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15 Jun

Testing testing testing, one-two-three: Earth do you read me? Do you think I’m weird? Do you love me, my lonely blue planet hanging in the Milky Way’s outer arms? I love you. How I’ve missed you.

When I began this blog I had no plans. Twelve months on drawing and colourwork opened some door in my mind. Suddenly there was a hole in the dyke that divides the rational Western mind, cuts Reason off from all that we know to be truth without a shred of evidence: the mythological cushions that makes life mean something. And, in this rare condition, I just decided to sit down once a day and write whatever.

And whatever did I write? I’m not yet quite sure. So much of this shit just baffles me. Truly. Confessions of faith! Scat poetry that begins in the Sadean nightmare of the east Congo and ends up with naff buskers in Melbourne. According to Arnoldian standards of rhetoric it doesn’t make sense. I’ve said it from the beginning, I don’t know what I’m going to write ’til I do it. I didn’t know the title of this post ’til this morning.

Why did I do this?

Because after such intellectual transformation as has obtained in my life over these five years past I needed to know what I truly believed, how I truly felt and what was really important. To do this you must give yourself up to the source. You must not reflect, you simply do… and deal with consequences. When you paint you use a different part of the mind. Something that cannot be analyzed. I simply transferred the process to the written word. Hence this sometime spooky, flipped-out, hippie jive. But I dig it the most. Best thing I ever wrote.

Being from a long line that goes back straight to the Scottish Enlightenment I have always been the son of David Hume; facts, sir. I want facts. But I am also the child of a thousand years of Irish suffering wherein the word, the song and the image of Madonna was all there was to keep the stark madness at bay. I know the value of science but I love the valleys at sunset. What happens in the lab doesn’t provide me the meaning of life (like it might for Richard Dawkins). And this meaning of life in the face of the Infinite has been (I think, feel) shriveled, shrunk and pre-packaged in our culture. Our spirit is distilled for us, designed according to the latest neuroscience bytes and focus groups vectors.

We all believe in Nothing together, no more. We share no gods. And our profit on’t is that we drink or some such and by compulsion to stay the Void. We throw ourselves to the maelstrom-warm arms of Dionysus and forget the future. We trash the Earth and argue about whether we should care, chanting: fuck it all, fuck it all, fuck it all! Twelve months of the year. How many tired eyes I see in the street, sorrow-rimmed and bitter. Poor monkeys, what have we done to ourselves?

When I started, I barely announced the blog. One comment at first and for the next few months I had exactly 14 regular daily readers. To those people, I raise a glass. You’re my people. And, considering from whence you must’ve come, I’m touched that my stream-of-consciousness bollocks warranted that kind of daily attention.

And now I am finished with this first phase. The raw material. The day has come and I will leave it for a time and go on to other things. But I will return and fashion it to a book that will be sent out along the noosphere for whomsoever may care. for whomever cares Upload to iBook, tablet, laptop, a public terminal, a phone etc …now and always free of charge.

And good luck to it whatever comes of it including nothing. I will trim it, I’ll reorganize but I won’t rewrite. It is honest in a world of ghosts and that is enough.

Meantime we are nowhere and it’s now. Let us pray. I have spent many years a monk i’ th’ abbey cultivating the mind serious. This is my duty. But reason is a lonesome, cold place without a magpie’s song, a tree’s gnarly bark, the soft eyes of a dog. Reason thus and thus, do’t all you wish. But without laughter, without dancing, without the occasional and most delicious fuck, well’t means nothing does it?

All is reconciled. I am a Stoic – peace to the People of the Book. I am a Romantic and the Buddha teaches me that nature is endlessly complex. Grow in all directions but walk, like Christ, with grace and love. Try anyway, stumble, fall, get back up, do it again. If you wish to be free you must master yourself and transcend. It is a life-long journey.

All is reconciled. I am an anarchist but I love tradition. To reach the city that knows no coercion means you have to love the Law. I know who I am and what I believe. I have found a vehicle, I have found the side I have been seeking all this. I am on the midnight path walking by the light of a full moon. And my heart is full of love.




10 Jun

Victorian naughty bits

Curse the cold wall around the Holy Scintilla within. C’est puissant. The red plague rid me of this frosty facade.

Bless those eyes, are they impossible to draw?

Curses, I feel what you feel; it’s just I can’t say… out loud. Shhhh. I’m afraid of what happens when dams burst.

Bless your tiny feet as they walk on the moist Earth. And wherever you go – dig it: Fly!

Curses on the Shadow-Men that’d force infantry on drummers everywhere, ridding the land of laughter.

Blessings on those rare souls still connected to a hundred-thousand anonymous troubadours.

A million curses on profiteerings; the bones of future generations. How can you look at your children and not regret the famine you have thrust upon them?

A billion blessings on the Guardian Angel at the Gates of Paradise; she is the bearer of the beacon. The way, the truth and the light.

That is all.


9 Jun

My computer screen finally karked it. RIP. Go in, get it fixed and hope they don’t hassle me viz the chip on the corner. Wasn’t that I swear! Stayed normal a whole two weeks before the neon tartan marred my vision. Then yesterday no vision. Just a black background and a bunch of lines. Ah it’s just a thing. What matters a thing? It has no soul, no ideas and I don’t need it. Much.

But if you’re wondering why my posts are short you know. I’ve got to slip into cafes or libraries to do them and I’m a busy boy right this minute.

Someone told me this morning that Jupiter and Neptune lined up today. Apparently that’s cosmic news for me. Whoopee! Who knows what weight this stuff bears but what use in casting cynicism on what can only be either immaterial or benevolent. So Father Zeus, Grandfather Poseidon, I who am blessed by your beneficence salute you. Whether or no you exist.

Fortuna and Folly can throw what they will my way. I can hack it today.


6 Jun

I woke up with the Monday Morning Blues like everyone else today. Clear skies didn’t help, at first. I boot up my electric tartan screen plagued with lines of so many colors that I’m sure Apple Macintosh has ascended to the heigth of Scottish aristocracy. And they’re welcome to it.

I boot up this magic almost-flat little book that plays music and remembers my brain-farts. Takes pictures, captures physical vibrations in the air. Open the book only to find that one of my favorite songs has disappeared. The one I was hankering for this melancholy morning. There’s a big blank on the list. I play it, nothing. Damn! So I boot up Blonde Redhead instead. Nothing. Shit! So it’s gonna be one of those fuckin’ weeks, what comes Thursday? Sorry Mr Stewart you’ve got three days to live please pay the bill before you leave.


The volumes switched off. D’uh! Live without technology for a while and you get stupid. You start doing things like actually noticing the faces in the night-clouds at night. The song’s playing its place on the list remains blank. A secret song. One little skerick of truth left in the world where the hacker can’t find it. Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!!!!!!

The volume’s off, switch it on. See how easy it is when you forget about your teen angst bullshit for five seconds. I’m having a day. Fuck off World.

I don’t know why I was fussing, it was maybe the last beautiful day to be had for a while. Outside the clouds gather and the wind shakes its fist at us. We’re gonna get a blasting. I’m just lost in myself. Transcending ‘self’ is the key to contentment in life. These are words, I tell others, to live by. But I find I’ve gone a long time now wallowing in ‘self’, lost exploring the extinct crevices of I, me, mine, festering at the injuries poured on me by those who should love me. And why don’t they love me – goddammitt!

Oh this morning that bark cabin the mountains looked pretty good to me. But slowly the day manifests as a god one. I’m stuck into the work. And consistently something appears, something that didn’t exist before I sat down this morning. Some semblance of vague satisfaction creeps into me thru the afternoon, maybe my existence is justified after all.

Dusk, and friends gather. Beefs are settled with a minimum of fuss, I catch up with this guy, he’s crazy man. Always fun. Won’t say what but he got away with it. Feel the love, se the smiles. These guys are glad to see me. Why the fuss? Have I been in some kind of prison that I’m always looking over my shoulder to see if there’s a guy with shank? There’s human snakes sure. Always on this planet sumbitches what can you do? Leave it out.

And what about the shit they give me, these friends. Taking shit’s part of the deal, I know that. And haven’t they got plenty from me? The night has fallen but the sun has risen in my soul. Dig it, there’s wind at my back. The Earth is alive, magic returns and there’s two vivid blue eyes out there somewhere got a hangdog droop about them. I got things to do this week, so many things. And one of ’em is to make those eyes laugh.


5 Jun

O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep;
Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
The traces of the smallest spider’s web,
The collars of the moonshine’s wat’ry beams,
Her whip of cricket’s bone; the lash of film;
Her waggoner a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.

And in this state she gallops night by night
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;

O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies straight,
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees,
O’er ladies ‘ lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:
Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail
Tickling a parson’s nose as a’ lies asleep,
Then dreams, he of another benefice:
Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plaits the manes of horses in the night,
And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which once untangled, much misfortune bodes:
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage:
This is she—

William Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet
Act One; scene four.


5 Jun

The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries

The silver saxophones say I should refuse you


The cracked bells and washed-out horns
Blow into my face with scorn
But it’s not that way

I wasn’t born to lose you


1 Jun

Iran Rave

From: The Guardian, UK.

I sit here in a postmodern annex of a neoclassical building listening to a compilated playlist of the musical underground of a country that is, technically, the enemy of mine. The newspapers in my city tell me these people are all backward savages but they are heirs of once-great multiple market-place a culture of long standing. And they are young raised in the shadows of a theocratic revolution that brought back the rule of old men with beards.

They are so sick of it.

So behind closed doors they are modern people who listen to modern music, write it and play it. The styles are a dialectic blend of commercial pop music (European mostly) and the multifarious musical tradition of the Levant from a viewpoint centred on what we have long-called Persia. It’s quite… commercial.

What a piece of work is a human monkey, how noble in faculty and not quite infinite in reason. How quickly the spoilt, fat, lazy rat it becomes. How base and venal and sometimes gracefully sublime in the face of hardship. What folly in these craven beasts who remember and yet fail time and again to learn.

Today I am in love with my fellow species, what rare fun we are. The sky is blue and I feel like smiling.

But let’s be serious for five minutes. Last week the US President, a man that ‘liberals’ admire, ordered an elite group of his soldiers into the territory of another country. A nation that is technically an ally. Sorta. And without its permissision taken human life and retrieved information thereby. Yet it is the smaller nation that has been publically shamed in the discourse of geopolitical theatre. Well the human life taken was that of a man who has precipitated the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people. He challenged the world’s hyper-power.

According to the law of the-way-things-are, he had it coming. Interesting finale, stranded in an Islamabad fortress, jaded and regretful. Yet another man who’s realized too late that he’ll never know his children. An isolated false Messiah, catching up on a lifetime’s worth of masturbation.

Never stop making you laugh these monkeys. Rare fun amidst the grim smoking corpses.

As usual, only the radical Left can call it like is: an explicit act that extends and consolidates the American Empire. And it was carried out by a man who stood against this expedition way back when it was most unpopular to do so. He had no choice. The true Machiavels amidst the dreaming neocon crew saw that. They understood that future ‘American interests’ (which Americans?) lay in securing certain territories and resources. They got the States into a war it could not extricate itself from. And somewhere today they are smiling to themselves. At the ranch maybe, sipping a tumbler o’ the Macallan perhaps, awaiting a phone conversation that will change lives. Smug in a truth that is never spoken aloud.

There’s a Punisher graphic novel by Garth Ennis. I won’t summarize but one of characters is a much-feared Russian general who commanded in the Afghanistan theatre. At one point we see him ordering his men to behead a ponytailed journalist on the tarmac of Khabul airport. The dude had written a book that wasn’t appreciated. Anyway, this guy has a bit where he philsophizes about the American Cold war victory. His take on their strategy was that they’d bomb places flat and build McDonalds amongst the rubble. Some over-simplification, but apt. Mostly America rains fire down on people by remote control. Domestic casualties have, since Vietnam, become increasingly unacceptable. Bombing Usama bin Laden’s house was an option available to Obama. He chose a helicopter drop instead. He sent in human individuals, an act that required personal courage (on the part of the soldiers) in a way that remote explosion does not.

This is the first time I’ve approved of Barack Obama’s foreign policy.

I knew he would not withdraw the troops. That to do so would be so detrimental to American interests – increased terrorism, oil price spikes and shortages – it would be electoral suicide. Considering the economic situation the States was in when he took office, considering the solutions he’s chosen, his second term is already far from assured. To withdraw from Iraq and Afghanistan would create a Jihadist power base. Possibly Pakistan would fall and then we would be dealing with a nuclear-powered enemy that prefers the herafter to this life. Dig it, you boho free spirits o’ the world. When that happens the party is over. These are the facts. I don’t like ’em, but, like, so what?

I knew Obama was basically a highly skilled technocrat. I just hoped he wasn’t as much of a creep as Tony Blair. And no he ain’t. (Hard call that.) But when he accepted the Nobel Peace Prize whatever skreck of ‘hope’ I may have harboured was dispensed with. Obama got the prize essentially for not being a Texas good ol’ crony-capitalist cracker. For actually knowing how to be internationally polite. He had done nothing to earn a peace prize (even the Nobel which, after Kissinger, is a joke). But if he hadn’t accepted, if he’d said thanks but no thanks, I don’t deserve it just now. Well then I would’ve been impressed. But he calculated: another paragraph on his WikiBio? Why not? He’s just another player just like the rest of them, go figure.

But, if he had to raid a Pakistani house without permission (and yes he did) then it was noble to send in American individuals to face their public enemy #1, to demonstrate personal, physical courage. He showed that he understood the military message of 9/11. A message that has been receieved with obtuse denial in Western public discourse. Point out that it takes physical courage to go wilfully go your death in furtherance of a cause, that furthermore such courage is in short supply domestically… do that and you get demonized by people who don’t understand why the Romans really fell.

If you’re going to do Empire you might as well get it right.

Ah! enough let us stop making sense. The song’s in Farsi but it’s a classic rock song. Funny when you realize that the rock song’s structure derives from the tradition music of the region. He really likes the Rolling Stones this guy.

Next an indigenous style, I wouldn’t know what it’s called. It’s like hip-hop, chants and beats, but it ain’t hip-hop. It’s derived from antiquity. And sure, there’s hip-hop on the disc, electronica too. And punk rock! The playlist veers East and West. It lurches into the past and back to the future. Some of it is MOR schlock that’d make fills you with the urge to find Celine Dion and vomit on her dress. But some it makes you move man. It’s funky, get you right down in your belly and balls. The lyrics are sometimes Farsi, sometimes English. Cultural imperialism o’ course. But the English songs decry the Military-Industrial complex bullshit in a form that’s straight outta Detroit! All you flag wavers out there, do you get that? All you post-structuralist pseudo-radical demonizers of the Evil socio-economic demographic, do you understand?

Arrghh! Again, forget about it! Be stupid, be a child. Persian metal is really beautiful, a style that really suits the Farsi tongue.

Now it’s Euro-Soul like Sade or Grace Jones. I’m warm again. There’s an empire, there’s a lot of them. And who knows what evil lies in the human heart. But, today, forget about it. The sun is shining and we should be making hay. I wanna party with these guys. Now!

What time is it in Tehran?