Animal Farm by George Orwell – An analysis/summary … thing?

This is a summary/analysis of Animal Farm by George Orwell that I wrote for yet another class. I think I messed this up a bit – it isn’t really clear what this piece is supposed to be. Regardless, still a great book (or novella, I suppose).

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Animal Farm is an allegorical novella by George Orwell, first published in England in 1945. Containing many of the elements and themes that would later define Orwell as a writer, it has come to be one of his most celebrated works, placed only alongside 1984 in terms of its impact and legacy. A symbolic retelling of the events leading up the Russian Revolution of 1917, and the subsequent Stalinist period of Soviet Russia, it incorporates Orwell’s keen awareness of social justice with the dystopian setting that has become so associated with his work. Through the setting of Manor Farm and the satirical animals that inhabit it, Orwell presents a metafictional work that draws attention to itself as a representation of history, but also serves as a warning about the dangers of power and the methods in which it is attained and used.

The initial conflict is between human and animal, as Mr. Jones, the owner of Manor Farm, is a cruel and irresponsible drunkard. He is seen by the animals as a representation of all that is wrong with mankind, and they soon resolve to overthrow him, with the pigs of the farm the driving force behind this movement. Old Major, an elderly pig, delivers a rousing speech to the assembled animals, and creates the philosophy known in the novella as ‘Animalism’. Espousing that all animals are created equal, Old Major myopically places blame on mankind for all of their troubles. This speech also illustrates the great power that language can have over crowds, and serves as the inciting incident for the story. He finds supporters in Snowball and Napoleon; two adult pigs who soon become leaders of the newly-found movement. Seven commandments are written upon the barn wall, to serve as a guiding reminder of the shared values they hold. Old Major also imparts a warning that will increase in relevance as the story continues – that ‘in fighting against man, we must not come to resemble him’. All characters are given easily identifiable characteristics, from the slow-witted but powerful Boxer, to the infantile and immature Millie, and all are united in the common goal of overthrowing their human masters.

After the death of Old Major, the animals soon rebel and drive the humans from the farm, destroying all traces of the former regime. The pigs are established as the new leaders, tasked with educating the other animals about Animalism. Snowball and Napoleon are established as the de facto leaders of the farm, which is renamed ‘Animal Farm’. However, conflict between these two characters soon arises, with Napoleon’s theft of communal milk serving as an early delineation between the two. In contrast to Snowball’s high-minded and noble ideals, Napoleon, a ‘fierce-looking boar’,  is concerned with power and is ruthlessly fixed on attaining it. At this point, their revolution has been successful, however it soon becomes clear that the difference between philosophy and implementation is far more marked than the animals may have believed.

At first, the farm operates well, but we soon see the character of the pigs begin to change, with Napoleon and Squealer, the fast-talking mouthpiece of the leadership, showing the most noticeable transformations. The pigs do not assist with any of the work, merely standing behind the other animals as they toil, and begin to appropriate food for themselves alone, which is relentlessly rationalised by Squealer. The overall goal of most of the characters has been achieved, but we now see that the pigs have a very different goal in mind, and are beginning to advance inexorably towards it.

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After a failed attempt by humans to regain the farm, the conflict between Snowball and Napoleon soon escalates to violence, and Snowball is driven from the farm by three vicious dogs, trained by Napoleon for this express purpose. This conflict is ultimately ended with Snowball being branded a traitor, with any mention of his name strictly forbidden. The history of the farm is rewritten, and all traces of Snowball are erased from record. After the defeat of the humans, the farm begins to adopt a militaristic tone, and the pigs begin to exert further control. Napoleon instructs the animals to construct a windmill, an idea originally proposed by Snowball, but now rather than being a project of self-sufficiency, it is now merely a justification for punitive methods of control.

Napoleon soon establishes total control over the farm, starving the animals and working them harder than they ever had under the rule of the humans. However, all thoroughly believe in the pig’s message, as displayed in the horse Boxer’s unceasing dedication to work harder, all the while constantly reassuring himself that ‘Napoleon is always right’. The animals are entreated to sacrifice for the common good, whilst history is rewritten further, the commandments painted upon the barn walls now subject to alteration. All characters have changed through this process, with the common animals becoming wearily accepting of their life, reduced to the recitation of mindless slogans, whilst the pigs drift closer to becoming the embodiment of the very thing they once rose up to fight.

By the end of the novella, years have passed, and the pigs have completed their assumption of power over the farm. The common animals have no concept of how much time has gone by, and are accepting of their life of toil and oppression, and in an echo of 1984, reason that it must have always been this way. The pigs have completed their transformation, and now resemble humans to such an extent that the common animals cannot tell them apart. The pigs now dress in clothes and carry whips, and all vestiges of the original revolution have been wiped away. In the conclusion of the novella, Orwell reminds us of the dangers of power – that even the most altruistic ideals can be warped into being merely the tools of the corrupt and the cruel.

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Sisters of Dust

I’d been thinking about my grandmother recently, and decided to write about her early life for a non-fiction piece. This could be a lot longer, but I was working to a word limit and a little constrained. I might revisit it one day and write a longer version – I think she deserves it.

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Outside of Bundaberg, Queensland, Mary sat and waited for the train. The wind swept across the baked fields, whipping up clouds of dust from the remnants of failed crops. Drought and the depression had taken its toll, and now the country was at war, yet life struggled on in rural Queensland. Mary enjoyed watching the trains. Perhaps she saw them as reminders that there was another world beyond the bare plains, a place where life was not struggling, tenuously clutching on at the edges of parched dirt and economic ruin. She would watch the people in the carriages as they rattled past, their possessions and hopes stacked high as they headed south, and although she was only eight years old and couldn’t yet join these people in their search for a better life, dreams of places far away filled her head.

This day, however, she was waiting for a particular train. Every week, a train hauling its load of sugar cane would depart Bundaberg and head south across the dry plains, to be unloaded for processing and distribution to the southern states. The driver, an older man with a kind face, would stop the train and give her some sugar cane, pleased by the young child’s happiness to see him. Then, he would climb back into the cabin, and set off once again. Mary greatly looked forward to this weekly ritual, the sweet juice of the sugar cane a rare treat in a world where such things were rare. As she waited, her sister Elizabeth approached from the opposite side of the track. Elizabeth was older by four years and hardened to the world, her young face containing a weariness beyond her years. They both possessed their mother’s features, an angular face with pale, quick eyes, but few recognised them as sisters.

‘Mary!’ she called as she clambered over a fence. ‘You know Father wants us back at the house at 4 o’clock.’

‘I know,’ Mary said. ‘I was waiting for the sugar cane man. He’s usually here by now.’

Elizabeth knelt next to her sister.

‘That will just have to wait. You don’t want to make Father angry. Come along now.’ She took Mary’s hand, and pulled her to her feet. ‘And look at you, your clothes are filthy.’

Mary looked down at her dress, and scraped at some dirt with her fingernail.

‘I’m sorry, don’t tell father or grandma.’ Mary said. ‘I’ll clean it myself before dinner.’

Their grandmother, an austere woman, did not look upon the soiling of clothes kindly. She had lived in Ireland for most of her life, and moved to Australia to support her son as he struggled to transition to civilian life after discharging from the army. Her anger was terrible when roused, and both wished to avoid it.

‘Alright,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But use the washboard around the back of the house, the old one. No one can see you there.’

Mary nodded in agreement, trusting in her sister’s judgement. Elizabeth understood the realities of the world much more than her, and had paid a price for it, the carefree nature of a child worn down into an adult pragmatism that seemed odd coming from a girl of her age. She was always looking out for her younger sister, and protected her as best she could.

‘Come on,’ Elizabeth said, as she grasped Mary’s hand. ‘Let’s not keep Father waiting.’

The two then set off down the tracks, towards their home.

John O’Shaughnessy was a cold, taciturn man. He had spent ten years in the army, serving as an enlisted soldier in the Royal Engineers, before discharging and moving with his wife to Australia. The transition to civilian life had not been an easy one. Despite the birth of his children, he had spiralled into alcoholism, before the death of his wife during a botched clandestine abortion snuffed out any embers of warmth that had remained inside him. This loss had driven him to the point of breakdown, and he refused to speak about it. Perhaps it was shame that caused him to never speak of his deceased wife, but whatever the reason, he attempted to remedy whatever pain he felt by sinking further into bottles of scotch, and as such, a bottle was never far from his hand. Mary and Elizabeth only had vague memories of their mother, the only female presence in their life was provided by their grandmother, who lived with them in a vain attempt to prevent her son from completely falling apart. As he sat at the head of the table, he ran his eyes over his daughters.

‘You two,’ he began, his words silencing the table. ‘When I say I want you home at four, I mean it.’

‘Yes Father.’ Elizabeth said, quietly.

‘And I want your chores done properly. If I come home tomorrow to find what I did today, there will be hell to pay.’ He banged his hand upon the table, making the plates jump.

The two girls knew to remain quiet and obedient, as it was the safest response. Their grandmother entered, and put plates of food in front of them without a word. They began to eat in silence.

Suddenly, their father spoke.

‘Mary, take that bracelet off. I don’t want to see you wearing it at this table. Give it to me.’

‘But it belonged to mother …’ Mary began, as she covered the bracelet with her hand.

‘Don’t ever mention her.’ their father growled.

‘But she used to wear it!’ Mary protested, the fear of her father briefly forgotten.

Elizabeth tugged at Mary’s arm in warning.

‘I told you never to mention her!’ he roared.

The table fell into silence. Their father rose, and stomped into the kitchen. Knowing that his anger would only grow, Mary quietly got up from the table, and headed towards her bedroom. The bedroom was a sanctuary, and was where she read every night. Her books were treasured items that transported her away to places that seemed so real she felt she could nearly reach out and touch them. After she had read that night, as she lay in the darkness, she heard her father yelling from the next room in a drunken rage. She could hear the voice of her grandmother, attempting to calm her son down. It was not an unusual occurrence. There was a crash as her father overturned a table, before the front door slammed, and quiet returned to the house. Mary lay silently, clutching a book to her chest, desperately trying not to cry.

Some years later, Mary and Elizabeth sat in the backyard of their home, underneath a large eucalyptus tree. Mary quite often liked to read underneath this tree. They sat silently, staring upwards into the branches. Their father had left some days earlier, and not returned. Whether he ever would, they did not know. He had grown more violent over the years, frequently hitting the girls, particularly Elizabeth, with whatever he could lay his hands on. Their legs were often welted and faces bruised, but no one at the local school seemed to notice. If they did, they considered it firmly none of their business, and remained uninvolved. Their grandmother had passed away, and despite her uncaring nature, her death had stripped away any last vestiges of stability from their lives. Their father now seemed to be gradually detaching from reality, frequently spending hours drunkenly raging at people unseen, or disappearing for days at a time. Mary and Elizabeth looked after each other as best they could, with Elizabeth seeing to the general running of the house. But, it was taking an increasing toll on her. Her personality darkened, and she became withdrawn, hardly speaking.

‘When do you think he will come back?’ Mary asked.

Elizabeth remained silent for a moment.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I hope he never does.’ Mary said. She had never said this aloud, but knew her sister agreed. It was relief to finally say the words.

Elizabeth kept her head back, looking up into the tree. She enjoyed watching birds, observing their flight and attempting to identify them by song. Mary poked at the ground with a stick.

‘Elizabeth,’ Mary continued, ‘do you ever think of leaving?’.

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Nothing good will come from staying. There is nothing for us here. Mother wouldn’t have wanted this for us.’

‘Mother is dead, Mary.’ Elizabeth said, as she got to her feet. ‘What she wanted doesn’t matter. What matters is where we are.’

‘There must be a place we can go. South, maybe, with Aunt Margret. Anywhere but here.’

Elizabeth laughed sharply.

‘We haven’t spoken to Margret in years. How would we survive?’

‘I don’t know, but I’d rather take my chances than stay here, afraid.’

Elizabeth cast her head down, and looked at the ground.

‘You’ve always had your head in the clouds, Mary. You read too many of those books.’

‘I’ve been putting money aside, from my work at the shop. Father doesn’t know about it. We can buy train tickets. Come with me tomorrow morning to the train station, and we can get away from this place forever.’

The front door crashed, and their father lurched into the house. Elizabeth looked at Mary, before finally nodding.

The next morning, the two sisters stood in the early morning mist at Bundaberg Train Station. Each had packed everything they owned. Mary’s suitcase was held together with twine, her refusal to abandon her books had left it unable to close.

‘I’ve got us tickets to Brisbane, and from there we can get to Bowral. I’ve written to Aunt Margret. She’ll let us stay with her.’

Mary held out the tickets to Elizabeth.

‘I’m not going with you.’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’m going north, to Cairns. I can get work on a farm up there. I want to get away from all this, as far as I can. I don’t need anyone to provide for me.’

Elizabeth gently closed Mary’s hand around the tickets.

‘But where will you stay?’ Mary asked, as she began to cry. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth said, her voice shaking. ‘It’s just something that I have to do. I need to get away, and be alone for a while. I don’t know who I am, Mary. I need to find out.’

‘But what will I do?’ Mary sobbed, as tears fell to the gravel at her feet.

Elizabeth took her hand. ‘You don’t need me to protect you anymore. Please try to understand.’

The two sisters embraced. Soon after, Mary watched as the train carrying Elizabeth moved away, tears running down her face, until the train disappeared into the distance. Then, she sat down, and waited for her train, finally joining those she watched as a child as they began their journey south.

Years later, Mary stood outside of a new house in Bowral, New South Wales. One of many new homes that were being built in the area, its white weatherboards shone brightly in the sun, and was fronted by an immaculate garden. It was the 1950’s, and the country was changing. People began to settle down and enjoy luxuries that would have been unimaginable only a few decades earlier, clustering together in newly created suburbs as a testament to prosperity. Elizabeth had remained in North Queensland, and the two had not spoken for several years. Eventually, the sisters received word that their father had died due to advanced cirrhosis of the liver, and that his final years had seen him destitute and dependent on the state. Neither attended the funeral. After her move to New South Wales, Mary had worked in a library, saving money for her plans to travel the country. She chronicled her thoughts in a diary, where she wrote of Elizabeth often, and memories of her childhood surfaced frequently. These diaries were never thrown away. Soon after, she met Ian Smith, a handsome Navy man, at a local ball. Both were instantly drawn to each other. Ian was charismatic and well-spoken, a widely-travelled man who had seen many sights during his time in the Navy. It could have been this worldly nature that drew Mary to him, captivating her with his easy smile and fantastic tales of foreign cities. They were soon married, and Mary fell pregnant. As she stood in front of her new home, carrying her first child, one wonders if she saw it as the culmination of a long and tiring search, that the life she had so desperately wanted as a young girl in Queensland was now, at long last, within reach.

Book review – Rubicon by Tom Holland

A short review of a great book by Tom Holland. I love Ancient Rome; I would love to try to write something involving it, but the research required is a little scary. Anyway, this is from yet another class I took, and it’s nice to practice other forms of writing from time to time.

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At its height, The Roman Empire stretched from Spain to Iraq, encompassing most of modern Europe. It persisted in various forms for 800 years, and much of its legacy can still be felt in Western civilization today, ranging from our legal system, to the names of planets. Throughout its vast and storied history, there are few periods less tread by academics and writers than the transition from Republic to Empire. This is not by accident – it contains some of the most famous people and events of classical antiquity. This is the time of Caesar and Pompey, of Cicero and Mark Antony, a period of tremendous upheaval where politics and the quest for power reached levels of brutality previously unseen. It is upon this period that Tom Holland and his work Rubicon are squarely focused, charting the decline of the republic with an accessible and entertaining work that avoids the impregnability and dryness of most academic writing.

Holland clearly has the credentials to undertake this kind of task. Educated in Latin at Oxford, he has adapted the works of Herodotus, Homer, Virgil and Thucydides for BBC Radio, and his considerable passion for antiquity shines through in Rubicon. Helped in no small way by a readily available cast of epic characters, he creates an informative and modern retelling of the events and major players of this period in history. Superbly paced, the book never feels heavy or dull, each character springing to life from the page unburdened by the two-thousand years of distance from which the reader is peering across. The characters feel alive, their motives and thoughts understandable, and Holland uses this to paint an engrossing and at times melancholy tale of the rise and fall of one of the greatest republics the world has seen. The author relates each character with care, but special mention must be given to the brilliant Cicero, whose story is perhaps most analogous to the republic itself, and for whom the author clearly feels a great deal of admiration. Holland does not gloss over the negative aspects of each figure however, stating succinctly of Cicero that he was “genuine principle fused seamlessly with inordinate self-regard” – a towering figure of the late republic who was nonetheless prone to bouts of unendearing self-pity and pomposity.

The book balances the necessity for information, without which the tale becomes incomprehensible and lacking in context, with the risk of becoming inaccessible and dull, and succeeds at this challenge. Tackling a narrative of such intimidating size is a daunting task, but Holland’s skills as a writer prevent Rubicon from ever becoming bloated or confusing, with the seeds of the continuing story sown into previous events, evolving and moving forward much like history itself. However, although the book relates the fall of the republic somewhat regretfully, the author refrains from placing its demise in the context of its effects upon following history, or from detailing its impact upon Roman citizenry, an omission that could hamper the full understanding of the influence these events would eventually have. This also raises the question of just why the fall of the republic should be mourned. This is a question which the book does not answer, and perhaps should.

Rubicon dispels the myths and dustiness of Ancient Rome, and exposes the enthralling reality of world that despite being totally alien, feels somewhat familiar to those looking upon it two-thousand years later. The fact that Holland succeeds in presenting a relatable vision of this world, that is both informative and entertaining, is a testament to his passion for this era of history, and Rubicon is a fine embodiment of the energy and focus this passion can bring to a work.

NOFX: 60% or so is just fine

Another article for previously mentioned project. Also feel like I could have done better with this, but I had to write it pretty quickly. 

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NOFX would tell you that they’re over forty, and doing just fine. Soon they’ll be over fifty. It’s been a long journey for the fiercely independent band, that first formed back in 1983. Formed by Mike Burkett (hereafter known as Fat Mike) and Eric Melvin in Los Angeles, the band began by playing tiny shows and embarking on ramshackle tours, usually playing to crowds of five or less, or quite often no one at all. The band initially possessed an abrasive hardcore sound, eschewing proficiency on their instruments in favour of fast tempos and walls of noise. This period saw the release of numerous demos and EP’s of varying quality, including So What If We’re On Mystic! In 1986, and The P.M.R.C Can Suck On This in 1987. These were limited releases, and are therefore quite rare now. After recording Liberal Animation in 1988 with Brett Gurewitz of Bad Religion, the band’s next few releases would be on Gurewitz’s Epitaph label.

After undergoing a series of lineup changes, the band stabilised in 1991 with the addition of El Hefe on guitar, and various other instruments. The release of White Trash, Two Heebs and a Bean saw the band begin to diversify their sound, incorporating elements of jazz, ska and skate punk. A lot of this can be contributed to the addition of Hefe, who as a Berklee College of Music graduate, could play a variety of instruments and possessed a knowledge of music theory that influenced the band to diversify their sound and improve the quality of their releases. However, the band retained their breakneck tempos and trademark sense of humour. In 1994, punk rock entered the mainstream with the success of Green Day and The Offspring, and NOFX subsequently had a commercial breakthrough with the release of their fifth album Punk in Drublic. A classic punk rock album, it came along at the perfect time for the band, who were now finding themselves the target of interest from major record labels. They responded to this interest in their typical way – wry humour and sarcasm. They made a clip for MTV, but then refused to release it to them. Fat Mike was later quoted as saying “We made the ‘Leave It Alone’ video, and we decided not to send it to MTV. We just didn’t want to be a part of that machine, of that ‘punk wave”. The band declined all offers, making these rejections explicit in the liner notes to the live album I Heard They Suck Live!!, stating “We’ve been doing fine all these years without you so leave us alone!”. The 90’s were rounded out with Heavy Petting Zoo, So Long And Thanks For All The Shoes and Pump Up The Valium. This period also saw the release of The Decline, a single track EP that holds the distinction of being the second longest punk song ever recorded, coming in at just over 18 minutes in length.

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The following years saw the band lean towards socially aware music, releasing The War on Errorism in 2003. The album was filled with commentary on Bush-era society, and singer Fat Mike took this a step further by organising the Rock Against Bush tour, aimed at encouraging young people to vote, and as a collective criticism of the Bush administration. The overt political commentary faded over the ensuing years however.

As one of the most successful independent acts of all time, NOFX has been instrumental in popularising and encouraging the spread of punk rock, all the while steadfastly maintaining an endearingly irreverent attitude towards themselves, their music, and their fans. Their witty, intelligent lyrics and instantly recognizable song writing (none of their songs have choruses!) have made them a hugely influential band of the genre, and have managed to do so whilst fiercely protecting their independence. Whatever they may do in the future, there is no doubt that it will be on their own terms. And most likely not done very seriously.

Ties and Hair Dye: Growing Up with Green Day

An article I wrote for a magazine project. I should rewrite this actually – I feel like I can do much better, and writing about my all-time favourite band is always fun.

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I was thirteen years old, and without taste. In music, that is. My preferences were mostly the leftovers of my parent’s music collection, dusty LP’s sitting beside a record player that hardly ever saw use, except as a convenient spot to place a plant. I knew music existed, but I didn’t quite understand it. When people would ask me what bands I was into, I would be forced into an awkward silence, before reciting some names that I saw amongst the record collection at home. These were not popular choices. It just all seemed strange to me; I would hear kids talking about Nirvana, and would nod along with conversations without fully understanding what they were. As far as I could gather, they enjoyed teen spirit. Were they just really into team sports? One afternoon after school, an excited friend played me Nevermind. I secretly thought it sounded like the noise a bunch of malfunctioning power tools would make – abrasive and depressing. I mean, I was thirteen, so I was confused and depressed enough already. If that’s what music was, I would keep a healthy distance from it, and resign myself to the fact that it would forever be a world that I could never be a part of. But, everything changed when I heard the opening drum rolls of Green Day’s Dookie.

I knew straight away. This was the band for me. Brimming with energy, with tight and punchy songs topped off by a snarky self-effacing sense of humour, the Californian trio’s third album resonated with me in a way that no music had before. I borrowed a copy of the album from a friend, and listened to it non-stop. The lyrics spoke of boredom and apathy. About confusion and disconnection, of anxiety and alienation. This was music that I could understand, that blasted out of my speakers and reminded me with a snotty voice that perhaps I did have a place after all. A few other things also became clear. I was now into punk rock, and I needed a guitar.

Evidently, I was not alone in this reaction. The album was huge. Having formed in 1986 by Billie Joe Armstrong and Mike Dirnt, and originally known as Sweet Children, the band had been honing their skills through relentless touring and recording. After a name change to Green Day, an oblique reference to the band member’s affection for marijuana, original drummer Al Sobrante left to pursue a college degree, and was replaced by Tre Cool in 1991. They put out a number of EP’s and LP’s on Lookout! Records, the major releases being the compilation 1039 Smoothed Out Slappy Hours and 1992’s Kerplunk, which brought them to the attention of major labels. After singing to Reprise Records, and teaming up with producer Rob Cavallo, Dookie was the result. It was a sensation, eventually selling over 20 million copies and spawning the hits Long View, Basket Case, and When I Come Around. It blew punk rock onto mainstream radio, and along with bands such as The Offspring and Rancid, had a heavy influence on the path of alternative music during the 1990’s. The album was undoubtedly difficult to follow, and whilst the following albums Insomniac (1995) Nimrod (1997) and Warning (2000) were solid musically, commercially they did not match their earlier success, and it was generally accepted that the band was declining, and facing irrelevance. This changed with the release of American Idiot in 2004. It is a rare band that can change the course of modern music – it is an even rarer band that can do it twice.

American Idiot was another huge success. It sold 15 million copies, spawned numerous hit singles, and hurled the unexpectedly matured band back into relevancy. The band once again altered the musical landscape, and American Idiot now features alongside Dookie as the bands best work. However, it was at this point that the connection I felt to the band started to wane, as they were no longer the three bratty young men I had first heard in my youth, and not the band that I had grown up with. Despite this, I still find myself returning to their music. It has formed the soundtrack to my life, and been with me during all the highs and lows that go along with it. For this reason, I will always have affection for those three goofballs from California, and hope that their journey isn’t quite over yet. Hopefully, I can go with them.

Perhaps this word slam business was a mistake.

 I wrote this in a bar for a word slam/poetry event. I was going to read it out, but realised that it kinda sounded like a suicide note and decided to keep quiet.

 

I’m graying in the good life

and I want a better way to die

Breathing is boring

and the best things are worth ignoring

I’m laughing all the way into the ground

 

I took the hypocritic oath

and refused the revolution

Old habits die stupid, don’t you know

the edges are nearly worn away

 

Well-fed and threadbare

Who am I to complain

Nameless and blameless it shall read

so remember me on the side of the road

Maybe if I ignore it, 2017 will go away.

Hello. It has been a while since the last post, I know. It’s busy work wasting time, believe me. Anyway, here’s a little something I wrote for a class I took last year. It still needs work, and isn’t all that subtle, but like I said, it’s not like I get paid. I also couldn’t think of a good title. Those things are hard.

Hector was fairly certain that he wasn’t crazy, but it seemed that something always disagreed with him. The device on his wrist was the main culprit, frequently telling him that he was indeed crazy. It had started early today. ‘Hector Hemmingway!’ it flashed in lurid green. ‘You’re crazy if you pass up on this!’. It then proceeded to show him an advertisement for televisions. Hector already had a television. In fact, he had six of them. In his mind, this raised the uncomfortable question of just who exactly was watching who. It was a cold April morning, and Hector huddled into his coat as he hurried down a city street. He was leaving forever, he had decided. Once out of the city, he would go south, to somewhere quiet and peaceful where green was the colour of grass, and not of neon. Still, the device on his wrist chattered at him. He pressed angrily at it, although he knew that it was impossible to turn it off. At birth, everyone was given a device that was attached to the wrist, and would flash brightly with offers at various points during the day. These could never be removed or turned off. As a consolation, you did eventually get to choose a colour. Hector’s was blue. He had grown to hate the colour. They only displayed advertisements, and it was mandatory that one of these offers be accepted, regardless if one had a need for the product or not.

Before he left the city, he had one last thing to do. Hector slipped into an alley, and when he was sure that no one was watching, ripped the device from his wrist. This was a terrible crime. The morning crowds rushed past, no one noticing that a cardinal sin had just been committed in their presence. The removal of your device meant disappearing into a rehabilitation facility, and they surely would be coming for him now.

’You’re crazy!’ the device implored, as it lay on the ground. Hector poked at it with his toe, curious about the object that for so long had dictated his life. It presented a compelling second opinion to be sure, and Hector knew that the world had just become a lot more dangerous. But, he just couldn’t continue with this life. As he cautiously ducked out of the alley and back into the flow of people on the street, he reflected that although his recent conclusion there was something terribly wrong with the world had not come easily, it was nonetheless an important place to have arrived at. He was smart enough to know that it was a dangerous opinion to have, and so had initially decided to ignore it, doing his best to bury it amongst the minutiae of daily life. Despite his efforts, he had found it increasingly difficult to escape from. It had progressed in an infuriatingly resolute manner, and Hector’s inability to disregard it had bothered him greatly. The thought begun small and difficult to grasp, only flickering briefly before fading away, like a dying bulb. As time went on, it grew steadily until it began to feel as if he was waking from a dream. It was now present when he woke in the morning, and as he walked down the street, bursting into his thoughts with increasing frequency throughout the day. It had even begun to enter his dreams, where nightmares of being an increasingly faded photocopy woke him gasping for breath. Impossible to placate, and yet equally impossible to act upon; it was the worst kind of idea. But now, with the idea formed and actionable, he finally had purpose. Lost in thought, Hector bumped solidly into a passer-by. This was the kind of slip-up that could end an escape before it began, and Hector’s bare wrist was now a giveaway. Panicked, Hector began to apologise repeatedly, but the man was focused on his wrist, and didn’t glance up. Instead, he turned to the woman next to him.

‘Look honey!’ he said, pointing. ‘Half-price vacuum cleaners, now we can have one for each room!’

‘Good idea, I’ll get some too!’ the woman replied, tapping furiously.

The clocks struck over to midday, and it was time for the mandatory buy. As the clocks chimed, everyone stopped in place and looked hungrily to their various devices, eagerly awaiting the new round of offers. Hector joined in with the routine for what he hoped was the last time, his face adopting the accepted expression of eager anticipation. It was safer that way. Cars stopped in the streets, their drivers now occupied with more important tasks. This caused more than few accidents, but no one seemed to mind. A large Cadillac collided with a wall, spilling its driver onto the hood. He smiled groggily as he accepted an offer for discounted helmets. Activity resumed as the daily buy ended, and the cars began moving again, inching their way to their various destinations through a maze of steel and tinted windows.

Hector was close to the station now. All he had to do was purchase a ticket, and he would be on his way. He saw a familiar face approaching, and ducked into his jacket. It was his neighbour, Davidson. He was genial, enthusiastic man who always wanted to discuss his latest purchases with Hector. Short, rotund and blessed with the unpleasant skill of being able to sneak up on people, he frequently cornered Hector every morning, wherever he may be. His round face would flush brightly whenever he discussed whatever products he had purchased recently, and had a habit of bouncing excitedly on his feet, like a child would do. Hector hated him intensely.  He briefly considered turning around, but Davidson had spotted him immediately, and was homing in on him like a beige missile.

‘Hector!’ Davidson called as he pushed through the crowd. Too late now. Hector turned, and with some effort adopted a smile.

‘Hello Davidson. Cold morning, isn’t it?’ Hector said. He never quite knew why he always said more than was necessary. Was being rude to a man he hated such a terrible thing? No one seemed to be rude anymore. Everyone greeted each other with smiles as plastic as the products they bought, and had grown so used to it that the alternative seemed unthinkable.

‘Oh yes, deathly cold’ Davidson said. ‘Glad I bought that crate of surplus thermals during the last weekly special.’

Hector hoped he wouldn’t continue.

‘Sure, some of them have a bit of a chemical smell,’ Davidson continued. ‘But the price was right, and it gave us a chance to use the seven surplus boxes of air freshener we bought. Personally, I think new car is a fine thing to smell like.’

Hector glanced longingly at the entrance the station.

‘Say, you don’t look well.’ Davidson said, adopting a look of concern. ‘Are you buying enough?’ He placed a hand on Hector’s shoulder. Hector looked at the pink, chubby hand resting on his coat and felt a throbbing begin to grow behind his eyes.

‘Yes, I’m buying as much I should. I meet the quota every week.’

‘Well it can’t hurt to go above, can it? Me and the wife go above every week, just to be safe. I hear that they recently caught a bunch of people who hadn’t been spending for weeks. Can you believe it? Weeks!’

‘You don’t say? Shocking.’ Hector hoped he sounded an appropriate level of appalled.

‘So, what was your latest buy?’ Davidson asked.

‘Well, it was …’

The silence dragged out as Hector struggled to think of an answer. It was unthinkable that someone would not remember their last purchase, but Hector had frozen, unable to think as the possible answers became hopelessly jumbled in his head. To be foiled by the most innocuous of questions seemed a strangely ironic way for him to be caught.

‘You don’t remember your last buy?’ Davidson said, now suspicious. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’

Hector began to back away slowly. His pulse thumped in his ears as he edged towards the station. If he could just make it inside, everything would be fine.

‘Your wrist …’ Davidson had noticed Hector’s bare wrist. It was only a matter of time now. Davidson’s mouth opened in mute terror, and he pointed at Hector.

‘Saver!’ he screamed shrilly. ‘You’re a Saver!’

Everyone in the immediate vicinity froze. To be labelled a Saver, one who did not spend, was to be branded a dangerous deviant, and those who were labelled as such frequently disappeared, only to emerge sometime later as drooling shadows of what they used to be. A woman screamed. He turned to run, but a crowd had formed, blocking his path. ‘Saver! Saver!’ the crowd screamed. A rock struck him in the head, drawing blood. It would only take moments for them to tear him apart.

With a shove, Hector forced his way through the crowd, and sprinted into the station. His only chance was to hope he could board a train, and escape the city before his identity was circulated. As he barged through the doors of the station, a black van shrieked to a halt behind him. Men clad in black uniforms, their faces hidden behind masks, emerged in precise and co-ordinated movements. Armed with truncheons, they were the feared Green Boots, named for the striking green colour of their footwear. They were responsible for keeping order, and ensuring that people met their daily buy quota. Few ever encountered them and returned. With surprising speed, they pursued Hector into the station. Hector gasped for breath as he willed his legs to go faster, his sight set on the nearest train, which was preparing to depart. If he could somehow get onto the train before the Green Boots reached him, he would be safe. The rhythmic thump of boots grew louder behind him. Nearly at the train, Hector put the last of his energy into one final burst. All those exercise machines he had bought were perhaps not such a waste after all. Suddenly, a shiny black shoe emerged from the crowd, and tripped Hector in one swift motion. He crashed to the tiles of the station floor, only a few feet from the train that was to be his salvation. Dazed and gasping for breath, Hector rolled onto his back and stared at the station ceiling. A black-suited figure stood over him, and a curiously friendly face leaned in.

‘Hello, Hector. Let’s have a talk, shall we?’

Some months later, Hector sat on a park bench on an overcast day. The season had turned, and now the leaves floated to the ground around him, blown along the concrete on a chill breeze. An offer flashed up on his wrist. Hector smiled as he accepted it, a scar prominent on his forehead. ‘You’re crazy if you miss this!’ the device said.