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Saturday, 23 September 2017

Sir Gavin And The Green Dragon

Sir Gavin And The Green Dragon

A post Alpha Warriors Story

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


At a quiet backwater bar somewhere near Miami, Viola Hitchcock was sat at a table drinking lager with her colleagues. She was dressed in the same formal style of suit as the mostly white men round the table but her youth and long blonde hair marked her out from her colleagues.

A man in a three piece green suit entered the bar. “Diet coke and whiskey. Pepsi, not coca cola.”

Viola went to the bar to order her round.

The man at the bar sniffed the air then turned to her with a smile. “Peppermint and Fosters? I approve of your taste.

Viola snorted. “Are trying to chat me up by complementing my choice of lager?”

He looked to her and smiled. “It was not my intention but I would not be upset if it succeeded in such a manner.”

Viola looked him up and down. “Interesting choice of dress.”

“We all have uniforms detective.” said the strange man with a smile.

Viola smirked and bit her lip. “Am I that obvious?”

“You call me the Farsh-nuke.” said the strange man reaching out an open palm.

Viola laughed and shook his hand. “Viola Hitchcock, you know I’m going to run a full background check on you.”

“I would expect no less.” said the Farsh-nuke with a slight smile. “Shall we stick with the foreplay or jump straight to the handcuffs?”

Viola grinned. “You are impossible.”

“So I’m told.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Get me a diet coke, no alcohol.” said Viola. “You can join me and my colleagues. If they’re certain you’re not a serial killer then who knows.”

The Farsh-nuke laughed.

*

The next morning the Farsh-nuke was lying naked between silk sheets and Viola was approaching his bed and handed him a couple of slices of buttered toast and a strong mug of coffee.

“Hey...” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

“Hey...” said Viola, smiling back.

“You are a very lovely woman you know?” said the Farsh-nuke cheerfully, his brain still booting.

“So I’m told.” said Viola with a smile. “Curious thing I noticed when I went to check your records, you don’t have any.”

“So, handcuffs after all?” asked the Farsh-nuke with a put upon frown.

“No.” said Viola, backing off to stand by the doorway, looking shapely and feminine, even as her training kicked in. “I didn’t exactly expect to find anything for the name Farsh-nuke and obviously access to dna and fingerprints is somewhat limited without probable cause. I’d just like to know the truth if I may? I can understand if you don’t trust the FBI and I’m not in a hurry to turn you into the ICE if you are an illegal immigrant.”

The Farsh-nuke smiled then he said. “Get your gun, make sure it’s loaded and take whatever other precautions with me to ensure you are safe.”

“Do I need to?” asked Viola, the shrewd professional breaking through the veneer of casual intimacy.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled but controlled his movements carefully. “That’s not for me to say. I will tell you the truth, as much as matters to you. I’m not sure how much you’ll believe but that’s your problem. I do feel however that I do not want you to feel any more distressed than you absolutely have to be by my presence in your life.”

Viola nodded, kept watching the Farsh-nuke and walked over to a wall safe behind a painting and after a moment was armed with a pistol. “Okay then, talk.”

“Okay, I am going to tell you some things that may be distressing but it’s probably important that you listen to everything I have to say before you react. I don’t want you getting in trouble because you wouldn’t let me finish explaining.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Noted.” said Viola coldly.

“Point 1. Yes, I was a serial killer, a cannibal specifically, gets a bit messy on the details but yes I am arguably a threat.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“I’m taking the safety off now.” said Viola calmly.

“Understandable.” said the Farsh-nuke genially. “Point 2. I am an illegal immigrant but I am an illegal immigrant to your universe. You won’t believe me and that’s fine but you won’t find any record of me because I don’t exist within this universe.”

“Great, you’re mad.” said Viola flatly.

“Point 3. I care about you because I sort of have a thing for seducing blondes. I’m trying to quit but I still can’t help feeling affection for you and a desire to protect you.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“And a creep, marvellous.” said Viola with the same flat delivery.

“Point 4. I wouldn’t have advised you get armed if I didn’t know it would do almost nothing to me.” said the Farsh-nuke. “I like you and I want you to be calm and happy but I don’t actually have a death wish.”

“So what are you then?” asked Viola.

“You might want to put to gun down or at least put the safety back on, these are awful nice sheets and I wouldn’t want you to ruin them unduly.” said the Farsh-nuke. “But I can show you what I am.”

Viola stared. “Then show me.”

The Farsh-nuke grinned and as he smiled his skin colour changed, his bone structure altered and his teeth grew. His changed into a green dragon.

“What did you drug me with?” asked Viola.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled. “I gave that up. You’re looking at the truth.”

“I’ve read too much Thomas Harris.” said Viola.

“Bah, Hannibal’s an amateur.” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

Viola’s phone bleeped.

“That’s my alarm for work. I gotta go.” said Viola, still looking down her pistol at the Farsh-nuke.

“I could help?” suggested the Farsh-nuke.

“Yeah, because that’s going to happen.” said Viola.

“Well your options are 1. Shoot me. Which won’t work and might get you in trouble. 2. Arrest me which won’t work because I don’t exist in your universe and your evidence is a confession combined with things nobody will believe. 3. Release me when I have confessed.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Can you transform for my boss?” asked Viola.

“Of course.” said the Farsh-nuke with a genial smile. “I have nothing to fear from the FBI.”

“Can you turn back now then?” asked Viola.

“Just so.” said the Farsh-nuke, changing back to an impression of relative humanity.

“Well it’s certainly impressive, whatever you’re doing.” said Viola.

“Telling the truth.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Just telling the truth.”

“Then get dressed.” said Viola.

*

“What is he doing here?” asked Bert Ingram, a tall thick set latino man in a black suit.

“You wouldn’t believe me.” said Viola. “I’ll explain later but he says he might be able to help.”

The Farsh-nuke stood in his green suit looking at where an old white man had being strung up by a noose from a lamp post, his cock and balls cut off and rammed into his mouth. A confederate flag was tattooed into the man’s chest.

The Farsh-nuke was grinning like a kid in a candy store. “We’re dealing with a vigilante.”

“Oh, truly, what an amazing intellect you have bought to help here.” said Bert.

The Farsh-nuke chuckled and turned back to Bert. “Oh I’ll catch him for you but I’m not actually here for that. Is there somewhere we can talk.”

Bert looked to Viola.

Viola nodded.

“Alright...” said Bert and he led the Farsh-nuke over to a trailer where the forensics team changed into their clean suits.

Bert opened the door and glowered at the people inside and they hurried out. Bert looked to the Farsh-nuke.

The Farsh-nuke graciously entered followed by Viola then Bert.

“So what is it you need to tell me?” asked Bert.

“I’m a former serial killer from a different universe who has no records in this one, bullets can’t stop me and I mean you no harm. Also I’m a dragon. A green one.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Is this some kind of joke?” asked Bert.

Viola shrugged. “I thought he must have just been fucking with me but he did do do something that might be proof if you can see it too.”

“See what?” asked Bert.

So the Farsh-nuke transformed.

“Well fuck.” said Bert.

“At your service.” said the Farsh-nuke, bowing.

“Can you like fly?” asked Bert.

“I can do a lot more than just fly.” said the Farsh-nuke and he blew out a small puff of green fire.

“And you say you’re bullet proof.” said Bert.

“Well, strong healing ability.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“And you’re on our side?” asked Bert.

“I like Viola.” said the Farsh-nuke with a smile. “She’s cute and funny.”

Bert nodded then he looked to Viola. “Do you have a problem with this man?”

“Well he said he was a serial killer.” said Viola.

“I know.” said Bert with a shrug. “But aside from what he’s told me, how do you feel about him?”

Viola shrugged. “We spent the night together and he’s nice enough but I’m not going to argue for him if that’s what you’re thinking?”

“But he’s alright?” asked Bert. “You have no reason beyond what he’s said to suggest we treat him with contempt or care?”

“Not really no. He’s just a strange man who can seemingly become a dragon.” said Viola.

Bert looked to the Farsh-nuke. “Are you prepared to be interviewed and processed to see if we can find anything on you? If we can prove your story one way or another?”

“Sure.” said the Farsh-nuke with a genial grin.

*

3 hours later the Farsh-nuke sat in an interview room as Viola reentered the room.

“Well, they can’t find anything on you.” said Viola. “Looks like your story checks out. You are an alien to our records. Are prepared to be listed as an American citizen?”

“I prefer Britain but I have no great problem with being American.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Though my writer may struggle to keep up. Bit parochial that boy.”

Viola smirked. “Right, the keystream, you said. He finds me hot?”

“Probably, I mean I do. We’re similar but different.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“You are so bizarre.” said Viola with a smile then she looked at the Farsh-nuke with interest. “Why did you come here? Why did you tell us the truth? I mean you’ve done nothing wrong inside our universe, if your story is true, why go through all this?”

“Well why not?” asked the Farsh-nuke. “I’m on holiday, rest leave from my part in the great multiverse war. I went to bar, I saw a hot chick and old habits die hard.”

“And yet I remain collar free and fully aware of my sensibilities.” said Viola. “If all this was you falling off the wagon why aren’t I wrapped around your little finger?”

“Character development?” suggested the Farsh-nuke.

“Bullshit.” said Viola cheerfully. “You want me, I can see it in your eyes.”

The Farsh-nuke nodded then he sighed, looking away. “Things happened while I was away, bad things, complicated things. I want to begin again, I need to begin again but I’m not the same.”

“And these things are why I get to remain Miss Independent?” asked Viola.

“You say that as though you have no say in things?” said the Farsh-nuke compassionately.

Viola blushed and forced herself to look the Farsh-nuke in his emerald green eyes. “I really don’t think I do. I felt it last night too, this pull like gravity. I feel like I want to please you, like just looking at you I want to kneel before you and bow my head.”

“Then go.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Get away from me while you still can. I didn’t intend for this.”

“No, I like it.” said Viola smiling. “I’m not stupid, I would kill you if I had to but if I don’t then I think I like being with you.”

The Farsh-nuke chuckled and he shook his head. “You don’t want to be with me, you want the calm of defeat. The serenity of submitting before a powerful being. I’m not that.”

“But you want to be.” said Viola with a grin.

“I want a great many things.” said the Farsh-nuke. “I’m not playing this game.”

Viola sighed and leaned back. “So what do you want?”

The Farsh-nuke shrugged. “A world free from Elder Gods and Sylphs. A world where women are badass, men aren’t total dicks and politics is just a choice between two bland alternatives of Meh.”

Viola nodded. “I think Bert wants to weaponise you. Lots of uses for a man with no name.”

The Farsh-nuke smiled. “So long as he aims me well I have no problem with that. Serial killers are a quiet reprieve from multiversal politics.”

“Anything you need?” asked Viola. “Beyond Diet Coke, Whiskey and access the best and brightest young women Miami has to offer.”

“I did not ask for that last one.” said the Farsh-nuke irritably.

Viola smirked. “Tough.”

The Farsh-nuke sighed then he leaned back. “Well there is one thing?”

Viola nodded. “Anything?”

“I need the number of a good leftwing psychotherapist, preferably a white man. Feminists scare me.” said the Farsh-nuke.

Viola nodded. “Got some issues then?”

“A few...” said the Farsh-nuke.

“Well I’ll see what I can find out. I might be able to find someone who can suit your particular sensibilities.” said Viola.


The next day the Farsh-nuke was shaking hands with a tall skinny white man with a scruffy beard, a brown cardigan and jeans.

“Sir Gavin Burr, at your service.” said the young man.

The Farsh-nuke shook Gavin’s hand and smiled, looking into his sapphire blue eyes.

*

The racist ran through the concrete jungle. “Fucking cuck! Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Stop running and I will be merciful, Adam.” said Gavin as he bought the lasso up from his waist, striding calmly after the white man.

“You’re insane!” cried the racist, throwing back a look.

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few and you are a nazi aren’t you Adam?” said Gavin, striding after his prey calmly.

“Yeah, I’m a member of the Alt-Right, what of it? Freedom of speech, man! Freedom of speech!” cried the racist.

“The Genocidal surrender all rights.” said Gavin as he readied his lasso. “You would pose an existential threat to the human race. You are a cancer and there is only one cure for for cancer.”

The racist came to the end of a cul de sac and looked back to Gavin in panic as the predator approached calmly.

“Hush now...” said Gavin as threw the lasso.

The lasso fell about the racist’s neck then it was pulled taught, suffocating the racist and pulling him to the ground.

“Now are you going to be a good little boy worthy of mercy or do I need to humiliate you as you die?” asked Gavin.

The racist spat in Gavin’s face.

“So be it.” said Gavin, pulling out a knife.

*

Gavin broke off the handshake and asked. “What are you thinking about?”

“That you may be of more help to me than I first realised.” said the Farsh-nuke with a grin.

“Shall we begin then?” asked Gavin.

“Well why not?” said the Farsh-nuke gleefully as he took a seat.


The Appeal Of The Chess Player

The Appeal Of The Chess Player

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


So I have been through the Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul and I think I have come to understand and make peace with the shadow inside myself and so I return that first love, geeking out about bullshit.

When I first discovered the chessplayer archetype I was finding what made sense and seem comforting to me. Emos and Goths were far too cool and fashionable for what I was. I was a pathetic small, fat ugly thing that everybody ignored as too weird or strange. I know now that this was Autism, Kallman’s Syndrome Growth Hormone Deficiency and familial background that would make anyone out of step with conventional society. At the time however I was just weird but I felt noble. I was the pacifist who survived hell. I aspired to a great morality. I had the kind of unwavering faith in goodness that only the very young and very ignorant have. At the same time I was filled with anger and bitterness. Why can’t they see the fire they play with? It was an arrogant assertion of my own intelligence that combined with the other factors to in retrospect make me quite the prick.

So when I read the Virgin New Adventures and saw Time’s Champion angsting about the morality of using his great power or watched Matt Smith’s Oncoming Storm struggle with whether he was a good man, I saw myself. I saw these broken pillars of hubris as powerful empowering mirrors. No wonder my closest friends say (in far nicer and more polite terms) that I was a prick back then.

I discovered Doctor Who, the chessplayer Archetype and started writing about the Farsh-nuke in 2009 when I was seventeen so I had long since discovered my fetish for shrunken women, which would broaden out into a general appeal for submissive women over time. 2013 was when the course I was on at university outright covered feminist interpretation of media and about the time I was first trying out tumblr and so recoiling in knee jerk horror at all these nasty people who werre calling themselves feminists.

Looking back this seems like the most dreadful foreshadowing. If the keystream exists I bet my author in another dimension is a real pretentious arsehole. I mean fuck I know the human brain likes to explain after the fact but the parallels are there. The alien with a secret genetics he doesn’t know about associating himself with humans and angsting about being a good guy while being a thundering cunt, and all the while casually misogynistic at variant times.

Except now I am older, wiser, considerably more aware of myself and my faults. I believe in greed, stupidity, selfishness and sadism. I believe that humans are predators by nature who work together out of survival and because it is objectively better and science is like the ultimate in trying to convince stupid selfish greedy apes to agree and accept things. I am also experienced more in the ways of creation, critique, feminism and politics. I doubt there are many who would not find some problem with my conclusions but at least I have a much greater awareness of when I might be fucking up.

So I’m now aware that the characters I identified with were meant to be problematic. It’s meant to be debatable, it’s meant to be difficult, to be nasty. You can argue that the Doctor did what he had to do, that there was no way, that he did it brilliantly but even the Doctor wishes there was another way.

Now I see the Chess Player not just in Doctor Who but in Tyrion Lannister, Hannibal Lecter, Kerr Avon, Scorpious, Malcolm Tucker, Josh Lyman (People might object to that one.), Sherlock, Francis Urquhart, Loki... The list goes on and on and includes Jon the letsplayer Many A True Nerd when he is playing the Total War Games or Stellaris and you get to see a much more literal version of the chessplayer archetype as a letsplayer plays a marvellous manipulation game against a game’s AI.

And holy fuckballs looking at that list do I have a type or what? Err yes can I get an older white male with an accent, a scary intensity and several degrees in badassery and manipulativeness, preferably with some good looking long haired intelligent female friends/pawns to manipulate. And you thought the repetitiveness of the skinny white blonde women in my fiction was obnoxious. I literally realized that the new show I’m watching is basically a less gory gender flipped Hannibal in terms of its older psychotherapist lead seducing younger person who shows interesting promise of matching the badass manipulativeness of the psychotherapist.

And that’s the thing my position has changed. I’m not the Doctor, I’m not the Farsh-nuke, I’m certainly not Hannibal Lecter, heck I watch Sorkin era West Wing and wince at how Bartlet is too rightwing, warhawk, corrupt and dishonest for me. I mean I know Theresa May looks good compared to America’s current President at the time of writing but that’s who I am.

There’s this arc in the watch books that is capped off amazingly in Thud! and Snuff with the character of Sam Vimes. Sam Vimes is an alcoholic in a dead end job in a city gone to hell. He is a man who routinely struggles with his anger and visualises it as a great beast pulling at its leash. I am reminded of how Neil Gaiman once said that Terry Pratchett wrote from anger because the portrayal of that struggle Vimes has with anger is well written and so true of what I’ve felt. It’s capped off by his genuinely violent butler pointing out that though Vimes fears his anger he would bring the sadistic murderer of his wife and child to justice before the courts even if it killed him emotionally because Vimes has his own inner watchman and he will never let the beast win.

I am not Sam Vimes, I am not worthy of it but I take solace in that declaration and assertion. These years have pushed me close, so close, I mean I was stripped of everything, doubting myself, facing familial and societal pressure and I had nazi stalkers. But I didn’t break and I don’t think I’ve ever really believed that I would. Heck I’ve been nearly catatonic at times over these three years at the fear and offense I caused to my father and strangers I don’t know who may just have been twats.

I keep telling myself I’m like the Doctor, that I could do terrible things for the greater good if the need arised. Perhaps it’s arguable that if I had enough proof that it would make a difference objectively, that the reason might overwhelm my natural revulsion but I doubt that. I have a feeling that I am far more likely to die myself before doing anything to anyone else.

Except that’s what I needed after school. I needed confidence, I needed reason to live without fear. I know have a strange confidence born of experience, an absense of fucks born of living with such great risks for so long. Being a 6 foot tall broad chested cisgendered bisexual white Englishman in the south of England also helps. I may fear feminists but privilege has its upsides and when I go walking at 4am I am far more concerned about not creeping people out than I am worried about bumping into someone who means illwill towards me.

My relationship with the chessmaster’s has changed then. I definitely aspire to that level of skill and intellect. I’ve told myself that my autism makes me powerful because my social skills are put on and so I could affect them to manipulate people if I wanted. Yeah, that is no longer true. I can barely be in the same room as a person without the anxiety being such a drain on my resources.

Equally, while this hormone rollercoaster has been fun, it is not now enough to me for women to be submissive to be exhilarating. The game has become important. In fantasies and fiction I take far more delight in a well rounded and strong character being bought to heel by another.

It’s kinda like how I have this autistic friend who only plays games where the odd are so highly stacked in his favour. Yeah, it’s fun to be god but it gets boring fast for me. I want to win and I want my victory to be near certain but I want it to be a challenge.

However I have found that I no longer just identify with the chessmaster having the power over their pawns, I also find in my fantasies and enjoyment of fiction that I take great pleasure in seeing myself as the pawn. In being the game to be dominated and bought to heel by a worthy mind.

Not sending a tiredness induced invite to any would be nazi stalkers by the way. You are not worthy so don’t bother. Not even actual eldritch Adam Godwinson would be worthy.

This is purely fantasy and fiction related.

For me the enjoyment of the Doctor, Avon, Hannibal, Tyrion or Francis Urquhart comes from this idea that I have a competency bias and humans are stupid.

Donald Trump boasted about committing sexual assault while representing a political party that was justifying the persecution of trans people with spurious fear mongering over the possibility of sexual assault. Then the fucker got elected president and we are all looking wistfully at a neoliberal warhawk because at least she was competent at being a neoliberal warhawk.

See at this point I am so jaded and so cynical and so aware that I can do so little that the idea of a manipulative bastard is deeply arousing. It’s competency porn. I mean fuck it the world is so fucking awful why wouldn’t you stick around someone that competent even if they were going to kill and eat you eventually. Hannibal Lecter the hot date is fascism personified. Sure he’s going to kill you but at least the trains will run on time while you’re getting there.

I mean I’m kind of torn on Hannibal because on the one hand he does kill and eat people just because they’re kind of a dick but on the other hand almost every other chessplayer has caused much more collateral damage in the aid of their nobler causes and obviously in a multiverse I can handwave that as safe sane and consensual under the right circumstances because healing factors exist. I mean Jack Harkness and Mads Mikkelson’s Hannibal anyone?

Although obviously for me it’s far more the Tyrions, the Doctors and the Avons of the world that have the appeal. They combine sadism, immorality and manipulativeness with the objective utilitarian greater good. Doesn’t hurt that they usually surround themselves with beautiful young women either.

I’m English so I celebrate status quo. Great men come and great men go. Empires rise and empires fall. Arthur and Merlin fall at Camlann, Robin Hood looses his final arrow, even the Doctor regenerates and James Bond gets recast. It’s why Hamilton struck such a chord with me I think. It is an American story of American Revolution and compromise but it follows a very British structure of rise and fall. Particularly in light of who the current President is. So the great manipulators should one day die.

The Doctor gets away with their death and rebirth every few years but on the whole most of the chessplayers do die. Urquhart meets his end. Avon finally catalyses his tension with Blake. Sherlock has the Reichenbach Fall then retiring to keep bees. The only manipulative bastard who has so far gotten away with it entirely is Hannibal Lecter and I think that’s only because Hannibal is the horror monster so his victory is a downer ending and everybody has been so physically repulsed by the ending that they daren’t see any more, even though it will inevitably entail unpicking that “happy ending” a bit. Heck even I, with a character who was once many moons ago, explicitly based on me, keep killing the Farsh-nuke off and bringing him back.

The manipulative bastard is the fantasy of competence, of the one smart guy who knows exactly how you think and feel, who wants you and will turn his immeasurable talents to your end because you matter so much to him. It is the fantasy of escape combined with the fantastical freeing from the consequences of escape. The idea that you had no choice to accept this incredibly good looking and charismatic stranger with impeccable taste and amazing abilities, he’s just that good so it’s not your fault. At the same time the illusion of control because you are so important.

Also from a creative standpoint such a team up allows for great stories because you have someone to do the smart explaining and perform the heroic violence or illegality while having someone else to connect emotionally to people and get in danger.

Also, I love it when a plan comes together, it’s like watching dominoes fall.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Lost Culture

Forgiveness

Forgiveness

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


Hubris. It’s an odd word and one I confess I’ve never really understood. One of those big words that sounds cool to say and I sort of think I know from context but it could be latin for ‘he caught his dick in his zipper’ for all I really know. But I think that’s what did me over.

I had already broken. I had already failed. I had already lost so much but instead of stopping. Instead of grieving. Instead of confronting and coming to terms with what I saw in the mirror that so upset me, I ploughed on and I ploughed deep. I was so certain that I could champion people I knew nothing about, so certain that I could make money when I gave no fucks.

I did this. I did this and I hate it. I broke my own rules. I lashed out and I hurt people. Even in ignorance I hurt people. Alex Jahans does not hurt people. Alex Jahans is a pacifist in the face of unending violence. Alex Jahans is moral. Alexander Gordon Jahans failed at this most basic tenet to do no harm. Alexander Gordon Jahans was a beast born of necessity, a survivor whose sworn duty is to stagger ever onwards and do whatever it takes to facilitate this.

Well I’m not dead but I betrayed the core of who I am and I must make peace with that. I can’t survive if I still hate myself for what I did. Oh what a melodramatic narcissistic fool. Even the nazis probably have more evil plaguing them than the terrifying demon that has so haunted me. I wrote a thing and I upset people. Truly, this is a calamity worthy of months, years, spent tearing seven kinds of hell out of myself over. How pathetic. I was bad and I upset people. Truly, I am a martyr.

I must accept this. I must accept the demons within myself. I shall try not to make the same mistake again, I shall try to be a better man but I cannot run from this anymore. I cannot keep apologising for this as though it makes it better. I’m not a nice man, I’m not a good man, I must accept that and make peace with it.

I’ve been hiding from the world, retreating from even my closest friends because I do not trust myself not to be an insulting failure again. I have been blurting out my remonstrations in this public forum because even when I crave the oxygen of awareness and recognition, even when I see the value in sharing I fear the danger of intimacy and closeness, the responsibility of having people who matter to me and that I matter to.

I killed the Farsh-nuke off, condemned them all to eternal war then had the Great Farsh-nuke sent to hell while the one remaining Farsh-nuke suffered staggering defeat, torture and much much worse. Such hatred. Such disgusting malice. It was born of a condemnation that the Farsh-nuke was assumed to be me, that he was thought to have done this terrible thing that I had not intended but was none the less interpreted. How much has that character suffered because I fucked up and could not deal with it?

But I’ve been writing again. I’ve been playing games again. I’ve been pulling myself together, the mind that was broken is being reforged anew and now I am writing a story that might let the Farsh-nuke be forged a new. I am a white man who likes manipulative bastards and can’t stop writing submissive women for the life of me. That is not the Farsh-nuke’s fault and I think I know now that it will only stop with my death and I do not plan on dying any time soon.

I don’t know who or what the new me will be. I don’t know what that me will be like but I do know now that the time is coming. Alexander Gordon Jahans, the promise and this particular incarnation of the personality that resides within the flesh and blood of this person, it will no longer be needed and will be discarded. I may well continue writing under this name but the promise won’t be needed and the personality will change.

I have survived and I did a fucking good job of it all things considered but mere survival is not going to be enough. The house will be sold and I will need to start a new life elsewhere. The walks I know will change, the places I go, the things I do, even this sacred room that has kept me so safe. All shall pass and things I know will be but memories, relics of a man I used to be.

I am older now, more jaded, cynical, I am trained in the ways of politics, a weary anti-feminism has become bitterly self aware understanding of my own ignorance and privilege and the very real need for change to stop my demographic fucking over everyone. At the same time I have come to terms with the fact that there is darkness within me that shines like a fucking beacon in dark times.

I have faith in human stupidity and greed, I see that my lust is something that will keep me warm and happy no matter how cold alone and swallowed by the dark I am. Even my fears serve me now. There is a prat in the real world called Adam who sounded so annoying I wanted to punch him in the face but as I became the Great Farsh-nuke through fiction so that pathetic and mostly harmless prat has become the much more formidable and entertaining alpha god Adam Godwinson, a troll worthy of going seven shades to Sunday with me in my mind. A troll worthy of giving voice to those callous doubts and so letting me counter. I have come along way from the scared little boy who called the bluff of his nightmares by swimming willingly into the mouths of the beasts who stalked his nightmares.

So yes, I am sorry and I grant forgiveness. I am better and I shall be better.

Oh and and if the real prat is reading this. I am not the Great Farsh-nuke and you are not Adam Godwinson. You do not matter to me. He does.

Sunday, 17 September 2017

Better

Better

A Bloggage
By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


So my brain broke, well not my brain but my facade of normality, and things were shit, they really were, I clung to podcasts like a lifeline and my mind was unable to focus on ideas, to write. I’m not in that place anymore. I could pull explanations out of my arse but I really think it’s just that I never really allowed myself to acknowledge what had happened and to grieve.

I lost a lot and I do have to rebuild and rebuilding means my mind. Except I was so close to the edge and so scared about going over it that I clung to what I knew fiercely. I mean this is why I refused to take anti-depressants. When your sanity is so finely balanced on the edge of functionality why risk upsetting the balance. Only it’s like a computer going through an update, there’s only so much you can do while the operating system is booted.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not fucking cured. I’m not dumbo, the answer was not inside me all along, dada!!! I’m still in pain, I’m still tired, I’m still at the mercy of bugs, viruses and the chaos gods in charge of when I sleep and wake. I’m still a moron and there are still nazis and people who hate me. I still might die from a lack of any other option if I can’t find a job and the DWP gets sick of me. I mean I know I am still so far from even realistically trying to get a job.

Except I’m happy. I’ve had two or three days of genuine happiness and when I close my eyes and I’m without distractions I’m okay. I’m flawed, I’m problematic, things are not great but I’m okay. I no longer fear the parts of me that are not great. I’m writing again, I’m walking again, I’m watching letsplays again, I’m cutting back on snacks again. The hunger is gone. Heck I’m drinking much less diet coke. And I have a plan.

I am not just a mad man clinging to hope to delay dying. I am an ill man with a plan of how to get better and clear steps along that. My mind has been through a lot and it needs to heal but I’m confident I have a chance now. I don’t know what or who I’ll be once I’m done but that’s okay. It’s okay.

I am going to finish the Golden Girl and then I’m going to finish Come Again. Other than that, until the house is sold, Fuck knows, but I trust I’ll find a way.

Or maybe this is just a good day and this will pass like wind but fiuck it I’m choosing optimism.

Gordon's Alive