tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89704446468514739052023-11-15T16:32:42.332+00:00Waxing SimulacraWhere originality is a totally meaningless conceptkieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-11537433540783765272017-11-23T22:53:00.002+00:002017-11-24T09:11:18.583+00:00The best lemon juiceI've been drinking more than I used to lately<br />
but when I get there my thoughts don't die down they go crazy.<br />
<br />
Mistakes and wins merge and spin in my mind.<br />
Don't know what I'm searching for, or what I want to find.<br />
<br />
I guess I'm trying to make sense of why.<br />
<br />
I look in the mirror and think "do I really hate this guy?"<br />
<br />
"I'm putting him through so much stress for nothing less than a salary that fails to impress and shit sleep."<br />
<br />
Is this peak? Is this a career? Because all I have is a pot belly from comfort eating and a creeping fear that won't leave my side no matter how much I try. Or drink.<br />
<br />
I will say this, it's made me rethink how to spend my time instead of sitting on my arse from nine until... Usually nine.<br />
<br />
"But hey that's fine as long as it allows you to climb". But it doesn't. I was given a rope and a bundle of hope and told "figure it out yourself".<br />
<br />
In the end I only figured out how to hang myself. A long walk but a short shelf life.<br />
<br />
Whether a knife at your throat or a paycheck round your neck to keep you afloat, handcuffs made of gold or a misplaced sense of values to uphold, truth be told, it's really just not for me any more.<br />
<br />
If this experience has taught me anything it's taught me everything.<br />
<br />
I now know to stay sane, and be the person deep down I want to be again, there's a simple rule to follow.<br />
<br />
Unless what you do sometimes makes your heart skip a beat, and the rhythm you play with your hands, mind and feet means you lose track of time, and you are so happy that it just has to be some kind of crime...<br />
<br />
don't give all you have to give.<br />
<br />
Squeezing the lemon of every last drop is a sour way to live.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-20061828276909880002016-02-22T21:21:00.002+00:002016-02-22T21:21:18.116+00:00Please keep to the rightWhy do so many of my generation feel so entitled? I used to hate it. I used to think they were lazy, and unimaginitive. I used to look down on people with that attitude because they lived as if it was easier to be lost in the garden of eden, even if it was all made of cardboard and eventually sucked them dry, than it was to find themselves.<br />
<br />
I don't feel like that any more. The previous generation had Holden Caulfield, and mine had Neo. Someone who stepped outside the world and seen it for what it is. Someone who has seen the machines we set in place to keep ourselves comfortable. We live in a human zoo.<br />
<br />
People feel entitled because they have done everything they were supposed to do, that they were told to do, in order to have a good life. Yet they don't. And they can feel it. They have seen actors pretending to enjoy products and widgets and trinkets in TV advertisements so much that they ape them and think that's how to live. Doing what they are told to do.<br />
<br />
Our whole society is built on behaviour/reward. You do what you are told to do, what you are supposed to do, and you receive your reward. The problem is, for being obedient, going to school, getting good grades, going to work, putting the hours in, raising a family, getting a loan to buy a car, getting a mortgage to own a home, for all of this, the reward has been mis-sold.<br />
<br />
Although it might seem like it in the prospectus, in the recruitment material, in the adverts, the reward for obedience isn't happiness. It's comfort. It's someone else's definition of what is a good enough standard of living for you.<br />
<br />
So when I see people of my generation feeling entitled, I no longer feel angry at them. I feel angry for them. I feel angry for me. I spent 30 years without knowing what I know now. I was caught in a scam.<br />
<br />
Everyone knows that in the long run, in blackjack, the house always wins. The problem with our society is that we think we can influence the house. We think that if the dealer is our friend, or someone like us, we might get a better hand. We might last longer in the game. We might end up with more for ourselves. But happiness is rarely found in quantities, and it's never in any hand you are dealt.<br />
<br />
The reward for obedience has been mis-sold, and comfort is not the same as happiness. I don't blame people for feeling entitled any more.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-68388144375775704332015-05-09T08:59:00.000+01:002015-05-09T08:59:12.756+01:00Why a majority Conservative government is bad for ScotlandHere is why a Conservative government is bad, even for Scotland with our own budget and an SNP-packed Holyrood. I wrote this as a Facebook post, but it's far too big.<br />
<br />
Political parties are made up of people who have a similar mindset on how certain things should work in an ideal world. One of the main differences is (or was) the purpose of government. This is where the left/right wing terminology comes into play.<br />
<br />
Left wing parties such as (old) Labour, The Greens, SSP etc believe that government is fundimentally there to serve the interests of the people, and look for ways to provide more for the largest amount of people. They believe in helping people who cannot help themselves.<br />
<br />
Right wing parties such as The Conservatives and UKIP believe that the government should not get involved in the personal lives of people, and should play as little a role as possible. They believe in helping people who help themselves.<br />
<br />
Centrist parties include New Labour, Lib Dems and SNP. They all lean a bit more to the left or right of centre, but all believe that government has to play a role in helping both people and businesses succeed. This isn't a lazy approach. It requires leniency to businesses on some occasions and generosity to the people on others, and also knowing which to choose.<br />
<br />
I know people with all of these views and I would not say that either is evil, or either is the "right one". I can say that without a shadow of a doubt though, that the current Conservative government is a bad thing for us.<br />
<br />
The main reason is that their approach to economic is flawed. You don't even need to be an economist. It's even wrong if you believe in right wing politics. Our large and prolonged austerity program, where taxes are raised and spending is cut, results in less money for ordinary people like you and I, which is bad news for businesses because it means you and I have less to spend.<br />
<br />
Because we have less to spend, and businesses suffer, we can say that the economy is shrinking, not growing. This means that the government have to borrow more money. Cuts, as they are seen in the UK, do not allow us to repay the deficit. They mean that the country has to borrow even more! The Conservative and Lib Dem government have borrowed far more in their 5 years in power than a Labour governmenf did in almost 15 years.<br />
<br />
Where has this money gone? Well, one of the other things that brings political parties together is a belief in how public services should be provided. Aside from smaller government, the other main pillar for Right wing political parties is that they see the free market (supply and demand) as being far more efficient than publically run organisations.<br />
<br />
Where the public (ie government) run a public service, it is run for public good. Where a public service is run by a private company, it is run for profit. Cutting public spending and replacing this hole by allowing the private sector to fill it means that jobs and services which were paid for by public money are now filled by private companies and their employees. This is seen as good for the economy by the Right, because it looks like it increases employment. This is because private firms can employ more people by paying them less. Usually it's the same people doing the same job (or more) for less pay.<br />
<br />
An example is hospital cleaning. If you are employed by the NHS to clean hospital wards, your primary motivation will be to make sure patients have a clean ward. If you are employed by a private cleaning company who have been contracted to provide cleaning services, your main motivation will be to do your job. This will be guided by what the company want you to do. They want to increase profits, so you are going to be asked to clean a wider area in the same time as you would have been given before so that the company can see a return on investment.<br />
<br />
We are borrowing more because we are cutting very heavily and the work still needs to be done so we pay private companies to come in and do a the same job for profit instead of public benefit. The extra money we are borrowing as a country goes into the pockets of rich people who own established businesses and is then "trickled down" to employees (ie us). Instead of a private companies profits coming from the general public spending their own money (and letting the market decide which businesses are good and bad), public money from the government is used instead.<br />
<br />
This Conservative government are more interested in making themselves and people they see as "them" (as in, not you and I) more wealthy. They are helping people who help themselves to help themselves.<br />
<br />
This is especially bad for Scotland because we don't spend what we put into the system. We spend what we are given based on a number of factors. We essentially get a share of money in the pot. If the pot is smaller (because the economy is shrinking and money the UK borrow is tied up in private support disguised as public spending) then Scotland gets less. The more moderate approach of the SNP of increasing spending and paying our deficit back slower, as and when the economy grows will never get a chance to see the light of day.<br />
<br />
A majority Conservative government who have already committed to even deeper cuts (which even the IMF say are going to harm the economy, not heal it) means less money for Scotland. It means there is less money for the majority SNP government to work with, and means they can't increase public spending at the rate they would like. It means that you and I will still be worse off, despite publicly rejecting right wing politics by voting in the centrist SNP.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-17241311476675482422014-05-26T12:19:00.001+01:002014-05-26T12:19:53.787+01:00"Some Day" Isn't A Real DayIt feels like a prison sentence<br />
living in this town<br />
look around, the same glass ceiling<br />
it really brings me down<br />
some people don't agree<br />
because they feel a sense of freedom<br />
"We could leave if we wanted to,<br />
but we don't have any reason".<br />
<br />
David Hume said it best<br />
when talking about free will<br />
it only matters if you *could* do different<br />
but many false steps were made by standing still<br />
so why not take that challenge<br />
see if your freedom's really true<br />
do something unexpected,<br />
completely out of the blue.<br />
<br />
Or live life never asking<br />
what could have been if i wasn't "realistic"<br />
if I wasn't safe and "sensible"<br />
If I wasn't so pessimistic<br />
The fear you think you're escaping<br />
will follow you to your grave<br />
and you'll have lived a lonely life<br />
if all you've done is work and save<br />
<br />
Leaving great things for your children<br />
is a kind and noble cause<br />
but I promise they'll be happier<br />
instead of hearing what could have been,<br />
stories of what was.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-11735303332194381172014-05-17T10:04:00.003+01:002014-05-17T10:07:35.906+01:00Deferred Life PlanThey say good things come to those who wait<br />
but I think that theory is up for debate.<br />
Sit on your hands and good times will arrive?<br />
I want my pie now, not at sixty five!<br />
That seems like madness,<br />
that seems like wishful thinking<br />
and I'm slowly realising<br />
why everyone is drinking.<br />
But the path to the bottom of the bottle ain't sweet<br />
and the only thing there is the taste of defeat<br />
If you dread Monday coming and then celebrate Friday<br />
you're wishing more than half of your life away.<br />
<br />
When did you start your deferred life plan?<br />
Didn't you ever have dreams?<br />
Or do you just have a short attention span?<br />
Look, I know it isn't that easy to start,<br />
but if you're doing nothing now<br />
your life and your dreams will always be miles apart,<br />
and I know you don't believe in immortality<br />
but that's your current rationality.<br />
Just cos Ronan Keating said it, don't make it untrue<br />
Tomorrow never comes...<br />
At least that's the conclusion I've come to<br />
<br />
When we see a hardship, some people duck their heads.<br />
Some people wear a hat and pretend they're someone else.<br />
Some people wear a mask, sink down low and disappear,<br />
but some people thrive, and that's why I'm here.<br />
<br />
A job doesn't make you happy in the long run,<br />
having values and knowing you live by them<br />
will make you happier than having none.<br />
Remember what a job is for, generating income.<br />
If your job gives you money but robs you of all your time<br />
through worry, stress or working on your own dime<br />
it's a crime, it's voluntary mental slavery.<br />
But for some reason you think that's fine<br />
because the boss will recognise your sacrifice<br />
and reward you by allowing you to climb,<br />
but you'll never reach him, there'll always be another one.<br />
You'll never reach the top, there'll always be another rung.<br />
If you're climbing the wrong ladder, you'll always come undone.<br />
<br />
So why climb at all? You can fly! You can have it all.<br />
Open your mind and see that there's another way.<br />
Find someone living your dreams and live their life for a day,<br />
ask how they got there, I bet it wasn't just wishes and prayer.<br />
And as you stare and wonder how to live the life you want<br />
remember you can have it all, all you need to do is make that jump.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-21113758008978626082014-05-06T10:14:00.002+01:002014-05-06T10:14:56.105+01:00Being A Man: A List<div dir="ltr">
Here follows a list of what I feel it is to be a man.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
</div>
<ul>
<li>A man must break a heart, to truly understand the fragility of the lives he involves himself in</li>
<li>A man must have his heart broken, to truly understand his own fragility</li>
<li>At least once in his life, a man must fully immerse himself in a sacrificial love</li>
<li>A man must have a war against an opposite for without this it is impossible to assert who he is</li>
<li>A man provides</li>
<li>A man recognises who is really in charge</li>
<li>A man knows when to be a man and when to be human</li>
<li>A man must find a love he is willing to die with or for</li>
</ul>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-76897438650380480422013-05-30T13:18:00.001+01:002013-05-30T13:18:28.577+01:00Thumos<p dir=ltr>GET DOWN FROM THERE, YOU'LL FALL"<br>
they screamed at me as I climbed<br>
higher and higher, from up here, the world looks so small<br>
ant people scurrying about, their problems don't matter at all<br>
Even if the revolution happens and it isn't televised,<br>
I wouldn't care because I've got my eyes on the prize:<br>
freedom.</p>
<p dir=ltr>"MAN WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO SEE SUCH HEIGHTS"<br>
they cried, but step by step I ascended despite<br>
my fear of constantly moving up, try as they might<br>
those people who scream<br>
NO<br>
can't stop me from taking flight tonight.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Then, there was silence. The kind filled with anticipation and dread<br>
as my foot caught on the top rung of the rope ladder of success<br>
I had almost broke through, I could see the stars shine,<br>
but all the sympathetic cosmonauts offered no hand, nor took mine.<br>
Down I fell and hit every obstacle I had overcome<br>
and the indentation in the ground when I landed<br>
means I start again even lower than where I set off from.</p>
<p dir=ltr>This depth may only be inches, but it may as well be miles,<br>
face down in the mud I can only be concerned with my own trials<br>
and those tiny ant people now tower above me,<br>
as I blunder between their busy legs<br>
"Sorry, I do not wish to bother thee"<br>
I yell in my little, insignificant voice.<br>
Exhausted from a whole day of this, sleep brings no rejoice.</p>
<p dir=ltr>What a fool I was to think that I could climb,<br>
to see things only meant for the eyes of the divine<br>
to be that one in a million who tastes the fruits of their own success.<br>
"Sit down and shut up, you were meant for much less"<br>
Why didn't I listen to the voices which screamed no.<br>
Maybe then I wouldn't have fallen.<br>
Maybe I wouldn't feel so low.</p>
<p dir=ltr>After some time spent gathering my strength<br>
and remembering when happiness was only at arms length<br>
my burlap sack packed with my dreams and Lucozade,<br>
I set out to climb that rope ladder without any aid.<br>
Even though I know I'll probably just fall again<br>
and that the voices which scream are the voices of the safe but mundane<br>
I'm well practised by now so without a fuss<br>
I slowly start to climb again; a modern day Sisyphus.</p>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-40262855381707201782013-05-27T13:00:00.000+01:002013-05-27T13:00:01.098+01:00Absurd Rhymes With Albatross<br />
<i>Of course, it doesn't. But it does rhyme with turd.</i><br />
<br />
As the most curious species<br />
and with brain power to boot<br />
we try to swallow the whole sun<br />
and think the face in the moon is cute.<br />
<br />
We pretend that time's a circle<br />
and that we can live this moment again,<br />
we call ourselves unique, like snowflakes<br />
then score beauty out of ten.<br />
<br />
We praise multiple gods, and one, or none.<br />
All three are but primitive tools<br />
to deal with the hypocrisy of life. Example?<br />
We teach science in Roman Catholic schools.<br />
<br />
We take their valves to work our hearts<br />
but "all pigs do is stink".<br />
Being human is such an absurdity,<br />
all the more because we can think.<br />
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-41405484514147102692013-05-23T11:00:00.000+01:002013-05-23T11:00:01.285+01:00Waltz<br />
Dancing in threes, living life<br />
step one two.<br />
<br />
We share a heartbeat, me and you.<br />
<br />
Sychronised steps, arm in arm<br />
turn two three.<br />
<br />
No thought to thinking, feeling free.<br />
<br />
Past mistakes made we laugh off<br />
as we spin.<br />
<br />
Lips touch and we dance, skin to skin<br />
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-8613277246019286442013-05-23T01:14:00.000+01:002013-05-23T10:27:49.302+01:00Facebook FriendsThe people on my Facebook are my friends,<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
'cept,</div>
they're not.<br />
<br />
They are friends of my friends<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
and</div>
people I knew before;<br />
<br />
they are people at work<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
but</div>
cease to be when I leave.<br />
<br />
You are my Facebook friends<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
'cause</div>
un-friend is just so rude.<br />
<br />
Are the people on my Facebook my friends<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
or</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
my "friends"?</div>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-23101809875031316922013-05-22T01:16:00.000+01:002013-05-22T01:16:00.157+01:00A poem about people I hate<br />
<i>This poem's title is literal. This is just a spoken word poem about people I hate. Or more specifically, something I hate about people. Below this, you can listen to the recording hosted on SoundCloud and below that, you can read the words. There's no layout, it looks like this because it's written to be heard and not read, but this is my blog and I want to post the words. Whatever.</i><br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F93288681" width="100%"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
All my life I've been called a nerd, a loser, a geek.<br />
Just because I love to learn.<br />
I want to know why our calendar has seven days in the week<br />
and why we are averse to telling people how much we earn.<br />
Thank god or zeus or even the big bang for wikipedia<br />
because without it I'd never be able to bore workmates<br />
with facts and interesting titbits about who really controls the world's media<br />
(it's not a conspiracy by the way, Noam Chomsky told me and his name holds weight in debates)<br />
It's just fate that the curse placed upon my tiny little head is now plastered across all these fucking tshirts on little girl's chests. Slogans designed to impress because being a geek is somehow cool now?<br />
Like I didn't get my head shoved in a fucking bin and my childhood is just one big fat cash cow?<br />
It's like I wasn't so scared of ridicule for joining the debate club I ran away and ate lunch on the pavement on my own? Wow. I've barely told anyone about that.<br />
<br />
Where was I? Oh yeah, tell me about your adventures in the Warhammer universe fellow geek. Tell me about the time you spend reading short stories by only Phillip K Dick and Bradbury for a whole week.<br />
How disappointed were you that the overarching story in Asimov's I, Robot was completely missed out in the Will Smith adaptation?<br />
Who pushed you down stairs in school because you thought superheros were cool? Were you the last in your group of friends to pull? Yes, teenagers can be cruel but I'm still being ridiculed by the exact same people who paid to see The Avengers four times because Chris Hemsworth and Robert Downey Junior make them drool.<br />
<br />
Dungeons and Dragons is nothing like playing with a Barbie doll and you sound like a fool for making that comparison, but I try to take it on the chin. Because I never expect anyone to understand why I run Linux instead of Windows on my netbook, or why I continually fix my eight year old iPod instead of buying a new one.<br />
<br />
And I'd never understand why you would mute the news or think it's boring to see a meteor caught on camera crashing down to Earth with an impact like a giant cosmic gun. That's the reason I'll never buy a tshirt that states in VERY LARGE FONT, that everyone can read that I'm a domesticated dog, on a very short lead.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-19491317015523440722013-05-21T11:57:00.001+01:002013-05-22T01:23:51.870+01:00Peter Pan<div dir="ltr">
<i>I like the rhythmic quality of this. I've been writing things in threes recently and I don't know why. As you can see, this is structured so that every line contains three syllables. I may have the punctuation wrong which would lead some to read this in a way I didn't intend but honestly, I think the commas and full stops, as well as the line breaks let it flow without the reader having to think of composition too much.</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Everything</div>
<div dir="ltr">
that I think,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I create.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Everything</div>
<div dir="ltr">
that I think,</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I create, </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I control.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Everything</div>
<div dir="ltr">
that I think, </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I create, </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I control, </div>
<div dir="ltr">
I destroy.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Not Captain</div>
<div dir="ltr">
Hook, I'm the</div>
<div dir="ltr">
first Lost Boy.</div>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-76592472907179697982013-05-13T17:59:00.001+01:002013-05-13T17:59:58.509+01:00Butterflies<p dir=ltr><br>
It isn't often I'm lost for words but when you kissed me, my head was with the birds, in a cloud and I could hear my heart beating so loud I thought it would burst from my chest, then you said</p>
<p dir=ltr>"are you ready?"</p>
<p dir=ltr>Time stopped, and that's the most beautiful thing because I don't want to waste it, like seedlings in spring. Am I ready? "Of course", I said dizzy, heady from kiss and you looked at me with doe eyes, and said</p>
<p dir=ltr>"don't hurt me"</p>
<p dir=ltr>Us two alone, only moonlight exists, the sole witness to this tryst sits high above watching hands touching hands, hands touching hips. In this moment we are one (no space), an everlasting embrace.</p>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-33525983767008240412013-05-09T10:03:00.001+01:002013-05-09T10:03:20.518+01:00Peninsula<br />
I love the way the sands of time trick our mind.<br />
How pleasing the feeling<br />
we were young yesterday,<br />
the notion that all we know is innate.<br />
A smile arises when I think<br />
of troubles, previously significant<br />
that no longer hold any pain,<br />
or of all the times we tried in vain.<br />
<br />
Shifting sands of time<br />
distort our mind in pleasing times,<br />
distracting us from the reality<br />
of humanity.<br />
<br />
Absolutes are abhorrent:<br />
hate and love are but two sides of the same coin,<br />
with one comes the possibility of the other.<br />
<br />
To hate and love at the same time<br />
is absurd.<br />
To hate and love at the same time<br />
is human.<br />
<br />
So you see<br />
the paradox of humanity.<br />
It is a struggle to remain sane<br />
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-69511878162552105072013-05-07T01:59:00.001+01:002013-05-07T01:59:33.221+01:00Every Atom<p dir=ltr>It's not love that tears us apart, its the heartache that does.<br>
A troubled mind stuck in time looping ifs, buts and because,<br>
predisposed with thoughts of who, when, why and of what was.<br>
Heartache ruins us.</p>
<p dir=ltr>If its not love that tears us apart, the memories will.<br>
Ruminating good and bad<br>
then out they spill<br>
to anyone sparing a shoulder or ear<br>
and we can't stem the flow until,<br>
heartache drains us.</p>
<p dir=ltr>Love will never tear us apart<br>
because humans we are,<br>
and every atom in our body was once part of a star.<br>
What is the loss of love when life is this bizarre?<br>
Heartache cleanses us</p>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-13517132506094089652013-03-01T14:27:00.001+00:002013-03-01T14:31:57.954+00:00Borrachero Prologue<b id="internal-source-marker_0.43700626608915627" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>This is the first draft of the prologue of the novel I'm working on at the moment; 'Borrachero'. All feedback is appreciated and will be taken on board, unless you're correcting spelling or grammar. That stuff will be fixed when the whole novel is proofed. Thanks for reading.</i></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The crowd outside the research wing of the hospital had grown quickly in a short space of time. Not quite with the same speed that a flashmob would come together but for the passerby, there wasn’t much difference. Signs and placards were held up by men and women wearing PETA t-shirts, proclaiming their hatred for animal testing. Among them were the dreadlocked and tie-dyed crew; the protesters who opposed capitalism as a whole and for whom the pharmaceutical industry was one big melanoma on the skin of society. Behind the front line of the protest specific that had been bussed in from far and wide and the protest ever-present were the locals who had heard of what was going down through social media. Publicly shared Facebook pages, #hospitalprotest trending on Twitter, along with Snapchat and Instagram shots being fired about by almost everyone present had made sure that anyone with even a remote interest in animal welfare, “bad” pharma or even just protesting and playing Rage Against The Machine really loud had come along to take part or spectate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Viewed from a socio-anthropological angle, the crowd assembled outside the hospital resembled a trifle, with distinct layers clearly visible from observing dress code, behaviour and language. The only thing messing up this picture was the floaters. Men and women in the crowd with scarves and bandanas covering their faces and hoods pulled over their heads, milling amongst every layer and making comments to anyone who would listen about turning violent and doing something. These were the dark anarchistic “bad seeds” that the media loved to blame everything on whenever a protest got out of control or riots started up. At an even smaller level that academic observers would miss, there was one hooded woman who wasn’t an anarchist at all, but was using their presence to mask her own purposes. Sophie had an edge, she knew where the cameras pointed and where she could stand and spread discontent without being picked up. Despite the cameras not being advanced enough to have been equipped with face recognition, she knew that the men sitting in the CCTV control room would recognise her. She fixed the bandana covering her face and pulled her hood down tighter so that only her eyes showed and continued through the crowd.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The research wing was located at the rear of the hospital but both corporate and NHS research was carried out inside, so the back of the hospital was just as busy as the front. This was good for the protesters because they could focus all of their force on one location and still be visible. Some of the veteran protesters had already alerted their own contacts within the media, accrued over a lifetime of living on protest sites and collecting the business cards of eager local and freelance journalists looking to be the first to grab any story that might prove bigger than dealing with the menial complains of the elderly, or writing about how online bingo is ruining the country. Taking a phone call from an excited hippy was exciting enough for most of them to drive out to the hospital and check out what had outraged them this time. A protest this big outside a hospital was good enough to get on the front of any local rag and at least get a feature inside a national tabloid, so it was worth a shot. While there were protests this size all over the country that went unreported, when you see your networked contacts on Linkedin all updating their profiles about heading to the same location, you really have to follow suit, or your wallet could miss out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everyone with an eye on this kind of thing knows that any medical research done in university linked hospitals is both done with animals and is completely legal. The Home Office issue licences and carry out inspections to make sure of it. If protests occurred whenever there was animal testing then every hospital car park would look like a carnival. It takes a special occasion to pull together such a wide variety of people, interest the media and have the researchers themselves sweating. This time, it wasn’t the animals that were the issue per se but the experiments themselves. Most hospital staff such as porters or cleaners are in those positions because they have no other option but to make a living moving patients and bodies of those who used to be patients, or cleaning surgical theatres and wards of gore and phlegm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">However, some are there because it’s the only way they can get experience in a hospital; part time staff who work in hospitals in the evenings and study during the day in a variety of fields. Students might get a bad rap for being lazy but the one thing they do have going for them is that they are a curious bunch. All it took was for one inquisitive student working a shift in the research wing to open a bag of medical waste, investigate the labels of the empty drug packaging, Google their findings and update their blog with what they found for a chain reaction to ignite. It started with a curious student, and ended with a protest of over two thousand people outraged at the talk of a governmental cover-up being carried out at their local hospital.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The rumours about what was happening inside the research facility attached to the rear of the hospital ranged from plausible stories about unethical drug trials to more complex conspiracy theories. Publicly incomprehensible science and corporate non-disclosure mix all the time in the pharmaceutical business but when they combine with leaks of information, things can escalate quickly, forming an almost palpable hysteria. This was precisely what had happened in this case. Without having prepared an easy way to explain the legitimate means they had for using a drug with the catchy name ‘3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate’, otherwise known as ‘QNB’ in a research facility in Scotland, the pharmaceutical corporation backing the research had been blindsided. The PR-friendly line which explained the reason they were researching a drug that was rumoured to have been used in chemical warfare in the Middle East was brushed aside as a complete fabrication by those most vocal on the internet and their digital battle cries had been heard far and wide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sophie moved like a professional amongst the crowd. Much more at home in a busy city centre than in the office she had come to spend far too much time in recently, she felt a surge of pleasure at being able to negotiate the crowded area easily. She was looking out for faces that looked like they were ready for much more than shouting and chanting angry slogans. A slight snarl for example, indicated to her that its owner felt personally aggrieved by what was happening. When she spotted signs like this, she manoeuvred her way across to them and walked behind or past them in a casual manner while pretending to talk on her phone. Sometimes she pretended she was an undercover journalist, describing the scene to an editor. Other times she spoke excitedly as if to a friend whom she was trying to find in the crowd. No matter who she was speaking to, when she passed someone with the look of impatience and anger in their eyes she exaggerated the feel of the crowd and their intentions to her imaginary caller.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah, it looks like it could turn nasty at any point. Have the photographers lined up on the left to catch anything; I think I heard someone down the front talking about setting their sign on fire to attract media attention... Let’s get that for the front page.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It wasn’t long until she had fabricated enough discontent that there really were people talking about burning their placards. As the crowd grew, the shouting got louder and more aggressive. The security guards who had been called in to work on short notice were visibly relieved when the police turned up and set up a cordon around the entrance, stopping anyone from gaining entrance to the building. The police recognised that the crowd had the potential to turn and came to the scene resplendent in their full riot gear, just in case. The sight of riot police to an already angry crowd was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. The wooden planks used to hold placards were thrown almost instantly, along with bricks, stones and any other debris the protesters could get their hands on as a primal hatred gripped the crowd and they surged forwards.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sophie, seeing all of this started to retreat and sighed, relieved that the first part of her plan had worked. Walking away from the crowd towards the car park, she turned the corner and reached behind a large skip, pulling out a black bag. Standing in an alcove she whipped off her hooded top and swapped it for a duffel coat she pulled out of it. Now, instead of looking like an anarchist, her black trousers and white blouse, covered with a grey coat made her look like the young professional that she was. A lanyard around her neck displaying her staff ID card and a handbag completed the look. She ditched the bandana in the black bag and threw the whole lot into the skip.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Taking the long way around the building and emerging from the other side, she timed her appearance from around the corner of the building to coincide with the arrival of another van filled with riot police. Miming the appropriate actions to make it look like she was putting her car keys into her bag, she feigned shock and ran to one of the riot police.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Please, I have to get inside. Can you help me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The policeman nodded and signalled for her to get behind him with his hand. He held his riot shield to the side as he strafed along the outside of the building towards the door, protecting Sophie as he went. A wooden stick hit the shield protecting her as she swiped her card in the door, causing the automatic doors to open inwards and she quickly slipped inside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sitting in the back of one of the company cars, Mr Cadman was stuck in London traffic. His associate, Mr Ballard was with him. They had been discussing their company’s performances on the stock market before Mr Cadman’s phone had bleeped, demanding his attention.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You are going to have to repeat that, it sounded like you just told me people were protesting one of our research labs in Scotland”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I don’t even know why you would call me with this news; you know what you have to do. Yes, of course you need to get rid of those properly. Haven’t you seen the vagrants that journalists employ to root through trash and sellotape shredded paper together?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“How many people?! Next time you have an emergency like this, you should start with the most important news first, such as BBC News camera teams setting up outside!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just as the voice on the other line started to protest, Mr. Cadman hung up and began slowly pounding the phone in his hand, his face displaying the tell tale signs of contemplative rage that usually indicated that someone was about to be fired. Mr. Ballard didn’t even need to see this to tell what was going through his old friend’s head. He pulled out his phone and typed a quick email to his secretary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cancel flight to Germany. Cadman and I are going to Scotland. When can we land in Dundee?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Cadman was still staring intently at the back of the passenger seat, focusing his anger on the head rest when Mr. Ballard’s secretary emailed the details for two seats on the next plane leaving London for Dundee, Scotland. The PR attempts to deal with the media questioning had been so dreadful that it looked like the two directors of Ballard and Cadman Pharmaceuticals would have to defend themselves to the press. Mr. Ballard’s phone chimed a second time, another e-mail from his secretary.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The BBC has notified us that they will be running a piece on this protest tonight at 6. They have requested that you or Mr. Cadman appear on the news tonight instead of a spokesman. I told them you were heading to Dundee and they have arranged for their studio in the city to prepare for your arrival if you accept.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Ballard knew that it would be Mr. Cadman who handled both the journalists at their research facility and the questions on live television that night. It always was. They worked so well together because they had clearly defined roles. Mr. Cadman was the public face of BCP and although he was short tempered, he was well liked in the finance and business world. He had appeared numerous times on financial, business and political television shows and even wrote a column for The Financial Times’ website. If Mr. Cadman was the voice then Mr. Ballard was the brains. The business plans were left to Mr. Ballard to discuss and finalise. Wining and dining potential partners might have been handled by Mr. Cadman and his golden tongue, but it was always Mr. Ballard they finalised terms with behind the scenes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The ‘plane ride up to Scotland was short and uneventful. Mr. Ballard waiting until they landed to confirm with his secretary that they would speak live with the BBC News team in London via a satellite link from their Dundee studio. This way, they could stop any local journalists from finding out they were in the city and avoid being harassed at Dundee’s small airport. The main offices for BCP were located in London and Frankfurt, but with the city’s reputation for medical research, Dundee was chosen as one of the main centres for their research. There was no shortage of talented graduates who would jump at the chance to work in the private sector, especially for a multi-billion pound pharmaceutical giant such as BCP. They carried out research in both their own building in the city’s Technology Park and in wards rented from the NHS in the nearby Ninewells Hospital. Arrangements had already been made to take them from the airport to their own facility in order to avoid the protests still happening at the hospital and also to directly inform staff on the correct line for media enquiries. For the directors of such a large corporation to be personally visiting one of the many facilities they owned across Europe indicated a larger problem than any of the staff anticipated, and they were nervous.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sat alone in the meeting room with terrible coffee, the two men watched the news unfold. The protesters launched projectiles at the riot police and now there was talk of a riot breaking out, with a helicopter showing the beginnings of a kettling operation by the police. Mr. Cadman stood up and paced the room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I just cannot comprehend how our PR people have bungled this so thoroughly. We have the correct licenses for the drugs we were working with, yes?” Mr. Ballard nodded.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We have been producing and publishing legitimate studies have we not?” Again, Mr. Ballard nodded.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So why couldn’t they just say that!” He hurled his mug at the wall, smashing it into pieces and spraying coffee all over the wall. “Why couldn’t they say those things and have this all cleared up last week?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr Ballard didn’t have chance to answer before the head of the facility burst in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We’ve just had a call from Ninewells, a fire has broken out and they are moving all of our human volunteers to other wards”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As he spoke, the 24 hour news channel they had tuned into confirmed what had just been said. Smoke billowed from a first floor window and the camera zoomed in on the panicked faces of the people inside. Turning to address the man who had just burst in, Mr. Cadman asked</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Have the files on the volunteers moved to the location of the fire. Make sure they are burned.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The man nodded and left the room, frantically dialling as he walked away. Mr. Cadman seemed to calm himself almost instantly and poured himself another cup of coffee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“We can’t risk anyone finding out what we are doing with the human trials Mr. Ballard, the backers of this particular project will make sure...”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Ballard interrupted him. “I know exactly who they are and what they will do, I was the one who went on that damn cruise and sorted out the financing for this whole project, remember? We’re on the same team here.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes, we just need to play our parts properly. Now, let’s draft a response so I don’t get caught with my pants down live on air”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">***</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every corridor looked the same, they even smelled the same. Despite this, Sophie had travelled down these corridors so many times that this no longer mattered. Her feet moved her through the maze of corridors, through countless double doors and past the ill, the dying and the dead. The only way to navigate was through following the litter of signs pointing you to various wards, centres and offices, or through habit. Sophie had been working here for just over five years now, so long that she had even stopped noticing the mortuary gurney as it rumbled past her pushed by porters who were long past caring about how they handled their cargo. The artwork on the walls had not changed in the whole time she had been here. Walking these corridors felt like walking through a time bubble, she thought.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thoughts of a time bubble were burst when she got closer to her research centre and seen the stress the protest was causing the staff. She ran through the doors and around the reception desk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Has anyone called head office yet Pam?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The receptionist was sitting shell shocked. The number of calls she had taken in the last few hours was staggering and she had all but given up. The phone was ringing repeatedly but Pam seen no reason to pick it up. She had no answers for anyone. She snapped into reality when Sophie repeated herself, this time louder.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“...Oh sorry Sophie, I’ve not had a chance to even think about that. This thing just won’t stop ringing and look at my screen! Over one thousand unread emails in the last hour...”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The receptionist started to sob, making Sophie feel uncomfortable. After all, she thought, this is all my doing. But she shook herself out of this self pity quickly, knowing that what she was doing was for the better. She gave Pam a quick hug and told her she would do it herself, told her not to worry about replying to any of the emails and that the journalists continually calling could go to hell for all she cared. Pam smiled and laughed through the tears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In her office, Sophie dialled the number she had on file for the BCP head office in London and was quickly put through to the secretary for Mr. Cadman and then to the man himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mr. Cadman, Sophie from Dundee here. We have a little bit of a situation. We have a large group of people protesting our research lab here..." She was cut off by the man on the other line, telling her to repeat herself, so she did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"We have a large group of people protesting our research lab Mr. Cadman. It seems someone was rooting through the medical waste before it was taken to the incinerator. They've seen the letters 'QNB', put two and two together and come up with five, luckily. I'm not sure how to handle the paperwork we have here, can you advise?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Ok, the problem with following the plans set out previously for the disposal of this... paperwork is that we can't really get outside because there's an estimated two thousand people protesting. At least, that's what the BBC News folk are telling us.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Cadman shouted at her for a moment and when she tried to reply, he had already hung up. This probably meant he was on his way. She had a few hours to kill so she opened her e-mail inbox and was not at all surprised to see that she had already received double the amount of emails that Pam had.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After a few hours of replying to e-mails and checking the arrivals at Dundee Airport via their website she seen what she was waiting for:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Flight No.</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Scheduled</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Arriving From</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Status</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">AF5745 12th April 14:55 London City Arrived</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She headed back out into the corridor and towards the ward, which was the temporary home of the voluntary test subjects. She wanted to check on one patient in particular. This was where people could come for a few weeks and be rewarded handsomely for donating their bodies to the drugs industry for final stage trials before new products could be released on the market. At the moment they had twenty people in for trials on the effects of a muscarinic antagonist and the resulting hallucinations. The idea was that you could make sense of the hallucinations of people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and tease away the mental scabs they had in therapy. Because the drug also caused short-term memory loss, the PTSD sufferers didn’t remember revealing anything to their therapists. That was the theory anyway. The reason the name of this drug was enough to incite protests was that it had also been used as a chemical weapon by Saddam Hussein.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The protest had been gradually escalating following Sophie’s involvement and it was now reaching a breaking point. While she was walking amongst the protesters she had not been working alone. Hitting redial on her phone resulted in a mobile phone vibrating in one of the black hooded men outside. She hung up after two second, just long enough for the phone to have grabbed the man’s attention. This was the perfect time to start the ball rolling on the last part of her plan, which was also the most dangerous. Getting caught here wouldn’t just mean she lost her job, she would go to jail. She hoped that outside, the projectiles being thrown at the riot police outside were now on fire, and that it was only a matter of time before a small fire had been started in the hospital building itself. That was the queue she was waiting for.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It only took around fifteen minutes for the fire alarm to screech a warning to everyone that there was indeed a fire in the vicinity and they should get out as soon as possible. The nursing assistants who looked after the voluntary subjects all knew the drill off by heart, although they had never used it for real until now. The non-ambulant personnel were to be wheeled in their beds to a safe ward, where the fire proof doors could keep them safe for a few hours. Due to the nature of the study, all twenty of the volunteers were immobile in bed, attached to various machines. Sophie knew this. She also knew that the corridors would be filled with other voluntary patients from other companies as well as from the NHS research wards. It would be easy for one patient to get lost amidst all of that confusion.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the fire alarm sounded she rushed onto the ward to the bed of patient number 15. This particular volunteer had been present for every single trial in this particular research project. Not only that, but he had been present for every trial under Sophie’s oversight. He had been given many names, but Sophie knew him as Wallace Croft. He was the reason she had done all of this. She had to get him out of here.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She waited until she was one of the last to leave and began pushing. Approaching the door to the corridor, she realised it was more chaotic than she imagined. The panic of a fire in a hospital had gripped everyone so it was much easier than anticipated to slowly get lost in the crowd of beds. Nobody was looking back, so nobody noticed Sophie rather ironically slipping out of a fire escape with a delirious patient hanging from her neck, leaving behind an empty bed. Nobody seen her, except the news helicopter.</span></b>kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-27704809904340146732012-10-22T14:18:00.002+01:002012-10-22T15:43:01.719+01:00Peaches<br />
When I was ten years old my mum tried to commit suicide. I remember her and my dad had been arguing again. If you asked me what they had been arguing about I'd not be able to tell you with any certainty, although I would guess money and I'd probably be right. What I do remember is more important. I mean, you can only be shaped by what you remember, right? This memory shines the brightest in my mind and everything seems to be connected to it. We always have these memories; anchors of to the moments that made us the people we are, and no matter what happens in our lives the thought of past experiences that shaped us snap us back and stop us from getting too carried away. I've always thought of this as how our conscience is formed, but it must be more complex than that because whatever happens in my life, I always seem to come back to the day I fought back tears and held my mum for what felt like the longest time before dragging her home while she pretended nothing was wrong. Maybe I was crying, because I can remember tasting salt in my mouth. Whether that was from tears running down my cheek into my mouth or from the salty air coming off the sea I do not recall. Anyway, the strongest memories from that day are senses, not thoughts; that salty taste, the sound of the rushing waves and my mum's smell. Peaches.<br />
<br />
Money was always a factor growing up. I don't suppose we were any different to any other family in the area at the time, the whole idea of the undeserving poor was everywhere in the tabloids and a trickle down economic approach from the government essentially meant those in work had to rely on the generosity of their employers to grant them more hours on a wage that barely covered living costs. No wonder there were riots on TV, days off school when we watched the teachers stand in the car park holding up signs and waving banners, and empty stomachs all over the country. When talking about this time to my parents, I'm told they were both working two jobs, sometimes three. Of course they only officially had one job, the others were undeclared and paid cash-in-hand. When you can't afford to feed yourself or your children, you're mind isn't really on the collective benefit of tax revenue or of your National Insurance contributions and pension. Your mind is on getting in enough money to make sure your heads stay just above the water of poverty, debt and the embarrassment of picking up fag ends from the street, breaking them apart and collecting the tobacco so you can roll it into one thin and crooked cigarette at home. It seems so easy now to just brush this kind of environment off as a historical tale from the Victorian age but the fact is, this happened only twenty years ago, and to people you know.<br />
<br />
As I say, money was always tight which means that tempers were always short and emotions were high. Stress will do that to a person. Later, my mum would tell me she had to force herself to have one meal a day so she had the energy to work again the next day, because while she would go to bed, she couldn't guarantee she would sleep. She rigidly stuck to one meal a day for years so that her children and her husband could eat. The shame of pretending you gave a cashier a £20 note and creating a scene so that they relented and gave you change from a £20 instead of the £10 you both know you handed over was nothing compared to the shame of sending emaciated children into school. No matter what happened, the kids always had to have clean, white shirts, shiny shoes and trousers with no holes in the knees. Being poor was no reason to be unclean or not properly presented. On good days we got a Fray Bentos pie from a can and boiled potatoes for dinner; otherwise watered down tomato soup and bread filled our stomachs.<br />
<br />
I would later find out that the year of my brightest memory was the year the highest number of suicides was ever recorded. It wasn't just poor people suffering from far too much stress either. I'm reluctant to think about it because of the damage they caused but the people making the decisions about which employees get more hours, who gets to keep their job and who has to be given their P45 must be have been as stressful, if not more so than the prospect of clocking in every day not knowing if it will be the last time you do so. As we are seeing in China now, suicide was a big problem for any company with a building big enough for it's employees to jump from.<br />
<br />
In one way, I've always thought of suicide as the most selfish act a person can make. It's your life, and you can do with it what you choose, right? If you end it, that's your choice and your problem alone, right? What about the people that depend on you? Your children, your husband, your friends, your parents and your siblings? What about the guy that gets paid less than you do that has to find your body; see your mangled corpse and who can't sleep at night because whenever he closes his eyes all he can see is your legs bending in unnatural places and your forearms poking out of the skin where you have instinctively tried to brace yourself for a fall that nobody can prepare for. But that isn't fair. That's me, a fully rational creature applying my reason to your situation and taking your decision completely out of context. Everything being equal, we all have a choice in what we do and while being among other people or situations can colour the choices and make one look more attractive than another, this doesn't change the fact that we could always do otherwise. This isn't the case under extreme stress or depression. In that state the mind shuts down and not only are some options painted black, but they might as well be invisible, such is the opportunity to grab them.<br />
<br />
This is how I try to understand the way my mum was feeling when she left the house with her cardigan flowing free in the middle of the night. Lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of money, lack of hope. There's that song, “Love Will Tear Us Apart”. Sometimes it isn't lack of love that we are torn apart. Sometimes we are torn apart by the black hole of despair and the lack of a light at the end of the tunnel, and the jagged silhouette of the rocks one hundred feet below that look so enticing because they can extinguish the final flame that keeps you alive but tortures you at the same time. The argument raving in her mind must have been deafening because calling out to her so loud that my throat strained and my voice cracked wasn't acknowledged at all. Maybe the wind took my voice and carried it down to the rocks, and she would have only heard it moments before the rock cleaved her face in two.<br />
<br />
Looking like a ghost, staring at the wild sea crashing against the base of the cliffs stood my mum. The woman who had given birth to me and cared for me and fed me over herself. A woman who had suffered more than I could imagine just so that I had no less than any other child I knew, and I have the nerve to consider her selfish. That's what I think now, not what I thought at the time. I don't remember what I thought then, only what I did. I remember willing my legs to move faster than they ever had before, and I remember them obliging. I ran so fast I felt like I was flying. I remember the waves crashing below and the sound of my feet moving over the changing terrain; grass, earth, rock, until finally I wasn't running any more. I was holding onto my mum with my arms wrapped around her waist. I don't remember her turning round but she must have because my face was pressed into her stomach. She looked down at me and while her mouth said she was just going for a walk, her eyes told a completely different story. I held her so tight, engulfed in the wonderful smell of peaches.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-53924243199965193392012-10-11T13:40:00.001+01:002012-10-11T13:40:11.302+01:00Groupthink<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i>This is a 300 word submission for a writing post with a magazine about zombies. I'll be expanding it shortly to make it a full size article.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When is a good idea not a good idea? After
surviving a few zombie attacks and coming out relatively unscathed, you and the
group you are with will most likely be feeling quite positive, relative to your
surroundings of course. For decades, psychological studies have shown that if
your group are highly cohesive, you may start to see suggestions for future
action from whoever has taken a leadership role as being unanimously good. You
will become numb to critical thinking and anyone countering the 'positive'
suggestions will be viewed with suspicious eyes and subconsciously branded as
an outsider. Sound bad? It is. Historical events such as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bay_of_Pigs_Invasion">The Bay of Pigs invasion</a> and
the repeated refusal of three separate administrations to pull out of the
Vietnam war have been judged by numerous psychological experts as the result of
a cognitive bias known as groupthink.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Unchecked, this has the potential to
destroy your group and in a worst case scenario could result in everyone's
death. One way to stop, or at the very least stem the effects of groupthink is
simply to be aware of it. Once a day, nominate a devil's advocate whose job is
to criticize or pick at every decision. This is a generally successful tactic
because the inner voice of doubt that groupthink silences is instead a very
real external voice. So, when is a good idea not a good idea? When you fall
prey to your natural cognitive biases and fail to consider the alternatives.
Stay vigilant, and you might just survive.</span></div>
kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-69631319342450689432012-09-17T22:08:00.001+01:002012-09-18T09:46:09.962+01:00WallaceWhy is it that those with the most unsociable mouths always have the most to say? If you have teeth like Victorian gravestones, jagged and gnarled things sticking out of your face like grotesque tusks, don't expect people to smile when you bare them in a snarling grimace and ask them a question which demands more than a standalone yes or no. If that question is:<br />
<br />
"Hey, can I ask you a question?"<br />
<br />
Then don't bother because you'll only waste your time and disgust me.<br />
<br />
Wallace wanted to say all of that to the sunken-eyed junkie who, along with his silent partner had accosted him on his way home from the supermarket. He wanted to, but the mind often works faster than the mouth so instead of this witty and erudite response he grunted<br />
<br />
"No"<br />
<br />
The long face which originally asked permission to question him got longer still, mock surprise raising his eyebrows and colouring his speech.<br />
<br />
"Oh, too busy to help a guy out eh? Think this will slow you down?"<br />
<br />
In the dark, the blade shone momentarily as he pulled it out and turned it slightly to grab Wallace's attention. The mouth may not always be able to keep up with a racing mind but the body dances to its own rhythm when faced with a threat. At the sight of the blade, Wallace's instincts kicked in and without even being consciously aware of it, his stance changed imperceptibly to the untrained eye so as to adjust for the slightly gravelled road. His arms registered the weight of the shopping bags, one in each hand. Both filled with miscellaneous foodstuffs but the left filled with lighter but bulkier items. This one offers the best protection.<br />
<br />
His attacker comes in from the left with a lazy stab, already off balance. Lifting the bag in his left hand to protect his stomach, Wallace notices the blade is around three inches long. Dangerous to bare flesh but not through the multi-pack of breakfast cereal that it penetrates.<br />
<br />
In one swift movement as the blade sinks into the box through the plastic carrier bag, Wallace pulls the bag sharply down to his left, also moving his attacker in the same direction, making the already off-balance junkie lunge to the side for just a second. This is more than enough time for Wallace to lift his left leg, turn his hips over and stomp on the exposed leg, completely obliterating the knee with a loud and stomach turning noise; a wet slap. That disgusting mouth made sounds to match.<br />
<br />
The knife-wielder dropped to the floor clutching his knee, surrounded by Coco Pops. If his still-silent accomplice's face was visible, you would have seen it completely drop and turn grey as this chain of events occurred.<br />
<br />
"That's three questions now and the answer is still no."<br />
<br />
Cradling the injured bag in his arm, Wallace knelt down and scooped up the knife, sliding it into his pocket as he walked away. He was to busy thinking to look back. He wished it was the Corn Flakes that had been stabbed and lay scattered all over the road, or even the Rice Krispies. Anything but the Coco Pops. Those had been his son's favourite.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-49951808336471603942012-07-25T12:36:00.003+01:002012-09-18T09:46:01.954+01:00Cult or Religion<br />
What's the difference between cult and religion?<br />
Is it a matter of age or overarching vision?<br />
Is it payable taxation or cultish moral ambiguation?<br />
Asking a theist will garner no good reply:<br />
"We have tradition and God on our side!" you'll hear them cry.<br />
<br />
Maybe the difference lies<br />
in that religion's morals are canonised.<br />
A cult may be a tightly regulated social group<br />
but the whole code of religious living is in a book.<br />
<br />
Maybe the difference lies<br />
in religion dooming us to our own demise<br />
and the eternal damnation that will arise<br />
from trusting our God given instincts which implies<br />
He planned for us to struggle or fail when he laid the first brick<br />
and there's never an excuse for just acting like a dick.<br />
<br />
Ok, that's not the same for all religions<br />
but nobody's winning if everyone's sinning;<br />
begging for deliverance.<br />
Who credited God with benevolence?<br />
It takes a harder heart than mine to explain<br />
to parents of a dead child this death was simply<br />
down to prevalance<br />
or random chance,<br />
never mind using it to support the idea<br />
of a cosmic or divine power making the universe dance<br />
or trying to soften the blow by saying "this was all part of His plans".<br />
<br />
Fuck.<br />
That.kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-40588928235224394912011-05-11T10:30:00.000+01:002011-05-11T10:30:20.031+01:00Gold<div class="MsoNormal">I want to stay up all night and pound the streets.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing is solid in life but the concrete</div><div class="MsoNormal">under my feet</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I want to sit on a beach and watch the sun</div><div class="MsoNormal">rise over the sea. When all's said and done</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'll still be free</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When life is filled with colour</div><div class="MsoNormal">how can people see in black and white?</div><div class="MsoNormal">Should I fight? I think might</div><div class="MsoNormal">just so that I can feel alive</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How can I feel malcontent when I've been told</div><div class="MsoNormal">we've never had it so good; the future's gold.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fuck what I'm told</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don't want to reaffirm all my choices</div><div class="MsoNormal">continually for all of my life but</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm cursed to be free</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that's the way it has to be</div><div class="MsoNormal">unfortunately</div>kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-87084799947157416592011-05-05T17:45:00.003+01:002011-05-05T17:46:41.482+01:00Autobiography<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="'font-family:"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="'font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> He is but a man, although to define “man” is a task in itself. We can leave describing and defining man as a whole to the anthropologist. Our man is much easier to explain and describe, although perhaps his motives for behaviour are not as easily understood as, for example Dostoevsky's 'Prince'. Where behaviour and motive fulfil a story and its framework, this should be left to literary giants, for this is no story.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="'font-family:"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="'font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> Our man has a name which not only affects how other perceive him but also how he sees himself. His parents had given him a name which reflected, perhaps unconsciously their hopes and dreams for this, their first child. All of the paths they feel they have missed, the experiences they wish they had have been projected upon their first son.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> <span style="'font-family:"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="'font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> A man amongst others cannot only act for himself and this is certainly the case for our man. Outward actions and inward motives may be achromatic negative however, and he revels in this; finding comedy like the Greeks. Laughing at the tragedy which personifies human experience. Does this show poor morality on his behalf? No. It only shows awareness of the conditions he must live in, if he is to live at all. So he writes these down and frames them as somebody else's experiences, using them in the same way that masks are used in Noh.</div>kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-32740642130038965722011-04-29T23:15:00.003+01:002011-04-29T23:29:20.128+01:00Concrete Jungle<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">As far as I can make out, nobody can see the world as I see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around ten years ago, when I was nineteen; the world started to transform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The office blocks down town, the houses surrounding mine began to resemble something else altogether.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first, I could only hear animal noises on the wind, the rustling of dead leaves and detritus whenever I walked outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These alien noises became the norm over the next year or so despite my early suspicions that they weren't, couldn't be real.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A doctor once told me I had <i>frontal lobe epilepsy</i>, this turned out to be a misdiagnosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doctors tell me a lot of things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of these gave a full account as to why I inhabited a completely different world and <i>didn't care</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before she died, my mum hedged her bets on some sort of social phobia, thinking I was lying when I described how the ferns surrounding the corner shop slowed my journey home.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lying as an excuse to avoid social contact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Autism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aspergers Syndrome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simply attention seeking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just whatever seemed to roughly stick.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I've been on medication previously for bi-polar depression.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It didn't work.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don't have bi-polar depression.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A number of weeks ago my doctor informed me that he thinks I have schizophrenia and wanted to try me on a prescription.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An anti-psychotic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him I would think about it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three weeks later, I'm still thinking about it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">I have been diagnosed so many times and by so many doctors, individuals, internet health pages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With doctors, any diagnosis will do so that the conveyor belt of passengers continues to move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you know that in the United States where medical care is paid for through insurance for the majority of people, this conveyor belt often dictates life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When birth rates have slowed down, as they typically do in a natural ebb and flow of human life, obstetricians often recommend birth by Caesarean section, instead of a natural birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lower birth rates will typically equal lower income for the hospital in general and the doctors in specific.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you guess which birthing method is more expensive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't think it is hard to understand why I distrust the medical community.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I left school and had no idea what to do next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I became a member of the growing unemployed community and walked around in my own daydreaming world while pretending to be looking for jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the noises became regular and normal to me, I became aware of the buildings changing colour; the pavements and roads degenerated into dirt tracks, streams and marshes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For reasons unknown to me at the time, my world was gradually changing into a maze of building shaped trees until almost without notice, the city had disappeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whole neighbourhoods were surrounded by fast flowing rivers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My old school, a monolithic '80's greyscale feature, was replaced by a ruined building covered in vines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was amazed by these changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of being confused or scared, I soon realised that the world as it was now made a lot of sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking around town became a magnificent sensual spectrum of smells, colours and sights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cold grey world became a world filled with excitement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only thing that made me feel sad was that nobody else seemed to react to these changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I soon realised that these changes were only for me and without me, this whole environment would disappear...</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In primary school, a life skills teacher warned us of the dangers of keeping your emotions inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It is healthy to open that bottle sometimes”, she had told us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't know what to make of it; who keeps the lid screwed firmly on their emotions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed like such a bizarre metaphor at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I now often think of myself holding my happiness on a string to stop it floating away from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fear isn't the mind killer that it is made out to be; you just need to know how to stop its darkness from blinding you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each emotion a puzzle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like a Columbus egg.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The drive to find out what is wrong with me doesn't come from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't think there is anything wrong with me at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem is everyone else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drive to get to the root of this comes from my one and only friend John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was once my therapist but when my mum died, I had no idea how to pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is now my friend instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It always seems that he is desperate for me to be “normal”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ignore his obsession for normality and he seems too ignores that I tell him things that make him uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's a fair trade.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He doesn't like when I tell him that to me, death is almost tangible, like smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can feel and see it. It doesn't have a smell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is disturbed when I lose my emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I keep them in my pocket but sometimes lose them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During these times I have to hunt for them, completely void of emotion and my face stuck in what he calls a blunted affect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After recounting this to a doctor, he described this as anhedonia but I looked this up on wikipedia at the library and it said nothing about losing your emotions like you lose your keys, or someone's phone number; only that the individual cannot feel pleasure.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One time, I found my emotions stuck in the muddy bank of a stream outside the tax office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nobody can understand how this feels.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">For the past three weeks, I've been contemplating medicating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Weighing up the pros and cons.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">I can't remember what a sunrise looks like any more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All I see are the spotlights that the thick canopy so far above my head allows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might be nice to see the sun rise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the other hand, I'm so used to seeing greens and browns, windows in trees, vine thickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would I adapt to something that was last familiar ten years ago?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent almost a week sitting alone in my hut with these thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The most bizarre aspects of my world would be gone – a good thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who really wants to see a huge tiger roar down the street, only for people to get in and out its ear at regular intervals?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter who you are, this site is disturbing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;">If I was on some sort of medication, would what I see be regulated?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the moment, the inside of any building is the same as before but if I look out the window all I see is jungle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the outside, the library is the biggest tree I've ever seen, a very old and ornate African mahogany with rotating doors built into the trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside, it's all books and posters encouraging kids to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What feels consistent now will become unpredictable on medication.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes I feel like I am alone in this city.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The only human walking amongst animals in a concrete jungle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The first time I heard that phrase it instantly struck a chord somewhere inside me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Concrete jungle</i>. As if there were a number of different species, each adapted perfectly to a certain part of the ecosystem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Revolutionary primates and artist-birds floating, climbing, mating amongst and above the foliage; above the office worker bureaucrat ants who toil tirelessly in the dirt below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet with the multitude of different species in this jungle, I feel like the only human, walking along on my own path, tied to no determined outcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way I see it, the common link between birds and ants is that their lives consist of the same tasks, every day: wake, collect food, eat, shit, sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This schedule is built into the social fabric of the jungle, there is no escaping it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Instinctual tasks for the kingdom of animals within this concrete jungle, giving life meaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no need to wonder about the meaning of life, since that is predetermined by the next task on the list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finished working for the day? Go home and laugh at an American sit-com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meta-narratives have no purpose since the only one that matters is in and around everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The perpetuation of the jungle is key to the mental, social and physical survival of all these animals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I somehow managed to be out of sync.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 35.45pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That's where I find myself now. In transition, a decision between a living city and a living jungle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The features of both are as clear and real to me as the water and the air around me, as real as I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've found my purpose.</div>kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-26710529000008848712011-04-28T14:49:00.004+01:002011-04-29T23:07:20.813+01:00Modern Man<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><em>This is just me trying to be as descriptive as possible. Let me know what you think.</em><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> His face framed in constant disgust</span><span style="font-family:inherit;"> , perpetually on the cusp of frothing.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Eyebrows shaped in the sharp 'V' of scepticism above his eyes, thin slits glaring misanthropy at anyone who dares to meet his stare.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">A mind full of retorts, spring loaded for fast response from his downwards, slightly pursed lips. Offence is the best form of defence, he has learned.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Wasps are killed on sight.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Before his morning coffee, his sharply acidic tongue meets no resistance and shoots forth venom at anyone unfortunate to cross his path.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Before coffee, looks can kill.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> Later in the day, he can be found behind a desk; answering the 'phone; typing; reading.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">The busyness of modern life ensures a focus as deep as the ocean.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">The smallest fracture in his business is magnified tenfold and appears tectonic.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Lunchtime however, brings a 360 shift, nothing is as important as food.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> CTRL/S</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> CTRL/ALT/DEL</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> The spread sheet which was the centre of his whole universe is now frozen behind a locked Windows 7 screen, patiently waiting for his return.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">One hundred per cent focus is now on lunch, where he regains perspective.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> After lunch, more of the same.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">The scowl he wore this morning has been replaced by a concentration and focus only worker bees and monks know.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">The question still remains; why scowl?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Why do his eyes fire daggers as a default setting?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Could it be his go-to as a form of defence?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">This only holds true to strangers but why be on the defensive with friends or colleagues?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">If we ask “why so mean?” might we be greeted with the same steely stare?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Does he even know?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> The emphasis in his culture is to be creative, individual.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Realise your free will.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">This has led him to a realisation that others have this same free will.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">We can only control what we do, our own free will.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Not that of other people.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">His culture also emphasises mistrust of strangers.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Who </span><i><span style="font-family:inherit;">are</span></i><span style="font-family:inherit;"> all these people?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Paedophiles, fraudsters, terrorists: Would-be criminals.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">He assumes the worst because he has no control over them.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Without control, what stops things going downhill?</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">Before coffee, he thinks of nothing but this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span> <span style="'font-family:;font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span></span> <span style="font-family:inherit;"> He leaves his desk at the end of the day, scowl intact.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">A day's work: typing, frowning, calculating, shoulders shrugged over and lumbar strain is finally done.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">This day's work, completely in misery, pays for the weekend's smiles.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-family:inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:inherit;">This could be anywhere.</span></div>kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8970444646851473905.post-53185708211615411022011-04-08T15:16:00.003+01:002011-04-29T22:57:47.371+01:00Why study at all?<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">I've been paying attention to the political debates regarding the future of education in Scotland. This has often come round to people asking what the purpose of education is. To some, it is the opportunity to learn, simply for the sake of learning. The search for truth and knowledge is as noble a pursuit as I think is possible. For others, the purpose of education is to provide the economy with a workforce at all levels. These two viewpoints are invariably always going to appear in any discussion on education but my recent thoughts are that they are not mutually exclusive and I'd like to explain why I think so.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The viewpoint of academics themselves is that learning for the sole purpose of learning should be an unequivocally available feature of any first world society and is one of the most important aspects which can help those in poverty remove themselves from that situation. I often find myself of this view, and I think that a university degree in philosophy or history is just as valuable and important as a science or vocational degree, such as engineering. Both a philosophy and an engineering degree provide the individual with a deep and complex understanding of how the world works. Engineers have an in-depth knowledge of the mechanisms of the modern industrialised world whereas philosophers have in-depth knowledge of the mechanisms of the modern rational world. University education and a hunger for knowledge has given both of these individuals tools to better understand and manage not only in our society, but in other societies as well, albeit in very different ways. There is a reason that the three most powerful MP's in the UK (Cameron, Osbourne and Clegg) all studied philosophy – it teaches you how to argue and how to elucidate arguments; how to think rationally. Both the engineer and the philosopher have equipped themselves well for employment, yes. But this is not always the primary concern for either.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">The second viewpoint is that education is simply to put bodies into jobs and to provide a workforce capable of enhancing the economy. In this viewpoint, those who study at university for the sole purpose of learning are often discounted. The popular media are very fond of the term “Mickey Mouse degree” in which philosophy and sociology are oft quoted. These”Mickey Mouse degrees” are claimed to add nothing to society and nothing to the economy because they do not train people in a trade or allow them to make an obvious way to contribute to the economy. Where I think this view fits in with the first is in the notion that to improve anything, you must be self critical, innovative and possess the relevant skills to make things change. If a business is floundering or wishes to improve, they must evaluate themselves critically in the same way a sociologist or philosopher would objectively evaluate an argument or a theory. They must be innovative enough to solve any problems they come across and to exploit any strengths they find which any student involved in any subject in the realm of 'humanities' learns, no more so than those who study economics or business. Finally, the relevant skills to make things change have to involve critical analysis of texts which anyone who studied literary classics will know. Practical intelligence is having a way with words and being able to argue your case well enough to convince people who are sceptical. This is tested no more than in the humanities, many of which are classed as “Mickey Mouse degrees”.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">Even if you are of the opinion that all higher education should be specifically tailored to a specific industry or role, you cannot argue that having a flexible skill set that allows you navigate many employment environments is anything but a good thing. You also cannot argue against an education which allows individuals to explore a number of vastly different career choices before deciding on what they want to. Both of these things are compatible with both viewpoints I outlined at the start. Strict arguments from either side completely ignore this shared ground, including those from MP's and the people who run the country, as entrenched as they are in party politics rather than improving this countries education system for the better.</div>kieraninmotionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17950188321733571160noreply@blogger.com0