Love in a Void

Love in, love in, love in a void, a void in love....

Sometimes you just have to accept that you need to shut up, sit down, and let the people who can actually write crystallize the sensations you so desperately want to articulate.

In the above case, Siousxie and the Banshees. Again.

Crimespeak: A Times Editorial

TD wishes strongwise for ingsocvic, doubleplussoon. He fears crimethink. Comrades, all newthinkers fear crimethink, certainwise. Crimethink is strongful and painful. TD bellyfeels ingsoc but ownlife is doubleplusdifficult stopwise, when crimestop and blackwhite fail. Comrades, we must, speedwise, identify crimethink. It powerwise attacks thinkcentres and bellyfeeling. A goodful sign is facecrime. Comrades, facecrime plus often happens on BB-sight in telescreen pics. BB-sight causes think crime in plusmany persons. Even, comrades, to the unbellyfeeling of ingsoc. Persons, crimethinkers, oldthinkers, Eurasian spies, crimespeak at BB-sight. Not even crimethink, quickwise as that must unexist. Comrades, what is crimespeak? Crimespeak is ungood speaks about BB and Inparty mans and womans. Also Inparty womans AirstripOneoutful. Crimespeak kills Inparty hearts and uncompletes revolution. Unrevolutionwise, childs live hungrywise. Persons are unfree. Crimespeak is ungood words about BB, crimespeak words which make BB painfeel. BB painfeels when crimethinkers address BB insult-wise. Insult-wise speaking reveals crimethinking and capitalist tendencies from the Dale-Staines-Mail-Telegraphite centre. This centre viciouswise owns all speaks. This centre unfeels duckspeaking. This centre wants BB execute fullwise and speedwise. Comrades this certainful is, if Dale-Staines-Mail-Telegraphite centre is unsmashed!! Forward comrades, with TD: execute destroywise capitalist centre and make childs unhungry in revolution!!!


Comrades: Fullminded be of the dayexecutes. Victory Square, 1900. Richard Littlejohn dropful, Polly Toynbee gunhanded beside poles. Bigscreenful, loopwise.



Editorial writed by Magnus Linklater.


with thanks to Inner Party Observer.

Poor Nyssa

Oh well at least she had some nice music.

Good Question

Is there a proper answer?

For The Love of Big Brother

I worship power: oh yes I do, I love powerful beings, in their strength and their decision-making genius, and their rights, oh when I see them exercising their rights it makes me quiver; how they turn and move and destroy. Destruction is the greatest act of power, after the ability to make another suffer. To make another suffer must be as great a display of power as any, but to destroy one - fabulous. Unmake me, unwind me, untie me, let my threads fly into the corners and leave me to settle into the floors. Spill my mind from end to end of the world. Anything can create; very few have the ability to destroy. It takes a certain kind of tidy mind.

Oh the love of power is the end-point of a type of narcissism, the obliteration of self and the dedication to a thing you can absorb yourself in, regardless of who you are (indeed the idea is to subsume one into the other so that it becomes virtually invisible).

Without power there'd be no light; no hospitals, no schools. Someone needs power: power needs someone.

Not me. I just receive it and I look on in awe.

Coool.

Hey, not only am I a part time member of the real world, and a substitute on the bench of technology, I also have an Ipod. How cool is this.

I have synched (how 80s is this word) all my tracks. Guess what I'm listening to?

Here's a clue. The track begins with "C" and ends with "hange."


Fucking magic.

You've Just Joined the Human Race

Not through mere existence: this is a ridiculous way of determining humanity. After all so many manners of subclasses exist and are disposable.

Which reminds me. I haven't put the bins out. Bugger.


Oh well.

No, I mean having a thoroughly shitty day at work, thereby reinforcing your status as a piss-poor cog in a broken wheel, your utter irrelevance, your wholly needless work which could and should be done by someone else: and then your relaxing into the not entirely fanstastical but certainly phantasmagorical world of alcohol. Oh truest of the true joys, oh maker of purpose, oh braver of cowardly feelings. Oh you salve my fear by making it real, oh you fantasise for me and bring it all through like a vomit of anxiety (with bits of fear-carrot).

Life without booze? Fuck me.

Or rather - there's the problem. Some bloggers write about the troubles of having sex, others are 13 again. *

Oi. Lawrence. Fuck off. Just because you don't have sex, it doesn't mean you're not a man. You're a fuckwit and your books are shite so just fuck right off back into the arseaching syllabus you came from. Where the fuck are my Sillitoe, Orwell, Amis (Sr & Jr), Larkin, Hughes (yes alright), Plath; where the fucking hell are my Greene books, my copy of Unman Wittering & Zigo; my Eliot; my VHS of Threads, my blog. Where is my blog? My Blog!!!


*Are yuz caalin me a fuckin vorgin?**

**Erm, for the avoidance of doubt, this post refers to my lack of sex in the modern age, not throughout time.***

***Not that that should be a problem to any discerning readers.****

****Not that I'm worried or anything.

I Don't Want To Stay Here On My Own

It might be nice sometimes, but other times it is dark, cold and there is noone to love; it bleeds concern and sucks adoration through a straw. This time is an illusion which entices you into living; at other times you know, for certain, that life means nothing but a progress towards soil, even a race. You know that your greatest end is as part of a beautiful tree, even though you know that this is environmentally unfriendly. But if you let yourself stay, and rot, you will be such a tiny part of so many lovely plants: your brain might even be part of the trunk of a giant oak, surveying the degredation year by year. How magnificent - for one's body and self to become part of a more permanent England than even New Labour had in mind when they set about fucking it up as the home of racists and fuckwits, the worst of all places - where they came from.

I like the idea that I'll become a leaf and that I'll blow underneath a car, the car of a twat teenager spouting all the fuckwittery of his own day, as I always wished I could do of mine but never believed any of it. How we claim the satisfaction of desire as the end of ethics, how we sweep, always sweep, we love to sweep.

What an awful instrument, the brush. It simply hides, in the soft summer breezes, in the winter we hide from, in the end of days. When we end, when the clouds rise up on all sides from the tumult on the horizon, and the heat, and the oak leaves dissipate into nowhere, then we will love winter and all its hatreds, until we feel it stronger than before, and darker, darker.

Our best and brightest are the most determined that we hide in the blazes of desire and strength. That we destroy what we think is weak. It has to go.

Fever breathe your love on me.

I am happy to be a tenth rate mind, at least I think there might have been something to live for apart from strength and sexuality. I can accept being an idiot if it means thinking there might have at one time been more to life than I can see now.

Tenth rate music and tenth rate alcohol will do for my inspirations. And this is why I carry on. For the best is the most brutal and I really, really do not want to know.

The Movement of History

I make no excuses for projecting my own thoughts onto the world in this post. I have little else to go on, for am I no real historian nor thinker.

We live in a constantly changing world, or so we are told, and it becomes part of our day to day survival to cope with that change: we need to change our ways of living, speaking and thinking to ensure we are not separated from the community, although the community itself is increasingly vague to us. We know some people, sure, but few of us could honestly say we share the views and assumptions of the people in either our real, physical locality or our internet habitat: however much we leave approving comments on blogs we like there will always be the divergence of views caused by thought, independence and history.

For such a changing world the movement of time seems to be remarkably solid. I mean that very quickly the past, or other ways of living, begin to seem unlikely, even impossible; from tiny things like the changing coin to the vast sand-shifting of ethics. Our experience, though varied, seems to be immersed. It did not take long of governance by New Labour for a Tory government to seem almost unthinkable, and for the long years of Tory dominance of politics to seem less than a memory. In many places, with silent pits, the memories would be strong: I mean culturally, even philosophically: in the years 1999-2004 (roughly) I think, the assumptions, arguments, practicalities of Conservative government were so alien to the commentariat and swathes of the public (including, to be fair, myself) as to be meaningless, irrelevant, unexisting.

I don't know if this is making sense but the point I am making is that I think the changing world, in certain ways, makes us unable to remember. It keeps us mired in the present, and thinking of the future (at the moment), with particular regard to global warming, in a kind of fearful fascination. I would have thought we would remember more sharply things being different because it wasn't that long ago: but this is partly what is driving us to worship youth: it is not just beauty, or sexuality, or ability, but the fact that it is, at any given moment, youth which is best attuned to the state of the world at that point, best able to cope, completely unconcerned by trying to adapt. Youth fits, it works. The rest of us find it harder because we are (to greater or lesser degrees) different from the world we live in.

So the study of modern history assumes a keener aspect, and becomes more popular because it is history, it is the story of real or nearly real people in a world we can see has changed. Other types of history (say, medieval) are about other worlds, and so don't interest us so much. Modern history is about our world. The nazification of the school history syllabus and of the bookshelves is a testament to the fact that we are still trying to understand our cultural origins in that time. We see our society as evolving from that, rather than before - take the notion and enacting of human rights, though it may have its origins in the Enlightenment or French Revolution, the key document of our time is the UN Declaration of Human Rights. I think there is also a powerful part of our culture that still cannot understand how it all happened and why it all happened.

I've written on this idea before of course - that the twentieth century is not quite over, and that, possibly, we are suffering some kind of extended anxiety problems caused by 45 years of living under 4 minutes' notice of destruction (ok it was a bit longer than that until the early sixties). But that isn't entirely what i mean here. I mean a culture (though it is so mixed now as to make even the singular noun questionable) which has come into existence only five minutes ago, furnished with a history that it does not remember, but it does remember being at one point in time and at that nexus emerging into something resembling life. From there it has turned, shifted, slid, slanted and cracked so that we just do not, really, remember what it was like.

I don't mind if you think this is a lot of contradictory, muddled cobblers. It is a kind of live-thinking exercise, no pre thought has gone into this post at all except a vague sense that i'd like to put finger to keyboard. If you like it, great. If you don't, also great.

The Girls They Love to See You Shoot

Sometimes...if it is the right time; if it is too soon, they don't. Obviously. Easier said than, er, well, you know what I, er...

I wonder if the great Gang of Four realised this application when they penned the title lyric of this post. It seems to ironize the entire song, the entire surface meaning of an otherwise easily comprehendable track. What's the point?


I wonder why I am hinting at my sexual failings over the internet. It is that truly odd mixture, that bizarre conflation of the intimate and the professional that one gets with the internet generally and email and blogging generally. Why do we find this space which is at once private and at once so utterly, tantalisingly, public? It is the day by day equivalent of the party you used to go to where you'd occasionally find someone who didn't even know your name, or who couldn't even see you, but was still interested in you, and the feeling, if it was that, was mutual.


Oh, well, it is the way it is. My arms ache, my tummy aches, all the bits of my body with no muscles ache, I am weak and stupid and in pain.

Exercise kills.

Kids - just say no to the gym!! Have a pie instead!