Tuesday 13 October 2009
Sunday 11 October 2009
19. Fortissimo
Another darkened, strobe-lit, smoke-filled night ends after profound sweaty stuttering swaying stomping revelry finally collapses in upon itself and I am forcibly spat out into the nonchalant, unblinking streets of the old, new, everlasting Great Beast London. Dirt and noise cling to me filthily and I welcome them as I would old friends. (“Pull up an armpit!”)
My body is barely clothed in sweaty discoloured rags, my ears are humming with ten thousand watts of half-heard and half-imagined rhythms which reverberate until dawn comes and resonate until the end of time as a great grinding comforting cacophony.
There’s no such thing as going home again. Not now. I know now that I am here to wander, to dérive, to map out London and all of its stupendous stupefying magickal aura upon the thoughtscreens of the webworked wired world in full force, giggling all the way.
“Fortissimo at last!” will be my battle cry.
And I don’t have to stop if I don’t want to. Really. A new, old, unknown London is made real around me at every step and stagger, its boundaries dissolving into mine. The reanimated zombie London of the past and the as-yet-unrealised technopolis London of the future watch our every move with hidden eyes; unflinching, unconcerned. The streets have seen this before. The streets will see this again.
Roman plaster walls give way seamlessly onto steel and concrete foundations. Sections of the city (some larger than towerblocks, others smaller than photons) flicker between timezones; now marshes, now tamed fields, now houses, shops, alleys, car parks, subways, skyscrapers, tube trains, engines, beats, hearts, dust…
The streets are paved over in mud, in gold, in tarmac and then in mud again in a dizzying diurnal dance. Sun, moon, sun, moon, sun, moon…
On Oxford Street I blunder past a shade of De Quincey, who nods in my direction and mumbles under his breath about terræ incognitæ before disappearing northwest, guided by the pole star, through a glass shopfront into his own ‘sphynx’s riddles of streets without thoroughfares’. The pleasures of losing oneself will never diminish, no matter what the age…
Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics; to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders; to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholy) in pens to serve man's needs; to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted underpass under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby buildings. These things might be important; a white noise of data with which to predict the future and discern the past. On my own journey, I’m letting the dial freewheel – this is the static between stations you can hear, ghostly pale but always on the edge of resolving into meaningful wholes. Station to station, station to station. This is London calling. Repeat: this is London calling.
The city’s waking up but still I’m alone, barely registering the brief transience which makes up the presence of others; their flickering, temporary lights and forces have only a short lease on my senses; it is of the ages, this place with these streets, this great dark holy other, mother of civilisations, this king and queen of conurbations.
Almost blindly I find my way to Green Park to dance among lepers in their graves, among the long-dead still-living gentry who shoot each other for fun and for honour and for profit. I’m just in time to catch the fireworks as they rain green and gold in the late night early morning spring-autumn sky. And then, for one tiny moment, I catch a glimpse of the beautiful woman I spent last night dancing with in that little black underground room as we became soaked with two dozen different people’s sweat together. Was it really that long ago, my dear? How could all of this have passed between us? I remember when we were young…
My sensorium drifts slowly back to what I will call, for ease of reference, the present day. Up above, through the clouds, future neural whiteheat information networks are still blinking in and out of thought. I could ignore them if I decided I wanted to. Really, I could. The roar of today’s metropolis begins to engulf me again as I relieve myself on some monument or other (all queens look the same at the nape of the neck, don’t they?) and swagger, multiply enlightened, along the Mall.
“Did you miss me while I was gone?”, I ask the aetherwaves, not expecting any kind of reply.
I am bleeding from my right foot. My hair is perpendicular to my head. My short breaths are punctuated by wheezes. Maybe. My. Imagination. Is. Wearing. Off.
Bedraggled, bloody and gasping, I find myself in Trafalgar Square. I collapse on the floor. Before I pass out I can just make out a woman on one of the plinths, broadcasting someone else’s journey through this endless city.
“Fortissimo at last!”
12 Oct 2009, 9-10am
My body is barely clothed in sweaty discoloured rags, my ears are humming with ten thousand watts of half-heard and half-imagined rhythms which reverberate until dawn comes and resonate until the end of time as a great grinding comforting cacophony.
There’s no such thing as going home again. Not now. I know now that I am here to wander, to dérive, to map out London and all of its stupendous stupefying magickal aura upon the thoughtscreens of the webworked wired world in full force, giggling all the way.
“Fortissimo at last!” will be my battle cry.
And I don’t have to stop if I don’t want to. Really. A new, old, unknown London is made real around me at every step and stagger, its boundaries dissolving into mine. The reanimated zombie London of the past and the as-yet-unrealised technopolis London of the future watch our every move with hidden eyes; unflinching, unconcerned. The streets have seen this before. The streets will see this again.
Roman plaster walls give way seamlessly onto steel and concrete foundations. Sections of the city (some larger than towerblocks, others smaller than photons) flicker between timezones; now marshes, now tamed fields, now houses, shops, alleys, car parks, subways, skyscrapers, tube trains, engines, beats, hearts, dust…
The streets are paved over in mud, in gold, in tarmac and then in mud again in a dizzying diurnal dance. Sun, moon, sun, moon, sun, moon…
On Oxford Street I blunder past a shade of De Quincey, who nods in my direction and mumbles under his breath about terræ incognitæ before disappearing northwest, guided by the pole star, through a glass shopfront into his own ‘sphynx’s riddles of streets without thoroughfares’. The pleasures of losing oneself will never diminish, no matter what the age…
Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics; to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders; to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholy) in pens to serve man's needs; to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted underpass under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby buildings. These things might be important; a white noise of data with which to predict the future and discern the past. On my own journey, I’m letting the dial freewheel – this is the static between stations you can hear, ghostly pale but always on the edge of resolving into meaningful wholes. Station to station, station to station. This is London calling. Repeat: this is London calling.
The city’s waking up but still I’m alone, barely registering the brief transience which makes up the presence of others; their flickering, temporary lights and forces have only a short lease on my senses; it is of the ages, this place with these streets, this great dark holy other, mother of civilisations, this king and queen of conurbations.
Almost blindly I find my way to Green Park to dance among lepers in their graves, among the long-dead still-living gentry who shoot each other for fun and for honour and for profit. I’m just in time to catch the fireworks as they rain green and gold in the late night early morning spring-autumn sky. And then, for one tiny moment, I catch a glimpse of the beautiful woman I spent last night dancing with in that little black underground room as we became soaked with two dozen different people’s sweat together. Was it really that long ago, my dear? How could all of this have passed between us? I remember when we were young…
My sensorium drifts slowly back to what I will call, for ease of reference, the present day. Up above, through the clouds, future neural whiteheat information networks are still blinking in and out of thought. I could ignore them if I decided I wanted to. Really, I could. The roar of today’s metropolis begins to engulf me again as I relieve myself on some monument or other (all queens look the same at the nape of the neck, don’t they?) and swagger, multiply enlightened, along the Mall.
“Did you miss me while I was gone?”, I ask the aetherwaves, not expecting any kind of reply.
I am bleeding from my right foot. My hair is perpendicular to my head. My short breaths are punctuated by wheezes. Maybe. My. Imagination. Is. Wearing. Off.
Bedraggled, bloody and gasping, I find myself in Trafalgar Square. I collapse on the floor. Before I pass out I can just make out a woman on one of the plinths, broadcasting someone else’s journey through this endless city.
“Fortissimo at last!”
12 Oct 2009, 9-10am
Friday 14 August 2009
18. A Game
O.
After this many years in the wilderness, I've had to define my own sexuality. It hasn't been easy. It hasn't been fun. I heard an echo once that I've lusted after ever since. Perhaps if I stand in the right place at the right time I might hear its reverberations, or more; I might be at the point of its resolution, where all is obvious.
No. Too much to ask. Don't expect her/him/it to fall into your lap.
X.
After this many years in the wilderness, I've had to define my own sexuality. It hasn't been easy. It hasn't been fun. I heard an echo once that I've lusted after ever since. Perhaps if I stand in the right place at the right time I might hear its reverberations, or more; I might be at the point of its resolution, where all is obvious.
No. Too much to ask. Don't expect her/him/it to fall into your lap.
X.
Monday 3 August 2009
17. Hope My Hope
Hope my hope is there in time, in time to change me change me.
Movement moved what movement could; it could be something more something.
Projects project on screened screens.
Does this just mean what the mean means?
Hope my hope is there in time, in time to change me change me.
Love my love (O, that my Other would!); it would make something more something.
This dreamer dreams what the meme means,
Unseen, unseen, scene after scene.
Movement moved what movement could; it could be something more something.
Projects project on screened screens.
Does this just mean what the mean means?
Hope my hope is there in time, in time to change me change me.
Love my love (O, that my Other would!); it would make something more something.
This dreamer dreams what the meme means,
Unseen, unseen, scene after scene.
Tuesday 14 July 2009
16. Hmmm
Haha.
Imagine if every DJ was an action-film fan:
What I mean is DANCE YOU FUCKERS. HAHAHA. IT'S GOOD FOR YOU. I KNOW BECAUSE I AM A DJ.
There is more than one emotion to mixing, I think.
Or should I just pay no attention?
'Wake from your sleep.'
If you played this, I might beat you up.
Simon says, 'The drying of your sneers.'
Haha.
I'm wanking myself to sleep tonight.
I'm thinking of you dancing.
Imagine if every DJ was an action-film fan:
What I mean is DANCE YOU FUCKERS. HAHAHA. IT'S GOOD FOR YOU. I KNOW BECAUSE I AM A DJ.
There is more than one emotion to mixing, I think.
Or should I just pay no attention?
'Wake from your sleep.'
If you played this, I might beat you up.
Simon says, 'The drying of your sneers.'
Haha.
I'm wanking myself to sleep tonight.
I'm thinking of you dancing.
Saturday 6 June 2009
15. Our Waxing Promise
Gods, I need you!
Does our waxing promise wane?
Buried in shit is the spit-
mark of a verdant growth;
not just for me but for my Other.
Let green disguise throw up ulterior moves
while circuitous circusing festivities loom;
fire and smoke are half the joke,
what gets drummed gets drummed gets our use.
Does our waxing promise wane?
Buried in shit is the spit-
mark of a verdant growth;
not just for me but for my Other.
Let green disguise throw up ulterior moves
while circuitous circusing festivities loom;
fire and smoke are half the joke,
what gets drummed gets drummed gets our use.
Wednesday 3 June 2009
14. Sits For A Bit
Newnest descended, shiny new hope of alivedead explores. Geometry foreground more prominent. Rhythm inherent - white diesel noise lulls in the dark.
Peace around abounds. Sits for a bit. Does the washing. Houselifewife better no where she's going...
To movement!
Peace around abounds. Sits for a bit. Does the washing. Houselifewife better no where she's going...
To movement!
Monday 18 May 2009
13. To Whom It May Concern
16/5/09
Last night a 'friend' of mine tried to strangle me. My throat still hurts. After having been away for three days I came back and that evening (no real suprise) there was a party at what I used to call my home.
At about six in the morning I was playing some loud music. Six in the morning is not an unusual time to hear music in my former home. He came in and told me "I wasn't allowed" to play music at this time. His urge to control can be really terrifying. I said that I paid as much rent as anyone and he just kept repeating that I "wasn't allowed".
He then grabbed me around the shoulder and around the neck. I didn't fight back. It's not my way. He said to me, whilst attempting to push my windpipe in, that I was a cunt. He kept repeating that I didn't have any friends and that no-one would believe me if I told them about this. He was squeezing my throat harder and harder as if I was play-dough that wouldn't fit into his mould. I sat down (he still grabbing my throat) in front of the door on the inside of my then-bedroom saying, "Is this what you want to do to a friend?" He just squeezed harder saying no-one would believe me. I am genuinely scared about the brainwashed state of his group of friends.
Shortly after sitting in front of the door someone who had heard the noise came to the outside of it. Immediately and whilst still holding my throat tightly, he said "[j0hv] won't let me out." I am truly worried about the state of mind that could allow someone to do that. I could hardly breathe at this point.
He just repeated that no-one would belive me. Do you?
I bought a bolt and a padlock, fitted them to my door, put all my things inside, locked it and left.
Last night a 'friend' of mine tried to strangle me. My throat still hurts. After having been away for three days I came back and that evening (no real suprise) there was a party at what I used to call my home.
At about six in the morning I was playing some loud music. Six in the morning is not an unusual time to hear music in my former home. He came in and told me "I wasn't allowed" to play music at this time. His urge to control can be really terrifying. I said that I paid as much rent as anyone and he just kept repeating that I "wasn't allowed".
He then grabbed me around the shoulder and around the neck. I didn't fight back. It's not my way. He said to me, whilst attempting to push my windpipe in, that I was a cunt. He kept repeating that I didn't have any friends and that no-one would believe me if I told them about this. He was squeezing my throat harder and harder as if I was play-dough that wouldn't fit into his mould. I sat down (he still grabbing my throat) in front of the door on the inside of my then-bedroom saying, "Is this what you want to do to a friend?" He just squeezed harder saying no-one would believe me. I am genuinely scared about the brainwashed state of his group of friends.
Shortly after sitting in front of the door someone who had heard the noise came to the outside of it. Immediately and whilst still holding my throat tightly, he said "[j0hv] won't let me out." I am truly worried about the state of mind that could allow someone to do that. I could hardly breathe at this point.
He just repeated that no-one would belive me. Do you?
I bought a bolt and a padlock, fitted them to my door, put all my things inside, locked it and left.
Wednesday 13 May 2009
12. ASDFGHJKL
Superfluous shades of stygian sex
(flagrant, flaunted, foolish and furious)
describe dementia decanted and dosed.
Giggling gurus guide with guile
(juggling jugs with jellies and jests)
avid attendant auxiliary angsts.
Looseness leads listlessly leeward
(Kids! Kiss and kink, KK?);
here's hoping healing helps howling homeward.
(flagrant, flaunted, foolish and furious)
describe dementia decanted and dosed.
Giggling gurus guide with guile
(juggling jugs with jellies and jests)
avid attendant auxiliary angsts.
Looseness leads listlessly leeward
(Kids! Kiss and kink, KK?);
here's hoping healing helps howling homeward.
Friday 17 April 2009
11. Lot Forty-Nine
"Who will buy? Who will love?
"Found alone, this masturbating wretch with handmade armour of shells and wood, of plastic, satin and lycra. A unique specimen, untouched by bargepoles, curled up in rock this last millennium.
"Entertainment guaranteed! A wonderful pet or ornament! A great talking-point at parties! Equally suited to ladies or gentlemen!
"May I start the bidding at one heart?"
"Found alone, this masturbating wretch with handmade armour of shells and wood, of plastic, satin and lycra. A unique specimen, untouched by bargepoles, curled up in rock this last millennium.
"Entertainment guaranteed! A wonderful pet or ornament! A great talking-point at parties! Equally suited to ladies or gentlemen!
"May I start the bidding at one heart?"
Friday 20 March 2009
10. Old Motives
As a turn of narrative, it drifted overhead like the worried summertime cloudships of a misspent rural youth in ghettos of bracken and brambles. The resonances are felt to this day; aren't all our summers now shaded by those oldneweverlasting redwood dreams?
Let those thingers feel out the hidden recesses and holy places we spoke of in whisper that once. The heavy solar energy runs latent and energising over us. Can I bear the awesome lightness of your lashes refracted into rainbows by the sun? And there's the warm space between your cheek and mine, where new ventures and old motives are played out in delicious slow-motion heat-haze replay for kicks; a great long-lost protagonist-antagonist nerve ending symphony of touch.
xxx.
Let those thingers feel out the hidden recesses and holy places we spoke of in whisper that once. The heavy solar energy runs latent and energising over us. Can I bear the awesome lightness of your lashes refracted into rainbows by the sun? And there's the warm space between your cheek and mine, where new ventures and old motives are played out in delicious slow-motion heat-haze replay for kicks; a great long-lost protagonist-antagonist nerve ending symphony of touch.
xxx.
Thursday 5 March 2009
9. Isn't She Pretty?
What resistance may the greying officers offer? To catch me, you'll have to see me first - I'm that blur that just passed you in the street in third-hand rags of impossible colour. I'm CCTV-see-through and I can't be pinned down at all. An untriangulable FM broadcaster. A surveilled-transparent blind-spot lingerer.
Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics, to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders, to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholic) in pens to serve man's needs, to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted subway under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby architecture. These things might be important.
A dance in the park before home as the world wakes up.
As I undress myself for bed, I feel like a music-box ballerina at the end of her twirl. There's sprites at play in everything, you know, if you look the right way.
Have you explored this town's alleyways in the alivedead dark before dawn? Pay special attention to your pathway's acoustics, to the rectilinear playgrounds left deserted by scaffolders, to the humming elephant-machines kept (unprotesting but melancholic) in pens to serve man's needs, to the tiny scribbled nonsensical ravings of lonely men and women found between the cracks of the tiles in a freshly painted subway under an abandoned roundabout which lends silently sliding inertia to the nearby architecture. These things might be important.
A dance in the park before home as the world wakes up.
As I undress myself for bed, I feel like a music-box ballerina at the end of her twirl. There's sprites at play in everything, you know, if you look the right way.
Monday 16 February 2009
8. Drift
The emotional-historical resonances of this sprawling conurbation create spacetimes unsensed but as real as memory. Cut-ups and fold-ins on architectural scales transport me to forgotten fields (the skeletons of as-yet-unbuilt, long-since-abandoned warehouses hang ghostly and pale) whilst towerblocks abyssed by pirates topple and crash down about my ears (experienced verdancy undertakes experiments veering toward verticality). The dizzying diurnal discs of the sun and moon rise and set, rise and set.
Saturday 10 January 2009
7. Checkoneto
Priestechs, priestechs, how have dey intafaded to blacknest, estars unithought woods o' evershine?
Atlas, countriesons unmapped lie between us, ourparentheticselves.
Atlas, countriesons unmapped lie between us, ourparentheticselves.
Thursday 8 January 2009
6. Odometer
My creations already created, as if broadcasting on FM in my sleeping hours through choice and not by haphazard dreamed accident.
Finding myself in an industrial estate on the edge of town, beauty revealed where beauty (it might be thought) would fear to tread. The psychogeography of space remodelled on the fantasies of children. The everlasting beat, tuned into momentarily by percussive heartbeats, vocal chords, and the mechanical detritus of modernity. A willed favela. Battery-powered shopping trolley soundsystems. The dawn of a new age at an arbitrarily defined non-moment keeps the odometer ticking over.
In that non-existent time there was hope. I saw it flash before my eyes, on and off at alpha-wave frequency, inducing hallucinations of fulfillment and prosperity.
I don't want your money; I want my soul.
Finding myself in an industrial estate on the edge of town, beauty revealed where beauty (it might be thought) would fear to tread. The psychogeography of space remodelled on the fantasies of children. The everlasting beat, tuned into momentarily by percussive heartbeats, vocal chords, and the mechanical detritus of modernity. A willed favela. Battery-powered shopping trolley soundsystems. The dawn of a new age at an arbitrarily defined non-moment keeps the odometer ticking over.
In that non-existent time there was hope. I saw it flash before my eyes, on and off at alpha-wave frequency, inducing hallucinations of fulfillment and prosperity.
I don't want your money; I want my soul.
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