Wednesday, 27 July 2011

Bog Standard

Terry Baker undid  the buckles of his armour plated jerkin and shook himself free.  Phil called out after him "gosh tez you have got big muscles" as he skipped out the door towards the shower block. These days life at Bog Stands (short for Bog Standard's) was getting duller and duller which pleased the boys no end. In a world bursting to the seams with magic and coincidence each of them had previously lain in their beds dreaming of the mundane - the chance to pass the time with a simple worthwhile task like mining for coal or breaking rocks or labeling envelopes even. To remind himself of simpler times Terry had kept a stash of look and learn comics handed down to him from his particularly straight forward uncle Eric who had worked as a store detective by day and was a scout master of a Tuesday and Friday evenings. Now of course no one knew what a reef knot was let alone a round turn and two half hitches. This was clearly, Terry thought, due to the saturation of life with the mythical powers of the beyond which had come with Johnson's discovery that it wasn't just gravity that was leaking from the eleventh dimension. There was also a steady drip drip drip of magic which until Johnson's now legendary triple slot experiments of 2009 had gone largely unnoticed by the vast majority of earths inhabitants and any dampness caused by said dripping was often actively dismised as the manifestation of ignorance brought out by superstitious morons trying to explain scientific phenomenon they didn't understand.
Young Terry was familiar with this line of argument from the science classes at Bog Stands. These filled his mind with leaden gravity defining insights which brought about a heaviness of heart - a feeling he had once thought had been swept away for ever by the deluge of eleventh dimensional forces once Johnson had removed the metaphorical finger from the dyke. His eyes glazed with pride as he stripped off the rest of his mining gear which still unfortunately  retained the Elizabethen stylings demanded by  the modern day magick obsessed populous and he trudged off to join the others in the shower block. Mr. Jones the sports master would hopefully greet him with a slipper on the buttocks and he relished this moment of thinly disguised bullying especially now that it was common practise to love your enemies at comprehensive schools. (to be cont)

Old Poem

Sometimes I feel like a broken tap splurging untreated sewage. At other moments I feel elated with the rush of creative juices geezering around me. Mmm. So to speak. The following is a poem salvaged from my  OS 9 mackintosh. It is grim but I think the overall message (Really) is that we need to accept responsibility. The apportioning of blame seems to me to be a very English devise. I see david Cameron in his Big Society sitting on the throne chair in a forest clearing telling everyone how the bad people who did these bad things will be punished and then we will all be alright. Dostoyevsky lies spinning in an unmarked grave nearby. Humans are all responsible for each other. Right? Love is what remains of us. Well enjoy.

Don't Blame Me

Who me?
looks from side to side
No mate
You've got the wrong man
Guv its a fair cop
Thats a quote from an advert
Not the truth
I was in all night with me mum
Slag
The dog ate my homework
I was blinded by the light
I was blinded by your smile
It was a voice in my head
She was asking for it
nay gagging
it wasn't me
no i was home on me own
taking out the bins
when i heard what i thought
Was an urban fox caught in
His mates barb
Could have been the sound
of dying children I suppose
or was it the muffld guffaw
of the torturer?
sorry mate can't help ya
NO mate my friend
Someone else
I'm innocent
I'm free
i'm sleeping
I'm dead
bored
(stoops to place rose on stone)

Saturday, 16 July 2011

I take it back

Harry potter is culturally more significant than the mafa goldsmiths show. There was a brilliant film in the goldsmiths ma show which set two parallel written narratives to death metal. One line from this stuck in my head. Hegel is stuck in abstraction. Philosophy quickly leads to over awareness. So why did no one (with two accidental exceptions) at the MA show stride over to the exit from the hall of mirrors and show us the way out? We must concede that the value of such an exhibition is either individual genius or potential monetary value. Narrative absorption is associated with entertainment and is therefore not valid in the serious art realm. It is treated as a laugh up the sleave joke.

I have just sat with a reverent audience through the last Harry Potter movie. Whilst the plot was written by an individual its relevance lies in the group endeavour that brought it to the screen. It was confused and only occasionally truly manifesting emotional depth but as a piece of art that acts as a conduit to human spirit it totally outstripped everything I saw at Goldsmiths. In the end harry is seen as a little englander parent sending his son off to boarding school. This served as a reminder that we must battle complacency everyday. All too often We go with the nihilistic flow knowing we are right to shun notions of something bigger than all of us. Perhaps the church of harry potter was attended to get kids into hogwarts?
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Thursday, 14 July 2011

artist at work

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woman Sweeping

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Greece

The universe is more like a giant thought than a machine. So spake James Jeans. Actually what he said was "The stream of knowledge is heading towards a non-mechanical reality; the Universe begins to look more like a great thought than like a great machine. Mind no longer appears to be an accidental intruder into the realm of matter... we ought rather hail it as the creator and governor of the realm of matter."
When asked if he thought life was an accident he stated that he was inclined to consider the material world a derivative of conciousness and not the other way around. I am inclined to consider the two to exist in tandem. There is no linearity - no cause and effect. We know observation changes the spin of an electron. This is scientific fact. But is it not worth remembering that scientific fact is always just the edges of our current perimeter of knowledge?
This morning I had the sense that what we experience is what we believe we are experiencing. Einstein described reality as a closed watch and I had the feeling that I had somehow managed to peek into the partially open inscribed back. Upon doing so I supposed that I glimpsed the cuff of a stage hand scrabbling to correct an obvious error in the plot continuity. My wife had brought me a cup of tea in bed because I had over slept. I noted the cups presence and dozed for a few minutes more. I got up and found that the tea was now luke warm. Thus in a still dream like state I found my way to the microwave oven and placed the mug in the devise for thirty seconds. Ping. When I removed the cup I found it was now not the same vessel. I had placed one of the narrow ridged mugs in the machine and now I was holding an I heart Mr Solo Mug (another 8 of which are in a box under the bed). The obvious explanation is that in my slumbers I had projected a version of the mug in my minds eye - based perhaps a previous instance of being brought a cup of tea in bed. I was still too comatose to properly engage with the cup in my hand, despite having placed my fingers in the liquid to test the temperature. Then the ping of the microwave acted like a hypnotists trigger to bring me back to my everyday senses whereupon I truely saw the mug as it had been all along.
      Or in another parallel universe my other self was presented with the narrow ridged mug that the cosmic stage hand had absent-mindedly switched. My other self is now counting the I heart  Mr. Solo mugs of which he is certain he has nine in total. I know this sounds trivial but when the mug was revealed it genuinley felt like a badly spliced movie. You know the kind of blooper dished up to hilarious effect on you-tube, "now see how when Georgeson opens the microwave he removes an entirely different mug!"
It got me thinking that a man taking this dream state into the conscious world could start to effect the life he led. Perhaps he might not even realise he had take the dream state into the conscious world. Perhaps the dream state is the conscious world. Matter and mind as one.
This blog was meant to be a short note to myself about how I feel the ec0-gnomic trouble in Greece is due to our firm belief in systems and not soul. Soul is local. When the Greek economy was based on their own currency it reflected the specifics of the nation. It embodied their attitude to life but the uniformity of the system has robbed them of identity. It is a system imposed from without. Money after all is meant to be a symbolic manifestation of assets. To my non economic brain it seems obvious that such a codefied system is so unsuitable that it can only collapse eventually. I feel genuinely angry for the Greek people. I'm sure there are progressive Greek people who probably think I'm an idiot (Greek Joke) but. But! Money must serve culture not the other way around. Money could be a material manifestation of ideas. But now its the cerebral manifestation of power.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Afore thought

 ON leaving through the school gate today a lady offered me a "leaflet for our arty workshop". She may just aswell have said "a leaflet for our low guilt child care in the summer holidays". I tend to feel that the further away the "workshop" is the more guilty I feel.  I feel duty bound to earn more money to pay for their time in someone else's care. As a child I instinctively felt that being left to my own devises was a way of being arty. These days arty is prescribed. The aforementioned leaflet was on nice glossy paper so I was hopeful when I gave it a quick look. "welcome to the world of Harry Potter...". Really. Fantasy over imagination. Just think if Damien Hirst had gone to arty workshops we might have ended up with the current film influencing him. Jaws for instance. I jest. Here is a poem about my beautiful sons and my parental concerns.

Saturday, 2 July 2011

Tennis Hole

Now Murray's gone out
How will we fill the hole
THe sense of something gnawing
Deep within the soul
Cos cheering Johnny foreigner
Just seems rather hollow
And another nation's identity
Isn't ours to borrow
But I guess that we are free now
To get on with our lives
INstead of suspending play
Like bees asleep in hives
We'll wake up in the morning
And wonder to ourselves
Did that all really happen
Or was it just some elves
Who sprinkled tennis fairy dust
On our knitted brows
To make us feel less serious
Whilst herding sacred cows