Ecce Homo (Spam)

See me
Here,
A man.
But they fill my inbox with spam.
I exist
I live
I feel
I breathe
But they count me.
Statistic.
My only value is in
Sating their greed.
My eyes,
Not windows to an immortal soul
But to be sold to
Contact lenses, laser surgery, sunglasses, designer frames.
See me here
A man.
But they don’t see that
They only fill my inbox with spam.

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Gonna Start a Revolution From My Bed

Bed

Unmade Bed – Photo by Montag

I’ve been working in Manchester of late, doing the seven-fifteen shuffle across the peak district – it is so dispiriting sometimes that it has been known to inspire poetry!

There must be something about commuting at this time of year that leads to polemics. Last year I wrote a fairly heartfelt post railing against the commercialisation of Christmas. And while this year the corporate feeding frenzy seems to have been toned down a bit, you can bet your penultimate pound that they are working hard to manipulate us in a myriad of subtle ways.

Anyway to revolutions, beds and the like. Stumbling off my commuter carriage into the murk of Manchester Piccadilly station, I was struck by the multitude of ‘revenue protection agents’. In an instant, modern society seemed clear to me. All this effort goes into protecting revenue – not a man shall cross the threshold between platform and concourse without their purchase credentials being checked. Continue reading

Social Fiction

So here we are.

The future.

Featured Image -- 2322014 is certainly in the realms of that which in the nineteen-sixties and seventies we used to designate as “the future”. We’ve long passed Arthur C. Clarke’s milestone of 2001 (nothing remotely HAL-like existed then), and all except the last date point in Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles are already in the past (the date yet to come is the title of the final chapter in the Bradbury novel, April 2026).

We now exist in that tomorrow we used to eagerly read about as children. It’s extremely interesting therefore to revisit Isaac Asimov’s predictions for 2014 made in 1964: flying cars, robots, videophones, enforced leisure.

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The value of meaning; or, the meaning of value

DSCF0556

Noël à Honfleur – Photo by Montag

It’s that time of year again.

I’m on auto-pilot. I’m launching into a familiar routine of buying presents, arranging who I’m going to stay with, and the parties I’ll be going to. Sadly as I get older, wild soirees are becoming less of a feature of the festive season. There are exceptions – my gatecrashing of a New Years Eve houseparty last year after perhaps one too many glasses of Sauvignon Blanc at an earlier formal do, was a welcome return to youthful irresponsibility.

Already I digress. What I want to say is that occasionally, during this orgy of consumerism and increasingly forced bonhomie, I stop to think of what it’s all about. When I do that I am struck at how alien our present society can sometimes be to even those like me, who grew up in the third quarter of the twentieth century.

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