...
Ava needs a lieutenant. Big M’s got one, the Old Cockney’s got one. She needs someone on the inside. In onside. Someone she can trust, someone she can believe, someone she can control. Someone with neurones, but not too many.
So Ava makes a choice.
Arranged around a table: Ava, hungry; two Guild members, guardians of the rules; a novice bureaucrat, in Ava’s pocket; another faceless one, out of the game. And the Keeper. Shit.
In the pond. Four interns. This is how Ava selects her prey, satisfies her hunger. Interns coming willingly to Ava’s table. Ava controls the bread, the bait. The Guild hate her for it but the interns play the game. Know they must smile and prostrate themselves. Spy upon their own, do Ava’s bidding, find gold through Ava’s patronage.
Why is the Keeper there? Ava suspects a Trojan, tries to control the invitations to the meal. The Cockney insists on the horse. The Keeper can play the game but must remember how to be Greek. Keep Ava satiated but the revolution safe. So he says. But always remember the Cockney’s love of the game.
They play with the interns. They try to snare them, land them for Ava to feed upon. They like the ones that fight, struggle to be landed. Ava prefers the young and the easy. The ones she can manipulate. The ones she can grow fat on. It’s a contest for no contest.
Most inhabitants of Planet Psychotherapy will tell you that the way to manage a stupid person is make them feel clever. The way to manage Ava is to make her feel powerful and clever. Surrounded by the Guild members she reels in her prey. Smile at her, praise her selection. Assess the danger as each fish is fought, weighed and measured. Three to be thrown back, one to be fried.
One intern is thrown back immediately. Ava likes him, finds him a tasty snack. But even Ava knows the Guild members will never let her keep this one. One out of three works well. Cortex tells her not to argue this choice. What to do? He is the Keeper’s first choice. Damage limitation time. Agree, stroke Ava’s pride, gently join her against the Guild members. Acquiesce gracefully with Ava. A team. Play the Greek.
Three left. Only two in it for the Guild members. Again, the Guild are stronger. The third is the Keeper’s favourite, an incipient revolutionary. Weak and easy to bring over. The second clever, but even more naïve than the Naïve Banker. Number one a danger. The strongest, to be feared. To be resisted at all costs.
The Keeper watches Ava closely. She too fears competition. The Guild members want number one. An alliance with Ava will save the day. The Keeper gives her words to use. Now it is Ava, the Keeper and the novice bureaucrat against the Guild. They back down. There is another choice.
Two left. The Guild members stick. More alliance time with Ava. The revolution can live with their choice. The Keeper looses the incipient revolutionary but gains a lightweight sprat. One more naïve fish will not touch him. Bury him in Ava’s plans. She warms to the idea of a young fish to fatten up. Food for the larder, to be stored and devoured later.
Poor Ava. There will be no later.
...
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Saturday 31 October 2009
Chapter 7: Help I’m a Psychotherapist, Get me into Here.
...
No one is born on Planet Psychotherapy. The only way onto the Planet is through any number of tortuous routes, twisting and turning through the mountainous rule books of the Guilds. All Guilds guard access to this privilege tightly. Words, paper, gold. Arcane rituals rule.
There used to be monasteries on the Planet. Places where novices and interns could live, copying from the masters, aping the silences, echoing the insights. Occasionally novices were allowed to sit at the feet of their masters, even turn words into paper themselves. Visitors could stay in these monasteries, providing the words for the initiates to practice with.
Well before this new age, the Keeper lived in such a place. For four and a half years. The first three years were novice years followed by life as a junior intern. There was a choice of Guilds, as in those days cooperation between Guilds in Monasteries was more common. The bureaucrats insisted. Monasteries were the first proving grounds, the Planet’s nursery beds. The Guilds took the cream of the crop.
Of course there were hierarchies here. Novices struggled to be recognised, usually passed over by the Guilds in the annual harvest. Newcomers came in directly as interns, after a short time unaccountably disappearing into the Guilds. The novices stayed on, overlooked.
Many Guilds insisted that their novices and interns also became visitors. Provide the words for Guild paper. Present your own words for the internal fireworks of Guild members, interns who needed the advanced but safe practice. This was the Keeper’s route too. In the hope of being noticed. They praised him with paper. But the paper was worthless. The truth about the Guild rules is that no one knew them. All were blind except the chosen, the harvested.
Then one day a Doer came. The bureaucrats had insisted on some Doers working in Monasteries. Disliked and unwanted, they existed on the Monastic margins, little different from the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings from which they had sprung. Unwanted, unloved, persuasive. To listen long enough to a Doer was to catch a strange missive of experiment, doing and new alchemy. Their eyes burned bright with excitement. They knew the future, they KNEW the future.
At the moment the Keeper left the monastery, the monastery left him. Visitor and intern days over. A fast track to certainty. He travelled to the margins. And there stayed, until the first great battle between the Guilds and the Alchemists, the Doers and the Experimenters. When they left the margins during that original great assault, the Keeper was there in the first wave, a non-commissioned officer of that determined army. Alchemists, Doers and Experimenters. All together.
When the Turncoat first came the Alchemists hid their gold lust well. As the mercenaries were seduced, they knew the power of alliance. The assault had faltered. Visitors yet to be persuaded. Alchemic memories of the doings of the past. Doers and Experimenters cannot be cast aside. Not yet.
Special missions were planned. Interns sent to far flung places, to do battle with strange Guilds. Powerful Guilds. Mere cannon fodder for the new Guild. Their missions? Probe for weaknesses. Be exposed. Tough, dirty fights. No problem if lost. Find your way back if you are lucky. Interns can be replaced.
United in their naivety. Even during the first assault, the die had been cast. The officer corps were all Alchemists. Alchemic generals for the Doer Grunts. The Doers saw this but hid their doubts, believing that all was the cause, the cause was above all.
Some of them returned, intelligence gathered, skirmishes undecided. Survivors. Proven.
No one is born on Planet Psychotherapy. The only way onto the Planet is through any number of tortuous routes, twisting and turning through the mountainous rule books of the Guilds. All Guilds guard access to this privilege tightly. Words, paper, gold. Arcane rituals rule.
There used to be monasteries on the Planet. Places where novices and interns could live, copying from the masters, aping the silences, echoing the insights. Occasionally novices were allowed to sit at the feet of their masters, even turn words into paper themselves. Visitors could stay in these monasteries, providing the words for the initiates to practice with.
Well before this new age, the Keeper lived in such a place. For four and a half years. The first three years were novice years followed by life as a junior intern. There was a choice of Guilds, as in those days cooperation between Guilds in Monasteries was more common. The bureaucrats insisted. Monasteries were the first proving grounds, the Planet’s nursery beds. The Guilds took the cream of the crop.
Of course there were hierarchies here. Novices struggled to be recognised, usually passed over by the Guilds in the annual harvest. Newcomers came in directly as interns, after a short time unaccountably disappearing into the Guilds. The novices stayed on, overlooked.
Many Guilds insisted that their novices and interns also became visitors. Provide the words for Guild paper. Present your own words for the internal fireworks of Guild members, interns who needed the advanced but safe practice. This was the Keeper’s route too. In the hope of being noticed. They praised him with paper. But the paper was worthless. The truth about the Guild rules is that no one knew them. All were blind except the chosen, the harvested.
Then one day a Doer came. The bureaucrats had insisted on some Doers working in Monasteries. Disliked and unwanted, they existed on the Monastic margins, little different from the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings from which they had sprung. Unwanted, unloved, persuasive. To listen long enough to a Doer was to catch a strange missive of experiment, doing and new alchemy. Their eyes burned bright with excitement. They knew the future, they KNEW the future.
At the moment the Keeper left the monastery, the monastery left him. Visitor and intern days over. A fast track to certainty. He travelled to the margins. And there stayed, until the first great battle between the Guilds and the Alchemists, the Doers and the Experimenters. When they left the margins during that original great assault, the Keeper was there in the first wave, a non-commissioned officer of that determined army. Alchemists, Doers and Experimenters. All together.
When the Turncoat first came the Alchemists hid their gold lust well. As the mercenaries were seduced, they knew the power of alliance. The assault had faltered. Visitors yet to be persuaded. Alchemic memories of the doings of the past. Doers and Experimenters cannot be cast aside. Not yet.
Special missions were planned. Interns sent to far flung places, to do battle with strange Guilds. Powerful Guilds. Mere cannon fodder for the new Guild. Their missions? Probe for weaknesses. Be exposed. Tough, dirty fights. No problem if lost. Find your way back if you are lucky. Interns can be replaced.
United in their naivety. Even during the first assault, the die had been cast. The officer corps were all Alchemists. Alchemic generals for the Doer Grunts. The Doers saw this but hid their doubts, believing that all was the cause, the cause was above all.
Some of them returned, intelligence gathered, skirmishes undecided. Survivors. Proven.
Thursday 8 October 2009
Chapter 6: A Short History of the Planet Part 2
…
The Planet convulsed.
When the Alchemists launched their assault they expected that the visitors would immediately understand the righteousness of their cause. Richness and privilege to be swept aside in a new glorious revolution. The underdog, always a good bet. Plenty of historical precedent. Some Guilds fell. Seats of learning stormed by no-nonsense experimenters armed with new and powerful weaponry. Guilds shuddered. ‘The Decline and Fall of the Freudian Empire’.
Horror and incredulity gripped the Guilds. Without the brake of paradox, the veneration of the aged, the Alchemists ranged deep into the halls of the Guilds. Destroyed the precious archives of paper. Brought not just the new but the old paper into the sun and incinerated it in the magnifying glasses of scrutiny. The Doers did. The Experimenters experimented. The Alchemists directed, overturned and burned.
But the tentacles of the Guilds ran deep into the voices of the visitors. Feudal structures pulled at loyalties. Visitors did not want new science. Trusted structures and fealty gave comfort. The assault faltered. The new science regrouped and struck again. New gains. The Guilds sought a fresh saviour. An unprecedented idea, Guild cooperation. A return to history, to the spirit of the first colonisers. But it wasn’t enough. The Guilds needed their own new weapon. And they found it where they least expected it. In the very heart of their own laws. At the very core of the Planet. The 1st paradox.
Words generate paper. Words are the ultimate Planetary addiction. On the margins, the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings the scant supply of words kept the Alchemists, Experimenters and Doers clean. Their meat and drink was cause and effect. Their paper was different, riven by strange symbols and hieroglyphics. Dense and barely understandable. The high priests of Alchemy, doing and experiment were keepers of the new paper. Most of the entourage from the margins cared little and understood less of these priestly writings. They sensed privilege and wanted it destroyed. Mercenaries with less belief and more opportunity. Storming. Happy to be led.
The Guilds sensed opportunity. A strategy. The Trojan Horse.
Into the Alchemists’ camp came a gift. A Turncoat. A refugee from the Guilds. Dissatisfied and willing to learn from the Alchemists’ instruction books. Maybe the Alchemists had a point. The Planet could change, learn from their new ways. The Turncoat turned, spun and weaved. Introduced the Alchemists to words. The mercenaries, opportunists, listened, drank around the fire with the refugee, broke bread and were caught in the web.
The coalition from the margins, from the weird and the doings creaked. United by the Experimenters, the Alchemists and Doers compared weapons. The Alchemists and their mercenaries drank ever more deeply from the jug of words. But needed the Doers, needed the Experimenters. The Guilds were still strong, the visitors suspicious of change, unwilling to embrace revolution. Words became ever more seductive.
The Alchemists sensed gold.
The Turncoat worked away. Suggested a new Guild. A Guild of Alchemists, Doers and Experimenters. The Planet would be stronger. All could share in its riches. Words were plentiful. Didn’t they know the Guilds controlled the source, dammed the flow? Observe the sluice gates, wind the handle. See how the words come gushing? The Alchemists were hooked. Certain of it now. Gold.
The Planet breathed again, drew back from the abyss.
...
The Planet convulsed.
When the Alchemists launched their assault they expected that the visitors would immediately understand the righteousness of their cause. Richness and privilege to be swept aside in a new glorious revolution. The underdog, always a good bet. Plenty of historical precedent. Some Guilds fell. Seats of learning stormed by no-nonsense experimenters armed with new and powerful weaponry. Guilds shuddered. ‘The Decline and Fall of the Freudian Empire’.
Horror and incredulity gripped the Guilds. Without the brake of paradox, the veneration of the aged, the Alchemists ranged deep into the halls of the Guilds. Destroyed the precious archives of paper. Brought not just the new but the old paper into the sun and incinerated it in the magnifying glasses of scrutiny. The Doers did. The Experimenters experimented. The Alchemists directed, overturned and burned.
But the tentacles of the Guilds ran deep into the voices of the visitors. Feudal structures pulled at loyalties. Visitors did not want new science. Trusted structures and fealty gave comfort. The assault faltered. The new science regrouped and struck again. New gains. The Guilds sought a fresh saviour. An unprecedented idea, Guild cooperation. A return to history, to the spirit of the first colonisers. But it wasn’t enough. The Guilds needed their own new weapon. And they found it where they least expected it. In the very heart of their own laws. At the very core of the Planet. The 1st paradox.
Words generate paper. Words are the ultimate Planetary addiction. On the margins, the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings the scant supply of words kept the Alchemists, Experimenters and Doers clean. Their meat and drink was cause and effect. Their paper was different, riven by strange symbols and hieroglyphics. Dense and barely understandable. The high priests of Alchemy, doing and experiment were keepers of the new paper. Most of the entourage from the margins cared little and understood less of these priestly writings. They sensed privilege and wanted it destroyed. Mercenaries with less belief and more opportunity. Storming. Happy to be led.
The Guilds sensed opportunity. A strategy. The Trojan Horse.
Into the Alchemists’ camp came a gift. A Turncoat. A refugee from the Guilds. Dissatisfied and willing to learn from the Alchemists’ instruction books. Maybe the Alchemists had a point. The Planet could change, learn from their new ways. The Turncoat turned, spun and weaved. Introduced the Alchemists to words. The mercenaries, opportunists, listened, drank around the fire with the refugee, broke bread and were caught in the web.
The coalition from the margins, from the weird and the doings creaked. United by the Experimenters, the Alchemists and Doers compared weapons. The Alchemists and their mercenaries drank ever more deeply from the jug of words. But needed the Doers, needed the Experimenters. The Guilds were still strong, the visitors suspicious of change, unwilling to embrace revolution. Words became ever more seductive.
The Alchemists sensed gold.
The Turncoat worked away. Suggested a new Guild. A Guild of Alchemists, Doers and Experimenters. The Planet would be stronger. All could share in its riches. Words were plentiful. Didn’t they know the Guilds controlled the source, dammed the flow? Observe the sluice gates, wind the handle. See how the words come gushing? The Alchemists were hooked. Certain of it now. Gold.
The Planet breathed again, drew back from the abyss.
...
Tuesday 22 September 2009
Chapter 5: Stock, Solicitors and Prostitutes
...
No one knows how to use words on Planet Psychotherapy. That is, everyone certainly knows how to use words. Words are the currency of the planet. Apart from a few hicks on the margins, down in the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings. No sorry, actually no one knows really how to use words. There are so many words on the Planet that everyone knows how to use them but not at all. There are more words on the Planet that rest unused than words that are unrested.
There are people on the planet that appear utterly mute. Highly skilled mutes, they grunt, nod and exercise their verbal ticks without passing a single word. Oral constipation rules. But in the inhabitants’ heads, what whirligigs of incandescent phrase exist. Catherine wheels of lexicon. Roman fountains of pulsing thesauri bouncing off solid walls of bone, never finding the exit, building up behind bulging eyes and ringing tinnitus.
Words enter the Planet from outside. Visitors seeking succour and enlightenment deposit their words to be sucked up by the inhabitants as gunpowder for their personal firework displays. Experimental hypotheses connect these words to imagined events. Projected onto internal movie screens, the inhabitants of the Planet interpret words, connect them together and build towers of elaborate displays. They use the displays to explain what they hear. As the touch paper is lit, flames leap from word to word, igniting each in turn, lighting the cranial landscape of the inhabitants.
Rarely is the show a shared one. The display is secret, a place only for the initiates. The inhabitants of the Planet are wary of sharing with each other and almost totally averse to opening the doors of the display to visitors. Each of the inhabitants is an expert wordsmith but only the occasional traitor lets the visitor stay for the display. So although everyone on the Planet is bound by their words, few actually know how to use words on Planet Psychotherapy.
The planet has no word for either its inhabitants or its visitors. Nor does it have a word for what it does. Vicious turf wars simmer perpetually and frequently break out into outright feuding. Counsellors, talking therapists, psychiatrists, psychological therapists, psychologists, psychotherapists, personal enlightenment coaches all vie for descriptive dominance. To construct a list of names of activities would be pointless and so time-consuming that the story of Big M’s experiment would be rapidly buried beneath a slag heap of scrap terms, constantly being replaced by new metal.
Big M’s lieutenant, Cap’n Old calls the visitors to the Planet, ‘stock’. Crumbly white haired psychiatric circus performers and their bright eyed thrusting acrobat acolytes call them ‘patients’. The faceless, unimaginative, burrowing bureaucrats of the state who rule entry to the Planet call them ‘service users’. Most curious of all, the resolutely unregulated counsellors, psychotherapists and psychologists refer to each visitor as a ‘client’. On other planets, only two types of people do business with clients – solicitors and prostitutes. Both solicitors and prostitutes relieve their clients of considerable amounts of money for dubious or short term gain. The similarities are obvious.
Welcome to Planet Psychotherapy.
...
No one knows how to use words on Planet Psychotherapy. That is, everyone certainly knows how to use words. Words are the currency of the planet. Apart from a few hicks on the margins, down in the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings. No sorry, actually no one knows really how to use words. There are so many words on the Planet that everyone knows how to use them but not at all. There are more words on the Planet that rest unused than words that are unrested.
There are people on the planet that appear utterly mute. Highly skilled mutes, they grunt, nod and exercise their verbal ticks without passing a single word. Oral constipation rules. But in the inhabitants’ heads, what whirligigs of incandescent phrase exist. Catherine wheels of lexicon. Roman fountains of pulsing thesauri bouncing off solid walls of bone, never finding the exit, building up behind bulging eyes and ringing tinnitus.
Words enter the Planet from outside. Visitors seeking succour and enlightenment deposit their words to be sucked up by the inhabitants as gunpowder for their personal firework displays. Experimental hypotheses connect these words to imagined events. Projected onto internal movie screens, the inhabitants of the Planet interpret words, connect them together and build towers of elaborate displays. They use the displays to explain what they hear. As the touch paper is lit, flames leap from word to word, igniting each in turn, lighting the cranial landscape of the inhabitants.
Rarely is the show a shared one. The display is secret, a place only for the initiates. The inhabitants of the Planet are wary of sharing with each other and almost totally averse to opening the doors of the display to visitors. Each of the inhabitants is an expert wordsmith but only the occasional traitor lets the visitor stay for the display. So although everyone on the Planet is bound by their words, few actually know how to use words on Planet Psychotherapy.
The planet has no word for either its inhabitants or its visitors. Nor does it have a word for what it does. Vicious turf wars simmer perpetually and frequently break out into outright feuding. Counsellors, talking therapists, psychiatrists, psychological therapists, psychologists, psychotherapists, personal enlightenment coaches all vie for descriptive dominance. To construct a list of names of activities would be pointless and so time-consuming that the story of Big M’s experiment would be rapidly buried beneath a slag heap of scrap terms, constantly being replaced by new metal.
Big M’s lieutenant, Cap’n Old calls the visitors to the Planet, ‘stock’. Crumbly white haired psychiatric circus performers and their bright eyed thrusting acrobat acolytes call them ‘patients’. The faceless, unimaginative, burrowing bureaucrats of the state who rule entry to the Planet call them ‘service users’. Most curious of all, the resolutely unregulated counsellors, psychotherapists and psychologists refer to each visitor as a ‘client’. On other planets, only two types of people do business with clients – solicitors and prostitutes. Both solicitors and prostitutes relieve their clients of considerable amounts of money for dubious or short term gain. The similarities are obvious.
Welcome to Planet Psychotherapy.
...
Saturday 5 September 2009
Chapter 4: The Sluices
...
Voices. Screaming, wailing, imploring. Sobbing, stabbing, striving. Melding into one huge caterwaul of utter, utter, abject distress.
At the sluices.
A journey of note, of age, of desperation. No journeys of joy here. To travel hopefully. To arrive.
At the sluices.
An endless, massed jungle of voices, climbing high. Climbing upon other voices. Clawing ever higher. A mountaineering mass of misery. Mountainous misery crying in a medley of misfortune. A tormented tower of torment.
At the sluices.
Behind the sluices, the Guilds. Listening only to the carefully chosen voices. Carefully constructing their firework displays, converting voices to paper. Never hearing the sound of suffering sorrow on the outside.
Beyond the sluices
Great iron and wooden walls. Reinforced over aeons by the faceless, unimaginative, burrowing bureaucrats of the state. Keep the voices to a trickle. Keep the Guilds controlled. Feed them, divide them, humour them. Small succour lacking sufficiency.
And the voices. In the dark, crying for comfort. None here but the nails of the sluices. Present your papers. Sorry, wrong words. Away in anguish. Return in rage. New words? Sorry no pass for the sluiceport. Return again. Energy rewarded? No Guild for the energetic. Away again. The gossamer cover of the Planet strong as steel.
At the sluices
A Guild member, a novice, blinking in the early morning light. Duty calls. Crank the hidden handle. Enter the code, arcane ritual, signs in the early morning light. A nod to the master waiting behind. Slowly a crack opens.
In the sluices
The voices, hurling great gobs of phlegm, know. This is it. The Selection. Volume rising. Who will gain entry this selection? The loudest, the quietest, the prostrate, the erect. Rules unknown, arbitrary anguish allowed, silent suffering sent down. This time the mute, next time the garrulous. Voices guessing. Select only the voices to charge the Guild’s empty papers today. Gaps, voices as filler, sealant, shore up the halls.
Beyond the sluices
A hand reaches through the tiny crack in the sluice gates. Desperate, it clutches a crumpled piece of paper. A letter from a referee. The letter asks the Guilds to hear this voice, to allocate a Guild member to listen, probe, provide succour and hope to this hopeless sole. There is no recognisable feature but a hand and the scrap of paper. The hand is shaking, desperate to find a way for the voice to be heard. To come here, to this point, the voice has travelled a long way. Many pleas to its referee have produced this most valuable piece of paper, a possibility of entry to the Planet. But only if the referee has been clever. Only if the voice has been articulate. Only if the referee knows the rituals, the codes, the words. Only if between them, the voice and the referee can manufacture a story which will fit the preoccupation of the Guilds, any Guild.
But all Guilds are different, who is opening the sluice this morning? Will the story fit the selection?
The novice takes the paper. The hand shakes more violently. The paper moves from novice to master. The paper. The Master. The voices quieten. Success or failure? For the hand success means a hearing, for the voices success means failure. The hand waits, shaking ever more violently. The master moves to one side, whispers behind his hand to an invisible ally. The sign is made. The decision. The Selection.
At the sluices. Entry gates to the Planet.
....
Voices. Screaming, wailing, imploring. Sobbing, stabbing, striving. Melding into one huge caterwaul of utter, utter, abject distress.
At the sluices.
A journey of note, of age, of desperation. No journeys of joy here. To travel hopefully. To arrive.
At the sluices.
An endless, massed jungle of voices, climbing high. Climbing upon other voices. Clawing ever higher. A mountaineering mass of misery. Mountainous misery crying in a medley of misfortune. A tormented tower of torment.
At the sluices.
Behind the sluices, the Guilds. Listening only to the carefully chosen voices. Carefully constructing their firework displays, converting voices to paper. Never hearing the sound of suffering sorrow on the outside.
Beyond the sluices
Great iron and wooden walls. Reinforced over aeons by the faceless, unimaginative, burrowing bureaucrats of the state. Keep the voices to a trickle. Keep the Guilds controlled. Feed them, divide them, humour them. Small succour lacking sufficiency.
And the voices. In the dark, crying for comfort. None here but the nails of the sluices. Present your papers. Sorry, wrong words. Away in anguish. Return in rage. New words? Sorry no pass for the sluiceport. Return again. Energy rewarded? No Guild for the energetic. Away again. The gossamer cover of the Planet strong as steel.
At the sluices
A Guild member, a novice, blinking in the early morning light. Duty calls. Crank the hidden handle. Enter the code, arcane ritual, signs in the early morning light. A nod to the master waiting behind. Slowly a crack opens.
In the sluices
The voices, hurling great gobs of phlegm, know. This is it. The Selection. Volume rising. Who will gain entry this selection? The loudest, the quietest, the prostrate, the erect. Rules unknown, arbitrary anguish allowed, silent suffering sent down. This time the mute, next time the garrulous. Voices guessing. Select only the voices to charge the Guild’s empty papers today. Gaps, voices as filler, sealant, shore up the halls.
Beyond the sluices
A hand reaches through the tiny crack in the sluice gates. Desperate, it clutches a crumpled piece of paper. A letter from a referee. The letter asks the Guilds to hear this voice, to allocate a Guild member to listen, probe, provide succour and hope to this hopeless sole. There is no recognisable feature but a hand and the scrap of paper. The hand is shaking, desperate to find a way for the voice to be heard. To come here, to this point, the voice has travelled a long way. Many pleas to its referee have produced this most valuable piece of paper, a possibility of entry to the Planet. But only if the referee has been clever. Only if the voice has been articulate. Only if the referee knows the rituals, the codes, the words. Only if between them, the voice and the referee can manufacture a story which will fit the preoccupation of the Guilds, any Guild.
But all Guilds are different, who is opening the sluice this morning? Will the story fit the selection?
The novice takes the paper. The hand shakes more violently. The paper moves from novice to master. The paper. The Master. The voices quieten. Success or failure? For the hand success means a hearing, for the voices success means failure. The hand waits, shaking ever more violently. The master moves to one side, whispers behind his hand to an invisible ally. The sign is made. The decision. The Selection.
At the sluices. Entry gates to the Planet.
....
Monday 31 August 2009
Chapter 3: Ava
Ava had a communication problem.
Refugees from the old neurology worlds will tell you that communication requires three things. A cortex. A large number of neurones within that cortex. A large number of neurones within that cortex that speak to each other.
Ava met the cortex test.
Two out of three ain’t bad. One out of three is a disaster. Ava’s neurones barely passed the time of day with each other. Ava’s neurones were arranged in an avaricious bundle of bullying belligerence bulging out from behind eyes of crass stupidity.
Ava had a communication problem.
Ava was always hungry. Her every meal was hunted down, captured and torn apart as she wielded metaphorical axes in the killing fields which surrounded the Planet. For it was power Ava craved. As she accrued it, she grew fatter and more bloated.
It is not impossible for stupid people to become powerful. Even on Planet Psychotherapy, which prides itself on its intellectual prowess, stupid people rise to positions of influence. But Ava did not live on the Planet. Ava employed the Planet.
As the Guild of Alchemists (and Doers) became stronger and stronger, many flocked to join. No more monasteries. A quick dip into the rule books, corners cut and a ticket to gold. Well down the hierarchy, these junior alchemists sought access to visitors.
Ava the belligerent controlled a sluice gate. Opened it a little. Just a little. A few juniors took the bait, nibbled on Ava’s crumbs and were hooked. Briefly sated, Ava waited as dusk fell for bigger fish to rise.
When big M and the Chamber Crew swam past, Ava could not believe her luck. The big one. More power. A larger sluice. She licked her fat lips, grown fatter at the thought of her next meal. Stupid Ava.
The Old Cockney loved the game. Took in the big picture. Weaved, dodged, fixed. Pulled here, pushed there. There’s better bait over here Big M. Ava watched as her meal swam past into the Cockney’s net. Big M and the Chamber Crew gently landed on the beach as the Cockney reeled them in.
But Ava the belligerent is not finished. The Old Cockney needs her. The faceless bureaucrats need an image of harmony to sell to Scotty and the Naïve Banker. Ava is not finished but Ava is stupid. Plays her card too early. Too hungry, too obvious, she cannot walk away. Threatens. Bluff called. Stays put. Harmony for now.
The hunger gnaws away at Ava’s guts. No one but Ava wants the sluices to remain. The Alchemists, the faceless bureaucrats and the Old Cockney all want them to go. The Alchemists see visitors as their source of power. The bureaucrats divide and rule the powerful. The Old Cockney plays a deeper game. The game is itself the power. Ava sees the sluices as power. Poor Ava. One out of three. Her neurones passing each other by on the other side of her street. Sees only the sluices.
Ava has a communication problem.
Refugees from the old neurology worlds will tell you that communication requires three things. A cortex. A large number of neurones within that cortex. A large number of neurones within that cortex that speak to each other.
Ava met the cortex test.
Two out of three ain’t bad. One out of three is a disaster. Ava’s neurones barely passed the time of day with each other. Ava’s neurones were arranged in an avaricious bundle of bullying belligerence bulging out from behind eyes of crass stupidity.
Ava had a communication problem.
Ava was always hungry. Her every meal was hunted down, captured and torn apart as she wielded metaphorical axes in the killing fields which surrounded the Planet. For it was power Ava craved. As she accrued it, she grew fatter and more bloated.
It is not impossible for stupid people to become powerful. Even on Planet Psychotherapy, which prides itself on its intellectual prowess, stupid people rise to positions of influence. But Ava did not live on the Planet. Ava employed the Planet.
As the Guild of Alchemists (and Doers) became stronger and stronger, many flocked to join. No more monasteries. A quick dip into the rule books, corners cut and a ticket to gold. Well down the hierarchy, these junior alchemists sought access to visitors.
Ava the belligerent controlled a sluice gate. Opened it a little. Just a little. A few juniors took the bait, nibbled on Ava’s crumbs and were hooked. Briefly sated, Ava waited as dusk fell for bigger fish to rise.
When big M and the Chamber Crew swam past, Ava could not believe her luck. The big one. More power. A larger sluice. She licked her fat lips, grown fatter at the thought of her next meal. Stupid Ava.
The Old Cockney loved the game. Took in the big picture. Weaved, dodged, fixed. Pulled here, pushed there. There’s better bait over here Big M. Ava watched as her meal swam past into the Cockney’s net. Big M and the Chamber Crew gently landed on the beach as the Cockney reeled them in.
But Ava the belligerent is not finished. The Old Cockney needs her. The faceless bureaucrats need an image of harmony to sell to Scotty and the Naïve Banker. Ava is not finished but Ava is stupid. Plays her card too early. Too hungry, too obvious, she cannot walk away. Threatens. Bluff called. Stays put. Harmony for now.
The hunger gnaws away at Ava’s guts. No one but Ava wants the sluices to remain. The Alchemists, the faceless bureaucrats and the Old Cockney all want them to go. The Alchemists see visitors as their source of power. The bureaucrats divide and rule the powerful. The Old Cockney plays a deeper game. The game is itself the power. Ava sees the sluices as power. Poor Ava. One out of three. Her neurones passing each other by on the other side of her street. Sees only the sluices.
Ava has a communication problem.
Monday 24 August 2009
Chapter 2: A Short History of the Planet Part 1
Students of Planet Psychotherapy’s history frequently remark at the curious 1st paradox whereby the Planet’s carefully secretive accumulation of words is matched only by the generation of paper accounts in madly abandoned quantities. That’s not the lone paradox. The second one is the Planet’s relative youth, accompanied by a pervasive cult of aged veneration. Here’s yet another one – the pursuit of calm nirvana is attended by an unmatched propensity for savage warfare. And that’s just three. There are many more rich Planetary seams of paradox to be mined by the thesis inclined.
For many years the Planet was unoccupied. The first colonists came from a world of science and wonder. For those with the material means, life could be extended as disease was banished. Germs were found and beaten. Renegade neurologists with left-field ideas found the Planet a happy hunting ground. Virgin territory. In fact, the more virgins the better. Words of abstinence.
Words were scarce on the Planet but the Guilds did not go hungry. Carefully husbanded word crops kept the Guilds comfortable. Governing structures were developed, orthodoxies established and the living was easy. Private incomes allowed for playtimes. The first law of Planetary paradox was established: words are confidential but paper is the currency of the Planet. Words are turned into paper.
Guild membership depends on paper. The more paper possessed, the easier it is to join a Guild. Senior Guild members, even feared Guild committees, all have their paper. Less later, of course. After all, running a Guild takes time away from paper. Some words never make it into paper. Stay hidden, confidential, lost. Personal firework displays only, soothing old Guild members to sleep.
So the second law of Planetary paradox came to be. The Planet is young, runs on the energy of youth but venerates the exhausted, rigid and empty minds of the aged. This paradox generates paradox 2(i): all paper is accumulative and none is to be replaced, even where such old paper is manifestly untrue, because old paper has been generated by the revered aged ones and must be respected.
As for the third paradox. Deep in the Guild halls, war maps adorn dark rooms. Operations planned. At first the Guilds co-existed happily. New Guilds sprang from youth. Generated their own aged. But, how to venerate all the old? Public displays of respect coupled to vicious paper wars. The youth the foot soldiers. Some would make it over the defences, score hurt with their paper. Use new visitors’ words twisted into paper spears. Others fell as strong Guilds reached deep into others’ back rooms and closed on the venerated aged leaders. But always held back, unable ultimately to violate the second law of Planetary paradox.
Of course, like all Planets, planet Psychotherapy has a wild margin land. Laws of Planetary Paradox are weak here. The writ of the Guilds does not reach to the margins. A race of wild margin dwellers grew up here. Inhabited by these Alchemists, the Doers and the Experimenters, the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings troubled the Guilds little for many years. Knowledge of what went on here was of little import. Guilds never travelled here into coarseness and banditry. Guild conflict and aged veneration bred complacency. The storm brewed in the vessels of the Alchemists. The Guilds never saw it coming.
The wild eyed Alchemists drew little energy from words. Such refinements cut no ice in the banqueting halls of experiment and doing. The Alchemists titrated and measured, watched and talked. Talked. Instructed. Advised. Some visitors’ words strayed into Alchemy land. Alchemists captured these words, sought to measure, catalogue, dissect. Heartless, disrespectful. Instruction books from the margins made their way into Guild halls. Planetary paradox turned upside down – paper can be disproved, replaced, cast aside. But only on the margins. Let them have their dirty lands.
In the dining rooms of doing, the reviled Alchemists nursed their resentments. Catalogued and stored them up as ammunition for the coming campaign. Worked on their experiments. Figured out trajectories, parabolas and angles. Prepared for the longest day. The assault on the halls of the Guilds. And that day would be long indeed, stretching into weeks, months and years. No one would come home by Christmas, neither this one nor many more to come.
The Planet held its breath.
For many years the Planet was unoccupied. The first colonists came from a world of science and wonder. For those with the material means, life could be extended as disease was banished. Germs were found and beaten. Renegade neurologists with left-field ideas found the Planet a happy hunting ground. Virgin territory. In fact, the more virgins the better. Words of abstinence.
Words were scarce on the Planet but the Guilds did not go hungry. Carefully husbanded word crops kept the Guilds comfortable. Governing structures were developed, orthodoxies established and the living was easy. Private incomes allowed for playtimes. The first law of Planetary paradox was established: words are confidential but paper is the currency of the Planet. Words are turned into paper.
Guild membership depends on paper. The more paper possessed, the easier it is to join a Guild. Senior Guild members, even feared Guild committees, all have their paper. Less later, of course. After all, running a Guild takes time away from paper. Some words never make it into paper. Stay hidden, confidential, lost. Personal firework displays only, soothing old Guild members to sleep.
So the second law of Planetary paradox came to be. The Planet is young, runs on the energy of youth but venerates the exhausted, rigid and empty minds of the aged. This paradox generates paradox 2(i): all paper is accumulative and none is to be replaced, even where such old paper is manifestly untrue, because old paper has been generated by the revered aged ones and must be respected.
As for the third paradox. Deep in the Guild halls, war maps adorn dark rooms. Operations planned. At first the Guilds co-existed happily. New Guilds sprang from youth. Generated their own aged. But, how to venerate all the old? Public displays of respect coupled to vicious paper wars. The youth the foot soldiers. Some would make it over the defences, score hurt with their paper. Use new visitors’ words twisted into paper spears. Others fell as strong Guilds reached deep into others’ back rooms and closed on the venerated aged leaders. But always held back, unable ultimately to violate the second law of Planetary paradox.
Of course, like all Planets, planet Psychotherapy has a wild margin land. Laws of Planetary Paradox are weak here. The writ of the Guilds does not reach to the margins. A race of wild margin dwellers grew up here. Inhabited by these Alchemists, the Doers and the Experimenters, the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings troubled the Guilds little for many years. Knowledge of what went on here was of little import. Guilds never travelled here into coarseness and banditry. Guild conflict and aged veneration bred complacency. The storm brewed in the vessels of the Alchemists. The Guilds never saw it coming.
The wild eyed Alchemists drew little energy from words. Such refinements cut no ice in the banqueting halls of experiment and doing. The Alchemists titrated and measured, watched and talked. Talked. Instructed. Advised. Some visitors’ words strayed into Alchemy land. Alchemists captured these words, sought to measure, catalogue, dissect. Heartless, disrespectful. Instruction books from the margins made their way into Guild halls. Planetary paradox turned upside down – paper can be disproved, replaced, cast aside. But only on the margins. Let them have their dirty lands.
In the dining rooms of doing, the reviled Alchemists nursed their resentments. Catalogued and stored them up as ammunition for the coming campaign. Worked on their experiments. Figured out trajectories, parabolas and angles. Prepared for the longest day. The assault on the halls of the Guilds. And that day would be long indeed, stretching into weeks, months and years. No one would come home by Christmas, neither this one nor many more to come.
The Planet held its breath.
Thursday 13 August 2009
Chapter 1: Welcome to Planet Psychotherapy: The Story of an Experiment
Big M and the Chamber Crew
When Big M and the Chamber Crew realised that their people were not happy, they figured they needed to do something about it. Getting the place working again was what they knew best. They reckoned this was the way to reduce the heat. Hadn’t been done for twenty years, but things don’t change that much. Mind you, couldn’t be done without a bit of brass to oil the wheels. Inward investment – clearly necessary.
Scotty was looking good for a sub but the Naïve Banker was pushing for more than a few new fast food joints. Smoke and mirrors, how were the Crew gonna pull this one off? The Naïve Banker’s into happiness. Thinks that working people are happy people. Or maybe happy people are working people. Now that was something the Crew could really get off on. Happy people are profitable people. Growth, prestige, profit. Obvious really.
The Crew got to work. Work, that they could handle. Deals, development, drive-ins. No problem. Happiness? How the hell they gonna do that? No happiness, no deal. Scotty and the Banker holding out. Can you buy happiness? Big M thought you could. Money can buy you anything, give you leisure, golf, wives, the usual stuff. Surely happiness is just another commodity.
The Naïve Banker thinks that we don’t spend enough cash on happiness. Small guy, but knows a thing or two. Well connected. Must be something in it. Big M goes over. No Dice. The Chamber Crew think again. This is a world they can’t understand. Reaper, the Capital city see. Weird place – all theatres and different languages. Chatter.
The Chamber Crew know work. They know honest toil. They know place. Hierarchy, worth, respect. You’d think it would be enough. Big M decides a way to unlock Scotty’s purse. They need ‘Planet Psychotherapy’.
Psychotherapy? The Crew thinks Big M must need it. Too much time in the capital, Big M, warm ale will see you right. No. Big M sees the total picture. If the Crew want Scotty’s millions they gotta talk the talk. Maybe even walk the walk. Maybe. The Naïve Banker’s the key but the Old Cockney’s the fixer.
More smoke and mirrors. The Cockney knows deals. Big M knows deals. This they understand. This they can do. Handshakes, long eye contact, done. The Cockney will get the Crew into Planet Psychotherapy. Rarefied air, smell of library, musty books. But he can do it. Contacts, reliable, not too much trouble. Will be done. The Cockney walks away, smile and tight eyes. Fun, he likes this. We’ll have a laugh here.
So when Big M and the Chamber Crew realised they had a problem they also found out they needed Planet Psychotherapy. That’s where the Exile came in. When Big M and the Chamber Crew met the Exile they figured the deal was easy. Sure, but the Old Cockney tells it like it is. Work equals happiness. Happiness equals work. Need the Planet to provide the glue. The attraction. Make work stick to happiness. Happiness stick to work. The Naïve Banker gives the nod. Scotty unlocks his case. Money flows. Now they are in business.
The Exile? He feels the heat. Hates the cold. Worked it out. Do the deal, make the eyes, shake the palm. Now have fun. Big sandpit here, stretch out, touch the sun, security.
Hi Big M and the Chamber Crew.
Welcome to Planet Psychotherapy.
Do come in.
What Big M and the Chamber Crew don’t realise is that the Exile is the Keeper, the most radical bastard on Planet Psychotherapy. By a long way.
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