A smartarse post title. Well, that's a start. It's also an implicit explanation, because although there's been no fresh content here for at least a couple of months, there are half a dozen posts sitting in the "drafts" folder, all unfinished for a variety of interruption-based reasons. Yes, I've been busy, and yes - blogging is, or should be, a "business".
I used to be better at this, of that there's no doubt. In a different life, I was predictably prolific - churning out daily entries, and participating via comments on a host of other blogs across a wide spectrum. I've sort of disappeared, and it's a huge relief that no one's (publicly) mourned my passing.
The slightly sad truth is that I care a lot less now about "being heard" than I used to, and - on balance - that's a good thing. Having something to add, or critique, is part of that "mythical privilege" which I definitively intended to ridicule and exploit when I launched this blog. The irony of failure can only be appreciated after the fact, but the fact that I'm still alive - and blogging - is actually amusing...at least to me. Maybe that's enough, but I suspect that it isn't.
If I've piqued your curiosity about those entries sitting in the "drafts" folder, allow me to "untease" you. Two of them were attempts to end the perfect blonde narrative I originally launched here about a year ago. I guess it just didn't want to be terminated so easily. Another one was a Prufrockian series of observations about a party that never happened, and another was a follow-up to a piece about that girl with pink hair in the park. Jesus, this really isn't helping, is it? The last two aborted entries were quite different, and represented some of the difficulties I've experienced in coming to terms with two very different losses. Neither was satisfactory, and both epitomised the sense of failure which is now my constant companion.
I'm not done here. Be assured of that.
Sunday 28 September 2014
Friday 4 July 2014
That Crispy Feeling
Eight years out, what's to be scared of? Not rhetorical. Definitely not rhetorical. Just Google "Gareth Williams" if you don't believe me. Poor sod. There's burned, and then there's a whole lot of scorching that goes on. People think the term tends to be the property of the CIA, but that's not the case. It's pretty much universal now. Ask what used to be called Mossad, if you dare.
So why now? What's plonked a ginger tabby in the pigeon coop? An idea, that's what. An idea for a 4-part TV series based upon (fairly) recent and (potentially embarrassing) current events. It wouldn't make the G6 folks nervous (they're above it all), but it might draw attention to the utter weirdness of SIS recruitment, how it's concealed, and why academia in Britain has such a curious relationship with the security services.
You see? This is already starting to feel like a half-arsed pitch, and I haven't even got to the juicy stuff yet. Take a breath. Relax. The carefully-constructed mask of Internet-based anonymity hasn't slipped yet. But it will, as soon as I throw a few "character" names into the mix, because - as many have pointed out - I'm rubbish at names. Even the think-tank I worked for was burdened with a nom-de-plume (by order of the Director) in private correspondence, and I got warned about subsequent Google searches tracked to Manchester and Glasgow as a consequence. This is difficult. I signed a lot of paperwork back in the day, and much of it remains in effect eight years on, as I found to my cost fairly recently.
This isn't bravery. It's more akin to suicide. And some of us don't have the welcoming arms of embassy staff to fall into.
But it's a blog post. Let's keep it under that happy umbrella of convenience, eh? If this were a pitch, it'd be addressed to Channel 4. In the old days, it might've been headed in the direction of BBC3, but they're screwed now, and that's sad. Our protagonist is a fairly low-level analyst/researcher working for a think-tank that..."has links" to MI5. It's not quite an open secret, but he's progressed far enough to realise that reports and analyses have direct consequences, some of which actually get reported in the mainstream media. When one of his reports gets picked up by a Cabinet committee, he's called upon to present his findings directly to the PM.
Now, let's say - again, for convenience - that this report concerns the possible "turning" of Abu Basir al-Tartusi to Western-sensitive interests in Syria, and that our protagonist believes a double acquisition of assets is possible, due to the former's links with a radical Islamic preacher in the UK.
I genuinely hope this isn't going above your heads. Do the reading, even if your sources are Wikipedia, and whatever bullshit the Daily Telegraph website likes to scare its readers with. Obviously, for the purposes of TV drama, the names would be changed...slightly. This is all episode one material. Episode two would kick off with our protagonist getting the go-ahead from his Director to pursue his case, and an intervention from G6, taking our protagonist to their version of the Farm. At this point, all bets are off - our protagonist is being prepared for an actual field op, much to his protestations.
This is where we have a real problem. It's mainly down to the telescoping of time, and plausibility. Of course, it's only a problem if you're a devotee of cold, hard reality, because this stuff happens all the time, but no one wants you to know that. At some point, an upper-echelon spook has decided that our protagonist is, essentially, expendable, but he deserves a shot at what he's aiming for.
So episode three would kick off with our protagonist, now trained in the dirty arts, preparing to meet the UK-based radical preacher at a mosque in Holborn (sorry, I went for the crunchingly familiar). Remember, the whole point of the op is to effectively turn the guy over time, but the clock is ticking, and events are moving at a dizzying pace. Islamic youths in the UK are being radicalised, and shipped-out to flashpoints in Syria and Iraq at a rate of knots. Another agent has been dispatched to follow-up on our protagonist's line regarding Abu Basir al-Tartusi, but he's proving elusive to track down. It's all looking somewhat hopeless when...our protagonist meets the daughter of the radical Islamic preacher.
Yes, I know what you're thinking. And you're probably right. Romantic angle, yeah? Yeah. Well, a bit. But our protagonist, who has come to his "training" somewhat late is neither James Bond nor George Smiley (hello, extremes of the continuum). He's fairly desperate to be proved right, whatever the cost. So the somewhat Westernized daughter of the radical preacher (she refuses the hijab, and considers her father a problem to be solved, whatever the cost) is only a partial help.
Episode four is where it all comes together, the disparate threads of the narrative coalescing, and our protagonist caught in the ultimate trap of proscribed duty and desperate inclination. Does he ultimately succeed, or is he burned beyond recognition?
I'm not going to tell you. I'll be pitching this to Channel 4, so let's hope you find out in due course.
So why now? What's plonked a ginger tabby in the pigeon coop? An idea, that's what. An idea for a 4-part TV series based upon (fairly) recent and (potentially embarrassing) current events. It wouldn't make the G6 folks nervous (they're above it all), but it might draw attention to the utter weirdness of SIS recruitment, how it's concealed, and why academia in Britain has such a curious relationship with the security services.
You see? This is already starting to feel like a half-arsed pitch, and I haven't even got to the juicy stuff yet. Take a breath. Relax. The carefully-constructed mask of Internet-based anonymity hasn't slipped yet. But it will, as soon as I throw a few "character" names into the mix, because - as many have pointed out - I'm rubbish at names. Even the think-tank I worked for was burdened with a nom-de-plume (by order of the Director) in private correspondence, and I got warned about subsequent Google searches tracked to Manchester and Glasgow as a consequence. This is difficult. I signed a lot of paperwork back in the day, and much of it remains in effect eight years on, as I found to my cost fairly recently.
This isn't bravery. It's more akin to suicide. And some of us don't have the welcoming arms of embassy staff to fall into.
But it's a blog post. Let's keep it under that happy umbrella of convenience, eh? If this were a pitch, it'd be addressed to Channel 4. In the old days, it might've been headed in the direction of BBC3, but they're screwed now, and that's sad. Our protagonist is a fairly low-level analyst/researcher working for a think-tank that..."has links" to MI5. It's not quite an open secret, but he's progressed far enough to realise that reports and analyses have direct consequences, some of which actually get reported in the mainstream media. When one of his reports gets picked up by a Cabinet committee, he's called upon to present his findings directly to the PM.
Now, let's say - again, for convenience - that this report concerns the possible "turning" of Abu Basir al-Tartusi to Western-sensitive interests in Syria, and that our protagonist believes a double acquisition of assets is possible, due to the former's links with a radical Islamic preacher in the UK.
I genuinely hope this isn't going above your heads. Do the reading, even if your sources are Wikipedia, and whatever bullshit the Daily Telegraph website likes to scare its readers with. Obviously, for the purposes of TV drama, the names would be changed...slightly. This is all episode one material. Episode two would kick off with our protagonist getting the go-ahead from his Director to pursue his case, and an intervention from G6, taking our protagonist to their version of the Farm. At this point, all bets are off - our protagonist is being prepared for an actual field op, much to his protestations.
This is where we have a real problem. It's mainly down to the telescoping of time, and plausibility. Of course, it's only a problem if you're a devotee of cold, hard reality, because this stuff happens all the time, but no one wants you to know that. At some point, an upper-echelon spook has decided that our protagonist is, essentially, expendable, but he deserves a shot at what he's aiming for.
So episode three would kick off with our protagonist, now trained in the dirty arts, preparing to meet the UK-based radical preacher at a mosque in Holborn (sorry, I went for the crunchingly familiar). Remember, the whole point of the op is to effectively turn the guy over time, but the clock is ticking, and events are moving at a dizzying pace. Islamic youths in the UK are being radicalised, and shipped-out to flashpoints in Syria and Iraq at a rate of knots. Another agent has been dispatched to follow-up on our protagonist's line regarding Abu Basir al-Tartusi, but he's proving elusive to track down. It's all looking somewhat hopeless when...our protagonist meets the daughter of the radical Islamic preacher.
Yes, I know what you're thinking. And you're probably right. Romantic angle, yeah? Yeah. Well, a bit. But our protagonist, who has come to his "training" somewhat late is neither James Bond nor George Smiley (hello, extremes of the continuum). He's fairly desperate to be proved right, whatever the cost. So the somewhat Westernized daughter of the radical preacher (she refuses the hijab, and considers her father a problem to be solved, whatever the cost) is only a partial help.
Episode four is where it all comes together, the disparate threads of the narrative coalescing, and our protagonist caught in the ultimate trap of proscribed duty and desperate inclination. Does he ultimately succeed, or is he burned beyond recognition?
I'm not going to tell you. I'll be pitching this to Channel 4, so let's hope you find out in due course.
Tuesday 20 May 2014
Codeword Mastiff
The girl hesitated by the bench, looking at him through narrowed eyes, and tucked a wayward strand of pink hair behind her ear.
"Are you all right?" she asked. He glanced up at her, startled.
"What a question!"
She shrugged, but stood her ground.
"Sorry," he said, "That came out a little loud. I don't do much talking. Except to myself. And then I really holler. But I'm a bit out of practice with this...one to one stuff."
That made her laugh.
"Are you a monk?"
"Wow. You've really got the questioning line mastered, haven't you? For an encore I'm hoping you'll ask me what the meaning of life is. Why do you think I might be a monk? This," he tapped his brown corduroy denim-style jacket, "Is positively my best non-monk disguise, too."
Apparently deciding that it was safe to sit down beside him, she did so.
"I knew a monk once," she said. "He looked a lot like you - shaved head, goatee beard. He went to Nepal a couple of years ago."
"Smart fella. Did he ever come back?"
"I don't know. We lost touch."
"I'm sorry to hear that. No."
"No...what?"
"No, I'm not a monk. Right now, I'm not entirely sure what I am. The standard definitions seem a bit redundant, and liable to provoke undeserved sympathy. Let's swing the telescope around. How do you spend your time?"
She leaned back on the bench, stretching out her legs.
"Well, obviously I talk to strange men in parks. When I'm not grooming dogs."
"Good grief, is that an internet thing?"
She convulsed in giggles.
"We have got a website. And a van!"
"I pity the poor pooches. Little do they know that the trail of treats leads to capture, eventual enslavement, and supremely glossy coats."
"You know, Diane's writing our new ad for the local paper, but I think you should do it."
"And when the business is a failure, you could write it off as a tax loss. I like your sense of planning. It smacks of Machiavelli."
"So," she said, "Are you all right?"
He gazed into the middle distance as a cloud passed before the sun, muting the greens and yellows of the surrounding parklands.
"Not really," he sighed, "But I hope to be. Perhaps once I graduate from being...a strange man in the park."
She blushed.
"I didn't really mean it like that."
"I know. It's okay."
"You looked worried. And sort of familiar. I think I've seen you around somewhere."
"Probably at a bus stop. I'm usually going from somewhere to somewhere else. Perhaps I should look out for you in your van. Hitch a lift with all the captive canines."
They were silent for a moment as the clouds began to part and the sunlight returned.
"I get the feeling," she said, "That you've got a million things to do."
"And that's just this afternoon," he nodded.
She took her mobile 'phone in its glittery silver case out of her pocket, and stared at him.
"Right, I need you to know something," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"All the ransom notes for the dogs are made from letters cut out of the Evening Echo?"
She frowned.
"I'm being serious."
"Sorry. Go on."
"I have literally never done this before. For all I know, you're some fugitive on the run from an open prison."
He grimaced.
"There's a lot of that about lately, isn't there? Never let it be said that our criminal justice system lacks some fairly fundamental flaws."
"Christ, please tell me you're not a Sun reader."
He solemnly held up his right hand.
"I am not now, nor have ever been, a reader of the Sun newspaper."
She shook her head.
"My God, you're all jokes, aren't you?"
"It's a temporary aberration, I assure you. I'm sixty per cent serious, and forty per cent terrified out of my wits most of the time."
She smiled at him.
"That sounds healthy."
He shook his head.
"Not at three o'clock in the morning, it isn't. Somewhere in the world, right now, it's three o'clock in the morning. We should probably remember that."
"I'm going to give you my number. Has your 'phone got an NFC chip?"
He stared at her, shocked.
"What witchcraft is this? Not only did you use 'an' correctly, but you know about Near Field Communication. Keep this up, and it'll be the ducking stool for you, my dear."
She rolled her eyes.
"Again with the jokes."
"I can't help it," he said, "I'm rapidly veering into that forty per cent quotient. No, sorry, my 'phone's old. It's got whiskers, a pension, and a free bus pass. In fact, for all I know, every time I put it back into my pocket, it slips into a comfy pair of mini incontinence pants."
She leaned against him, laughing out loud.
"How do you come up with this stuff?"
"Believe me, you don't want to know."
"Actually, I sort of do. That's the point."
Again, they lapsed into temporary silence. A chestnut-coloured mastiff suddenly bounded up to the bench, hotly pursued by a man in shorts wearing a Reebok t-shirt.
"Sorry," said the man, "I was just sorting out the lead, and he bolted. Come on, Hercules."
They watched them sort themselves out and move away into the park proper.
"That's a great name for a dog, but the divinity-based antecedental pressure must be immense. Psychologically, he's probably a complete mess."
The girl with pink hair shook her head again, and turned on the bench to face him.
"Who are you?"
He stared down at the ground.
"Your toughest question yet. Does it matter? Really?"
She bit her lip.
"I don't know, but probably, yes. I'm just sensing this weird...connection with you."
He nodded, his gaze drifting off to the woods beyond the park.
"It's something I fundamentally understand, but could never explain. A combination of randomness, biology, and pure circumstance guiding events. I was at a house party in the eighties, and was hopelessly in love with this girl who was crazy about at least two other guys at the time. I don't know what I was, or represented to her, probably a kind of surrogate brother, but it was a hopeless scenario, and persisted for nearly a decade. Imagine that."
"The eighties? How old are you?"
He sighed, and stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"I'm going to guess at...twice your age. And you have my permission to leave immediately."
She laughed.
"I'm older than I look."
"That's interesting, because I used to look older than I am. Somewhere along the line, things somehow evened out."
The girl slipped a card out of her mobile 'phone case. It had a cartoon of a poodle and a shampoo bottle on it.
"Second number on the card," she said, handing it over. "I need to go. But I need you to know that I really don't want to. Call me."
"Codeword Mastiff?"
Again, she laughed, raising herself from the bench.
"You're very...different."
"That's not always a good thing."
"Yes," she said, "Yes it is. But you probably wouldn't appreciate that, and I think I know why. Codeword Mastiff."
She was some yards away when he said, under his breath, "She's got pink hair. This world is officially extraordinary."
FIN
"Are you all right?" she asked. He glanced up at her, startled.
"What a question!"
She shrugged, but stood her ground.
"Sorry," he said, "That came out a little loud. I don't do much talking. Except to myself. And then I really holler. But I'm a bit out of practice with this...one to one stuff."
That made her laugh.
"Are you a monk?"
"Wow. You've really got the questioning line mastered, haven't you? For an encore I'm hoping you'll ask me what the meaning of life is. Why do you think I might be a monk? This," he tapped his brown corduroy denim-style jacket, "Is positively my best non-monk disguise, too."
Apparently deciding that it was safe to sit down beside him, she did so.
"I knew a monk once," she said. "He looked a lot like you - shaved head, goatee beard. He went to Nepal a couple of years ago."
"Smart fella. Did he ever come back?"
"I don't know. We lost touch."
"I'm sorry to hear that. No."
"No...what?"
"No, I'm not a monk. Right now, I'm not entirely sure what I am. The standard definitions seem a bit redundant, and liable to provoke undeserved sympathy. Let's swing the telescope around. How do you spend your time?"
She leaned back on the bench, stretching out her legs.
"Well, obviously I talk to strange men in parks. When I'm not grooming dogs."
"Good grief, is that an internet thing?"
She convulsed in giggles.
"We have got a website. And a van!"
"I pity the poor pooches. Little do they know that the trail of treats leads to capture, eventual enslavement, and supremely glossy coats."
"You know, Diane's writing our new ad for the local paper, but I think you should do it."
"And when the business is a failure, you could write it off as a tax loss. I like your sense of planning. It smacks of Machiavelli."
"So," she said, "Are you all right?"
He gazed into the middle distance as a cloud passed before the sun, muting the greens and yellows of the surrounding parklands.
"Not really," he sighed, "But I hope to be. Perhaps once I graduate from being...a strange man in the park."
She blushed.
"I didn't really mean it like that."
"I know. It's okay."
"You looked worried. And sort of familiar. I think I've seen you around somewhere."
"Probably at a bus stop. I'm usually going from somewhere to somewhere else. Perhaps I should look out for you in your van. Hitch a lift with all the captive canines."
They were silent for a moment as the clouds began to part and the sunlight returned.
"I get the feeling," she said, "That you've got a million things to do."
"And that's just this afternoon," he nodded.
She took her mobile 'phone in its glittery silver case out of her pocket, and stared at him.
"Right, I need you to know something," she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
"All the ransom notes for the dogs are made from letters cut out of the Evening Echo?"
She frowned.
"I'm being serious."
"Sorry. Go on."
"I have literally never done this before. For all I know, you're some fugitive on the run from an open prison."
He grimaced.
"There's a lot of that about lately, isn't there? Never let it be said that our criminal justice system lacks some fairly fundamental flaws."
"Christ, please tell me you're not a Sun reader."
He solemnly held up his right hand.
"I am not now, nor have ever been, a reader of the Sun newspaper."
She shook her head.
"My God, you're all jokes, aren't you?"
"It's a temporary aberration, I assure you. I'm sixty per cent serious, and forty per cent terrified out of my wits most of the time."
She smiled at him.
"That sounds healthy."
He shook his head.
"Not at three o'clock in the morning, it isn't. Somewhere in the world, right now, it's three o'clock in the morning. We should probably remember that."
"I'm going to give you my number. Has your 'phone got an NFC chip?"
He stared at her, shocked.
"What witchcraft is this? Not only did you use 'an' correctly, but you know about Near Field Communication. Keep this up, and it'll be the ducking stool for you, my dear."
She rolled her eyes.
"Again with the jokes."
"I can't help it," he said, "I'm rapidly veering into that forty per cent quotient. No, sorry, my 'phone's old. It's got whiskers, a pension, and a free bus pass. In fact, for all I know, every time I put it back into my pocket, it slips into a comfy pair of mini incontinence pants."
She leaned against him, laughing out loud.
"How do you come up with this stuff?"
"Believe me, you don't want to know."
"Actually, I sort of do. That's the point."
Again, they lapsed into temporary silence. A chestnut-coloured mastiff suddenly bounded up to the bench, hotly pursued by a man in shorts wearing a Reebok t-shirt.
"Sorry," said the man, "I was just sorting out the lead, and he bolted. Come on, Hercules."
They watched them sort themselves out and move away into the park proper.
"That's a great name for a dog, but the divinity-based antecedental pressure must be immense. Psychologically, he's probably a complete mess."
The girl with pink hair shook her head again, and turned on the bench to face him.
"Who are you?"
He stared down at the ground.
"Your toughest question yet. Does it matter? Really?"
She bit her lip.
"I don't know, but probably, yes. I'm just sensing this weird...connection with you."
He nodded, his gaze drifting off to the woods beyond the park.
"It's something I fundamentally understand, but could never explain. A combination of randomness, biology, and pure circumstance guiding events. I was at a house party in the eighties, and was hopelessly in love with this girl who was crazy about at least two other guys at the time. I don't know what I was, or represented to her, probably a kind of surrogate brother, but it was a hopeless scenario, and persisted for nearly a decade. Imagine that."
"The eighties? How old are you?"
He sighed, and stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"I'm going to guess at...twice your age. And you have my permission to leave immediately."
She laughed.
"I'm older than I look."
"That's interesting, because I used to look older than I am. Somewhere along the line, things somehow evened out."
The girl slipped a card out of her mobile 'phone case. It had a cartoon of a poodle and a shampoo bottle on it.
"Second number on the card," she said, handing it over. "I need to go. But I need you to know that I really don't want to. Call me."
"Codeword Mastiff?"
Again, she laughed, raising herself from the bench.
"You're very...different."
"That's not always a good thing."
"Yes," she said, "Yes it is. But you probably wouldn't appreciate that, and I think I know why. Codeword Mastiff."
She was some yards away when he said, under his breath, "She's got pink hair. This world is officially extraordinary."
FIN
Sunday 18 May 2014
This Man Beyond Impediments.
Everybody wanted a story that day. Some revelatory tale that might simultaneously contextualise and enlighten. It was a tough ask, and the author paused too long.
"What should I say? What can be said? Is it fancy, or dim cowardice that stays my hand upon the keyboard?"
A wiser voice replied, "You're such that the moment has no control. Seize that opening, master the complexities of the silence, and give what you have without regret."
So fleeting, all that doubt. So inescapably trite amidst the inherent chaos of reckoning and reconsideration. Heroism, redefined, became the convenient watchword of an emasculated policy of self-determined withdrawal, instead of blatant exterior expression. He'd caved in, instead of reaching out, and that error became definitive...for only a moment.
"I do have something to say," cried the author, "And it will be heard, in however scant a quadrant. It is this..."
Scribes, adept at analysing drafts, perused the script that the author submitted. It was lengthy, at times incoherent, but it carried the weight of conviction, and one or two of them smiled at its parabolic inconsistences.
"This man," noted Scribe Number 406, "Offers insight without parallel. His account is detailed and flawless, but it is encumbered with an overriding sense of despair. This, I fear, will not play well with the masses."
Scribe Number 707 took a different view.
"What I have read confirms my belief that the author understands destiny and happenstance. His limitations are humanic, not detrimental to pure understanding."
The author smiled, taking on board the received critiques, and worked upon his second draft without bitterness. The forum was absurd, he decided, and subject to all the myriad contentions and obfuscations that editorial imperative determined. Ultimately, there was no one to please but himself, but he was his own worst critic, so the draft existed in a virtual limbo for several days. The judging panel, vast and eclectic, pondered upon his edits, passing casual judgement upon the merest typographical alteration that he made, until the time came for the author's final submission.
"I hope you know what you're doing," said Althea10, catching the author during an unscheduled Hangout. "I've read your edits, and they're terrifically bold."
"It is what it is," replied the author. "If the world needs to know something beyond this, then it knows where to reach me."
"You need to consider the impediments," said Althea10. "Truth has a way of getting distorted, reinterpreted, and finally diminished."
The author punched up a smiley face on his keyboard.
"Truth is absolute, Althea10. It either cuts, or glances off. But it is always remembered."
The author, this man beyond impediments, posted his revised draft, and switched off every computer he owned. It was done. End of. Whatever happened next was, he decided, down to fate.
For a more adept iteration of the author's message and intentions, e-mail him at tyger.doyle@gmail.com.
"What should I say? What can be said? Is it fancy, or dim cowardice that stays my hand upon the keyboard?"
A wiser voice replied, "You're such that the moment has no control. Seize that opening, master the complexities of the silence, and give what you have without regret."
So fleeting, all that doubt. So inescapably trite amidst the inherent chaos of reckoning and reconsideration. Heroism, redefined, became the convenient watchword of an emasculated policy of self-determined withdrawal, instead of blatant exterior expression. He'd caved in, instead of reaching out, and that error became definitive...for only a moment.
"I do have something to say," cried the author, "And it will be heard, in however scant a quadrant. It is this..."
Scribes, adept at analysing drafts, perused the script that the author submitted. It was lengthy, at times incoherent, but it carried the weight of conviction, and one or two of them smiled at its parabolic inconsistences.
"This man," noted Scribe Number 406, "Offers insight without parallel. His account is detailed and flawless, but it is encumbered with an overriding sense of despair. This, I fear, will not play well with the masses."
Scribe Number 707 took a different view.
"What I have read confirms my belief that the author understands destiny and happenstance. His limitations are humanic, not detrimental to pure understanding."
The author smiled, taking on board the received critiques, and worked upon his second draft without bitterness. The forum was absurd, he decided, and subject to all the myriad contentions and obfuscations that editorial imperative determined. Ultimately, there was no one to please but himself, but he was his own worst critic, so the draft existed in a virtual limbo for several days. The judging panel, vast and eclectic, pondered upon his edits, passing casual judgement upon the merest typographical alteration that he made, until the time came for the author's final submission.
"I hope you know what you're doing," said Althea10, catching the author during an unscheduled Hangout. "I've read your edits, and they're terrifically bold."
"It is what it is," replied the author. "If the world needs to know something beyond this, then it knows where to reach me."
"You need to consider the impediments," said Althea10. "Truth has a way of getting distorted, reinterpreted, and finally diminished."
The author punched up a smiley face on his keyboard.
"Truth is absolute, Althea10. It either cuts, or glances off. But it is always remembered."
The author, this man beyond impediments, posted his revised draft, and switched off every computer he owned. It was done. End of. Whatever happened next was, he decided, down to fate.
For a more adept iteration of the author's message and intentions, e-mail him at tyger.doyle@gmail.com.
Monday 14 April 2014
The Heart in Absentia - Notes on a Void.
There's a story I've been working on, sporadically, called "See Me Now" which may soon be making an appearance here. It's a three-parter, and only a cruel sadist would describe it as autobiographical. Yes, it involves someone who's worked for a think-tank, and yes, his relationship with a journalist/blogger is significant (in fact, most of Part 1: Drinks With The Source deals with that), but there are enough detours and departures, not to mention outright inventions, to justify a carefully-worded prefacing caveat on the nature of fictitious enterprise. I've learned to be cautious, not through fear (upon which I share Admiral Horatio Nelson's views), but through experience. In some ways, we're back to that titular matter of privilege, because much of what I want to impart is inextricably bound up with the advantages of access to restricted information. It's tougher now, in the post-Snowden era, to float anything vaguely resembling intelligence bombshells as casual plot mechanisms, but that shouldn't dissuade us from utilising all the weapons in our arsenals. Similarly, mainstream media always has an obligation to perform that calculation where 'x' is equal to the sum of greater need divided by 'y' (the personal cost of revelation to the revealer), prior to broadcasting, which is why Part 3: Hung, Drawn, and Optioned has been such a challenge to complete.
Hopefully, the whole thing will be up here (in first draft form) in the next week or so. If it isn't, it would probably be safe to assume that either circumstance or harsher judgement has prevailed.
Hopefully, the whole thing will be up here (in first draft form) in the next week or so. If it isn't, it would probably be safe to assume that either circumstance or harsher judgement has prevailed.
Saturday 1 March 2014
FIRST DRAFT: Solitary Freedom
These philosophical excursions were never designed to scare you witless. That's not what they're about. If it happens, then it's accidental. Just like pregnancy never is.
I have a theory about absolute detachment, and it goes something like this: The less that people impose upon you, the more you want them to forget that you exist. It may not be universal, but it is compelling. And it strengthens over time.
But that's the trouble with absence - all that rot about nature abhorring a vacuum, and speculation filling the void, it's all true. Probably.
Part of my mind is screaming at me to provide examples. You'd find the internal dialogues that go on in my head disturbing. Sometimes they emerge verbally, and I find myself engaged in actual conversations with myself - out loud. It's freaky. But...
If you've ever taken (or made) a telephone call in public, then you've lost some rights to whatever you associate with the notion of privacy. It's out there. Or half of it is. Your half. Anyone within earshot can take it, speculate about the missing portion, and construct a set of assumptions about its context and you. For all the good that mobile telephony has done and provided, there is a counterbalancing potential negative sitting behind you on the bus, not even waiting to pass judgement.
It would be so easy to end this piece with some statistics about mobile telephones smuggled into prisons, giving sense and coherence to the title I've saddled it with, but that seems like a ridiculously trashy way out. Too clever by half, and still avoiding what I originally intended to be its core theme. It's a first draft for a reason, and it's only taken up half an hour of my time. If I post it - and I probably will - it'll prove I'm not dead. Absolute detachment may be a worthy goal, but proof of life remains a viable commodity. Ask any kidnapper.
Goodnight, and good luck.
I have a theory about absolute detachment, and it goes something like this: The less that people impose upon you, the more you want them to forget that you exist. It may not be universal, but it is compelling. And it strengthens over time.
But that's the trouble with absence - all that rot about nature abhorring a vacuum, and speculation filling the void, it's all true. Probably.
Part of my mind is screaming at me to provide examples. You'd find the internal dialogues that go on in my head disturbing. Sometimes they emerge verbally, and I find myself engaged in actual conversations with myself - out loud. It's freaky. But...
If you've ever taken (or made) a telephone call in public, then you've lost some rights to whatever you associate with the notion of privacy. It's out there. Or half of it is. Your half. Anyone within earshot can take it, speculate about the missing portion, and construct a set of assumptions about its context and you. For all the good that mobile telephony has done and provided, there is a counterbalancing potential negative sitting behind you on the bus, not even waiting to pass judgement.
It would be so easy to end this piece with some statistics about mobile telephones smuggled into prisons, giving sense and coherence to the title I've saddled it with, but that seems like a ridiculously trashy way out. Too clever by half, and still avoiding what I originally intended to be its core theme. It's a first draft for a reason, and it's only taken up half an hour of my time. If I post it - and I probably will - it'll prove I'm not dead. Absolute detachment may be a worthy goal, but proof of life remains a viable commodity. Ask any kidnapper.
Goodnight, and good luck.
Sunday 26 January 2014
WEBLIFE & SODA - An Occasional Quest for Vengeance in the Digital Age
The most surprising thing about Tom Carroll's book wasn't that it got published, but that he wrote it all. He did so in the full knowledge that, once his name was out there, he'd be Googled to distraction, every aspect of his online life and reputation perused, critiqued, and judged to the point where anonymity would be little more than a desperate, feverish dream. Moreover, as intimate observation turned into both positive and negative commentary, the material weight of his Internet-based existence increased exponentially.
"Tom Carroll needs to man up," said RackShark52. "The guy wrote a self help guide for nerds who stumble across porn featuring their ex-girlfriends. How many levels of LOSER can there be?"
Drowning in exposure, and with the certainty that, however temporary these consequences might seem, there could be absolutely no guarantee of the coverage ever waning (because once it's out, it's out forever, and can be rediscovered - and added to - again and again), his regret finally transcended the personal, and turned outward, encompassing those whom he may have inadvertently injured or subjected to tangential scrutiny.
Voicemail message: "Hi, this is Hannah. God knows where I am, but my 'phone's off, so leave a message. Unless you're Tom Carroll, in which case you can go fuck yourself."
Auto-reply out-of-office e-mail response: "Susan Dalton is currently on sabbatical. Please forward all relevant work-related correspondence to jfaversham@connexharbour.net"
"Carroll's work is important," said Dr. Laura Hampton, "Because, regardless of its original motivation, it addresses some aspects of modern human psychosexual relationships which seldom garner much attention beyond a frequently superficial discussion of porn addiction and identity."
"I wouldn't do that to an ex. Whatever she's done, she don't deserve that," said Slippperee5. "So who's the dude in the videos?" asked NunChux, in reply to Slippperee5, "I'm guessing he's gotta be better equipped than TC."
"What I don't get," said BeaverBroXXX, "Is why he don't just hook up with one of the thousands of girls chasing his ass all over the net now. Man, he got FANS big time."
"One element of the case which has hitherto been overlooked by commentators is the presumed certainty with which Carroll has successfully identified the person he saw in the videos as his ex-girlfriend. If it's an example of mistaken identity, then much of the approbrium is misplaced," said Dr. Ian Hamilton-Fuller, "And if Carroll has erred here, it's hard not to see everyone involved emerging with quite a lot of egg on their faces."
"Cue the Tweets making gags about something other than egg covering faces [Link to Dr. Ian Hamilton-Fuller's blog entry]," Tweeted NihilistBob.
After three weeks of intense, if contextually-guarded, mainstream media attention, Tom Carroll's book slipped to twenty eighth place on the New York Times bestseller list. Online debate and speculation continue.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. (With thanks to Megan Cashman.)
"Tom Carroll needs to man up," said RackShark52. "The guy wrote a self help guide for nerds who stumble across porn featuring their ex-girlfriends. How many levels of LOSER can there be?"
Drowning in exposure, and with the certainty that, however temporary these consequences might seem, there could be absolutely no guarantee of the coverage ever waning (because once it's out, it's out forever, and can be rediscovered - and added to - again and again), his regret finally transcended the personal, and turned outward, encompassing those whom he may have inadvertently injured or subjected to tangential scrutiny.
Voicemail message: "Hi, this is Hannah. God knows where I am, but my 'phone's off, so leave a message. Unless you're Tom Carroll, in which case you can go fuck yourself."
Auto-reply out-of-office e-mail response: "Susan Dalton is currently on sabbatical. Please forward all relevant work-related correspondence to jfaversham@connexharbour.net"
"Carroll's work is important," said Dr. Laura Hampton, "Because, regardless of its original motivation, it addresses some aspects of modern human psychosexual relationships which seldom garner much attention beyond a frequently superficial discussion of porn addiction and identity."
"I wouldn't do that to an ex. Whatever she's done, she don't deserve that," said Slippperee5. "So who's the dude in the videos?" asked NunChux, in reply to Slippperee5, "I'm guessing he's gotta be better equipped than TC."
"What I don't get," said BeaverBroXXX, "Is why he don't just hook up with one of the thousands of girls chasing his ass all over the net now. Man, he got FANS big time."
"One element of the case which has hitherto been overlooked by commentators is the presumed certainty with which Carroll has successfully identified the person he saw in the videos as his ex-girlfriend. If it's an example of mistaken identity, then much of the approbrium is misplaced," said Dr. Ian Hamilton-Fuller, "And if Carroll has erred here, it's hard not to see everyone involved emerging with quite a lot of egg on their faces."
"Cue the Tweets making gags about something other than egg covering faces [Link to Dr. Ian Hamilton-Fuller's blog entry]," Tweeted NihilistBob.
After three weeks of intense, if contextually-guarded, mainstream media attention, Tom Carroll's book slipped to twenty eighth place on the New York Times bestseller list. Online debate and speculation continue.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. (With thanks to Megan Cashman.)
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