate each other for liking different music. The worst offenders are those who attack currently popular music (because God forbid liking something that’s popular) as if to say that because it’s different to music from their era or whatever, it’s therefore automatically crap. I am not a pop fan really, but there are exceptions. Some songs are so bloody catchy like Moves Like Jagger that I can’t help but like them, Adele is pretty popular right now and she’s rather good, and I’m even partial to a bit of David Guetta sometimes. Marc isn’t a huge fan of Coldplay, but he recently told me that Hurts Like Heaven is “amazing” and he listens to Paradise almost as much as I do. Along with his mostly poppy stuff, he likes Keane, a bit of Foo Fighters, Muse and Queen.

So I urge you, if someone has a different music taste to you, let them. Sure, tell them what you like and argue about which is better, but don’t just outright dismiss their music as shit, as you might like it. Don’t hate any one type of music, enjoy the fact that there is such a wide range out there and that there’s something for everyone to love.

Except Nicki Minaj. You can hate her. It’s ok, I’ve given you permission.

Jamie