Normil Hawaiians - 'North Atlantic'
3 hours ago
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Sunday 27th Jul 2008
Tremendously warm today, you just have to put up with it and be angry. At least, I have to be angry. It got cooler in the evening. Went to the massive sainsbury's and stood in the pet food aisle. There was a sack of dog food called 'Tasty Chicken'. What is, sanity?
Bought a cd in brick lane yesterday: Sam Amidon - All is Well
this song made me sit up and go 'man'.
London is a very busy place. perhaps the happiest place is the 8:24 train from London Bridge. it is cool and quiet and full of people who want to go home. it has people with earphones in their earholes and hands on phones waiting for a vibration or a glow.
I'm sorry, it just can feel incredibly uncomfortable and wishy-washy. AND HOT.
There are so many opportunities here, but there are so many pretences!!!!!!
I am man, I sit beneath tree, I flutter pages. I am become.
This is a pretence.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
murdering my ear-holes shut
ran 2km today. my ears keep breathing, sort of gulping and taking deep breaths to reboot my brain. I am like a personal computer.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Graduation on Wednesday
Mayo, Eire
Today I have seen:
a man have his stomach pumped (preliminarily) on the steps of the Astoria on Tottenham Court Road, at 4pm this afternoon.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
'Pretentious' as a term of common criticism from post-adolescents today
I think this description of Joanna Newsom's Ys accurately describes why the term 'pretentious' is used so often to criticise things that appear different:
'Newsom returned this year with Ys, an album that will do nothing to allay these criticisms. In an indie culture that rewards well-turned mediocrity and can be suspicious of ambition, the record's long compositions, ornate orchestral arrangements, and antique lyrics are guaranteed to be dismissed as pretentious by many. And they are-- symbolically dense and anachronistically stylized, Newsom's songs expect a lot from the listener. But whether or not the music is pretentious is beside the point. The debate between Newsom admirers and detractors seems to revolve around one question-- does she mean it, or is she selling us snake-oil? I don't claim to have gotten to the bottom of Joanna Newsom in a 45-minute conversation, but she left me with the impression of being an uncommonly graceful and articulate person, not a collection of tics and fancies; a person who, regardless of what she's doing, always means it.'
http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/feature/39700-interview-joanna-newsom
'Newsom returned this year with Ys, an album that will do nothing to allay these criticisms. In an indie culture that rewards well-turned mediocrity and can be suspicious of ambition, the record's long compositions, ornate orchestral arrangements, and antique lyrics are guaranteed to be dismissed as pretentious by many. And they are-- symbolically dense and anachronistically stylized, Newsom's songs expect a lot from the listener. But whether or not the music is pretentious is beside the point. The debate between Newsom admirers and detractors seems to revolve around one question-- does she mean it, or is she selling us snake-oil? I don't claim to have gotten to the bottom of Joanna Newsom in a 45-minute conversation, but she left me with the impression of being an uncommonly graceful and articulate person, not a collection of tics and fancies; a person who, regardless of what she's doing, always means it.'
http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/feature/39700-interview-joanna-newsom
Friday, July 18, 2008
The Great Melancholy
I wrote this in 2005, it's quite funny:
“Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”
Dmitriy sat at the end of the final row of mahogany church benches, his inhibition overcoming the stagnant wooden scent. Those either side could observe the bulging of his cheeks as his heart endeavoured to force the words from between his lips. His legs trembling as if an artic chill were present, his body fighting itself to remain seated. Dmitriy knew that if he were to stand and object, mouths would gape and necks would twist like squeezed lemons, spitting their citrus disgust. The only objection was the ticking of his tattered leather wristwatch, and the twilight of his chance. His great hands, powered by the fear stomping in his bowels, kept his tongue to the moth battering their wings against the sides of a paper lampshade.
That night, beneath the navy moonlight, it had begun to take effect. A heaving in his chest had drawn Dmitriy to his unmade bed of scattered clothes. Here he would remain for weeks, tears soaking the wool of his blanket, and blotting like ink stains the mustard of a once pale yellow pillowcase.
Dmitriy took no concern with the sustained period of his weeping, or the small puddles appearing in the dips of the flooring. The landlord had beaten his fists blue threatening Dmitriy with crippling fines and the smiting hand of the almighty. The door however, was barricaded with an impenetrable texture of longing. The landlord had changed his policy and secured the door further after the running water from Dmitriy’s apartment had caused evacuations above and below, an all-destructive damp and rot withering the weary rooms of the block.
The plants, particularly those of a nuisance to the upkeep of the building, had flourished under Dmitriy’s reigning melancholy, the ivy which so infuriated the landlord allowed the sunlight to enter Dmitriy’s room, showing pity on the architect of their sudden spurt in growth.
The air shimmered with the scent of springtime, the aroma of flowers sweet even to the most severe of hay fever sufferers. Gardeners and artists celebrated the misery of Dmitriy, legends blossoming as quickly as the red roses and lilies. One woman swore she had collected a tablespoon of Dmitriy’s woe, and had reinvigorated her radishes, peas, potatoes and plums, but most striking were her roses – red, white, peach, even blue. Their most obscure trait being their texture – silk, moist, cool – like velvet drapes of ice written around the fingertips. The blue roses would perspire in all climates, droplets gliding across the shine of their petals. The woman identified an aesthetic yearning on their touch, quite contradicting the aesthetic mind. This feeling could last for days, so often was her time spent with the garden. She announced Dmitriy as ‘the saviour of God’s wild earth.’
People learned of the great melancholy, and began drawing comparisons with Dmitriy and the messiah. One local newspaper covered their front pages with the headline – ‘God’s Creatures Gather For Holy Return’ and another ‘Sacred One Hiding in Foliage Bunker’.
Yet this was all in vein, for all the ivy and blue roses, there was no omniscient being lurking behind the thick panel of Dmitriy’s door.
The weeping had diminished in recent weeks. Dmitriy had lost half an ocean of his fluids, his muscular build had withered, his palms becoming dry apricots, his eyes hanging – bloodshot capillaries climbing across his eyeballs like the ivy on the outside wall.
* * *
A scientist, a priest, and a politician had been selected to address the mysterious apartment so on one late afternoon – with their backs to the lightning chrome of the photographers, the chanting of the collected believers, and the scathing eyes of the atheists with arms folded – they entered between the leafy canopies and trembling brickwork of Dmitriy’s building.
The triumvirate traded glances of intrigue, of apprehension, the politician voluntarily standing in the full frame of the doorway.
“Open this door, we have come to welcome you with peace and compassion.”
No answer.
The politician stood aside for the priest - confidence and wisdom etched across his wrinkle peppered eyelids.
“We bow to you the holy, the saviour of God’s great earth.”
No answer.
The scientist brushed past the priest, a wry smile on his face, pushing his thin-rimmed spectacles further up the bridge of his nose.
“Sir, if you are unwell, you must allow us to treat you at once.”
No answer. The scientist shaded his disappointment with a rustle of his shoulders.
“Has anyone thought to open the door by using the handle?”
The priest and the politician looked to one another for an answer, equally inept in offering a reply. The scientist twisted the large brass doorknob, the door heaving a resounding groan, as the hinges turned. The priest and the politician held one another with clasped hands to shaking spines, fear burgeoning across their brows, knees elevating to a fetal stance. The scientist stepped through the doorway, low waves of water gliding past his ankles, hazy sunlight creeping through the plants outside, creating meandering orange streams around the room. At the bed, shivering, whimpering, a decrepit old man huddled with himself.
“Where is their God now” the scientist pondered, hands on his wiry waist, shaking his head with disdain for the hordes surrounding the eventual tomb of this dying man. The scientist approached the bed. He lowered his face to an equal level with the wrinkled complexion of Dmitriy.
“Is there anything I can do for you, before it is time for you to die?”
Dmitriy peeled apart his chapped lips, and forced his grey eyes to close.
“After I die, you must take her my heart. I may look like death, but it beats and it was always for her, it belongs to her. I want to die now. Please allow me to die, just her heart and I.”
The scientist stood, wading his toes through the shallow receding water of the room, closing the door behind him with great care.
“Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”
Dmitriy sat at the end of the final row of mahogany church benches, his inhibition overcoming the stagnant wooden scent. Those either side could observe the bulging of his cheeks as his heart endeavoured to force the words from between his lips. His legs trembling as if an artic chill were present, his body fighting itself to remain seated. Dmitriy knew that if he were to stand and object, mouths would gape and necks would twist like squeezed lemons, spitting their citrus disgust. The only objection was the ticking of his tattered leather wristwatch, and the twilight of his chance. His great hands, powered by the fear stomping in his bowels, kept his tongue to the moth battering their wings against the sides of a paper lampshade.
That night, beneath the navy moonlight, it had begun to take effect. A heaving in his chest had drawn Dmitriy to his unmade bed of scattered clothes. Here he would remain for weeks, tears soaking the wool of his blanket, and blotting like ink stains the mustard of a once pale yellow pillowcase.
Dmitriy took no concern with the sustained period of his weeping, or the small puddles appearing in the dips of the flooring. The landlord had beaten his fists blue threatening Dmitriy with crippling fines and the smiting hand of the almighty. The door however, was barricaded with an impenetrable texture of longing. The landlord had changed his policy and secured the door further after the running water from Dmitriy’s apartment had caused evacuations above and below, an all-destructive damp and rot withering the weary rooms of the block.
The plants, particularly those of a nuisance to the upkeep of the building, had flourished under Dmitriy’s reigning melancholy, the ivy which so infuriated the landlord allowed the sunlight to enter Dmitriy’s room, showing pity on the architect of their sudden spurt in growth.
The air shimmered with the scent of springtime, the aroma of flowers sweet even to the most severe of hay fever sufferers. Gardeners and artists celebrated the misery of Dmitriy, legends blossoming as quickly as the red roses and lilies. One woman swore she had collected a tablespoon of Dmitriy’s woe, and had reinvigorated her radishes, peas, potatoes and plums, but most striking were her roses – red, white, peach, even blue. Their most obscure trait being their texture – silk, moist, cool – like velvet drapes of ice written around the fingertips. The blue roses would perspire in all climates, droplets gliding across the shine of their petals. The woman identified an aesthetic yearning on their touch, quite contradicting the aesthetic mind. This feeling could last for days, so often was her time spent with the garden. She announced Dmitriy as ‘the saviour of God’s wild earth.’
People learned of the great melancholy, and began drawing comparisons with Dmitriy and the messiah. One local newspaper covered their front pages with the headline – ‘God’s Creatures Gather For Holy Return’ and another ‘Sacred One Hiding in Foliage Bunker’.
Yet this was all in vein, for all the ivy and blue roses, there was no omniscient being lurking behind the thick panel of Dmitriy’s door.
The weeping had diminished in recent weeks. Dmitriy had lost half an ocean of his fluids, his muscular build had withered, his palms becoming dry apricots, his eyes hanging – bloodshot capillaries climbing across his eyeballs like the ivy on the outside wall.
* * *
A scientist, a priest, and a politician had been selected to address the mysterious apartment so on one late afternoon – with their backs to the lightning chrome of the photographers, the chanting of the collected believers, and the scathing eyes of the atheists with arms folded – they entered between the leafy canopies and trembling brickwork of Dmitriy’s building.
The triumvirate traded glances of intrigue, of apprehension, the politician voluntarily standing in the full frame of the doorway.
“Open this door, we have come to welcome you with peace and compassion.”
No answer.
The politician stood aside for the priest - confidence and wisdom etched across his wrinkle peppered eyelids.
“We bow to you the holy, the saviour of God’s great earth.”
No answer.
The scientist brushed past the priest, a wry smile on his face, pushing his thin-rimmed spectacles further up the bridge of his nose.
“Sir, if you are unwell, you must allow us to treat you at once.”
No answer. The scientist shaded his disappointment with a rustle of his shoulders.
“Has anyone thought to open the door by using the handle?”
The priest and the politician looked to one another for an answer, equally inept in offering a reply. The scientist twisted the large brass doorknob, the door heaving a resounding groan, as the hinges turned. The priest and the politician held one another with clasped hands to shaking spines, fear burgeoning across their brows, knees elevating to a fetal stance. The scientist stepped through the doorway, low waves of water gliding past his ankles, hazy sunlight creeping through the plants outside, creating meandering orange streams around the room. At the bed, shivering, whimpering, a decrepit old man huddled with himself.
“Where is their God now” the scientist pondered, hands on his wiry waist, shaking his head with disdain for the hordes surrounding the eventual tomb of this dying man. The scientist approached the bed. He lowered his face to an equal level with the wrinkled complexion of Dmitriy.
“Is there anything I can do for you, before it is time for you to die?”
Dmitriy peeled apart his chapped lips, and forced his grey eyes to close.
“After I die, you must take her my heart. I may look like death, but it beats and it was always for her, it belongs to her. I want to die now. Please allow me to die, just her heart and I.”
The scientist stood, wading his toes through the shallow receding water of the room, closing the door behind him with great care.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
