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.

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This is a search through nonsense.

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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.

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

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