tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77355241181775188432024-03-12T22:55:50.143-07:00Carry on acidArchive of some videos and photos; www.vimeo.com/truller & , www.youtube.com/user/videowifie, www.flickr.com/photos/30133568@N03/.e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-12503949154502061242013-05-02T14:07:00.000-07:002013-05-02T14:07:00.580-07:00Takes one to solve oneDrag self out of wretched dream, heatings on, sun shining through full pajamas and teeshirt too.<br /><br />Wine and hate and I can hear the mouse again, Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank you<br /><br />See off last of wine, resolution not to score breaks as soon as am verticle. Rememberance of bank account, yesterday like everything else, draining out at rock bottom, conspires against me otherwise.<br /><br />Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank you<br /><br />Okay. scrape semi-desolved subutex out of blister pack. slot in gob. Best go out, get this sorted. Cycle with so little fuel, rockort weights on feet dimly propelling along. Slight incline ner the station nearly kills me. Lifting the bike up the stairs does kill me. Sit dead in the sunlight, overhearing. No, no, no, pop a fresh one out the blister pack. Snap, 4mg, insert. Like Ken Barlow says, must have done something pretty naughty once. Winge, sigh, wallow, grovvel, milk? tobacco? not forthcoming, but thank you and thank you.<br /><br />
Make it over to that fucking shack, that fucking awful place. Announce self, collapse into chair, wait for someone useless to help me at all.<br /><br />Freak out, script denied, stumble lost, man going outside for smoke, please can I have one too? you look like you're about to cry love, whats up with you? At Chrystal Palace they shouted at us 'you fight your own, you fight your own', we sing back 'cos you run, because you raaaaaaahn' Light filterless snout with a lighter, millwall engraved, beyond or always or something like that.<br /><br />
Have half my Tobacco thank you, thank you, I'm just over there, here's my digits, drop call me, go to these meetings, look heres a book? can she have that? have that, and go to them, because the people cam in here, they dont want their recovery, Okay, I will do as you Say, I gte on the phone, and the lady's lovely. Thankyou.<br /><br />So I get in, eat, don't stop to think, and I get up again, out, scooting along, feeling better, feeling nervous, and a blank building with sun streaming in and smokers dodging out, and they point me and direct me and what comes between Must Be annonymas, but so many people hug and thank me and tell me again and again and again and again til I even start to believe some things. Gave me some milk, gave me some baccy, gave me other things and today I try, every day. Tomorrow, okay<br />
<br />Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank you<br />Milk and Tobacco and thank you, thank youe woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-59295976067807312112013-04-06T10:14:00.000-07:002013-04-06T10:14:10.131-07:00Ershinton<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Black and whites to be added...really soon. a sojourn round and ex mining town. click the images if you want them bigger..<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzYTGz8hRy7AeLCPcrSQVNfO-CmksmVNN_Ov0_kWWl-vOO0yrz9gO3OjkIyPz3Tpblo1V6KFOSGlDayk3yFdVtHBNrhIu6_PrTWp3VEDPHCaOkuG9W-ck5XZmVv4yH7zw5d4RdDdk21mk/s1600/Ashing+Writ021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzYTGz8hRy7AeLCPcrSQVNfO-CmksmVNN_Ov0_kWWl-vOO0yrz9gO3OjkIyPz3Tpblo1V6KFOSGlDayk3yFdVtHBNrhIu6_PrTWp3VEDPHCaOkuG9W-ck5XZmVv4yH7zw5d4RdDdk21mk/s640/Ashing+Writ021.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-91185821719007069882013-03-28T10:19:00.001-07:002013-04-06T19:23:28.330-07:00Mallard Bags N Tat (Commercial)A couple of my friends, esteemed architect Dan Lee & ilustrator (and noisemaker with new, prone-and-cumming band Housewives) Joe Rafferty, based above Ridley road market in Dalston, are making these rather fine waxed canvas bags.<br />
If you want one, let me know. Being grafting, genuine, earthen salt geezers as they are, they don't have an outlet set up yet, but I can pass on a number to any interested parties. A nice change from the usual misery I post ey? Normal service will however, shortly be resumed. <br />
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e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-70580691739022046812013-03-25T16:44:00.000-07:002013-03-25T16:44:02.342-07:00A fine institution<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAtVzdp29NRsP_x2SUS7mBg2rc3W7mgZRprJW4A-u1vISkeiUQn3ZjsYv8YWLQX14XFhy5eAbLJBDka00oHUk-ocy8Y3a9_1ju-rV8mrIlcsNv1bMEoI1jMpzkyt38kJts9CO0ZZyU5mT/s1600/13JAN001.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuAtVzdp29NRsP_x2SUS7mBg2rc3W7mgZRprJW4A-u1vISkeiUQn3ZjsYv8YWLQX14XFhy5eAbLJBDka00oHUk-ocy8Y3a9_1ju-rV8mrIlcsNv1bMEoI1jMpzkyt38kJts9CO0ZZyU5mT/s320/13JAN001.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDRXMZodJRjWGlac27S5VFDk9HpNLkz08cqZXhPZjHbsfTEZv9hOBrNB9-otACdW5lpqr5mWg1beqhMgqGpp8t0Ej-kM7xv18Pi4wA20lYav0ZznxsmI67TClpfp-2qDzbvZcE211Ldej/s1600/13JAN002.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvDRXMZodJRjWGlac27S5VFDk9HpNLkz08cqZXhPZjHbsfTEZv9hOBrNB9-otACdW5lpqr5mWg1beqhMgqGpp8t0Ej-kM7xv18Pi4wA20lYav0ZznxsmI67TClpfp-2qDzbvZcE211Ldej/s320/13JAN002.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuZwS7776a_tHqEq81xQG6vM1o3A8iQbDewfjlM-WFqNBP8awtYiqiIcpFD4TG2MpQd-KwQcf8ynGyfDDL-T_J_aausBTPMkFLGItC8YP2Ru7mUpKzUzPSLIQ1MqM44oI6i-6w7gk5CO2/s1600/13JAN004.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuZwS7776a_tHqEq81xQG6vM1o3A8iQbDewfjlM-WFqNBP8awtYiqiIcpFD4TG2MpQd-KwQcf8ynGyfDDL-T_J_aausBTPMkFLGItC8YP2Ru7mUpKzUzPSLIQ1MqM44oI6i-6w7gk5CO2/s320/13JAN004.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLUn5BqAGzs2hvztI70zIZUXWDS-ju8Kx-cITqzcjmPXq8Zy_4KStsd2zxqxqKdsDrBVfuvsDW8eDjlU618JeCUDG2E5we7sNo26ntkGHh6Q4bazo-_MWPzTe35yj2J_P8q70Jg83z4qV/s1600/13JAN003.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLUn5BqAGzs2hvztI70zIZUXWDS-ju8Kx-cITqzcjmPXq8Zy_4KStsd2zxqxqKdsDrBVfuvsDW8eDjlU618JeCUDG2E5we7sNo26ntkGHh6Q4bazo-_MWPzTe35yj2J_P8q70Jg83z4qV/s320/13JAN003.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHjd0sVbuvO5CKCpYCLEwMsJg0zkB6LxpxhFEN5cude7Jok2dIX2NWEk_e46-i8iFC02mtJPjoqUYTQPDLhJ12sezndsQCEVtc4khCkQDa1q-6vQrwNXJ_KCfTIx8fZcWqxoN6iUp3NRdY/s1600/13JAN005.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHjd0sVbuvO5CKCpYCLEwMsJg0zkB6LxpxhFEN5cude7Jok2dIX2NWEk_e46-i8iFC02mtJPjoqUYTQPDLhJ12sezndsQCEVtc4khCkQDa1q-6vQrwNXJ_KCfTIx8fZcWqxoN6iUp3NRdY/s320/13JAN005.jpg" /></a>
With nothing to do in a mad house, kleptomanic urges take hold. Im sure these were bin bound anyway. All by Elsie, willfully wheelchair bound and convinced 'the Germans' were after her. She had a sort of broken nose - that was from the Germans pushing her over. That Happy Easter (Frogs <3) card is topical now, but was made and displayed in early January.
Remember. This is all fiction. Rest peacefully..e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-7904602587965442112013-02-20T13:13:00.002-08:002013-02-20T13:13:27.650-08:00You've made your Bed; Now Eat it (pt 2) More rhubarb and custard than Porridge (and then, more Spitting Image than Going Straight)
All your Scared Cows will, get sent to the slaughter after all
you'll be wearing them on your feet and stuffing them in for fuel in no time at all
when they barely contain any horse
sure did, back the wrong horse this time.
Oh, and if you've seen me, you might recall my pondering ; where have all the leighannes gone?
like perkins and jenkins but surely THEY can't be out the gene pool yet? they were only around five minutes ago.
The answer came today: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyQp02BPGINgpRg_2IIqwRVpBXAS8AWe1gs54rsB0u8IUIpryMvylVPk6IO-aKPyyRZzwrbwVDIVVenrZfYPcHepqFDVXoNKpe0ysWJPHlFrAq3FyRLVF9fetuEK6ysHhsc5250BfEdoD/s1600/LA.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyQp02BPGINgpRg_2IIqwRVpBXAS8AWe1gs54rsB0u8IUIpryMvylVPk6IO-aKPyyRZzwrbwVDIVVenrZfYPcHepqFDVXoNKpe0ysWJPHlFrAq3FyRLVF9fetuEK6ysHhsc5250BfEdoD/s320/LA.jpg" /></a>
There. they're all cooped up with the psoraisus. e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-19327808257533949742013-01-09T16:30:00.000-08:002013-01-09T16:36:15.233-08:00The Lost TapesGet Exited. Just Get exited and that's all. doubtless, before you see THE LOST TAPES, lost by scruffy Silcox in his room full of old copies of the sun and 450 shirts and broken table lighters and stones, you will have to endure my mourfull illustrated account of my recent subsequation, as it were, to the nuthouse for a wee psychosis and nice long withdrawal. BUT a light at the end of that little tunnel!
<br>Light entertainment!</br>
<br>Light ov life!</br>
(This is also a callout, should anyone be listening - have you taken lots of ecstasy,/ have extnsive knowledge of the uk unerground dance scene post 1988 AND are god at puns? We want to hear from you.)
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THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH
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THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH
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THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH THANK U VERY MUCH 4 BEIN A RAVER THANK U VERY MUCH THANK U VERY VERY VERY MUCH .........e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-63087512716308776632013-01-07T04:44:00.001-08:002013-01-17T06:23:02.068-08:00I've been in hospitalnot for any other reason really other than being a moron. so, as usual, everything youre seeing up here is in higgldypiglydy backlog mode, I certainly have some more interesting things to show you, but, alacalay, my computer, my MAC computer is fucked, so I'm simply going to share with you some poems, nouveau. I shouldn't have drank so much. I only had two five pound notes. they were buying me drinks. I shouldn't have drank so much. AND; As thundering back to London from Newcastle, I incline my devastating eyes, with a kitchen-sink tragedy to my left, window aflame the horizontal burgundy and mustard attack of a coal train. Going the other way. and sigh. from the first class carriage. . so thats them. thats two poems. its very diffcult to punctuate clearly on my IPHONE THREE ACTUALLY . yours, sincerely, Adrainonsociety Molike. e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-6710807547659091452012-12-01T04:31:00.000-08:002012-12-01T04:31:09.929-08:00Dismember 1st / Clean 'Thirteen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Can't remember anything starting from Dec31st'11. No Rpts pls.<br />
What you didn't miss:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/qcWfOtpWd7Q?fs=1" width="459"></iframe>e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-31828901974554804612012-11-24T14:30:00.001-08:002012-11-24T14:30:43.042-08:00Death pRattle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well well.<br />
Perched, waiting on a kiddies ride this evening in the Morpeth branch of Morrison, I heard a quiet, little mechanical voice coming from the next machine -a motorbike affair, sayin, in a most persuasive tone "Come <i>on</i>, have a go?!" This message was being beamed out from the very bottom of the machine, only audible to those around 2 to 3 feet high. 'I always told they were broken', said mother dear.<br />
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My mind can turn up ver little from the past few months. The deluge of photos I have just upoaded from my camerphone would tell a different story, and thus I must backtrack, complete and repose a few worthy projects, and one ballad of dread in pale, by means of note for excuse, for public consumption, if one dozen counts as public. Let's take it one day at a time, okay?<br />
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Stumbling as I have been through bad weather to worse, it has to be said it has on occasion been from interesting place to place. I've shot a lot of film, much of which has yet to be developed and printed, let alone scanned in, but we have a few phone shots, as means of grainy illustration <br />
startling here;</div>
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As the cracks start to widen and heave under the sheer weight of legislated misery dished out to the country's non-super rich, in the post Olympic drizzle, the large unoccupied semi derelict business buildings in central London's Holborn district fill rapidly with all kinds of new squatters. The anti-residential law recently past has pushed many out of once safe homes, and a the city center throbbing the rhythm of the damp dead Olympic London spectacle. </div>
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The skill of experienced buildings crackers soaks up the need of the city center homeless and several buildings in central London are, in turn as each is evicted and moved a few doors down or across, housing upwards of 60 persons.<br />The mesh of middle class politicos, artist-come-activists, alcoholics and crusties now find themselves in new unexpected roles they generously, out of a humanity lacking a short walk away in Whitehall fulfil, such as carers for mentally disabled people, who have been literally dropped off in squats by their now defunct carers and social workers, as they are, despite not being able to even clean themselves, booted from their housing as the Disability Welfare is withdraw.<br />
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<br />On a fully serious and horrific point, there are folk being housed in huge ex-corporate buildings in London who are badly, sadly disabled -able just to string sentences, suffering dirty (though not unfed, as through mass activity on part of the skip-divers and the compassion of the chain food stores in this part of london where it is possible to see 5 branches of Eat, Starbucks, Wasabi, Etc, Etc form any one standpoint). Able squatters pour out their plastic cups of cider and allow them free reign of the computers where they blast out Bon Jovi on repeat - the stress and unrewdared responsibility of this is enormous, of course it's not terrific to placate the unproductive desires of ones who should be getting a lot more help, but these new carers have their own lives to sort, and it is better, after all then leaving them, as the 'Coalition' is apparently happy to, on the streets as the weather starts to freeze. They'll die.<br /><br />Helping a friend move from this thoroughly spent building, we packed up and headed on to another property, which was rather special, in being an ex-masonic lodge in a beautiful west London pub, left with fully stocked alcohol and food, by an owner who very clearly bought the property at a loss so as to convert it into flats, much to the chagrin of Chelsea Marina residents. No-ones happy are they? Apart from anyone who happens to be in the squatted pub, which rather a luck-out!<br /><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPi4ey8f6DlW3MpRnpB1lZUM6AN_gJkblzl_ScUTVE5g86lsTgo5l8BP-eOMjw8cjDvp152WvfPaXwXk-xEnsYCGiuhgTnszmpYeMBBFj9r_u9ja2MPLi-aC3lMcSglV1M183eO0zsm1m/s1600/IMG_0808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPi4ey8f6DlW3MpRnpB1lZUM6AN_gJkblzl_ScUTVE5g86lsTgo5l8BP-eOMjw8cjDvp152WvfPaXwXk-xEnsYCGiuhgTnszmpYeMBBFj9r_u9ja2MPLi-aC3lMcSglV1M183eO0zsm1m/s400/IMG_0808.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<br />After a slap up meal and a few nips of the green fairy, I took a very long walk away, stopping by Oscar Wilde, one of the neighbours', house. We're all in the gutter, as he said..I can't remember the rest of that one. It was a cloudy night. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNq5XcoU-JrvrOKGydXmZl26Thhq3mtT9Ur83bBoHZcU7XSWq45BueoPCrZ59rTD0jxzhb3azkK2sE7j9WplEp6Yx3Ciq27qBseVbMIZvJwgewOe10xl2fnj5BgV7DcJE0_ouEmXNVWn8/s1600/IMG_0824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqNq5XcoU-JrvrOKGydXmZl26Thhq3mtT9Ur83bBoHZcU7XSWq45BueoPCrZ59rTD0jxzhb3azkK2sE7j9WplEp6Yx3Ciq27qBseVbMIZvJwgewOe10xl2fnj5BgV7DcJE0_ouEmXNVWn8/s640/IMG_0824.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-32963399923567326622012-09-26T14:37:00.001-07:002012-09-26T14:38:55.637-07:00Tribalism removed / WHO ARE YA<br />
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Since the 1980s, in consumer technology manufacture there has been a jaggedly multiplying and strikingly uneven contrasting tidal float of Quality / Ease. The old ancient holy concepts of Time and Value diluted and refracted into the mundane daily realism of cheap music and laughs. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhposiAznLn_rj7vr-AAAQS58Kl_QVqpulWF52s-fbvtM43NJD1FlNiCfbYpZbSF1B6NYhNgQL4BfOjQubIJk6VwQ5wo_HODIiIsF12no5hk03UYCAckFB0s9tINZCuR-QlsGwp755M5i6g/s1600/eileen1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhposiAznLn_rj7vr-AAAQS58Kl_QVqpulWF52s-fbvtM43NJD1FlNiCfbYpZbSF1B6NYhNgQL4BfOjQubIJk6VwQ5wo_HODIiIsF12no5hk03UYCAckFB0s9tINZCuR-QlsGwp755M5i6g/s400/eileen1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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becomes This</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JO_uQUK_QBEUmu5SjntmuGd9fxAq-SzKQx85zrMcja1RmwD3BsIXUvglc5emC2NlBXyZ-tPu0e3l4Fy3JdHEG6hA9GxqMZqmPTjut2rDaon45jzPKitrOrdYgtzyWFTs_u4UF1_0N1A9/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-11-09+at+22.14.05.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JO_uQUK_QBEUmu5SjntmuGd9fxAq-SzKQx85zrMcja1RmwD3BsIXUvglc5emC2NlBXyZ-tPu0e3l4Fy3JdHEG6hA9GxqMZqmPTjut2rDaon45jzPKitrOrdYgtzyWFTs_u4UF1_0N1A9/s400/Screen+shot+2011-11-09+at+22.14.05.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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And so on and so forth until one is in the peculiar position of watching, on one of the plethora of Macbook pros to be found in any self-respecting art-school abode, a shitty stream of live football, acoustically accompanied by a wall of tiny spanish noise commentary, barely legible 7 pixel dots moving around a larger 3 pixel green/grey oblong. </div>
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Much like following a text-based live fed of an event, goings on are rendered to little more than sterile figments of an augmented data sheet reality. </div>
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Snotty 'the alt-view' columnists, when routinely trotting out a 'My-feircely-independant-mind-doesn't-care-about-sport-you-morons/sheep/plebs(when topical)' piece will usually lead their argument by sneering at the 'We' collective noun that peppers sports team discussion. 'YOU didn't win that' game, they crow. </div>
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No, but perhaps surrendering one's hopes and happiness onto a man or woman selected and celebrated, Godly and decorated with a region's colours and tones is indeed quite an awing demonstration of a mystical unpragmatic humanity. It is a character building experience, especially when supporting a team who barely ever win. </div>
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And Man U are cheating scum. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBFE8snWFMYBlfSX4BXOtHzEH044xScolYcA7rhoF_alXjCuLtXXi8_FP3uju8JD4eFpyZZnQIBzwPJOPHaHDBBG0g9mbQW20hozFBUk0aJJINRGUrd7GWM4QewU5-ZX_ctYh5AhnxehY/s1600/pix+football.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBFE8snWFMYBlfSX4BXOtHzEH044xScolYcA7rhoF_alXjCuLtXXi8_FP3uju8JD4eFpyZZnQIBzwPJOPHaHDBBG0g9mbQW20hozFBUk0aJJINRGUrd7GWM4QewU5-ZX_ctYh5AhnxehY/s640/pix+football.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-38298171275817905722012-09-26T11:27:00.003-07:002012-09-26T11:27:34.123-07:00No money, no hope, Looking sharp<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojn0wsDv1uarmtSmblb6Eh1M6Op-Qse2_KWUkNp4arrJvfFyRrdyzA27jIF7J9Ne0l0o6uQibEs1_7Dx4Cn83nOXEsPtwI7XHyWmrrqvnWpq5-VUBkcmXvw6eSv-alSifyTFlIkX30sbt/s1600/low.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojn0wsDv1uarmtSmblb6Eh1M6Op-Qse2_KWUkNp4arrJvfFyRrdyzA27jIF7J9Ne0l0o6uQibEs1_7Dx4Cn83nOXEsPtwI7XHyWmrrqvnWpq5-VUBkcmXvw6eSv-alSifyTFlIkX30sbt/s400/low.jpg" width="287" /></a></div>
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credit to a.j</div>
<br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-48223688478980358332012-09-08T14:38:00.000-07:002012-09-08T14:39:50.998-07:00Not Golfing But DrowningA brief gap in the clouds implores the modern Englishman and Lady a brief glimmer of inspiration to shove the usual this :<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7PN75aRF5Y6PjDPfMYl0AkWiIIrCJ0q0xbNmjsmC0VLVf4s-BfK7Sk1MlT6a_i1SwcQ9DnYcIOTvD87cTyse5HNzmlamavuE9vsLyZ6eNmMeYH9zda3QSikPIHm9_b9kKoRYLKAiNyEP/s1600/IMG_9373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7PN75aRF5Y6PjDPfMYl0AkWiIIrCJ0q0xbNmjsmC0VLVf4s-BfK7Sk1MlT6a_i1SwcQ9DnYcIOTvD87cTyse5HNzmlamavuE9vsLyZ6eNmMeYH9zda3QSikPIHm9_b9kKoRYLKAiNyEP/s640/IMG_9373.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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For This</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifWzT5aXejP1VeoqMs3nXQsO52CU3xLI3NlV0IIHg4wbaDmA9vokgDuEA2js6IHiMauYX1hFTXTaO-KQ5VXjK2poPAQ_vtu-C8O_fyTsj0BPhFdk05TTHsXNS7hv9TWEhq2km30bPRJX7q/s1600/IMG_0070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifWzT5aXejP1VeoqMs3nXQsO52CU3xLI3NlV0IIHg4wbaDmA9vokgDuEA2js6IHiMauYX1hFTXTaO-KQ5VXjK2poPAQ_vtu-C8O_fyTsj0BPhFdk05TTHsXNS7hv9TWEhq2km30bPRJX7q/s640/IMG_0070.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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So, How can the average zero-income flea bitten 20 something true-intelligentsia pass themselves off on the golf course? </div>
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With great ease. </div>
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Dress up. Secure equiptment. </div>
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We happened into a charity shop that was attempting to sell golf clubs for FIVE POUNDS EACH. </div>
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This was remedied by M. Silcox simply repeating 'That's Much, Much, too Much you know. Does anyone ever buy these?' to the man who proved easily overpowered into our way of thinking.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76tChu2bppaRQGXSb730VOo5J_Z6dxyOdlY7WAlo9Q5aR_2HA5Bb0GQbXME1PBp6gnNHdZPThncvPtwF9kG3xLwZ8grUtkyo7OdrSBmHnyFnY3sRyeoTJrLDbHvA8NoXGvLEO8Gt4uyyz/s1600/IMG_0059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76tChu2bppaRQGXSb730VOo5J_Z6dxyOdlY7WAlo9Q5aR_2HA5Bb0GQbXME1PBp6gnNHdZPThncvPtwF9kG3xLwZ8grUtkyo7OdrSBmHnyFnY3sRyeoTJrLDbHvA8NoXGvLEO8Gt4uyyz/s640/IMG_0059.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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One cannot carry clubs in one's pocket- a problem no more with unique patent Truller Lino Golf bag (not pictured) - Ingredients- lino, gaffa tape, felt tip pen. </div>
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Golf tip: DO Go when it is pouring with rain. No one else is there, because it's fucking horrible, that's why. </div>
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Golf Philosophy: Alcoholics can never get any better at golf, only progressively worse. </div>
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Golfbye x</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8QSNEerSsctKxFexEOlaejqUNMnz6-wL3IAuFtbHyv9R4VDSQOQU-nApwYRidyZfmLO2J27KqY8PoM891_bhJejPeG4-tu_vSB-f81flLOS2UfkEl88xKDW2qIMGTNeVs4AZPdTsftWWM/s1600/IMG_0075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8QSNEerSsctKxFexEOlaejqUNMnz6-wL3IAuFtbHyv9R4VDSQOQU-nApwYRidyZfmLO2J27KqY8PoM891_bhJejPeG4-tu_vSB-f81flLOS2UfkEl88xKDW2qIMGTNeVs4AZPdTsftWWM/s640/IMG_0075.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.channel4.com/programmes/the-club/4od" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">By the way this is a nice old documentary about a golf club in the early 90s</span></a></div>
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e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-5148307387218708912012-09-06T11:14:00.001-07:002012-09-06T11:14:03.352-07:00Understanding England No.47<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I haven't been able to read for ages. I haven't been able to concentrate. Until I rescued the above book from a steaming death via the shower in our bathroom. It's great. Our 3 bed house now houses, roughly, seven or eight. It's quite nice but it means I have been alerted anew to the worrying noise-nusiance my teeth make in my sleep, grinding away into nothing.<br />
<br />I haven't been able to do anything because I seem to spend every day battling the ever more ridiculous faculties of the Department for No Work. <br />
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<br />As I haven't written for a while, here are a few reflections on what cannot even passably be called 'this Summer.'<br />
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Apparently the most over-subscribed service in Peckham, a town gone mental, in it's collective wintry African frustration, for (sigh), the Fifty shades of Gray debacle / series. <br />
The same fat awld wimmin who literally bash their Bibles of usual, have taken to walking round with the thing held high in the air like so many extinguished replica Olympic torches. I don't care about how bad the book is, I really don't mind what other people read, which to observe recent 'literary criticism' of the prolific tombs, seems peculiar. <br />
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Silly Sunderland battered missus associations get the wrong end of the, er, stick, but mostly you have your average Guardian ( insert your own endless offensive adjectives) Twat falling over themselves to snottily <i>imply</i> to everyone how worldly they are, and that this world should, of course, belong to them, viewed subjectively by their considered, narrow, black rimmed arsehole glasses. <br />
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<br />(I can't stop myself from going there, I am now never, ever, buying the Guardian again after buying an issue in which the supplement's main feature, I discovered, was assorted Cunts discussing '<i>What their evening meal says about them'</i>. Unpredictably- in terms of a new low, low editorial calibre, 8 pages disscussing use of the word 'Supper', which apparently is a 'Class-loaded' concept -Predictably, everyone falling over themselves to describe how it was never used when they lived up a chimney down a pit clothed only in flat caps sewn together with hardened human feaces, before they managed to chance it in to Cambridge....I'll stop now anyway)</div>
<br />ANYWAY. And apparently it (S&M, the very idea) does (belong to them, the shits) ! The oddest thing seems to be how apparently unaware of the very existence of anything approaching weird sex a large proportion of Blighty's populous is. Which I find impossible to understand. Don't they watch telly? <br />
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It's been fucking everywhere for fucking ever. Fucking, every where. Weirdly. <br />
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Which brings us neatly on to my next topic, thank you. <br />
As I was sitting in a friend's bedsit in Peckham, a borough you may be correct in assuming I now cant afford to leave ever, the room filled with a gradual and sinister buzzing. Smoothly, reaching down the side of his broken, and rather worn bed, for a riding crop he had deigned to possition down there, like an assassin (ass-ass-in?) he swatted a big fat wasp, good and proper. I gleefully took my position as spectator as he battered the fucking thing into smithereens. PETA be hanged. Now let me be clear. I don't kill animals, although I recently was complicit in the hoovering up of a huge Cardinal spider, but one which has been terrorizing the house for over 9 months, and has been politely and fairly shown the door many, many times. <br />But, I hate wasps with an utter passion. The only reason I don't kill wasps, is that I am far too frightened of them, and cack-handed, and more frightened still of enraging them by attempting to kill them. But it got me thinking. Wasps look fairly like ugly new Super-bikes, or spaceships, or something harshly super modernistic, the kind of design you'd see on a shit dutch tech superclub poster. I wonder what they made of them in the distant past. Or even the recent past. Any past preceding the 1980s. <br /> It's a wonder those sort of beasts didn't usher in some new sort of futuristic aesthetic. Mad Flying Danger.<br />
<br />My insect sensitivity is currently at an all time high, thanks to a flee infestation, and next door knocking their entire kitchen down thus turning our gaff into a spider refugee camp. The irony, of all the homeless boys I let stay in my house, bitterly moaning about 'MY' fleas. <br />
Well I'm sorry. If you don't like it then go and shoplift some flea spray. I can't even be bothered. <br />
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One more thing. A pissed man on the street asked me why so many blonde girls dye their roots black. How long may have that question plagued him?e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-31183139035062187472012-08-19T18:19:00.001-07:002012-11-24T14:34:24.291-08:00quick note on<i>For all the importance, or lack of it, which can be, incorrectly or not, applied to any use or abuse, as they more commonly say, something separate, must be said for one.</i><br />
<i>As a participant from my early life, of what has always been foolishly grouped as one 'exploit', or another, I'm repeatedly struck by the strength, or to be honest, intrinsicness of, one.</i><br />
<i>Some things get you, in a funny way, you could never have predicted, probably due to the aforehinted, grouped-togetherness, of certain things far more then is permissible.</i><br />
<i>It seems overly dramatic to ascribe to one element, ( apt scientificies escape me, being but a lay) of certain accessible concentrations of the world available to us which simply defy explanation, understanding, or as we usually understand these things, Control.</i><br />
<i>Can something understood as, beheld as a matta part be, in its own right, a being in itself, possessing a personality, an edge, a vibe, as it were? Can an element concentrate, in what has always stood in civilized, hisorcized human relic, have it's own evil? It's own definitive power, drive, resonance as that which cannot be simply dealt with, like the others, but rather deals out, the proceedings?</i><br />
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<i>Things all have their own atomic structure, and with it their acoustic resonance, which chimes with certain beings and not others, co-ordinating, chording perfectly, or imperfectly, like the minor scales which so long were forbidden in western musical sensibility, completing an imperfect, exiting, threatening, appealing harmony to those not satisfied with the current niceity?</i><br />
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<br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-17466188993124044262012-08-08T17:44:00.002-07:002012-08-08T17:44:44.651-07:00E=MCERIA RISING<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tpLzL3w-aic?fs=1" width="459"></iframe><br />
Benzo day-marese woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-57151862642552679342012-07-30T16:33:00.001-07:002012-07-30T16:34:36.427-07:00"We have to have some secrets, Darling!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am in the beginning stages of co-editing a feature length Movie! This will be released earliest 2014, and only then depending on weather or not a certain political administration is successful in it's attempted Thousand Year Reich!<br />
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And, on the subject of this blog's stolen title, Ne'er was a truer word<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1VA4pNUmsBQ" target="_blank"> spoken...</a>e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-12733108897728354752012-07-20T16:52:00.001-07:002012-09-06T11:16:30.742-07:00'its a crazy fuckin world..' <iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Wd_nhICGCNs?fs=1" width="459"></iframe><br />
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e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-58091832042625340682012-07-19T02:45:00.000-07:002012-07-19T02:45:00.723-07:00StillsWent back up North recently, it was largely very silent. It was nice to have a bit of quiet..wonder if I might move cities..If i get shot with a sonic boom weapon during 'the games' that will probably be the last straw. The highlight, which i'll show you once i wrestle it out of a dead-battery video cam, was seeing the fall in near riotous conditions, as the very bottom picture of my legs is testiment to. There's a few more of these, and a few more new scans on flickr,<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/woodenfall/" target="_blank"> HERE.</a><br />
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<br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-15821153286361980812012-07-01T11:11:00.002-07:002012-07-01T11:14:10.449-07:00I am about to be 23( a happy acompanyment, on 2 or 3 levels <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7FqUNlEdwA" target="_blank">www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7FqUNlEdwA </a>)<br />
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<b>23!</b> What an surprise that is!<br />
In hope of fending off impending old-bastardom I've dyed my hair orange, a sure fire way of making oneself look 'younger and mentaler'..oh yeah, giz a job?<br />
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What have I achieved? I've lied so many times about what GCSE's I have I can't remember whether I have, even a conservative 8. I've got 3 AS levels; 2 D's in photography and psychology, and a U in philosophy. I can't even say for certain whether I've a degree because we get the marks tomorrow! Happy birthday, yeah?!<br />
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I've only ever broken my chin and coxicxix (the arse bone, however it's spelled), and most significantly, I've never died.<br />
On the subject, and as I'm moving further and further from morose teenage liscence to be morbid, (two sad posts in a row is pushing it) Ill take this last opportunity to say this;<br />
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It both breaks my heart, and infuriates me on many levels, that trailblazing-troll and all-round cool-guy Dave Richmond, will never see the fruits of his labour-<br />
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Time was, any man (not women who weren't allowed, much like the vote) could edit Wikipedia, lacing it with lies so pointless, they would often never be discovered. <br />
Enter Dave's habit of writing himself into things, with the specific lie about notable Byker Grove character 'drug dealer Dave Richmond from Whitley Bay whose trademark act of violence was the 'Whitley Smile'' whic has now been sewn into so many sloppy, aspsuemed, false nostalic pieces of 'informtion' online. <br />
It's strange to think that people will be now unconsicously straining out fake memories of Dave Richmond from whitley bay, and now memories is all there is...stranger still, come to think, a truth that has become resembling in a way the detail of that originally false article, is, coincidently, that a great number of folk have in tribute to Daves tattoo, an Acid house smiley face inked into them..a smiley mark for life..life/art/fact/fiction/WHAT!?<br />
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Christ alive. After all that meta-tradge, I'll leave you on another tone - a card arrived yesterday from my Nana. I cannot fail to be impressed by her almost valiant attempt to ignore my personality, or style, or whatever you want to call it. Any other card really, would have been more suited. Here it is :<br />
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The thing is, me and my nana are no strangers. It's not like she lived in like Lancaster and I only saw her at Christmas. My nana lived on the same estate, one street round from me, approximately 2 minutes walk, 45 seconds full sprint. I went to her house 3 times week for tea!</div>
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And yet I am gifted with a card that seems to feature quite accurate portraits of the kind of girls who gave me grief in school for wearing black nail varnish and smoking dope.<br />
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At 23 I am not going to change my scruffy-lass stripes. This reminds me of the pictures she showed me of me standing in the back yard miserably dressed as a 'Lyons maid'; I'm still not quite sure what one of those is, suggesting it was not my idea. </div>
I also quite appreciate that her message is written with quotation marks around it . I will indeed be seeing my nana soon, as I will be staying at her house, right where I used to live, for a day or two. Back to square one. And if I do fail my degree, I can just stay there forever and ever, and I wont have to think about london ever again, and I can only eat chip sandwiches, or crisp sandwiches, because I'll be under the roof of the woman who came out with the corker "what about...Is bacon meat?"<br />
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Mind you, she's fuckin amazing!</div>
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<b>OH by the way, click<a href="http://voyuerismbypost.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/old-womans-diary.html" target="_blank"> >>heeeereeeee<<</a></b>!</div>
<b><br /></b>e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-81181751537623908962012-06-18T06:17:00.001-07:002012-06-18T06:18:38.674-07:00Conceptual BoyfriendAbout a week ago another talented life-force and sweet girl left us.<br />
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It's always stark that lazies, miseries, do-nothings or divas grind away into old, old age..<br />
Goodbye Ari up, Poly Styrene, Donna Summer - yet still old Stones keep rolling<br />
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Goodbye bright friends, hello again old wretches.<br />
Not to try to apply value structures to that which is, always tortuously, unchangeable anyway. <br />
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Here's to Hilary Donald -a fine artist who lived it. X<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ojoativ3-7I?fs=1" width="480"></iframe>e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-58160019941507667422012-06-10T10:04:00.001-07:002012-06-10T10:09:01.389-07:005 AM at Our House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/P2df30y9sMQ?fs=1" width="459"></iframe>e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-87143079840486482012012-06-04T08:30:00.000-07:002012-06-10T09:53:07.236-07:00And it Did.As per-fahkin, we were the only house round here who made any effort for the queens jubilee <i>at all .</i><br />
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Faced with rainy street parties, we made our way to central London, which could only be described as Hell and a terrifying glimpse of the Olympics to come. We had an invite to a party, a dangerously genuine affair, offering again, a birds eye view onto everyone having a much worse time in the pouring rainy crowded streets. My advice now stands on royal affairs - take to the sky. Here's some postcards for you to send to any people you may know in the commonwealth.<br />
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Red Matt Baker? That they allowed Mr Baker any Royal airtime after <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbcACpriZ9s" target="_blank">this little incident of gross disrespect for the ruling class</a> is typical indeed of the BBC coverage of the day, which was broadly surreal, and included at least one very inappropriate joke about torture and Iran. Ameture's hour aside..<br />
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Hatched-faced jubilee to one and all. <br />
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6 stolen chocolate mousses later and we were on the roof, allowing us a laugh at all the little people. <br />
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It's that time again. The British people, whipped into frenzy, display their talent for scaling previously unconsidered objects in their pursuit of a better view of a screen.<br />
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So it did reign, enough to ruin everyones cowie-buzz.<br />
Fegan was his usual self, showing off about Chelsea and penalties, shouting about James Hewitt, stuffing his face..<br />
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And I think it's fair to say by the end of the proceedings I could tell
Matthew Silcox and Abigale Jones were starting to feel rather tired by
all the excitement. <br />
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So, I went and met up with Dylan Edge / Mortimer, (famous actor) and Ryan
Siddal (tortured artist) ((both not pictured)) and got pissed. Until next time..<br />
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<br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-7386832409235593912012-06-02T11:04:00.000-07:002012-06-02T11:21:46.372-07:00Long To Rain Over Us<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Whilst purchasing the three or so appealing items Iceland stocks, I noticed their displaying a new advertising banner reading 'That's why Ma'ams shop at Iceland!'<br />
Now, I'm not trying to be horrible or anything, but my initial suspicion on reading this was actually, that the Queen probably does NOT shop at Iceland- a suspicion, which by point of the checkout, had developed into grave conviction that to suggest so constitutes no less than insult and Treason. <br />
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Tomorrow, a dear friend of mine (we made our acquaintance exchanging our shared taste in the noble art of Ruining Things, coincidentally) has seen fit to organize a subtly titled " FUCK THE JUBILEE " street party. My feeling about these things is always that a party is a party. But I like parties, so I don't care.<br />
On the Royal wedding, WE THE PEOPLE had in our possession, an occupied ex-jobcentre in Deptford - this was just after Poly Styrene died, so we had a huge roof-full blasting 'Spex etc, and, er, it was amazin'. Earlier that day I'd ventured into central London to document, it transpired, the poor ignoramuses of this country who thought that they'd pop down from Leicester, or Leyton Buzzard, or Leigh, or whatever it was and get a glimpse of our white young hopes, our Royal mid-to-highnesses -<br />
No such luck, a huge fence had been erected around the entire City of Westminster, so thousands of poor, Union Jack-decked buggers were locked out of the Nation, reduced to craning through shop windows, and in one bizzare moment, scaling the fences of green park in vain attempt to see It, Anything, even a screen. Here's a few shots, and apology about the quality of the scans but this is just off the cuff..<br />
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(John Major appears to have infected everyone with his greyness in this series, perhaps explaining why he was not invited to the official event.) <br />
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Any way, the point is Things Are Different, for me at least anyway, this time. <br />
Last year I was content to wear a Union Jack t-shirt myself, ride high on the fluffy cloud of irony and indifference, fagged out from recent protestations reaching the dank depths of caring far too recently anyway.<br />
Not so this weekend. Our household has constructed our very own jubilee decorations to drag to New Cross for the celebrations, using the golden technique of <i>'being so nauseatingly sycophantic as to be indisputably sarcastic, however to an extent which would not stand up as evidence in court' </i>in the construction of these monuments, which you will no doubt see in the very near future.<br />
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As everybody knows, there ain't no crack in the Union Jack, a point which rammed home hard as I sat flicking through an old Select magazine, from 1998. Pulp on the cover, Father Ted feature, Spiritualized, Bernard Butler, etc, etc etc, etc.<br />
This true time-piece, choking hegemonic relic of Brit-pop's overbearing, ingratiating dieing days featured on almost every page some now-'seminal' something or other, inviting one a dangerous nostalgia for some kind of identification to a dominant popular culture. <br />
This is the sort of thing that get's you thinking about the past, present, future. Shortly after, I climbed under my old school desk taken from Goldsmiths to retrieve a plug, with a strange mix of revulsion and joy at my head brushing against some stone age chewing gum deposited under there from godknowswhen, it struck me - When, oh When can we move on? Do not assume the irony of wishing this whilst in the same time subjecting myself to reading 15 year out of date magazines is lost on me, but the problematic comes in that, actually, if you favour the physical, there aren't any now.<br />
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We, left in this physical world, find it derelicted. Perhaps you have noticed, more and more people are dropping like flies from websites like facebook. My main reason, personally for this, is that more important than the wasting one's hours, weeks, days and years on unfulfilling, fillering, voyeuristic, over-public shite; is the waste of Wit.<br />
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If you're wondering why all the freshness you long for illudes you, consider this; Since they got clever enough, the literary efforts of a younger generation have been pissed down the plug-hole of first MSN conversations, later Facebook status updates, dissapearing into the ether of sharp blue and white aloof detachment.<br />
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We who don't have these social engagements in our bedrooms, find ourselves out on the now deserted dystopian streets of night-time Deptford, watching H&M film a commercial, whilst security hold back the usual occupants of the high street, who can only, and untruly shout "I PAY MY BUMBERCLAT COUNCIL TAX" as the vainly try to breach the lines out of stark reality and into, again we find, the dream, the screen..<br />
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Ascending the back stairs of a flat, choking through a Parker, on advice to 'hold your breath as much as you can because a one of the rats's got under there and died' to watch this soap from the balcony, the Gods, it is entirely forgivable to momentarily forget how to spell the word 'future'. <br />
A glance at the peeping Canary Wharf, over the distant roofs, reassures one, for a moment, but, drizzle-drivven back in-doors, and listening to newly-remastered Beatles recordings of songs you've not heard in 12 years, time-quake shudders are felt afresh. We're way off the Richter. <br />
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This is the supermegapresentfuture. The filth of the past with none of the well made appliances or attractive commercial packaging .<br />
I've typed 'Dystopian' - Google underlines it as an incorrect spelling, it's only suggestion being 'Utopian'. Funny, uh?<br />
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'Where are all the angry young men and women, where are all the good young bands?' ask the same 40+'s who increasingly tell you how 'sorry' the feel for 'your generation, it's so difficult.'<br />
My theory is this- as with terrible would-be writers, there are man millions terrible would-be musicians in the world. The people you want writing, and writing music, are too rightly, debilitatingly impassioned, in-awed and categorically well-informed about music past to dare step up to the mantle, discarding every riff on the creeping suspicion that it rips off a Warsaw demo, Googling every inspiring turn of phrase, to discover it's the title of a long-abandoned blog. <br />
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When you look at some of the faces in the above photographs, (most notably the girl propped up with a flag, and one of those slum-clearance-documentation expressions) it's clear that in all this acceleration, nothing's really changed, merely our exposure levels- another thing one is encouraged, in this Utopia, not to have to mind, with digital cameras et al, taking care of all that. The very first photograph in the essay, was on the same roll as the Wedding lot, and was probably the last photo I took of the Marden estate when I had a claim to the place, as my mother's moved on..<br />
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It could be any time ever, because nothing ever, ever, ever changes there. You know what to do, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_2mWhfOhGU" target="_blank">Because, God, who wants to..<<<<<<<<<<</a><br />
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<br />e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-6157367078447135352012-05-24T13:48:00.000-07:002012-05-24T13:48:03.007-07:00Our Gillian<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="375" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/42790758" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe><br />
North shields, awld wimmmin, get a bargaine woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7735524118177518843.post-77007108353897533372012-05-22T18:40:00.002-07:002012-05-22T18:41:55.734-07:00MyDears, I'm sorry, I've so neglected you. I've been busy running up and down the country, avoiding colds and flues, and finishing university. Here's a wee video, and an accompanying essay. More soon, OAO. x<br />
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<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="375" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/41283926" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe><span style="color: #134f5c;"><br />'‘Anthropology has had no lack of interest in the visual; its problem has always been what to do with it.‘ (MacDougal 1997) I understand anthropology as an endeavor, primarily of understanding culture - one’s own, and that of the many ‘Others’. The well documented problem of early ethnographers to empathise and integrate properly so they may understand another culture, manifested itself most dramatically in the sphere of religious belief - belief in forces - even from a less personally invested, agnostic viewpoint - seemingly at odds with the world of the rational, pragmatic, western anthropologist. Turner, and Evans-Pritchard (1962, 1975) gave unpartisan, positive, placating experiential accounts of living the reality of the Witchcrafts they encountered, later Rosaldo (1993) shone a light on the most remarkable transference of belief and will only after an extreme empirical breakthrough in the event of always-unexplainable, universal ascent from life.
Not just through belief but through the myriad of learned cultural communications in an alien language -jokes, sarcasms, lies, and the like- and through differences even so far as in which of the physical sense are primary - sound or vision?(Gell 1995)- must the anthropologist attempt to completely tilt with their new, every-day mooring of reality. Additive to the anthropologist’s struggle through foundational, opposite aspects of culture, is how to put it on a page. When one’s unthinking habits are transcribed, with utmost seriousness into academia, it can on inspection provoke a bemused dismissal of irreverence. Rosaldo again remarks upon this in a short essay, illustrated by his example of sitting at a breakfast table a relatives house and parodying a running commentary, in classic ethnographic descriptive style, of the family’s morning routine, much to their amusement.
He then goes on to describe how subjective his supposed objectivity was - by drawing on his not fully formed knowledges and opinions of the family’s histories and relations to each other, and even his mood at the time. (Rosaldo.1993)
And this is in a western and fully familiar - even emotionally- environment. So the</span><span style="color: #134f5c;"> gulf of possible interpretation, presentation and subsequent scholarly analysis can be logically<br /> assumed to increase exponentially, the more alien the surroundings.1
What we are confronted with, in attempting, without even getting into the possible philosophical or existential futility surrounding even this task, is a world so divided by so many different factors, from street to house, town to city, country to continent. With so many abstract macro economic and political forces also at play, on show, and in ever-increasing communicated medium, it can become difficult to know what we are looking to find, and what we are seeking to achieve?
As Deleuze mused, upon self-reflectiveness in thought, that ‘..everything is so “complicated”, that I might be another..For we are so sure of living again (without resurrection) only because so many beings and things think in us’.(2004)
So what can the visual do, in it’s instantaneous, highly communal, empirical character, that we may be able to try to experience, the reality of others?
It’s method may not have to lie in attempting a hyper-reality - as this is still to some extent subjective; which way is the camera pointing, who is talking, what have they at stake in their testimony?
It is for all these subjective truths that I see fit to attempt to take a surrealist approach, that concentrates not through the filter of spoken communication but is provided a soundtrack constructed, as has been attempted throughout history by the utopian-minded since the myth of babel, of number - rather than simply trying to transcribe this back into corruptible, linguistic form, I intend to apply this to shape, sound and vision.
Moving beyond ethics, morals and social conscious Visual anthropology has the chance to work with the unconscious. The basic premise of the film I have produced2 is that I shall be presenting, eventually, through the pulsating mass of voices, messages, noise and cultural debris one wades through in a packed, multicultural metropolis, a clearer experiential method of empathizing with persons with whom one does not share knowledge or friendship - as well as the obvious previously outlined differences in linguistic cognition. A soundtrack is formed through the usual crowd snippets of conversation that accompany a journey in the city, overlaid with a speech concerning the point of the piece read by many different voices, with visual accompaniment of city scenes, particularly in busy places such as Deptford junk market, strewn with unwanted items of all calibers. In the final few minutes this develops into music which attempts to fulfill the aim outlined in the soundtrack before, creating a droning trancelike harmonies, made by putting letter shapes into a Spectrograph3. The pictures which accompany this, instead of big anonymous crowds and strangers focus in on individuals slowly with their permission and interaction.
Not claiming to be absolutely accurate scientifically or psychologically, but working fromthe academic point of view that an allegory can be used for understanding in a certain way, the project utilizes one alphabets shapes and numbers into sound and harmonies, as a way of experiencing in a more immediate way, specially selected ‘unificationary’ words. This is intended to create a trancelike empathy through messages contained in the music, which is formed out of a highly significant system.
The alphabet chosen in this short example is the Hebrew alphabet, many reasons including that it is a ‘holy alphabet’, and thus has numbers ascribed to letters, which in turn are used, through a system called Gematria, to form links and patterns with other words and phrases, lending meaning here and there. The assumption behind this technique is that the interrelatedness is not coincidence, it is ‘Gods speech’.(Parfitt 1988)
In this current period of history, a technological revolution in communication has given us the enshrouding concept of the ‘global village’, the ‘global information society’. We are supposedly united in a democratic republic of technology, different languages transcribed but still transferred and not experienced. We see and hear each other through an ‘empire of 0’s and 1’s’(2.2003). What Mattelart calls ‘the ideology that dare not speak its name‘ is an accelerating force of action and experience. ‘Apps’, instantaneous preformed functional technological applications become a dominant form of connection to some sort of pulse. At the same time as scholars revisited the early utopian yearning for a universal language, in the 17th and 18th centuries, the rise of rationalism in this enlightenment made the ‘cult of numbers‘ concrete. Developments in mathematical reason constructed a prototype for truthful discourse, measuring ideological value as well as the logical. Shapes and symbols are recurring as significant through certain modes of philosophical and psychological thought, the psychoanalyst Jung theorizing heavily on so called “Mandalas”, symmetrical totemic patters and crests created to represent meaning, drawing aesthetically from both religious and mathematical symbology as well as more ingrained social symbolisms, as evident in paintings from the Romantic and Symbolism period. These recurring shapes, circles with crosses, and other shapes contained themselves carry similarities to commonly produced generic examples i analysis of children's first attempts to draw and express themselves graphically.
By enacting these symbolisms in the ways in which new technology will allow, it is possible to experience them off the page and thus more subconsciously, and this is why I have taken a music approach.
In studying more transcendental ways of experiencing theory, I revisited the work of american 20th century Beat poets, particularly the Dream Machine, as brought into being by Brion Gynsin. This machine, which it is easy to make following mathematical calculations cutting holes in cardboard, affixing this to a 45rpm turntable (originally designed for a 78 but with calculations changed to accommodate new turntables), funnels a light, placed in the centre, through onto the closed lids of the eye at the rhythm said to emulate that of the Alpha frequencies in the human brain, which are highly active when dreaming. The machines are used for relaxing, losing consciousness and spacial awareness and basically simulating symbolic lucidity in the mind.
I made one of these machines and used some of the flickers recorded to overlay onto my footage when the trancelike parts are supposed to be enacted.
What I have wanted to create is an experience that does not have to be analyzed moralistically or ethically, common preoccupations of anthropology a a discipline, that shows both life as it exists and strives for understanding on another level difficult, for cultural reasons, to attain. I made mention of a psychoanalyst earlier, and while I do not find fundamentals of such disciplines infallibly true it is worth considering, as Mircea Eliade (1976) did, that theories, such as Freud’s, however denounced by academics including respected anthropologists as they were, nevertheless were extremely popular to the layman, and cemented themselves into culture, perhaps reveling something in their popularity. I shall end by presenting the soundtrack spoken throughout the first half of the film, for clarity.
‘Compared with music all communication by words is shameless; words dilute and brutalize; words depersonalize; words make the uncommon common.
Is it that those who speak different languages inhabit different sensory universes?
That structures of different language as the foundationary process for thought means that the sense world is experienced in different grammatical orders; and therefore entirely differently in terms of significance,immediacy..is that just a blue cat or is that cat blue?
Which defines, is defined by, can be forgiven, prejudiced, how does this affect our mood?
In any metropolis one is surrounded by hundreds of ‘world world’ commentaries inside our co-inhabitants. If Rome is the eternal city, London is the village ad infinitum, tracelessly changing constantly, devolving into ever more globing complexities, dirts, residues .
Here we are a mass of different thought structures, to add complexity to our different personalities and value systems.
Language shapes perception, but there are other languages of behaviour life-long-learned, indentured by the physicality of surroundings.
A further problem that comes in trying to understand another’s beliefs, of existing truly within the other’s ‘Every-day’ is fraught with more layers than usual of functional, theoretical cul-de-sacs of applied contextuality, when combined with the troublesomeness of an alien semiotics.
Cultural fictions, tidily tied up definitive theories capture the public imagination of what surely must constitute the public. Fictions are the first kind of story we hear as children, and transport us to a world where everything is known, contained, just so.
What aesthetic provides a profane for every sacred?
Provides the backdrop that communication aspires beyond in spite of?
What 2 and 3D structures provide fodder for the 4th dimension of time, life, emotion, experience?
The sights and sounds that form the hypnotic repetition of the every day?
What gnosis is inherent and inherited from which patterned wall paper?
Each culture has it’s identity-styles, to shape and be shaped by the language which holds it captive.
Could these shapes be the key to the unconscious of another?
Is Pattern recognition the necessary shortcut to embracing another Familiar?
A solution of understanding ones situation en mass, micro and macrocosmically, quantifiably and allegorically, is irresistible to anyone, and the lure of such Laws have shown themselves in humankind's ancient devotion to Dogmas, in modern periods called fads ; despite protestation to their falsehood, nevertheless obliviously and gleefully bound into becoming The Popular Way, the public unconscious, wants, needs, nostalgias, and drives, if pushed to analyze
For a philosophy to be a-la-mode, it need not be true.
The gaping hole of secularism reason and ration in the west is plugged with various yearnings for humility, mystery, unity taking shape in romantic youth cultures, fight cultures, shopping cultures, cult cultures, Occultisms, new-ageisms, psychoactive drug trends the latter all aiming at some very defined graphic allegorical map for the senses.
Music isa complex cultural universals, a pathway to physical response, we understand as a group, often suspended from traditional time, depending on a more varied narrative than the traditional beginning, middle, end.
Music relies on number, and here we may embody the globally indisputable logic of mathematics.
These Numbers have helped form false or holy hermetic links in the formation of human thought
If we could combine all these nationalisms, cliche’s, stereotypes, over a bonafide numerical algorithm, deducted through our few universals, patterns, leaps in the dark, could we provide this empirical fiction with which we could shortcut conscious reason and complexity and dive into an experience mapped culturally by the existing graphic elements surrounding them? Fictions are the first things we understand as children, as we learn to tell our own tales.
If we use sound to embody a shape can we feel it as a word that made sense, would it resonate? This may all be an illusion’.</span>e woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09617662637135426202noreply@blogger.com0