Saturday, 29 December 2012

donna's encouraging me to write again. so i have done a thing.


“Awaken, then,” the voice said. “Awaken, you foul nether creature of nobody’s womb, who lies motionless consumed inside your own leathery furnace. Arise, you filthy, pitiful waste of life, you who sit quivering when asked to relate to the world, when asked to speak, to walk, to listen, to thrive; if I could whip you from ear to ear to make you take part in this life-drama, I would – it is only my fear that you will shrink so far back from these overtones as to render my efforts immutable that stops me from doing so. You are made from melting plastic: toxins threaten those in your vicinity, and those who dare touch you find themselves facing lesions. In truth, you ought to commit suicide, but I am sure that would be far too easy for you. No – you prefer to live out your life like a horror novel, reading on just to see what will raise its head the next time you take a look at the black lake of your existence.”
That was my alarm: I had programmed it to say those words since I was fifteen, and not once have I regretted doing so. Why? I am not sure. All I know is my name is Stanley, and I emerge every day from a rotten tenant’s agreement with a spring in my step and grass in my hair, even though I am not aware of spending my nights lying in parks indolently like a strange but cultured tramp-head. Fragrances waft around my facade as I stir dust from a Monet morning, all brush strokes and abstract notions of beauty but whose viciousness is concealed only by the amateurish attempts to conceal its reality through the medium of
“Something or other,” seem to be my first words of the day – they will set its tone for the next twelve hours to come, at which point I will retract my statement and pretend it never happened, politician-style.
Grossman peers in through the door frame, head hanging like a lolloping lolly upon his quivering neck, jutting like a spike atop a boorish club devised of splintered wood. A doll’s head perches on his shoulder – I am fairly sure he is unaware of its existence. Grossman has no attempts left in life: he used up his last lifeline trying to sell tangerines to a group of youths whose fathers were silicon-based lifeforms and as a result “the entire thing went ker-blooey”. Since then he has existed on subsidiaries and steak houses.
“Bottom of the rung, still, I see,” he muses, eyes widening as he sees an imaginary cradle crying perched on the hilltop of my upper shelf that leads to the nearby inglenook within which bats and scaramanga beetles gather to await the coming storm. Guinness-like skies tell stories of lethal implementation from an angry deity whose name appears to me in a dream when I am about to be twenty-eight. Shit.
“Spend too much time in the future, lad,” speaks Grossman, as he loses his grip on the door and falls to the floor, wrapping his body around it, as though he were attempting a hug. “Never give time to your present day needs and necessities. Food and nonesuch. Wicker baskets’ importance is highly underestimated. Cajole a merchant of sesame seeds into giving you a pass to the Delta of no Reaction, lest you entail a foolish notion of pliability.” He slithered out the door,
With me calling after him, “What in the name of giants’ balls are you talking about, man?” and I stammered, which let me down and didn’t allow me to save face. I find it increasingly difficult to save face: I had a face-saving of 2 the other day, but then I spent my face on an elastic band which I used to secure my packet of Muscovado sugar to its tether in order to keep it from escaping my cupboard, for it knew it could find its owner and thus begin the Reckoning. For, in this crazy-ass world in which I usually try not to live, sugar and water are the rarest of all ingredients. I expect the unexpected, apart from that time when I expected an Amazon package to arrive, and, believe it or not, it actually did. For a short time I took to expecting the expected, before realising that if it was ‘the expected’ then it was already expected, and so did not require me to expect it. As a result I had a limbo period of expecting neither the expected nor the unexpected, but simply expected. I sat on my butt and expected. I realised I expected too much when I went to find the President and expected. Then I got arrested and expected. Then I was released and expected. But. It turns out that expectation creates nothingness and so I expected the unexpected instead because in the end, it’s the unexpected that makes life so damned interesting and colourful: if all your life was as you expected, if all your plans came to fruition, then you have lived a pre-programmed sort of life who rather goes against the notion of free will, does it not? And therefore you deserve to take a trip down Unaware Road, and battle the cosmos like I do every time I leave my bed,
Which I had finally managed to this morning, exiting it via the propulsion of my torso and legs combining to create a floppy notion of elasticity that helped construct a mechanism – that once my body hit the floor, it would stop falling, and eventually would begin a process of falling and catching itself that some referred to as walking. I walked. The bathroom was en-suite and I walked. Clothes came off me and I stepped. The bath hugged me in its primitive waters and I sank. Oceans of age and Christian views of redemption encompassed me in a foetal embrace, my posture ascertained by its lack of relation to anything outside the meandering atoms of wary watery wastrel neediness: mind reduction to baby state meant no more need to adhere. Under the water the sounds all faded until I heard only my heartbeat. Static. No more than this. Life, reduced. Interesting how many thoughts spring to mind when there’s nothing to think about.

Florence appeared at the hour some time later. My hair was being attacked by a towel which perched in my hands. Perhaps it would be good if I answered the door with my head tousled. Then I would look sexy. Then things might get more real. The fuzziness of things become all too evident when you can see the room’s dust in the arc beam flitting through the window blinds. I open the door, changing the tense of my life.
“Blimey,” she says, gazing up at my head, eyes blinking like a child’s held in the gaze of Santa Claus, “Your hair’s gone weird.”
“I know,” I say sheepishly, automatically adjusting as she stumbles and mumbles her way in, shopping bags trailing after her.
“Don’t change it,” she almost orders as she lays the bags upon the counter that makes up the main facet of our kitchenette and, laying bags out, “I quite like it.” There is a slight pause, before she ransacks her own contents and shovels them into the various holes of the kitchen: fridge, bread bin, fridge, cupboard, drawer, fridge, cupboard, bread bin, fridge, cupboard...
“Pop Tarts,” I nearly scream, for I have attempted to jump onto the sofa from the back side of it (perched as it is in the middle of the room) but have managed to snag my foot on the back end of the sofa, so that as I land upon its weary cushions I realise I may have possibly broken my foot.
“You’re fine,” she says, after a moment. “Help me with this?”
Florence is my icon, my moment. I scoot towards her vicinity and expertlessly plunge myself into the workload.
“Stop trying to impress me by being dedicated. You know it makes me uncomfortable when you try to impress me.”
“I know,” I say, although I don’t know and feel a little bewildered. “I just want to get this finitoed.”
“Spanish, eh?” she offers, as a way of acknowledging my apology through the only lie possible. “Well vamos yourself over to the kettle and make me a cuppa please.”
“Ok, mademoiselle,” I say, poised to make the greatest cup of tea known to woman.
“French now.”
“Seems that way.”
There is an awkward pause during which I stand next to the kettle, listening for it to boil, watching her arse as she fills the fridge with various pre-sliced cheeses. I remember the first time I caught sight of that arse. It was magnificent. I can’t imagine a better arse for the life of me. People talk about the perfect arse, but they don’t get it. This was the perfect arse because it was so gloriously imperfect. Barbie is the ‘perfect’ woman, but she is not perfect. No – I need a glorious arse like this, not a structured one. A gloriarse.
“Enjoying the view?” she said, wriggling for my benefit.
“Afraid so,” I said, half to myself.
She backed up into me and I stood there unable to move for a moment. Then she rose and asked me to close my eyes. Of course I did so – and she knew I would because she knew that I was in the sort of mood where I would do anything she asked me to, even if it meant eating something she had shovelled into my mouth without asking my permission, and making me chew on it, all the while enjoying the fact that whatever the hell she had given me was some kind of... what the hell?
“Open your eyes.”
I opened them to see her staring facelessly, a look of slight amusement on her face. “You like?”
I made a noise that let her know I didn’t but was too polite to say no.
“Not that surprising.”
She smiled when my eyes widened. Why hadn’t I spat this thing out?
“Why?” I said through facial expression.
“I’ll tell you when you’ve swallowed it.”
I gulped it down. “What poison have you given me?”
“Not telling you.”
I blinked at her. “Seriously, what was it?”
“What do you think it was?”
“Huh,” I said. “You think I care what it was? You’re not going to play that game with me, missy.” I strode defiantly back into the lounge and parked on the sofa. “You think I care what it was, you’ve got another thing coming. In fact, I didn’t even dislike it. I didn’t like it either. It was nothing to me. I couldn’t give a toss.”
“You ate dog.”
I stood up and pointed a finger at her. “Fuck you.”
“I’m joking,” she said, her face still deadpan. “It wasn’t dog.”
I pointed my other finger. “Fuck you.”
“It was ostrich.”
“Fuck...” I began, before wondering whether I was actually offended. Ostriches? Who really gave a damn about ostriches? I hadn’t seen them before, and from what I had heard, they could be quite vicious. “Actually, that’s ok. Where on earth did you get ostrich from?”
“Ah, right.”

And so settled the day. Nothing had happened. There was no story yet. We existed – co-existed – in a bubble of our own uncertainty. But it was ours. Life was not a story. There are no plans. Humanity was no plan. I had eaten an ostrich today, and that was surely enough. What else did They want from me? To run an advertising campaign persuading people to eat ostrich? No. To run an advertising campaign persuading people not to eat ostrich? Never. What we eat defines us, and if there is a God, then God can judge us by our diet at The End. God is in fact a dietician. God is Gok Wan.
“God Wan,” I blurted.
“No,” Florence replied, sucking on a lollipop, “God is Jeremy Kyle.”
“Surely not.” I turned to her, face pleading and saddened. “Surely not.”
“Alright, it’s not him. But I do know who it is.”
“Go on,” I said, face dropping as I succumbed.
“Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.”
“Two people?”
“Why them?”
“Absolute perfection.”
We were watching an advert for Lindt chocolate. “The chocolate?”
“But what about.”
Stoned we were; and stoned we would be, for a while yet. The sun was not yet our familiar. There were no imperatives to meet its demands. Even when the imperatives made our acquaintance, we were not obliged to follow. I do not respect the sun. My ideal hours of sleep are from 2 in the morning to half 10 in the morning. I want to miss at least four hours’ worth of sun each day. The sun is given far too much respect, far too much attention. The sun blathers at us and we listen. But it is no God. Gok Wan filled that role aeons ago. The sun is no Ra. It is simply a blithering idiot, glaring indolently at us in expectation that we’ll lie in front of it and let it shit into our faces, before giving us that final insult, cancer.
“I’d rather smoke a cigarette!” I suddenly shouted in anger.
“Sit down,” said Florence, calmly.
“I am – oh.” I settled once more, painfully aware that the configuration my body had moulded itself into only moments before had been completely disrupted, and the impossible task now was to try and reconfigure myself to match that precision of relaxation – the position of all positions. But I had fallen. I could not relax like I had. Yes, I was sitting in almost the same position, but that’s the key word – almost. I could not capture that state again. I was Adam, expelling myself from Adam with a rocket-launcher of disgust. A fart. Perhaps that’s why God expelled them. Eve farted.
“Perhaps God...” I began, before Florence pointed at the television and laughed.
“Look at that,” she said.
A man telling the news. “What?”
“Just look at him,” she said, tears emerging from her eyes.
I looked. And I looked. And looked.
“I’m laughing, but I don’t know why. Am I being stupid?” she said, wiping her eyes, “Am I that stoned?”
“No,” I lied. “I see it too.” I attempted a fake laugh. To my surprise it sounded quite real. It was then I realised his face. And I laughed.
Laughter echoed throughout the room, up through the house, out through the vents, out to the street, where it bewildered passers-by, on their way to whatever place they felt they needed to go, to make money they felt they needed to make, so they could buy their newly-acquired friends whatever drinks they needed to drink, and then drink as much as they needed to drink in order to laugh however much they felt they needed to laugh in order to justify their existence however much they needed to exist. And then do it all again on Monday. And then again. And again.
“I am exhausted,” I said, checking my watch. It had been two minutes. Watch might be broken.
“Is my watch broken?” I suggested. “It is?”
“Chuck it in the bin,” Florence said, lighting another.
I chucked it in the bin, a voice somewhere in the back of my head telling me it was perfectly operational. But that voice could be ignored for now. That was happiness: ignoring that voice.

Friday, 28 December 2012

"You are going to kill me," he said, "and that will protect society from me."

Ted Bundy actually said this.

He's so evil and yet somehow utterly interesting :\

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Memorable moments of 2012 (in no order):

1. Going shopping with Donna and realising it felt 'normal'.
2. Seeing you whitey so bad I was one finger press from dialling 999
3. Making thirty people love me by mistake by making the point that "too many old books have the word 'ejaculated' in them"
4. Coming to terms with my own hitherto unconfronted feelings of emptiness whilst lying on a pavement high on LSD
5. And sadly, fucking my ex in a swimming pool owned by my parents and feeling like the world's most alpha  male
6. Also being told by my therapist that I was a postmodernist, having not mentioned the phrase at all before

Brief summary of the new albums I've heard this year. To be honest, I've spent most of the year being preoccupied and haven't really opened up to much new.

the black keys albums - excellent blues rock. Recommend for those who like white stripes, etc.
babel - mumford and sons: I really liked this album although he tends to sound a bit shouty when he rises an octave. The general sound is just too lovable to resist. Some say MOR - I say MORE.
byrds albums - The byrds are ok - everyone knows what their sound is. Strnagely, Sweetheart of the Rodeo was the most interesting album, I found. They make country music palatable. I like acid rock too - that mix of innocence combined with Trippy Shit.
rolling stones albums - there are  only really three albums worth bothering with: beggars banquet [sic], let it bleed, and sticky fingers. Their sound is what makes them stand out. My favourite track? Moonlight Mile. Part of my excellent playlist that I created just after being dumped, which I still enjoy listening to today.
big science - laurie anderson: Very quirky and interesting. Probably the only 'album' I've enjoyed as an album.
the black rain - anoice: Dark, gloomy, dorian, gothic, and a final track that sounds like the track used in 28 days later. Epic. again, used one of the tracks in my playlist.
max richter - His music is lovely neo-classical. Very melancholy, tinged with dissonance but never straying into modernist bullshit. It's just somehow impossible to dislike his music.
blunderbuss - jack white: Lyrically I was startled to hear Jack White sound as glum as he did. fortunately he has some lovely backing singers that propel each song into pop territory.
book of eli soundtrack - I love it for Panoramic. Ruined however by the fact it reminds me of the ex. Being with Donna is great but I still feel that idiotic longing for closure. Retarded, I know.
born to die - lana del ray: Sad to say, this is the album I've probably listened to the most out of these. I like to sing along an octave below her so that I sound like Johnny Cash. How can I resist a song called Born to Die? She's so wonderfully fake.
boys and girls - alabama shakes: Really beautiful bluesy stuff. Remember listenig to this two days after being dumped and crying the whole way through... should really give it another go now that I feel better (I think I do anyway)
butterfly - hans arafna: Fucking horrendous. Play this whilst on a Drug and your mind will break. Quite beautiful in its horror.
chinese classical music: CHING CHONG BING BONG
chips from the chocolate fireball - the dukes of stratosphear - Excellent pastiche album of sixties psychedelia. Made in the 80s but i didn't realise that until later. I really like the album - it's a little tricky to get into, but they've absolutely nailed the sound. Listen to Love, and S.F. Sorrow, then listen to this. It just sounds so similar.
the colourful world - ashok pathak: Only heard this recently, and may explore the fact that it's made me fall in love with Indian classical music. I like it because I could play along to it. I like it because you put on incense and fall into a trance. I like it for its modality.
constellations - balmorhea: cool ambient stuff.
country blues - dock boggs: Incredibly authentic recordings from the 20s of old blues stuff. People singing who you can just tell have no teeth.
crazy clown time - david lynch: I like this for one track and one track alone: Strange and Unproductive Thinking. Like someone said on its youtube page - it's not really a song, it's a groove. But an excellent one. I like the track  because I know someay I can take the piss out of it.
cruisin for a boozin - rum rebellion: Songs that are rowdy and drunkish. think Pogues but tongue-in-cheek. Or rather, tongue on floor.
low albums: Not sure if I discovered Low last year, but t his year they've really grown on me. Brilliant band.
the damnation of faust - berlioz: I like Berlioz's sound - it's like Beethoven but hyper. I find operas tricky to get into these days: I don't have the patience I used to to sit and read the .... uh, what's it called? script?
dear... - keaton henson: I don't remember this but I remember liking it.
the deathly hallows part ii - alexandre desplat: Only got it becausee i remember watching the film and thinking the music was epic. then I heard the soundtrack and realised it wasn't. Desplat's only redeeming feature is his stupid name. Imagine him at school. "What's yer surname, Alex? "Fuck."
definitely maybe - oasis: For some reason I had a brief period where i listened to this. I like the track Columbia because of the interesting jam bit at the end.
demos for the dreaming - parenthetical girls: Beatufiul cover versions of kate bush songs. Under the Ivy is given a synth treatment, a male vocal, and it actually works. Recommended.
director's cut - kate bush: Shite
50 words for snow - kate bush: Vaguely interesting, wishy-washy album. To be honest, it's just nice to see her still going. as long as her work isn't awfully shit, then she can bring out stuff like this forever. Aerial saved her reputation and was possibly her best album, so it doesn't really matter that this was shite.
the dissolution of eternity - dargaard: Erm, I think dargaard are ambient or something.
Karen Dalton - three albums, with a voice that sounds like Janis Joplin if Janis Joplin was mixed with Bob Dylan and left out in the snow with nothing but a pound of heroin and whisky. good in small doses.
doll doll doll - venetian snares: Grim. I only mention that I got this because it was mentioned on peep show. I hate this kind of music with a passion.
drive soundtrack: not sure if I got this a year ago but I've only really listened to it recently. It is great. Bit of a shame it descends into incidental music: would have been nice for it to do what Donnie Darko did and intersperse pop with the classical.
eli and the thirteenth confession - laura nyro: Hated this when I first heard it, especially since for some reason I had bougbht it on CD. Listened to it again and wasn't bad.
endless path ep - babe rainbow: No idea.
dj shadow - endtroducing: I really wanted to love this because it's a classic. turns out it bored me to death. Think Avalanches if they were boring.
eternity rites - dargaard: dunno
the fame monster - lady gaga: I only got this for Bad Romance, which I love for some reason.
the family tree: the roots - radical face: Not as good as Ghost but nice enough. His lyrics are a bit shit now alas.
the fantasist - maxence cyrin: Was mad about this for a while. I can't remember why. It was good while it lasted, like a packet of Skittles.
extended lotr sonudtracks: again sadly I've listened to these more way too much, especially the ROTK one. Every time I hear the crack of doom track it gives me goosebumps. Such power, and intensity, that one does not get from the original soundtrack. Highly recommended, although it only really hits its stride towards the final third.
for all the innocence - lite: No idea
fuck knows - emili toivenon: Couldn't even get the album name.
gemini - wild nothing: Fuck knows.
the glass bead game - james blackshaw: No idea.
grinderman - grinderman: Pretty cool. No Pussy Blues grabbed me from the first time I heard the line 'my face is finished'.
harjedalspipan - various: interesting scandinavia sound.
one from the night - tom waits: Surprisingly pretty movie soundtrack. Waits' growl offset by a female accompinanentntntntnt. I loved this.
homogenic - bjork: Again I wanted to love this but I don't get bjork's appeal or 'genius'.
helplessness blues - fleet foxes: Probably the best album from this lot. Probably. Very pretty. First time i listened to it I fell asleep then was woken, scared out of my wits by a weird jazzy section in 'the shrine/an argument'. Kind of melodies that seem forged from the ground. Lyrics good too. I remember being struck somehow by 'my only regret is my debt' or something
hurry up we're dreaming - m83: I was in love with this album, but sadly it's still tainted by association. And over-listening perhaps. It reminds me too much of when I was happy :\
bily childish: Almost tempted to delete all his stuff. Hate it
into the void - ghola: Ambient dark shite.
zelda: Not sure if I got into this last year, but I still listen to the majora's mask album. Something about it - mixture of  nostalgia, creepiness, general unease - just gets me. To have played Majora's Mask makes me feel somehow special. I experienced possibly the most profound and creepy game ever. It's like I've been a victim of abuse.
the lonesome crowded west - modest mouse: dunno
me and armini - emilia torrini: I really liked this album to the point that I played it when my mum was in my room. Sadly at that point I also realised it's strangely boring.
meadow rituals - luup: Pretty Scandinavian sound.
the money store - death grips: FUCKING SHIT. NO IDEA WHY IT IS RATED SO HIGHLY
mylo xyloto - coldplay: not bad. I really liked Princess of China.
not your kind of people - garbage: recommended on fb by sacha of all people. Not bad at all. Bit loud though.
an omen - how to destroy angels: Disappointing. Bought this on vinyl just to give the player a workout. Shame it was shit. I miss NIN. The last NIN album was actually really good. He seems too happy now, too old.
substrata - biosphere: excellent ambient. Recommended.
suspiria - goblin: Brilliant soudntrack - but you know that.
tempest - bob dylan: Not very good imo. Somehow didn't grab me. To be honest, like Kate Bush, as long as he's not making horrendous albums, it's just nice to see him doing it still.
theatre is evil - amanda palmer: Listened to it once. Don't remmeber anything about it. Where's the darkness? It was poppy and forgettable, like my cat if I had amnesia.
Go-qualia: some ambient album that's pretty good.

My lack of passion in anything new is showing. I can barely read, barely play new games, barely watch new films. If I had a less stressful job, and maybe even lived elsewhere, I might just open up again to this curious world. As it stands I feel like I'm stuck in a rut, and don't want to get out of it.

Top 5 Albums of my year:
1. Meadow Rituals - Luup
2. Blunderbuss - Jack White
3. Hurry Up, We're Dreaming - M83
4. Helplessness Blues - Fleet Foxes
5. Extended Return of the King Soundtrack - Howard Shore (a sad indictment of my current state, I know)

My epic playlist that I've over-played too much:

Moonlight Mile - The Rolling Stones
Princess of China - Coldplay
Finale - Anoice
Take Me With You When You Go - Jack White
Bleeder - Emilia Torrini
Long Snake Moan - PJ Harvey
Jar of Hearts - Christina Perri
Jeremy - Pearl Jam
I Had a King - Joni Mitchell
Nightcall - Kavinsky and Lovefoxxxxxxxxx
Laser Beam - Low
O Magnum Mysterium - Martin (?) Lauridsen
Song of Healing - Kondi Kojo
Terraplane Blues - Robert Johnson
The Crack of Doom - Howard Shore
Sleep - Go-qualia
Blood for Poppies - Garbage
Raconte-Moi Une Histoire - M83

Monday, 17 December 2012

Well I fucked it up

and told my parents I want to quit

Now my mum's crying and my dad's saying I'll struggle to find a job

Sunday, 16 December 2012

Final formal observation

Last chance saloon.

Probably failed already, all things considered.

Kind of mindset I have isn't conducive to teaching. I'm unstable, a joker in the pack. A wildcard. Someone who plays with a loose deck. Holds ten aces up his sleeve and doesn't even sit at the table when he plays. Kind of stands by the bar, wrapped in smoke. Isn't invited to the game: plays anyway. Deals to no one but himself. Wins and loses by his own dealt hand. Nobody realises he's playing. But he plays.

Gerald Scuseme wrapped a cigarillo around a rampage, asking for the time. Double dice rolled and up came jacks and nines. Cruising down the highway blowing smoke out from the window. Last time I tried to eat jam I found myself in Toledo. Asked a nearby gangster where I might find shaving cream. He told me try the pharmacy, and then he wiped my screen. Thought I had it made when I went down to sell my gin. Turns out I had a slow uptake and it was closing up time again. So I rolled down to the barber's where I got my solid suit. He told me it was a razor sharp kind of look and kind of cute. Along the way I held onto the rail of ice-cold glass, and then I went down to the arcade, and had a blast. I won a couple of trillion dollars which I spent on numerous oils. Then the levees broke and my investment was all ruined over and spoiled. So I rolled up to the desert in my '49 Jeep Cherokee; the desert yielded no secrets, far as the naked eye could see. But on the sands came running up a little chipmunk called Jerome; a gleam in his eye, he suggested I ride down into his home. We buried down through thickened sands until I came across, a sturdy gate made out of locks and railings lined with moss. Deep underground this place was buried, I thought that pretty strange - until I realised I wasn't in the desert, I was just feeling deranged. My temperate had passed the mark beyond which sane men talk, and as a result I thought it best to stop up my panic with cork. I let it pass and hung onto his every sounding word, and because of this I felt myself becoming a man unlearned. My aforementioned ability to absorb knowledge now had gone: I threw it away on a railroad track outside of Lexington. And on that train I said hello to a banana made of stone. And he said to me that the best way down is to try and find your way home. So I said goodbye to the familiar and bestowed value on the unknown.

And there I am now facing the prospect of unemployment once again. But in the end my fate is only the fate of all learned men. The fate of learned men who cannot specialise in mechanised tasks; who struggle with instructions because they come from people speaking out of their arse.