P is now being written as a full-blown novel and so will available as a completed work once finished (and maybe also in instalments as originally intended).
P is now being written as a full-blown novel and so will available as a completed work once finished (and maybe also in instalments as originally intended).
P has an hour to live.
A sixty-minute countdown to annihilation.
P is posted every Friday night GMT.
Holding no awareness of location, presence or time, P must assemble fragments of the past, present perception and possible purpose to ensure survival. An inability to collect, collate and create from the surrounding environment will result in total oblivion. There can be no in between. Without an identity, P has a one hour countdown to annihilation.
There was a car accident.
There was sickness.
There was vomiting.
There was a loss of consciousness, but no concussion.
There was blackness as the car left the road and swayed across several lanes of fast-moving traffic from the middle lane across the overtaking lane to scrape the central barrier and back across all four lanes to wind up smashed against the barrier on the verge.
There was a tapping on the window.
There was a show of concern.
There was an explanation.
There was yellow vomit all over the dashboard and over his trousers.
There was a little Buddha.
A stone Buddha.
A stone Buddha on a window sill surrounded with flowers.
Yet it was winter.
Maybe late winter and approaching spring.
So maybe daffodils.
Or imported flowers from abroad. From somewhere in the south, maybe. Most likely.
There was a winter holiday in the Alps.
Yellow sunshine up on the mountains.
Hot grog and flaming braziers in a kiosk-lined market place.
The mobile was still blinking its little red light – its last red death throes – when it pinged and a little band lit up along the top, saying WhatsApp Message and in a line of glowing tiny green-white letters:
…on my way…
But who was on their way and where to? Without the power cable or PIN he was unlikely to ever find out.
He looked around the room: square, about five metres from wall to wall, painted perfect white, with four exits: one with a permanent-looking heavy wooden door leading to an ante-room and steps down to another imposing-looking door; an internal closure of two narrow wooden doors (from where he had emerged less than four minutes ago?); two similar-looking internal doors, but glazed, off two steps up into what was probably a kitchen; and two big sliding doors out onto a vertigo-inducing veranda.
It didn’t look like a room in a sanatorium, which was some kind of relief – wasn’t it?
It meant he was probably here under his free will – originally, at least. He wasn’t a patient of any kind. (That was a definite relief!)
He examined the low wooden table, and saw it unexpectedly contained a drawer. Inside the drawer was a sleek, silver-coloured laptop with a lead coiled beside it.
Yes! He was saved.
He took out the equipment and plugged it in to a socket on the wall and waited for it to come alive.
Boing! There it was…
And then, an error message and warning:
Repeated failed attempts to access this device. Power on and wait for two hours before attempting again.
Two hours! But he only had one hour to live. Less than one hour. In fact, fifty-six minutes was all that remained to save himself.
Follow the new instalment posted every Friday night GMT.
Recently, this blog has been receiving an unusually high number of hits from countries not normally associated with its main readership. So, I would like to say a special and warm ‘Welcome’ to those reading my posts in places from far and wide, such as China, Pakistan, Philippines, Russia, Hong Kong SAR China, India, and any other countries not included in this list.
I would like to think this interest from around the world is inspired by a desire to be part of a global community made up of self-reflective individuals who take pride in their own identity and locality, yet seek inclusivity within a broader spiritual recognition of humanity as a whole.
This desire can only be based upon a hope for peaceful co-existence among communities around the planet.
World harmony is a wish placed within the heart of most individuals – only the callous, self-serving destructive nature of some influential people and the institutions they represent prevent peaceful relations from becoming the norm.
Much more needs to be said about this, and the nature of this situation is graphically explored within the pages of my ten novels (published in English but available worldwide).
As a matter of fact, the publication of these works may be seen as the culmination of a personal destiny.
As for the blog, I suddenly began taking it much more seriously following the previously mentioned increased interest in recent posts and, in particular, as a result of activity after the posting of P is for Revolutsiia.
I want to make it absolutely clear that not for a second would I welcome a re-run of the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution in Russia. I have a university degree in Russian, have lived and worked in Russia, and was in fact present at the very moment of the collapse of the Soviet Union (as I have written about elsewhere). In other words, I am too knowledgeable to ever want anything like the Soviet system ever instituted anywhere or at any time in the world.
Unfortunately, too many state systems even today are implementing repressive measures and using propaganda in an attempt to control the behaviour of their citizens.
This is where the internet can still be used to break down the frontiers of ignorance which are used to distance peace-loving peoples from one another.
Regarding the P series, this is a serious attempt to reveal the true nature of human identity and in so doing make it clear that every person is fundamentally the same, and that it is these shared qualities which enable us to seek and share peace with one another.
We each have our own personal identities, but together we are stronger.
(NB I modified the concluding paragraph of P is for Revolutsiia immediately I recognised how easy it was to misread symbolically that which was originally posted. All comments welcome.)
It may now be the time to un-follow the herd – escape the herd-mind-virus (see last Friday’s post) – and FOLLOW P – the EveryPerson plus your own Personality exemplified in these P blogposts. (See also ‘Background to P’ previously posted)
When the Soviet Union was at it its most controlling, writers were obliged to process their work through Pushkin House, which essentially vetted every thought permitted to filter through to the vast reading public. Our western media-owned publishing industry serves the very same function. This is becoming more and more clear with time. Soviet writers found a way through the controlling maze by self-publishing their own work; so called samizdat’ (sam = self, izdat’ = to publish) and actually contributed massively to the downfall of a corrupt regime.
The same is possible here in the west if only we can find our way through to the new voices publishing their own version of samizdat’ on their blogs beyond the radar of the media state elite and their subservient authors.
P is actually the Latin R in the Cyrillic alphabet.
So let P also stand for a gentle literary, spiritual and philosophical revolutsiia – on this occasion, self-determined, evolutionary and throughout the world.
The Union Jack was always shameful to us. Rightly so. That flag was – and is – the symbol of empire and therefore nothing to be proud of. As children growing up in a little South Bucks village we knew as much, despite what the adults might try to teach us. Those unearthly, archaic crosses of three patron saints combined in one panel has fluttered over some of the worst atrocities ever committed by mankind against fellow human beings. We were aware of that. Watched it on our tv screens. Images of khaki-clad British soldiers were seen patrolling the sun-drenched streets of Aden – part of Yemen – while threatening the local population with their rifles. Even as a kid, you could see this was wrong, a misuse of power. Only later did I discover the British Army were stationed there to protect the oil interests of the privately-owned British Petroleum conglomerate and to help the Saudi royal household sow seeds of religious discontent amongst a growing pan-Arabic movement led by their shared arch-enemy, Nasser. Just as the British Army are there now for much the same reason, helping out their oil-producing Saudi allies as they blockade the old Aden port, destroy Yemen’s infrastructure and condemn hundreds of thousands of human beings to death by bombing, starvation and disease. With that in mind, can you possibly say that you are proud to be British or that you hold any reverence whatsoever for the Union Jack?
Growing up, I never could understand how The Who permitted themselves to use the Union Jack as a symbol of the band; although I got how Mary Quant and Swinging London might adopt it as a logo to increase brand awareness and increase sales. Maybe The Who wanted to make clear they weren’t American, I don’t know. The Jam used the same image a decade later, as did Oasis twenty years after that. Somehow, I cannot link youthful rebellion and the desire for freedom to think and act with such a profound image of conservative establishment authority. And I don’t think that I am alone in this anymore. At last, it is being recognised by a new generation as such. This modern anti-Brexit, pro-world generation is waking up to the awful overtones contained in those crosses, as did the German youth during the nineteen-seventies gain an understanding of what had been done in their name – and then conveniently glossed over by a previous generation – under the aegis of a black swastika emblazoned on a white circle set against a red background. If you think the Union Jack is cool – as it was considered during Blair’s Labour government, the same one that lied to a public supposedly represented by the saintly crosses in order to launch wars against the old anti-British-imperialist foes in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya and Syria – then you are a fool. As a matter of fact, I could only take to the Who after they released ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’. Hah!
I watched the collapse of one empire – the British one, and now it looks as though I may be privy to the collapse of yet another empire, this time the American one.
If the Union Jack is the emblem par excellence of British imperialism, and nobody could possibly argue with that as a statement, then the Stars and Stripes, too, conveys the image of brutal military dictatorship and underhand espionage deployed to subjugate whole nations and peoples, those who have no desire to be ruled so. American governments, like their British counterparts use of the Union Jack, have had no compunction about raising the Star Spangled Banner above the heads of those whose lives they despise and whom they would control through the use of unbridled force and lies. And that’s just their own people. Look further abroad and you will discover a whole litany of dirty tricks and military might deployed against the better wishes of peoples around the globe, from Pyongyang to Kiev to Tehran and all the places in between. Full-spectrum dominance means just that, and when the cowardly American generals and politicians feel they can get away with it, they will plunder and utterly dismantle any person or persons or country that stand in their way. Just as the British taught them to do, and still would, if they could. Killing and torture, lying and subterfuge, are second nature within the American republic. Their only goal, like the British before them, is to cower humanity and rob the planet of all its resources while they bestride their imperial thrones and military hardware, lording it while saluting the imperial flag and looking over the remaining quivering mass of virtual human slaves.
Nota bene. Just as the Americans had to leave Vietnam, routed by a determined resistance movement prepared to fight back and develop its own ideology , so the British finally had to leave Aden/Yemen in nineteen sixty-seven, driven out by the organised resistance of the nation’s Arabs (although the current activity of the British government shows that old colonial sentiments continue to exist.) Like I said, my first images of British imperialism came by way of the tv screen when I was growing up; they, the politicians, the armed forces and the mainstream media are not prepared to make that same mistake again, showing virtually no footage of what is actually happening in present-day Yemen, and only occasionally providing an – extremely skewed – analysis of the situation. You – and they – have been warned.
All hail the flag!
This post was originally published as ALL HAIL THE FLAG on this blog 01/18
He closed his eyes.
That was interesting.
He felt more in touch with himself, somehow – with the third P: the Overseer. And maybe even the first one: the one that managed his body parts, at least, the motion and cessation of those parts: limbs and head and fingers and what have you. By concentrating, he could actually feel those body parts – become aware of them – and in some manner insert his consciousness into each different part. Maybe then he could gather them all up as a whole… It was even possible he might be able to tap into the biological P, the subliminal part of himself that generated his will to live and so forth – operated his heart and lungs and all the underlying functionalities of the living body…
For a moment, he felt it…something. And then it was gone. He opened his eyes.
How many seconds had passed?
Maybe such ruminations were dangerous; maybe they would limit the time remaining to him rather than add that extra dimension which was obviously required to help ease him out of his predicament.
The first – best – thing he could do right away was find the power source for the mobile phone (the tiny red dot of light was blinking now, as though it were fading away to nothing), that way he could access all sorts of information that might help him to survive.
He looked around the room for a cable.
He examined the plug sockets.
He opened some drawers.
Feeling exasperated and helpless, he remained still and closed his eyes again. Then he visualised the small black lead.
Following that short process, another – unbidden – image arose in his consciousness: that of a head of state being carted out of a building and a group in uniform clapping his exit. Then he saw a whole nation of people clapping their hands together. More than that, he could hear the clapping.
The clapping sound reverberated around the inside of his cranium.
Clapping, clapping, clapping. Clap, clap, clap.
Clapping like church bells or something.
A continuing, penetrating clapping noise.
Going like the clappers.
He wondered if that was why he was here in this strange, alien place.
Had he caught some kind of clapping disease? A disease that caused clapping to emanate from the head.
The clap! Had he caught the clap?
He smiled inwardly. His sense of wordplay had obviously survived the memory loss and might yet save him entirely. Who knew?
Was it a virus causing all the clapping, or was it some kind of purge, a vent – was the clapping intended as some magic ritual to fend off the disease?
Either way, it felt like he may have contracted the disease – contracted the clap.
A virus of some kind…
He opened his eyes once again.
The clock face was telling him – if he couldn’t save himself – he now had fifty seven minutes to live.
P2: Different Ps (59 minutes)
The first thing that became obvious was that there were three of him. Three Ps, at least.
The first one was able to make his body parts move; so that he was able to move his eyes and look at the clock, for instance, or pick up the black oblong object from the table and push the side buttons.
(Ah, yes – a mobile – telephone – device.)
Then there was the second P who knew stuff – who remembered stuff, like just now: had access, as it were, to a store of knowledge.
Finally, there was a third one – a third P – which kind of overlooked everything that he was doing [just like he was doing now], which might be considered the super-P: the Overseer.
But it was access to the second P he most needed right now, he realised: the one which stored memories and, hopefully, provided him with enough information to make decisions based on that knowledge.
His life might depend on it.
So, a mobile telephone device. How did that help him?
He switched it on again.
The small white dot of light in the upper left corner turned red. That probably wasn’t a good sign. A square made up of numerals ranging from 0 to 9 lit up in the centre. A prompt required a PIN.
The good thing was that he could recognise numbers and letters of the alphabet and could understand what was required from him.
That part of his memory remained.
The bad thing was he couldn’t recall this particular anagram: P.I.N. PIN. Pin. What did that mean?
He remembered ‘pin’. To pin something. Or a sharp pointed object. A safety-pin. A drawing pin.
A safety pin.
A drawing pin.
A safety pin.
A safety pin!
A safety pin.
A safety pin. Something to keep your pin safe.
A PIN number.
A P – I – N.
A Personal Identity Number.
What was it, his PIN? He had no idea.
The mobile’s screen had gone blank.
Without the number he could not access the data it contained.
Was that a bad thing?
What could the phone tell him about himself?
Contact numbers, of course. He could contact somebody and ask them if they knew what was happening, who he was.
He would say, ‘Hi there, this is me, P. Do you know me?’ And they’d say, ‘Hey, I thought this was X, or maybe they’d say, ‘Hi, X’, when they picked up.
And maybe there’d be his own contact details stored on the phone already. Maybe he’d recognise his own name if he saw it. Remember who he was and where he lived.
And then there was other information available, he remembered, like Google and Google maps so that he could at least find out where on the planet he was located.
Then again, his intuition and capacity for lateral thought seemed to be kicking in pretty well now and maybe that would be the best way of recalling just who he was.
Maybe a more authentic ‘him’.
Actually, anyone would do right now: a Google him or a real him, it really didn’t matter.
The main thing was that he saved his life.
And this was probably the fourth P, he realised. The unthinking P. The P that wanted just to exist in some form at all costs.
The primeval P, if you like. The sub-P.
He was wasting time. A look at the clock told him another minute was almost up. Only another fifty-eight minutes remained before he was extinguished entirely.
If only he could remember that damn PIN…
Audio: the previous instalment (click below)