Why, I ask myself, do words sometimes flow freely, and other times they remain dammed up, stubborn in their refusal to be released?
Stubborn refusal - this is an adequate summation of my most common experience. I have something to say, and a vague idea of how I wish to express it, but no way of setting anything in motion.
The past 16 or so months have taught me that there are ways of teasing sentences out of a reluctant head and setting them down with lethargic fingers. Certain pieces of music have been known to do the trick, pulling me close to the event horizon of my personal abyss, where the threat of extinction is near.
In having to bow down low before the self before I can write, the whole thing takes on the mantle of convention, of process, and I might as well apply for a repetitive, predictable job in a factory or an office. Convention and process spell the death of creativity. I'm aware of this even as the words 'the creative process' echo in my mind. When the first thing to do before a word is committed to paper or screen is to, without fail, annihilate one's emotional resources, then this is a convention, an a priori.
There is a never-ending battle between myself and the shadow of myself. I recall the quote from Savo Milosevic, the Bosnian-born Serbia international footballer. When preparing for a game against Bosnia (for Serbia), Milosevic said that he was playing for his country against his country. Similarly, I fight against myself with myself, and feel the victory of the body over the repudiated soul.
When writing the two previous entries on here, I performed some sort of sleight of mind which permitted me to express the unsaid. These are the ghost-sentiments, the unseen objects that hijack dreams and promote the 'sinking feeling' which occurs during waking hours.
I wonder whether I've hit on some trick of the light which will tip the battle of self against self in the direction 'I' most desire? By writing in (effectively) patois, or by maintaining the pretence of being an outsider, might this permit the articulation of thoughts which are otherwise too personal, too real?
To chip away at the prison which contains every possible thought - this is the thing. Should only the smoke or the mirror-image of these infinities ever present itself for diagnosis, it is preferable to the frustrating self-imposed restrictions under which I currently work.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Idioms.
Mi dad's gone ooerm nar.
Ee kem ter stop wi me fer four neets cuz e ad a cooers (e's baht wuk for nar) abart aif a mile from eer.
When e wor eer it turnd parent-child relationship on its eeud. Am barn ter speyk like im nar cuz tha can't forget thi roots, can tha?
Am barn ter speyk like im and behave like im cuz to all intents and purposes I am im. Favva-leet. A thutty-year owd prototype, guin darn same deterministic path.
That meeans am barn ter loyse Bluefish one day. I'll cop off wi some gert I meet in t'boozer or wheerivver, an piss ivverythin away. Ivverythin a've wukt for. All them bloody years, wuth nowt. Just like me mam an me dad.
It appened ter me. Well, ter them, an a got cort int crossfire - as tha duz. A kem ooerm wun neet an me mam wor sittin int dark. It wor only abart six a'clock. This is years agu nar burra still think abart it.
Wot's guin on, a sed ter mi mam? Shi cun't gie ower rooarin, and teld mi ter av a look at a bit o paper shi wa owdin. It worra letter frum mi favva: sorry, a've bin playin away. I dun't want ter leeave thi wi nowt.
Fuckinell, e'd gone. A kept tellin er that e'd be ooerm in a minnit. Be reight - thee watch. If 'e cums ooerm, I'll gie im one-eighty in is back wi mi kitchin nives. Am tellin thi, sun. You know what? No bluddy judge in England ud convict me if a did im in terneet. I adden't gorra bloody clue - a nivver sore it cummin. Bolt art ert blue.
E din't cum tho. Turnz art e teld mi mam e wor gooin ter wuk an then ee'd gon bak tut ouse ter pick iz stuff up. E'd waited for er ter set off to visit er mam an then ee'd gon back an tuk ivverythin e could lay is ands on.
This wo Friday. A din't see mi favva til Setdy. Ee kem tut ouse (wi some chips) and they teld me ter gu up ter mi room after wi'd etten em. Later on, wi gorrin iz car an e tuk me in tut tarn. Ad nivver seen im cry afooer, burri did.
Nubdi ivver sore mi rooar. A did it int bath, cuz salt ed assimilate wit watter, and tha'd not be anyt wiser. It wor an excuse fort red face ant puffy eyes an all - a've just gor art ot bath.
A wor 19 an a cun't andle it. Mi mam sed a'd find er angin at back ot dooer wen a got bak frum collidge wun er these days. Shi bowt enuf paracetemol ter num a killer wail - neighbour ad ter keep tekkin um offer. Bowt as much as she cud from both supermarkits. As much as she cud from both kemmists. Mooer than enuf theer ter finish thi off.
A'v not bin reight wi mi dad since. Like a seh, it wa bloody years agu. A've only ivver bin able ter talk wi im abart it wunce. An a din't know what ter seh. A can't even write abart it in proper Inglish - a ev ter code it like this.
A can't forgerrit. A reckon it's same as if tha'd bin in a reight bad accident wi all thi limbs mangled and clingin onter life wi a flap o skin. It's ter much fo thi eead ter process, an all tha can do is develop copin strategies. It meks it so that sum days er allreight, but aif ot time, thi dreeams are fukt up, an tha weks up feelin as tho tha's bin dropped darn a well o misery baht end.
Fallin thru t'blackness, and then fallin sum mooer. A've bin spinning like a cathrin weel in mi own shaft er darkness for 11 years. Am longin ter it bottom. A'll either dee or it'll jolt me back into normality - worrever tharris.
It's ner wunder a feel so sad allt time. Am carryin this rahnd wi me, an it teks effort. A can't gie ower feightin wi it, an a dun't know ow ter lerrit gu. Avin ter balance fooerces wi summat a lot bigger than thi's fuckin debilitatin. Like a kitten trynna pull an artic.
Ee kem ter stop wi me fer four neets cuz e ad a cooers (e's baht wuk for nar) abart aif a mile from eer.
When e wor eer it turnd parent-child relationship on its eeud. Am barn ter speyk like im nar cuz tha can't forget thi roots, can tha?
Am barn ter speyk like im and behave like im cuz to all intents and purposes I am im. Favva-leet. A thutty-year owd prototype, guin darn same deterministic path.
That meeans am barn ter loyse Bluefish one day. I'll cop off wi some gert I meet in t'boozer or wheerivver, an piss ivverythin away. Ivverythin a've wukt for. All them bloody years, wuth nowt. Just like me mam an me dad.
It appened ter me. Well, ter them, an a got cort int crossfire - as tha duz. A kem ooerm wun neet an me mam wor sittin int dark. It wor only abart six a'clock. This is years agu nar burra still think abart it.
Wot's guin on, a sed ter mi mam? Shi cun't gie ower rooarin, and teld mi ter av a look at a bit o paper shi wa owdin. It worra letter frum mi favva: sorry, a've bin playin away. I dun't want ter leeave thi wi nowt.
Fuckinell, e'd gone. A kept tellin er that e'd be ooerm in a minnit. Be reight - thee watch. If 'e cums ooerm, I'll gie im one-eighty in is back wi mi kitchin nives. Am tellin thi, sun. You know what? No bluddy judge in England ud convict me if a did im in terneet. I adden't gorra bloody clue - a nivver sore it cummin. Bolt art ert blue.
E din't cum tho. Turnz art e teld mi mam e wor gooin ter wuk an then ee'd gon bak tut ouse ter pick iz stuff up. E'd waited for er ter set off to visit er mam an then ee'd gon back an tuk ivverythin e could lay is ands on.
This wo Friday. A din't see mi favva til Setdy. Ee kem tut ouse (wi some chips) and they teld me ter gu up ter mi room after wi'd etten em. Later on, wi gorrin iz car an e tuk me in tut tarn. Ad nivver seen im cry afooer, burri did.
Nubdi ivver sore mi rooar. A did it int bath, cuz salt ed assimilate wit watter, and tha'd not be anyt wiser. It wor an excuse fort red face ant puffy eyes an all - a've just gor art ot bath.
A wor 19 an a cun't andle it. Mi mam sed a'd find er angin at back ot dooer wen a got bak frum collidge wun er these days. Shi bowt enuf paracetemol ter num a killer wail - neighbour ad ter keep tekkin um offer. Bowt as much as she cud from both supermarkits. As much as she cud from both kemmists. Mooer than enuf theer ter finish thi off.
A'v not bin reight wi mi dad since. Like a seh, it wa bloody years agu. A've only ivver bin able ter talk wi im abart it wunce. An a din't know what ter seh. A can't even write abart it in proper Inglish - a ev ter code it like this.
A can't forgerrit. A reckon it's same as if tha'd bin in a reight bad accident wi all thi limbs mangled and clingin onter life wi a flap o skin. It's ter much fo thi eead ter process, an all tha can do is develop copin strategies. It meks it so that sum days er allreight, but aif ot time, thi dreeams are fukt up, an tha weks up feelin as tho tha's bin dropped darn a well o misery baht end.
Fallin thru t'blackness, and then fallin sum mooer. A've bin spinning like a cathrin weel in mi own shaft er darkness for 11 years. Am longin ter it bottom. A'll either dee or it'll jolt me back into normality - worrever tharris.
It's ner wunder a feel so sad allt time. Am carryin this rahnd wi me, an it teks effort. A can't gie ower feightin wi it, an a dun't know ow ter lerrit gu. Avin ter balance fooerces wi summat a lot bigger than thi's fuckin debilitatin. Like a kitten trynna pull an artic.
Sunday, 25 October 2009
hacked
just goes to show how easy it is to recover someones password thus compromising the security of their blog
isnt that right paul
once you get ahold of one password the rest fall like a stack of dominoes or at least they do if the persons as predictable as you are
theres only a finite number of spanish verbs in the preterite to be used and it isnt like youd gone far beyond vine fueron and hiciste
yeah once you get one the rest of em come easy and its like having the key to your unconscious mind open estuve
so your scared of dying and scared of failure and frightened that you cant communicate
this is the message from your inner sanctum those encrypted files on your desktop by the way its too late to delete them now theres no going back because i was bright enough to remember to take copies of everything
so your scared of dying for the same stupid reason your scared of everything else
theres no certainty and no predictability so for a man who craves routine and regularity how autistic of you every day is like death anyway
your terrified that your life will be snapped off somewhere in the middle like all the men in your family dying young and having achieved nothing
just another headstone describing another wasted life on and off the stage unremarkably and without incident
the thought leaves you frozen in horror and the shock of never having done anything about it leaves you frozen in horror
isnt that right paul
once you get ahold of one password the rest fall like a stack of dominoes or at least they do if the persons as predictable as you are
theres only a finite number of spanish verbs in the preterite to be used and it isnt like youd gone far beyond vine fueron and hiciste
yeah once you get one the rest of em come easy and its like having the key to your unconscious mind open estuve
so your scared of dying and scared of failure and frightened that you cant communicate
this is the message from your inner sanctum those encrypted files on your desktop by the way its too late to delete them now theres no going back because i was bright enough to remember to take copies of everything
so your scared of dying for the same stupid reason your scared of everything else
theres no certainty and no predictability so for a man who craves routine and regularity how autistic of you every day is like death anyway
your terrified that your life will be snapped off somewhere in the middle like all the men in your family dying young and having achieved nothing
just another headstone describing another wasted life on and off the stage unremarkably and without incident
the thought leaves you frozen in horror and the shock of never having done anything about it leaves you frozen in horror
Monday, 19 October 2009
Photograph.
Sometimes I open the photograph of Bluefish and I, one taken in an English seaside town at the height of summer, and I wonder if we ever existed at all.
The photograph is by now a fossil, trapped in the frozen river of linear time. A black hole is the photograph, sucking in any information about what existed before it and came after it.
Nobody would know that, in the hours before it was taken, Bluefish and I had cursed our way through sun-struck streets, wheeling a rectangle of luggage which regularly ran into trouble on the uneven surfaces. The two of us had been very close to losing our tempers as we searched out a distant hotel, and the mood darkened further when the satellite navigation system on my mobile phone kept sending us around in circles.
And it would be hard to discern from Bluefish's relaxed smile that the pair of us were being destroyed - not with the devastating light and impact of a bomb, inverting everything in its vicinity, but more akin to a shipwreck.
The inevitability of her return to a distant land meant that we slowly fell apart, committing with each passing hour another part of ourselves to an imminent future which had already been taken care of. Each thought of that yet-to-be endured Friday night at Heathrow sweetened the pair of us in the depths of misery.
So the photograph is arrogant, or spoiled. It demands that the eye focus on it, and nothing else. Context and depth mean nothing to it - a bore in brightly-coloured clothing.
Yet to those with a sliver of 'inside' knowledge, the photograph is at once transformed from mediocrity. The image of Bluefish and I, packed tightly together and filling the eye, can never be mediocre - it is, instead, painful.
It is painful because it refers to a past which is irretrievable, and which no kiss of life can ever re-animate. Couples always isolate particular aspects of the world, and declare them the stage upon which their relationship is to be played out: our song, our television programme. In general, they draw upon the cultural output of others, and greedily appropriate it.
These are just borrowed, though. The only things which truly belong to them are the fruits of their own labour. More poignant than any photograph is the rush of sadness which fizzes through the self when I contemplate our history, or when it is visited on me in the form of a photograph.
Do you remember how I was sitting on that bench, swearing? Do you remember how you snapped at me because I suggeded getting a cab - my solution to everything? A couple of hours later, it didn’t matter because you were smiling like an angel, and what I now look at is the shadow of an angel, stuck fast somewhere in the middle of a long-gone summer.
The photograph is by now a fossil, trapped in the frozen river of linear time. A black hole is the photograph, sucking in any information about what existed before it and came after it.
Nobody would know that, in the hours before it was taken, Bluefish and I had cursed our way through sun-struck streets, wheeling a rectangle of luggage which regularly ran into trouble on the uneven surfaces. The two of us had been very close to losing our tempers as we searched out a distant hotel, and the mood darkened further when the satellite navigation system on my mobile phone kept sending us around in circles.
And it would be hard to discern from Bluefish's relaxed smile that the pair of us were being destroyed - not with the devastating light and impact of a bomb, inverting everything in its vicinity, but more akin to a shipwreck.
The inevitability of her return to a distant land meant that we slowly fell apart, committing with each passing hour another part of ourselves to an imminent future which had already been taken care of. Each thought of that yet-to-be endured Friday night at Heathrow sweetened the pair of us in the depths of misery.
So the photograph is arrogant, or spoiled. It demands that the eye focus on it, and nothing else. Context and depth mean nothing to it - a bore in brightly-coloured clothing.
Yet to those with a sliver of 'inside' knowledge, the photograph is at once transformed from mediocrity. The image of Bluefish and I, packed tightly together and filling the eye, can never be mediocre - it is, instead, painful.
It is painful because it refers to a past which is irretrievable, and which no kiss of life can ever re-animate. Couples always isolate particular aspects of the world, and declare them the stage upon which their relationship is to be played out: our song, our television programme. In general, they draw upon the cultural output of others, and greedily appropriate it.
These are just borrowed, though. The only things which truly belong to them are the fruits of their own labour. More poignant than any photograph is the rush of sadness which fizzes through the self when I contemplate our history, or when it is visited on me in the form of a photograph.
Do you remember how I was sitting on that bench, swearing? Do you remember how you snapped at me because I suggeded getting a cab - my solution to everything? A couple of hours later, it didn’t matter because you were smiling like an angel, and what I now look at is the shadow of an angel, stuck fast somewhere in the middle of a long-gone summer.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Civilisation.
In England yesterday, the story broke that the IRA man convicted of bombing Brighton's Grand Hotel has been invited to the event commemorating its 25th anniversary.
By now, you won't be surprised to learn that I heard about this on the booming, incessant works radio.
The announcement was met with widespread derision, both from the MP interviewed on the news, and from my work colleagues - none of them could believe that Patrick Magee, the perpetrator of an infamously murderous and well-planned act of terrorism should be offered an olive branch by the British authorities.
The collective pronouncement on the subject was approximately this: we're fucking caving in to a man who's drowning in the blood of others - again. If Magee was a child-killer, the public would turn on him en masse, and rip their morsel apart like a pack of wild dogs. Few seconds, it'd take. Few fucking seconds.
I wasn't popular, then, when I suggested that the decision by the British government to invite Magee to the 'reconcilliation' at the House of Commons showed an impressively mature attitude from an administration which is otherwise eating itself alive.
I wasn't popular, but I stand by it. If the poacher has finally turned gamekeeper, then it is safe to invite what was formerly the worst of the foxes into the hen-hut.
History acts as a polarising force - the very best and very worst acts of our species are dissected, examined and scrutinised to approaching infinite magnitude, with the vast majority of decisions and occurrences left to wither, unremembered and unremarked upon.
Magee's act is unquestionably one of the most notorious to have ever taken place on this island. Its high-profile targets - including the unsuccessful obliteration of the then Prime Minister, and mutilation of a member of the cabinet - and audacious negation of the (apparently limited) security at the Tory Party conference ensure it will live long in the memory.
Similarly, the invitation to Magee should be considered as one of the most magnanimous ever extended by a state to an indivual. It does not insinuate that terrorism is acceptable, or that Magee is forgiven, or that history is forgotten. It is, instead, the assertion that Britons and Irish, channelled through the figure of Patrick Magee, can truly live adjacent to each other (and together), and it expresses the hope that the past is not condemned to be repeated in a future of frequent memorial services and tearful loved ones.
By now, you won't be surprised to learn that I heard about this on the booming, incessant works radio.
The announcement was met with widespread derision, both from the MP interviewed on the news, and from my work colleagues - none of them could believe that Patrick Magee, the perpetrator of an infamously murderous and well-planned act of terrorism should be offered an olive branch by the British authorities.
The collective pronouncement on the subject was approximately this: we're fucking caving in to a man who's drowning in the blood of others - again. If Magee was a child-killer, the public would turn on him en masse, and rip their morsel apart like a pack of wild dogs. Few seconds, it'd take. Few fucking seconds.
I wasn't popular, then, when I suggested that the decision by the British government to invite Magee to the 'reconcilliation' at the House of Commons showed an impressively mature attitude from an administration which is otherwise eating itself alive.
I wasn't popular, but I stand by it. If the poacher has finally turned gamekeeper, then it is safe to invite what was formerly the worst of the foxes into the hen-hut.
History acts as a polarising force - the very best and very worst acts of our species are dissected, examined and scrutinised to approaching infinite magnitude, with the vast majority of decisions and occurrences left to wither, unremembered and unremarked upon.
Magee's act is unquestionably one of the most notorious to have ever taken place on this island. Its high-profile targets - including the unsuccessful obliteration of the then Prime Minister, and mutilation of a member of the cabinet - and audacious negation of the (apparently limited) security at the Tory Party conference ensure it will live long in the memory.
Similarly, the invitation to Magee should be considered as one of the most magnanimous ever extended by a state to an indivual. It does not insinuate that terrorism is acceptable, or that Magee is forgiven, or that history is forgotten. It is, instead, the assertion that Britons and Irish, channelled through the figure of Patrick Magee, can truly live adjacent to each other (and together), and it expresses the hope that the past is not condemned to be repeated in a future of frequent memorial services and tearful loved ones.
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Experience (II).
In an arbitrarily pure world, then, or, more properly, a world which corresponds entirely to the set of values encoded in my own mind, there would be a clear demarcation between the domains of fact and not-fact.
To attain this, it is not enough for a newspaper, say, to clearly delineate the parts given over to news from those given over to comment or features. If an entirely new language is not required, then a new paradigm with a shorter leash is the minimum to be hoped for.
Is it the role of the journalist to insinuate (within a news story) that Barack Obama might face diplomatic pressure to relinquish his Nobel Prize; to assert that Silvio Berlusconi is just another sickening chip off the old block of Italian politics; to print specific allegations relating to the sexual conduct of Roman Polanski?
It's pernickety and naive to claim there should be laws against this sort of thing. The downtrodden journalist already has the boot of litigation close to his teeth and always ready to swing back, especially in England, the libel capital of the world.
Furthermore, the dream (I had) of rooting in the hard earth with my fingers to reveal uncomfortable truths is quickly obliterated by the pressure of deadlines. I dare say I'm more free, sitting here tapping away in a chair, than almost any journalist alive.
Is the death of entertaining copy in the Press a price worth paying for a greater dose of the truth? Or is the realm of facts - uncontestable ones - of such limited application that we'd end up with newspaper headlines like:
To attain this, it is not enough for a newspaper, say, to clearly delineate the parts given over to news from those given over to comment or features. If an entirely new language is not required, then a new paradigm with a shorter leash is the minimum to be hoped for.
Is it the role of the journalist to insinuate (within a news story) that Barack Obama might face diplomatic pressure to relinquish his Nobel Prize; to assert that Silvio Berlusconi is just another sickening chip off the old block of Italian politics; to print specific allegations relating to the sexual conduct of Roman Polanski?
It's pernickety and naive to claim there should be laws against this sort of thing. The downtrodden journalist already has the boot of litigation close to his teeth and always ready to swing back, especially in England, the libel capital of the world.
Furthermore, the dream (I had) of rooting in the hard earth with my fingers to reveal uncomfortable truths is quickly obliterated by the pressure of deadlines. I dare say I'm more free, sitting here tapping away in a chair, than almost any journalist alive.
Is the death of entertaining copy in the Press a price worth paying for a greater dose of the truth? Or is the realm of facts - uncontestable ones - of such limited application that we'd end up with newspaper headlines like:
- THREE SQUARED NINE, CLAIMS PALIN
- GOALLESS GAME ENDS GOALLESS: BOTH TEAMS DRAW
- MICHAEL JACKSON - ARTIST
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Experience (I).
Most of the things I write start with at least a sliver of uncontestable fact, even if it is as banal as today I had an altercation in the street, or if we get relegated tomorrow, I intend to drink a whole bottle of gin.
The statement of a fact, relying on a single occurence with which to justify it, is not the work of science. It is, perhaps, commensurate with the work carried out by the taxman (1) or journalists (2):
(1): Dear Nogomet, Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs (HMRC) are writing to advise you not to spend money on a bottle of gin in the event of relegation. Instead, please deposit the £13 at your nearest tax office by the end of the calendar month. It is imperative that you do so at your earliest convenience, as your contribution goes towards the smooth running and upkeep of British society. Yours faithfully, S. Chester, Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs.
(2): A FOOTBALL fan was left flabbergasted when he received a tax demand ordering him to cough up the price of his weekend tipple!
Gobsmacked Paul Nogomet, 30, had bought a £13 bottle of gin to help him drown his sorrows in the event of Barnsley going down tomorrow afternoon.
And he was astonished to receive a snooty letter from HM Revenue and Customs, advising him "not to spend money on gin in the event of relegation."
It went on: "Instead, please deposit the £13 at your nearest tax office by the end of the calendar month. Your contribution goes towards the upkeep of British society."
Outraged Nogomet said: "What business is it of the government's whether I want to buy a bottle of gin?
"I pay enough tax. I don't see why I should pay extra for nipping down to the off-licence. I'll need to have something to drink if the worst comes to the worst on Sunday."
A HMRC spokesperson said the letter was a "standard communication."
Championship side Barnsley need a draw at Plymouth tomorrow to avoid the drop.
In the two cases above, a single fact has accumulated a loose aggregation of detail around it, and something (however limited) has been generated. Through the transformation of a fact or facts, then, we derive letters and journalism (in the short form.) At some unspecified point in the future, I would like to think about what happens when facts dwindle away completely.
The statement of a fact, relying on a single occurence with which to justify it, is not the work of science. It is, perhaps, commensurate with the work carried out by the taxman (1) or journalists (2):
(1): Dear Nogomet, Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs (HMRC) are writing to advise you not to spend money on a bottle of gin in the event of relegation. Instead, please deposit the £13 at your nearest tax office by the end of the calendar month. It is imperative that you do so at your earliest convenience, as your contribution goes towards the smooth running and upkeep of British society. Yours faithfully, S. Chester, Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs.
(2): A FOOTBALL fan was left flabbergasted when he received a tax demand ordering him to cough up the price of his weekend tipple!
Gobsmacked Paul Nogomet, 30, had bought a £13 bottle of gin to help him drown his sorrows in the event of Barnsley going down tomorrow afternoon.
And he was astonished to receive a snooty letter from HM Revenue and Customs, advising him "not to spend money on gin in the event of relegation."
It went on: "Instead, please deposit the £13 at your nearest tax office by the end of the calendar month. Your contribution goes towards the upkeep of British society."
Outraged Nogomet said: "What business is it of the government's whether I want to buy a bottle of gin?
"I pay enough tax. I don't see why I should pay extra for nipping down to the off-licence. I'll need to have something to drink if the worst comes to the worst on Sunday."
A HMRC spokesperson said the letter was a "standard communication."
Championship side Barnsley need a draw at Plymouth tomorrow to avoid the drop.
In the two cases above, a single fact has accumulated a loose aggregation of detail around it, and something (however limited) has been generated. Through the transformation of a fact or facts, then, we derive letters and journalism (in the short form.) At some unspecified point in the future, I would like to think about what happens when facts dwindle away completely.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Madness.
A living wheel of fire, burning itself up in agony, turning through the middle distance and into the foreground.
An invisible barrier, an impediment, against which the wheel grated for a number of seconds before disintegrating. One wheel embodying every wheel that had ever existed or would exist, accounted for in this last violent act.
Skulls orbiting skulls, viewed as though through a mirror. Laughing, mocking skulls with their great central star. Skulls viewed through skulls, the eye's ossuary.
These among the simple dream-symbols through which my mind cycled as I tried not to fall asleep at something after three in the morning during the first of what is likely to be many turgid night-shifts.
I saw spiders pushed through a tube inclined at twenty-past the hour, from which emerged dolls and cities and plumes of smoke.
They let me out of work early, and I walked home cursing the night. The night a broad oblong of penumbra high above my head, signifying nothing. Being so tired that you can't separate dreams from reality must be what it's like to go mad. Perhaps it is the first stage of madness, when the internal and external worlds fuse and cool, so there is no going back.
An invisible barrier, an impediment, against which the wheel grated for a number of seconds before disintegrating. One wheel embodying every wheel that had ever existed or would exist, accounted for in this last violent act.
Skulls orbiting skulls, viewed as though through a mirror. Laughing, mocking skulls with their great central star. Skulls viewed through skulls, the eye's ossuary.
These among the simple dream-symbols through which my mind cycled as I tried not to fall asleep at something after three in the morning during the first of what is likely to be many turgid night-shifts.
I saw spiders pushed through a tube inclined at twenty-past the hour, from which emerged dolls and cities and plumes of smoke.
They let me out of work early, and I walked home cursing the night. The night a broad oblong of penumbra high above my head, signifying nothing. Being so tired that you can't separate dreams from reality must be what it's like to go mad. Perhaps it is the first stage of madness, when the internal and external worlds fuse and cool, so there is no going back.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Desolation.
The repetition of a well-known song on the radio on Friday afternoon was sufficient to drop me down the deep shaft of misery from which (it feels as though) I have no hope of emerging.
It's not an uncommon song on the generic, ten-a-penny radio station to which I am forced to listen for the duration of my working life - I'd estimate that I hear it at least twice a week; normally causing my body to stiffen, for I have been conditioned thus.
On Friday, though, I knew it was going to be a bad one as soon as I registered the first couple of notes. I swallowed the imminent devastating lyrics whole and assimilated them into my bloodstream.
This song the same blunt instrument which the mental hospital played over and over for nine hours solid, eventually breaking the resistance of my ex-girlfriend and forcing her to cry.
What is it about the repetition of events which causes us, at some unspecified point, to break? Why after eight hours and 59 minutes (say) was she able to withstand its force, but the next cycle caused her to give up? Why, yesterday, did I internalise the song instead of watching it carefully and then directing it away?
The police (in dramatised television at least) know this, picking away at the same weak point until the whole convoluted structure that is the guilty person's facade is demolished.
There is some inherent flaw in all of us - a hairline fracture in the glass which, when exploited, reveals the uncomfortable truth of our mortality and fallibility. In the case of your author, music is one and alcohol is another. I am catapulted down the well by particular songs - music to me is a little death, the shadow of which crosses my frozen face.
Nor can I tolerate alcohol, at least not when I'm in the house on my own. The distraction of other people prevents me drowning in the stuff, but I spiral away into a viscous, terrible misery when alone. Both music and alcohol have in common that they remove the control and regulation of mood from their master, and put it in the hands of some outside stimulus which delights in causing sadness so far off the dial that it is incalculable.
I've been playing the song over and over for the past three hours, doggedly pressing the replay button as its heavy, sorrowful skein comes to an end. I wanted it to empty me, that I might sleep a dreamless, chloroform sleep, but I'm not there yet. The music broke me long ago, yet the blinking, living eye has refused to submit, and watches cynically and without emotion, somewhere beyond the self.
It's not an uncommon song on the generic, ten-a-penny radio station to which I am forced to listen for the duration of my working life - I'd estimate that I hear it at least twice a week; normally causing my body to stiffen, for I have been conditioned thus.
On Friday, though, I knew it was going to be a bad one as soon as I registered the first couple of notes. I swallowed the imminent devastating lyrics whole and assimilated them into my bloodstream.
This song the same blunt instrument which the mental hospital played over and over for nine hours solid, eventually breaking the resistance of my ex-girlfriend and forcing her to cry.
What is it about the repetition of events which causes us, at some unspecified point, to break? Why after eight hours and 59 minutes (say) was she able to withstand its force, but the next cycle caused her to give up? Why, yesterday, did I internalise the song instead of watching it carefully and then directing it away?
The police (in dramatised television at least) know this, picking away at the same weak point until the whole convoluted structure that is the guilty person's facade is demolished.
There is some inherent flaw in all of us - a hairline fracture in the glass which, when exploited, reveals the uncomfortable truth of our mortality and fallibility. In the case of your author, music is one and alcohol is another. I am catapulted down the well by particular songs - music to me is a little death, the shadow of which crosses my frozen face.
Nor can I tolerate alcohol, at least not when I'm in the house on my own. The distraction of other people prevents me drowning in the stuff, but I spiral away into a viscous, terrible misery when alone. Both music and alcohol have in common that they remove the control and regulation of mood from their master, and put it in the hands of some outside stimulus which delights in causing sadness so far off the dial that it is incalculable.
I've been playing the song over and over for the past three hours, doggedly pressing the replay button as its heavy, sorrowful skein comes to an end. I wanted it to empty me, that I might sleep a dreamless, chloroform sleep, but I'm not there yet. The music broke me long ago, yet the blinking, living eye has refused to submit, and watches cynically and without emotion, somewhere beyond the self.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)