disgrace

THRILLER?! Getthefuckouttahere, what is this? Suddenly in a posh club with coked-up barmen ringing a bell and clapping their hands, what the fuck?! And commercial hip slop, dropped like there was no mixer, some well mixed but ultimately horrific electro, what am I doing? I'm going home, that's what I'm doing: I'm looking for a reggae soundsystem, but it's the same story here as in Spain, there's no dread. No dread, just happy go lucky singing about social injustice, it's the same story as in Spain: where's the dread? The dread? If this is a playground, then there should be some funky. And if there's none of that, then I'm not having any of it.

skrev on my væg

Dansk! No more will I write, because I've said enough and the clue is obvious. But I'm not in Danelandercountry, oh no, the jordbær are called frutilla where I am, or at least outside they are, not here where I am at the moment, lost in a world of speeding bytes that get magically put together by the sort of wondrous code I hope to one day write. I'm practising.

And as I practise I tire, and the need arrives for me to yank myself and purge the rammed junk, here, here I say. Right here. They call it whatever, and I buy it however, they don't make it like that over here, in fact they make it so poorly that I'm making my own most days and most nights these days (and most nights). If I punctuate so well at times, it's to give you a break, a chance, something to stick a hook into and attach your rope: stay safe as you climb, my dear!

Imaginations and engineering, dream-buccaneering and sneering, cheering, drooling, oh dear, my friends lack friends and years, and some lack everything but a relationship. Tell the whole world, darling, but don't let them send you birthday cards, befriend the world but trust nobody. What pap, what piffle what nonsense nonsense nonsense likeyougiveafuck, like I write here, and as if I read through to check, the thoroughness of this lies in the lack of any plan, of any test, it's made up on the spot and preserved for centuries. I could make myself famous just by including the words "I feel" in a sentence, and maybe I could attract the attention of at least one lucky star just by saying "I feel marvellous" I feel I feel I feel, I feel myself, I'm feeling myself, and now I've hi-jacked the sentiment and twisted the whole meaning of the database, I feel like throwing this immense sentence of inconsequentiality out there and if they feel me then they'll follow: LOOK AT THE LENGTH OF THIS SENTENCE, it's like a book in a sentence, a world write here, go ahead and java extract me I'll tell you everything you need to know, Ms Curious.

And with that, the final stab in the darkness of insanity, it's time for an acceptance test of the most regular order, the master of one style is the amateur of another, history has been made, but there are so many histories now that making a new one is a trifling experience.

before the bubbles go flat

Before the bubbles go flat it's time to use up the last few words that are contained in my fingers, I'm dropping them all over the place right now, some even ended up in the physical world, where I still couldn't touch them but I could blur them, scribble them, make them messy. Send them. Stamp and send. Bang!

The siesta was long-lived and the influence of the book in the park, under the tree, was at first distracted by falling invisibleness that stuck the pages together in the most annoying way and in the most strategic spots, a brand new book suddenly destroyed by an invisible killer. The visible ones were there for all to see, proud of their water balloons and pleased with the coincidence of hot weather and holidays. My feet were placed strategically, but although I could avoid the visible dangers, the invisibility fell, and I realised that yesterday wasn't an anomaly: the killer was always at large in that square. I had to go elsewhere, I had to move.

With turbo crunk and words from the future that nobody bothered to find in the past, I flew back to base and collapsed in a synchronous sleep with the foreign writer of the facemail I'd just read, my sleep was long-lived and the energy burst even longer. Back to the future on a bench, with filthy pigeons trying to feed off invisibility: it wasn't falling there, fortunately.

The bubbles have gone, the final few were beginning to flatten, maybe like a yield curve. The book never told me what it would look like in cases of deflation, so my eyes are on the lookout, and my mind is on autopilot. Sleep favours the autopiloted mind.

FUNKY IS BIG

MASSIVE, in fact. Summer days. Marcus Nasty. Crazy Cousinz. Sir Spyro. All the others. There's no contest. Ruling it. Tunes like 'Go' by Meleka. Huge. iTunes smasher. All of this, and more. On my iPod, on these streets, in this sun, the party goes on. Crazy Cousinz on the radio. Too much. Just too much excitement, too much fun.

found this

Hang on, what just happened to the language?

Dr Happy passed through briefly, he needs a nurse. There are other characters on the way. We're recruiting. As soon as the world of nonsense was created, words started getting around. They started socialising, creating characters of fear. The circus came to town. What else is possible when there are no rules? The moral framework of nonsense is yet to be found.

Good heavens

5 Tips For A Flat Stomach

Boxes  and books and discs and clothes and suitcases have entertained me today. Rekless on the radio. The rebuffer. Footache and songs about heartache and tears and all those basslines. Softwaredevelopment. Bits and bobs. Party animal. You can't find entertainment like this anywhere else. Mixedup. Dirty drops. Dirty meaning bad. Nonsense. Rebuffer.

What started out looking shit eventually took shape. Throw the words together in a different way and stuff starts making sense. Emerging from the nonsense, separating itself, standing out from the crowd. House beats continue all day and the moon is insane. Torch in the sky.

Inserting parentheses here might allow a breather from the cascade of words, the caschaos of thoughts dropping freely now as the moon lights up the sky and gives the night form. The darkness and the uncertainty, now accentuated, haunted, and macaroni cheese. Disco beats emerge from the house beats, I think it must be a joke, but maybe they're serious.

People. Suddenly there are people. Brazilian music accompanies the arrival. "This one goes to the South American crew."

The discipline, oh the discipline, it's all too much, easy yet difficult, overbearing. The plug says it all. The plug is attractive. Stop and break for a while.

It's time to admit.

- - - - -

This is a search through nonsense.

- - - - -

First, the pieces, and then the form, although to do it backwards is feasible and preferable at times. "Turn this ish up." (I don't know what an 'ish' is). "Hot off the press." I'm just recording this, it doesn't mean I have to understand it. I'm recording so I can re-play. replay. Howeverever.

Total boredom.

The purpose of art? To give people something that means something to them? To ask questions? To open up new experiences? To provide new languages? All these questions bombard me.

This is not art, by the way.

The purpose of studying art? To help people make sense of it? Understand where it came from and why it arose? 

How does art support the economic side of life? An escape? A reward? A reaction? A revolt? All of these 'A's are disturbing my eye... The music plays.

"I feel good, 'cos I know there's a God somewhere!"

House music on a Tuesday afternoon. It's getting carried away. Soulful. I almost can't cope with the intensity of the high.

Writing as a memory aid. Drop fragments of your afternoon over a page, and then return to it the next day. Remember what you did. The ambiguous words and phrases either tell what happened or tell what might have happened. And if someone else reads this? Do they experience the same afternoon? This is the key. Generation.

Morph. 

And more boredom?

Excitement of the day? Crazi Cousinz. 523 texting in. Pullit pullit pullit pullit!!!!

riptiftussning

tabs don't work, and something else has gone wrong too.

(shift-tab doesn't work).

I can't see and I forgot what I was supposed to type there while I found myself again. 

Mobile phones.

The amount of information in a typical mobile phone is amazing, if that information gets stolen it can be used to build up quite a profile of the handset owner. Be careful.

- - - - -

Real DVD is under fire, and I'm just annoyed that it's not on sale in the UK.

- - - - -

In other news...

chefal and his friends with their records, trying to regain the ground for dubstep after a dismal performance by the previous dj, the house boys are ruling rinse at the moment, taking over, but chef and friends always try to bring something better, skream dropping bleeps and bloops. Skream has cut 15 dubplates for the show.

but really...

tuesday

FUCK OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CRAZY COUSINS TEARIN IT UP! Tuesday afternoon FFS... They're ripping the fuck out of the afternoon. It's like Friday night, at 1 am or something, in a club, but no, it's the funky boys on the radio, dropping silly tunes, nonstop. The audience is elsewhere. They can't see them. This is insane. Nuts. dropping everything. Shouting. CALL IN! 10 missed calls for a rewind.

PULLIT PULLIT PULLIT PULLIT!!!!

TTOO TTHHIINN

"Hang tight the Dolland & Aitchinson crew!"

And that was it. Yet another show, yet more excitement.

How much randomness? AND how little thought? The movement moved. Nonsense turned to sense and fell elsewhere. Sense is shy. It hides from the world. The world makes no sense. Sense hides from the world. Locked away where it's safe. No worries there. Get lost.

Nonsince. If you press the caret key three times then type some letters, just look at the mess you've made. And if you ask someone to describe the mess, what will they say? Try that. Write it down. COmmENT me.

Semantic webs are there to catch information. This is all tagged. You've been tagged. Chestboxing.

rinse 0a

Pigeonhead rushed onto facebook as if some sort of news would have broken out, but there was nothing much of note. And then on to the guardian, but that was still no better. what was happening?

The only constantly new stuff to be found was on the radio, on the so-called pirate channels. What was once clearly pirate eventually became more legitimate, but the pirate spirit continued. The only way to guarantee new content would be to produce it yourself. And so millions of creators set about making new abstractions for transfer and exchange.

When the voice of the dj is lost behind the sound of the vocal track, there's just a cheapness to the sound of it all, the legitimacy of the pirate. And when the kids shout on the street, there's a fear struck into the mind of all who have been exposed to the stories of irrational violence.

Words fall like this while eyes fall shut and the head falls back.

Is there any hot chocolate?

3 sentences, a comma and a colon

Reality was traded in. All that seemed like a dream became part of the waking world, and all that was real turned into something less believable. Music took the foreground: it was the only thing that seemed complete enough to capture the feeling.

141

what?! the lyrics are better on these tunes, happier times. the beats are funky.

spyro & mak 10 on rinse.fm

the underground is evolving, london is creating the future. these beats remind me of amon tobin, but they're fresh from other producers. they're on 57 of 150 tunes. this is a hardcore display of musical depth. where does all the music come from?!

music has become so easy to make with computers and software that a whole load of potential producers can now try their hand at making tunes, and some of the stuff they're making is utterly superb. when I hear tunes like the ones they're playing tonight - new to my ears - that's when I feel enthralled by music. it's like an adventure of some sort.

What on earth must I have been thinking, and how on earth did I end up doing such a thing? The stress gets too much: the emotional will eventually manifest itself in the physical, and when that happens, you're totally fucked, because a feedback loop is created.

A feeling of grogginess is the only comfort. Let the muscles relax and let that brain untangle. And when that happens, the creativity can flow once more. All the other shit is revealed as mere stupidity.

Wanted

I'm having ridiculous mindthings going on this evening, and I put it down to more than the weird stuff that didn't happen today, and which left me with an urge to make weird things happen myself. I have to get this out of my system here, rather than by putting it in an email to somebody else, because if I did that, then I'd be left wondering what happened after I pressed the 'send' button: as it goes, I know exactly what happens to this when I press the 'publish post' button, because I can see it.

The question that struck me the other day as I lay in bed, and which still lingered with me yesterday was this: why is it that, when faced with death, we fear for our lives? I know of nobody who's able to give it all up for the sake of doing nothing. When lying paralysed with pain, death should be more desirable, but it actually becomes less desirable. That's where a lot of the pain comes from.

And with that highly unoriginal piece of poorly-worded wondering, I'll move on. I want to move on: I want to keep moving, and never stop moving. I sometimes tire of moving, but one of the great pleasures in life is to move around, and then to pay all of the old things a visit. When I play records I don't remember, I realise that a moment I've lived before was lost to oblivion, and now is my chance to live another moment, but capture it this time with my primed senses.

Now, with that fleeting moment of pop nonsense, I'll move on again. Or backwards. I chose to write this instead of an email because the personal nature of communication has started to worry me too much and I'm retreating into a different world where my communication is barely noticed, but stands more honestly, as if to say: "I only exist because I happen to be a way to pass the time". While some people have certain projects in mind, others just meander.

Scribbling words that I'll never read again is almost like listening to a record that I'll quickly forget, although the opportunity created is still the same. What passes through me now, and what passes me by today... I may someday cross paths with it at some point down the line and find some sort of interest. But for now, it's just boredom.

Have you ever needed to iron seven shirts?

It took me right back to another time, and I started composing an advertisement in my head. I want to advertise myself again, but this time I want somebody to respond to the advert. It's no fun when the publicity's so poor that you're left on the shelf. Imagine that...

I can't think of what to eat for dinner, but I can write nonsense easily

I click on your profile pic whenever it pops up on my homepage, in the hope that when I'm transported to your page, your page will have transformed, and you'll be there instead of a facebook page, and somehow you'll be real and not just an image on the screen. This is the stuff of science fiction. I click on your profile pic and you walk right out of the screen and into my room, and facebook has become fully interactive. The URLs have led me to the real version of you and not just to some virtual resource.

But if that happened, then I'd have to be the only one to possess such technology, because imagine if  I was busy hoovering my house and suddenly you clicked on my profile pic, and I was whisked away from the housework and into your monitor, on my way to your own private realm? Would I get a warning, so that I had time to turn the hoover off and put it away? Imagine the chaos that would happen if everyone started being transported around the place?

I can see the London Eye from my bedroom window, I can see it clearly, but I can't get there easily. And if I look at a picture of it on my computer, then I have two copies to look at, but I'm still no closer to it.

And if all of this was a dream, then would you want to wake up and get on with life, or would you be happy to just continue what you're doing? To be honest, until somebody walks out of my screen and into the same plane of reality that I'm inhabiting, I won't believe that this is anything more than a trick involving mirrors. And if you do walk out of that screen, then I really will question reality.

And so on...

Sense falls out of my fingers, non?

I've stepped out of the kaleidoscope tunnel and into a wonderfully ornate hallway with a long mirror on one of the walls, and now everything just looks like a plain copy. My day started in confusion, and I've realised only just now that perhaps this confusion was a result of my change in location. The nonsense is now being masquerading as sense...

I'll start from the beginning, and I'll explain things this time, so that you feel ultra-comfortable. Treat this as an open letter to the one person who'll never read this, who cares so much for my sanity and who so enjoys reading sentences that run from left to right, from the top of the page to the bottom. This is an example of a genre that can only be described with the most hideously long title, whose punctuation creates headaches for anyone who wants to insert it in the middle of another paragraph. The genre is: "Hi, I'm normal. Look: this email smacks of normality, I do normal things and everything is fine. The 'i's are dotted and the 't's are crossed, the sentences have stops and there is a beginning and an end to all this. It's complete, just like me."

Understood? Stop reading here if you want the emotional excitement of the magical nonsense-producing machine, and continue if you think you can be entertained by something more straightforward.

- - - - -

I start my days these days by asking the coffee-master at the coffee-master's house in coffee-master-wannabe central for three shots of coffee in a large cup, with a little frothy hood that they call a 'cappuccino'. This is what I like. The coffee-master has worked hard at his art and, unlike in the amateur chain establishments, his three shots will not make a worried mind turn to insomnia and crime, but will merely sharpen the senses so that they are balanced with the nonsenses, putting the drinker of such coffee in the perfect frame of mind to carry out his day's business with good humour and calmness.

In the coffee house this morning, I pulled out my book with every intention of trying to read some more before work, but was distracted by a newspaper headline about Statins. This was not the article for me, nor were the others that I skimmed past: such stories tell me little that's worth brooding on, although they're worth scanning for the one or two useful points that they may raise. The article that made me stop and think that little bit more was one about a fictitious book that has become real. This may sound like the work of a Borgesian scholar, but it's actually the latest money-spinning idea to have been dreamed up by the marketing maniacs who will not rest until every last cent has been squeezed out of Sex and the City.

Out of the many thoughts that this commentary spawned, the one that I brooded on while walking from the cafe to the office was related to the admission: "I know a woman who won't date a man if he has an apostrophe in the wrong place". This made me laugh, because a few years ago I was having dinner with an educated and erudite female friend, and she told me that she didn't think she'd be able to go out with a guy if he didn't know how to use the possessive correctly. I laughed long and hard when she said that, and had she not had a boyfriend, I probably would've asked her out on the spot for being so passionate about the technical aspects of language. The comment stuck with me, and anything that sticks with me ends up being analysed and criticised until I understand why it's stuck with me...

Crimes against language take a bit of getting used to, but if the perpetrator of the crime is pretty enough and entertaining enough, then you start to look upon the crime in a different light. After being utterly horrified at first by just how appalling the grammar of one of my "pen-pals" was, and squirming as she used the occasional "clever" word in a very unusual context (like our beloved celebrities do) in an attempt to seem intelligent, I gradually warmed to her lack of knowledge of the finer points of language (yes, she was incredibly pretty, and very entertaining). In some cases, the dodgy punctuation would give the text a certain rhythm that I liked, or a certain cheekiness that I'd never seen conveyed by well-regimented language. I labelled the style "naked writing", and I've been obsessed with it ever since.

But, that said, I've had at least two pen pals tell me: "your lovely", and that will never look nice. The first time I read that, I expected more words to follow.  And then it just seemed awkward. To be fair, one of the nicest emails I've ever received was from potentially the most intelligent girl I know, who writes perfect English. But anyway, getting back to the point... This new Sex and the City spin-off book... Well, it's a load of shite, isn't it? That's the conclusion of the Independent columnist as well. I could say so much more, but I'm saying no more. If I see anyone reading that book on the train...

- - - - -

That little excursion took longer than I'd expected, and I've now led my thoughts so astray that I'm going to have to spend a little time here getting back to where I expected to be going...

Had the front page of The Independent not grabbed me so, I would've continued to read "Adriana Buenos Aires", which is a terrible book, but it's intentionally bad. Or so Macedonio Fernández would have us believe. Subtitled: "Última novela mala" ("The last bad novel"), it's about as interesting as this blog: mimetic and static, and just another love story. It's the counterpart to "Museo de la novela de la eterna", the "Primera novela buena" ("The first good novel"), which is an altogether different kettle of beans. 

I'm not mentioning these names to lose you or to elevate myself here, but to explain my next move, which baffled the recruitment consultant that phoned me up today. There reaches a point where you just have to laugh at these fools, and I reached that point a few weeks ago. Now, I'm having fun with them. The recruitment consultant will conquer or destroy. I can't speak to one without remembering the time when some dense lads at my table at the pub one night pulled out an email of laddish chat-up lines and their counter-lines: you know, the ones where you get knocked back but then retaliate immediately by insulting the girl you just hit on (i.e. the ones that probably work). If they sense that you're not interested, they'll go on to try and undermine you. But why would you want to try such a trick on me?

Anyway, the recruitment consultant... I said to him: "No, I'm not sticking around". And I'm saying this more frequently now, because my mind's made up: I'm going away next year. I've given myself the target of six months, or sooner if my current employer ceases to require my talents before then. I'm going to Argentina, and I'm going to become an even better plagiarist of Macedonio Fernández. This has always been the plan, as it goes. I always knew that writing the loveliest emails in the world wouldn't get me anywhere, and that Argentina would be my next destination. It's been on my destinations list since I read an article about the country one day when I was 17, and it was accompanied by a picture of a pretty blonde girl, and I thought, for no well thought-out reason: "I'm going to go there". But I didn't know at the time, and then had to stumble upon it again. And then again. And then again. And again. It's a recurring theme, and it can't be ignored, I'm going to move to Argentina next year, because it's been calling me for a long time.

- - - - -

Working in Brighton is lovely, because on a day like today you can finish work and go down to the beach, sit on a deckchair and take off your shoes and socks, pull out a book, and sit and wonder what it is that makes everyone you ever meet seem to think that you're strange.

More from the doctor

The time is ticking slowly, but it's ticking faster than usual, and now the broken mirror in front of me looks ready to reflect a more complete picture in the near future. We could be friends, away from my heart. Away from this world and its filth, away from the lies and the illusions. There are no lies behind my mask, there is only the sickly grin of a lucky doctor.

The drugs haven't worked, and nothing can save me now. The clippings of your lives lie scattered around my room like a puzzle with only one obvious solution. I will be happy again. Doctor Happy has made too many people happy to feel so sad, and now it's time for him to be happy again. The clock ticks on, and the hands are pointing to a happier future: they're pointing towards you and they're pointing towards the future, and I'm looking at them from behind my mask and I know that what I'm seeing is the only true way to continue...

Introducing... Dr Happy!

I check your facebook profile more often than you do. Your pictures are saved on my hard drive, and some of them have been printed out and put in the book I've written about you. In some cases, the other people in the photos have been cut out deftly using a surgeon's knife, or disguised by a few messy strokes of the same pen that I use to scribble prescriptions for myself in times of dire need. I've never put myself in any of the photos. I prefer seeing you by yourself. I take the pills and look at the pictures, and they make me happy.

I am Dr Happy, the one that people turn to when they need cheering up. When my work is done, they forget about me. I have only words and pictures for company. They are as false as the smile on my mask. They are nothing but images, disconnected from the truth, from this reality in which I find myself. I hide behind the smiley face at night and try to hide the pain as I consider how easily my patients manage to hide behind forced feelings, hurling themselves into lie after lie. But their happiness is only ever short-lived, like the memory of a dream. And so the patients return...

I take the pills and write the books, and I stare at these walls and laugh. I wear my mask and I stare at the mirror, and the time has come. The time has been given to me, because I have a party to go to. Dr Happy has a party to go to, and it's time to find some new patients :-)

Song 2

Remember last year's song about the perils of having an email-based relationship with someone, "Your name is burnt into my eye"? That was such a hit that I've written another song that I'm going to give to you for free. This one's about the illusion of the social networking sites:

You ain't nothing but a URI

You ain't nothing but a URI

You said on my wall that I'm a really cool guy

But you ain't nothing but a URI

That one goes deep.

Automation

I don't write these blogs any more: I wrote a PHP class module the other day that produces nonsense of its own. There are methods and properties to my madness, didn't you know? Yes, there are, and they're what's stringing this blog together while I stand on the platform at Norwood Junction, watching a male pigeon chasing after a female pigeon. I'm not talking metaphorically here, either: he's chasing her round and round in circles, while another female ambles around aimlessly in the middle of the imaginary circle they're drawing.

Oh well, the female just flew away, and her friend went with her. Poor male. It's Friday night, so I'm off to have fun in town now... I'll leave the computer to continue.

Anyway, this blog is being constructed by a simple computer program that will write nonsense with less emotional noise to distort the flows, as I opted not to add a class for the emotions, nor to plug it into a database full of painful, embarrassing and self esteem-destroying memories which it might draw upon in the creation process. It just knows words and how to put them together. I just need to work on breaking the grammar rules that I've set up, and teach it how to convey pace and confusion instead of the terribly rigid and functional language that they teach you as a child. Grammar rules are a guideline, not iron laws, you bloody idiot.

This blog was created by collating text messages sent to it over the course of the day, and by stealing the odd word or two from online sources. The code was reading stories about queues outside stores that were full of computers that didn't work properly and phones that couldn't be activated, and commentators who were keen to point and laugh as they completely ignored the irrelevance of their entire existence. Excitement is the only reason we live. That's why pigeons run around on station platforms.

And what if the excitement is so great that after seeing the most beautiful female of the day you promptly fall asleep, and wake in a state of confusion at the same old place? If that's the case, then there's only one thing for it: lemon swiss roll and lemon curd. The label will be changed for a joke, but the contents will be eaten in all seriousness. Squeeze my lemon, bitch: rid me of this bitterness.

Vanilla and lime candle

I have highs that are too high, and lows that are too low. My  hopes swing to and fro, and my heart takes me places I shouldn't go. The candle in my room flickers to the electronic distortions of chaos and creation, the sound rushes from the speakers and fills my mind with wonder as I sit here tonight, typing my way through the images that form in parts of my brain I have no direct access to: there are parts that lead to other parts, and sometimes the doors between them are open, sometimes they're closed, sometimes I'm up and sometimes I'm down.

A naked display of the emotions that have grown from a barren existence. Small, weedy emotions that have fought against the odds to survive in the treacherous landscape, mutated species of emotion that survived because of their unusual nature and grew in spite of the lack of a place in the sun, of care and attention, of healthy nutrition. Broken paths of development and inadequate sentences. Words without consequence, after so many words with so many horrible consequences.

I can see the London Eye from my bedroom window, I look out across the city and I can see the wheel, and I want to be there in an instant. The wheel is being illuminated tonight, the colours are flashing along the rim, and I watch red turn to green, and the sky looks nice tonight. I was carried along by adrenaline all day and then dropped on my head, and I want to fly across the city and land on Waterloo Bridge, just like an alien. I couldn't eat a proper dinner and I feel too tired. The confusion tires me out and there is no respite, there is no escape, there is no warm place to rest my head, there is the only the sound that fills my room and the candle that flickers as the distortions rise and fall.

Nothing ever happens on facebook

I have no energy and I have no idea where my energy has gone, I slept last night and I slept this morning and I slept on the train to work and I slept on the train home from work and I was in a daze on my way home. I bought a ticket to Sutton because I needed to do something. I bought a ticket to Sutton but the platform was too long, so I crossed to the other platform and went in the other direction and when the train started moving I thought I could get off a couple of stops early and just go home but then I remembered that the train was going in the other direction and for a moment I saw myself travelling in opposite directions, drifting apart. 

There were scenes in my head for the whole trip home, the cast had been gathered from a dream I had the other night, the dream was nice in a way but when I woke up I was confused and upset and the images didn't get washed down the dirty plughole as I showered in front of the spattered mirror and behind the grubby screen. Too much to clean, I'm tired of cleaning I'm the only one who cleans and they think it's a sign of madness of obsessiveness I don't see what's wrong with wanting to live a clean life but they think I'm mad. The images have stayed with me, I thought I'd lost them a long time ago but they're still here with me. The images of a dream I had the other night, of a night I had the other year, of a day I had the other summer, they had returned.

My mouth had lost its taste and the sweets weren't strong enough, I couldn't get enough taste in my mouth from the sweets and the bad thing about bon bons is that it's only the sweet dust and the hard shell that are worth eating and then you're left with hard caramel and the challenge of trying to find a way of softening it and saving your teeth. I sat on my bed and I didn't know what to do, music wasn't sounding the same way, the music wasn't strong enough either, there was no point, I sat on my bed and I thought about my ticket to Sutton. I'd bought a ticket to Sutton and I had to use it, I'd bought it because if I bought it I'd have to use it. I had to use it. I sat on my bed and didn't know how to proceed who to phone what to do whether to drink and smoke or just lie on my floor. It looked appealing. 

On my other bed and I had no energy. My top off and I had no energy. I had no belt, no top and no energy. I sat on my other bed and I eventually lay down. I couldn't lie down like that, I'd slept all day, I couldn't sit up, I was too tired, my arms are so thin, they've got no strength, my arms are thin like nothing else in the world, they're so thin they've got no power they can't save me I'm looking at my arms and I can't believe how thin they are why are they so thin and why am I so tired? I'm lying on the bed but I can see myself lying on the floor.

I have a ticket to Sutton and I have to use it. My tenses are jumbled and my arms are so thin, look at the tenses: they're all jumbled. My place in time is lost and the images from my dreams are all in my head and my body is vanishing I have no energy I don't know where it all went and I don't know why it went. I decide that the only thing to do is to use my ticket to Sutton and I talk to my friend but nothing seems to register and the night will have ended before I've even started, I'm now worried about what I'll see and what we'll do, and all I can think of is what she said and why she said it and what she did and why she did it and the images are all in my head and I wanted them to go away but they stayed with me long after everyone else left.

the jokes on me

I have no interest in talking to people other than the ones that interest me today, and I have no interest in ceasing my incessant note-taking. If I were to cease, then it wouldn't be incessant. So, maybe rather than having 'no interest', I should really just face facts and say that I have 'no ability'. The joke's on me. Oh, the jokes on me.

Internet forums are a good place to make bitter enemies, as the text flies from behind monitors and keyboards, between people who have no idea of how big or small the person they're arguing with is, and who have a clear opportunity to take their anger out on a complete stranger. Words are misinterpreted, tempers flare, apologies are non-existent, nobody backs down, and there's no pretty girl to step in with a stern look and say: "BOYS! STOP!"

Pussy control is what it's about. Without pussy control, the world would have ended millions of days ago.

I write all this after being inspired by a long rant from a friend who's just been caught up in an online war in which everybody momentarily lost sight of the fact that they were geeks arguing about technology and started to think that they were born to beat people up.

Listen, such shit is the last thing on my mind, even though that's clearly a falsity of some sort, as it's the first thing I've chosen to write about. Was I supposed to write about my three-course calm-down meal instead? The third course was a disappointment: the cheesecake tasted slightly strange and not nearly unhealthy enough. When I eat cheesecake, I expect to throw up.

And when I put a record on, I expect to dance. When I put Lykke Li on, I expect half the room to dance, and the other half to cry. And when I'm reminissin', nissin' you... that's why I'm playing the records in the first place.

When I type, my fingers find the rhythm before they find the keys, and they dance around gracefully, finding the words before my mind even finds them. It's a reflex now. All I have are the memories, and the broken dreams, and I sit here in my room, I'm reminissin' you. 

21 Jump Street

The nonsense flowed today, or maybe it flew, it flew with speed as the wind carried it down the seafront and into my face. Ladies held their skirts down as the wind tried desperately to raise them. The waves got excited.

And then I found myself trapped in a cafe with the most drab music, it was like something out of a terrible nightmare, stealing all of the energy that I'd built up over the course of the day. I had twenty minutes to spare. It didn't seem long enough at first, but then I realised that the dire music would dilate those twenty minutes and I'd have an hour or so to spare. 

The music stole the nonsense and suddenly sense started to fall out in the most boring and predictable manner. The dots started to find themselves arriving at the right time, and the commas appeared in the right place. Apostrophes are always placed correctly, as this is the difference between the average idiot and the above-average idiot, and nudity here is not stylish but just plain stupid and rude. These people claim to be artistic. My only wish is that "art" was a harder word to spell.

And I had no clue that when I imagined myself sitting here typing in Italian for no obvious reason that I'd actually have transferred the thought somehow into the drink I was consuming, leaving the text that I was producing to be consumed without the usual shouts of "Bastardo!" coming my way for choosing to write appalling phrases in languages that few people seem willing to learn.

But then, if you don't know how to use an apostrophe, then I couldn't possibly imagine how you'd go about learning another language.

- - - - -

So far this year, I've tried "Homemade Lemonade", "Authentic Indian Lemonade", "Sicilian Lemonade", and R White's Lemonade. Among other lemonades that I can't recall, or which lacked the "Lemonade" description in their name. And where has this got me?

There is no conclusion to be drawn here, only money.

- - - - -

Nonsense flew out of my fingers all day long, as a reaction to the diabolical state of my house and of my life at the moment. Likeyougiveafuck. I'm going to dinner and I'm going to eat three courses.

La under it

For my next trick...

I'm not the only mad one in here. I have lots of friends who are mad too. Like you. Madness is sexy. Miaow.

Friday 13th is a right write-off thanks to the lack of any ability to sing, or even talk without sounding silly. Put an extra comma in there and you'll have a fun time imagining me sounding silly when I sing. Like when I sing along to Burial for a laugh if i trust you if i trust you if i trust you... will you realise that being deranged is nothing worrying unless you can't handle novelty? The write-off was written off in style by a fire which made me take a different route home, on a bus, going to the wrong town, but via a vegan restaurant which is rarely open and which holds meditation sessions rather than meals when it is open. Soya cheese pizza is hardly something you'd eat, but I'd eat it and relish every moutful. You can't say 'soya pizza' without saying 'oya pete', so say it and I'll turn around and expect you to be a geordie.

Cake is great but not good enough to return my brain to me, and everything has been written off this evening, the records won't spin properly and I can't talk properly and after spending a day doing nothing but waiting for time to pass so I could go home I now find myself spending an evening doing nothing but waiting for more time to pass so I can go to bed and get the fuck out of this cruel world for a few hours. When I wake up, it will be party time once more, I have a framed picture of a naked old woman to pick up so I can hang it on my wall and scare anyone who dares stay the night. I have records to collect, and others to pick up besides them, and friends to pat on the back, and the launderette beckons.

THE LAUNDERETTE BECKONS! A lovely word, and a brand new experience. Fuck your "arty" pictures. The launderette beckons, one day a girl went to work there and the letters had gone missing, her clothes went unwashed, the pub was visited and the ladette was created, and now look at the mess we're all in. The talent is in the asylum.

I can explain it all with one statement of fact: a cappuccino was drunk this morning, yet sleep was had this evening. And that really doesn't happen. When I wake up tomorrow, all of this will seem like it never happened, and my dream will be the only thing I want to think about. When I close my eyes the reality arrives. When I open them and find that I'm in East Croydon, I can't work out what's a dream and what's reality, and for some reason or other you're still there and it confuses things even more.

Another statement of fact: nodding off at my desk on Thursday, I managed to install an IDE, but when I came back from the cafe I didn't know if it had been real or just a dream, and when I pressed ctrl+alt+del and saw the stuff there, I was unsure where it had come from and why it had come. The only thing to do is to persevere and try to work out the purpose. But I'm still trying to work that one out. To press ctrl+alt+del.

plain useless

When you don't want to feel, you can't feel the cold, and when you don't want to feel, the rain doesn't matter either, and when you don't want to feel, the music means nothing, and when you don't want to feel, you don't want to feel, because the feeling is horrible. When the people look like they've just seen an alien because the feeling has disfigured you, and when the people look scared because the feeling is reaching out into their zone, and when you can't see yourself properly because the feeling has blinded you. Shouting here is pointless. The swearing will come later.

Have you ever waited for a bus and the other person waiting looked so worried that you just walked home instead, and you wanted to walk forever but your house was closer than you wanted it to be and the route was far more familiar than you wanted it to be because with every step you took you walked into another universe of memories, but the memories had been disfigured too, and the whole world was grotesque and you wanted to retch and throw it all up, back onto the world, but the confusion was too much and lying down would be the best thing to do, but you can't lie down because you can't do anything because nothing seems to exist any more? This isn't poetry, it's just stupidity.

If the rats crawled out of the sewers and into your car and all over you when you were trying to flirt and show no fear, and if the rats threw up blood and your hair got dirty and your friend ran away and told the world about your baby rat and you felt so stupid for ever driving anywhere, even more stupid and confused than reading stuff written on the internet makes the writer look, then what on earth would the people think and what would your friends think and would it be an experience to treasure for the good side or for the bad side and do you think you could ever look back on it at some point in the future and laugh about it, or would it disturb you for the rest of your life?

When you leave the house and it's sunny so you've got no umbrella, but then the weather turns nasty without warning and you get soaked by icy water... then what, bitch? You just have to feel nothing and change your clothes and dry your hair and wonder why the fuck it happened to you. Petrol prices are on the up, slut.

back like that

At least I've finally realised why Martyn's DCM remix of "Broken Heart" gets all the attention. All I needed to do was step back and sit down and do something else. I zoomed in, but now I can't work out how to zoom back out. Nose to the grindstone? (I used to think they were saying "grimestone"). The time to phone and feel less alone has long gone and now you won't even poke me I write rhymes with juvenile patterns so the vicious thoughts can't choke me IF ONLY!

When I drop the dots and dashes and silly adornments and lay the words down bare, do I give the impression that this was written because you don't care? Nonsense nonsense nonsense! Read it however you like, you'll read it the wrong way because there is no right way: it's all wrong, and all that's left is a rhythm of feeling and a trickle of memory, the imaginary reader who sits on the other side of my screen is probably the only one who won't read this, but in another universe there exists a version of this and a version of that and they come together more gracefully, with no collision, untainted by puerile images injected into your brain by those shows on the television WAKE UP and put down the children's book and the adult's magazine and the commuter's newspaper.

I have to go now, because I have a record to mix in to the one that's just started revolving.

Bus Horror Victim: First Picture

Even if you wanted to turn and hide you couldn't, but you don't want to do that, you just can't help but stare because that's what you've been trained to do and you don't have the discipline to untrain yourself from these ready-made paths of thought that they lead you down put your hand in your pocket why don't you and when you get home turn that tv on and sit in front of it while you wait for someone to call you and make the emptiness seem acceptable. If you extract my brain you'll find it's as complete as yours and if you compare my soul you'll find an extra bit of growth that yours lacks, it grew out of necessity and absence and tried to be the part that yours found elsewhere, the part that gives you that sunny air.

The words are only coming out wrong because the world has been destroyed by stupidity and it is relentless inexhorable exhaustible far from adorable abhorrent stupid stuff, you swallow it whole. When I read over those pretty words of naive stupidity, the meaning is clear, and the meaning is rubbish, but if I ever read over these words of twisted nonsense I'll struggle to understand what on earth was falling out of my fingers and why it fell in that peculiar way, I've had such a particular day which saw me sitting in a lecture theatre full of perfumed ladies and educated gents, old patrons and young upstarts, silly tarts dressed in leather and confusing 'prodigious' with 'prolific' in the final show of complete stupidity dressed up as intellectualism GET OUT OF MY WAY but thanks for showing us the show at least you know talent from tripe even if you don't know what the words mean.

The words were harassment back then but they are now nothing but embarrassment, and look at the nonsense I have to tolerate in return. If pretty pictures are flashed on the screen before me and the grotesque is what we find intriguing, then what was the problem anyway? One day a database will spew this crap out just as fast as the server can transform the nonsense into nuisance. Nonsensefallsoutofapachewebserveralldaylonglikeyougiveafuck. The words were so lovely that the writer was forgotten and the words were all that was treasured, so the writer threw the treasure into a trove and drowned himself while everyone else frolicked so happily, plucking words and pulling birds out of the database... get fucked and go to space I hate this place.

Spice Bun in the meantime, hun.

unedited shite #348

SMILE! (it might never happen)

SMILE! (jesus loves you)

SMILE! (it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile)

bollox bollox bollox I SHOUT IN RETURN, even if I did get my capitalisation muddled, who are you anyway, you cynical whore? Words that mean so little that they should be annotated and edited and then annotated and edited again until some semblance of conformity has been imposed on them. WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO with my evening when I've spent the evening housechoring while others did something less boring with someone they find more interesting than anyone else in the whole wide worldwide web? There is nothing left but to mess up a blank page and hope that somebody notices the wonderful clean odour in the same way that they notice my wonderfully bright jumpers and intellectual sparkle.

If I say that word again, I'll have said it too many times. Who reads it anyway? Even if you read all of these words they'll fly right through you like radio waves and cosmic radiation, they don't come structured like a gnossienne or a gymnopedie but I wish they did sometimes. Such music can touch me so that I feel my soul pulling on my tear glands, and it's a strange feeling and one that I can't grasp.

After the mad dutch woman finished giving me her immediate impressions of Maria's well thought-out expressions, I was left wondering if there was indeed any sense in what she had said, and then everything became even more confused when the question was posed:

"Do you think she still has sex, at her age?"

And I had no idea what to say think or do but I laughed all the way to the next exhibition.

Words fall out of my fingers all day long, and you don't give a fuck: you'll just watch them fall.

What am I su-posed 2 dae?

What is ne1 su-posed 2 day when 4am comes and the eyelids are open before breakfast is even ready? Get chocolate weetabix minis and cover them in chocolate milk before your body even knows it's not yet breakfast time, and feel like you're having a midnight feast shortly before dawn and not much later after midnight. If Nelly Furtado could hear that tune, she'd go nuts.

For the sake of random writing I disconnect the part of my mind that focuses on threads and let my fingers wander around the fragments of sentences that jostle around in my head. Ever seen a broken mirror? That's an image that will stick with me forever, and I will spend forever trying to dodge the obvious connotations and seek far deeper-reaching objective correlatives when I drop words onto screens and into your minds.

This is unmoderated and unedited, unlike everything else, this is half-baked like an Asda doughnut that you think you might like until you realise that it's not at all good, but then you argue with other people who think it's divine. Loneliness is cleanliness, and clean living throws light on all the parts of the body and mind that had previously been forgotten.

6 am has come, and I can now rise and shine more brightly, Brighton is my destination and Europe is still my playground. nonsense nonsense nonsense likeugiveafuck.

Surreeling from the fx of newfoundlands of emotions

Two weeks without a drink or a smoke and I'm beyond reality, so far that if you examine the syntacticality of this made up story that you won't even follow the first thought, let alone the middle 8 sentences of infinite madnuts. 8 sentences I mean the sentence of 8 weeks; 6 weeks is a long time and 8 is infinity, my sentential obsequies for reasonable sense and words now follow.

My opening is beyond belief but please believe it if you want to see it then step right up and I'll show you, I went to the bar and at first they thought it was a hoax, but by the time I found my flow both my minder and I were in no doubt of the severity of the laughter that was on its way. J2O is my juice, and if you're celebrating a birthday and fortunate enough to have found yourself a pub full of the mentally ill and the physically afflicted then you're also keen to escape the occasion and glance at the insanity while it stares back behind you and wonders just how the years have failed to take their toll on you.

Pointlessness defined is continuing to babble incoherently in the hope that eventually the pieces fall into place and hang together like a coin pusher, the drug pusher has no chance any more because the thread snapped and not even the sky looks real: WHAT IS THAT IN THE AIR? This isn't stream of consciousness, before you try to pigeonhole it, the whole collection of flying emotions has everything to do with the cold at 5am this morning and nothing to do with ignoring my minder, who is now mindful of the fact that I only bought a thin laptop to make my lap look fatter.

When I find a way to double-post, your poster boys will fall and your poster bed will collapse, you'll find you can untie yourself too, this isn't a relapse, it's a new way to relax and you're yet to grasp such basic facts, so I write a crass rhyme to bring music to your ears and help you forget what your deeper feelings struggle to comprehend.

- - - - -

|economics|
Deficit may lead to consumption if there is domestic investment.
Excess on current acount: consumption for future generations.
Deficits often associated with international competitiveness.
|end of economics|

{meaning?}

you forget about desire, and then a moment may come when you suddenly remember it, and you spring into action.

{really?}

__________________________
P O EM E T R I CITY
(ahem)
_______________
Plosives appeal like rosies
Brangdabblish and uff
Trewpaz kadum yo
Restolutivisionism brakered hard
Nonsense NONSENSE nonsense
Likeyougiveafuck?
___________________________


*If you blinked as prettily as your eyelashes suggested you could, then the happiness would flow*

strange laughter productions

accidents on my keyboard, but what's happening on the keyboard being played by Akira Rabelais? I bought one of his albums, and I've had the giggles while listening to it, though not because I've been focusing on the music. I've been looking at funny pictures. Maybe these made me laugh more, but maybe the music primed me for the laughter?

The album is a bit experimental, as in: I didn't quite follow the first few tracks, but it's very pleasant, very sparse at times, it grabs your attention. But it's not the kind of thing you could listen to outside of the home.

1737 and it's the time I'm talking about, not the year! I have an Easter Sunday to use.

sprs keybrd strkes r tmpting me to shrtn wrds, bcase u undrstnd neway!