Tuesday, 17 December 2013

S A L - IV --- Grace Jones private life

Rogan lives in a cave. That might sound strange but since Lumatel took over you either hand over your data or make yourself scarce. Failing that, death. Suicide is the new survival, or so they'd have us believe. There's just nowhere to run any more. And those agents are getting good. They possess the most advanced technology: laser communiqu├ęs, multi-dimensional phone mapping and a level of mind fracking beyond any I have witnessed before. It's not enough to lie. Deny all knowledge? You have to temporarily obscure all your existing data if you want to beat them. Don't even bother with retaliation -- they swap particles from one chip to another as readily as changing clothes. Why stop at one when you can have many?

As such, it is impossible to trace the lumadata of an agent. Of course you could just dole it out quick like a good citizen. Loads of people do that. You have to. It's the law. Kosmanarshi is watching them pass on the street with a mixture of disdain and envy. They look so happy. She's curious to understand how that would feel...but not that curious. Besides, for every law abider there's a law breaker. Criminals? No. Just lost souls. A culture of people tarnished with the same brush since time began. Quietly reproducing and fading; unseen by the powers above. Once you've joined them, you never escape.

But I digress. The cave. Rogan had discovered Kosmanarshi sitting outside a cave. His cave. Why was she there? You'd probably have to ask her yourself. Although, Rogan did try that and all he got was unintelligible babble. If you want my opinion, she was looking for someone. A friend. Maybe. The man she'd known before the natural disasters, industrial meltdown, the outbreak of mindworm. He'd been kind, intelligent, trustworthy. Head-hunted. The day she'd found him gone she was filled with despair. It was too late. Her heart felt like lead. She had sat on a rock. Just to think. Just to breathe.

"Okay enough. I get it now. I know what I did wrong. I - I'll do better next time."

"Really? What did you do wrong?"

She wished he hadn't asked that.

"The agents. I chose my words badly. I thought they'd care if I told them the truth."

"They don't care. Ha! They know what's inside you already," he looked over to observe her reaction. Despite the fading light his teeth still gleamed as he smiled, "they have you on file."

Kosmanarshi looked away. "How long can I stay here?"

"Two months."

She attempted to disguise her disappointment by staring into the fire, to no avail.

"You think I'm cruel."

"No, it's just I thought that...well you know, with you only living in a rock crevice -"

" '--Only a rock crevice.'"

Cold eyes fixed on her. "'Only.'" Absently Rogan studied the flint in his hand. "I've lived here for years. You thought it would be okay to take liberties. Is that it?"

"No! I thought I might be able to help. I've got some food and lighters and..."

"Let me tell you something. This isn't the city anymore. You can't expect to survive with a pretty knife and leftovers. This furniture, all the things you see here, I made myself. That rug you're sitting on was a deer that I killed and skinned."

"Yes. Of course. I just thought I could -"

" - Do what you like, but I bet that packet of biscuits you'll be begging to leave within a fortnight."

Monday, 25 November 2013

Some Angels Live - III --------- Chris Isaak Wicked Game

"With such mindcraft as yours, you must have been trained by someone high up." Rogan peered at her. "Where do you come from?"

She did not know fully if she could trust him, but similarly did not see any reason to lie. "I was raised at Shinefel. I had a job, friends and a family, but that all ended the day the Lumatel agents came."

"What did they do?"

"They came round to the coop under pretext of testing multi-dimensional image mapping. They had some advanced technology. I was pretty taken with it all I admit. They must have taken some of my chip in the distraction."

"You were a victim of mindcraft theft. An increasingly common occurrence these days." He paused for a moment, as if finding the right words. "When you say 'some of my'..."

"-- all of it. Yep." She laughed weakly. "For a while I had no lumadata."

"How long before you regained full energy levels?"

"F-five months." She stumbled as the words brought back memories of that painful time.

"Ouch. Guess you won't be making that mistake again huh?"

"I hope so, but - but - I'm scared that..." Her throat tightened.

"That they'll come back?"

"Yes. I'd never withstand it."

"I bet. Well, they won't find you here. This is the most secure place on Earth, but you can't stay here forever. You need to learn how to secure your lumadata."

"The droids. Up there. Was it them who gave it back? My - my - ?"

"Your mindcraft field, yes. Mindcraft particles, lumadata particles: they are one and the same, although you could argue one is more fashionable an expression." He smiled. "The droids will continue to replenish your lumadata as long as you're living and breathing. They'll ask nothing in return."

"That's reassuring."

"Yes, Kosmanarshi, it is but.."


"..but that can't be your saving grace. Prevention is better than cure as the old saying goes. You need to avoid situations that threaten your lumadata, and if that isn't possible then you need to get much better at defending yourself against those who pose the threat!"


Rogan glared at her.

"Because, you stupid insolent girl, every time calamity occurs because you've let some lumatel agent into your coop, it will take a little longer for that mindcraft pool to be replenished. It will be no fault of the droids. They will carry on with their duties as ever, but with each setback from mindcraft robbery, you will hurt a little more keenly. Your lumadata receptors will slow down. Your torus will permanently and irrevocably shrink."


She looked down sadly.

"Look. Don't despair. I'm sorry I got spikey it's just; it's just I've seen this happen a lot. So tragic, especially when it could be overcome. Here." He handed her a small piece of what looked like glass. It was black, but in certain lights it showed a moody green hue.

"That's pretty. What is it?"

"It's cloud rock. It preserves mindcraft particles."

"What do I do with it?"

"You need to go somewhere sunny. Somewhere private. Like in a secluded woodland somewhere. Remove and expose your memechip. Allow the luma particles to flow away. While the lumadata is gone you will feel alone and vulnerable. They key is to be patient enough to wait for the lumadata to return to the memechip. It should do eventually because it was allocated to your torus by the droids, but it could take hours - or days."

"How will I know when that's done?"

"The queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach will subside and you'll feel normal. Then when all the luma particles are safely back in the memechip you need to take this piece of rock and place it inside your memechip just before you close and restore it. With a bit of luck it should stop the burglars in their tracks."

"Really? How?"

For the first time, Rogan laughed. His laugh was kind.

"Let's just say, it'll confuse the hell out of them."

Saturday, 16 November 2013

Some Angels Live - II -------- Mahler 1

Still trembling she leant away from the apparatus, trying to make sense of what she had seen. "What are those things?"

"They are droids. Robotic creatures. They come from a distant galaxy. Their casing is of a metal ore that can only be found deep underground on the planet Lithier."

"But I don't understand. Why are they here? Why can't I see them without the -- when I'm not -- ?"

"They can't be seen with the naked eye. Viewing them requires technology. I made this instrument as a means of studying the human torus. I did not intend to come across these creatures, but in doing so, that is what I found. I was initially terrified, like you I admit, and feared for my life, but having studied these robots for some time I no longer view them as malevolent. They are peaceful. Gentle giants in fact. It is my belief that they came to put right imbalances of mindcraft atoms."

"....Mindcraft atoms....?"

"The particles that make up your energy field. Your torus. Your ability to think reflect, create art and music. Everything that makes you human."

"Why come to Earth just for that? What's in it for them?"

"That's something I've been pondering. My best guess is that they see it as their duty because it was they themselves who created mindcraft atoms. To them it was a gift bestowed upon the human race. They wanted us to see the error of our ways and cease to make war and to destroy so readily in view of the delicate balance, the fragile ecosystem in which we live."

"You believe they are sentient?"

"Almost certainly. They know everything about us, perhaps better than we know ourselves. They are us. So much so that they feel our pain. That is why they made the journey to be with us. Everytime someone is born without Mindcraft energy, a droid cries. It is all they can do to gather it up and hand it back."

She was certain that he was making this up. He had to be didn't he?

"Okay, maybe you're right. Say they are good benevolent beings. If that's the case how come there's some people with a heap of mindcraft whatsit, while others only have barely any?"

"It is the droids task to ensure that each living human being has sufficient force within his torus to do his or her job, big or small whatever that is. We are all different, and so need different amounts. Robots being robots they can gage fairly accurately how much the correct amount is. They would never exceed the appropriate amount for each person. That in itself would be dangerous. But whenever someone loses some mindcraft power it causes suffering. Evil reigns. The droids can feel it. They know. That is how closely connected they are to us. Rest assured Kosmanarshi. The reason you have a large torus field is because you need it." He smiled. Kosmanarshi shivered.

Friday, 15 November 2013

Some angels live - I ------- Current tune --- Capdown - Civil Disobedience

They were standing in the observatory, next to the silver telescope. Just down the hill Rogan had found Kosmanarshi sitting alone exhausted, her eyes half closed.

"I don't know. You say that I'm foolish. Maybe. I say making it this far is reason enough."

"Only because the angels are helping you. They are everywhere and it is they who protect you. Large ones small ones fat and skinny, they devote themselves to your safety."

"Why would they do that?"

"Because of your torus."

"My what now?"

"Your torus, your energy. You have a startling current for someone your age. But it exposes you to danger. There are those who desire your end because of what it represents."

"What does it represent?"

He suddenly looked at her, taken aback at her ignorance. "Lots of things, someone with high luma strength can bring hope and freedom; to those who are worthy."

"How do you know this?"

"I read a lot. I spotted you or rather, your torus, with this." He pointed to the telescope behind him. "Everyone has one, but yours is purple and larger than is customary. Is it so hard to understand why I approached you? I mean I'm standing there just doing my regular observations when suddenly I find a giant purple orb just loitering in a rock crevice. What am I supposed to do?"

"I've never heard anyone talk about a torus before."

"It's ancient knowledge, not generally spoken of. Maybe it should be."

"Is that a normal telescope?"

"It can be used in the normal way but I refined it a little. Now it can detect the torus of all living things. Take a look."

He stepped aside to let her up onto the ledge. The instrument was pointed in the direction of the sand plains ahead. She stepped up to the lens and squinted her eyes.

"What do you see?"

Kosmanarshi did not respond. She was frightened. Her hand fell away from the instrument. She was shaking.

"You saw them didn't you?"

Thursday, 24 October 2013

Steppenwolf don't ask me which album ("born to be wild" wasn't on it)

It was International Poetry Day the other day; progress I suppose but if you saw what I had to say about annual days that are devoted to a concept that should theoretically apply all the year around - like for example rights and esteem for those in possession of a vagina - then you'll understand why I don't rate it too highly as something that furthers the cause of the tortured creator of prose. "An artist/writer's place is in the broom closet/mysterious void behind the washing machine where the dishcloths go to die, clutching tightly hold of their Ipad/caked up paintbrush/sledgehammer, sighing whenever a word/splodge of paint/some other obscure medium of expression goes array on the wrong part of the sentence/canvass/multidimensional vacuum." Was it Churchill who said that? Somewhere on the globe there's an allotted corner for any genre you can think of. Meanwhile there's infinite space for art that ticks the boxes. I'll try not to worry about it. I struggle with this. As a rule I avoid crowd pleasing because it's a half-measure. Let's see... originality and compromise: best of friends they aren't. (The reverse sentence structure was for emphasis and not a Yoda impression, but you can say it in a Yoda style if it makes pleases you). I sometimes imagine a connoisseur ogling my oil paint stuff and uttering those fateful four words 'you could go far'. Really? Where too? Will it be shiny? All that glisters. Blah blah. It's true though. I don't imagine it could ever be as shiny as the moment at which we finish a creation born of our own minds, completed for no-one else but ourselves. In all likelihood no-one else'll care or even understand; but that's okay because we don't want them to. The reasons you turn to the canvass are personal and volatile. I despised the write-up process during my art G.C.S.E.. I made some okay things - sculptures and clumsy sketches. My art teacher would glance over my shoulder and say, "That's great." And I would feel great. Then she'd say: "Now explain in a concise three stage plan how you came up with the idea." And I'd be shot down like a clay pigeon. I didn't have a 'three stage' anything I just wanted to draw people's faces in black charcoal. Maybe that's the mandatory clincher between amateur and professional. High ranking craftsmen and ladies don't just produce pretty trinkets. They carry their wares to your doorstep, boot your door down and give you a thirty-minute powerpoint, even without the interactive white board.

Tuesday, 27 August 2013

Kurt Atterberg Piano Concerto

Sanctioning a population (or a grouping therein) for committing mass murder is one thing. Doing so whilst aiming a missile their way is another. The atrocities taking place in Damascus don't bare mentioning. Suffice to say the web is currently brimming with graphic images. I don't condone violence. I am a peaceful person and like many, being confronted with these images is upsetting to say the least. However, when I read about the U.S. planned retaliation -- firing missiles at specified targets so that they can 'get the message across' -- I nearly laughed. What message? The one to indicate who has the biggest dick in a cross- continent wrestling match? What? What do they hope to achieve? No one; not the civilians; not the military (except maybe through some kind of inbuilt sick joy at getting to play with 'big toys'?); not the banks; and not even the politicians making these horrendous decisions will benefit. It will cause a war. Another pointless, resource depleting war. Devastating for everyone. The only good thing I can find to say about this situation is that I no longer feel guilty about having bought new shoes when my old pair fell to bits. I waste hours in a permanent state of anxiety at the fear of overspending by one or two pence. Meanwhile the government is busy spending millions on drones and killing machines. Where's that sterling come from? Partly taxpayers. Partly borrowed zeroes added to infinitesimal debt. I just don't understand the mentality. It's starting to piss me off. Sleazy oil companies and pharmaceutical monopolies quietly licking each other's bum holes in an interminable chain of command. And yet when you get to the end of that long line; step behind the smoke screen -- it's just some guy. Okay he wears a suit. Maybe he attends the odd secret conference that decides our futures. It's still just a guy. He still uses the toilet. I bet sometimes, just sometimes, he thinks of what he's done and feels afraid. Then he shrugs it off and carries on. Maybe he's tired with the world so he has to buy another 4X4 just so his wife turns a blind eye to those hookers he hired. Maybe he has to start a war so we forget the lies that were already there. He's still just a man. Nobody made him the centre of the universe.

Thursday, 15 August 2013

Public Service Broadcast

Sobering: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gh3JrdL-Zg&feature=player_embedded *Happy news bulletin: Today whilst sitting in morning sunshine, arduous reading of a long, depressing book about WWII was brought to a halt when two peacock butterflies landed on the page I was on. They were exploiting the flat surface for cleaning of antennae and proboscis. Subsequent 10 minutes was spent in contemplative wonder of their beautiful colourings. Yey :D

Sunday, 14 July 2013

Zapp 4

1) I feel reasonably well. I've been eating loads and dare I say it my ghoulish appearance is gradually being replaced by a modest collection of freckles and sunshine. There was one day about a month ago when I cried. It was sparked off by an email from a friend, although on reflection there was nothing unkind or malicious in the words written. It seemed to trigger a response to something else deep within. It was like having a mirror held up to my own hypocrisy. My failure to challenge the things that I hate. The admissions that I will one day become those things. I've been bitten by corporatocracy. It's too late. 2) "You either pay the farmers or pay the hospital" -- kid of 11 gives pretty accurate depiction of the food system http://www.ted.com/talks/birke_baehr_what_s_wrong_with_our_food_system.html

Friday, 12 July 2013

Duke Ellington

1) A few weeks back a blackbird went nuts while I was out in the garden contemplating my handiwork. It was perched on the veg trellis and making a racket. It didn’t budge even when I came up close. I assumed it was annoyed at my presence and wanted to eat my produce (although their taste for runner beans was news to me). I was on my guard and ready to shoo it off. Ten minutes later I overheard mutterings that next door’s cat had just found its way into a blackbird nest and tortured/ate whole one of the chicks there residing. Said loquacious feathered creature wasn't pinching beans. It was communicating sadness at the loss of its baby – all to no avail because of my ignorance of bird-ish. This was confirmed by a bird of brown plumage (mum?) sitting nearby on top of the wheelie bin and looking very much aggrieved. The protest made by (dad) blackbird was not the sound of a thief. It was the noise of mourning. I'm humbled. 2) Sitting on back doorstep listening to Duke Ellington. With wine. 3) Nobody’s perfect.

Wednesday, 12 June 2013

Saturday, 8 June 2013

Glazunov Saxophone Concerto

Playing chess against the computer is like having a conversation with yourself. And losing.

Meic Stevens - Ghost Town

When I was thirteen I got up in front of school and performed a solo violin piece. It was a really obscure choice. I remember the music teacher's look of deep concern. As if up till that point I had possessed a certain degree of respect, and was about to put it in the shredder. I did it anyway. The applause at the end was forthcoming, but uncertain. Like the old Hawkwind song "we took the wrong step years ago.." I feel that this was the first of just many stupid ideas. But then social conformity was always elusive to me. Like that sad realisation that being counted as 'gifted and talented' in school is not a blessing. It is in fact an early signpost to a lifetime of feeling lost and confused in a world where anyone who is even slightly different will be stigmatised. "Sometimes it's better to conform." A friend said this to me recently. She has a point. Sometimes we have to sacrifice ourselves to the flow even though on reflection it isn't what we'd decide given time. I don't know whether at school I was deliberately obtuse or whether it really was impossible to fit in. A bit of both maybe. I used to get called lezza because of my clunky boots. That wasn't deliberate -- I couldn't afford better boots. Interestingly the jeering subsided almost to nothing when I invested in a pair of mainstream branded trainers; which shows you how cheap the elites of conformity are. If I went to school now I'd be classed as autistic. I read somewhere that some people with autism display difficulty in following rules and aligning themselves socially. Is it progress to find new labels for people who think differently? Or just another way of controlling unruly children who happen to have a mind of their own? Whenever you read studies on Autism there seems to be some sort of grey area in between arguments that Autism/EBD is an illness and that it is a brain type. That's a big difference. One wants to treat the 'sick' child who is being afflicted by bad thoughts. The other embraces the child as a victim in a system in which their intelligence and way of thinking are unlikely to ever be accepted.

Friday, 24 May 2013

Morton Feldman

Can't remember what the piece was called. It was short, apparently dedicated to his piano teacher. It sounded like the sky. Well timed radio schedule - just in time to scare the ghost away. You might think I'm making it up. I'm not. There is a spectre thing which comes into my room at night. It tugs at my duvet like a patient calling for the nurse. Maybe it wants to talk. Maybe it wants to be alive again. Not what it's cracked up to be though living, is it? As a ghost you could have more fun turning invisible and scaring chavs. A few hours later bedroom door slammed shut. Would have cacked pants except Dilly was there. I jumped and she sat bolt upright. Strange how a small furry animal can make you feel less alone. She's a really stupid cat but does have an amazing talent for spotting when I'm down. If ever I start descending into the hole of doom she appears as if to say, don't look at that look at me. It's far more exciting. Makes you wonder though, are people with depression weak? Watched a bbc thing a week back. It was about what happens in your head when you get the more severe forms. Apparently part of your brain shrinks and you lose the ability to process normal emotions. Nice. Reassuring in a way. I never felt it was right to tell a victim of clinical depression to 'pull themselves together.' But it's understandable. Sad really. Like the bit of the brain that used to believe in something has been crushed. How do you cure something like that? Part of living here has forced me to recognise my limitations. I am poor, and not 'good' at anything. I'm just dull. What happened to me in the past was a result of me trying to exceed those limitations. I wanted to prove a point. One up against the truth. It went very badly wrong. I wanted to believe that there was something better out there. In fact there was, but even the slightest glimpse came on sufferance. I paid the price. Now I don't even feel better, because all that I could have had is gone. Ignorance = bliss. Those were the days. I've accepted my origins, my history, who I am, and actually it's okay. I'm not good enough. I'm constrained by my own selfishness. Probably always will be. I tried to be good, but one day woke up and realised that I have never been good my whole life. I take after my parents, and that says a lot. At best I consume, at worst I thieve. That little part of my brain that once made happiness just can't anymore. If it feels anything like I do, it's exhausted.

Sunday, 5 May 2013

Jaga Jazzist

Unpacked about half of my stuff. Still minor breathing problems but otherwise allergy seems to be subsiding. I think the reason it persisted in my childhood was the horrendous black carpet of dust on top of the wardrobe next to bed in spare room. It had somehow slipped mum's radar and passed unnoticed, gradually amassing troops of dead skin and cat fur to form thick regiments of klller dirt. I can only suppose that it had once existed as the regualr, recognisable type that you find on top of the tv. This new strain required holding a scarf over my mouth with one hand while scraping the dirt into a rag with the other. Perhaps I should get a gas mask. That's the least of my problems though. Main source of trouble comes in the form of a ghost spirit that is unwilling to share its quarters with me. It has the indecency to wake me up at 2am just so it can plague me. It's like water going down the plug in the bath, only the water is the air and the bath is the wall. Luckily putting the little lamp on seems to scare it off. It came too close the other night though. And it wasn't coming on a social visit. I'm not normally the 'metaphysical' type. I enjoy philosophy on many things, but that doesn't normally extend to the paranormal. I am, however, open-minded and wouldn't rule it out. Especially if that particular spirit was trying to eat me. I think thus far we have a cordial agreement. It will resist consumming me if I respect its superiority. The other thing that spooked me at about 4am that same night was a discussion between two birds in the tree opposite the window. Bare in mind that Natnwich is REALLY silent at 4am, so birdcalls will cut though the air. There was a distinct pause of about four seconds in between each call and response. They were talking about something. I wish I knew what. It sent a shiver up my spine. There were other birds present but they were not participating. They did eventually -- after about 20 mins -- as part of usual dawn chorus rituals, but not before these two protagonists has had their say. It was about something important. I wish I knew what.

Friday, 19 April 2013

Karlheinz Stockhausen

My shitty job sacked me so I'm moving to Nantwich. Their reasoning was apparently my "not being suited to customer service roles." Laughable; it's almost like saying, "due to your being so feral we've decided you should leave this place and return to your hole." I think the actual reason was that I don't smoke (thereby losing valuable fag break gossip points) and my boobs are too small. Or that I just didn't fit in. I probably should have left Sheffield sooner. The stranglehold of the welfare state has been slowly but surely suffocating my oxygen supply for three years now. It feels frightening to be a newly fledged non-doler. It will be refreshing if people stop looking at me in that way. No need to make a song and dance I suppose. Will have to nip back for gig needs. Maybe once or twice a year. Did consider possibility of canal boat. I had a dream about folk on the boat. It was a pleasant dream until more experienced and worldly friend pointed out that I'd want £20,000 for something remotely more than floating shoebox. She reckons caravans are the way forward. She probably right. Part of me still wants to grab Sheffield full throttle and embrace it in the heart of my averagely endowed bosom, part of it is paralysed by doubt. Perhaps if I was more well endowed in the bosom department it wouldn't be so much of an issue. I understand the half baked sentiment though. I feel the same. I should go somewhere where the embrace is less half hearted. I may become perhaps the second or third busker of Nantwich. I may also make some less shoddy business cards for some lessons to small people. However, this thought terrifies me. I have no idea why I should be scared of children. No doubt an older person would say that it is because I am still like a child. Perhaps. I think condition definitely worsened when I volunteered in a Primary School and someone asked, "Are you a psychologist?" To which a witty nine year-old replied, "No she's a psycho." That summed it up really. I was like the hanger on at a kids party. Even the saddos didn't want to talk to me.

Monday, 11 March 2013

Listen to the Silence - George Russel

Got spotify. Had it once, but shunned fbook then comp got asthma and died. By the time got round to downloading it again it was all newfangled and I didn't get it. That'll teach me for turning my back on networking websites, and not cleaning my desk. Anyway, this time it worked, and though it pains me to say it, I'm content. Missed it as was previously dependent on sites that were great for the new and unknown, but no good for entire albums. Sound quality seems much improved too. I tend to use this blog as a way of keeping track of decent music. If it made the post title it's because it pleased me in some way. I don't want to be a music critic, nor do I want to write for the hell of it if uninspired to write. Whenever the music does not warrant unnecessary wordiness I tend to go off topic. It's more fun. Lack of comment doesn't mean the work was unworthy though, more that no words spring to mind at that particular moment. What I'm listening to now is a good example. It literally has everything. There's groovy percussion, big-band brass, orchestral strings and choral singing. It doesn't fit into a category. Maybe it's modern classical, but that seems a loose term for something so rhythmic. It could be some shade of experimental sound art, but that's too non specific and flat. So, if forced to categorize I'd call it 'operatic jazz', but probably not to it's face.

Friday, 8 March 2013

Jackie Oats - Dream Angus

It's International Women's Day. Phew! So pleased. Will be celebrating by ------ not celebrating. The reason I hesitate before cracking open the fizzy stuff is: I don't believe in it. Call me jaded but, much as I'd like to, I don't feel that progress has been made regarding women's empowerment. Save perhaps my own personal journey (sexist jokes don't bother me as they used to, but I'm practised at it by now; I am what you'd call a bookish rather than sexy woman). Yup tis true that education is the key to equlity, and I don't mean attending school in a blazer, fountain pen at the ready. I mean getting out and doing stuff. A while back I heard someone say that if it's Women's Day today, it's men's for the other 364. I'm inclined to agree. Not sure a single day in which I'm revered for my gender was what I had in mind. Would have preferred good solid respect the year round as a normal hard-working citizen, regardless of what's between my legs! Men get better pay, don't have to bother with maternity leave and are more likely obtain positions of power. Indian males don't get drowned at infancy. Something to do with arranged marriages and dowries. Does it matter??? It's enough to make your blood boil. I happened to catch Nawal el Saadawi, a feminist writer from Egypt on the radio a few months ago. She gave a very moving account of what she went though, such as being told as a girl that, "one man is worth ten women." I remember thinking, "Yea but what if he's a useless c**t." ---- I'm not going to have a rant about men. For one thing, most of them do not displease me. And for another, I cannot be arsed. It does make me wonder though, "Are we feminists just experiencing a bit a bad pmt, or, is it just really f**king hard being female???" I've added Richard Dawkins to my twitter account, being a fan of modern atheist philosophy. I thought nothing of it until one of his tweets popped up on my newsfeed: "Blessed are you, King of the Universe, for not having made me a Gentile." "Blessed are you for not having made me a woman." A copy and paste into google later I could conclude that this was something he himself had written. I found myself feeling angry, then scolded myself for being stupid. It seemed disheartening that a modern scientist and philosopher should make such a seemingly narrow statement. Then again, maybe he was just showing sympathy. An open acknowledgement that women have it tough. I haven't filed a complaint yet. :)

Sunday, 3 March 2013

John Cage

As I sit in my room listening to static noise I become aware of the horrible futility of existence. It doesn't matter what I do. What I go in for, went in for, set out to do, will be forgotten and swept away like sand in the wind. My thoughts are flecks of dust on a clean mirror. They don't exist. Where should I put these thoughts, this noise? This image? I cannot touch it. Like light it changes upon reaching my eye.

Saturday, 23 February 2013

Justin Hinds - The Higher the Monkey Climbs

The Dicktionary ---In which all various shades of stupid dick are arranged alphabetically for your convenience. A is for Arse. Dicks speak a load of arse. B is for Bad behaviour. C is for Chaos. Fools rush in they say, which is why dicks and fools have a mutual understanding. Chaos ensues from running dicks. Even if the meadows are fresh and green. D is for Disaster. The product of unrestrained dicks. E is for Eventually. He'll get it...eventually.... F is for FFS!!! G is for Grinning. Inanely. Completely oblivious to the trail of debris behind you. H is for Hiding. A stealthy dick is a healthy one. I is for Imbecile. J is for Just hold that thought. K is for Kick. As in KICK them. L is for Leash. Dicks shall be kept on a leash at all times. M is for Mild case of dick. N is for No. Just no. O is for Oh. P is for Please stop being a dick. Q is for Ps and Qs. Dicks have a habit of forgetting these. R is for Reckless dicks. S is for Silent. My phone was on silent. T is for Total dicks. U is for Untethered. All dicks shall be tethered. V is for Viciousness. The result of dicks. W is for Why? Why choose to be a dick. Why???? X is for Xenic. I detect the presence of bad dick bacteria. (Go look it up) Y is for Yield. Never yield to dicks. Z is for Zoos. I would rather spend time with the chimps in the zoo than with dicks.

Friday, 22 February 2013

Cyril Tourney - Sally Free and Easy

"Sally free and easy that should be her name When my body's landed hope she dies of shame." Well that was a sinister ending to an otherwise lovely song. In other news I'm reading about Genghis Khan. Hope you're sitting comfortably children. Genghis Khan was a kindly, warm-hearted, well meaning man born on the border between Mongolia and Russia in around 1155. It is said that he was born clutching a blood clot, an omen to the coming of a warrior who would be a great leader someday. As a boy he was expelled from his home tribe along with his mother, his three brothers and his sister after his father - the chieftain - was poisoned by a rival tribe. They roamed the plains hungry and lost. One day his brother stole some food for himself, so Genghis killed him. And thus a warrior was born. Miraculously he escaped exile and returned to the clan of his childhood sweetheart. They met, it was deemed a match, and they were blissfully married. Shortly afterwards the lucky lady was kidnapped by a rival clan. Genghis dutifully whisked her away home. By which point the beautiful newly wed was too knackered to even bat an eyelid at her knight in shining armour's numerous wives and concubines that popped up about the place. With a new tribe to support him, Genghis was unstoppable. Enemies were forced to flee or die, and word of his bravery spread throughout the land. Genghis created laws for his people and anyone who did not obey was severely punished. And these punishments were original. I don't mean boring old solitary confinement or a day in the stocks. I'm pretty certain that if I were at risk of being launched into some boiling oil, having my head removed or getting [my personal favourite] "tied to horses and dragged over miles and miles of rough terrain."* I wouldn't show much resistance either. That said, even brutal dictators have a sweeter side, and in paintings he is said to be portrayed with a long grandfatherly beard and "laughter lines round his eyes."* Furthermore he was apparently humoured by sycophants that were in a state of perpetual terror greatly esteemed for his fondness of religion and philosophy, and he was against bigotry. Well if you're going to massacre people I suppose you may as well not be fussy about it. *The Most Evil Dictators in History, Shelley Klein, Michael O'Mara Books Ltd 2002

Saturday, 26 January 2013

B B King

A strange day. Went to practice. Went to art class. Left footprints in some fresh snow. Strangely satisfying. We invented an ode to art class using words that rhymed with the name of the class. Potentially all rhyming words will be thrown in a collage to be swapped around according to poetical preference. A bit like the fridge magnet game, but better. A good day. Can't put my finger on the feeling. New. I used to be afraid to turn up late. Now I start when everyone has finished. Seems to work for me. Time is relative. I guess that's why hippies don't get jobs.