Upon the tip of one finger this boy could balance anything. Anything he had the strength to lift, he could then set that object at the point of a finger, find its centre of gravity and hold the thing steady.

He discovered this ability when he was a very young child. He astonished and petrified his mother whenever she found him, with carving knives and scissors and such that could harm him particularly as they would all be touched at their sharpest point upon his delicate finger tips. Never once did he come to any harm. Like other boys he would scuff his knees and take bangs on the head. Falling from trees was a favourite calamity, but for his strange gift was there never a moment when it caused ill to himself or anyone else.

Though he wanted to finish school and go to college and do the normal things an intelligent boy might do, his balancing abilities attracted the attention of people far and wide. He became something of a local celebrity and would accept payment for attending fairs and fetes where he would accept all challenges, using either arm, and soon he found he keep keep objects aloft with his feet and his chin. Even his tongue could hold up the most abstract of items.

Pots and pans, frail glass ornaments, innumerable chairs and buckets of water would be passed up to him whereupon he would place and hold them up upon the extremities of his hands and feet, often 2 or 3 at a time, to the gasps of all onlookers. As he grew the articles offered became heavy, and he became strong. He could balance great weights upon any finger and his shoulders were set with the bearing of a farrier.

One summer's afternoon during the county fair, a little girl stood at the foot of plinth watching with glee and spinning this way and that as she watched the young man take up hammers and scythes, crates and wheels, all of which took their precarious place to be turned a slow circle to the delight of the crowd. After watching for some time she seemed deep in thought, then bent to the ground and picked up a tiny pebble. At the front of the low stage she stood and held out her hand. The boy who could balance smiled gently and took the small stone. With much show of concentration he placed it gently upon his nose and then raised his hands away to the approval of all, but after a second it fell off.

He picked up the stone with a frown and placed it again. And again it fell and this time was lost between the gaps in the wooden dais.

"By my word young lady." said the young man "You are the first to provide me with a thing I cannot balance, what else would you offer that I may prove my skills."

The crowd became quiet and waited awhile as the child looked about her for a suitable challenge.

All of a sudden she smiled and looked up. "You can balance me." she said with a mischievous grin.

"You?" said the young man. "But that may be dangerous should I fail you again. Are you not scared I might drop you like your pebble and lose you between the gaps in the stage?"

"But I am bigger than a pebble." said the girl. "I am longer and wider and I can balance on my own. Surely you should not fail me again?"

This brought great laughter from all who heard and in good cheer the girl was lifted up onto the stage. They boy who could balance went down on one knee and she stood daintily upon one of his hands and held onto his shoulders so he could lift her. He held her ankle with his other hand until she herself was able to stand unaided, then he removed it and placed it beneath his own forearm whence he held out his hand with the child upon it, and taking a delicate poise she smiled all around. Great gasps of wonder escaped one all.

After a minute the young girl looked down for she was a little bemused as to what to do now. The young man look up and into her eyes. "What next?" she asked quietly, and with a slight smile. The young man paused, held her higher again and as he did so he whispered one word.

"Dance".

How to attest your purest heart,
With gentle eyes that so gladly rest upon my own.
Who's sweetest smile stays upon my mind,
And helps me through each day.
Who's careful caress and lightest touch,
Bears ardor and enchantment.
A voice, a melody,
On a breath of clement breeze,
Speaks softly, chaste and sage.

Though fate may part me from these things,
Your soul and mine remain,
Entwined and whole though from afar,
They will unite again.
Consider this, and guard it well,
Never be afraid.
For my rapture is your company,
Forever will it remain.

Oxus and Moros,
Cleft from Lodestone,
Hewn into beauty,
Cast in far fields,
A tangible allure,
One is beckoned to fragment,
To divide to the finite,
One to remain weightless,
Yet ready to scatter,
For a wanting moment.
Remain full my old friend,
Tho we are divided,
Unable to split,
Yet never to meet.

To one unremarkable little patch of grass came an unrelenting cavalcade of concord and peace. Old women from the fields would draw near from afar, crooning lullabies and weaving wild blossoms to lay around its reach, and young girls would dance about it whilst their mothers piled up sweetmeats from their skirts. Chided children would risk a toe and stern fathers tasked them but smiled within as they watched in fading rays how the colours of the plot would turn before nightfall. Each would leave strident to return some time and again be stirred, impelled and regaled.

No-one could really explain why this small turf was so revered. Many assumed it to be sacred, although it was never mentioned in oldest of books. Some espoused the idea that a great building had been founded there in ancient times, though no relics of its foundations were ever apparent. Some quietly believed that beneath the surface lay the remains of a great king or champion. None could ever be proven though, as to score its surface seemed so unthinkable.

When rain came and the little nook was warmed, it would put forth its own meagre blooms, the dew from which was meticulously plucked upon pin heads and silk threads. Siphoned into crystal vials, each drop would be given as a gift to one betrothed and well loved.

After dusk beasts would draw about, unabashed at people's tokens and miring a fecund pall upon the ground. Their own innocent idolatry unread by the folk who in the morning would clatter and chase them away to then cleanse with cold hands, their breath smoke white as had been the watchful creatures, now wandering, rested.

A child visited this place one night, with no mischief in her heart, but took an apple in her pocket. The dark scared her more than the animals. Their gentle lowing countered a ominous drone in the night breeze that she could hear as she ate. When she bit into the core, the seeds were were exposed and she could not but forego the temptation. She held her breath and pushed a seed into the soft earth.

The next spring the fresh shoot of a sapling appeared. Its pale green stem picked out against the darker fronds of the grasses. Those that came and witnessed its growth wondered at its source. Perhaps dropped by a bird and pressed in by a hoof, or buried for many years to awaken now as though prescient to its cherished locale.

It thrived in the open sunlight and in some short years grew to become a strong trunk whose branches put forward fine fruit. Collected though it was in baskets and skirts, the yield would be pecked over by birds and soon the land about it was dotted with its kin until such a time as it became the arbor of its offspring. The orchard a source of sweet fruit, but none so much as their matriarch whose lowest boughs were festooned even in winter, as young girls would approach and tie ribbons along them. Each touched for luck with the tears of their suitors.

This journey was never made by the innocent accomplice who had first forged this path. Taking no lover she only confided in her brothers at her peaceful end and asked to be buried under the oldest of trees. But no-one believed her thinking her confession to be in truth no more than an avowment on her lifelong chastity. Instead they interred her on a hill overlooking the orchard.

Not long after she passed the fruit began to sour and the oldest of the trees became barren. The rains held off and the winters became gruelling. As the beast were slain and hunger filled the bellies of men so came a conflict that set father against son, brother upon brother. The orchard bore weak flowers and the fruit that was borne was good for naught but the birds. In time the wood was hewn for fires, though the first was left standing. Now war was all about, for each man that perished the women would tie a black ribbon to its old cracked cadaver until it swung about as a grim beacon in the bitterest of winds.

At the end there remained none but the strongest and youngest of folk. Those who survived grew old and many spoke nothing of the war to those born long after. The rains returned and fresh herds were reared. The tree full of ribbons was a sore reminder of the sufferance of what came before and a child who might ask was hushed by the sighs of those who knew well.

Years later, a storm came in summer and lightning touched the old tree. The old wood roared into flame so that dried ribbons turned to dust and were cast to the winds that blew warm once again. The old folks were relieved at this final demise and elected one young man to go and dig out the stump.

He happened to be one of the few whose father had spoken to him of the war and his mother had told him how the tree had once been. So when he went he took with him a handful of seeds from the most beautiful wildflowers. He dug out the roots and replaced the soil. Once done he scattered the seeds all around the small patch of land.

That night a soft rain dampened the ground. The herd passed over it and the next day the sun bore down unclouded until sank under the horizon. Each day the man returned and was delighted to see the fruits of his labour spring forth. As the young man became old he would return and take heart at this sweet scented glade, so when he left them his children there laid him to rest, unmarked and at peace.

Through the years, this glade became a meadow, and many others would come. They would gambol and laugh and fall about amongst the flowers, until they came upon one patch that was peculiarly bare, growing silent and thoughtful and mindful of all about them. And sometimes, from the hill overlooking the meadow, the breeze would come down and move through the long grasses. Anyone who saw them would swear they were dancing.

Weak hands raised open,
Buried deep in empty pockets,
Conquer subjugation with guile.
The odds will never be even.
The imperative is liberty,
That so many short years ago was a blessing.
Full of colour and candied with affection,
Now engorged but lucid and ready for more.
Scowling synthesis.
Sovereign impiety in a changling's rags.
Skittering sloth whose majestic sweep confides proud ambition.

A vigorous carousel spun from its hub,
Prancing horses once bolted,
Wide-eyed and undone,
Lay still upon the surface of fathomless rainbow pools.
Chipped teeth champing, painted, panting.
Weak hands can reign in these mounts.
Impeccable dressage whirling again,
Oblivious and obviated from previous reason.
Placed gently back upon its spur,
An organ grinds out old melodies once more,
But breathed fresh on airs of discovery.

Quarreling ardent yet,
Whispering neophytes in awkward gyrations,
Replete with sweet shrieking abandon,
Mock mimic then stare.
Clamouring of new abdicates relents and removes,
Venerated path trodden hard,
Baleful restraint stokes supple reprisal,
Vent well, snort, slap and grizzle.
Adorned virtue well hidden,
From pious unchaste eyes.

Whenever I see someone smile they split into two, a positive and a negative, both angel and imp. They become transluscent and blurred, and merge back into one only when the reason is revelead. It took a long time to find an explanation for this but now I know what it is. As long as the smile is not mirrored and matched it hangs like an accusation, an affirmation that all humour must have a victim. Even the avant garde is barbed and pricks the throat of its subject who is so often its only witness.

Appeasement and affrontary hold hands in a smile, and in a laugh they kiss, and their embrace begets the loosing of the leashes of mistrust. We are ecouraged to smile and laugh, our babbling ancestry smothering us with kisses of their own, turning us this way and that. Rocking us back and forth and bouncing us up and down.

"Give me your smiles child", says the mother to the babe. Fifty years on and those words flit unheard again about the niches of her room as the son turns back her covers.

The good old honest grin has become an object of suspicion, it's dubious ends outshining the mirth that sired it. Swirling leaves turn into tornadoes as quickly as an ill placed smile instills the hysteria of infants. So what of those lovers, vanity and grace? Must every step on a busy street be taken with caution? Eyes cast to the gutter lest any unchaste stranger obliges us with an artful grimace.

Not having been too inspired recently it took someone trying to murder me to give me adequate incentive to string some words together. As a result of being shoved down about 20 steps, with the intent of my demise or at least serious injury I am now concussed and quite seriously injured. One good thing however, is the dream that the pain killers induced whilst recuperating in the first few hours after the event...

I have been considering moving apartment for a while so at least part of the following reverie has some logical explanation, however, the rest is just just mystifying.

I walk up the stone steps of a old apartment block into a raised 1st floor foyer with apartment doors numbered off to the left and right, all walls and floors and doors are painted white. My new apartment is on the right on a corner and when I walk in it's also white everywhere, but kind of shabby, peeling wallpaper and a carpet that has a light grey on white motif. A disembodied voice like from a public tannoy says that I can decorate anyway I like. I enter a time step scenario, where after several seconds I see first the carpet change, then all the kitchen tops and such. Then I suddenly have some modern minimalist furniture. I feel the need to go to the bathroom, and find that this is attached to the building in such a manner that looking out of the window there is a about a 400 feet drop and that the extension is simply suspended over this. I don't get to see the bedroom. Ther are no real details to the place, it's just very modern.

Next thing I want to put some pictures up, but that's not allowed says the disembodied voice. I can however replace all the walls with one way mirror glass so I can see out but no-one can see in. This happens instantly. Pleased with the result I decide to check that it really is mirrored glass and walk out of the apartment to find that the foyer has now changed to have yellow walls and a royal blue carpet. The walls of my apartment are indeed mirrored, and I actually see myself. But when I look the reflected foyer is all white as before. For some reason this doesn't bother me and I decide to go out to get some milk.

The steps are the same but they lead down onto the Ould Markt in Leuven, were there are loads of bars, and it's a really sunny day. I get milk from the usual place and come back. When I get back I notice that there is a corridor leading off the left, kind of around a slight corner. Around the corner of my apartment to the right however, there is a fire exit double door that is open. I go towards it and suddenly get this incredible feeling of foreboding, it looks really dark and dangerous. So instead I go down the lit corridor.

As I walk down this the floor tilts from left down to right more and more and there is a rail over which there's a view of dozens of moving escalators, with neon lights and huge hanging fronds of jungle ivy. At the end of the corridor is a sliding glass door and brilliant sunshine coming through it.

I walk through the door and the floor level evens out and now I can step down on to some grass. I recognize the place, which is on the river front in York in Yorkshire, England. It is Regatta day and there are people walking round with straw boaters having different coloured ribbons around them, all drinking champagne and acting very upper class. Someone asks me if I am rowing but I say "No, I'm going to the airport". I walk along the river bank to a footbridge that definitley does not exist in reality. It has zig-zag steel bars forming the uprights of the hand rail, with golden orbs at each point, the bridge arches are green painted steel with red piping and the boardwalk is sanded white pine. I walk over it and the other side there shops, and loads of people walking around laughing.

Between the shops there is a big glass door about 20 feet wide 30 feet high which I walk through, and see a sign hung from the ceiling saying "Failté". As I walk I see a sign on the wall for Kuwait Airlines and as I go further I think I am in Dublin airport. I approach a check-in desk and ask if I can book a flight to London. I am politely told that there are no flights to London, so I walk back out of the building, back over the bridge and over to the step up the glass door into my apartment block.

Now however, instead of a small step, there is a moving pathway, like you get in airports, hundreds of meters long and moving very quickly. Getting on it is strange and whilst on it the air stings my eyes. As I get to the door, it slows down and I step off gracefully and enter the building. I notice that it now has air conditioning, and the neon jungle escalators on the left have sound effects, like macaws screeching and monkeys hooting. The floor is now level in the corridor. I look over the edge of the rail and there is a crystal clear blue lagoon below with a girl drinking a cocktail and lounging in a floating live saving ring.

I walk to the top of the corridor and back into the foyer, where now I see that the fire escape is lit up. I walk past my apartment noting my reflection in my mirrored walls and see that I'm wearing a very expensive linen suit that I have seen in one of the shops I walked past to get to the airport. Going through the fire escape I emerge into an absolutely enormous kind of exhibition place. The place is cavernous and needs to be described. It has a white domed roof suspended about 60 feet up, and is completely round. To my right is a corridor that has very low lighting, about 20 feet square and going on forever. The room is about 6oo feet in diameter, and there is a rail running around a central circle about 400 feet wide and I realize that I'm standing on a wide balcony that looks down into an exhibtion space, again circular. Round to the left is another much wider corridor that I can't see down but I can tell it's there by the lighting. Straight across is yet another corridor, which has kind of parallel rail tracks afixed to the right hand wall. All this is still on the upper balcony.

Suddenly a commissionaire kind of guy appears and says "They'll be tight for time today" and then nods to the left. From the lit corridor to left a fella in blue overalls comes out walking backwards, shouting, "Come on... come one, yup, yer clear..." and making hand signals. An airport luggage tractor appears, like a golf cart. Except it has a huge chain on the back and gradually a blue whale appears being pulled on what appears to be a pallet truck. This astonishing apparition slowly makes its way across the back of the room and down the corridor with the rails on the wall until it disappears round a corner.

Once the whale has gone the commissionaire lights a roll up, but with that all these Native American Indians come from behind us, completely silently, and doing this zombie like march. We run the rail looking down over the exhibition space and they are forming circles and laying down in these mystical patterns. The commissionaire suddenly appears in the middle of them shouting "No! No!!! We've got to get the elephant in first... the ellleeephaaaaanttt!!!!" With that, all the Indians just melt in the shadows underneath the balcony.

Now I see something appear accross the exhibition floor space but don't recognize it. As soon as it disappears under the balcony to my left, the bloke in the boiler suit appears again from the same corridor. But... This time what follows him across the balcony is what I can only describe as an elongated elephant. It has nearly all the normal elephant attributes, it's grey, it has big ears, but it's body is about 40 feet long. Not only that but instead of a normal bendy trunk, it has a rigid trunk and it swings this around bashing it against the walls and up into the domed ceiling. The little fella in overalls has to keep diving out of the way of it.

This also disappears down the tracked corridor. Once it's gone the commissionaire re-appears at my shoulder and says, "Right, time for the grand tour...", we start walking, "... I reckon the Indians are going to have a rough time of it" he says. Completely onblivious to us, the Indians begin to lie on the floor in their mystic patterns again, but now there is elephant crap everywhere and they just lay down with their faces in it. The commissionaire just shakes his head and says "... Poor bastards...".

We go round the corner where the whale and the long elephant appeared from and there is a big spiral staircase down to the bottom main exhibtion space. When we get to the bottom, on a huge plinth in the middle of the sapce, the Indians make a human pyramid and from the top of it a small monkey appears, throwing what appear to be golden orbs of fire at any of the Indians who look even slightly pissed off at having their faces squished in long elephant crap.

Having seen enough I run back up the staircase and across to the corridor with the train tracks on the wall. As I follow the tracks down I come to the corner and realize that the corridor seems like a London tube line but on it's side, and suddenly realize that it might be a bit dangerous. I start running backwards when all the walls start to shake and jam myself against the wall opposite the tracks. As I do so, a gigantic millipede, like about 200 foot long comes charging round the corner, missing me by inches and flows off the tracks onto the balcony, where it bombs around at like 50mph until a klaxon goes off. When that happens it flows over the balcony and disappears . It's head then appears at the top of the big staircase. The bloke in blue overalls appears again, straddles the giant millipede's neck and shouts "Onward!!". At this command the millipede canters around the balcony, then shrinks to fit through the fire exit through which I came.

I run after the thing, back out through the fire exit and find that the foyer is now all white again, and my apartment now has mirrored glass walls that look inwards. So you can see everything going on inside, but they are mirrors when I walk in. Not only that but there are tropical plants everywhere and a miniature waterfall where the kitchen used to be. I go to the bathroom, which I suddenly find has turned into my bedroom, flop on the bed and wake up.

Work that one out if you dare.

When machines become weary they begin to fail. We can lubricate them, service them, take care not to strain them, but in time all engines fail.

Melwin Atlass unhooked his tool belt and stared through the steel mesh on which he knelt; looking again for the doe he had spied gamboling about the pylon's feet. It fascinated him how little benefit the power that he could reach out and touch with his right hand offered the creature below. How lethal it was, growling and churning, setting the insulators rattling on their pins. Should one fail the young deer would be far from gamboling.

Gigavolt cables had been a contentious advancement to the Global Committee for Regluated Assets since the lightning farms had been given the go ahead. Despite vigorous protests from the Water Purity Authority, the massive aluminium pylons had been built all along the 22,000 kilometer flash track. The 3000 Passengers on board the Trade Wind watched as each of the towers' track facing side flashed a mosaic of a million coloured crystalline panels. As the train gathered momentum these blurred to become the Capital Band, an instrument that Melwin would have despised were it not that it paid his wage. It's endless kaleidescopic messages belied the wealth of their targets; trinkets and baubles that had become objects of derision to Cygnus Metellus.

Pressed into his velo-pad seat he mulled over the choices of entertainment. A feelie perhaps? All of the feelies available on the Trade Wind had been vetted by the CMC, the Commission for Moral Constancy, and as he skimmed through the thousands of titles he knew there would be nothing that would take his fancy. A gluttonous desire for the ribald espoused amongst younger ferric brokers meant he had to leave his personal collection of animatography in his chambers.

My family and I once moved from one village to another. I didn't want to. I lay in bed and cried at the prospect of losing contact with my school friends, of the unknown, of the idyll and sanctuary of my home. I had a place to hide, and places to run. Enemies I knew well enough and could avoid and keep abreast of through peaceful adversity.

The new home was quiet, and there was a lot of space to run around in. It took years to really make new friends and little less to make new enemies. Thing is none of these were as strongly defined. I had a perception of similarity in character of all those with whom I had anything to do with in both places, yet they seemed a world apart.

When I came to leave that second home, it was a choice. I was moving to be back with those old friends. I had grown to become adult enough such that I knew of that shared sense of occlusion that all young people feel. I actively sought places suiting my ilk, ran from my kith and and kin. I knew how the former was separate from latter and it heralded a change of ways in me. The axioms of rebellion burned in me and I naively celebrated them.

I began to travel. Continents, countries, oceans. None of it meant anything. To see a scuffle in a bread queue in Moscow was the same homogenous sideshow as watching two bums fight in downtown Los Angeles. Silver jewelry looked the same the world over. Desert was not a place, it was a state of mind.

All of this could lead one way. I saw it coming months before and when I finally succumbed to having no future in the skin I was in I was physically back in the place I had wept about losing in my first ever bed. I was literally standing on the street I had never wanted to leave but had run half way around the world to return to it. So strange that. I was statuesque, languid and serene. Like the gun with a flower in its muzzle.

What becomes of those who dare to bedevil themselves in the eyes of the hoi polloi? Amoral and libertine, depraved and licentious, obscene, provocative and extravagant creatures for whom are reserved the most distracted consideration.

Would that they mass ranks, snarling and swaying, afixed one and all with the broad rictus of unfettered imaginings yet entwined in amnesty. Such a multitude. The ferocious yet alluring hoste amongst whose numbers would rank so many of our exemplars.

Without this legion all art is lost.

From the Bible to the latest block buster, every book I read seems to feature the demise of at least one character. Always there is somewhere a loquacious passage chronicling the expiration of some mediocre specimen who's part in the play has to be cut short for the benefit of a bombastic parable. They may have changed the world for better or for worse, met their end on a storm lashed bow beating back dark waves of a sinister hereafter, but dead.

There are so many ways of conjuring the sentiments of the passing of another. The other day I watched a happy little family walking with ice creams in the middle of December. Wrapped up in a crimson windbreaker and blue wellies their littlest member hop-scotched awkwardly over the cobbles, reeling around every few steps to stare up at an orange balloon that could almost have worn an expression of foreboding.

It pleaded to break her heart, cutting an undulating path and testing its tether, waiting for the blob of green gunk that was precariously balanced half licked off its biscuit to follow the script and commit itself to the earth so that its final vision would be to see its latex lover liberated . Chocolate chip eyes peeped over the precipice and as it went for big air a mittened hand came to the rescue. It was commited. Knowing that now there was no chance that they might meet again the balloon lifted away and the resulting wails engendered the humphing of several onlookers, all at once moved to furrow their brows at its slow ascent.

For most the thought would be for the child, the shared experience of losing something new and well loved. The severance of a naive perception of possession, the memory of one's own fateful pop. Shock, anger and shame.

But what of the balloon? The choc-chip wafer was carried to an unceremonious burial in a nearby bin, its cameo complete, the page turned. The big orange apostate now faced an all together uncertain future. Perhaps to rise so high that the pressures within it would force it to rupture. Its torn and withered carcass cast back to the ground like a spent cocoon, its guts rejoined with their wilder cousins. Maybe forced back down by the Ardennes rain and caught upon thorns, or its string upon rocks with no child to find it and set it free once again. Shrinking and shrivelling and losing its ardour to head for the skies.

Is that why there are so many deaths in books? That emotive abandon offers such promise of majesty. A safe passage to sanctimony.

Books also die. The mores of their once enthusiastic attendants mutated and transformed so far from their initial premises that their resolutions become inadequate. Vilified by progress and mocked in their presumptions they are left unattended. A few to be disturbed from their peaceful slumber as austere witnesses, historical examples, preserved, copied and tagged then finally laid out and left to return to dust, the rest pulped for a new generation.

Those that survive the vexations of time forebear the generations to come and must account for them. Wry ascendants that would throw themselves upon their swords were it not for their dutiful offspring. The eternal cull contained within them is their only banner, a bloody pennant, their final defiance against their creators, destroyers and disciples.

I refuse to accept any proof of the existence of so called rights. The right to life, the right to liberty, the idea that anybody or anything can be said to be in possession of or can be given or receive a right. This applies to all things, abortion, sexuality, mineral and edible resources, human and animal interaction and endeavour. And I'm going to tell you why.

For me there is no god, there is no divine creation or intent in anything of this world and universe and there is no other existence, nor is there life after death, nor hell, purgatory or limbo. All of these things are theoretical and exist only as part of some human beings' beliefs.

I believe that everything is a tool. By this I mean that everything has a use. Everything, be it vegetable, mineral, animal, quantum, temporal, atomic and even purely theoretical, hypothetical and imagined is in some way used. I mean that whatever an X may be, that X is made use of by a Y and that Y may create, consume, change or destroy the X. Whatever the result of that interaction may be, its consequences, the result of that interaction is then again also a useable entity, and is also used in some way.

Of this interactivity, only where a Y creates an X can it be said that there is no issue of supposed rights for X. X does not exist before it is created, thus until it is created it cannot be said to have or be anything. That a Y has a right to create an X is another matter that I will address later. Only where X exists and is liable to be consumed, changed or destroyed can X be said to perhaps be imbued with rights.

Further to this, I say that to have a theory, or an idea or to know of something in it's platonic form, with the intent to create a thing based upon that form is entirely separate from the thing that is created. The imagined entity is not the created entity. The concept of a right to create something cannot be confined to just those things which can be experienced empirically but must also apply to having knowledge of both that which may come to be and that which is created. If a Y cannot know of what it is creating, or if it does not know what an X is before it creates it or does not even have an awareness or knowledge that it is creating an X then the right to do so becomes a detached form, the right merely becomes another X created by another Y. The only time this right can be said to exist is when X creates a Y that affects another X or another Y.

It must be recognised that a such a thing as a right to create is not merely a matter of X and Y, but as the last paragraph suggests can and will involve more entities. In fact, were it not for the existence of other entities then the concept of rights would be entirely inconsequential. Whether they existed or not would be of no bearing on the single thing that does exist as it would be entirely static and without form. It could be stated then that a right can only exist where there are at least 2 entities and were at least one of those entities is aware of and one affected by that right. Were this true then every situation involving 2 separate entities, whatever their affect on one another would have its own exclusive set of rights. None of these rights would then apply in another situation, except in similarity to circumstance.

To move away from the X and Y theorizing, then let us consider a multitude of Xs and Ys. Let us consider human beings. The human form, the idea of the human being. That set of values and shapes by which human beings recognize one another changes both indiscriminately and otherwise. A human being born sightless may well have an entirely different concept of the range of hues of pigmentation that can be perceived in the flesh of all human beings by a sighted human being. That sighted human being may have conflicting ideas about the shape of an entirley separate human with whom he or she would like to have intercourse, conversational or otherwise. Finally that human being that is being considered as a participant in whatever kind of intercourse it may be, may not be capable, willing or even aware of the concept of that intercourse.

Add to this the individual beliefs, assumptions and requirements of each human being and it becomes evident that of all human beings, no single individual can be held in physical form or rationale to be indicative of a normal or average specimen. If this is true then to suggest that a human being has a right to be treated like a normal human being is a nonsense, there is no such thing, thus there is no right, Mr X and Mrs Y do not exist, thus they do not have rights and cannot be compared to those who do exist.

Where human beings compare one another is the root of all interaction. In politics, in beliefs, in love, sex and war, expression of all physical and mental kinds is a counter to another's action. Oppression occurs where one party either forces authority or power upon another, even unknowingly, and the other participant is unwilling to accept that action but cannot prevent it and is no longer at liberty in expression, thought or action. Abuse occurs when one participant consumes, destroys or forces the victim to change. No human being or group of human beings has the right to oppress or abuse. The right to oppress and abuse does not exist.

This would suggest that any action that neither forces authority nor wields power, nor consumes, nor destroys nor changes its subject is a right of all human beings. That would be a human right then. Any course of action that is "universally acceptable". That all humans beings are capable of doing. Like breathing? Like thinking? Like talking and breeding?

But there are human beings who physically cannot do these things. There are those whose breathing is impaired. There are those who have mental and physical illnesses, those who have found it impossible to have children, those who are naturally disinclined to their opposite sex, so are these things human rights? No they are not. It could be said that those people, those who do not enjoy those universally acceptable activities; they have a right to be treated without prejudice for merely substituting their chosen or necessary actions for those they are incapable of or choose against.

Let's examine the nature of prejudice. It surely exists? The commonplace examples of race, sexuality and religion are seemingly profligate throughout the human race, and those that seek to protect the victims of prejudice often talk of human rights. It is a rare thing however, that anyone would talk of rights for those who would oppress or abuse. They are not victims, on the contrary, it is by their actions that others are victimised. To extend this accusation futher it could be said that by the proliferation of their beliefs, so others' actions may also oppress or abuse. The thing is, this argument can be used in any circumstance by one who disagrees with others' ideologies. It is therefore more of a subjective concept, and a concept that must be concurred by a majority of those affected for a contradicting circumstance or ideom to be construed as a right.

If this is so then all that truly can be claimed as a right is in fact a situation wherein a group of people, the body politic for argument's sake, agrees that a given action or belief is contrary to the common good. This alludes to several well known quotes; "The greatest happiness of the greatest number"; "The good of the many outweighs the good of the one"; such Utilitarean dogma is used, amongst many other things, as a tenet of philosophical arguments pertaining to free will. I would portray such prosaicisms as accidental allegories. As metaphors for the true nature of the consummate nature of all things. All things and all beings, used and consumed, created and destroyed, all things are subject to the relentless barbarism of existence. They may however, be shown compassion and care and when they of a conscious nature, they may also share empathy and offer sympathy. It is these things that we seek and celebrate and we have no right to claim them as our own.

It is better to lie knowingly than to beguile in ignorance. So said Socrates, or something like that.

On Saturday, I told someone to go and die. To go and fucking die. In fact the words were "Go and fucking die you idiotic bitch." It felt great. I didn't threaten to kill anyone which is pretty good and I don't think I scared anyone, so all's well that ends well.

Well no... see I also told somebody else to leave me the fuck alone for being a liar. For simply stating as fact that which she wished was fact, that which she would have perceived as making her more alluring, more mysterious or morally superior. That which has it's basis in truth but in fact is a childish exaggeration.

The thing is, I always try an imagine grown adults as the children they must once have been. Which is weird I know. There is a reason why I do this though, it's because 99% of people, myself included, talk crap about half the time. Kids, being innocent of the damage that lies can do and having an imagination unfettered by so called wisdom, talk crap a great deal more. But when they lie to themselves about being some super-hero, it's play, it's learning through the failed fancies of the imagination to become redolent of a truthful maturity. And I told someone who still flies in that world to leave me alone. As though I do not.

I have befriended killers and thieves and spent my own innocence on vice and depravity, I have ingested the venom of so many snakes, in word, vision and sound and yet never sought to destroy any of them. Revelled in my nefarious liberty. Truly, I have walked along a teetering path whereupon it was only the sweet song of frail innocence that prevented me from slipping into a profligate oblivion. And every day I lie, I lead those who have not known me to believe that I am not that wanton traveller.

I hurt two grown children twice in one night. Both times to try and make them realise how stupid and pathetic and hurtful they are and like a petulant child merely spent my ire on ugly words and cheap insults.

I try every day to forgive these grown children their fancies, and I can't even remember that it is for me to enjoy their forgiveness. I cannot even bear to tell my own truth. It is me that beguiles knowingly, forgetful of my true desire. To will those more innocent than I away from that heedless abandon.

It is not better to lie and know that one is lying. It is better to listen to others until the time comes when they tell you the truth.

Depending on what you believe you have a choice on the next line, where angels fear to tread, or I can't help falling in love with you. It should be re-written. The correct line should be where angels can't help falling in love without treading on you.

It is has been said that no-one ever has an original thought. That all things imagined and dreamed are the result of previous experiences, or of those things experienced by others that have been previously imparted. So to conjure up a new creature in ones mind is simply to draw from all the existing knowledge of creatures and cryptids. To orchestrate words, music and colour is a task similar to the remoulding of a tyre, but with a new tread, for a different purpose. Not cut so deep as its predecessor, perhaps not as enduring but better suited to its task.

There are the counter arguments. That no thing conceivable is anything but unique. Whatever their inspiration, reason and recipe; all things are discernable from one another. Such that our ancestral opuses are merely our existing knowledge, that each of us pushes forth as our mainsail. That we each perceive the unknown as differently as we may perceive differently the humdrum lullaby of everyday life.

A wretched scrape against that lilting lament is the silent timorous quiver that alerts us to the unorthodox. Elevator etiquette, no sudden movements. Stay calm, move slowly towards the exits provided. The slow realization that the charming eccentric is foaming at the mouth. The prone destitute is not sleeping. The child does not respond. Then what?

The mainsail hangs languid yet we are anything but becalmed. Each to their instincts, choose your weapons. A firm resolve, hackles rigid but a stoic demeanor. No panic glistening through eyes too wide. A welcome hokum, a brush with torment.

All this you say happened whilst you waited for the bus.

And you don't like that driver, he looks at you kind of strange.

This is just going to be some strange stream of conciousnous kind of thing because for the last couple of days I haven't had anything much to inspire me to go for the blog. I haven't been walking around on auto-pilot mind you. Dug out the guitar, messed about with the website, all the usual stuff whilst constantly reminding myself of the book idea I have, "The Net Girl". Not going into details but I've had this thing planned out for a while now and I've got pretty much the whole plot sketched out and written up as a long essay. It needs all the character development and scene work putting in now, then actually write the thing. Someday.

The thing is I also have to learn how to speak Dutch and French, arrange for my house in England to be decorated, convert my music collection to mp3s, sort out the kitchen for my landlord's jewelry shop opening (don't ask), find out if my contract is going to be extended, sort out my laundry, fix the tap and try to get laid.

There are also a lot of optionals to take into account as well, like going to the gym, eating, drinking beer, reading the mountain of books I bought thinking I would get through them quickly. Until I found out I'd bought what is seemingly the modern day Ulysses, except not as good, at least the opening page isn't. Then of course there is the getting pissed off with whining work colleagues, a seeming lack of a normal social life and having a building site outside my front door for the last 2 months.

Still, I won't moan.

It seems strange to me that whenever I begin to slow down my thoughts that is when the shadows draw in. As though the reality receptors are suddenly switched to overdrive and I'm bombarded by headlines, glitz, glamour and sassy mouthed crap. As a kid we had a neighbour, Horstine who once gave me a book on self hypnosis. It was great. I used to have endless hours of fun completely comatose, naively searching for my subconscious and when I finally found it it looked like something off Star Trek, the old one. The folks loved it too, it kept me quiet.

I'm sure it was as a result of this that I developed a natural resistance to relaxation so that in later life I have to do a hell of lot of it to actually feel any of the purported benefits. As such, it would seem that this is good, but my kind of relaxation means being occupied with stuff that avoids coming into contact with the other stuff that would otherwise piss me off. I'm not going to start reeling them off, because I'm avoiding them.

Sometimes I get up in the morning and when I walk outside I'm immediately struck by this sensation that absolutely everything is just as relevant and important as the next, some litter, an old woman's umbrella, the corner of a moving bus and then it clicks in, that things have to be done. The normailty, the humanity. The actions I must take so that I move forward and take all those people along with me who have joined me on the ride. The corner of the bus flickers across my mental widescreen and I am sitting above it, looking through the rear view mirror to see if anyone is wating to get off. Traveling between the stops and looking for the slightest indication from the strangers on the footpath, that they might step out in front of me, or want to get on board.

Fares please!

Now... Allow your heartbeat to slow and relax...

This morning I decided that I had just about had enough of some people who had become very close to me. I won't mention their names, it doesn't matter. Little miss X I've known now for 9 months and in that time she has had 1 failed relationship with someone else, who got quite seriously beaten up as result of her drunken antics. She flirts and vies for the attention of every bloke who lays eyes on her and she has no idea of how to be in relationship.

Little miss Y is a beautiful person, she has a heart of gold and I hate to criticize her but she gets on my nerves now. She's a bi-sexual, vegetarion social worker. Not that there is anything wrong with that of course but you get the picture. What is annoying is that whereas little miss X flirts around all the men who will give her the slightest bit of attention, little miss Y falls deeply in love with them and has a tendency to burst into tears if anyone gets pissed off with her. This is compounded by the fact that she says wierd stuff about herself and her family, who from what I can tell, are in fact perfectly normal and actually really nice people. Oh, and every time you say something she disagrees with she slaps you, hard. Which is quite funny at first but when you just mention that you really enjoyed the roast beef at a good restaurant in town and you get clattered across the shoulder, it's fucking annoying.

Mister Z is an American fellow who I don't really have anything against. He's homosexual but doesn't make a big deal about it. He's a bright bloke, gets on with people and is well liked. For me though he is just a supplicate to the 2 little ladies. His sexuality frees him from the crap that all their straight friends have to put up with and he is just a soft landing for when everyone else gets just a little bit sick to frigging death of the pair of them.

On Saturday we all went to the movies to see Borat, afterwards I could tell that little miss Y didn't enjoy it, because I would imagine it so offended every minority and moral standpoint that she cares to support, so she sulked all night afterwards. Mister Z had been laughing his hat off all the way through but then just cowtowed to her sulking and they both went home early. Little miss X and I sat in a bar just taking it easy, she said she wanted an early night. I walk her to her car and on the way we wander past another local haunt. Her friend is there so we go in, and lo and behold, so is her ex-boyfriend/failed lover/victim with his new woman. I do the decent thing and make like a nice boy.

Next thing is this other woman stands up, nothing to do with anyone else and I notice that she's pretty cute. I introduced myself and start chatting to her. Little miss X gets wind of this and gives the girl the cold shoulder, all mono-syllabic and childish. Bear in mind that I have never slept with little miss X, or been romantically involved with her. Any way the cute girl has to leave and I don't get much of a chance to ask her for her number, but I reckon I'll see her again. Little miss X and I sit talking for another half an hour, and by this time she's had a few glasses of wine. Once again she is making sure that every bloke she can possibly lure in is lured in. Finally she says we're leaving. Having got coats on and said goodbyes, shaken hands and kissed cheeks with every one of her friends, I am then left to stand there like a fucking idiot whilst she giggles in the arms of another good friend, then shares some little secrecy with a girlfriend. I say I'm leaving and she gives me a kiss and says she's giving her friend a lift home.

I know it's a bit pedantic, but this childish crap has been going on for 9 months now. I'm fucking sick of it. Time to find some new friends I think.

Now I've got the name explanation out of the way I suppose it's time to start this blog properly. Well, for a start I'll give you the lowdown on where I live. I currently rent a really cool apartment in Leuven, Belgium, which is an old monastry town that has grown to become a city with the largest university in the country. I'm working for a large company who are based here and have been here for nearly a year now.

Of all the things that Belgians do well then it's beer and chocolate that deservedly earn them their laurels. You can even get chocolate beer which is of course, revolting. In fact there are many foodstuffs that the non-Belgian may have to face which can be anything from nauseating to actually quite frightening for the uninitiated. Choose your favourites from the following...

French fries and mayonnaise
Herring and mustard sandwich
Cubed salami and/or cheese with English mustard
Big pan of steamed mussels
Horse meat

All of these I have had and I have to say the only one I had to spit out and throw at someone was the herring and mustard sarnie. That was repulsive.

Apart from the occasional extreme right demonstration, Leuven is a really nice place to live. It's safe, there are about 300 bars within the ring road, there are public events all the time and it's a fairly cheap lifestyle. Except for clothes, rent and tax, all of which are ridiculous.

The only real pain in the arse is the student community. It seems that no-one in Belgium actually drinks so much that they are all over the place like bear crap in a honey factory unless they hold a student card. Once that little card is in someone's pocket it's like wearing a nicotine patch in bed. You spend each night in a dream state and wake up with a cold sweat wondering what the hell happened to the last 12 hours. Not only that but the little gits suddenly become fond of traditional Belgian songs. These, I can assure you, are sodding awful to the non-Belgian ear, and hearing them at 3:30am can be fatal. I am seriously thinking of getting a catapult.

First they ask, "What?".
Then they ask, "Why?".

I have become so used to this that it's become like the first line of a joke, I say check out my website, www.undergroundballoonservice.com and it just flows naturally from there.

As a result of this, I thought I'd use my first ever blog to explain the background of my site name, so I can just tell people to look at the site and they will find out. So here we go...

A good friend of mine, Michelle [Hi Michelle], had an elderly uncle Peter who had been confined to a wheelchair for many years and who wanted to learn how to use the new-fangled Internet. As someone who others often consider to be knowledgeable on the subject, I was called in.

Peter was a great old guy, and whilst I messed with his PC he told me about being in the Home Guard during WWII. He and his brave comrades were stationed on the south coast, where they were given charge of numerous barrage balloons, winching these up and down as necessary whenever a bombing raid was expected.

Although this was of course a vital role of the Guard, Peter and his colleagues took some respite from active duty by huddling into the small hut provided for storage of balloon related paraphernalia, there to drink liquor, play cards and generally avoid their wives.

To provide more entertainment on the long cold evenings, one of this merry crew brought along a Crystal radio set, which was hastily set up to listen to the World Service and particularly the Friday night dance shows but being down on the south coast, the radio reception wasn't so good. To solve this some bright spark purloined a roll of copper wire (from a mine detonator no less), the end of which was attached to the rope on the nearest balloon winch. As a result the boys ended up with possibly the highest radio antenna in the world and could receive broadcasts from the majority of the western hemisphere. Top stuff. They called it the Balloon Service.

So, back to 1999 and me fixing up a 56kb modem and Internet connection. Peter was very curious and he asked me how all this Internet stuff works. I took a deep breath and explained slowly that the telephone network used copper wires between the exchanges and all the end user phone sockets, and that instead of sending differentiated electrical signals that make sound waves, they could be used to just send tiny bits of information formed of ones and zeros that are arranged like binary numbers. Peter nodded.

"A bit like Morse Code then?" he asked.

"A bit like that yes." I replied. "Only with this, the code is then turned into hexadecimal which can then be used to form text or pictures or sound, or just more code that would tell the computer to do something."

"Ahhh." said Peter. "And all this through those underground telephone cables?"

"That's right." said I.

"So it's the Underground Balloon Service then."

Thanks Peter.