Monday, 21 August 2017
The Trouble With Talking
Alexander Gordon Jahans
Content warning: Rape mentions. References to fictional trans cures and people trying to cure trans people in reality. References to characters changing gender in fiction. Incest mention. War mention. Poem insulting nazis.
A wise man once said that all it takes for evil to win is for good men to do nothing. He neglected to add that it really doesn’t help when well meaning morons wade into the fray. I am such a moron and it burns.
I have been trying to stay off social media. I blame nazis. I blame family. I blame Trump. I blame Algorithms. I blame feminists. I blame everyone but me.
Do you know what the big problem with honesty is? Lies are what we’re made of. Our whole memory is a system of oft repeated lies, stories that are easy to remember. In being honest I took myself out of the equation. Oh I have always been a good little capitalist who knew how to wield the truth like a weapon when I needed to but a pacifist does not build a personality on weaponry.
That’s why Doctor Who is important to me. Not because it’s the greatest show in the galaxy because it isn’t. Every single show and book I have experienced since then has been better. Farscape. Babylon 5. Blakes 7. The Culture. Firefly. Hannibal. The Thick Of It. House Of Cards. The West Wing.
The list goes on and on and on but Doctor Who remains important because it taught me the importance of lies. The Doctor is a monster. He is a white imperialist interfering cruel, sadistic, genocidal monster. Yet he tries to be better. He believes he can be better and he tries to use the terrible nature he has for the better. He is Bruce Banner getting himself dropped into the path of a monster so that his own darkness can fight the good fight.
I don’t think that logically I am a monster. I don’t think that logically I have done much I would genuinely consider immoral. However there is a scene in the West Wing that I think sums up my feelings. Vice President Hoynes has been running this discreet Alcoholics Anonymous forum for so long during the series when it becomes relevant to point out that hey maybe the Vice President shouldn’t be an alcoholic. He explains that he never had so much as one night binge drinking but all it took was one little drop for him to know he had a problem.
I grew up with my dad displaying the dangers of the anger management issues I inherited and I went to a school where those issues were tested with fire. Literally once I think. My whole life I have felt like I have been living under this shadow of what I could do. It doesn’t help that I was a weird kid. Maybe it’s just my own personal anxiety. Like a variant of the imposter syndrome. I am David’s monstrous doppleganger waiting for the signal from the shadows.
Doctor Who matters because it told me that no matter how broken, how strange, how monstrous, evil and pathetic I felt, that I could be powerful. Useful. An asset to the good.
Except I did have a dark secret. It just wasn’t what I thought. There’s this moment in This Book Is Full Of Spiders where a character finds out he is an imposter. That he is a clone created by the shadows and killed himself. What I love - What I have always loved - Is that you expect the aftermath to be like Torchwood Children of Earth. Quiet devastating victory for the bad guys. Instead the imposter finds a way to carry on where the original left off, to fight the good fight.
I was worse than a shadow bound terminator who killed his original self. When I found out my dark secret I should have grieved in private. Retreated from the world and figured myself out. I didn’t. I have explanations and justifications. I blame many people. I did this to myself. I set myself up on a stage, set up a loaded gun, drew a large crowd then pulled on a thread that unravelled my sanity. What happened next was my own doing. I can blame so many people, I can explain and justify so many things but if I had been smarter, if I had even just stuck to what I said only a few months before I made the changes that screwed me over...
For Want Of A Nail the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the message was lost.
For want of a message the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the war was lost.
For want of a war the government was overthrown.
For want of a government the peace was lost.
For want of peace a thousand generations died in horrendous bloodshed.
For want of a nail.
There are so many fucking nails the coffin of my sins.
And in digging my own grave and hammering those nails deep I stopped myself dealing with the incident that caused all those problems. Easier to think about them mean feminists than stare headlong into the abyss and accept that it serves as a mirror by which to see and learn about myself. Who gives a rat’s arse what I did why I did it? That’s the wrong thread to pull on.
Learning I had Kallman’s Syndrome fucked me up. It fucked me up bad. It fucked me up because I needed someone who could tell me it was going to be okay. Instead I had anger management issues, anxiety issues, depression, self loathing and two sides in my head that gave no shits about the issue.
I tried to do what I have always done. I tried to be good. Except I knew nothing. I reached out to a community I hoped and prayed would be able to understand me and I offered them the solace I wish I had. I could not have insulted them more deeply.
I fucked up so bad and it caused so much shit to rain that I am only now at the point where I can begin properly shovelling it out. I needed to write and I needed to be confident in my writing but I should not have been on a fucking stage. Everything about how I handled that was a trash fire.
Except I see now that I did and do need to write. This kind of revelation is not something you can look directly at. I mean I’m still pulling at the thread of that revelation. Kallman’s Syndrome led to Growth Hormone Deficiency, led to Sleep Apnoea, led to so overweight I am in agony and my ankles grind and crunch when I walk.
I have stared long and hard into the abyss. I have studied politics and technological unemployment. I have read the terrible history of Autism and learned how attempts to cure Autism led to attempts to electrocute the gay and trans out of children. I have listened to history podcasts. I have been stalked by nazis and witnessed the terror of Trump. I am older and wiser, more cynical and heart broken by how fucking awful the human race is.
I don’t fear and hate my lust any more because my lust has become my lust for life. Because who cares about war, disease, tragedy and heartbreak when you are looking into thee smiling face of someone beautiful and adorable? Because I can cope with the world when I think of the cute ones being happy and loved. My deep dark beast became my reason to survive.
I am in so much pain and I am always so tired. I keep writing dystopias and finding hope, family and happiness within them. I suppose it’s the competency bias. It’s the lust coming out because there has to be a submissive woman somewhere. I suppose it’s just that if nobody cares about your characters there are no stakes.
I always have explanations and justifications but ultimately its me.
I keep coming back to that fucking fanfic and why it burns. Why this particular bullshit must be redeemed? I’ve hurt people before. I’ve hurt people since. God help you if you have ever had the misfortune to make me genuinely hate and try to hurt you. I hurt as lot of people with that fanfic but it wasn’t special, important, or significant as flame outs go. It’s not even the first time I got kicked out of a fan community. So why does it hurt still? Why is everything I write a response or reflection or a conscious distancing and avoidance of that moment?
Well as I said lies are what we are made of and Doctor Who told me how to lie by inspiring me to write fiction. I have been writing a lot and the last three big stories are kind of impossible not to read as direct reflections of that fuck up.
The Phantom Raspberry Killer deals with a tortured Farsh-nuke being convinced by the nazis to aid them in creating a way to switch the genders of a person so that their glorious leader can fuck their son/daughter. Yeah, I’m about as subtle as a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick when it comes to my trumpists are nazis and this shit is terrible metaphors.
Come Again features the non-binary Elder God Viorum Kaztif-tan and their trans woman journalist companion Claudia Green as they investigate why the Great Farsh-nuke has sent a message from his hell dimension and why people are fighting each other as part of a strange competition. It is about dealing with the legacy and fallout of the Farsh-nuke. It also features two canon versions of myself as I face my demons, or the judgement of my better angels and at least 5 different submissive women.
Those two were planned. Those two had a lot of thought put into them. They were bold steps forward while dealing with the past. The third is not like that. It was inspired by stumbling across art for a kink that is, or maybe was, not my kink on twitter after feminists criticised the artist. Ideas are dangerous things to plant in my head.
The Golden Girl is a distraction fic that might be so terrible it very swiftly gets moved to the Old Shame section of my website. It is the story of a man who becomes a girl. It’s nothing to do with trans and I have done my best to make clear that in-universe this is radically different. This is a powerful organisation and privileged individuals taking advantage of a desperate man’s choice in a world where the best qualification he can get features changing gender as a passing grade. I literally wrote an essay before I even started on this distraction fic just fleshing out the organisation because I knew I wanted to focus on the human story without leaving this stuff unanswered.
What I have slowly begun to realise is that the fan fic still burns with me because it is so emblematic of what I was trying and failing to do. The fanfic concerned the founding of the United Civilisations of the Multiverse by the manipulations of the Great Farsh-nuke to create the perfect leader and champion to replace him in the form of Lucy Danse the Paragon of Virtue. It was a story of how taking a stand and trying to achieve revolution when you are out gunned and out manned is still worth it because thought the forces of oppression seem impossible to topple against a forever war all you need is to kick enough space to begin to grow your power.
Lucy Danse walking the hundred million universes was supposed to be the great cure. It was supposed to end the bloodshed and allow for glorious post-scarcity. To ensure that being progressive could win against Neoliberalism and the war on terror. That monsters and saints can unite to fight for a better tomorrow.
Then the UK voted to leave the European Union, Trump got elected President and I got driven off youtube by nazi stalkers. So the Farsh-nuke and Lucy Danse sacrificed themselves to end the great Septagonoid war, The United Civilisations took out the tyrannical fascism of the Logicio empire and the Sylph Liberation Front was left as the biggest swinging dicks in the multiverse. Only for a newer worse kind of Fascism to step up, aided by an even more ancient god called Adam Godwinson, the dreadful scheming of a Bam-Kursh and an imprisoned Farsh-nuke who tried to stand against them. There is hope and there is victory very much in sight but things are far from over.
I am tired and I am in pain. I want the cure. I am not even sure if I care about my gender or anything any more. I have sunken so low that I genuinely think hell might be psychologically easier to deal with because at least then when I felt pain and tiredness I wouldn’t also feel fear and anxiety. All I can do is keep going. And that’s fucking hard.
A person is built on a bed of lies. I am honest and that sucks because I look at the facts and I try to calculate the odds. When the most optimistic you can be is to point out that you are bad at math so maybe you’ve calculated the odds wrong then things are bad.
There is this idea in scifi, in reality, of the cold equation. That there is a right answer to a problem that isn’t nice and nobody likes it but the facts are what the facts are. Humans in general do not react well to the idea of the Cold Equation.
Kurt Vonnegurt apparently thought that the great sin of man was that we kept telling ourselves these damaging narratives that aren’t how reality works. I very much agree with this idea. It’s like people who get mad at spoilers baffle me. When I know a main character is going to die that’s not a spoiler, that’s a moment of tension in a scene that otherwise would not exist. How do they not know that the main character is going to be okay and the status quo will be restored by the end of the episode?
Here’s the thing I’m getting help for Kallman’s Syndrome and all the other things. I could add psychological help to that already long list and I probably will someday once things are a little calmer but it wouldn’t help me now. I am under no immediate danger, I have coping mechanisms, I get by, make it through the day, but on the long term I know that I am falling. I hope I can slow my decent enough to make it to the next boost and the next boost. I hope the things weighing me down can be dealt with. I hope someday I might have the strength to actually pull myself up by my bootstraps.
People who are okay generally think of people who aren’t okay like a character in a story. You’ll find a solution to the problem and get over it. Even if you know it’s not that simple the desperation makes you see cure alls where there are none. I’ve done this to myself. Desperately sought things I hoped would solve everything so much only to find that it was just a different kind of frying pan over a different kind of fire.
I want the happy ending. I want the solution. I want the answer. I want the cure. I want to believe that there is something better than this. That life can be better, more possible. The fact one of my solutions now is something I long since gave up as impossible has me severely doubting that. Any plan that relies upon a person who is all out of fucks finding fucks to give is a plan doomed to failure.
I am still writing and I’m still breathing and I’m still hoping and learning. I might survive this. I might be a better somebody. I might get a happy ending. I might find workable solutions. Answers that work for me. I might get the medication I need.
My story is not over. Not yet. I just don’t have any answers for you. Except sorry because this is going to suck. It is going to suck for everybody. And if you are a sadistic nazi moron laughing at the outrage and agony of the filthy SJWs, remember this:
This too shall pass.
Nobody wins forever.
Your time to suffer will come.
When suffer people will smile.
When you are dead people will forget you or spit upon your name.
You are alive today.
Be grateful for the mercies, liberties and victories you get.
It can always be worse
Anyway I’m going to go writing my story about a man becoming a beautiful giggly enthusiastic submissive girl. I will burn in hell and I will deserve it but for now I live and I am writing what I want because I feel like it and I am no use to man nor beast if I stop myself doing the things that give me the strength to continue.
Sunday, 20 August 2017
It is so weird to be writing a (very radically different - they like sports) character having a conversation with their family member when your family member is next door. Like I am writing this intense interpersonal drama and make up between these two very fictional characters but I'm still like what if the X thinks this X is them and they think Y must be me because I am Y to them in real life. Maybe this is why so many writers kill off the families?
Oh tragic back story. So sad. Never feel awkward writing about it though.
I mean its one thing when the plot is zombies, aliens, robots or nazis. There is something very simple and understandable about the weird trying to kill you. I mean can quite easily imagine writing a scene where a protagonist talks about the need to go on the run from nazis. Not least because in an incredibly painfully slow fashion that is what I am trying to do. Migrate out from under the nazis before they notice.
I am not writing that kind of story now. This is much more small scale. Much more personal to the characters and thus so much more awkward to explain. Even if it weren't taken as a base concept from from delving too deep onto the internet and finding weird stuff involving only consenting adults. This is the kind of personal story that people can't help but assume is based in reality.
The Farsh-nuke eats people, removes their brains and can reprogram reality and they think he's based on me. What the fuck are they going to think when they see a 20,000 word story about a guy who finishes college and has to decide what he's going to do with his life? I mentioned in a story that in universe I was somewhere else and people were still like. "That psychopath with the alien abilities is you"
I hope to fuck these are just people who think the Legend Of Zelda is Shigeru Miyamoto's desire to play Robin Hood or I honestly have no idea how this won't generate just the most awkward outrage and confusion.
Call out the male gaze, call out shitty representation, call out when I am rightly a moron but with this story please do not confuse fiction and reality. I am Sir 'Not appearing in this story' except for one story where I obliquely do as two different characters but that is the exception not the rule
Wednesday, 16 August 2017
It is so easy to lose hope right now. So easy to throw your hands up in disgust and surrender to what seems like inevitable. The world is in a bad way and problems that have existed for decades are causing catastrophic fractures within our cultures. Depression, desperation and confused anger at a world that would not let us be have turned people to hatred.
We live now in a point where even the good may feel the need to get blood on their hands as we are forced to do battle over great and terrible issues that are themselves distractions from the real problems created by men who just don't care about the truth so long as there is profit and power in it.
I'll be honest I feel myself to be a mess. In so many ways I feel myself to be a traitor, to have wronged good people and still wrong headed in a few key ways. I am tired and I am in pain and it would be so easy to convince myself that I don't deserve redemption, that I don't deserve to try. Because who looks at this shit tip of a world and relishes the challenges presented? But I will persevere as must we all.
It's not about goodies or baddies or anything else like that. There is no justice in the clusterfucks raining down upon us. There is just desperate confused people trying to survive and feeling angry when the way they think is best doesn't seem to get anywhere.
I have a side in these conflicts and it is a side I will support with blood if the problems we face get that bad but we are all humans and we all have the capacity to be misled, stupid and passionately defensive of our own stupid ideas. There are toxic centers, sources of toxic ideology that must be eliminated, but the vast majority of even those we consider the worst foes are just people following what they believe to be right.
Ultimately even wars are in the end about convincing the other side of the strength of your arguments. I am no warrior, no diplomat and no politician and have never claimed to be. All I can give is the hope that the majority of us survive, learn and come out of these dark times better people.
Self loathing is not fun. Self loathing when the mistakes of your past and the political morality of your present are fighting it out with very real casualties is hell. I have been seriously tempted to just delete my youtube channel and facebook page more than once recently because facing past feels so difficult but I persevere and dream of a better tomorrow.
Monday, 14 August 2017
Monday, 7 August 2017
Nine Worlds Geek Fest 2017
The Social OS Update
Alexander Gordon Jahans
I am wired and tired and, frankly, a little manic after nearly 5 days without writing or letsplays.
I have been on what can perhaps be best described as a psychological orbit during the last two years. Fatigue, pain and fresh crises causing me to fall further while letsplays, podcasts, writing, tv shows, walking and some very lovely people have kept boosting my altitude so that I never quite head into a death spiral. Though there have been one or two close calls.
The reasons for this are far too many to mention and frankly the answers bore me right now. The point is that I have not been well. Then as Nine Worlds Geek Fest approached, a number of things combined, some good, some bad, to make my mental state particularly ragged.
* I missed Universal Credit then had the rescheduled appointment a couple of days before I headed off to Nine Worlds Geek Fest.
* After waiting two years, my family picks the time period just before to get estate agents round to look at the house. So lots of stress as sleeping arrangements are shifted round to accommodate house viewings and certain members of my family seriously misunderstand how an autistic person will react to them cleaning without consent or oversight.
* I finished watching Blakes 7.
* I came close to the end of a short story I had been working on for weeks.
* I got the galloping shits.
So when I at last made the trip to Nine Worlds Geek Fest I was having serious doubts about whether I should go. I lived in absolute dread that I would get there and effectively have a nervous breakdown from the destruction of the fragile routine that had kept me in that stable orbit. Or worse that my isolation and mental instability had made me into a kind of offence generating time bomb waiting to go off. Between the last Nine Worlds Geek Fest I attended and this one I had after all managed to get myself publicly shamed and hated as a transphobic misogynist. Now here I was walking into perhaps the safest of safe spaces.
Incidentally the journey in (and trap back) was not fun. Taking luggage on the London underground, and having to go up escalators and stairs, not good. I got on the wrong train once and even when I arrived I started off walking in the wrong direction. My abusive father’s painfully insistent advice that there was a direct bus to Heathrow resounding loudly in my ears and I realised quite viscerally just how utterly unhelpful that advice would have been had I taken it.
The hotel I stayed in was shit. I had to go out to buy proper bogroll and the sink was too small to fit my bottles under the tap so I had to make squash by using a glass like a ladle to spoon the water inside the bottles held over the tiny sink. The walk from my hotel to the convention venue was bracing but not too tiring. Indeed the most tiresome aspect was negotiating the many crossings.
There is not actually much I can say about Nine Worlds Geek Fest 2017 itself. It was what Nine Worlds has always been, albeit perhaps smaller. I didn’t go for the guests and I considered the panels almost incidental. There were some good ones. A decent panel on Sansa Stark’s development in Game of Thrones. A nice one on Post Colonialism in Doctor Who. An interesting one on the city in SciFi and Fantasy. A good round table discussion on redemption in SF&F. A lot were alright but not memorable. Though the wrestling panel strikes me as something entirely outside my comfort zone but entertaining and interesting regardless.
There was the odd car crash of a panel. A couple I was in note worthy for providing me with a first hand view of how both old white women and old white gays can be dismissively bigoted in some ways. As a cis white male with interests in women I’m so used to being the demographic of the oppressor that it was eye opening to see that no women and gay men are indeed equally capable of being ignorant and problematic. Even these car crashes were enjoyable in their own way. A spectacle of stupidity. That said polyamorous and bisexual discrimination are not things to laugh about and are issues that need addressing in society. The fact I can take a punch down doesn’t mean others can and nor should they have to.
Which brings me to the the best part about conventions for me. The friends and friendly interactions. Nine Worlds Geek Fest is full of amazing and interesting people. I have to write and write from my perspective for my own reasons but this year I was very conscious that the world does not need more opinions from white cis males. Biting my tongue was at times hard, sometimes very hard, because I have spent so long on my own without a need to restrain myself but fundamentally I know what I think so I want to hear what they have to say instead. They have the new and interesting perspectives and they deserve to have their voices heard.
There is a misnomer within the right wing that what they want is freedom of speech. Now I will genuinely fiercely argue against censorship, if only because the old white cis rich men are still in charge in the vast major of cases. Yet like with the freedom of markets, something else I will ferociously champion the right wing doesn’t really want freedom.
Freedom is protected. You have a military (or vary good diplomats) to protect the freedom of your citizens from outside forces and you have a police force to protect the freedom of your citizens from internal sources. (Leaving aside the issue of police brutality and industrial racism just this once.) In the same way you have a regulation to protect the freedom of the markets from corporate bullies who would reduce competition. Freedom of Speech is protected in a similar way.
The right wing wants a world without rules because they have the money, they have the power and they like to think they have the physical might to enforce their will. (Even if the right wing and far right are by far the shittiest players of the martyr olympics.)
Never mind that freedom of speech refers specifically to protection from the government and nothing else, the spirit of their argument is self defeating. To protect free speech we do have to control and punish those with the largest power to exploit if they try to silence others. Even I have been cowed by the harassing voices of those who claim so viscously to defend the freedom of speech. These pricks silenced me and they react with outrage and indignation when their further harassment is silenced.
Nine Worlds Geek Fest is a safe space because it protects freedom of speech and representation from those who would seek to silence others with their might and violence. It is filled with lovely people from all walks of life and it feels like home.
I am immensely sad and kind of irrationally angry right now that it is over. I felt alive. I was talking to people and I liked it. More over I didn’t have to hide the scars I bore. I mean I didn’t flash them at anyone because I’m not a dick but this island of social progressivism, the safest of safe spaces, it didn’t make me feel unwelcome. Now maybe that’s because I’m a fucking unknown and a lot of my sins happened a long time ago now. Maybe the details would change it. That’s fair and that’s fine. What matters is that I was able to belong, however temporarily, however falsely, among this collection of different identities that I fundamentally champion and want to be victorious.
This convention finally put into words what I have been seeking for so long. Redemption. I fucked up and I fucked up bad. I hurt people, I made it about me and then my enemies hurt those people again. And the worst part is I know that it’s not just the writing, that I fucked up so bad but I will never really understand exactly, how, why and what I did wrong. There are so many steps along that chain where a different decision might have altered things so that I could maybe at least know how not to be such a fuckhead in the future.
That said there are some things I don’t think I will ever see eye to eye with some people about. I don’t believe in justice. I believe in the moral calculus of utilitarianism. I recognise social and political context as factors in that moral equation. That privilege and discrimination modify the result of whether a given action is moral or not. But I do not believe in justice.
I am a petty man with a long memory and I can be genuinely quite sadistic. I am not the hero of my own story. By my own morality I am a shithead who, at best, barely scrapes by without causing too much harm.
I will never trust in any system that trusts in the virtue, morality and goodness of anyone. I don’t care what demographic you are, you’re a person and that makes you capable of being moronic, petty, sadistic and corrupt. I would rather not have a society where ‘justice’ was carried out by well meaning citizens. The level of utter glee exhibited by some among the socially progressive at silencing, harassing and trying to end the livelihoods of people they have judged unworthy shocks and sickens me.
I don’t care what they’ve done, I don’t care what your demographic is. We have rules and systems to facilitate the protection of fundamental rights. Or we should anyway.
I cannot ever condone such actions. I can never condone revenge in real life. I have been hurt too deeply by far too many people to allow myself such an excuse. The things I could do to my hate stalkers in recent years alone. I appreciate that from another perspective that might seem like a demon criticising an angel smiting demons because as a demon, he’s not a nice guy. Unfortunately I think there is evidence enough to suggest that selective application of the rules leads in general to the wrong people exploiting that ruleset.
I do not think I can be redeemed, I don’t feel like it is possible. Barely passing for neurotypical in public is hard enough. Abiding by new sets of rules and identities is already hard at 25 and has to be consciously worked upon. I’ve already given up trying to reform the way I write fiction to a certain extent. I just don’t have the energy. Maybe the answer is I just don’t publish anything and quietly withdraw from public life. Heck I’m already sort of doing that.
I love Nine Worlds Geek Fest, I love the people, I love how they make me feel welcome and like I belong but if and when I get this short story collection published I feel like it’s going to be a nuclear bomb going off. The worst part is I’ll probably think I’ve gotten away with it. I mean what’s finished is already more than 80,000 words. So it’ll go unread and uncared about until the next time someone searches within the text for buzz words removed from context. In this story collection I break all of my rules. It is intended as a part 1 but also a capstone in case I never write again. It is also about my dealing with the wrongs I did through fiction.
If you think Steven Moffat and Joss Whedon are horrifically sexist, transphobic and otherwise problematic then block me now and save yourselves the bother. I wish I could say that I am seeking redemption through being a better man. I wish I could say this was a socially progressive short story collection. I wish I could be even half as good as they should like me to be. The reality is that a lot happened over the last two years. A metric fuckton happened. So this is about unpacking and displaying the horrors I feel like I was attacked for. This is about beginning the grieving process by finally drawing closure on the subject by earning the outrage.
I can’t seek redemption for something I don’t fully understand and know I did in good faith, meaning well. I can’t grieve for being a shit until I feel like I unambiguously am one and know why. It’s not as bad as it could be. It’s not as crude as it could be. There are story and plot reasons. No trans characters are actually harmed. None the less there is evil in these stories a level to which I have forbidden myself from writing before.
I kind of forgot about Richard Raspberry and how very evil he is while I was at Nine Worlds Geek Fest. I’m so close to the end of what is so far my most socially progressive short story that it clouded the memory of him and his actions. That I forgot that technically the story I’m writing is deliberately offensive and disgusting both in and out of universe.
I feel like a fraud and a monster. Oh and my diet is shot.
Anyway, I’m going to recover and then I’m going to review Blakes 7 and continue writing this short story.
Actually I don’t think even George RR Martin has anything quite as grotesque as what Richard Raspberry does.
Tuesday, 1 August 2017
Alexander Gordon Jahans
So there’s people looking round the house as Universal Credit happens and Nine Worlds Geek Fest happens not long after. I am knackered. Held together by mints, diet coke and fantasies of submissive girls.
Kallman’s Syndrome, Growth Hormone Deficiency, Sleep Apoenia, Autism, Piles, Cataracts, Millenial Angst and now I’m on a diet while dealing with the stress of a house move, my abusive father and those loyal to him and Universal Credit. Oh and because I am currently writing a story featuring a Non-Binary Elder God and their Trans Woman companion my brain is just torturing me.
Nazis are fine. They are dangerous and scary and I feel such disgusting hatred but they don’t get you in the head. If a monster who is clearly drenched in darkness says horrible things about you it’s like so what? The evil shit thinks I’m evil. Who cares.
Feminists and trans people thought. They are right and strong and they deserve protection, support and victory but what they say burns. It motherfucking burns and corrodes away at your psyche. Though maybe that’s just me raging at myself and using that as an excuse. Like I can’t tear into myself over what the nazis say because if the nazis said water is wet I’d have to double check that. They’re fucking nazis but with a feminist, with a trans person the opposite is also true.
“God is real and he hates you. Also Lucifer knows you’re coming and he’s preparing a buttplug razor blades, lemon juice and disease iunfested fish guts. You are the secret aborted insane sun of Donald Trump and actually an evil being made of hate and shit. Your pathetic excuse for a cock is actually a cancerous growth and your consciousness is actually a virulent parasite developed by the men in black to take care the truly evil. You are a too with no agency built to suffer and die.”
“Well okay then I guess I bewetter consider that as valid criticism.
Don’t get me wrong no feminist has ever been as shitty as my own self destructive and self loathing instincts but the point is they don’t need to.
One phrase that someone said once still burns with me though because I never got to hear them specifically clarify it “... It’s not just the writing...” Understand that nothing they actually said could ever be as bad as planting that seed and never clarifying. No truthful bitter account that burns, not eful sadistic rant I disagreed with, nothing could ever fuck me up as bad as such profound hatred over my writing but then ‘Oh, not just that...’
It’s like in my mind that they have become elevated to some great seer ‘And lo in the year 2049 you shall do the bad thing and for that you will be satan’s personal plaything for all eternity’
And here I am ranting about being criticised. Because if one thing encourages people to actually explain their criticisms it’s when a crazy guy on the internet rants about criticism that was given.
I’m just tired. Perpetually tired and now hangry as well.
Except I’ve now reached this weird almost religious revelation. The universe will never actually let me die because death would be a mercy so instead it gives me just enough hope, escapism and support to keep me clinging on in the darkest moments and then it tortures me for pleasure. As much pain and annoyance as it’s possible to get without sending me over the edge.
Bizarrely, I feel like this explains why things are actually maybe starting to look up. Nine Worlds Geek Fest, beginning to sell the house, universal credit maybe not being a complete trash fire, even the coming impeachment of Trump and the approaching Corbyn government. All these things feel like the universe compensating for the fact that I am physically so much weaker and psychologically so much more ready to chuck everything in. It’s the torturer letting you have a nice bath and a good meal because you nearly died during the last session and they need you scared and in pain, not a gibbering wreck.
I mean I don’t actually consider it to be true but I know sod’s law is a load of horseshit, doesn’t stop me believing in it and acting like it’s real on the basis of anecdotal evidence. There are reasons I don’t believe in summer or winter clothing, why I always dress the same no matter the weather.
I do have hope. I do think that with time the house might be sold and this particular purgatory might be at an end. That I might have a lock between me and dad which he won’t have a key to. That sooner or later the conservatives have to go. That Trump has to go. Apart from anything else, even as my magnum opus, as a collection of short stories I keep adding to, I am slowly finishing this beast I am calling Alpha Warriors.
I am tired, I am in pain but I will not die, the universe won’t allow that mercy. I will get my writing finished. I will proofread it. I will publish it. Absolutely noone will care but it will be done.
Before I go I leave you on this thought.
The tardis can’t go back to New York but Clara has a different Tardis. It is my personal headcanon that Amy and Clara went travelling together (and totally had an affair, maybe Rory was aware and involved)
Oh and I have nearly finished watching Blakes 7. It’s a great, if at times wildly problematic, series. And when the guy who writes vore, and tears himself to pieces wondering what feminists think of him, considers a series to be problematic that is a serious thing to consider. That said Avon is a badass and I love him. I now want to imagine him travelling with Amy, Clara and Mad Mikkelson’s Hannibal for reasons. (they are all insanely attractive and charismatic actors and characters)