Entry 1 The paralysed dosage abasia worn but narcolep heavy top-arm/ankle. Worried following feeling frozen feeling, plus double shy expose but spying calico the corner and it's got my name. Can resist still, thought not happen when wakes. Found package and pen, will write when arm thaw. Heavy for now. Vox Populi subterranean hear me? Am I loudly yet? Or head inside still? I shout.
Entry 2 Nonchalant now look hungry out glass, narcotic memory asks for futures often, begging on me. Sun light knows it won't see me for sometimes so look at it until I look at him. See me then, think right.
Entry 3 The stricts come soon, in dark and panic grief me breathe throated tight. Bad job 'brain-cut' I still here inside. Sit learn strength as know, said it happen when keyhole. Rest means neuro more later.
Entry 4 Remembering now when down-ground, morning glow where memory can't fade. Not fade on him, not if more 'brain-cut' forever. First think after heavy eyes and hunger. First and second think after' He called 'Flight' under me, and I called 'Doe' for him. Under no one else. Illicit sobriquet for warmth and coquet. Black ink not touched on him. Flight sewn into my skin, every quantum. Stricts steal everything besides chambers Flight occupies. Wheat hair like food colour and limbs like bird, especially wrist, maps under glass skin. Talk like shaky, too deep for him, when headchest and look up, wide shy grin and downward head. Morning not know, nor populi know on invisible meetings. Exclusive discouragement means no warm glow but stomach kicks apart when in-half, he is the other, nobody more. I be wayward wanting on bad things, on freedom on equality. On numbered men, special by fantasy, struggle and fight get you brain cut, like me. Sad is inside but not out, in a way, key-hole sees to aspiration death. Fuzzy thinking on too long think. Fog and black ink pour. Block and barrier mind. narcosleep now, hide till remind.
Entry 5 Revoke Doe, Bethink! Sleep point? when job? Reminisce Reminisce. I brain-cut reason? Ah the birds sing violent arpeggio I not heard, only read when down-ground. No no Remember. If it Flight fully formed contact burned on full mind-eye, not forget. Remember on him. Always. Assured category; techolog? equality? Scarcity? Progression?! are equip my brain still. Soot smoke loosens between the cortex. Hush up Doe, Stricts.
Entry 6-8 missing
Entry 9 Fixers are Hands for the Heads. Doe was Hand for the Hand of Heads. Doe not that now. Doe hide and find Flight. Fixer food not Marmalade loaf. Fixer vegetable too. Set ups, repair fix machines, too fix Heads Machines. Train in mindfulness of machine. Doe in Fixer quarter. Stow underwrapping with scrim. Watch now.
Entry 10 Loosening still, I recall everything of Flight, that I can. Remember/write helps syntax but to sane stay too. When first clocked Flight neuters queued to tummy cut. Doe in neuter que. Doe in minus ques. Flight cut femme when they not blueprint aligned. Populi not done want care, care come from self care. Self care not considerate of comrade. Self care = selfish warble Stricts. No unique no special. Neuter que first clock. Never more error felt when clock Flight. Never more stomach kick all reason. Lose month blood, error care, exclusive compassion is error. Que first now, room Flight and other neuter-cut preparation. Doe drug oneirophrenia sleep soon. Doe wake new room, cut now, but no remove. Month blood still come. Bleeding.
Entry 11 Flight and Doe would meet ever more. I remember what he said. He said, 'You are my liver' I remember!!! My mind! I remember. I must write more. Flight is a surgeon, only qualified for one job and mechanised in his autopilot. Routinely slicing men and women to avoid lesser populi having children. He spared only me the womb abortion but gave me my tiny scar. I've been menstruating in private for two years now - the 'Heads' have always sort to control the womb, we fight against these and other inequalities. Its not funny of course but occasionally I find a sort of twisted pleasure in finding rags to hide my bleeding. We meet, once a week and on an agreed and changing day the following week so not to arouse suspicion in regularity. Those mornings are golden to a fault. A reason to make it through the week, a motivation. He is revolution, the collection. In my life so far these traits are considered naive, dangerous. To encourage comradely is illegal and relationships are worked out based on genetic compatibility never above or below your station. He is above. I am below. I realise now that I was not lobotomised as I was meant to be, but I was drugged, heavily sedated in an isolated cell. Flight must have intervened in my operation after we were found in secret congress. I'm bleeding now. I'll tell you more soon.
Entry 12 I'm existing to hide now, so is fight. I think of Flight and the resistance all the time. We wrote logical nightcaps in stowed away beds in operating rooms. Hopelessly tangled and fierce we felt we no longer lived for any thing else but our cause- selfless, rage-filled in objection to our lack of society, a concept religiously governed and irrational to a detriment. We agreed to improve the lives of our loved ones by improving the technology we use to survive in our down-ground, alleviating and uniting labourers whose age and deterioration is a sign of love. One night when presto fire alarms shriek we embraced distraction to access the 'Fixers' or mechanics workshop. Down grilled walls, shrinking corridors and to our system's shock! we caught sight of intricate chrome machines, moving more like animals than the thick iron monoliths we are used to working with. A 'Fixer' Flight knew mentioned in passing that these might have existed 'before our time' the 'Heads' ensure they are maintained. I saw them like frozen ideas, grown but stunted. Why would the 'heads' be using primitive technology when the preservation society was rotting under a new perversion? This was my question to the heads. This was my undertaking. This is why we, Flight and I, fought for me to be here, we the hearts between the head and the hand - on the mechanical end of a machine. Stealth in its inner workings ' walking toward the dream that re seek to revive.
Entry 13 I'm here now, standing at the neck of the office my captors coordinate from. ' Distorted screams.
I wrote this on Monday, 15th June 2014 at 17:03 This was always about a trapped loop- a fictional 'future' version of Stalinist Russia that later became the distinct departure from the Marxist-Leninist revolution that came before. How the slow perversion of the left was poisoned, infiltrated and turned into something that lives in the reaches of the far right. This was a story of a drugged resistance fighter looking for her partner in a re-imagined Gulag, still fighting for the ideals that had since been disgarded. He didn't exist at the time to me, when I revised this, I realised that in a haze I was looking for a partner to fight with all along. I was looking for the revolution in one person. This is ultimately about the fear of a lost future, and as I wrote it I was genuinely losing a future with a man I was growing away from politically and figuratively. I moved out of our house together only months after this was written after many years together and in time I found what I was looking for. Model; Ephyra Clothing; Ovate