Thursday, 5 November 2015

A Storm on the Horizon


I’ve never really felt like a blogger.


I write, on a blog, so I guess I’d call myself a writer, but at the same time, the only place I write is on my blog. So… I guess I’m a blogger. It’s something I’m still trying to get my head around.


This nuance has often seen me on the outside looking in, but with one foot still over the threshold. Very rarely do I understand this bizarre world, nor really claim to, but I observe, analyse, and attempt to summarise the psycho-social behaviourisms of this space because not only does it fascinate me, but I equally love to love it as love to hate it.


I have friends who ‘outsiders’ scream and cry and shake over the prospect of meeting, and friends who just can’t muster the enthusiasm to care about blogging any more. I have friends who have created and achieved incredible things, and friends that break down in tears of overwhelm, crippled by their own success. But this isn't being all ~friends in high places~ – I’m no social butterfly. If anything it’s the opposite, as last month’s Gleam party proved: I’m in a strangely reassuring who the fuck is that? kind of position which I’d be quite happy to remain in forever.

 

In my eyes, like anyone, I feel lucky to have friends who are more or less the same kind of lovely person – passionate, friendly human beings with five fingers and five toes. And I have social media to thank for that. Except, because of social media, these people are unavoidably more than that too. Remove that familiar frame and it’s like a sudden change of lighting - these people are now gods among men, royalty, as good as religious icons. It’s disconcerting to say the least. I don’t want to look at them that way.


I guess I've always feelt like I’m on a rocky outcrop overlooking a great, intangible cloud-city of social media hierarchy.

I’m tall enough on my little plinth to be able to see it from above, but far enough out of the city limits to observe unscathed, and so here I sit, eating my little sandwiches, holding my binoculars and observing the curiously winding streets and little characters building their houses. For years I’ve sat here, watching seasons pass, people rise and fall, proclaim and prevail, the tussle of the greats and the plight of the everyman. I don't want to get involved, I'm quite happy just to watch. Periodically, my observations will result in epiphany, and I’ll scrawl my findings on a little scroll, fold it up into a paper aeroplane and send it weaving through the air into the streets below, to be found by those who seek it.

But something is changing now. The weather has become suffocating with dry heat that has lasted for weeks now, and as each day passes, the particles of the air begin to vibrate more feverishly with anticipation of something coming. A slight breeze tickles the long grass against my skin and I squint my eyes against the unrelenting sun as something catches my eye in the sight of the binoculars. I put down my sandwich and climb to my feet, both hands on the lens.
 

Essena has done something- regardless of what, she’s done something
big. I’m watching intently when a loud rumble erupts into the air, and suddenly a huge crack rips across the heart of this scorched city. People scramble away from it gathering on either side. The incessant heat makes tempers short, and with a frisson of fury soon people start yelling, harking at the people on the other side and they back, each blaming one another for it.

The air is hot and laborious, heaving under the ominous weight of imminence, and a ripple of static electricity sends the little hairs on my arms upright. I slowly lower my gaze and turn away from the floating city, the ever-increasing, uncharacteristic breeze whipping the hair around my face as I do. And there, almost microscopic on the horizon but growing steadily, billowing clouds blacker than sin swirl and churn like inkdrops in water, flashes of lightening tearing across them, gathering momentum and ferocity with each passing second. The binoculars fall from my hand as I stagger back in horror, and suddenly the air falls very, very still.
Something is coming in this world, and I don’t know what it is, but it feels overdue. Good enough isn’t everything anymore, and nothing is good enough. We’ve reached peak saturation, peak exposure, peak immersion… 

What happens when there’s nothing left to give, yet something has to?

That I don't know. But I'm battening down my hatches.