Friday, 8 February 2008
We Have To Shout Above The Din Of Our Rice Krispies
Mornings are an arse. The best morning I can think of is Mornington Crescent. Mornings are even worse when, emerging from an amazing dream (see posts passim on the subject of sub-Freudian lucid dreams), one is immediately faced with the appalling prospect of work. I hate nothing more than the individual who defines themselves by their work. Whose purpose in life consists entirely of proving to others that they are more than capable of bossing them around in the service either of some ghastly abstract ideal which inevitably involves treating individuals like shit; or, of subsuming everything they have into some project or construction: with the results that when one deals with the actual, living offshoots of a "life's work" they are fucked up, selfish, weird personalities. I understand that people need a purpose to survive; and also that people have vocations of one kind or another; but that one should die with "I wish I'd spend more time in the office" on one's lips is a betrayal of all that humanity can do, of all that a human being could achieve if they looked outside their fucking paperclips for five short, lonely, life-changing minutes.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Learning a New Vocabulary
The vocabulary of being single has always fascinated me: from a distance of course. I have always enjoyed watching people flirt, snog and pair off (I'm _not_ saying that i am obsessed with porn, by the way) - but I have never had a clue how to do it myself. Now I find myself again at the point at which I need to understand this grammar, this linguistics - but haven't a clue.
For example.
Today on a course I meet a very nice woman, who wears no jewellery. In my pisspoor vocab banks I assume this means something. Accordingly I flirt with her, laugh and enjoy her company: she seems to like me, and asks about other stuff about me. Later our eyes meet across the crowded room, three times (c. star struck lovers of various kinds) - and afterwards, her first two words?
"My" and, appallingly, shockingly, "boyfriend."
Fucking hell. I see no way I could have predicted this, unless I was reading the grammar entirely mistakenly; unless I was giving wholly wrong values for x. So what was the problem? Was the equation quadratic, instead of linear? Did I screw up the manipulation of negative numbers?
What had she been saying, and how? Had she, indeed, been saying anything at all?
I vaguely remember all this from the 24 years before - and now I find myself exactly where I was then. What are people saying and what does it mean when they touch you, or doesn't mean, or would mean if you wanted it to mean, or might mean if you were also thinking that it meant, or could mean if you made it mean that?
I am told, by certain of my friends, that "men" apparently do, regularly, seduce "women" (I am told that there are various other permutations but I have no idea about these at all): how do they do it? What do they have to be to do it?
If we took x as being "a man, of variously unattractive appearance" and y as being "a woman, of uncertain, even irrelevant appearance" then how do we make x=y?
As I see it, it works something like this:
(x+k)(x+m)=y
where k=appropriate conversation
and m=appropriate twinkles in eyes.
But if I reckon it correctly, this gives
x2 + kx + xm + km = y
which is fair enough, except that I simply cannot provide km. And as for x2, that is just bloody awful.
If you suggested that the equation needed a further variable, ie p, where p="looks"*, then it might look something like this:
p(x+k)(x+m) =y
which I simply cannot provide at all, I am afraid. Ie - the equation holds true for x=0 and only x=0.
*=and where "looks" are defined as: not being a slob, not being bald, not being short, not being a bit boss-eyed, not having sloping shoulders and not walking funny.
I started this pile of old horseshit by talking about grammar and ended with equations. This reflects my utter disenchantment with the eternally ambivalent world of the humanities, and my wish that I was good at something real, something either true or not true, ie maths.
Fuck me I need a drink. But it's late and I've got work tomorrow. Damn. Piss and wind. Bollocks.
For example.
Today on a course I meet a very nice woman, who wears no jewellery. In my pisspoor vocab banks I assume this means something. Accordingly I flirt with her, laugh and enjoy her company: she seems to like me, and asks about other stuff about me. Later our eyes meet across the crowded room, three times (c. star struck lovers of various kinds) - and afterwards, her first two words?
"My" and, appallingly, shockingly, "boyfriend."
Fucking hell. I see no way I could have predicted this, unless I was reading the grammar entirely mistakenly; unless I was giving wholly wrong values for x. So what was the problem? Was the equation quadratic, instead of linear? Did I screw up the manipulation of negative numbers?
What had she been saying, and how? Had she, indeed, been saying anything at all?
I vaguely remember all this from the 24 years before - and now I find myself exactly where I was then. What are people saying and what does it mean when they touch you, or doesn't mean, or would mean if you wanted it to mean, or might mean if you were also thinking that it meant, or could mean if you made it mean that?
I am told, by certain of my friends, that "men" apparently do, regularly, seduce "women" (I am told that there are various other permutations but I have no idea about these at all): how do they do it? What do they have to be to do it?
If we took x as being "a man, of variously unattractive appearance" and y as being "a woman, of uncertain, even irrelevant appearance" then how do we make x=y?
As I see it, it works something like this:
(x+k)(x+m)=y
where k=appropriate conversation
and m=appropriate twinkles in eyes.
But if I reckon it correctly, this gives
x2 + kx + xm + km = y
which is fair enough, except that I simply cannot provide km. And as for x2, that is just bloody awful.
If you suggested that the equation needed a further variable, ie p, where p="looks"*, then it might look something like this:
p(x+k)(x+m) =y
which I simply cannot provide at all, I am afraid. Ie - the equation holds true for x=0 and only x=0.
*=and where "looks" are defined as: not being a slob, not being bald, not being short, not being a bit boss-eyed, not having sloping shoulders and not walking funny.
I started this pile of old horseshit by talking about grammar and ended with equations. This reflects my utter disenchantment with the eternally ambivalent world of the humanities, and my wish that I was good at something real, something either true or not true, ie maths.
Fuck me I need a drink. But it's late and I've got work tomorrow. Damn. Piss and wind. Bollocks.
A Close Shave
Ow. For fuck's sake that hurts, fuck me I have a face looking like a key stage two exam paper. jeesus.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Erk.
God the end of that last post was mawkish, selfish, sentimental and awful, but rather than edit it out of existence I'll leave as evidence of my hamfisted attempts to write something sincere. Of course we're glad of Sir Bobby's survival. For fuck's sake what a shitheaded thing to write. What I mean is - oh, forget it. You know what I mean but I can't write it.
A Beauty Scored by Bobby Charlton
Alas your humble drummer is, as predicted, _working_. This ghastly state of affairs, nearly as awful as sobriety, means that I am unable to post with the vigour and intelligence my readers have not come to expect.
So, today, given our nearness to the Munich disaster, and football's sudden discovery of history (a close companion to cricket fans), a quotation from the great man, courtesy of the Daily Getsworse:
Even now, 50 years later, it reaches down and touches me every day. Sometimes I feel it quite lightly, a mere brush stroke across an otherwise happy mood. Sometimes it engulfs me with terrible regret and sadness - and guilt that I walked away and achieved so much. Everything I have been able to achieve since that day has been accompanied by a simple question - why me?
We've heard, read, about this phenomenon, but to hear it from one of our footballing greats (our only surviving one, maybe?) is stalling and frightening. Like Harry Patch, 109, who lived for 80 years without talking about the Western Front (until his family were dying and there was no longer any reason to bury the memories),Sir Bobby has kept a lot of this to himself until very recently. Could it be - just possibly - that you _need_ to suppress, if not repress, awful memories in order to survive, because they will come and bite you on the arse anyway, so why would you want to give them free rein on your rotund and peachy buttocks?
Er..where was I...well, anyway, you get the point. As I've said before, and as Will Self wrote in _Grey Area_, the talking cure may well in fact be the talking curse.
And if you want TD to open up about his problems you can fuck right off.
Tsk. Typical of me to turn a post about Sir Bobby Charlton into a post about myself. I need to talk less and think more, since the two are mutually exclusive. My talk is a series of lies, designed for an audience, a script and a load of bullshit.
And as for my blogging....
Sir Bobby, we have no idea how you feel, and to pretend otherwise is impertinent, arrogant and ghastly. Nonetheless. We are glad for your survival. More, probably, than you will ever know.
So, today, given our nearness to the Munich disaster, and football's sudden discovery of history (a close companion to cricket fans), a quotation from the great man, courtesy of the Daily Getsworse:
Even now, 50 years later, it reaches down and touches me every day. Sometimes I feel it quite lightly, a mere brush stroke across an otherwise happy mood. Sometimes it engulfs me with terrible regret and sadness - and guilt that I walked away and achieved so much. Everything I have been able to achieve since that day has been accompanied by a simple question - why me?
We've heard, read, about this phenomenon, but to hear it from one of our footballing greats (our only surviving one, maybe?) is stalling and frightening. Like Harry Patch, 109, who lived for 80 years without talking about the Western Front (until his family were dying and there was no longer any reason to bury the memories),Sir Bobby has kept a lot of this to himself until very recently. Could it be - just possibly - that you _need_ to suppress, if not repress, awful memories in order to survive, because they will come and bite you on the arse anyway, so why would you want to give them free rein on your rotund and peachy buttocks?
Er..where was I...well, anyway, you get the point. As I've said before, and as Will Self wrote in _Grey Area_, the talking cure may well in fact be the talking curse.
And if you want TD to open up about his problems you can fuck right off.
Tsk. Typical of me to turn a post about Sir Bobby Charlton into a post about myself. I need to talk less and think more, since the two are mutually exclusive. My talk is a series of lies, designed for an audience, a script and a load of bullshit.
And as for my blogging....
Sir Bobby, we have no idea how you feel, and to pretend otherwise is impertinent, arrogant and ghastly. Nonetheless. We are glad for your survival. More, probably, than you will ever know.
Friday, 11 January 2008
Get In x2
I make a point of only writing about my personal life in the most guarded, drunken, metaphorical ways (see previous post, although I wasn't drunk as it was posted at 10am or something and even I have only had four or five Stellas by then), unless it concerns Doctor Who but today I am going to bust those rules. This is why:
1) I am being taught in a European University - namely, my poetry is being studied by a student in Vienna, who has been assigned some of my work to look at. Considering that I am not worth one of Ted Hughes's bollocks, this is soooo cool.
2) The final viewing figure for the Doctor Who Xmas special goes as follows:
13.31million.
I'll just repeat that, in case you missed it:
13.31million.
This means that in my local cemetery there is a moss covered stone with "Doctor Who: 1989" inscribed at the top, and a load of "3.1m, 3.6m, 3.9m, 4.0m" figures carved underneath. This stone has now fallen below the surface and is no longer readable.
The Voyage of the Damned is the 8th most watched Who EVER, beaten by one Hartnell and six T Baker episodes.
13.31million. Wow.
The second most viewed programme of any kind (and that includes all the pornography) of 2007.
Top Banana.
1) I am being taught in a European University - namely, my poetry is being studied by a student in Vienna, who has been assigned some of my work to look at. Considering that I am not worth one of Ted Hughes's bollocks, this is soooo cool.
2) The final viewing figure for the Doctor Who Xmas special goes as follows:
13.31million.
I'll just repeat that, in case you missed it:
13.31million.
This means that in my local cemetery there is a moss covered stone with "Doctor Who: 1989" inscribed at the top, and a load of "3.1m, 3.6m, 3.9m, 4.0m" figures carved underneath. This stone has now fallen below the surface and is no longer readable.
The Voyage of the Damned is the 8th most watched Who EVER, beaten by one Hartnell and six T Baker episodes.
13.31million. Wow.
The second most viewed programme of any kind (and that includes all the pornography) of 2007.
Top Banana.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
New Labour, New Year, New TD
Owing to my failure to be consistently re-elected over a substantial period of time, it is clear that I have become out of touch with my electorate; accordingly I have decided to embark on a sustained series of reforms and modernising initiatives. The resolutions I set myself at New Year itself should be regarded more in the line of aspirations than targets; as we know, reality is dynamic and an individual needs to be just as fluid in dealing with changes to it. In my case this has meant a radical re-appraisal of outdated methods of living and a dramatic readjustment to modern challenges. Indeed, I have decided to grasp these challenges with both hands in a positive and forward looking manner.
There is a meaning to this (ie content, you know, when words do refer to real world events or objects), but I'm darned if I'm going to explain it. Writing in jargon, despite my Resolution, does give me a tingle of authority and professionalism, two things I normally run a mile from. Yes I'm being ironic, but there's a grain of truth in that the opaque language of modern life, drenched with the sentiment of positivity and control, does give me a sense of worth - for a few nanoseconds. Judging by the amount of government garbage I read in my job, I can't be the only one. By contrast, the bluntness and lack of ambiguity inherent in swearing makes it difficult to do except when there are no visible consequences. Imagine the chaos if the government sent a circular to schools saying "Just teach them to fucking read, for fuck's sake."
I mean, someone would have to do it. After spluttering in outrage for a bit, of course.
There is a meaning to this (ie content, you know, when words do refer to real world events or objects), but I'm darned if I'm going to explain it. Writing in jargon, despite my Resolution, does give me a tingle of authority and professionalism, two things I normally run a mile from. Yes I'm being ironic, but there's a grain of truth in that the opaque language of modern life, drenched with the sentiment of positivity and control, does give me a sense of worth - for a few nanoseconds. Judging by the amount of government garbage I read in my job, I can't be the only one. By contrast, the bluntness and lack of ambiguity inherent in swearing makes it difficult to do except when there are no visible consequences. Imagine the chaos if the government sent a circular to schools saying "Just teach them to fucking read, for fuck's sake."
I mean, someone would have to do it. After spluttering in outrage for a bit, of course.
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Warning
Just in case anyone is interested, the current flood of posts is to dry up, owing to the resumption of work soonish. I will try to post a bit more often than before,but I can't guarantee that I can be bothered.
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
I Was Pissed
Well so much for the resolution to drink more in accordance with government targets. An outbreak of outrageous, and indeed, inappropriate rebelliousness (in felicitous concert with the onset of early middle age) conjoined with an episode of good physical health (for the first time in ages) met to produce a substantial amount of drinking tonight. Or rather, "this afternoon". You see, my type of sub-middle class rebellion (more properly entitled "contrarianism" - as it is de facto the case that lefty stereotypes are true)is against government targets and the core principles of govt agencies. Yes I know it seems ridiculous to the point of being literally fantastic, but there we are. That's my life. I don't have masses of unprotected sex, unfortunately, which means I miss out on unlimited government support, and the moral support of people who think adults cannot be expected to look after themselves sexually, but I am: overweight, a drinker, not an atheist (wow, this should have those who refuse to capitalise God and who write letters to the Torygraph from the National Secular Society in a state of apoplexy: "Sir, In these pluraristic times, it is unacceptable that a non-atheist should occupy any post in civil society..."etc etc), a lover of poetry. All these things put me outside the realm of acceptability; I am well aware of this. Alas I am not a smoker, now-a-days. In the old days, I'm thinking around 1999 here, one would drink ale, eat crisps and smoke cigars, and discuss non-atheist topics (fairies, elves, dimensional transference, God, Christ and so on) until late at night or whenever the lock-in ended. All people do these days is drink orange juice, mutter about what a good idea the smoking ban was, and how much they're in favour of equality, and how awful it is that in this day and age not everyone is an atheist. Jesus this is the age of the grey person in a power-suit going on and on about following guidelines and how anyone who doesn't agree with one is bigoted/xenophobic/homophobic/racist/full of any other kind of hate. I mean, what other reason could there be? Why don't they all fuck off and become diversity outreach co-ordinators; we pay enough tax to fund endless of these non-jobs. Even fucking poetry is stuffed full of all this crap, little grey verse telling us how evil bigotry is and how much they've suffered from not everyone telling them they're wonderful all the fucking days of their stupid little lives. Oddly enough, a lot of it appears in magazines with "Funded by the Arts Council" stamped obscenely on the inside cover. It goes a little bit like this:
I came to England in 1981
and you called me a twat
and I carried this like a ball of cold cheese
in my poor suffering gut
and you never loved my views
or agreed about Mrs Thatcher
and you're a bastard,
a fucking old Tory tosser.
or something.
Surely it's obvious that I'm a fascist, and that if you put a bomb underneath my Ford Fiesta you'd eradicate fascism for a generation, or some such bullshit. Given that I teach one day a week in a state school, I guess I'm a subsidy junkie too, but I do whatever I can to subvert it, by asking questions of Al Gore, by questioning socialism, by reading non-socialist poetry (ie not Adrian Mitchell and such crap) wherever possible, but it never works.
Bugger, I'm sobering up. Arse. I want to spend as little of 2008 as possible sober. What a ghastly state, wherein the mind is forced to locate stability and purpose in philosophy or religion, or something equally appalling. I saw on tv once that elephants dart for the trees full of fermenting oranges, or something: even animals want to get pissed, so why should it be denied us? Ah, bollocks to it all. Not even alcohol is enough - mini cheddars, now that is where life really is at.
I came to England in 1981
and you called me a twat
and I carried this like a ball of cold cheese
in my poor suffering gut
and you never loved my views
or agreed about Mrs Thatcher
and you're a bastard,
a fucking old Tory tosser.
or something.
Surely it's obvious that I'm a fascist, and that if you put a bomb underneath my Ford Fiesta you'd eradicate fascism for a generation, or some such bullshit. Given that I teach one day a week in a state school, I guess I'm a subsidy junkie too, but I do whatever I can to subvert it, by asking questions of Al Gore, by questioning socialism, by reading non-socialist poetry (ie not Adrian Mitchell and such crap) wherever possible, but it never works.
Bugger, I'm sobering up. Arse. I want to spend as little of 2008 as possible sober. What a ghastly state, wherein the mind is forced to locate stability and purpose in philosophy or religion, or something equally appalling. I saw on tv once that elephants dart for the trees full of fermenting oranges, or something: even animals want to get pissed, so why should it be denied us? Ah, bollocks to it all. Not even alcohol is enough - mini cheddars, now that is where life really is at.
The Year So Far...
Well I haven't achieved any of my resolutions yet, unless "not having sex" was one of them, which it wasn't, but then it scarcely needed to be. I certainly _have_ cut down on the booze, if not the one night stands, but then that too is circumstantial. As far as resolutions of substance are concerned - pshaw. The clouds are slinking over the valley, as if they have hangovers, and we are just where we always are - in the depths of boredom.
This being the case, here are a few heroes I'd like to enlist in 2008 to liven things up a bit:
1. Doctor Who (hopefully he'll be along anyway)
2. Ted Hughes (no chance - dead)
3. The Iron Man (see above)
4. Mrs Thatcher (chances of that are slim)
5. Ian Curtis (see no2)
6. Andy Partridge (hmm, it's not 1981 anymore)
7. Iris Murdoch (see no2)
8. Graham Thorpe (hmm, it's not 1994 anymore)
9. Sylvia Plath (see no2)
10. God (well, I guess we'll see with this one).
Although I've stuck Sylvia Plath on the list I don't really read her these days, though she was a big hero of mine many years ago, when I thought poor old Ted was just a rutter of wild animals. I suppose she could be replaced with Tanya out of EastEnders, but that's hardly a like for like swap.
This being the case, here are a few heroes I'd like to enlist in 2008 to liven things up a bit:
1. Doctor Who (hopefully he'll be along anyway)
2. Ted Hughes (no chance - dead)
3. The Iron Man (see above)
4. Mrs Thatcher (chances of that are slim)
5. Ian Curtis (see no2)
6. Andy Partridge (hmm, it's not 1981 anymore)
7. Iris Murdoch (see no2)
8. Graham Thorpe (hmm, it's not 1994 anymore)
9. Sylvia Plath (see no2)
10. God (well, I guess we'll see with this one).
Although I've stuck Sylvia Plath on the list I don't really read her these days, though she was a big hero of mine many years ago, when I thought poor old Ted was just a rutter of wild animals. I suppose she could be replaced with Tanya out of EastEnders, but that's hardly a like for like swap.
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Happy New Year
Again. Well I hope you get what you want and not what you deserve in 2008; here are my wishes for the year:
1. See 2009.
2. er...
3. That's it.
actually that's not quite it. I'd like to resolve the mess that is my professional, personal, artistic and spiritual life once and for all. But that brings me back to No1 so I guess I'll just bumble on.
My New Year's Resolutions:
1. Stop giving New Labour the benefit of any doubt over any aspect of legislation or ethics. I'm still saying to myself "oh well, perhaps x law won't diminish freedoms of speech, assembly, movement or the right to a fair trial or the right to know when one is breaking the law..." and I'm always wrong. Any system where you can be fined, not for smoking in defiance of a law, but for not displaying government propaganda on behalf of that law, needs to be smashed and smashed quickly.
2. Finish The Brothers Karamazov. Three times I've started this and three times I've got to page 500.
3. Stop swearing in blog posts. And "bugger", "bollocks", "crap" and "bloody" don't count as swearing.
4. Publish some decent poetry instead of the shite I have been turning out, the toe-curlingly crap stuff I've written this year.
5. Find somewhere to live.
6. Finish the Paradiso. I can't help it but on every re-reading of The Divine Comedy I get stuck mid way through the Paradiso. It's just dull.
7. Get a hair transplant. Yes, laugh. But the fact is, without hair you are nothing. And what the hell has happened to mine I don't know. It's fucked off, probably bored to tears.
8. Stop being a ****. And I don't just mean ****, oh no, I mean stop being a ****.
9. Read Hegel.
10. Consume Stella in quantities that more accurately meet government targets and sustainability requirements with regard to the diversity of relationships within my bodily community, going forward.
11. Never, ever, write in jargon. Even for work policies.
1. See 2009.
2. er...
3. That's it.
actually that's not quite it. I'd like to resolve the mess that is my professional, personal, artistic and spiritual life once and for all. But that brings me back to No1 so I guess I'll just bumble on.
My New Year's Resolutions:
1. Stop giving New Labour the benefit of any doubt over any aspect of legislation or ethics. I'm still saying to myself "oh well, perhaps x law won't diminish freedoms of speech, assembly, movement or the right to a fair trial or the right to know when one is breaking the law..." and I'm always wrong. Any system where you can be fined, not for smoking in defiance of a law, but for not displaying government propaganda on behalf of that law, needs to be smashed and smashed quickly.
2. Finish The Brothers Karamazov. Three times I've started this and three times I've got to page 500.
3. Stop swearing in blog posts. And "bugger", "bollocks", "crap" and "bloody" don't count as swearing.
4. Publish some decent poetry instead of the shite I have been turning out, the toe-curlingly crap stuff I've written this year.
5. Find somewhere to live.
6. Finish the Paradiso. I can't help it but on every re-reading of The Divine Comedy I get stuck mid way through the Paradiso. It's just dull.
7. Get a hair transplant. Yes, laugh. But the fact is, without hair you are nothing. And what the hell has happened to mine I don't know. It's fucked off, probably bored to tears.
8. Stop being a ****. And I don't just mean ****, oh no, I mean stop being a ****.
9. Read Hegel.
10. Consume Stella in quantities that more accurately meet government targets and sustainability requirements with regard to the diversity of relationships within my bodily community, going forward.
11. Never, ever, write in jargon. Even for work policies.
The Not So Iron Man
Currently reading Letters of Ted Hughes and very good they are too; though you have to read extremely carefully between the lines a lot of the time, especially the 1961 and 1962 letters, and there is disappointingly little about his own methods of writing, (a lot about Crow, though, which is fair enough).
Of The Iron Man he writes:
I intended it as a blueprint imaginative strategy for dealing with a neurosis. That is, ideally anybody familiar with that story will have a plan of action for dealing with neurosis in themselves. It is a story intended to cure the mentally sick, and to put people in contact with their real nature.
(p284)
I don't think he was taking the piss, but I have to admit this had never occurred to me. Assuming it is the space-bat-angel-dragon suffering the neurosis, I suppose he means you need someone to challenge you, and to force yourself into change by agony and defeat. But the dragon thingy is not changed, as much as trapped by the terms of its defeat by the IM. It might have got out of its neurosis through its defeat and collapse but it had no choice. Maybe that's the point. A more interesting concept is that the IM himself is not quite himself: he falls to bits and puts himself together at the beginning (which strongly reeks to me of a shamanic experience), is hidden underground for months and eats every bit of metal in sight. He only agrees to take on the dragon when the child offers him limitless metal for life - he's a surprisingly unaltruistic hero. And he goes into the fire three times. but he spends the rest of his life aimlessly chewing metal (until the events of the not-as-good but still cool Iron Woman, at least). The Iron Man seems to me the one with the problems, although admittedly he's not trying to destroy earth.
But this brings me to my next point. It's a lazy and dull idea, sure, but I think The Iron Man is an allegory. The Iron Man=Ted. Metal=poetry. Farmers=critics. Space-bat-angel-dragon (controversial, this)= Sylvia. The reason is this. The sbad is originally a star spirit meant to sing beautiful songs to the universe (ie to write lovely poetry). Through the ghastliness of earth it ends up with a mass of serious problems (somewhere in the letters he refers to the damage she would do to people who loved her); and the Iron Man defeats it ("...the way I caused Sylvia to suffer..."p218) by fire, making it his slave but freeing it to resume its original function (ie in death she becomes the poet she was going to be). I guess the allegory breaks down here...
I can hear my dear readers ask why I am spending my life thinking about this crap. The main reason is that I have taught the damn book about a million times to primary children so it's kind of stuck in my head.
Anyhow, as a parting shot: I still think Ted Hughes is an underrated poet, whose reputation will grow as time goes on. He really was one in a million. As was Sylvia Plath. No doubt the controversial Graham Hancock would claim Ted Hughes as one of the 2% of the population who can experience shamanic-type visions without the aid of fasting or drugs...perhaps he was. It says a lot that when he died I remember the Torygraph writing, "at the tragically early age of 68". With someone like him, only a lifespan of 150+ would have seemed enough.
Of The Iron Man he writes:
I intended it as a blueprint imaginative strategy for dealing with a neurosis. That is, ideally anybody familiar with that story will have a plan of action for dealing with neurosis in themselves. It is a story intended to cure the mentally sick, and to put people in contact with their real nature.
(p284)
I don't think he was taking the piss, but I have to admit this had never occurred to me. Assuming it is the space-bat-angel-dragon suffering the neurosis, I suppose he means you need someone to challenge you, and to force yourself into change by agony and defeat. But the dragon thingy is not changed, as much as trapped by the terms of its defeat by the IM. It might have got out of its neurosis through its defeat and collapse but it had no choice. Maybe that's the point. A more interesting concept is that the IM himself is not quite himself: he falls to bits and puts himself together at the beginning (which strongly reeks to me of a shamanic experience), is hidden underground for months and eats every bit of metal in sight. He only agrees to take on the dragon when the child offers him limitless metal for life - he's a surprisingly unaltruistic hero. And he goes into the fire three times. but he spends the rest of his life aimlessly chewing metal (until the events of the not-as-good but still cool Iron Woman, at least). The Iron Man seems to me the one with the problems, although admittedly he's not trying to destroy earth.
But this brings me to my next point. It's a lazy and dull idea, sure, but I think The Iron Man is an allegory. The Iron Man=Ted. Metal=poetry. Farmers=critics. Space-bat-angel-dragon (controversial, this)= Sylvia. The reason is this. The sbad is originally a star spirit meant to sing beautiful songs to the universe (ie to write lovely poetry). Through the ghastliness of earth it ends up with a mass of serious problems (somewhere in the letters he refers to the damage she would do to people who loved her); and the Iron Man defeats it ("...the way I caused Sylvia to suffer..."p218) by fire, making it his slave but freeing it to resume its original function (ie in death she becomes the poet she was going to be). I guess the allegory breaks down here...
I can hear my dear readers ask why I am spending my life thinking about this crap. The main reason is that I have taught the damn book about a million times to primary children so it's kind of stuck in my head.
Anyhow, as a parting shot: I still think Ted Hughes is an underrated poet, whose reputation will grow as time goes on. He really was one in a million. As was Sylvia Plath. No doubt the controversial Graham Hancock would claim Ted Hughes as one of the 2% of the population who can experience shamanic-type visions without the aid of fasting or drugs...perhaps he was. It says a lot that when he died I remember the Torygraph writing, "at the tragically early age of 68". With someone like him, only a lifespan of 150+ would have seemed enough.
Thursday, 27 December 2007
Happier Christmas?
I hope, dear reader, you have had (are having) are finer Christmas than your drummer. I've spent 48 hours in bed as a result of some kind of ghastly vomiting bug and am only just feeling better today. Reading about DK's Xmas breakfasts and copious dinner only makes me feel even more annoyed.
Consequently I haven't seen Doctor Who yet, but I gather it was viewed by 12.2million. That's the highest individual rating since 1979 (City of Death part 4 I think) and it's still only the overnights. We can expect the final figure (ie once the likes of me have watched it) to top 13 million. For someone who remembers 1989's parade of 3 and 4 million figures, this is just bliss.
Actually, apropos my illness, I wonder if I haven't been reading too much Susan Howatch and have come down with a terrible spiritual crisis for which I have been leaving hints and guesses for any budding spiritual director to ride to my assistance with...maybe not. Red cabbage it was, then.
Consequently I haven't seen Doctor Who yet, but I gather it was viewed by 12.2million. That's the highest individual rating since 1979 (City of Death part 4 I think) and it's still only the overnights. We can expect the final figure (ie once the likes of me have watched it) to top 13 million. For someone who remembers 1989's parade of 3 and 4 million figures, this is just bliss.
Actually, apropos my illness, I wonder if I haven't been reading too much Susan Howatch and have come down with a terrible spiritual crisis for which I have been leaving hints and guesses for any budding spiritual director to ride to my assistance with...maybe not. Red cabbage it was, then.
Monday, 24 December 2007
Lord of the Files
Arsey stood before the desk, and saw the late afternoon winter sun strike off its polished exterior like a revelation, as if he were a religious figure of importance.
"Come on, Phil," he said nervously, twitching his water-resistant watch, "you know who did the work on the Health and Safety Policy, you know I went to the H&S: Towards a Happier, Safer Future courses."
Phil was unmoved and remained behind the desk, his face impassive as he looked at his monitor. It seemed to be tanning him.
"Phil," implored Arsey.
"Shut up, Arsey and fuck off out of my office."
"But I've made the appointment, I've been through HR, I've had it in the diary for weeks-"
"Fuck off."
"I wrote the policy, Phil, and now you're just going to present it to the board like it was yours." Arsey's sweat was becoming intolerable. He rose from his chair leaving a thong-shaped streak of arse-sweat on the leather seat. He tried to wipe it with one of Phil's tissues, but Phil just laughed, still encased by the document he was adapting.
"I said, fuck off. I've got the lever arch file," and he tapped the buff coloured folder on the desk. "Besides, the board elected me CEO and I write the policies and I take responsibility and I take the fucking credit. Now get out and write me that policy on diversity that was due last week."
"Come on, Phil, you know I haven't had time. I've been at the diversity seminars and I spent three days last week at the Appropriate Language course. By the way you can't tell a subordinate to fuck off. It's-"
"Fuck off." Phil stood up, and took the lever arch file off the desk.
"It's not right, it's harassment and it references hundreds of years of oppression by the dominant hierarchy and-"
"Fuck off, Arsey, and get the policy written before I fire you for being a twat."
Arsey's perspiration dripped down his face and he felt the late, global-warming flies inch towards his bounty of stale and salt-heavy sweat.
"Actually, twat is an offensive term of-" he felt the kick of Phil's Doc Marten's in his luxuriantly padded arse, "unless you were using it to reclaim it for-" bang went another kick, on another cheek, like an atom bomb. "And if you weren't, I could sue you for-"
And the door closed, and another policy was done; and all Phil could think as he slunk back into his leather chair was: Jesus these guys are wankers.
"Come on, Phil," he said nervously, twitching his water-resistant watch, "you know who did the work on the Health and Safety Policy, you know I went to the H&S: Towards a Happier, Safer Future courses."
Phil was unmoved and remained behind the desk, his face impassive as he looked at his monitor. It seemed to be tanning him.
"Phil," implored Arsey.
"Shut up, Arsey and fuck off out of my office."
"But I've made the appointment, I've been through HR, I've had it in the diary for weeks-"
"Fuck off."
"I wrote the policy, Phil, and now you're just going to present it to the board like it was yours." Arsey's sweat was becoming intolerable. He rose from his chair leaving a thong-shaped streak of arse-sweat on the leather seat. He tried to wipe it with one of Phil's tissues, but Phil just laughed, still encased by the document he was adapting.
"I said, fuck off. I've got the lever arch file," and he tapped the buff coloured folder on the desk. "Besides, the board elected me CEO and I write the policies and I take responsibility and I take the fucking credit. Now get out and write me that policy on diversity that was due last week."
"Come on, Phil, you know I haven't had time. I've been at the diversity seminars and I spent three days last week at the Appropriate Language course. By the way you can't tell a subordinate to fuck off. It's-"
"Fuck off." Phil stood up, and took the lever arch file off the desk.
"It's not right, it's harassment and it references hundreds of years of oppression by the dominant hierarchy and-"
"Fuck off, Arsey, and get the policy written before I fire you for being a twat."
Arsey's perspiration dripped down his face and he felt the late, global-warming flies inch towards his bounty of stale and salt-heavy sweat.
"Actually, twat is an offensive term of-" he felt the kick of Phil's Doc Marten's in his luxuriantly padded arse, "unless you were using it to reclaim it for-" bang went another kick, on another cheek, like an atom bomb. "And if you weren't, I could sue you for-"
And the door closed, and another policy was done; and all Phil could think as he slunk back into his leather chair was: Jesus these guys are wankers.
Friday, 21 December 2007
A Unique Experiment
As an expert in mind altering substances, as is the birthright of all human beings (c Graham Hancock), I was tonight privileged to be asked to test a little known narcotic, which, as I am told, goes by the name of "Stella Artois". I was asked, by a Mr C Smith*, if I could report my experiences to the world of my intake of this substance.
The first effect I noticed was upon my wallet. It immediately began to feel lighter on the pronounciation of the sacred words: "Pint of Stella, please". I believe that sometimes Stella-shamans are known simply to point to the appopriate "pump" (clearly this term derives from long forgotten methods of deriving alcohol) to obtain their Stella. I left the "bar" with my wallet lighter by the sacred "two-ninety"; I have been assured that this may be, as appropriate, "two-ninety-five" or, in certain areas, "three-ten".
Having had my wallet lightened by such an amount I sat down to taste it. It was cold, light, honey-ish (from inferior bees, perhaps) and of a golden, rich-piss colour.
Immediately upon drinking my tensions evaporated and I was enabled to read the ancient document known as "The Times" (I have on previous occasions sampled "The Daily Telegraph", but I have never dared to approach either "The Guardian" or "The Daily Mail" - I have been told that this latter can have a serious, even permanent effect upon the unwary experimenter).
I soon began to notice that the piss-poor music I had ignored upon my entry assumed a more powerful aspect: "Rihanna" and "The Hoosiers" sounded, not like cheap-standard EMI toss, but like fellow shamans, on their own, private journeys into the recesses of the human psyche. "Stop The Cavalry" by Jona Lewie, as referenced previously by this blog, occasioned a tear after a mere 1 pint of Stella.
The pint, incidentally, is a long held measure of this drug. It is thought by some that it is "just right". My own researches suggest that it may have been designed by our ancient ancestors to facilitate a key marking of psycho-active quantities AND bladder concentration. Could the human bladder have emerged into full evolutionary form at the same time as the brain AND tongue, around 40 000 years ago? As I sipped the amber liquid, I doubted it. More on this later.
After one pint, I enjoyed "The Times", though I found myself "tutting" at what are known as "PC gone mad" stories. I had heard that reactionary tendencies are a frequent side effect of Stella, but I was unprepared for that fact that these are surely not just the manufactured effects of a drug, but are windows into truth. What I experienced here, of authoritarian bastards masking their controlling impulses with a veneer of "respect", "fairness", or "tolerance", is, I believe, a portal into humanity's ancient origins.
After two pints, nothing more had occurred, though I needed more of what are known as "crisps". These curious beings jump and dance around one's mouth, releasing the inhibitions against one's desire for more Stella, and so they are a crucial part of the experience. Stella-shamans are known to match each pint of Stella to a packet of crisps. Needless to say, I tried to keep up!
After three, something curious occurred. The world began, not to spin, but to dance: a slow, ethereal, lovely dance. My pasts began to swim into view with every sound I heard; my every utterance bathed in genius and my own prejudices assumed the status of unimpeachable fact. It was quite extraordinary. I can only compare this state to a vicarious life, such as those who live through celebrity.
At the same time, I should report, I noticed an upswing in aggression: towards leftwingers, bastards, tossers, fuckwits and arseholes. Twats also. Dickheads, perhaps not so. My inclination was not to kill or maim them, but merely, should I come into contact with any of these groups, to confront them and perhaps disabuse them of their peremptory notions of human existence.
Finally, I ended my session after four pints, owing to an absence of "money" and an increase of shame at the concept of attempting to pay for booze by "card".
At this point, when my body was well enough to walk, and my mind well enough for me to consider all of my most shameful episodes without fear of a panic attack, it was time to go.
And, by a staggering coincidence, it was time for a piss.
Could this be chance? I don't think so. Stella taps into the recesses of the human mind, gives us access to areas of our life we had forgotten, and brings us towards harmony with painful or difficult pasts. Such, as I have said, is our birthright as human beings. Just like those pioneers, a mere 25 years ago who walked into pubs and had the courage, the sheer audacity, to ask for "a pint of Stella, please". Well done to them. We all raise our glasses. We are all Stella drinkers now.
ps. I had heard of the "hangover" -luckily, it seems, I have avoided this! By another staggering coincidence of nature, 4 or 5 pints of Stella necessitate only one piss and no hangover! More evidence of the infinite bounty of this psychoactive compound.
* Mr C Smith: name invented, to protect the guilty.
The first effect I noticed was upon my wallet. It immediately began to feel lighter on the pronounciation of the sacred words: "Pint of Stella, please". I believe that sometimes Stella-shamans are known simply to point to the appopriate "pump" (clearly this term derives from long forgotten methods of deriving alcohol) to obtain their Stella. I left the "bar" with my wallet lighter by the sacred "two-ninety"; I have been assured that this may be, as appropriate, "two-ninety-five" or, in certain areas, "three-ten".
Having had my wallet lightened by such an amount I sat down to taste it. It was cold, light, honey-ish (from inferior bees, perhaps) and of a golden, rich-piss colour.
Immediately upon drinking my tensions evaporated and I was enabled to read the ancient document known as "The Times" (I have on previous occasions sampled "The Daily Telegraph", but I have never dared to approach either "The Guardian" or "The Daily Mail" - I have been told that this latter can have a serious, even permanent effect upon the unwary experimenter).
I soon began to notice that the piss-poor music I had ignored upon my entry assumed a more powerful aspect: "Rihanna" and "The Hoosiers" sounded, not like cheap-standard EMI toss, but like fellow shamans, on their own, private journeys into the recesses of the human psyche. "Stop The Cavalry" by Jona Lewie, as referenced previously by this blog, occasioned a tear after a mere 1 pint of Stella.
The pint, incidentally, is a long held measure of this drug. It is thought by some that it is "just right". My own researches suggest that it may have been designed by our ancient ancestors to facilitate a key marking of psycho-active quantities AND bladder concentration. Could the human bladder have emerged into full evolutionary form at the same time as the brain AND tongue, around 40 000 years ago? As I sipped the amber liquid, I doubted it. More on this later.
After one pint, I enjoyed "The Times", though I found myself "tutting" at what are known as "PC gone mad" stories. I had heard that reactionary tendencies are a frequent side effect of Stella, but I was unprepared for that fact that these are surely not just the manufactured effects of a drug, but are windows into truth. What I experienced here, of authoritarian bastards masking their controlling impulses with a veneer of "respect", "fairness", or "tolerance", is, I believe, a portal into humanity's ancient origins.
After two pints, nothing more had occurred, though I needed more of what are known as "crisps". These curious beings jump and dance around one's mouth, releasing the inhibitions against one's desire for more Stella, and so they are a crucial part of the experience. Stella-shamans are known to match each pint of Stella to a packet of crisps. Needless to say, I tried to keep up!
After three, something curious occurred. The world began, not to spin, but to dance: a slow, ethereal, lovely dance. My pasts began to swim into view with every sound I heard; my every utterance bathed in genius and my own prejudices assumed the status of unimpeachable fact. It was quite extraordinary. I can only compare this state to a vicarious life, such as those who live through celebrity.
At the same time, I should report, I noticed an upswing in aggression: towards leftwingers, bastards, tossers, fuckwits and arseholes. Twats also. Dickheads, perhaps not so. My inclination was not to kill or maim them, but merely, should I come into contact with any of these groups, to confront them and perhaps disabuse them of their peremptory notions of human existence.
Finally, I ended my session after four pints, owing to an absence of "money" and an increase of shame at the concept of attempting to pay for booze by "card".
At this point, when my body was well enough to walk, and my mind well enough for me to consider all of my most shameful episodes without fear of a panic attack, it was time to go.
And, by a staggering coincidence, it was time for a piss.
Could this be chance? I don't think so. Stella taps into the recesses of the human mind, gives us access to areas of our life we had forgotten, and brings us towards harmony with painful or difficult pasts. Such, as I have said, is our birthright as human beings. Just like those pioneers, a mere 25 years ago who walked into pubs and had the courage, the sheer audacity, to ask for "a pint of Stella, please". Well done to them. We all raise our glasses. We are all Stella drinkers now.
ps. I had heard of the "hangover" -luckily, it seems, I have avoided this! By another staggering coincidence of nature, 4 or 5 pints of Stella necessitate only one piss and no hangover! More evidence of the infinite bounty of this psychoactive compound.
* Mr C Smith: name invented, to protect the guilty.
Bastards
There is less daylight today than ever before; or so I am told.
So what do the bastard birds do?
The fuckwits start up at 5am, as if they're chanting to Thor or whatever damnfool deity they worship at this time of year (er...). total buggers. There's fuck all light, so they start singing like it's May.
Nice one, twats.
So what do the bastard birds do?
The fuckwits start up at 5am, as if they're chanting to Thor or whatever damnfool deity they worship at this time of year (er...). total buggers. There's fuck all light, so they start singing like it's May.
Nice one, twats.
Thursday, 20 December 2007
What's Christmas good for then?
Only one thing excites me about Christmas-the-secular-festival and it is this.
dum-de-dum-dum-de-dum-dum-de-dum-woooo--eeeeeeeee-ooooww
Can you guess what it is?
dum-de-dum-dum-de-dum-dum-de-dum-woooo--eeeeeeeee-ooooww
Can you guess what it is?
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.
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Lucid Dreaming
Disturbed night, strong winds blowing against loose lead flashing and through suburban Lleylandii. Drifting in and out of sleep. Falling down into a vortex of dull colours - "Hey, I'm dreaming, I know I'm dreaming! That means I can have sex with-". vortex disappears down a plughole, as awake as possible in the darkness.
Proof, not only of the existence of God, but specifically of a Catholic God of the old school.
Proof, not only of the existence of God, but specifically of a Catholic God of the old school.
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