An exercise in acting...
...which didn't lapse once...
Good heavens, these guys (and gals) were good. I mean really good. Is there a reason why bands like Delta 5 didn't make it big? Was it to preserve their genius? Was it to keep their special gift special? Was it because everyone in the world is a cunt?
Or is it because we men absolutely fucking hate any suggestion of female infidelity (which is not in fact suggested by this track, quite the opposite, but which *is* hinted by the music)? Yeah, damn straight it is. Girls like these were the object of crap songs, not the makers of piercing, modernistic love stories.
Fuck knows, but you know, I'd take Delta 5 over any mass production fucker any day - Elton John (hair transplanted) - fuck right off. Those girls were good. Really, fucking good.
Can you imagine Girls Aloud reinterpreting this? Fuck me, it would be all about how sex wasn't *quite* as good as the singer had hoped. About how his cock wasn't quite as hard as it should have been, and how he refused to fuck her in the back room (her "tutu" not quite to his liking, one imagines).
...one knows nothing, one knows the truth...
and someone *always* knows the truth
Human relationships obtain, despite the media saturation of genital contact, the actual relationships still exist, they are still real. Despite the non-contact of cock and cunt, humans still relate. Love still exists, humans co-exist, they seek each other, in the dark and they don't seek cock, cunt or arse. They seek each other. They seek truth - namely, the other. The other is -1, the self is 1. Together they are 0. It doesn't matter, and it is the supreme human calculation. Together we make 0. We make nothing. We slide into non-existence together.
That's the point.
...four days together....
....it gives another backdrop....
We have spent a decade building backdrops to relationships: glamorous, clean, shaven, plastic, unreal decor of a square room; light, always light, lots of light.
We are the backdrop to our own lives.
Our lives and pornography have merged, in a not-very-felicitous-concert: no difference between the two now: the achievement of sexuality is all we cling to. The achievement of body - ours or the other's - and of touch, the most brutal touch (devoid of time) - even people born at the time of Cuba are stoking their bodies with plastic and oil to make someone else want to possess them and nothing else.
In this late-capitalist world, possession is nine tenths of the law; debt the other tenth.
Grown ups really think that others will love them, for wanting their body for a moment. They really believe that slaking desire will give them life. They really think that in forty years, someone will be there, still addicted to their body, still giving everything for that word, fuck. Fuck, it will be the conversation of the dying in thirty years' time, the last word on our lips - but he wanted to fuck me, I wanted to fuck her, we wanted to fuck. We fucked. And still, while we lie, cadaverous, our bodies eating themselves, still we will say it, and still it will give us that thrill.
No end of fucking. Not now. Not ever.
End of love. Always, under the duvet, always, end of love is there. In the cry, in the thought. It is the stolen object that induces panic in the dream; it is the fence underneath the snow; it is the person who stares at you, inexpressive, silent.
No end of fucking.
Ever.
Showing posts with label drummer gone mad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drummer gone mad. Show all posts
Friday, 6 February 2009
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
This Is my N - Leafed Clover
mathematics...tears before bedtime...vivid dreams in bright primary colours...laughing with my pupils in a conspiracy of friendliness devoid of power relations...reading about the past...having my poetry analysed and criticised..listening to Doctor Who music...examinations...not reading the newspapers...walking a riverbank and watching the evening sky in between the branches...arm in arm with a friend...cutting the booze...new car...reading the most beautiful poetry ever written by ten year olds...ignoring the criteria...growing up together with language...getting lost in Reading...loathing and despising that ghastly mixture of nineteenth century gothic and late twentieth century neo-classical pastiche...talking a book with a stranger...learning from someone whose name you'll never know...solving a problem after giving up on it...being passed over for promotion...being left alone, right alone...finding you are the same as someone else...realising humanity is difference, not similarity...casting off the shackles of ideology...hacking away the people who think your private world is their domain...watching a film of demons and seeing them out of the corner of your eye.
Sunday, 24 August 2008
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
I Do Not Think Most People Would Share the View That There is Mounting Chaos
In fact, I like Jim Callaghan so much, I've even changed my name - to Jim Callaghan!
I've not done this lark before so bear with me if it goes wrong. Also beware that future name changes might take in the other forgotten PMs, Harold Macmillan and Harold Wilson, and possibly even our old mate Baillie Vass.
I've not done this lark before so bear with me if it goes wrong. Also beware that future name changes might take in the other forgotten PMs, Harold Macmillan and Harold Wilson, and possibly even our old mate Baillie Vass.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Carving Chunks Out of Your Psyche
I've just realised it.
Why I've always been afraid of doors which open by themselves, blank televisions, corners, darkness and corridors.
1978.
I could hear a drilling, a powerful electric noise, I ran towards it, pushing the door, or was the door already open, towards the television, a long way away, which was closed, and the noise carried on, I screamed and screamed and no-one picked me up or did they and the noise carried on.
It was "Brill the drill", our next door neighbour in Sutton drilling the hell out of the wall.
Or maybe I am wrong and it is not a memory but a projection, and the door is not opened by me but by someone else, and the corner is powerful and another tv-type screen is blank and someone screams but it's not me but I am there, sort of. The television is very, very important. But it is off. The door opens, by its own accord, or by someone, and there it is, there's the picture.
It's not a memory but a warning, or a prediction.
And people wonder why I find the US version of "The Ring" the most frightening film ever.
Someone drilled a hole into my head without ever knowing me.
And the picture?
I don't want to put you off your tea.
Why I've always been afraid of doors which open by themselves, blank televisions, corners, darkness and corridors.
1978.
I could hear a drilling, a powerful electric noise, I ran towards it, pushing the door, or was the door already open, towards the television, a long way away, which was closed, and the noise carried on, I screamed and screamed and no-one picked me up or did they and the noise carried on.
It was "Brill the drill", our next door neighbour in Sutton drilling the hell out of the wall.
Or maybe I am wrong and it is not a memory but a projection, and the door is not opened by me but by someone else, and the corner is powerful and another tv-type screen is blank and someone screams but it's not me but I am there, sort of. The television is very, very important. But it is off. The door opens, by its own accord, or by someone, and there it is, there's the picture.
It's not a memory but a warning, or a prediction.
And people wonder why I find the US version of "The Ring" the most frightening film ever.
Someone drilled a hole into my head without ever knowing me.
And the picture?
I don't want to put you off your tea.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Bollocks
Damnit I can't think of anything to put. Fuck. My amazing creative genius has deserted me leaving no reason to blog other than sheer, honest to God narcissism. Well here we go then.....
er...
Fuck me I'm tired. I had some weird dreams last night about alien invasions and nuclear wars, and they've fair knackered my poor old brain, whatever is left of it.
er...
Fuck me I'm tired. I had some weird dreams last night about alien invasions and nuclear wars, and they've fair knackered my poor old brain, whatever is left of it.
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Ever Fallen in Love with Someone You Shouldn't Have?
No. Nor have I, obviously. Ca va sans dire.
Actually it used to happen distressingly frequently, back in the mists of time; I eventually figured out (when I fell in love properly, and could distinguish the difference) that it was a kind of coping mechanism: faced with situations or problems I was not keen to dwell on my brain seemed to trip a switch and start obsessing about someone, always wonderful and always inaccessible, instead of focusing on the issues at hand and dealing with them. So I learned that my pysche is essentially cowardly, sneaky, and romantic. I mean was. What a ghastly mixture. At 23 I worked out that this facility for love was also a brilliant way of achieving regression hypnosis: I could live as a 13 year old again (I mean 13 year olds of my shy disposition and slightly more restrained generation): not eating, not sleeping, not concentrating on anything except her. Incidentally as a genuine 13 year old when I did this many of my classmates took this her to be Mrs Thatcher, but this was not the case (my dad, on the other hand...). I always chose the most horrendously inappropriate people for the objects of desire, which continued into my twenties, although then it was the same person for a couple of years. But they would be all, for however long it took...for whatever was really bothering me to die down or be properly repressed. Only once did I confess my neurotic-love to its object, and the stakes were not high so it didn't matter: later on the stakes were infinitely high and I derived even more delicious, self-flagellating lovesickness from them.
Now that I come to write this stuff down it makes me think more of the idea of inaccessible women, and their pivotal roles in art and literature (Beatrice?)...but it's probably best not to dwell on that for too long, if at all. It also makes me think more about that awful, slimy creature, myself, but not for too long.
I don't write any of this thinking it's unique or unusual, btw. Just because it came to me in a dream, one of those odd ones that leave you slightly out of kilter for the whole day.
And I had been reading about fairy circles, alternate dimensions and psychoactive drugs that evening.
Actually it used to happen distressingly frequently, back in the mists of time; I eventually figured out (when I fell in love properly, and could distinguish the difference) that it was a kind of coping mechanism: faced with situations or problems I was not keen to dwell on my brain seemed to trip a switch and start obsessing about someone, always wonderful and always inaccessible, instead of focusing on the issues at hand and dealing with them. So I learned that my pysche is essentially cowardly, sneaky, and romantic. I mean was. What a ghastly mixture. At 23 I worked out that this facility for love was also a brilliant way of achieving regression hypnosis: I could live as a 13 year old again (I mean 13 year olds of my shy disposition and slightly more restrained generation): not eating, not sleeping, not concentrating on anything except her. Incidentally as a genuine 13 year old when I did this many of my classmates took this her to be Mrs Thatcher, but this was not the case (my dad, on the other hand...). I always chose the most horrendously inappropriate people for the objects of desire, which continued into my twenties, although then it was the same person for a couple of years. But they would be all, for however long it took...for whatever was really bothering me to die down or be properly repressed. Only once did I confess my neurotic-love to its object, and the stakes were not high so it didn't matter: later on the stakes were infinitely high and I derived even more delicious, self-flagellating lovesickness from them.
Now that I come to write this stuff down it makes me think more of the idea of inaccessible women, and their pivotal roles in art and literature (Beatrice?)...but it's probably best not to dwell on that for too long, if at all. It also makes me think more about that awful, slimy creature, myself, but not for too long.
I don't write any of this thinking it's unique or unusual, btw. Just because it came to me in a dream, one of those odd ones that leave you slightly out of kilter for the whole day.
And I had been reading about fairy circles, alternate dimensions and psychoactive drugs that evening.
Friday, 23 March 2007
I Don't Play My Red Guitar**
Firstly, if I did have a guitar, I'd play a blue one, or at least an anarcho-capitalist one, which I would have to consensually lay my -non-tax-payer-funded hands on - as I cannot bear the concept of bossing anyone around for anything. I may be a teacher, but one whose discipline skills are, appropriately enough, lax to poor. Secondly, as my parents were piss-poor as bourgeoisie (though my dad, being self employed, was always somewhat on the edge of the labour movement, if not totally in the ocean*), I cannot, I am sorry to say, play any instrument at all - a red guitar being among the least likely of those that I might have ever picked up and plucked.
As if that tale of post-consensus woe weren't enough, the whole concept of a guitar, red or otherwise, being the "devil in the flesh", is ridiculous. I am a Catholic, as my regular reader wil no, and this means that the flesh is evil. Indeed, I can now-a-days see the Church's point. Why do we love sex and hate toilet habits so much? It seems to me outrageous that men can have a massive shit and a smelly fart and laugh about it, but this is denied to women, who continue to believe that these utterly pleasurable and prehistorically natural functions are in some way "bad" or "shameful". It is surely a mark of the repression of our post-modern society that farts and big smelly shits are regarded in a pejorative way when, in a far more profound way than sex, they _keep us alive_. Yes, they don't make us, but then who thinks that has owt to do with sex anymore? Evacuating our bowels (to wherever) keeps us alive. And nowt compares with staying alive (if compost mentis of course). Why, in the twenty-first century, do I never hear of women "having the turtle's head", or being "desperate to park my fudge" or needing to "lay a cable"? Given that the pleasure they'll get out of this is second only to the pleasure of eating when absolutely gasping for grub, I think we should be told.
Next, in this catalogue of dire physical need and mental degeneration, comes the fact that despite being an anarcho-fuckwit, I cannot bear the idea of working for life. Yes, I'm lazy. Whatever. The truth is, that the beliefs I hold about human society rest entirely on the idea of work - and of that being the sum of human existence, in - partly - that it leaves exhaust trails of us when we die for the pathetic generations to follow. And yet. And..zzzzz...I cannot bear work. I would love to go on strike a la the guys out of Atlas Shrugged, except that they are damned _good_ at what they do and I am not. If I went on strike I'd die. If I do work I live in a cloud of filth.
Finally - "why do I fail just when I'm needed" - sex. "Crushed By Ingsoc" who is, like Matt, younger AND more intelligent than me (Jesus!), likes it and seems to do it a lot. Fair enough. I don't. Partly through the fall of days. Don't get me wrong here, but don't get me right either. It isn't my life nor would I want it to be. If I were a real, true rebel - I wouldn't do it at all. I would stick two pissed off fingers up to the whole damn race back to soil and whisper to no-one "fuck off".
The problem is....I'm in love....have been for years...with someone wonderful...and it's...nice...
-- This has been brought to you by Stella Artois and Walkers Crisps. Again. --
*= indeed, practically a fascist, or so he was told between 1972 and 1985 for *heh* wanting to work when he wanted to. So he couldn't work because there was no leccy - who gives a shit?
**= I Play My Red Guitar
I think this link gives you the video of Red Guitar but if it doesn't don't blame me. You can, however, ask me what the photon I'm talking about.
UPDATE A COUPLE OF MINUTES AFTER POSTING: sigh. Yes I know I'm a teacher. Ergo all of my money is taxpayer extorted. Hey ho.
As if that tale of post-consensus woe weren't enough, the whole concept of a guitar, red or otherwise, being the "devil in the flesh", is ridiculous. I am a Catholic, as my regular reader wil no, and this means that the flesh is evil. Indeed, I can now-a-days see the Church's point. Why do we love sex and hate toilet habits so much? It seems to me outrageous that men can have a massive shit and a smelly fart and laugh about it, but this is denied to women, who continue to believe that these utterly pleasurable and prehistorically natural functions are in some way "bad" or "shameful". It is surely a mark of the repression of our post-modern society that farts and big smelly shits are regarded in a pejorative way when, in a far more profound way than sex, they _keep us alive_. Yes, they don't make us, but then who thinks that has owt to do with sex anymore? Evacuating our bowels (to wherever) keeps us alive. And nowt compares with staying alive (if compost mentis of course). Why, in the twenty-first century, do I never hear of women "having the turtle's head", or being "desperate to park my fudge" or needing to "lay a cable"? Given that the pleasure they'll get out of this is second only to the pleasure of eating when absolutely gasping for grub, I think we should be told.
Next, in this catalogue of dire physical need and mental degeneration, comes the fact that despite being an anarcho-fuckwit, I cannot bear the idea of working for life. Yes, I'm lazy. Whatever. The truth is, that the beliefs I hold about human society rest entirely on the idea of work - and of that being the sum of human existence, in - partly - that it leaves exhaust trails of us when we die for the pathetic generations to follow. And yet. And..zzzzz...I cannot bear work. I would love to go on strike a la the guys out of Atlas Shrugged, except that they are damned _good_ at what they do and I am not. If I went on strike I'd die. If I do work I live in a cloud of filth.
Finally - "why do I fail just when I'm needed" - sex. "Crushed By Ingsoc" who is, like Matt, younger AND more intelligent than me (Jesus!), likes it and seems to do it a lot. Fair enough. I don't. Partly through the fall of days. Don't get me wrong here, but don't get me right either. It isn't my life nor would I want it to be. If I were a real, true rebel - I wouldn't do it at all. I would stick two pissed off fingers up to the whole damn race back to soil and whisper to no-one "fuck off".
The problem is....I'm in love....have been for years...with someone wonderful...and it's...nice...
-- This has been brought to you by Stella Artois and Walkers Crisps. Again. --
*= indeed, practically a fascist, or so he was told between 1972 and 1985 for *heh* wanting to work when he wanted to. So he couldn't work because there was no leccy - who gives a shit?
**= I Play My Red Guitar
I think this link gives you the video of Red Guitar but if it doesn't don't blame me. You can, however, ask me what the photon I'm talking about.
UPDATE A COUPLE OF MINUTES AFTER POSTING: sigh. Yes I know I'm a teacher. Ergo all of my money is taxpayer extorted. Hey ho.
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