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...