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In a Crystal Presence…..

 

Some musings about the newly released box set of three albums from Crystal Presence (Tim Blake)….Alan Dearling

I only heard the first two of what are often referred to as Tim Blake’s ‘solo’ albums a long, long time ago on vinyl. But my memories were fond ones. And I have much enjoyed Tim’s electronica/synth presence on the Gong’s Radio Gnome Invisible triad of albums: ‘Flying Teapot’, ‘Angel’s Egg’ and ‘You’. Then again, Tim has also been in and out of the Hawkwind ‘family’ many, many times, but some of his own playing and compositions have frequently formed the exhilarating high-water marks, sparkling electronica in the heart of the mind-numbing Hawkwind beats. Those include two of the tracks from the second Crystal Presence album, ‘Blake’s New Jerusalem’ (1978): namely, ‘Lighthouse’ and the title track, ‘New Jerusalem’. As Ian Abrahams has said in the sleeve notes for newly re-mastered box set:

“ ‘New Jerusalem’ took up the whole second side of the vinyl release, and became an almost mythic part of the history of electronica, while the other track with its own life and longevity outside of the album is the haunting and studied space travelogue of ‘Lighthouse’, with its ‘Star Trek’ ‘Captain’s Log’ spoken entry, its pensive soundtrack inching it outward to infinity and its lyrical ode to galaxies ‘where crystal people dwell’.”

If ‘Blake’s New Jerusalem’ is something of a crown of creation in the Crystal Presence box set collection, the first album ‘Crystal Machine’ from 1977, was certainly a harbinger of electronic creativity. It can hold up its musical head in the company of Tangerine Dream’s ‘Phaedra’ or Jean-Michel Jarre’s ‘Oxygene’. Hypnotic, exhilarating, looping and spiralling threads of sound. Melodic repetitions, musical meditations that still fed into so much of that mid-70s (still) hippy period, which perhaps bizarrely continued to exist in the midst of, and in the aftermath of punk. The fact that two of the longer tracks on ‘Crystal Machine’ were recorded ‘live’ also adds to the spontaneity and energy of ‘Last Ride of the Boogie Child’ (Seasalter Free Festival 1976) and ‘Synthese Intemporal’ (recorded at Le Palace Theatre Paris in February 1977). The final track, ‘Crystal Presence’ is darker. An ‘out there’ space recording drifting deep into the outer limits of the universe.

The third album in the box set, ‘Magick’, was released over a decade later in 1991. Again, it was recorded ‘live’ in Tim Blake’s adopted home in a windmill in Brittany. Tim Blake has said of ‘Magick’:

“I like to take my time, whereas ‘Magick’ was done in an instant, but it wasn’t a bad instant. Looking back on the songs, years later, they’re good songs. It was a different step in my life, actually. I wasn’t particularly interested in the music world when I made that, but I went to America twice playing ‘Magick’ and that was very stimulating. The record had the effect of getting me interested again.”

‘Magick’ is a brooding, slightly love-lorne, musical entity. Plenty of moments of pomp and grandeur, plenty of melodic ear-worms, but perhaps a bit ‘over-the-top’ into the proggy territory of Rick Wakeman with imagined moments of cape-swirling and softly-swirling vocals and synth sounds!


Tim Blake: Crystal Presence: The albums 1977-1991
has been released in 2024 by Esoteric Recordings, a label of Cherry Red Records. For more information about Tim Blake and his music go to http://moonweed.free.fr/

 

 

 

 

 

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How Do I Get to Salvation Street?

 

 

On THREE PLAYS by Jonathan Moore (Aurora Metro Press)

 

With his customary mix of street and soul
Jonathan Moore makes word opera; the fruit
Of his current tree, these bright branches
Sprout their own aria

Through tone of voice and intent
As characters move from Ireland
To this island, larks ascending
So that even the murk in south London

Suddenly becomes starrier.
Dreamers roam here and rage
As God vouchsafes vibe and violence.
And the poetry of pride singed by fire

Whether on the street, or in hearts
Makes these London boys Byrons each,
Or else intemperate Shelleys
Questioning unsafe stanzas

That have seen them rhyme rage with art.
The three plays span 20 years.
Gregory Hersov’s introduction informs,
Reminding us that Moore in the 80s

Was part of a new theatre wave
Post Poliakoff, Brenton, Hare and before them
Pinter, Osborne, Bond and Griffith’s;
From Punk’s forge, beside Berkoff

Each light and line scored a stave
Through a song of revolt as Rory and Liam
Both chorus conscience and Father Michael
Through wisdom’s staccato song

Spouts truth’s verse. Liam wants to leave
A life warped by the city’s snare on all workers
While Julia treats him to quell with love
Fate’s harsh curse. He sees anarchy scored

On a tree. An almost biblical image
And suddenly broken cities become burning bush.
As Rory and Liam transform into urban Dantes,
With Father Michael as Virgil using the right hand

Of God for hope’s push. This Other Eden connects
Said God’s ground to Croydon. Hannah’s monologues
On phone, or in spotlight slide the tarmac
Of the Second World War straight to Dublin

And the recent grace and grave of her Da.
Moore’s words weave a bridge between
Bathos and Bridie while Dave near Bolsovers
As he buses the city streets without car.

We make the Eden’s we seek or settle for those
Which lay barren. In this second play roots are ripened
As Moore’s Irish ancestry has full sway. The short scenes
Make stage film, but have a tenancy that’s poetic.

Moore makes mosaics from life and light in each play.
As Treatment’s lads now give way to the inner needs
Of the lady who seeks her own identity in a garden
That God has not tidied since that first shard of Apple

And splinter of rib spiked the soil. And so this characters
Plan and plough the empty plots on pale pavements
And Hannah’s progress, free of the rake seeks truth’s oil.
Who are we and why? Moore’s Irish roots house

And haunt him. And so it proves here with Hannah
In this Critic’s Choice piece. Love is toil.
From the 157 Bus to the 233 and possibly the 666,
Dave rides as a spiritual cowboy. Apocalyptic in aspect

As he journeys through City scapes, while he and Hannah
Bemoan their parents’ privations as working class
Irish mothers fall prey and subject to English wife tyrants
And a hidden duty to the ungrasped need to escape.

Here, Moore’s compassion bleeds through as his tough talk
Touches poems. His sensibility shifting a decade on
From outrage, to defiance and poise as he grants
His day ghosts fresh dimension and his own Irish Eden

Sees each angel break Man’s ribcage. Fall from Light
Stretches stage from estate to auditorium and arena

As a rejected composer becomes his own Orpheus
And an underworld opens up as Girlie and his gang

Dare the devil and the opera Moore now works in
Shows how wronged instinct tortures us, as the gold
We would give is carelessly taken by others,
And where maestro becomes music

As a Gesamtkunstwerk fuses all. Art is Moore’s aim
with Copeland, or Einaudi. With Turnage, or Henze
Together the heavens are breached for need’s call.
Each play takes the soul on a Friedkin like

London car chase. As well as traffic lights; Angels
Seen as each page tries to teach, not only a new
Way to be, but also a song for what’s sacred.
These plays blister Bibles and burn a flower black.

They impeach. As well as implore. They are hymns,
Hard and holy. But always beneath them, as is still
The case today Moore makes peace with the still
Raging heart and the search for enlightenment also.

This trinity of plays ghosts and gathers all sons
And all seekers. They are in our dreams, doubts,
And daughters. The salvations and sinning.
And new worlds to see and read. Hard to beat.

 

 

 

                                                                David Erdos 1/5/24

 

 

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Slaughtered lame groans

Who found you in my land
a lie ?
Who wears the sedition of questions?
And raised you up in a storm
I made an appointment
You brush my eyelids
The burdened one
My pink baby
How equal your face and the sun
O sin of others?
When you roar in their silence
And reveal the fangs of their virtue
You knock tears in my streets
You climb my calm
Lightly resourceful, ambitious
Dress up the wound
To reach the maximum pain in you
Your flutes cut her veins
You’re tearing up
You keep my mark
May he give you lameness
Slaughtered groans
Above all..i love you
over all societies
And above all the ridiculous traditions that bind us
I love you after my life..above those dreams
And candles lit at night lovers

 

 

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Muhammed Gaddafi Massoud
Translated by Hayam Alama
“The Sad Musician”
By ostahi mihai

 

 

 

 

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Grimes’ times: Singer’s Beat and jazz journey

 
 

ONE OF THE most formidable British vocal talents of recent times, Carol Grimes has been carving a deep notch on the music scene for some 60 years, delivering distinctive takes on songs that range from jazz and blues to R&B and soul. Further, she has been inspired by multitude of influences – recording artists and performers, novelists and poets, social resistance and protest campaigns.

Emerging in the mid to late-1960s and quickly caught up in the large and positive effects of the churning typhoon of swinging London, Grimes has combined singing and songwriting, spoken word and poetry, in a rich gathering of styles, traits that bear a strong relationship to the Beat Generation crew and the ever present pulse of jazz, tributaries which continue to feed her creative flow today.

A key member of several bands over the years including Delivery and Eyes Wide Open, her solo records are well worth comment. Her debut solo album, Warm Blood (1974), was recorded with members of Area Code 615 and the Average White Band and follow-up, recorded in Memphis, showcased the Brecker Brothers, Donald ‘Duck’ Dunn and the Memphis Horns.

She admits a long allegiance to Beat culture and style. Lois Wilson wrote of her magazine Mojo in 2007: ‘Carol Grimes started out as a beatnik busker, celebrating drinkers outside pubs with renditions of “Summertime” and ‘The House of the Rising Sun” in 1962.’

The journalist, describing a 2002 collection by the singer in the same article, referenced Grimes’ ‘intoxicating vocals, equal parts Marsha Hunt, Julie Driscoll and Merry Clayton, turning her song poems – titles “Skinside Out”, “Woman To Child” – into seductive, hypnotic and terrifying incantations.’ Some talent!

In this very recently minted conversation, Grimes talks about the numerous phases of a fascinating artistic life – the people, the groups, the politics, the books – and draws attention to a poem, a spoken word piece, which she dovetails on stage with a legendary work by one of her favourite composers: ‘’Round Midnight’ by Thelonious Monk.

She is interviewed here by Malcolm Paul, a contributor to Rock and the Beat Generation, whose recent review of a Tuli and Samara Kupferberg father and daughter art exhibition in the Netherlands was carried in these pages…

How would you describe your education?

That would be the late 1950s, early 1960s. None of it of any worth. I left a secondary modern school two weeks before my 15th birthday which fell during the Easter holidays, 1959. When you are told as a child that you are stupid, plain and inconsequential. Writing was not for me. People would scoff and mock. 

I was 15 when I began to discover the Beat world. I had a job as a live-in mother’s help, near Cambridge. An academic family. My education began after my reading the bookshelves there. Climbing up a stepladder into a tiny bed room, a mezzanine with no door. I read many books there.

Reading those books and meeting new people expanded my horizons. I began to want to be an art student. They always looked interesting. Arty! Breton T-shirts, blue Levi jeans. A black beret. Big boots. The moody look  of Parisian arty types. French films. Jeanne Moreau in Jules et Jim, a 1962 French film directed, produced and co-written by François Truffaut. I walked around barefoot! Wore large black sweaters. Jazz clubs when I was old enough! I wanted to write before I wanted to sing. I thought I looked too young to be an authentic Beat. At 20 I looked about 16… 

Where did your interest in jazz arise?  

In the late 1950s/early1960s. Hearing Ella Fitzgerald on Radio Luxembourg and the US American Forces Network. I joined CND [the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament] after the Cuban Missile crisis. My education really began then. Miles Davis. Lift to the Scaffold. Film music. I still wanted to be an art student! 

Did the Beat writers have a significance for you? Did you read particular writers or particular novels or poems which inspired you?

So many. Down and Out in Paris and London, George Orwell. Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley. Herman Hesse. Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf. Then On the Road, Jack Kerouac. Through that book I found the others.

I didn’t know then, that a lot of life my would be ‘on the road’. And that I would love taking a scat solo and telling a story; I call it ‘scat chat’. It is always a free flow in the moment. ‘Red Top’ from 1947 by Lionel Hampton & His Orchestra is one tune I love to do this to. The story is different each time.

After the Cuban Missile Crisis I joined the CND the march from Aldermaston to Trafalgar Square. Listening in on conversations. Asking myself many questions. ‘What is intellect?’ ‘Will only qualifications do for acceptance?’ I was often afraid to talk. 

You returned to the capital in the mid-Sixties…

Yes, back to London, 1965. In Chelsea, 16, Oakley Street.

I moved into a room in a bohemian house. Sheila was the landlady and she knew James Baldwin and Richard Wright. I met and became friends with gay men & women in that house. There was Robert and Ted, gay men, Sue an Australian, a lesbian.

We hung out a lot in the pubs of the King’s Road and Earl’s Court. And into Soho. Live music: my ears were flapping! The Earl’s Court gay scene often centred round the Coleherne Arms where the Windrush [the name of the ship that brought the first wave of post-war West Indian arrivals to the UK] generation of musicians could be heard  close at hand.

Russ Henderson began performing at the Coleherne with his band in 1962. He was soon joined by Joe Harriott and Shake Keane, leading lights of London’s jazz scene. The Picasso, the Stockpot, the Chelsea Potter, Cafe des Artistes. Then I met Larry, just out of art school. He was working on the rides at Battersea funfair. He moved in very quickly. Coffee bars in Chelsea and Soho. Listening to Oscar Brown Jr, the Last Poets. Nina Simone. Monk. Miles. Charlie Parker. Charles Mingus. Reading Ezra Pound

With Larry Smart, I visited museums, theatre, art galleries. Coffee bars in Chelsea and Soho. I joined my first band after singing in an alley beside a pub in Hastings. There was a Beat scene down there, some of them living in the caves. 

Did the Beat writers have a significance for you? Did you read particular writers or particular novels or poems which inspired you?

Then me and Larry met John ‘Hoppy’ Hopkins. ‘Hopp’y died in 2015 aged 77, one of the best-known counterculture figures of London in the 1960’s, not just as a photographer and journalist, but as a political activist. His last lover had Parkinson’s and was a member of one of the choirs I ran in the Neurological Hospital, Queen Square, London. The choir sang at his funeral. A sad day indeed. I have a beautiful signed photo he took of Thelonious Monk playing a piano.

Pictured above: Carol Grimes (foreground) and John ‘Hoppy’ Hopkins (centre) together at a 60s happening

On October 15th, 1966, ‘Hoppy’ invited us to the Roundhouse in Chalk Farm for the All Night Rave, the launch of International Times when Beat and hippy culture met and rubbed shoulders. Soft Machine, Pink Floyd. We met Jeff Dexter there.

The Roundhouse played host to an all-night celebration as a ‘pop-op-costume-masque-drag ball’ with guests invited to ‘bring their own poison’, screenings, readings and mysterious ‘happenings’, with the Roundhouse and International Times going on to become two pillars of a British cultural revolution.

So the Beat scene begat the counterculture. I was straddling two coasts. ‘Howl’ and Naked Lunch begat Poetry Review, Better Books at 94, Charing Cross Road, the Arts Lab. I was given a copy of Red Bird by Christopher Logue. Heathcote-Williams came round to see us. Yet more learned people to listen to… 

Meanwhile, in London, grey bomb sites, the middle classes moving to John Betjeman green, leafy suburbs. They left behind terraces of mouldering houses, often divided into flats or rooms to let. Flimsy walls and damp rooms.  

In Chelsea I became pregnant. We moved to the Grove, an area encompassing both Ladbroke and Westbourne Groves. Me and Larry became a room to visit when finding yourself in those parts. A friend’s sofa, then living in a road long ago branded for demolition in Westbourne Grove, St. Stephen’s Gardens W11, a property that had been managed by Peter Rachman, the notorious slum landlord: four families with one shared bathroom on the first landing.

Counterculture. Feminism. Politics. Hippies. Free love. Beads and trailing dresses. Women at the sink minding babies. Barefoot and expecting.

Are there particular artists who have caught your attention over the years?

Many! In the mid to late 1960s, I loved the West Coast scene: the Doors, Captain Beefheart, explorers all. And at last women being themselves, Joplin and, in London, Julie Driscoll. I met Jo Ann Kelly and other singers during the later ‘60s into the 1970s.

Marc Bolan was around, Paul Kossoff and Nick Drake, tousled hair, young faces blown away as if on the cold winds from the Russian Urals. Looking at my old photos, I was young and they are still young. Now I am getting old and they never will be. Sammy Mitchell, Sandy Denny, Steve Miller, Jo Anne Kelly, Joe Strummer, all gone and, in more recent times, Elton Dean, Pip Pyle and Poly Styrene, Donald ‘Duck’ Dunn and Lol Coxhill, all people with whom I had sung, recorded or shared stages. Ronnie Scott and Pete King no longer preside over Ronnie Scott’s in Soho. 

Pictured above: Carol Grimes’ autobiography published in 2017

Meandering around the Portobello Road in the 1960s in my mind are those faces here:  Lemmy lurking, always looking on the wild side, and Heathcote Williams, ‘Hoppy’ and Suzy Creamcheese, John Peel and Simon Stable, Jeff Dexter, the Exploding Galaxy and Quintessence, the Pink Fairies, the Deviants and Hawkwind. 

Did the Beat writers have a significance for you? Did you read particular writers or particular novels or poems which inspired you?

I engaged with politics, the plight of women over centuries, the obscene way my black friends were treated. Beats and hippies were not necessarily good with women. Many were utterly misogynist. Work to be done. There were a few women who skated the edges of the male hip Beat scene. They are relatively few, but include Diane di Prima, Brenda Frazer, Hettie Jones, Jan Kerouac, Joyce Johnson and Carolyn Cassady.

I always felt that the hippy life was not for me. I had intended to be a beatnik, a daughter of the Fifties artistic revolution, wearing 501 Levis and black sweaters with a cigarette – preferably French – in a black and silver holder, the obligatory book of poetry, Miles Davis on the Dansette record player, living in my own pad somewhere in Central London, Paris or New York. 

How would you see that relationship between jazz music and Beat literature? How do you feel they connect?

Free flow. Improvisation. Meaning, experience, need for change. Self expression. Meeting all sorts of different people. In London I met the world, from Africa, India, the Far East, Central Europe, USSR. Some university educated. Even some with PhDs. 

What happened for you musically in the 1970s? 

A band called Delivery came calling. I joined the band. Previous bands were ruined by management and agents who would not allow me to be me. Or as a woman. Beauty, blond, skinny and posh – that’s what they wanted. With Delivery I managed to get my own words out there. The writing came out from a box under my bed. Sing it, wing it. Why not? I sang about pollution and corruption.

I bought a copy of  Kulu Sé Mama, an album by jazz musician John Coltrane. Recorded during 1965, it was released in January 1967. The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper was released the day I brought our son Sam back from hospital in Ladbroke Grove. May 1967.  

Please tell us more about your own Thelonious Monk project. How did it come about? Are you a fan of the pianist? I believe you have written your own lyrics to his classic ‘’Round Midnight’. What were you aiming to do with this exercise? What things did you want to say?

I’m very much a fan, yes. In the 1990s I wrote a poem and have performed it live many times; sandwiched within his composition, ‘’Round Midnight’ I sing the song, the band play the sequence and I recite my ode to Thelonious Monk. I wanted convey some of the feelings I felt when listening to his music.

Pictured above: Poster for Carol Grimes’ appearance at Jazz Verse Jukebox, an event at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club in 2017

Have you recorded your vocal version of the piece?

I have recorded  a few of my poems over the years, both at music venues and the spoken word/poetry gigs. 

My writing became more an accepted part of me. In 1985, at the Drill Hall in London,  I wrote and produced Lipstick and Lights, prose, poems, song and comedy.  My first music theatre production with my band Eyes Wide Open. Guests included the poet John Hegley and the musician Josephina Cupido. It was followed by a second show Daydreams and Danger.

During the 1980, I toured and recorded with several bands including Carol and the Crocodiles and Eyes Wide Open. My own songs came through. And the musicians included Steve Lodder, Maciek Hrybowicz, Angele Velmiejer, Mike Bradley, Paul Neiman, Josephina Cupido and Mario Castronari and the Kick Horns among others. By then, I was doing a lot of performing poetry gigs.

I sang to gave myself meaning. Desperate for identity, belonging, a tribe. I lied, fibbed, made myself up, pretended I was French or American. I wanted to be a beatnik, different from the mob, my life, my upbringing. I told strangers in pubs and clubs that I was from far away. I discovered, quite by accident, a singing voice. But, like the making up of many me’s, I often feel as if I am an imposter.

Age snags and snaps and suddenly I am an old woman. Oh no. Once upon a time I was young. It seems to me that time went too fast. Stop. The end. I am slowly dying. Sitting in my pants eating crisps. A world seemingly shooting itself in the foot. A virus here, a war there, a flood, a famine. Nothing has really changed.

Note: You can visit Carol Grimes’ website here – https://carolgrimes.com/

See also: Malcolm Paul’s art review, ‘Exhibition #2: Tuli & Samara Kupferberg’, May 28th, 2023

 
 
 
MALCOLM PAUL
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Caging the feelings

Let the cage open,
Let the sky be measured.
The revealing chapters of life
Are wisdom scrolls of time.
Chapters evoke the feelings
Of study.
The cage isn’t a home;
No garden to walk barefoot,
No free shackles.
The feelings if caged
Would hate the first
Smile on the face of
A newly blooming child.
The audition of happiness
For the world
Is to be judged by not
Caging the feelings.
The age of innocence
Isn’t a scratch
On the face of experience.
Childhood hours
Lead to snowcapped mountains
Of experience.

 

 

 

© Sushant Thapa
Picture Nick Victor
Biratnagar-13, Nepal

 

 

 

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Recapitulation

The blood of dreams is transparent. Stains on the floor, on clothes or faces. Dreaming red and black when the night is long, slipping into the shadows. Dreams bleed without cause, empty their veins. A suicide in transparent blue. No trace of the words or sounds. Here and there an image still shimmering, its darkness glowing. The body is lighter now, bones swaying in the wind, grasping the sun for balance. It’s harder to walk in the day, without blood, without color. Moving along with the crowd, crossing streets, sitting in the restaurant. There won’t be any orders today; the lights are off, the tables cleared, the sun already set.

 

 

 

Andrea Moorhead
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY

Thursday, April 25th

My wife is taking the upcoming elections for the Parish Council extremely seriously, and has been out and about almost all day and every day campaigning. I do not really understand it: this is not a large village, and she is only standing for the Council, not for parliament. But when I asked her why she was running around like a blue-arsed fly (I probably should have phrased it differently, but there you go . . . ) she seemed to think I was being stupid, and said if a job was worth doing it was worth doing well, which I kind of agree with, but a few votes from the members of the yoga class she runs (“Oh Yeah! Yoga!”) and their friends and families will probably get her elected. I am pretty sure most people do not give much of a hoot about the Parish Council. Still, her being out of the house a lot has meant I have been able to spend most of the time watching the snooker World Championship on the television without her constantly interrupting and finding jobs for me to do around the house, although every time she comes in she makes a comment about how I’m “still watching that rubbish”. Anyhoo, over the weekend I will go out and stick some of my own campaign leaflets through a few letterboxes, and I hope it does not rain. But I do not think I have to go crazy and actually knock on doors or talk to people. I am quietly confident that my performance thus far on the Council, and in my role as the Advanced Round-the-clock Security Executive (ARSE) for GASSE (“Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”) – the organisation formed to stop our village hall being taken over by government lackeys and turned into a hotel for swarms of unfortunate foreigners – will be enough to get me re-elected.

Saturday, April 27th

What a [expletive deleted] horrible day! I went out to put some of my election campaign leaflets through some doors, and to start with it was damp and cold and miserable and it’s the end of April, for goodness sake! As if that was not bad enough, I got caught twice and dragged into arguments about the illegal foreign visitors. I had just stuck a leaflet through one letterbox and before I could turn around a lady opened the front door and said she “wanted a word”, and then had more than one. She banged on for about ten minutes about how she knew I was one of those selfish people who did not care what happened to the poor people who all they wanted was a safe place to live and how all we wanted was to make sure they did not come here and prevent us from doing yoga or playing Scrabble in the village hall and we should be ashamed of ourselves and what ever happened to British compassion and consideration for others? I think that was more or less the gist of it. Frankly, I was not really in the right frame of mind to discuss the matter, but it struck me that I ought to, so I tried to make the GASSE case that really the village hall and the village in general was never going to be really suitable to house the unwanteds and then it became clear that calling them the unwanteds was not a good move and I really should not have done it, because the lady’s husband had joined us by that time and he pointed out that it was what he called a very pejorative term and I had to apologise for it and eventually I had to say that we obviously differed in our opinions and I should really be going, and they said they would certainly not be voting for anyone who did not want to help people who needed help. Then I dropped a pile of leaflets in a puddle.

I was not in a good mood, to be honest, so when a chap who had his head under the bonnet of the car in his driveway and when I walked up his drive he looked up and asked what I wanted, so I handed him a leaflet, and he looked at it, then he looked at me, then he looked at the leaflet again, and then he said he knew I was “one of them busybodies who think they know what’s best for everyone” and his parents had come over from Eastern Europe back – I can’t remember when: in the Dark Ages? – and we should be welcoming people not turning them away when they needed our help, and I had already had this argument once and did not feel at all like having it again, but I had it again, with pretty much the same result, except this time the chap was a bit threatening, or at least that is how it felt, and he was pretty well-built plus he was holding a fairly evil-looking spanner and eventually I just weaselled my way away and felt about a foot tall. And it started raining.

Anyhoo, in mid-afternoon I abandoned the leaflet distribution and decided I had done enough and went home to watch the snooker and see if the commentators had come to any agreement about how to pronounce the Chinese lad’s name. My wife was out probably being nice to people.

Tuesday, April 30th

The Wheatsheaf has turned into a bit of a no-go area unless you fancy getting involved in some pre-election arguments, which I do not. Last night things got a bit heated between the GASSE and anti-GASSE contingents, the latter seeming to have been quite active in bringing out their supporters, who frankly I did not know even existed in any kind of significant numbers until now. I think I was not alone in thinking that the consensus in the village was that we feel very sorry for the plight of the foreigners but our village hall is not really a good place for them to be, and what about the Under 4s Playgroup, the Young Mother’s Knitting Society, the Scrabble Lunch, the Book Group, the Watercolour Art for All Afternoons Society, and my wife’s yoga class, never mind the occasional jumble sale or having The Ipswich Players come and do “Waiting for Godot”? The old cricket club pavilion proved to be far from satisfactory as an alternative venue while the hall was being repaired after the fire. But the anti-GASSE contingent have obviously been stirred up of late, and I think the young people might have had something to do with it. Anyhoo, I downed a quick half pint and came home for the snooker, because I am starting to think I want no part of it, especially as my wife has had her head turned – I do not know by whom – and she has declared for the anti-GASSE brigade, and says she has all her yoga ladies behind her, which I think is a bit of a slap in the face for me, to be honest, and the atmosphere in Chez Us has turned a bit frosty – at least, it has when she is there, which thankfully is not often at the moment. I think it is too late for me to withdraw my candidacy and opt for the quiet life, and it may be I am feeling unnecessarily negative, but be that as it may, until the election is over and things calm down I am staying away from the pub, and concentrating on the snooker.

 

 

 

James Henderson

 

 

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NO SONGS TOMORROW (4CD Box Set)

 

Traversing the backstreets of Darkwave.

  Cherry Red’s new 4 CD box set showcases the best of a misunderstood genre.

 “This collection is well above the average and predictable, and introduced/re-introduced me to a few acts I had either forgotten, or was aware of in name only.”

 

 Darkwave, Ethereal Rock and Coldwave 1981-1990

(Cherry Red)

 

There is a part of me that wonders whether there is a place for compilation albums these days?  In the same way that in the ‘80s home taping rendered vinyl collections and ‘Best Of’s redundant, the Spotify/Youtube/Amazon etc playlist has placed the choice of what combinations of bands and tracks to listen to firmly back in the hands of the listener (or at least AI’s assessment of what might appeal to you).  What you get in a collection like this is a curated collection of themed tracks that someone more expert in this stuff than yourself thinks is relevant and you should check out.  Cherry Red do a lot of these 4 CD box sets based on loose themes (Industrial Dancefloor, Electronic, Goth, etc), aimed at those with CD players and decent hi-fi set ups rather than the casual downloader/smartphone listener.  They are a typically mixed bag, with this Darkwave themed collection opening with predictable clickbait in the form of a Cure track, before moving rapidly into less commercially charted waters.  So, we get: In The Nursery, Black Tape For a Blue Girl, Attrition, Eleven Pond, Psyche, Royal Family and The Poor, Bushido, Beautiful Pea Green Boat, UV Pop, and many others on the underground side of the fence rubbing shoulders with their better known cousins: The Cure, Soft Cell, Cocteau Twins, Tones on Tail, Dead Can Dance, and X Mal Deutschland.   The sleeve notes accompanying each track, and the essay by Frank Deserto in the booklet are excellent and display a deep understanding of the genre which is reflected in the choice of bands and tracks, which mine labels like Third Mind, Projekt and Lively Art as well as the more familiar 4AD, Some Bizarre, and Rough Trade.  This lifts the collection well above the average and predictable, and introduced/re-introduced me to a few acts I had either forgotten, or was aware of in name only.  It works very well as a mix, and having a human hand at the tiller, rather than an algorithm, means that tracks which an artificial mind would not have sat alongside each other are married up for exactly the right reasons.

It’s an international mix too, moving well away from the usual US/UK template for these things, which gives it a variety and breadth other compilations often lack.  Four CDs is a bit too much to actively listen through in one go really, so this is definitely one that I’d put on as background when I’m reading, writing, or just pottering about (as you do), absorbing it’s sounds by osmosis.  I am not going to pick out any highlights, as that would go against the very ethos of this release, which is to sample everything.  The majority of the acts here are not on Cherry Red or Anagram, so it is not a label sampler either. The point is that you get to taste a number of different Darkwave flavours and maybe, if you really like something, you can explore that avenue further elsewhere.   There is lots to choose from too.  If anything, the opening Cure track ‘The Funeral Party’ is probably the weakest of the lot, and every Cure fan in the world will already have this, but it sets the tone well.  What follows takes you on a guided tour through the backstreets of Darkwave (always a broad term, encompassing Electronics, Dark Ambient, Neo-Classical, Gothic Soundscapes, and Cold Wave) and into some unexpected places, but always heading in the right direction, all the way up to the closing track ‘Clouds’ by Pieter Nooten & Michael Brook.

I set aside my earlier doubts about whether the compilation still has a place in the world.  This collection proves beyond a doubt that it has.

 

‘No Songs Tomorrow’ is released on 31 May on Cherry Red.  Pre-order here

 

 

Alan Rider

 

 

 

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fighting the rwanda plan

and when they surround you
shepherd you towards a place
you can’t all escape from
pen you in
shields and batons and smirks
sly words to goad you into affray
sling you up before the judge
saying
he was violent, yer honour
he struck me first

just remember, you have the high ground
share the water you’ve packed
just for this scenario. share
the snacks, the granola bars, the raisins
they can’t hold you forever. hold the hands
of those around you. hold
the hearts of those around you,
keep your spirits up
keep your face covered
your phone off, they can track your sim
make sure that your loved ones know where you are
carry the number of a friendly solicitor
link arms. stop them taking the people
don’t let them put them
in that van. there’s more of us than them
there always is.

 

 

Jem Henderson

 

Bio: Jem Henderson (they/them) is a poet from Yorkshire.  Their work focuses on the body, motherhood, food, queerness and on triumph over trauma, playing with both traditional forms and experimental poetry. an othered mother, their first solo work, is out with Nine Pens Press.A new collaborative pamphlet, Motherflux, out in May 2024, again with Nine Pens Press.

 

 

 

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The Adventus of the New Golden Age

 

Prime Minister’s speech on welfare: 19 April 2024

It doesn’t have to be like this: the house falling into scattering light, and voices abandoned between missed phone calls. We can change, queuing in silence for tickets to the other side. We must change, waiting to manifest transience to transcendence in our day-to-day routines. The opportunities are there, beyond the smoked glass doors, deep within the hyenas’ cage, thanks to a plan that has created almost a million vacant spaces where once we laid our sated bodies. Look, my friends and respected foes alike, the rewards for working are there, for all to see but none to touch. This is our moment to see our true selves, thanks to our tax cuts and increases to the National Living Wage, and such is our luck, to be skewered on the second hand as the clock claps to midnight. And now, if we can deliver the vision for welfare I’ve set out today, we can all marry princes or rich widows, or at least hold our heads up in the race of rats, leaving the poor and the punished to eat our dust. When no one draws the dole, or draws blood, or even draws conclusions, then we can finally fulfil our moral mission, to restore hope. Sign your name here, then here, and again here, in the cold condensation of your companions’ dying breaths, and we’ll give back to everyone who can, the dignity, purpose and meaning that comes from work.

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Life In A Shot Glass 

“What’s happening there?”
I enquire my friend.
“Days  nights, a war.”
He retorts, and I face the mirror.

The strobes of a day, sombre 
calmness a night comes with,
and a heron holding its patient stance,

we are on the mirror, here, nowhere.
At once we ask and we answer;
at once I am him and he is this man
a jiffy before he becomes the night’s fish.

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture
 Nick Victor

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Practicing To Speak To Myself 

The stairs build bricking sunlight 
institute the temple, ruined,
become the throne I settle down on
and speak alone, practice 
to face myself. The crows 
catapult fruits and twigs at me, 
draire me gone, and I speak to them,
practice before I may 
speak to myself. Breeze leaves some
leaves green on my feet.
Those have been fledgling of the Spring.
I do not comprehend sacrifice.
I speak to the leaves, wish they had a full life,
practice in this broken heart of my city.
Evening take me, guides me to the stream 
I see my reflection, and because I have been 
talking all day I fund nothing more to say.

 

 

Two days in a row I have been speaking alone to no one. The effect of the heat?

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Anecdotes at the Hotel Bar: Eugenio Montale’s Sketches

 

Butterfly of Dinard, Eugenio Montale (New York Review of Books, 2024, £15.99, 209pp.)

Nobel Prize-winning poet Montale is mostly known for his Dante-influenced, challenging poetry, a major part of the modern Italian literary landscape. These fifty short prose pieces act as an interesting byway amidst this greater poetic achievement. Produced for the Italian newspaper Correre della Sera, they were written from 1946 until the early 1960s, but many of the earlier stories are set further back, in pre-WWII Liguria, with autobiographical, but lightly disguised situations and glimpses. Jonathan Galassi goes to great lengths in his introduction to see them as mongrel mixtures of essay and sketch, but there is a deftness and lightness of touch that enables them to float free of such generic restrictions – they are more like brief observations from a flaneur at the bar, buttonholing you and giving insights into the social layers and political constrictions in Italian society just before and after the Second World War. Imagine Yeats writing brief society pieces for the old New Yorker and you’ll be in the right ball-park.

There’s nothing heavily bogged down or freighted by symbolism or narrative strategies here – the narrator is a version of Montale himself and each brief piece passes like a shrug at the end of a conversation in a neighbourhood café in a Milan backstreet. The early Ligurian sketches like ‘The Regatta’ and ‘Laguzzi & Co.’ describe teeming apartment life and class rivalries with joy and pungency. Unsurprisingly, food and social climbing are both important. Later pieces, written under the shadow of Fascism, are darker, threaded with dangerous possibilities – Montale was a lifelong anti-Fascist – but the vivid street life of the Italian working-classes continues, as colourful and picaresque as before.

The third section of sketches, mostly featuring a narrator challenged by a female voice, modelled on Montale’s wife, Drusilla Tanzi, are a little more formulaic, but even here, pieces like ‘The Director’, cheerily exploring a supernatural encounter, are full of charm and Borgesian wit. Another standout piece is ‘Poetry Does Not Exist’, ostensibly a risky wartime meeting between an intellectual and a Fascist translator of Hölderlin, which mischievously suggests judgements and compromise: ‘Believe me, poetry does not exist. When it’s old, we can’t identify with it, when it’s new, it repulses us the way all new things do, having no history, no character, no style.’

The final section features several much later stories, many extremely brief, almost imagist in style, in which the narrator becomes more of a foolish observer of life:  Galassi describes him well as a ‘Chaplinesque antihero’, but like all such picaros he is more sophisticated than he seems. The subject-matter often touches upon mortality and hints at the way life’s aspirations are unfulfilled, bereft of meaning or unsatisfying. Nevertheless, Montale is able to infuse a journey into the shades, in ‘At the Border’, with affecting positive touches, and more sentiment is evident in the memories of past friendships and acquaintances explored in ‘On the Beach’ and ‘The English Gentleman’.

Taken as a whole, this collection is an act of bricolage, a mosaic illuminating Montale’s wry and fluent, conversational tone. He himself regarded their subject-matter as trivial and yet full of meaning at the same time, recording the comical aspirations, the pretentious sophistry and the fading aristocracy observed as daily life went on in Liguria and Florence. Seeking to explain their hybrid ancestry, Galassi finds stylistic resemblances to the society novelist Ivy Compton-Burnett, but for me they recall, at times, the wit of the British essayists of the early twentieth-century – Robert Lynd, E.V.Lucas, J.B.Priestley, even the paradoxes of Chesterton, so beloved of Borges. At other times, they indulge in light gestures of cosmic irony not dissimilar to Italo Calvino. Despite these echoes, Montale’s voice is individual and winningly mocking, even when dealing with matters of great importance. Those coming to them looking for light shed on his apocalyptic poetry may have to look elsewhere, but for others these brief, but never insubstantial sketches are a pleasure to read. Though ostensibly weightless and slight, they gradually build into a real achievement, illuminating the brief vanities of the glittering Italian society of the time and those who cunningly observed it without being entirely a part of it.

 

M. C  Caseley

 

 

 

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I’m an Anarchist. Here’s What I Believe

My journey toward being an anarchist started in front of 23 third graders. I was working as a student teacher, and the children constantly peppered me with questions. Despite my supposed status as an authoritative source of knowledge, most of the time I had no idea what the answer was. I fudged it by hastily grabbing a book on the topic and saying, “Why don’t you read this and find out?”

To say that teaching is flying by the seat of your pants while almost two dozen people seek your guidance undersells the amazing work that teachers do. But something was bugging me about the arrangement. I knew that I was barely holding it together, yet I’d been trusted with the power and authority to shape these children in profound ways. It didn’t seem to make sense.

I left teaching during the pandemic for a safer, less stressful virtual desk job. I had plenty of time to read about and watch the completely ineffectual response of the federal government to Covid. I poured over congressional testimony, writings from experts, and podcasts from talking heads. Most of them seemed to be saying the same thing: the federal government had to do more. But because the man at the top of the pyramid denied the seriousness of the situation, the federal response was almost nonexistent. One person could paralyze the whole nation. Again, it just didn’t seem to make sense.

Maybe I was a bad teacher, and President Trump was a bad president. While we’re both out of our positions of authority, the fact remains that someone like us could walk into the exact same structure and inflict the exact same kind of damage. The concentration of power into the top of hierarchies is as much a problem as the person wielding the power.

I started looking for systems that made sense to me. After actual months of reading and studying, I finally landed on anarchism. My issue, with teaching and government, was the pyramid-like structure of power. The top of the pyramid can’t stand without the bottom, so why does the person at the top deserve more power, recognition and money than everyone else?

More importantly, it seemed like these unequal power structures were supported through coercion and force. The state literally has security forces which report to the top of the pyramid, not the bottom. Schools enforce order through an assortment of coercive means, from detention to expulsion. For most of my life I accepted the premise that sometimes, you have to force people to do things they don’t want to. Anarchism was the first thing I studied that said, “Actually, you don’t. People can choose what they want and voluntarily assemble.”

Sounds like a libertarian fantasy, right? But with the evidence of what hierarchies could do playing out all around me in the pandemic, I started taking the idea much more seriously.

First, let me start with what I don’t believe. I don’t believe in violence or the overthrow of governments by force. In fact, my rejection of violence is what led me toward anarchism in the first place. I’m very skeptical of anyone who must make their point or enforce their worldview with violent coercion. That includes both states and so-called revolutionaries. 

I also don’t believe that anarchism means that there is no law or order. Anarchism is trying to organize society into a shape other than a pyramid. There are still rules and expectations, but those rules are agreed upon by everyone and all people are held equally accountable. We see examples all the time of how people closer to the top of the pyramid have a different set of rules than the rest of us. 

What I believe is that people should be free to live their lives how they choose, where they wish to and with whomever they choose. I believe that work, government and education are collaborative, and require non-coerced buy-in from the people these institutions are supposed to benefit. I believe that the concentration of military and police power and surveillance abilities in the hands of a very few people is a major problem. The devolution of hierarchies is a potential answer to these issues.

I know that anarchy is not a perfect system. To paraphrase Charles Krauthammer’s statement on libertarianism, anarchy may be a critique of governance, not an actual governing philosophy itself. But I think it’s a critique more of us need to levy. More power and money are being concentrated at the top of these hierarchical pyramids every day. At the very least, we need to think about why some people have so much, and others so little.

 

Jamil Ragland

 

Jamil Ragland writes and lives in East Hartford. You can read more of his writing at www.nutmeggerdaily.com.

 

 

(Reprinted from CT News Junkie)

 

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Chat About the Weatherman

 

– If the weatherman is a female woman should we call her a weatherwoman, a weatherlady, or a weather girl?
– Weatherwoman is too close to washerwoman.
– That’s not good. My gran was a washerwoman.
– Like the one in “The Wind in the Willows”?
– Unfortunately, yes.
– Weatherlady sounds a bit weird.
– And weather girl sounds like something from the 1960s in a mini-skirt.
– Plus, have you seen them? They ain’t girls.
– There’s no need to be rude.
– How about if we call them all weather people, and one spotted on their own in the wild can be a weather person?
– That would be ideal.
– Now, shall we go out for a walk?
– It’s pissing down.
– Oh, I didn’t see that coming.

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

 

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The Unfolding

The Secret
Low Moor Wood goes back a long way, perhaps even to the time of the great forests that once covered much of Britain. The oldest trees there have been around for hundreds of years. There are a few hazel coppice stools, mainly at the southern end, and there’s a path, much used by dog-walkers, that cuts across one corner but, otherwise, there are few obvious signs that people have ever interfered with the place in recent times. The dead rot where they fall. If you leave the path and go looking, though, you’ll find, under the nettles and the moss, lines of stones, criss-crossing the whole area of the wood.

It was Peter Williams, a local historian and avid detectorist, who first made something of them. Having discovered a number of unusual metallic objects in the wood, he became curious about the stones. He went on to map them, along with the location of various mounds and depressions in the ground. He discovered that they are almost certainly the remains of the walls of buildings or enclosures in what appears to have been a farmstead or settlement that may even have predated the wood itself.

I wasn’t lucky enough to know Williams, as I moved to the village a year or so after his death. I did, however, get to know his long-time companion and house-mate, the artist Jean Hardacre. She was well into her seventies by then. She allowed me access to his notebooks, his diaries and the private museum he’d created (and which she still maintained) on the first floor of the stone-built cottage she’d shared with him during the last three decades of his life. It was – and still is – an impressive collection. I asked her why he’d not shared his findings with the world. In reply, she painted a picture of a kindly though misanthropic man who hated bureaucracy and the idea of all the paper-work which declaring his finds would’ve entailed. One unfortunate result of his reticence was that he’d been unable to put anything like an accurate date to his discoveries.

The objects on display in the museum resemble nothing I’ve ever seen. Having examined them myself and read what Williams had to say about them in his notebooks, I can see no link between them and any culture known to have inhabited Britain at any time. He himself had measured the angles of the corners on the more sophisticated metal artefacts and concluded that their construction would’ve required a knowledge of fractals and the Mandelbrot set. Acting on an intuition, he went back to the maps he’d made of the settlement and found the same mathematics at work. The settlement in the wood, he concluded, was perhaps part of a structure that could’ve extended outwards indefinitely.

Destiny
It becomes clear from reading his diary that, as time went on, Williams became less interested in the scientific aspects of his work and more interested in the esoteric.  He writes down his dreams and speculates as to the origin of local legends and customs. There are drawings of people in his notebooks, people he’s seen in his dreams, dressed in unusual clothes: short, brightly-coloured tunics, gaiters, knee-length frock-coats that look as if they might’ve come out of the eighteenth century. He makes himself similar clothes, although he still keeps his discoveries secret, offering no public explanation for his behaviour. Local people are not particularly surprised, as they already consider him to be an eccentric. He stops using the metal detector and develops an interest in dowsing. By the time of his death he has become convinced that he’d come to live in the village for reasons beyond his control.

The Machine
Jean was kind enough to give me Williams’ old metal detector. I think she was pleased I’d taken an interest in his work and thought that perhaps I might take it up where he’d left off when he first became ill. It’s a Sabretron 2000, a state-of-the art machine in its day but quite outdated now. Williams had stored it in the original cardboard box, along with the manual that came with it. Well-used, its blue, plastic casing is scratched and faded. I’ve never used it myself, but I have occasionally leafed through the well-thumbed manual. It explains how the machine’s broad-band spectrum circuitry broadcasts on seventeen frequencies simultaneously, allowing it to function in a wide range of environments. It’s leaning in the corner, here, as I write.

The Artist
In this account, at Jean’s request, all the names of both people and places have been changed. Jean is a professional artist who paints acrylics and makes and sells her own jewellery. Those who appreciate her work know nothing of the civilisation which inspires much of it. She paints in a naïve style and is known for her large, densely-packed canvasses depicting communities of brightly-coloured houses arranged in streets laid out in fractal-like patterns. The pendants and ear-rings she makes are also clearly influenced by Williams’ discoveries.

The Beast
“Today I went off on my usual walk across the fields, hoping to see it again – whatever it is, I’m not sure we’ll ever know for sure. The signs were good. After all the rain we had yesterday, certain sections of the lane had become flooded. My progress through the grey, still floodwater (which almost reached the top of my wellington boots) disturbed the surface, breaking up the reflections of the bare branches of the ash trees. This time last year, in similar conditions, I thought I’d glimpsed it, still in its winter coat, flitting across a gap in the hedgerow on the far side of the first field. I’d heard talk of it, but I’d never seen it before. I must’ve mentioned what I’d seen to old Turner, the man next door, because, not long after, everyone was talking about it. It even got a mention in the village free-sheet, in a column squeezed between an advert for yoga classes and another for a chimney-sweep. When I realised what I’d started, I wished I’d kept shtum. After all, it was no more than corner-of-the-eye stuff.

“Ever since, whenever I set off on a walk, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll encounter it. I can’t say I have, but I have had strange experiences which I can’t help but associate with it. Often, as I’m walking, I find my thoughts interrupted for no obvious reason and a shiver passes through me. I invariably stop and look around, hoping to catch sight of it, but I’ve not, as yet, seen any sign. Whenever this happens, I ask myself if perhaps it crossed the path I’m on not long before. And only last week, I came across a gap in the hedge patched with old pieces of wood, held together with rusty nails. I felt disorientated: the past, the present and the future seemed all entangled there. I was aware of a strong, musky smell. Perhaps it had been there recently? I don’t know how long I stood there: I had to tear myself away. My memory of the episode is like a memory of delirium, like a film shot in black and white on Super-8.” From the notebooks of Peter Williams, dated March, 2012.

Extrapolation
I have tried to carry on where Williams left off with the more scientific aspects of his work. I began by making a careful study of the ground-plans he drew in his notebooks. I visited the woods to see if I could reproduce his findings. I had, at the back of my mind, the possibility that his delusions might have begun long before he rejected the more rigorous, scientific approach he’d applied to his earlier observations. As it was, I found everything exactly as he described it. This came as a relief. I next tried to extrapolate from the plans, using the same mathematics, to create possible lay-outs of any now-vanished extended settlement, something Williams never got round to doing. I also began going for extended walks in the area around the wood, partly for the pleasure of it, but also to see if I could find evidence of such a structure. You can imagine my elation when, half a mile away and close to the hill-top at Scarcote Brow, I discovered a line of stone-work almost identical to those found in the wood. It’s easy to miss, as it’s almost entirely hidden beneath bracken. I took measurements and discovered that it was within two feet of where one of my projections expected it to be. It’s alignment was off by less than half a degree. I have since discovered the remains of other short sections of wall at several other sites.

 

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Dominic Rivron

 

 

 

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Note to John Phillips (12/18/23)


Spinney, copse, thicket, coppice, holt

sunlight through
                          the high and low

leaves, branches, spotlights
a bird’s

flight
makes the bird’s

song
brighter, lit

and not at all thick
or captured

 

 

John Levy

 

 

 

 

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Confused Commentaries

No Judgement. On Being Critical, Lauren Oyler (Virago)

The reviews I read about this book suggested it was astute, witty and readable, which the cover blurb concurs with, suggesting it is ‘brisk’ and ‘honest’, and that Oyler is ‘smart and unafraid’. Unafraid of what? I wonder. Certainly not of endlessly going on and on about her subjects; and certainly not of sitting on the fence and offering up platitudes and vagueness to readers.

Oyler does not strike me as a critic. Instead she is a commentator, who offers summaries and overviews, yet does little with the information she assembles and then offers to readers. She seems far too close to her subjects, particularly when it comes to publishing, the book trade, reviewing and the internet. When considering the last of these she seems so ‘networked’ that she is unable to understand that most of the problems and issues she talks about are easily solvable: don’t use social media, don’t pick fights with or provoke those you don’t know or only know online, and take everything on the internet with a pinch of salt.

You see, I don’t care if book bloggers aren’t as good as those who review for reputable journals and newspapers, that critics aren’t always right, that some writers are not nice people, or that some books aren’t very well written. I discovered many decades back that you don’t have to read anything you don’t want to or engage with critics you don’t trust. You can make your own mind up. You can turn the television and radio, even your computer, off. You don’t have to give out your mobile number or your email address, you don’t have to post your photo anywhere or construct a persona on Instagram… There are (probably) real people living next door to you, and if you are involved in art/writing/books/music (etc. – delete and substitute as applicable) you probably know who to send letters or emails to, to discuss work in progress, to share recommendations and ideas with, to consult and befriend, to collaborate with.

In a chapter entitled ‘Why Do You Live Here?’ Oyler discusses Berlin, how she bought expectations along with herself to the city, first as a visitor, now as a resident. ‘I set out in part to explain what I like, or love’, she writes, noting that when walking down streets she has now known for 11 years she still ‘often think[s] […] the same thing I’ve always thought during these moments: that I wished I lived here. Absurd, because I do.’ Umm, well, yes. I think we all have moments like that, have all become ‘attached to images and routines that may seem to others insignificant or cliché.’ Which is perhaps, why we don’t go on about them?

The opposite is also true, of course: we can be nostalgic about where we grew up and used to live (in my case London); wish that we could actually become residents of cities we have visited often enough to know our way around and pretend we are not visitors (New York, Tuscany, Glasgow, for me); and wonder at how we all used to know places we spent months or years living in (Coventry, Crewe and Exeter) but now have mostly forgotten about.

We are all different, and as Oyler notes, ‘Our minds insert clear solutions to foggy problems’. Most of what Oyler writes about seems blindingly obvious, is called being human, but she is able to fog it up because she is too angsty, too engaged to realise she is simply obfuscating what is already clear. She is obsessed, often self-obsessed, and unable to step back and see often simple solutions, or the fact she is woffling on about nothing. For page after page after page.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

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DON’T TOUCH A THING

Concentrate on revolutionary zeal,
allow us to see optimistic declamations
scattered throughout ourselves.

Life is full of asides, distractions,
poems, discussion and arguments;
there is almost too much going on.

Everybody has a private interpretation
of narrative, certain of what’s been said,
but stories can’t fool our children

who are more and more out of time
and place, history and geography,
provoking dissent and challenge.

In a society of slow changes,
rules and rituals are defamiliarised,
gain their own implied meanings.

Dowsing rods and scrying mirrors,
dreamcatchers and smudge sticks,
tell us about what we already know

but is still worth visiting, always
open to interpretation, including
abstract images and cosmic lights.

Faith wraps its duplicitous arms
around me, hovering at the edges
of lockdown. It is a delusion,

combining absence with nothing
at the expense of its narrator.
I found online whisky a bit thin but

it is possible to enjoy a party from afar,
find ways to make sense of the whole,
allowing for symbols and shorthand.

A map is an idea ready to move forward,
points beyond itself, a possible way
of offering directions; what never was

becomes a ghost in other exhibitions.
Paranoid men collected answers, books
and catalogues, made visits to belief,

much of which seems ridiculous now:
crystals, fossils, shells, shaped stones.
Heaven has long been on my radar,

spiritual warfare is as unsettling as
anything overwritten or processed;
everyone and everything is sacred.

I recontextualise what appears real,
juxtapose nature and industry,
find characters in the graveyard

of simplistic stories and new texts.
Self-justification dwarfs the political
but here the poet is foregrounded,

angry at being bored and annoyed.
There is little mysticism or magic in
the conceptual poverty of our lives,

we remain selfish, flawed people
enmeshed in human struggle, desire
and difference, occult conspiracies,

psychologies and tired relationships.
Everyone tries to survive, moves slowly
towards a swamp world and hive mind,

completely different sorts of spaces
for groups and individuals interested in
strange answers to wonderful questions.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Lost Tone

Two legs are walking in different mindsets
and two hands know nothing about their mentality.
Where do you like to go, you don’t know either !

Today, not just like a tree in your mind,
But you have returned back to square one
like a lost tone…

The tree next to your house is smiling at you

 

 

BRAJA K SORKAR
Picture Nick Victor

 

Bio
Braja K Sorkar is a widely published poet. He is the editor of an international literary journal-‘Durgapur Review’ from India. ‘Syllables of Broken Silence’ is a highly acclaimed poetry collection authored by him. He edited an International Anthology of World Poetry, titled- ‘Voices Now: world Poetry Today’. He lives at Durgapur, India.

 

 

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An Unbeliever’s Prayer


           

Found poem from the novel “Tree of Smoke” by Denis Johnson
 

When I pray, I see no shadow on the wall.
God with his big white thoughts,
some idol powered by moonlight—
impressive at a glance—
tearing itself into jags and swords.
 
The abyss is full of reality:
psychos, beggars and urchins,
starless spirits quivering in flesh
assembled out of limbs and bones,
lacerated by pleas and outcries.
 
In the narrow places you climb alone.
 
I wanted my mother to be young again,
confident of meeting somewhere in infinity.
Who can look into another’s thoughts?
In the final stages abstractions become realities.
Small talk in the terminal ward.
 
I’m dangerously close to refusing forgiveness,
nauseated by the violent power of fate.
Brought down like a dragon
through darkness incredibly swiftly,
breaking into burning parts.

 

 

Al Fournier
Painting: William Blake

 

 

 

 

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SAUSAGE Life 296

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE ELECTION SPECIAL
The column which would like to remind you that every time you repeat fake news, a fake fairy pretends to die.

READER: I’m so depressed about the election results
MYSELF: Yes it was so unpredictable. I heard that Tory canvassers had to pretend to be Jehovah’s Witnesses so they had more chance of someone coming to the door.
READER: Like a JW’s knock, your sarcasm falls on deaf ears.
MYSELF: SO WHO DID YOU VOTE FOR?
READER: Although it is none of your business, as always, I voted for my ward candidate Ron Gravy of The British Gravytrain Party.
MYSELF: Ron beer drinking fag smoking I’m just a normal bloke who likes fondling women Gravy?? The man’s a cad and an absolute shower, a laughing stock!
READER: Be that as it may, but remember, a laughing stock is only the prelude to laughing gravy.

GRAVY ABANDONS BOAT
After the British Gravytrain Party’s poor results in the recent Upper Dicker by-election, Ron Gravy has declared that he is breaking away from the BGP and is currently in talks with Russell Brand, author of My Cocky-Wock and The Leather Trousered Philanthropist with a view to forming a new party before the next general election.
The Don’t Vote Party (DVP) will have a robust but flexible manifesto and will put forward no candidates.” he told us from his campaign caravan, “We are confident of the public’s support. Calculated on the basis of the most number of votes not cast, our algorithmic analysis predicts we will win by a landslide.”
During a barnstorming speech outside the polling station at the Upper Dicker Atomic Astrodome, Gravy climbed on top of an abandoned car and, through a megaphone improvised from a pizza box, declared; ” I pledge on behalf of the DVP party that  if elected, I will make it compulsory not to vote, and resign immediately!” a pledge which drew a standing ovation from the dozen or so remaining staff, although, to be fair, they were already standing.

WENDY WRITES
A pot-pourri of problems solved by our resident agony arbiter Wendy Reitz

I received this nostalgic yet hearwarming letter from Mrs H.Geurnica of Beyondenden:

Dear Wendy,
am I alone in thinking that the gentlemen’s barber is no longer the great institution it used to be? My late husband Frank lost all his hair at the age of 23, but thankfully his strict father managed to instill some old fashioned discipline in him, and he always went for a haircut every fortnight, whether he needed it or not. Afterwards he would return home with a highly polished, sweet smelling bald head, some new blades for his razor, and a pocketful of rubber johnnies, all this for only 7/6d (£235.47 in today’s money)!
I ask you, where can you get value like that these days? Hopefully, now that we have left the common market and are going to get our old money back, things will begin to return to normal.

I replied,
Well said Mrs. G!
Those certainly were the days! Luigi Casserolli, my dear father’s barber not only cut hair and shaved men’s chins – he also sold exotic tea towels printed with the Turin Shroud, conjurer’s rabbits, delicious pies, souvenir nail-scissors, counterfeit West End theatre tickets and hand guns.

GHOSTLY SPOKES
Top inventor professor Gordon Thinktank is trying to persuade local councils to introduce a local scheme similar to Boris’s Bikes in London, using his patent autonomous bicycles. Hastings Mayor Derek Windfarm was said to be so impressed with early demonstrations of the invention, dubbed the autonobike; that, according to some sources, he has privately registered the domain name DereksBikes.com.
Ever since their first appearance, riderless bicycles have attracted much controversy, (in one Commons debate, Liz Truss asked; “Supposing one of these things crashes, who will fall off?”)
However, professor Thinktank maintains that his radically improved version incorporates new, vastly superior safety features.
“The autonobike requires no human intervention whatsoever,” he told us, “which will be a huge boon to those cyclists who for one reason or another are no longer able to get out of the house. The other big advantage is the built-in anti-theft system. My standard production models will be fitted with front and rear lamps containing sophisticated facial recognition software which, when activated, securely clamps the wrists of the would-be thief to the handlebars and the autonobike pedals him to the nearest police station.”

 

FOOT BAWL
Players are furious at the bombastic methods of Hastings & St Leonards Warriors FC’s new owner, flamboyant Texas theatre imresario Travers J Pumpper Jr after he installed a 3,000 watt public address system in the Warrior’s tiny dressing room through which he shouts at the players at half time. During the interval at the recent 8-0 home drubbing by Cockmarlin Thunderbolts in the Lillettes Cup, he allegedly burst in, grabbed the microphone and pointing at cowering Dutch striker Ruud Gouda, paraphrased the 16th century philosopher Samuel Ruskin-Sprinkler:

SPECTACLE MAY BE THE LAST REFUGE OF A MORIBUND ART, BUT FOR PETE’S SAKE A LITTLE BIT WOULDN’T GO AMISS!”

 

 

Sausage Life!

ATTENZIONE!
‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.
Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.
Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)




Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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By Colin Gibson

 

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words and worries

you could not find the magazine stand, so i brought the magazine for you. you did not tell me about yourself, so i asked you what you were studying. you did not see the sunrise so i told you about the sun ascending and moon disappearing at daybreak. you flipped the pages of my notebook wanting to know what was hidden there, so i told you about the novel i was writing.

you could not ask me any more questions, so i tried commenting on the coincidence of the crackdown of our room heaters. you did not comment on the sudden warm temperatures so i did not ask if it was too hot for you. you were not talking, so i pretended to be on a call from home. you agreed to meet me instantly, so i took the time to know you. you kept my food plate back, so i thought you wanted to help me.

you did not ask why i was not eating much, so i tried to tell you i was unwell. you did not see the cut on my hand, so i hid it with my wrist watch. you showed me cat photos, so i clicked a photo of the black cat. your flatmate cooked Indian food for you, so i made Indian food for my friends. you did not ask why i went on morning walks so i did not tell you about the swans i saw. you did not ask me about my interest in tennis, so i did not ask you why you joined the tennis club.

you told me you had a meeting, so i let you go as you were

busy. you left me hanging without any reply, so i started writing again. you never paid attention to anything but my words, so i wrote words to woo you. you never told me if you liked Nature so i never told you my growing affinity to the green campus.

you made me believe it was just my crush on you, but i held the hope of hearing from you. you clarified neither in words nor in actions that i was nothing to you, so i tried to forget about you. you could not give me closure, so i went past your flat with my bag of groceries. you did not see the sun set so i never told you i wanted to see that orange glow with you. you ignored me, so i understood everyone i like won’t like me back. you did not have my attention anymore, and then i understood the magazine had meant nothing to you.

 

 

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Swarnim Agrawa
Picture JOAN BYRNE

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A Traveller at Dusk

Take, for example, the
rate of economic growth.
Distant figures can be
discerned with some

difficulty but to the
average person dust
just looks like dust.
Then, one day, we

got a call from the
police. Rick Wakeman,
Keith Emerson, Eddie
Jobson or John Evan?

Seen from above these field patterns are
artworks. Is it possible to disagree agreeably?
Suddenly our slope isn’t so slippery. “Now all
we need is for our wings to harden,” she said.

 

 

 

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Steve Spence
Picture Nick Victor

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‘Off Stage’ photography show at the Proud Galleries in London

 

Words and pics from Alan Dearling

It was a delight and a privilege to visit this collection of impressive and stimulating photographs. I was shown around by Brad Dean and Javier Robledo from the Proud Galleries who were curating the show.

This photography exhibition “…invites the viewer to delve into the world of celebrity and rock stars off stage, behind the scenes, and on the move. The show explores the relationship and dynamics of the photographers and their subject matters under more challenging, unusual, and intimate contexts, rather than capturing them while performing or in controlled studio environments. OFF STAGE groups.”

And I was also extremely lucky to have the opportunity to have an eclectic chat with Erroll Jones about his photos of The Prodigy members right from the beginning of their sparky career, the early days around Braintree in Essex, through to before the death of Keith Flint. His collection is entitled, ‘My mates’ band’! We also talked about photography, working with musicians, gigs and festivals and the lifestyles of many – especially those involved in squats, communes, punk, reggae, dance, rave, Acid House and counter-cultures. Leftfield activities, parties, drugs and protests.

I’m not going to attempt any sort of potted history of Prodigy, suffice it to say that Erroll’s images evoke the magic of the band and its colourful individual members: Founded by song-writer and synth-player , Liam Howlett, singers, Keith Flint (who was also a dancer), Maxim and Sharkey, Rob Holliday on guitar and dancer, Leeroy Thornhill. Personally, I found The Prodigy set at Glastonbury on the second stage absolutely stunning. Electrifying theatre, energetic and dangerous. These guys knew how to produce fantastic amounts of musical electricity in amongst the spit and venom. And, The Prodigy continue to weave their own brand of abrasive musical magic through electro-techno-punk, though I believe that Howlett and Maxim are the only original members left in the current line-up.

Here are some of Erroll’s photos on display at the Proud Galleries.

His pics perfectly capture the underbelly of a band’s many conflicting lives.

Erroll says, “I was really into house music…Prodigy was different…rave…and I was able to take photos of my mates’ band… I shot entirely on film, both medium format and 35mm, and this series comprises a collection of never-before-seen images of the band backstage and on tour. It really does offer up an intimate behind the scenes glimpse.”

Here’s a video of Erroll talking about his relationship with The Prodigy:  https://youtu.be/2N3SmIJLFlo

The ‘Off Stage’ show occupies the majority of the ground floor gallery with other photos from the Proud Galleries’ Collection spreading out their musical heroes down the stairs and into the basement gallery. Alan Chapman’s ‘Frame: Celebrity’ collection are almost all candid images, almost street-photography in style, but all are apparently approved by the ‘celebs’ themselves. Alan is a frequently the go-to photographer to the rich and famous, whether on the street or in social gatherings, and his images are widely published around the world both in print and on television.

David Magnus’s work with the Beatles is justly regarded as ground-breaking as he was a well-trusted lensman, and the Beatles gave him access to their personal and back-stage moments from very early on in their careers.  David’s photos are absolutely fabulous. ‘All You Need is Love/the Beatles collection’ is the title of this selection at the Proud Galleries. David was present at the recording session when the Beatles took part in the first ever live world-wide T.V. satellite broadcast called ‘Our World’.

And to finish, a famous image by David Montgomery from 1968 of Jimi Hendrix from the Proud Collection. Do try to get along to this great free show – it’s a real testament to the powerful imagery of rock ‘n’ roll and its associated lifestyles of alternating excess and grandeur.

Many thanks to the Proud Galleries’ team for inviting me to the show and allowing me to take photos for sharing.  Open until : 25 May 2024, Proud Galleries, 32 John Adam Street, London WC2N 6BP.

Website: https://proudgalleries.com/pages/exhibitions-programme

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Marina & the Curse of the Royal Yugoslavian Academy of Art P4

This book tells the well loved ancient folklore story of Marina, a simple traditional forest dwelling Yugoslavian mother of many children, who led a double life as a misunderstood radical performance artist.

Commissioned for a specially curated shop by artist, Marina Abramović as part of her solo exhibition at the Royal Academy from Sept 2023 – Jan 2024, the first ever solo show by a female artist in the main galleries of this historic institution since opening in 1768.  This title will tour with Marina’s show for 5 years, internationally.

With full colour illustrations and Miriam Elia’s characteristic witty storytelling style.

Miriam Elia

 

About the Author

Miriam Elia: Artist, Publisher and satirist Miriam Elia is renowned for her 2014 satirical art book ‘We go to the gallery’ in which she reillustrated Peter and Jane from the Ladybird books grappling with conceptual art. She has now published a number of books under the Dung Beetle Learning Series moniker including the 2020 UK hit ‘We do Lockdown’. Her books have been published in several languages internationally and over a quarter of a million copies are in circulation worldwide. Prints, etchings and artworks have been exhibited nationally and internationally.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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THE HACKNEY ANARCHIST

This issue considers the ground beneath our feet, where politics emerge and upon which they return: as acts of care and destruction, and all the forms of resistance in between. As the crises continue and intensify, we know our community includes humans, animals, minerals, the natural world – and the ruins we inherit from this dying system.

This zine moves across territories – from our streets in Hackney to Berlin, to Palestine – with an international intent. Contributions of poetry, essays and art offer analysis, methods and an emotional outlet to channel our collective rage and desire towards political action. Destroy a landlord, plant a tree? Fight, imagine, grieve and do whatever needs doing to care for the world around you, or they will try to lift it from underneath us.

The Hackney Anarchist is free to download here.

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Childhood Games

 

within the margins

 

we played at marbles

while some

 

played dice

 

& others played

at murder

 

on that same

recreation ground

 

& murderers

they became

 

 

 

 

David Miller

 

 

.

 

 

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Youth Meets RDF!

 

Alan Dearling enjoyed a great night in London’s 100 Club

I had been really looking forward to this gig in the iconic Oxford Street venue. Lots of old festival and Traveller friends plus musical maestros, Chris Bowsher (Radical Dance Faction), Martin Glover (Youth/Killing Joke and more) and Al Damidge (Damidge) and their talented mates. And so it turned out – good sound quality – some great performances – friendly, quirky company – professional lighting, which makes a heck of a difference to the overall rock ‘n’ roll experience.

Youth has recently produced the new Youth/RDF album, ‘Welcome to the Edge’. Edgy, dubby, poetry in-extreme-motion courtesy of Chris Bowsher.  

“Cockroach Town, you’re never alone.”

As Youth proclaimed from the stage when he joined the RDF to play keys, “Chris is one of the really great frontmen”. And, in a lovely tongue-in cheek moment, Chris introduced Youth as, “One of the world’s three greatest music producers, but I don’t know the other two!”

 ‘Cockroach Town’ from the album, ‘Welcome to the Edge’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5RZha86_qg

This was an evening for the older New Travellers, the ‘Surplus people’,  to come and celebrate their culture together. Almost a musical private party night…in a very special venue: the legendary 100 Club.

Radical Dance Faction developed out of Military Surplus. They have experienced an ever evolving line-up of musical members, with Chris at the helm from their early days in the late 1980s. Back then they found themselves being at the forefront of the protests against what became the Criminal Justice Act in 1994. That Act of parliament literally criminalised the lives of many UK Travellers. If Stonehenge free festi and the Battle of the Beanfield in 1985 have become emblematic of the travelling and festi lifestyles and alternative cultures, RDF epitomise protest parties, squatting, sassy ‘outsiders’, living on the outer edges of less radical society. Nowadays, the opportunities for celebrating these fragile freedoms only exist at the smaller festies – events like Feral, Horse-drawn, Surplus, EnDorset, Kozfest and Bearded Theory. Often the Convoy Cabaret offer stages and performance areas. Lots of benefit gigs too…usually in support of the oppressed…

The RDF/Youth performance blended together old and new material whilst showcasing the Youth produced tracks from ‘Welcome to the Edge’ with ‘Daydream Dystopia’ (2018).

Here’s a quirky glimpse into Chris Bowsher’s NFA (No Fixed Abode Traveller band) life or lives!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-k9xGQPP4M

And more music from Chris and RDF: ‘Go to War’ at Rebellion 2022: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWUtLdcVKOg

Damidge, fronted by the ever-effervescent, Al Damidge, was absolutely perfect as ‘support’ for RDF and Youth. Punk as fuck…and then some. Here’s an old video of them, ‘Ritten in Rehab’ from 2015: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QwSmnXPsHwE

From Al’s Facebook site, I believe this is the current Damidge line-up: Al Damidge, Vocals; Alex Pym, Guitar; John Clifford, Drums, and Moyni on Bass. Al hasn’t been too well of late, but seemed full of puckish energy and vibes, despite having to perch on a bar stool during the gig.

The new Damidge single was still being pressed, so wasn’t available at the 100 Club gig. I believe it will be tracks recorded by Pat Collier at Perry Vale Studios:  ‘Inspired by you’/’Motorway Hussy’/’So Easy’.  But, hey, I could be wrong. Al and the lads gave the tracks plenty of musical welly from the 100 Club stage.  Bandcamp: https://damidge.bandcamp.com/

The 100 Club keep to a very tight time schedule and close sharp at 11pm, so, Kiranpal Singh and Titus Maz provided early arrivals into the Club with a tasty mix of their fusions of mellow and soaring guitar solos, melded with Indian almost-traditional sounds. World music created from an entirely different palette of colours, hues and ethnicities.

Video from the 100 Club:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIder7TVIZo

Altogether, a magical night, with magical people in a magical space!

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from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY

Wednesday, April 17th

On the wireless this morning I heard someone say the House of Commons and the House of Lords were having a game of ping-pong to decide what will happen about the government’s plans to send its unwanted foreign visitors to Africa. I think they should probably take it more seriously than that. I wonder if Richi Sunak is any good at ping-pong. He does not look the athletic type. I was never any good at any kind of tennis, the table kind or the Wimbledon one. I could only ever hit the ball now and then, and when I did hit it, it was more by luck than judgement.

But my tennis skills are irrelevant, unless they are an accidental metaphor for the government’s competence in anything, but that would be unbelievably clever of me, especially if I did it without knowing. What concerns me and my co-members of GASSE – “Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”,  the Parish Council’s group set up to prevent the hall being turned into the equivalent of a hotel for uninvited foreigners – is that whoever comes out on top in the ping-pong it is still likely that there will be lots of unfortunate people needing a bed for the night, and since its refurbishment our village hall is pretty welcoming in a kind of impersonal village hall empty space kind of way, so it is important that GASSE  stays alert. But all the gossip going around the village and occupying the regulars in The Wheatsheaf at the moment is about the upcoming elections to the Parish Council. There are 14 candidates, and only 7 (seven) seats to fill. Four people (including Yours Truly) are seeking re-election, three people (John Garnham, the current Parish Clerk, and two others, both of whom never say anything and in my experience have also never been known to do anything) are standing down, and there is a worrying little contingent of the youth, members of CASHEW (“Come and Sleep Here – Everyone’s Welcome”) – the young people’s group who oppose GASSE – and I think a couple of others who are sympathetic with their cause . . . It is very possible that the entire new Council could turn out to be anti-GASSE, in which case it would almost certainly cease to be!

I have not been out and about with my campaign leaflets yet. I think it is too soon. People have very short memories, like goldfish. And sometimes goldfish are smarter.

Thursday, April 18th

John Garnham telephoned to tell me that he is still having an argument with The Ipswich Players about our cancelling their “Waiting for Godot” a while back because the hall was still undergoing repairs and refurbishment, and he says that now they are saying they will drop their claim for compensation if we book them to come and put it on in May. He wants to know what I think, because he will not be on the Council then and it is more or less within my remit as the Community Liaison and Publicity Officer (CLAPO). I told him that I thought we should tell them we cannot make a decision until the new Council is in place. I did not tell him that if I am re-elected I do not intend to be the CLAPO any more – I am keeping that under my hat for now. Publicity and what-have-you is not really my cup of tea, to be honest. It should probably be done by someone who is more outgoing and who gives a damn.

Friday, April 19th

A massive hoo-hah this afternoon when the Scrabble people turned up in the hall for their weekly get-together to find the place under water. Some errant plumbing in the kitchen, apparently, and there was water everywhere, even as far as flooding the floor in the main hall, and it was all hands on deck to mop up the mess. I gather Bob Merchant was called in on account of his chaps having fitted the kitchen. Luckily I was in Stowmarket doing some errands, and after my wife called to tell me what was going on I made sure I stayed there. She thought she was going to have to cancel her Friday evening yoga class (“Oh Yeah! Yoga!”) but it was only water, and the floor in the main hall was alright by the evening, and the yoga ladies only really need the floor, but the kitchen cannot be used until next week, or whenever Merchant’s chaps have done what needs to be done in the plumbing department. You would have thought it would be in his electoral ambition interests to get things back and working properly straight away, but I suppose he did not want to pay his blokes overtime or weekend rates. That is Bob Merchant in a nutshell.

Sunday, April 21st

I am pretty sure that getting drunk in the local pub on a Saturday night is not a good look for a prospective Parish Councillor, but Michael Whittingham makes something of a habit of it, and sometimes crosses the line that divides fun and not fun. Last night he was apparently  very loud with his opinions of the candidates for the Parish Council elections, and I am afraid that he said some very hurtful things about some very decent people including, I am sorry to say, my wife and I, which was reported to her this morning by Miss Chloe Young. I shall not go into details, but my wife says I should “have a word with him”. But Michael Whittingham has a tendency to settle disagreements with threats of violence, and sometimes more, and so I said I would not dignify his remarks by acknowledging them. I know it is the sort of thing people say in films when they are a bit scared, but I was not going to risk personal injury. My wife was not very satisfied, but I cannot help that. Also I thought she and Whittingham were on decent terms. I did, after all, see them chattering and laughing together outside the village shop a few weeks ago. Perhaps there is something I do not know, but ignorance is bliss. Probably.

Tuesday, April 23rd

Woke up this morning to the radio news that the government eventually won their ping pong match with the House of Lords, but I do not know what the score was. Then a lady on the radio was asking a government person questions about how they were going to send the unwanteds to Africa and they got into a bit of an argument and at one point were almost shouting at one another and talking at the same time, so I gave up on that and went to get breakfast, only to find that my wife had had the last of the bite-size Wheatie Shreds and we were also out of bread so I could not even have toast. I was going to have a moan at her but then thought better of it. I know a lost cause when I see one.

 

James Henderson

 

 

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The Duchess Tree

An autumn gale had come from the south, over the seafront promenade to batter the hedges and gardens along the half-mile of Grand Avenue. At the north-east corner of Dolphin Lodge, through gaps in veteran window-frames the wind made a wavering chord, rising and falling, the sound resembling an orchestra`s string section, closer to a sound-effect than actual composition. Ideal, I thought, for a nineteen-forties black and white film, a costume drama perhaps, set in storm-clouded moorland, where a highwayman`s cloak might swirl across the opening sequence. I remembered the `Gainsborough Lady`, inclining her head in gracious acknowledgement, her direct smile to the audience breaking the `Fourth Wall`.

Above wet rooftop reflections of an evening sky, a group of seven tall lamp posts at a road junction on the wide avenue commenced their flicker into sodium-yellow brightness. Seen from my window as a shining circle in perspective, they began to cast light on a tree still in full leaf below, where yellow light and shade were creating on its leaves a surprisingly realistic bronze-green cameo-portrait of a Victorian lady, her elaborate coiffure, rounded forehead, ears, eyes, nose, mouth and chin all clearly shown, with the wind`s disturbance to the leaves making her appear to be in impassioned speech. I found myself composing screen sub-titles for an invisible audience.

Every few moments, agitation of the leaves forming her face and features gave evidence that the Lady was in considerable distress.
She seemed to be describing an injustice, with herself not at fault, not to be blamed. Her upbringing having accustomed her to discretion and restraint, she would from time to time compose herself, be for a while calm, but then, suddenly overcome by the unfairness of it all, her head would be desperately shaken from side to side in protest amid the wind`s uproar.

A reason for the Lady`s obvious unhappiness arrived in my mind:
The circle of lights, now diamond-bright jewels in the dark sky, were a legacy, a valuable inheritance, and an unwelcome responsibility,
a Tiara of Damocles.

 

 

J.T.M
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

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Hibernation

they were falling
                                                from somewhere
                        up above him
from the darkness
                                                beyond the glare
                        of the bare bulb
                                                they looked as if
            they were asleep
                                    curled              up
                        hands under their cheeks
resting on invisible pillows
            falling              so                     slowly
as if they were
            almost             weightless
                        like leaves                   or snow
                                    and when they landed
they went on sleeping

gradually the sleepers
            covered the ground
                        took over the world

 

Dominic Rivron
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Two New Zines: Interviews with Israeli and Palestinian Anarchists

Announcing two new zines featuring interviews with Isreali and Palestinian anarchists on the unfolding crisis in Palestine.

The zines below were created from two recent interviews, one by the 161 Crew, which spoke to an Israeli anarchist, and the other by Black Rose / Rosa Negra, which talked to Fauda, a small group of Palestinian anarchists. Thanks goes out to Chava and the Jewish Zine Archive for so beautifully and quickly laying out “We Can’t Afford to Remain Silent,” and an unnamed but greatly appreciated Jewish anarchist friend for doing the same with the “Voices from the Front Line against the Occupation” zine, using art on the cover by Zola, @zolamtl. (Zola’s art, along with numerous other freely available images, is available at Just Seeds.) Both zines can be freely and widely shared/Distro’ Ed—not for profit, but for solidarity. Links to the original interviews are included here too.

We Can’t Afford to Remain Silent: Interview with an Israeli Anarchist

“The situation in Gaza Strip is getting more catastrophic every day. In our attempt to better understand the situation in the region, we did an interview with an Israeli anarchist. We talked with them about the modern anarchist movement, Israeli occupation of Palestine, resistance against it, and prospects for the future.”

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Voices from the Front Line against the Occupation: Interview with Palestinian Anarchists

“Black Rose / Rosa Negra (BRRN) reached out to Fauda, a small group centered in the West Bank that identifies itself as a Palestinian anarchist organization, to get its perspective on the current struggle. Fauda is a group that is new to us, and which we don’t have more information about beyond the interview presented here and what can be found in their public channels. Other than edits for clarity across translation, the content of this interview is presented unaltered. We want to thank our Palestinian and Arabic-speaking friends for their help with conducting and translating this interview. We also want to extend our gratitude to the representative of Fauda members, thoughtfully engaged with our questions during a moment of extreme uncertainty and violence.”

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Print PDF (White)

[reprinted from Its Going Down]

 

 

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If You Don’t

If you don’t listen to music
You are missing something.

If you don’t watch movies
You are missing something.

If you don’t read
You are missing something.

If you don’t write
Your self-expression is missing.

If you don’t listen
You miss to understand.

If you don’t talk
You get misunderstood.

If you don’t have opinions
You won’t get chance to explain yourself.

If you don’t learn
You die.

If you don’t travel
You remain the same.

If you don’t chase your dreams
You don’t live.

 

 

 

 

© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

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WHERE WE ARE NOW

On the cluttered table was a bunch of flowers. Why hang on?
The book looked like The Grimoire of Armadel. It fell open at a page emblazoned by the finest designers: a unique confirmation. You may find some of the details distressing:

In the sigil may be noted the ways whereby a blinding darkness may be produced, or a thing terrible unto one’s enemies, also how a blessing may fall hereon.

Wow! That’s a whopper!
Disenchanted with modern forms of authenticity, allowing for the current fashion for ‘second skin’ dressing, I wiped the table clear of dust and examined the charge sheet. Waifs had no impact. It was going to be another wacky week.

Talk us through where we are now, all the twists and turns.
Tetahatia was a Spirit of Science and Virtue who preserved our forefathers from their enemies.
This is bondage gear for gossamer girls – sweet kicks, rock n roll-up tricks, share your secret – we promise to spell a five-letter word and decide which statement is true or false, it’s dead simple and copper-coloured. I luv it! I luv it! She shouted from inside the wardrobe.

I head with a friend for a small shop tucked down the side of Harrods while, outside, clouds gathered and rain fell on the Surrey countryside. Way above us we could see the Boo Stars – marvelous and truly heartwarming; beauty beyond borders.

Just why does this world inspires some of the worst euphemisms of all time?
Meanwhile, back in my study, a crystal ball glowed unobtrusively in the gathering gloom.
“You live in Kings Cross?”

I take her home wrapped in layers in tissue and skulk around the place like an undercover agent, or a secret policeman, disguised in a multicoloured sarong.

 “Tell me about it, Karen…”
          I dream to myself, clicking into a sort of regressive hypnosis and lay back on the sun-lounger, as functional as a wardrobe of lace hankies.

Later, after a candlelit meal we strolled arm-in-arm and examined ourselves in the rear- view mirror.
The police cleared the road for a hundred miles, just for us – and the years rolled by… is that it?
Yeah, absolutely.

 

AC Evans

 

 

 

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Subculture: NeoAncients

3-5 May 2024

A weekend festival exploring alternative folk culture through books, music and film.

NeoAncients is the second annual Subculture Music & Culture book festival, presented in collaboration with the town’s landmark Sub Rooms.  For 2024 the focus is on Folk Culture and the way the traditions and customs of the past inhabit our present and inform our future.

NeoAncients, one and all, Artists, Musicians, Authors, Actors, Comedians and DJs come together to explore the space between the real and the imaginary, and how deep time is alive within each of us.

3 days of performances across the first weekend of May 2024

Expect Gruff Rhys’s Welsh whimsicality; Bridget Christie’s 21st century wise woman; Jarvis Cocker’s sonic explorations of paganism; Jeremy Deller holding forth on why Art really is Magic; Stephen Ellcock on his visual art ‘cabinets of curiosities’; Punk meets the Pagan in the work of Jamie Reid; plus Druids, folklore films such as Penda’s Fen, immersive experiences, deep listening, Morris sides, The Changes, and weird, Weird Walks.  

For full details go to the official festival website.

 

 

 

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Bookended Berlin

Star 111, Lutz Seiler (And Other Stories)
Siblings, Brigitte Reimann (Penguin Classics)

Star 111 is a hefty novel that has been a bestseller and literary prize nominee abroad and is now translated into English and published alongside a book of poems and a non-fiction title by the same author. It is set in Berlin in 1989, just after the fall of the Wall, and charts the brief few months from then to Germany’s unification, through the eyes of Carl.

Carl’s parents Inge and Walter surprise him, and possibly themselves, by packing rucksacks and heading for a new future in the West, via transit camps, leaving Carl in charge of their orderly house, possessions, car and past. They soon disappear from most of the main story, although they send missives and cryptic postcards throughout the book, mostly charting their navigation of landscape and bureaucracy, whilst hinting at their future plans.

Carl, spurred on by his parents’ departure, drives to Berlin and soon finds himself involved with the squatting communities springing up in the East. Abandoned or vacant properties provide accommodation, galleries and community cafés, and Carl – who has previously worked as a bricklayer – is in demand for his practical skills. He returns to his parents house to liberate his father’s tools and dives in to the emerging new culture.

He is, it seems, slightly out of his depth. He misreads the signs with women and is not as politically motivated as others are, but is glad to finally have his own space where he can sleep and work on a bench he constructs. He becomes a kind of bar manager in the basement they have half-converted into a drinking den, and takes on board the ideas and politics of ‘The Shepherd’, the group’s leader; he also learns to milk Dodo, the leader’s companion goat and familiar.

In fact, goat’s milk is a kind of elixir or tonic throughout the book, an almost magical drink that resuscitates and re-energises, even when mixed with vodka. And poetry serves a similar purpose for Carl, as he struggles to become a writer whilst grappling with the nuances of alternative politics, under-the-radar guerrilla tactics, caring for elderly or sick residents around them, as well as struggle to contain his lust and maintain his new relationships and friendships.

Berlin is, perhaps, the main character in Star 111 (which was, since you asked, the make of an East German transistor radio). The book charts the slow changes at work: monetary pressures, Capitalist attitudes, property development, demolition, aspiration, the withdrawal of Russian troops (a friendly group who drink in the bar), and realisation. The hoped-for alternative society will not happen, there are too many tragedies, arguments, break-ups and despairs. People move on, the city will change, the counterculture will be commodified; tactics of resistance will have to change and adapt.

For those of us who only saw the images of the Berlin Wall collapsing on television, having assumed it was a fact of life that would be there forever, this is an eye-opening and engaging novel, rooted in real events, activities and movements from a very specific time and a forgotten history. The decay, disruption and despair was all too real, as was the flight of many East Germans and the selfish and racist attitudes of some in the West. Carl seems to decide to stay in Berlin, though his time in Assel, the squatted area, is up, and both Dodo and his parents find release and liberation, but there is no grand happy ending. Dreams and love have expired, writerly ambition has not (yet) reaped its rewards, friends and colleagues disappear, his parents – although in touch and able to visit and be visited – now live elsewhere. This book is partly about growing up, about family, politics, and utopian societies, but mostly it is about searching for authenticity and purpose. It’s a brilliant, wide-ranging and compulsive read.

Back in time, in a very different novel, we find Elisabeth, Uli and Konrad, the siblings of Reimann’s book, struggling to find their place in the world of 1960 as the East/West German border closes. Konrad has already defected, Uli questions and criticizes what he regards as an oppressive regime, whilst Elisabeth – an aspirational artist – embraces the future possibilities that Socialism offers.

Siblings, first published in 1963, is a very different book to Star 111. It is a fifth of the length for starters and is much more ‘literary’ and philosophical, much less led by narrative events. To be honest it is a little dry, with some characters mostly acting as ciphers for various political and business stances. Elisabeth’s boyfriend, Joachim, is a somewhat unbelievable ambitious and greedy capitalist, who consistently argues with Uli, a more believable but somewhat arrogant presence. (More likeable than Joachim though!)

Elisabeth joins an artist community, although as good Socialists it seems to also be a kind of (voluntary) labour camp, where work of some kind has to be done in exchange for accommodation and the freedom to do your own creative work. She struggles with the machinations of ‘the party’, or at least some members of it, and has to overcome sexism and personal criticism as well as her own inner demons and familial expectations.

In a way the book ends where it starts: different characters in different places with different hopes and aspirations, unable to communicate across ideological divides and struggling to find their place in ‘the new society’ of East Germany. Joachim suggests to Uli that ‘by stepping over the border [to the West], you’re stepping into the past’, choosing to find refuge in new technology and business opportunities but also acting as a Party informant and social irritant. Elisabeth tells herself she is a painter and that is enough to justify her place in the future state, but it is Uli, however, who has the last word. ‘What kind of people are you anyway?’ he asks Elisabeth and Joachim, although it also seems a question to himself and for all of us.

 

 

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

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Interview #17: C.J. Stone

 

C.J. STONE is a writer, newspaper columnist and author based in the UK who was taken a particular interest the nation’s countercultural and subcultural life over many years through his journalism in the Guardian, the Big Issue, the Independent and others and via his acclaimed books Fierce Dancing: Adventures in the Underground (1996) and The Last of the Hippies (1999). He recently spoke to Rock and the Beat Generation contributor MALCOLM PAUL about his Beat interests and musical tastes…

When did you first begin reading the Beats?

I came to the Beats via ’60s counterculture, like a lot of people my age. I was born in 1953, so I was around 13 when news of the hippie movement hit. I remember articles in the newspapers about what was happening in San Francisco: pictures of the Grateful Dead outside their commune in Haight-Ashbury. They looked very cool to me.

I was a big fan of Bob Dylan, and he made references to On The Road as an important book in his life. Later I read The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe, and discovered that Neal Cassady, who drove the Merry Pranksters’ bus, was also Dean Moriarty in On the Road, which I must have read at some point, although it didn’t make much of an impression on me as I remember virtually nothing of it.

Pictured above: Christopher James ‘C.J.’ Stone

Reading around the counterculture thing made me aware of Allen Ginsberg, who was prominent in both the hippie and the beat countercultures. I know he appeared in Don’t Look Back, the Dylan film. Like almost everyone else, I know the opening lines of ‘Howl’, but I’ve never read it.

If you had a reading relationships with the Beats, can you remember which writers particularly influenced you and why? You said in a previous interview that you were a big fan of David Bowie. Did you follow a literary route back to Burroughs and Brion Gysin?

The Beat writer who has most effect on me would be William Burroughs, but this would be more because of his approach to writing, his writing style, than anything else. I read Cities of the Red Night much later. There’s something in the way he puts words together. The writings are almost like spells, or invocations. They come alive in your mind in an almost visceral, sometimes repulsive, way. He’s fucking with your brain in a way that almost no other writer can do.

When I read Ginsberg or Kerouac, I kind of know what they are doing. With Burroughs I have no idea. He seems to be working on you on some deep metaphysical level that lies beyond the words. He remains one of my favourite writers. I’ve also read Junkie and Naked Lunch. I think he’s an incredibly important writer, regardless of his Beat associations.

Pictured above: Stone’s 1996 account of rave culture

I also read Big Sur by Jack Kerouac, a copy of which was sent to me by Penny Rimbaud, the drummer with Crass. I have to say, I didn’t like it. I found the writing style to be lazy and self-indulgent and the lifestyle unappealing. The poetry at the end just reads like nonsense to me.

The other writer of the era who influenced me was Charles Bukowski. Strictly speaking he wasn’t a Beat, but he was published by Ferlinghetti, so there’s some Beat association. What I took from Bukowski was his writing style: sparse, abrupt, direct and simple.

I read Post Office and loved it, but found his subject matter a little dull and never really enjoyed anything else, except Ham on Rye, his childhood memoir. Here’s a piece I wrote about Bukowski’s influence: https://www.splicetoday.com/politics-and-media/roy-mayall-on-henry-chinaski

You said in an early communication with me thatwhen you were younger you didn’t listen to trad jazz and you preferred modern jazz. Do you mean the same iconic heroes as the Beats: Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis? Musicians pushing the boundaries, living life on the edge…

Kerouac was more associated with modern jazz than with rock music. He was famously trying to reproduce the improvised style of jazz musicians like Theolonious Monk and John Coltrane as a literary form. As a youngster I was very into jazz.

In the early ’60s there was a clash between trad jazz fans and modern jazz fans (known as ‘ravers’ and ‘mods’) and I was very much on the mod side. I guess it was because it was the only alternative music available on TV when I was growing up. I remember Jazz 625 on BBC2. It was one of the connections between me and my Dad, as he liked jazz too and we always made a point of watching it.

Pictured above: A history of the hippies by the author from 1999

Do you think there will always a place in society for movements – groups like the Beats, hippies, the rave generation? Do you still feel part of a alternative culture/way of thinking? If yes in what way?

As I understand it, Beat is as much about lifestyle as it is about literature, and I guess I come into the category, having led a Beat-lifestyle: experimenting with drugs, hitching everywhere in my youth (and into adulthood), being an itinerant, never really settling anywhere until my older years, rejecting a lot of the constraints of ‘straight’ society.

It’s certainly an approach that appealed to me in my younger years, but it has its drawbacks long term. Maybe that’s why I disliked Big Sur. I was wanting to settle down by then and Kerouac’s descriptions of what he and his friends got up to just seemed wearing to me.

My friend Kevin Davey, who wrote Playing Possum and Radio Joan interviewed Ferlinghetti a few years ago. On his 100th birthday we held a celebration down the local Labour Club. Here’s something I wrote about that: https://whitstableviews.com/2019/03/14/happy-birthday-ferlinghetti/

Note: You can find more writing by C.J. Stone at Splice Today

 

 

 

MALCOLM PAUL

 
 
Thanks to Simon Warner
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Coffee House Tales – Imagine Meeting You There, War and Peace

Once more, Coffee House,
I spill your dark on my papers.
It runs, obliterates a phone number 
and settles in a rounded end
as if its purpose is done.

She asked me why I 
try analogue, to be a ‘lone reed’.
I knew the movie she watched,
said that I drunk too many
art films unreleased.

I shall not call her,
and in the following decade 
meet her without recognising 
her original features.
She will hold a book I’ll desire to finish
and shall never do so because I 
have too many wars within and little peace.

 

 

Words and Picture Kushal Poddar

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Poem

 

brianna ghey forms
slips into knots in my mind
whispers from imperfect impulses
the darkest of dark deeds
dragging along the retina
those old joys
never since flexed or spoken
caged reminiscences
a sensation of hot running water
from the cross that bore virgin birth
from the death that bore virgin death
& the witnesses fade into other days
the overtness of this damnation.
 

 

Clive Gresswell

 

 

 

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The Canaries of Rafah

‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings’
Maya Angelou

 

1.
Just moments ago, a little boy,
tenderly returned his canary to its cage
after petting its bright yellow feathers.
Does the bird wonder why, the huge
noise, why the surrounding darkness?
Does it realize it has only a few more minute
to live as no one will lift it, the little boy,
or his family from the smothering
rubble of their home?

2.
A thin girl holds her father’s hand
as they pick their way along the ruined
road to their tent of sheets flapping in the breeze.
The father hopes the tiny wood fire will warm them,
that the bright presence of the canary
they’ve just purchased in the market,
its small song, will transport them
into the remembered space of home.

Please listen.

 

 

Sandra Larson

This poem was inspired by a story entitled “How the songbirds of Rafah help Palestinians cope with the terror of war” which appeared in the Al Jazeera on-line news journal on February 17, 2024.

 

 

 

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Decree


 
No one sane and sober can ever be against
the experience of eustress. The high table
offers a spectrum. For an even-handed play,
alertness to a wide-ranging exposure helps.
 
Criss-crossing a complex terrain is taxing.
I wish it not on anyone I’m soft on, though
with as sympathetic a heart as mine, I could
not unchain from its coercion.
 
Emotions exit without explanations. There 
are no memos, no roster of reasons.

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi

 

***Over***

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. He has been published in over thirty-five countries. He is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. He was recently conferred the 2023 Setu Award for Excellence. He lives in Mumbai, India. 

X/ Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems 

 

 

 

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Hold the Front Page

 

The newsroom reprints misprints concerning those who live in states of satisfaction or, possibly, suspension. Superstition, maybe? Whatever: things keep collapsing, people keep getting hurt, and somewhere in the rusty chain that links rupture and reportage, someone slips. There, in the distance, a man with mice is popping foxes, as a woman with hyacinth hair takes out the trash, or takes out small villages with unpronounceable names without even breaking a sweat. Commandos take commendable command of the conflict, while civilians cavil at the cut of their sweet and sour jibs. This, you see, is where language, even at its most metaphorically precise, fails. An old man with a sandwich board and a draggled mutt stands in an unexpected downpour, and the space between the rain, the warning, and the dog – this exact space here:          – is where all the truth that can’t be told occurs.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick

 

 

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‘NECRONOMY 3: The Neoliberal Approach to Population.’

 

 

“Since the 1980s, financial activities and assets have played an increasingly dominant role in the global economy. At the same time… global GDP has been growing more slowly. The result has been an ever-larger gap between the volume and value of financial activity relative to the real economy. And that gap has left economies more susceptible to financial instability… and more dependent on fiscal and monetary support from governments. Governments, however, are stretched thin. We are therefore in uncharted territory. The threat of financial crisis at a time when governments are ill-equipped to respond is probably the greatest risk currently facing the global economy.‘Financialization has increased economic fragility.’ (Econographics Dec 2023).

Why is this the greatest risk, against the backdrop of increasing wars, military spending and the threat of nuclear conflict? They are tied into the necroeconomic model of gentrification. A model of exclusivity that uses government or ruling bodies to attack the poor.

Political metamorphosis

The role of government has altered, even if many of its activities remain, none are unaffected. Politicians’ metamorphosis occurs before our very eyes, as soon as one is assigned power and authority over a particular region, or party-agenda. This contortionist conformity eventually being primed for government, they awaken like Gregor in Kafka’s tale; in their mind’s concept of themselves unchanged, but faced with a hideous reality that they have been transformed into something unrecognizable that wasn’t necessarily what they signed up for. What used to be their liberal dedicated milk of human kindness and motivation for the public good – public office – has soured to a measly spattering of contaminated yoghurt and puss. They have to constantly fend off public outcry and determined counter-offensives, with deluded expressions that they are always “doing their best.” But their best efforts have already been appropriated for other causes.

As stated in ‘Necronomy 1’ and ‘Necronomics 2,’ what appeared to be fairly localised developments in Palestine, with western allies provoking retaliations from Lebanon and Iran with arms-length responses from Russia, China and North Korea, is morphing into a global frenetic land-grab to dictate the diminishing returns and resources of the global economy. The arms trades becoming the economic succubus, for new austerity upon austerity measures and further decrease in public amenities and services – to a CRIMINAL degree. Criminality upon un-prosecutable criminality.

With neoliberalism confining the formal employment sector to 12.5%, (25 to 40% of which is the gig-economy), the rent-economy and A.I. making other industries unsustainable; this makes the general public a fiscal burden and even their taxes paying for everything a minimal contribution to fiscal money-laundering; just as with most charitable, NGO and UN contributions.

Previously, I stated that financialization, which removed profit from the process of production, was greater than all material assets. That was the theory financialization could attain to, if it continued as the major generator of wealth. But I was wrong. The corporate wealth of the elite we have seen expressed in Net Worth. We also saw this constitutes a fraction of the gross global economy of equity and debt, but with the dichotomy that this minimal wealth is still the major influence dictating the entire economy. That wealth has not been idle in seeking new forms of wealth.

The above report continues… “Financial innovation flourished—with many new financial instruments, especially derivatives, which facilitated active trading and hedging by market participants… Of particular concern has been the pattern of volatile capital flows to emerging markets and low-income countries, leading to debt build up and subsequent crises—disrupting and retarding their growth.” This from between 4 and 5% in the 1980s to around 3% today. So, decades of increased riches beyond comprehension, for the few, is now being choked by what capitalists blame on the poor. It’s a new colonialism; a new slave trade and the slaves are dispensable and in ever increasing supply. Yet their policies are drastically reducing that supply. This is what the new human-trafficking looks like. It is DOMESTIC and foreign policy. So, what is driving it? Exploding population and diminishing resources? To some degree, but the latest indicators are that this is a disingenuous claim.

It isn’t difficult to enumerate the processes mentioned in the previous articles, to see where economic stability and prosperity lies in the minds of corporate elites and the governments in their pockets. But what is the scale of this and what is the core wealth generator, if armaments, drugs and digital services are costly investments (speculated to accumulate) in securing this brand new world? Is it strategic political and military presence to destabilise and pick off fossil fuel and mineral-rich nations? Or is there a more disturbing bull-elephant in this china shop now?

The brand new world

From the above report: “Panic has been transmitted increasingly quickly through social media and online banking—as demonstrated by the 2023 US regional banking crisis. This has rendered obsolete some financial regulatory safeguards such as banks’ liquidity coverage ratio (requiring them to maintain adequate high quality liquid assets to meet unexpected deposit withdrawal).”
This may have been the trigger, but the bullet started to ricochet into a new wealth. Actually, an old wealth generator. Property. This is what has transcended the wealth generated by financialization, outperforming speculative returns for shareholders and even the arms and drugs trades. Consequently, real-estate is the new largest, fastest growing wealth generator for the future, set to construct new Dubais, new Mumbais, new Singapores. This makes sense of the UK royal family selling dredging rights on all former colonial off-shore territories to the largest US building firms, as sea sand is the best for building. (See ‘The Blue Commons: rescuing the economy of the sea,’ Prof Guy Standing, 2022). So, who else is seeking off-shore resources? And where does land development demand the highest premiums? The necroeconomic land-grabs we are currently witnessing in poor countries, is a grab for the most prosperous LAND. This ties in precisely with analyses on where future carnal conflicts are set to arise. LAND AND SEA – NOT OIL, ARMS or DRUGS – IS THE NEW BLACK.

“Across ten countries that account for about 60 percent of global GDP—Australia, Canada, China, France, Germany, Japan, Mexico, Sweden, the United Kingdom, and the United States – the historic link between the growth of net worth and the growth of GDP no longer holds. While economic growth has been tepid over the past two decades in advanced economies, balance sheets and net worth… have tripled in size. This divergence emerged as asset prices rose—but not as a result of 21st-century trends like the growing digitization of the economy… in an economy increasingly propelled by intangible assets like software and other intellectual property, a glut of savings has struggled to find investments offering sufficient economic returns and lasting value to investors. These savings have found their way instead into real estate, which in 2020 accounted for two-thirds of net worth.” (‘The Rise and Rise of the Global Balance Sheet: How productively are we using our wealth?’ McKinsey & Company: 15 Nov 2021). This is balanced against liabilities, which has exponentially increased the valuation of property and the rental markets.

 

This bodes badly for the poor and those on moderate incomes. This is why local councils, national governments, despotic rulers and drug overlords have been employed on the front line of this rabid expansion of the gentrification-war. But to build the new empire requires not only the land but sand.

Focusing on the poorer countries, conflicts and economic instability; let’s have a shifty at those lands, beginning with the country the term ‘Necroeconomics’ emerged into modern literature from. RECENT & CURRENT CONFLICTS: Georgia; Ukraine; watch out Romania; Bulgaria already in economic crisis; Iran; Turkmenistan; (Black Sea, Caspian Sea).

Syria; Palestine; Lebanon; Libya; Algiers (see ‘Algeria’s Economy: The Vicious Circle of Oil and Violence’ International Crisis Group 26 Oct 2001). “When millions of Algerians from across the country demonstrated in early 2019 in opposition to a fifth term for then president Abdelaziz Bouteflika, the tenuous premises of Algeria’s social contract seemed to unravel. It was as if an earthquake had shaken the country.” (Mediterranean). (‘In Algeria, the more things change the more they stay the same.’ Arab Centre Washington DC; 3 Oct 2023).

Sudan; Eritrea; Ethiopia; Djibouti; Somalia; Yemen; Pakistan; Iran; Kuwait; (Red Sea, Gulf of Aden, Gulf of Oman, Arabian Sea, Persian Gulf).
(‘In Algeria, the more things change the more they stay the same.’ Arab Centre Washington DC; 3 Oct 2023).

DEVELOPING & FUTURE CONFLICTS: You know the trick now, just follow the coastlines. But significant conflicts have already been projected for – Taiwan; Borneo; Cambodia (trying to reach UMIC – upper middle-income status); Vietnam (in economic slow-down); North Korea; (Gulf of Thailand, Sth China Sea). Papua New Guinea; Solomon Islands; (Bismarck Sea, Solomon Sea, Coral Sea, Pacific Ocean).

Mexico; Panama; Guatemala ; Belize; El Salvador; Honduras; Cuba; Nicaragua; Haiti; Dominican Republic; Ecuador; Colombia; Venezuela; Guyana; Surinam; (Pacific Ocean, Gulf of Mexico, Caribbean Sea, Atlantic Ocean).

I’ll leave the rest of South America and the African continent to your imagination. Many of these countries are suffering economically due to climate catastrophes, famine, drought and political corruption, but it makes them fertile ground for the multi-national colonial economic cold-war that is super-heating the planet more rapidly, towards the drop-off point and extinction of all life.

A world away?

As described in Necronomics 2 – people are under the misapprehension we are dependent upon money and the controllers of it. The move of governments in actively ignoring International criminal law, regarding arms, warfare and war crimes; their systemic destruction of public amenities and services, to indulge privatisation and corporate monopolies; the fight to remove human rights and leave international law bodies, to replace with sovereign state; manipulating voting with photo-identification, so that governments get in power on the smallest majorities, if they do not utilise A.I. simulations; disenchantment of the electorate and betrayal of law and immigration strategies ARE UNDERWAY AND WELL DEVELOPED. These moves show that as stated earlier GOVERNMENT IS THE ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE WHO VOTE FOR IT AND SUSTAIN IT WITH TAXATION. This is not the future everyday people want or need.

Whilst we still have rights in democratic lands, WE MUST COME TOGETHER WITH ALL NATIONS to examine the only solution that can turn back or remove this necronomic myopic wilful destruction for profit. That is by forming the Parallel Non-Monetary Economy which offers INDISCRIMINATE SELF-GENERATED PROSPERITY and rewarded collective direct-action to the general public, as well as greener incentives for the elite and corporate enterprises. It changes law. Do the maths: global population 8 billion. If using the equivalent of less money than banks currently use for domestic accounts, (a fraction of the world’s population), the worst-case scenario – not taking into account formal employment – represents an equivalent $8,788 Trillion in collective economic IMMEDIATE PUBLIC power. Now wouldn’t the elite want a slice of that? They can. Only on the terms of the public citizen’s Parallel Non-Monetary Economy. We can turn around this entire way of existing in harmony with each other and the planet WITHIN 2 TO 3 YEARS.

THERE IS NO TIME LEFT. PNME study groups need to mobilise in every nation in the world. Please check out the following and articles 1 and 2.

‘Necronomy 1: The Neoliberal Approach to Death.’ https://internationaltimes.it/necronomy-1-the-neoliberal-approach-to-death/

‘Necronomics 2: The “Neoliberal” Approach to Life.’ https://internationaltimes.it/necronomics-2-the-neoliberal-approach-to-life/

And the eight-module interactive video workshop:

‘The Parallel Non-Monetary (Eco)nomic Revolution of the 100%’ 

Intro; 1-8 modules; and ‘What is the PNME?’

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e24VTG4NGQA&list=PLNo7acWESakwjYqGG5iPNOiATvs8m0I9L

More detailed analysis is in the book: ‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy’ (Kendal Eaton, Sounding Off UK Publications, 2020).

FREE DOWNLOAD VERSIONS / discussions / articles / video presentations / illustrated supplements: ‘Turning Costs to Income: the Parallel Non-Monetary Accounting System’ & ‘The Parallel Economy: Past, Present & Future’ / hardcopy links: achanceforeveryone.com 

Facebook group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/641184856394195

To collaborate or book an interactive workshop for a group, please email: [email protected]

 

 

Kendal Eaton

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Talk About Second-Hand Books

– I’m taking some books to the Oxfam. My shelves are overflowing and I can’t see the trees for the wood.
– Are you getting rid of anything decent?
– Nope. I’ve got a load of stuff old Mrs. Crabbe left me when she fell out of that tree four years ago, and I only kept them out of respect. There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted to read, and it’s time now to give them the heave-ho. I’ve run out of room.
– I never really had old Mrs. Crabbe down as much of a reader, to be honest. I always pegged her as more of a nosey-parker and curtain twitcher. And what on earth she was doing up that tree at her age I don’t know. Spying on the neighbours?
– That was the police theory.
– So what kind of stuff are you getting rid of?
– It’s mainly late 20th century, and you know I prefer the earlier chaps and chappesses, back from when people knew how to put a decent sentence together.
– Ah, the good old days! You can’t beat a good Jane Brontë.
– Indeed. I must say Ma Crabby had very contemporary tastes for an octogenarian, although I have a feeling she also had one eye on the colour scheme of her shelves.
– Never underestimate the value of colour coordination when it comes to organising your bookshelves. Are you getting rid of anything “racy” at all? Just wondering . . .
– I’m keeping those.

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

 

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Honour and Death

The photograph states, “It was
an honour to die for you.” 
Honour dies one or more gens later.

We sell the bricks, sell the mortar.
The new house, half-pint, 
devides us into apartments,
and in each cell we multiply.

Who did keep the medal, photo frame,
the rolled certificate and those clothes?
They stay and decay somewhere, rust 
but not enough to be obliterated.

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture
 Nick Victor

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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‘Entry of the Gladiators’

 

 

Nero and the Gladiators beat group   –
Autographs acquired but long since lost 
I recall their transit-van emblazoned
By their ludic in transition to brief fame
Their rakish name sold 45s and tickets    
Though quiet and kind they signed my homework book

Now the Majestic Ballroom is one more grey brick block
Of identical matchstick flatlets for the fortunate
Professionals persevering in Mc-Jobs
Perhaps they dance to i-pods twice a year

Before the sixties swung we jived each week
As vipers with our dove-like hearts intact
Preferring hits found off the beaten track
A mixed-up shook-up milkshake jukebox
By which we grew articulate in caffeine free-form speech

Costume armour cast-offs from Quo Vadis
Dressed their over-driven amps to bloom
Bric-a-brac acquired on tour in Rome
Before The Silver Beetles ever shone
Not all bands conformed The Shadows line

Two straws to a Bardot bottle
Of curvaceous original Coke
Cookie lend me your comb  
I may have one hair left
And I shall slick it back
Remembering Link Wray’s noir pompadour

 

 

Bernard Saint  
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

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Deeply Tender.  Helaine Blumenfeld

The purity of marble forms shapes that lean together whilst reaching upward. Thoroughly abstract, yet with hints of human figures in movement and in groups, Helaine Blumenfeld’s sculptures are deeply tender yet speak into the tensions of our often-divided lives and world.

The Together exhibition features Blumenfeld’s newest works which were conceived against the backdrop of our turbulent world. Whether tapering to wings, arms or heads, the fragility of her finely carved works explores the essence of vulnerability while their manifold responses to the changing light of day reveal the light of hope. The exhibition features 30 sculptures in marble, bronze and wood, presented in two adjacent venues, the gallery spaces at Gallery Eight and an open-air exhibition in the historic gardens of St James’s Square.

Across her 40-year career, Blumenfeld has often been inspired by exploring themes of interdependence and balance. This exhibition is no different but as well as exploring such themes in personal relationships, she is also speaking into the crisis and possibilities of our challenging times.

She says, “In my lifetime I have experienced extraordinary shifts on a personal and a societal level from fear, despair and isolation to dreams, hope and community. I believe we are going through a transformative period now. I feel this profoundly. My sculptures reflect this transition. We must find personal and tangible ways to pursue, grasp and make manifest our dream for a truly connected future together.”

Her most recent pieces such as ‘Beyond the Precipice: Together’ (2024) and ‘Together: Empathy’ (2022) refine and extend the ideas in ‘Exodus III’ (2020) and ‘Intimacy and Isolation: Empathy’ (2020). They seek to express, in visual form, Blumenfeld’s conviction that “in order to move from fear to hope we must embrace our dreams, search our inner light and recognize the pain and the beauty of one another.” She thinks that: “To move forward we must begin by recognising that to succeed we will need each other. Art can increase our sense of hope and togetherness. It wakes us up, unsettles us, evokes our emotions and extends our vision.”

As well as working with the pristine medium of marble, the exhibition also includes a range of work in other media including an exciting ‘Angel passing the torch’ in bronze and an imposing ‘Aurora’ carved in wood. While full of energy despite her age and a recent bereavement, her works and exhibitions are zeroing in on her core themes and messages while responses to developments within the wider world keep her work focused and fresh.

Blumenfeld has created more than 90 large-scale sculptures for private and public clients. Her public sculptures sympathetically connect a physical and conceptual space, creating centres of meaning within each community. Her most recent public commission, 2023’s ‘Hommage’ celebrates the 50th anniversary of education for women at Clare College, Cambridge. An expression of the continuing struggle for women’s rights, in ‘Hommage’ separate strands join together and rise through dissonance to a unified presentation of hope, aspiration and the possibility of continuous advancement. The maquette is included here, while nine imposing larger works form an open-air exhibit in nearby St James’s Square gardens.

Short of a retrospective, these two exhibitions provide the best opportunity to see a range of Blumenfeld’s work and be inspired by her vision for our world and our relationships.

 

 

Jonathan Evens

Helaine Blumenfeld OBE: Together, Gallery Eight, 8 Duke Street St James’s, London SW1Y 6BN. 16th April – 3rd May 2024.

Open Air exhibit, 16th April – 26th July 2024 (participating in London Art Week 2024). St James’s Square is open to the public 7.30am-4.30pm Mon-Fri.

Photo: Installation View, Helaine Blumenfeld OBE: Together, Gallery Eight.

 

 

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Colonial Mud

Kenya
1.
The mountains are covered in wet, green leaves. The Colonial Set owns it all, the wetness and the green and the refreshing black tea; they brew it for people like me, who write about their absurdities in the society pages. When the new Commissioner came to Nairobi on a black swan’s back, and tried to teach the Masai cricket, when everyone knows they prefer baseball, I was at a villa in the White Highlands drinking gin with Irving Berlin. There are shimmering plantations in the White Highlands waiting for the snows, but Kilimanjaro’s having none of it. No fucking white Christmas for those guys! Still, the black swan added an air of insouciance when it dropped by on its return to St James’s Park; and the Masai are booked on an Air Kenya flight to play the Boston Red Sox in the World Series. They’ve made the Indian Ocean disappear without telling anyone.

2.

The railway runs through Tanganyika, spirals around Kilimanjaro, and heads out east; but I missed the train and feel like a butterfly on a sizzling hot plate. No doubt the Colonial Set are on board with their pink champagne and tennis racquets, sniffing freshly peeled bananas between stations. I slip a note to the king of the Mau Maus – “Place is empty. Great time for an uprising!” – but he wants it filmed and set to music. He’s good friends with David Lean and wrote a glowing review of Doctor Zhivago for The Times; David ran off with Julie Christie, however, and is no longer working. We take the time to train a clutch of Kenyan long distance runners for the Commonwealth Games when they’re inevitably rebranded. Empires, and Colonialists, will have to collapse before then though.

3.

Most of the Colonial Set are washed up. They lounge, more than anything else, generally in white linen suits and loafers, drinking pink gin and assorted cocktails, waiting for the documentary of their lives to be filmed by indigenous anthropologists. Occasionally, there’s a performance, a self-mocking vaudeville, like a mimicry of fruit in the tropics, where all the colonialists dress in feather boas and tiaras. Wet, lush, green, dry, and deathly are the characters on the mountains and savannah; but here, there’s only gin.

4.

Several lions have infiltrated the Set, posing as crypto-journalists from the 21st century. The White Highlands are awash with lions. We’ve pulled the Indian Ocean over us, temporarily thwarting the Masai’s great plan to leave the world behind. The king of the Mau Maus coaxes David Lean on to the open savannah and there’s a conference to discuss ivory reparations for the elephants. If only it was as easy as hanging the Commissioner’s hide from the slopes of Kilimanjaro; but the black swan wouldn’t stand for it.

5.

Suddenly we’re 15,000 years in the future, on a bright galactic night, in a market full of pearl-clad natives and sophisticated lions walking upright. Geometric lights spin in the air and there’s the aroma of Venusian hashish pouring from Bedouin palaces. The moral standards have rocketed skywards, over the mountains, whose peaks hold the ocean and the stars and the collective nervous breakdown of the Colonial Set. The Times reported it all, I’m happy to say, even publishing photographs of the Kenyan long distance runners on their astral marathon around the luminous fringes of Saturn.

Australia 

1.

Our ship has run aground in the Outback. Captain Cook is consulting the charts but you can tell he’s embarrassed, and ever-so-slightly flustered. Now he’s projecting his humiliation on to the crew, blaming them for turning right at Botany Bay, instead of just dropping anchor. We’re surrounded by miles of shimmering red sand; the sun is blazing and burning up our sea salt skin. As a naturalist, I’m pretty excited; I get to write about lizards and snakes and God knows what else, instead of boring old plant life and exotic birds; but the ship is creaking, rocking in the hot, dry wind, and the sails have been torn apart by dust clouds. The silence is immeasurable. It’s like a presence; a big, hot joke.

2.

Suddenly the ship is rising, floating on air, burning like a beacon on calm seas. We’re moving again, and the crew are busy acting like nothing’s wrong. It’s a desert, a sea, a ship in a storm; just keep sailing! Just keep ploughing the waves, rolling over stones and rocks and dried out tree stumps that look like crucifixions. Just keep sailing over burning sands. There are dark skinned natives surrounding us, holding spears and wearing feathers, blowing into long patterned tubes. They’re laughing and pointing at us, lounging around in the sand. We feel like fools but are lulled by the deep, gurgling waters of the colourful instrument. Lulled into a dream, into origins. Lulled by creation and spirits, ancestors and nebulous tales. The ship quickly vanishes.

3.

Now we’re barefoot and transparent; I take a swig of rum but Captain Cook has obviously been spiked and is on his fifth acid trip of the expedition. He think he’s Jim Morrison, but we’re in the wrong desert. My only reference point is Nicolas Roeg’s 1971 masterpiece, Walkabout, starring Jenny Agutter. Even that has its limitations, though, having been filmed on a beach in the South of France. Jenny appears and offers me some nuts and berries. My mouth is covered in a thick, red pulp, and juice is dripping from my tongue. There are lizard close-ups in my cinematic vision, and a talking snake is crawling up my back like a boom mic. It takes me to the caves, where the ancestors are snoring.

4.

I want to change the movie. I hold a consultation with the ancestors, but they can only offer me a bit part in an ET movie. Jenny says she needs to be on the set of Call the Midwife, and promply disappears. I’m in a boardroom. Time and space are multi-dimensional set designs. The producers are extraterrestrials, and the Outback is a mote in their eye. Frankly, I’m on the verge of a panic attack (which may or may not be the catalyst for my ascension), but I’d rather be eating candy floss on Blackpool beach during peak season. I want to speak to the director, but apparently, that’s God, and he’s busy dishing out bad trips to Captain Cook. One of the producers hands me a didgeridoo.

5.

I’m breathing in cycles of eight and blowing storm clouds from the instrument. An immense geo-climatic shift happens as a snake over Uluru. It unfurls and wraps itself around the rock seven times, hissing and rattling and writhing like an emotional pump. Uluru bursts and it rains rainbow drops of sweet, hard candy. I stick out my tongue, gather the rain; hot, then cold drops, then sweet and sticky sugar, tangy like Orange Fanta. My tongue slithers out and tastes the air; it flicks and licks my eyes. I blink and wake up on a farm in West Yorkshire, cast as one of the Railway Children, holding a purple frisbee, which I promptly toss into a field of white cattle. The frisbee lands in a cow-pat, and transforms the fields into the glistening Southern Ocean. Meanwhile, Jenny Agutter has been nominated for a well deserved Oscar, and Captain Cook is a fat burnout haunting Parisian cemeteries, trying to get his poetry published.

India (Revisited) 

1.

Our monastery was destroyed by the Chinese. By the time they arrived, I’d been living out of body for several years, floating about the cloisters, nipping lazy novices, generally getting enlightened that way. I used to terrify the monks, writing sutras on the walls with yak butter and getting statues to sing K-pop melodies through the night. That all changed with the invasion. A Vajrayana ghost has to be a little more circumspect.

2.

Honestly, it took me a micro-second to cross the Himalayas. It was like stepping out of your front door and dissolving in a pale blue wintery light, then re-emerging at Dharamsala where the gang was holed up after an arduous four months trek over the snowy, windswept peaks. Different temporal realities. I left a big ghost shit in the monastery for its new occupants. Ignorant colonialists! I hope they get buried by a mudslide. 

3.

I realise my compassion has been eroded somewhat by all this, and I’ve been downgraded in the astral hierarchy of enlightened beings by Chögyam Trungpa himself. My buddha nature has gone AWOL and they want me to reincarnate as a yak. Ok, I will, but not before I have a little fun. I want to turn the Dalai Lama into an international K-pop star. I have three weeks to do it, or half a

mantra in astral time.

4.

That was easy. I didn’t even need three weeks. His Holiness was very willing. If you turn on your TV set you’ll see him. He’s every K-pop idol’s dream, and the girls are going mad for him, throwing their panties around in Korean grocery stores, screaming mantras in shopping malls, generally getting enlightened that way. I actually didn’t foresee this, however, and I’m finding all the hysteria quite distasteful. I’ve decided to return to Tibet to haunt the Chinese, although I’ll miss India. Maybe I’ll set off a few landslides, drown the colonialists in mud, move right back up the enlightenment ladder that way. I also can’t get those damned K-pop melodies out of my head. Vajrayana ear worms are the worst!

 

 

 

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Stephen Nelson

Asemic writing on Instagram @afterlights70
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

 

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Selling Weapons to Murderers in an Upside Down Demonic World

While the world’s most despotic criminals move freely around in their ivory towers, petty criminals and the righteous are firmly incarcerated behind bars. This is the way ‘the law’ functions in a world where injustice has taken the role of justice.

Deals made between those who occupy the highest seats of power, are increasingly made without any recourse to public interest, democratic procedures, international protocols or the law of the land in which they are enacted.

While down at the street level, public relations exercises make it look like some ‘national interest’ is being defended. Some inviolable truth being upheld that must not be challenged.

So it is that Britain, the USA and their closest allies ‘condemn’ – in a carefully coded public relations exercise – Israel’s ruthless murder of tens of thousands of Palestinians in Gaza, but continue to supply these murderers with the latest weapons of modern warfare.

Then, when Netanyahu ordered the destruction of the Iranian consulate in Damascus, killing 11 people, including at least two senior commanders in the al-Quds force of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, a warning was quickly received from the Iran leadership that it would revenge these deaths.

At this point, Western leaders who had condemned the Israeli army’s wanton killings in Gaza, jumped to their feet and brazenly announced an ‘iron clad’ guarantee that ‘they would not hesitate to defend Israel against her enemies’.

And so they did – when Iran held true – and in a carefully calculated response that used relatively slow moving projectiles and (we understand) a prewarning issued well in advance of its intent – launched a fleet of drones and rockets to disrupt Israel’s main military airfield.

The UK government, disrespecting – as has become the norm – international law and military engagement protocols, ordered its fighter planes into action over Israeli territory to down incoming Iranian warheads, at the expense of unconsulted British tax payers. The US involved itself in the same way.

Such (ongoing) predatory bravura is being displayed in the cause of defending the indefensible.

Iran is a country that has resisted buckling under pressure to become yet another permanent US military outpost. So it remains Middle Eastern public enemy No 1 by Western war monger definition.

After all, how could an Arab country still be allowed to operate according to its own cultural practices and traditions and not kneel before the might of big brother to conform to Western mores and energy demands?

So if a long awaited excuse arises to blow Iran out of the water, that will mean the completion of a clean sweep of US (and allies) hegemonic ambitions in the Middle East and an excellent chance to get their blood soaked hands on plenty more valuable minerals assets. At least that was the Neocon view before Iran started to build up a nuclear capability.

But don’t think too much about how Russia, China and other allies of Iran might react to such an outcome.

“ No” says Lord Cameron, Foreign Secretary of the British government “We must continue to sell arms to Israel. We must hold firm”.

This, in spite of a global outcry against such an action by large numbers of sentient human beings still retaining real values, including the rapidly waning ability to think.

“Oh Gosh” says UK Finance Minister, Jeremy Hunt “arms sales to Israel bring in billions, we can’t just cut them out, can we. The national economy can’t afford to go any further into debt.”

“But what about the coming general election?” says the Conservative hierarchy. “What if the electorate sides with the Palestinians and rejects our line?”

The Finance Minister doesn’t have to think long “In that case we’ll go with the electorate and ban the arms’ sales. That might improve our chances in the Autumn. We’ll make up the financial loss by raising taxes on food and fuel.

We must keep to our Great Reset and Green New Deal commitment to starve out the farmers, hit industry workers and rid the world of fossil fuels, right?”

The moral of this story is not hard to fathom: There is only one god – the god of power and control. The god of ‘full spectrum dominance’.

Moreover the deception game moves this way and that so as to make it seem like there’s some attempt being made to ‘uphold justice’ and strum the chords of democracy.

So, the architects of control say to themselves, ‘don’t let any humanitarian instincts into the picture. No, this means the beginning of the end of the world as we know it. After all, our centralised satanic control system is the new normal, it’s in our interest that most don’t want to be disturbed by changes to the status quo.’

Some readers may be wondering: what’s around the corner if these devils we know are replaced by devils we don’t know?

Well, actually, the current devils are stirring the same evil pot as their predecessors, so the next ones will no doubt continue the job: get any remaining resisters fully brain fugged, AI’d, microwaved and dispossessed of their assets. Get Nation States out of the way. Create a supranational centralised New World Order that makes any expression of love a criminal offence. Clear out the arts, spirituality and around 90% of the human population.

Have you seen the same writing on the wall?

Maybe you have, as its increasingly hard not to. But the tendency remains to scrub it off the bricks – like Banksy’s startling truths – rather than face reality.

Defending the indefensible drags one down into the same snake pit as that occupied by genocidal murderers. It’s a suicide mission, and there is no light at the end of that particular tunnel.

We know what we ‘the purposeful people’ have to do. It’s repeated it in all my writings.

We should have strongly progressed our commitment to the defence of Life by now.

We should be planning, every day, the actions we need to take to wrest back control of our destinies and join together with other non-zomby purposeful people to this same end.

The bottom-up revolution that will oust the demons-in-human form that are so assiduously vampiring our freedoms, unique powers of thought and even our very souls, is as close at hand as we collectively make it.

Supreme Source gave us all the power we need to Act. By not using this power we let it wither on the vine. This is a crime. A crime that makes one complicit in inviting internal and external colonisation by demons.

We are fighting for the future of what we proclaim to be ‘love of life’. There can be no compromise in our determination to come through as victors in what has become a very literal clash between the forces of life and those of death.

But remember, ‘the darkest hour is just before dawn’.

We each have a key role to play in inspiring tomorrow’s dawn to break over the horizon as a blazing herald of our energetic determination to rid this beautiful planet of power obsessed political parasites.

Those whose blood stained hands hold the profits of war to be more valuable than defence of the immeasurable gift of life. That gift which is the irreplaceable cardinal right of all peoples. Of all humanity.

 

Julian Rose

 

Nota bene: the political dialogue portrayed in this article are the author’s words, not quotations of those cited.

 

Julian Rose is an organic farmer, writer, broadcaster and international activist. He is author of four books of which the latest ‘Overcoming the Robotic Mind’ is a clarion call to resist the despotic New World Order takeover of our lives. Do visit his website for further information www.julianrose.info

 

 

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When the Desert is a Mountain


 
The sky is alive.
Mouse bones and fur by the path
mark where the owl came down
last night. Today
 
is a saguaro fallen
after rain dug out its roots. A harrier
spreads its slow wings wide
as it clears the stony ground and flies
into a mesquite. Hides there.
Breathes
 
in rhythm with the mountain’s pulse.
Watches. A shadow
falls from a dark hearted cloud,
slides down the mountain’s
 
southern slope
to an arroyo that just swallows it, one
thorny gulp
and gone! The many shades of rock
disguised as light
 
make the dip and sway
from ridgeline to the foothills
into a clock
 
by which the time of day is visible
to every wren and hawk
that ever nested in the sun.
There goes desert climbing
 
to the clouds. In spring it’s patience
in bloom. Winding trails,
coyote tracks,
 
summer’s edges burnt.
The silhouetted hummingbird a detail
still in focus when
cowboy light begins and dusk

becomes a smoky whisper in the west.  

David Chorlton
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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FERRIS AND SYLVESTER: THE ‘OTHERNESS’ INTERVIEW

‘Ferris & Sylvester’s Day Off’ is not a teen comedy. ‘We like playing with light and shade’ says Issy.

Husband-&-wife team Issy (Isabel Grace) Ferris – from the Midlands, and (Angus) Archie Sylvester – from south-west England, achieved great things with their debut album Superhuman (March 2022). In live zones they shared stages with Robert Plant, George Ezra and Jade Bird, at venues such as Glastonbury, SXSW and BST Hyde Park festivals. Now they raise their game with second album Otherness (March 2024), making hay with genre convention by deftly mix-matching Blues, Folk, psychedelia, Americana and Indie, ignited by lyrics that explore outsider alienation and social disconnection. It’s time to wake up and smell pheromones breathing fire. Everything is everything you expect – only more so. This album forms the perfect opportunity to hop onto the Sylvester & Ferris wheel.

They both sip from big white mugs of tea. She is more animated, her fingers acting out the things she’s explaining. She has a voice carved by angels. He has a more south-west accent, and strokes his stubble pensively.

Andrew: Congratulations on a fine second album.

Issy Ferris: Thank you very much.

Archie Sylvester: Thank you so much. How’s it going?

Andrew: We’ll start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. I like a good love story. How did you two meet, and – in the words of ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’ which you cover, do you believe in a love at first sight?

Issy (laughing): Love at first sight? Depends on which of us you ask.

Archie to Issy: How would you answer that question? By just saying ‘no’.

Issy: Ok. So, here’s how we met. We met at one of my shows in London. And Archie was in the audience.

Andrew: You were already performing as a solo artist?

Issy: Yes. Both of us were, so when Archie came along to my show, I already knew who he was. I had his CD (2014 own label, ‘Surreptitious’. While Issy has one track – ‘Maggie’, on the June 2012 Virgin ‘Live At Cornbury Festival 2012’ CD). But obviously when we met, I played it really cool, and pretended that I didn’t know who on earth he was! So yes, we met after my show, and we got to talking, and that was kind of it, really, we sort of accidentally bumped into each other on the gigging circuit for a few weeks, and quickly realised that we liked each other’s music – fundamentally, that was where it all began, we just decided from there… I was doing more-or-less Folk music, but I was really interested in lyrics and that aspect of songwriting, and Archie was – well, Archie had a Blues trio which was really cool, but he was also digging deep into lyrics at the time, so we had that as a common… goal. Erm… (They made their duo debut at a Camden Vegan Café, and the next at their ‘second home’ – the ‘Spiritual Bar’ on Ferdinand Street, which is where they’d met, only months before.)

Archie: What Issy hasn’t told you (she looks at him with an amused expression), is that… so yeah, we were both solo performing acts at that time, but I went to Issy’s gig because I was dragged along by a friend who fancied Issy, who wanted me to be his wingman – that is why I was at the gig. I didn’t want to go. He phoned me and said ‘do you want to go to a gig?’ and I said ‘no, I don’t, I can’t, I’m knackered – I’ve got work in the morning, I was gigging last night, I’ve got a gig tomorrow night. I’ll stay in tonight.’ It was like a Wednesday night and I had work in the morning, and I was saying ‘no, no – look, I don’t want to go.’ He said ‘come on, man, I need you to come, I need you to be my wingman.’ So – yes, I did a really good job of that…

Issy (indicates with her thumb): Worst wingman ever!

Andrew (acting as agent provocateur): Married couples don’t really have a good track record in Pop-Rock. Married duos like Ike & Tina Turner, Abba, Fleetwood Mac, they all ended in tears.

Issy (laughs): We’ll let you know.

Archie: It’ll be fun while it lasts though, won’t it?

Andrew: Maybe Everything But The Girl?

Archie: Yes, yes, it does exist. I mean, we’re going strong so far. We started out writing together, we had a songwriting relationship before we were involved romantically. And it stemmed from there, and… we can’t sit and pretend that it’s all roses, of course there are difficult moments. But we have one rule which is that when the day’s over, when we’ve actually finished, and we’re going to sleep – even if we’ve had a difficult day, we have to put it all to bed, both literally and metaphorically.

Issy (nodding): Right. We’re always friends at the end of the day.

Archie: We gotta be mates.

Andrew: Do you argue over your music? The lyrics don’t always reflect domestic harmony.

Issy: Yeh, yeah, for sure. People generally see arguing as a really bad thing, for obvious reasons, but f’rinstance, when we’re writing a song, we’re exploring all avenues as to where the song could go, and we’ve got two brains, and we’ve both got incredible passion for the song, and so – when we’re arguing (her fingers mime ‘in quotes’) in inverted commas over a song, it always ends up giving the song the best chance, because we’re both giving it everything we’ve got. I mean, I would say that our professional arguing is always for the right reasons, which is the fact that we both love what we do. So… yes, I’d say so…

Archie: It means the best idea will win, and it really does have to be the best idea, because neither of us will want to admit that we’re wrong (she laughs engagingly when he says this) – so it’s gotta be a good idea for it to go in. Sometimes we go – ‘Oh! What about this?’ – and we both go ‘Yes!’ That’s great. When that happens it’s really nice.

Issy: We both high five.

Archie: But normally it doesn’t. So that when the idea and the song come together, it means that it’s gone through that process where both of us have had to go ‘yes, this is it!’

Andrew: What are your roles within the duo, or do they overlap?

Issy: We both overlap with everything, really. I’m sure a lot of artists would agree, there’s not really any formula to the writing, other than sort-of sitting down and being open-minded and open-hearted. That’s the rule, and then you see where it takes you. We write the song together (she interweaves her fingers together to illustrate the creative process), and then Archie produces the records, it’s very much we take the song and Archie digs down deep into it (she mimes digging with her fingers), with his ‘production head’ on – he switches from writer to producer, which I’m involved in, but I’m involved, I would say, as an artist whereas Archie is a producer. But the actual writing process, we both do both, but f’rinstance, if I come up with an idea it’s probably not, or very rarely will it be, a guitar riff, because Archie is a much better guitarist than I am. If I come up with an idea, I’ll be singing the line, or playing the (air-)drums – do-do-dum-do-do-dum, rather than actually playing the instrument. But I think that because we are so – obviously we’re very close, we’ve been together a long time, there’s also not a lot of shame around it, so if you come with an idea, but you don’t know how to execute it, or you don’t know how to play it, you know you can just explain it, or you can literally sing it in the most silly way – if you need to, to get the idea across, but there isn’t – like, embarrassment. Which is cool.

Andrew: Your song ‘Mother’ is about domestic abuse.

Issy: Yes, it is. That one was kind-of strange. ’Cos we wrote that song before deciding to have a child ourselves. We now have a little boy who is one year old, but ‘Mother’ predated us becoming parents. We wrote that in the studio with Michael Rendall who is a producer and engineer who worked on this record with us (the album was produced by Archie with Michael Rendall at sessions split between their own Archtop Studios and Peter Gabriel’s renowned Real World Studios) – and it really did come out of nowhere, it was like, maybe it was a story that we felt needed to be told? I quite enjoy it when people talk about how they write, and if it’s not autobiographical, y’know, where does the idea come from? A writer once said that things that aren’t autobiographical might just be your biggest fear. And I think that’s maybe where the song came from. It came very thick and fast. But it’s not – y’know, about us, specifically.

Archie: There is hope on the album.

Issy: There is…

Archie: We didn’t realise it when we were putting the album together, there is some darkness, and there are some difficult topics. I think it’s important not to shy away from that, but hopefully – certainly the intention is, as the listener goes through the album, that you are taken on a journey through those difficult topics, but by the time you finish listening to the album you are left with a feeling of hope rather than gloom and doom, because that was certainly our intention. And it also serves the purpose of setting up the third album which is not yet finished, but which we’re currently working on. It will have more topics coming from the end of the second album, which is the more hopeful part, which will lead into the third album which – I think I can probably predict, it will be slightly breezier!

Andrew: The feeling of being ‘aliens in disguise’, the misunderstood outsider is central to the classic Bedsitter troubadour pose – all the way back to Paul Simon’s ‘I Am A Rock’, except that here, in your song ‘Otherness’, it is the sense of being outsiders that unites you. Or at least, that’s the way I read the song.

Issy: Yes.

Archie: That’s really interesting.

Issy: You’re absolutely correct. ‘Otherness’ is the ‘hidden track’ on the vinyl edition – so that it’s this hidden gem at the end. And that’s where the title of the album came from. We wrote the song, and it’s the first love song that we’ve actually written about each other – after, however many years, and you’re so right, it’s about… that song isn’t necessarily about being an outsider individually, it’s enjoying being outsiders together. But then, the word ‘otherness’ really stuck in our heads, after we wrote that song, and we realised that it actually encompasses a lot of the other stuff that we were writing. ‘Mother’ for instance – the feeling that you’re on the outside looking in at happy families, or we’ve got a track called ‘Don’t Fall In Love With Me’ which is literally asking someone not to love you, so – it was a starting point for the whole album. And it’s – as Archie says, it finishes the album on hope (she lifts the cup of tea with both hands).

Andrew: Tell me about the track ‘Paper Plane’.

Archie: That’s a good song. It’s funny ‘cos you think you’ve forgotten about songs once you’ve written them, you’re just not thinking about them all the time. And then you think back ‘Oh yeah, that’s where we were when we wrote ‘Paper Plane’. We wrote that – it must have been 2020 or 2021, and there’s quite clear references in there to what was going on in America, and in the world. So – yes, I’m glad you picked that one out, thank you.

Andrew: Who is ‘The Performer’ in your song of that name?

Archie: The track ‘The Performer’? Yeah – so, well, again – as Issy was saying, when you’re writing, even though you might not necessarily be writing about yourself, it’s very hard to actually get… you can’t get outside of your own head. So everything you ever write has come from somewhere, has come from some kind of experience that you’ve had. Something that you’ve noticed. ‘The Performer’ is a story that – again, it’s probably based somewhere about Issy and I…

Issy: It’s almost based on how each of us can imagine, if one of us was a musician and the other one wasn’t.

Archie: And we weren’t… Again, it’s like our worst fear. I suppose ‘Mother’ would be a much worse thing to endure, but yes – it’s kinda like the realisation that we are lucky to be doing this thing together, and maybe the song is how it would be if we weren’t together?

Issy: And yes, we’ve witnessed that when we’re touring, it’s hard, it’s long, and you’re away a lot. We’ve seen it happen to other people where – as a musician, you’re away, you’re finding yourself, you’re doing what you want to do, but at the same time, you’ve left somebody else behind, and you’ve left behind a life, and so we’ve watched that happen time and time again. And so – yes, I guess that’s back to writing about your fears.

Archie: And that track is a bit of fun as well, it’s a little bit of hope towards the end of the album, which was intentional. It’s got a groove, it hopefully makes you want to move around a little bit. It’s a slightly lighter topic. And there’s room for that on the album. It’s cool that you picked it out. I really like that track.

Andrew: Are you well-informed on music history and precedents? Would you be any good on ‘Ken Bruce’s PopMaster’?

Archie: Try us! We are obviously familiar with the radio show. When I was growing up I would sometimes play it with my Dad. He would delight in beating me every single time, on questions about the Seventies – which I know nothing about. But from that experience I think probably I do have a reasonable…

Issy: You’d be pretty good. I think I’d be pretty bad. But you’d be a finalist.

Archie: I’d have my Dad to thank for that. He’s a Pop Music enthusiast through the ages. He would delight in telling you the intricacies of Steely Dan, or Abba, or some of the other bands, Bowie, and (he points to Issy) your Dad would be very good!

Issy: I’ll tell you what. Sack us. Get our Dads on, and they’d win.

Andrew: You started out with ‘The Yellow Line’ which was an EP of quite decorous Folky simplicity.

Issy: Yeah, we did. That was months – literally months after we’d first met. And we were both sort-of heavily into the more lyrical aspects of writing. I think it’s really important that that’s where we started, because that’s always been an integral part of our writing. Shortly after ‘The Yellow Line’ we were writing all the time. That first year of meeting we just wrote so many songs. (‘We’ve demo’d up pretty much every song we’ve ever written from day one. It started out on a two-channel Focusrite interface and one microphone in my bedroom, and slowly over time we’ve expanded into a fully functioning studio’ Archie told ‘Atwood Magazine’.) At the same time we were also performing live and we sort-of discovered another side to our sound, through playing live so much, trying to keep an audience hooked on the stories, but also you’ve got to make your story better than whatever they want to talk about with their friends, y’know? So we then discovered – I guess for Archie it was almost a rediscovery, (she turns to Archie) it was almost what you had been doing, but a grittier sound, bringing in the Blues, bringing in the Rock element. And from there – I think we both feel really proud of ‘The Yellow Line’, and I hear a lot of that first EP in all of our writing, but especially writing in our ‘Otherness’ album. I think it was the start of what we would then grow to become.

Archie: It’s kind-of come back a little bit. Yeah, we’re really proud of that EP ‘The Yellow Line’, that was a big moment for us. We took our songs and went and sat in Youth’s (producer Martin Glover) front room. I had known him for a while, and I was trying to do some work with him. I kept turning up at his house in Clapham Junction with new songs saying ‘listen to this song, listen to this song’ and he would go ‘rubbish-rubbish-rubbish.’ It was kind-of constructive criticism, he would say ‘you should work on this, you should work on that – that’s pretty good.’ But it was criticism, nonetheless. But I kept going back to Youth – which he was probably really annoyed about, but he was kind enough to sit and listen, and then eventually Issy and I had met and we started writing some songs, and I thought it was pretty cool, and asked Youth if he wanted to hear it, so we went round to Youth’s house and sat in his front room and played him two of the songs that ended up on that EP. And Youth said ‘this is really cool, I would love to work on this,’ which was a big deal for us – ‘cos, you know, Youth is a big-shot producer, famous for Verve’s ‘Urban Hymns’, he’s worked with U2, Crowded House, he’s worked with Paul McCartney – so, he was a guy that we were gonna listen to. And he invited us out to Spain to his recording studio there, and that’s where we recorded ‘The Yellow Line’. And we learned so much throughout that process, we owe a lot to Youth for that initial trust. Because at that time we didn’t even have a name. We weren’t called Ferris & Sylvester, we were just Archie and Issy who’d written a few songs. And Youth was the first person who went ‘this is cool, you should concentrate on this.’ So we do owe a lot to him. Yes, I feel that we need to resurface that EP somehow, at some point, because it was a big moment for us.

Andrew: Your song ‘Knock You Down’ has childhood schooldays nostalgia about ‘learning about Vikings,’ but ends with ‘don’t let the system knock you down,’ as though schooling is also a process that strips away that childhood innocence.

Issy: When we wrote that song, it was a look at how – when you grow up you learn to behave yourself. And so, when you are at school and you’re young and you’re excited, you’ve got this – maybe a sense of bravery, and there’s nothing sort-of in your way. And then you grow up and you learn to be a grown-up, be an adult and take responsibility, and I think that’s really what the song was about. But it’s great that you’ve had such a deep dive, ‘cos we are incredibly proud of a lot of these songs. ‘Knock You Down’ for instance, that came out right in the middle of Lockdown, and we weren’t sure if anyone was even listening!

Archie: I like that song. To me it’s about not losing your imagination. Just because you’re an adult, you can still have an imagination, you can still dream, you can still dream about…

Issy: …being a Viking!

Archie: Being a Viking. I do, all the time.

Andrew: Yes, keep that spark alive! Your version of ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’ – done in the Joe Cocker rather than the Ringo style, seems an unlikely cover-song for you to choose.

Archie: That came about when we were doing live-streams during the Lockdown period, we did them religiously every single Friday. We would do a few of our own songs and then a cover – every Friday. So we did all sorts of songs.

Issy … we did Led Zeppelin’s ‘Ramble On’. That was on our live-streams. We did them during the first Lockdown, and then we also rebooted the live-stream later on in the year during the second Lockdown. We were in Lockdown for a long time, weren’t we? We tried to keep it light if we could.

Andrew: I haven’t heard you do ‘Ramble On’.

Archie: Yes, that’s right, we did ‘Ramble On’. It’ll be there somewhere on Facebook, it’ll be an hour-long live-stream, you’ll have to scroll through it in order to find it. I have no idea when we did it, but it’s somewhere. We also did ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ which made both of us cry whilst we were playing it – that was terrible, we should not have played that. Then ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’ was a popular one that we decided to do, and obviously Issy and I both knew and loved the Joe Cocker version as well as the Ringo version, so we started in the 6/8 time signature rather than the 4/4 time signature, and went from there.

Issy: It was a really significant song at the time, when people were… something our fans started doing was watching our live-streams along with their families, over Facetime or over Zoom!, or just texting, and so it was like we got messages from people being, like, ‘I’m working as a Nurse’ or ‘I’m booking my Friday off so that I can sit down with my family – remotely, they’re miles away and I’m at my house and we’re gonna watch you guys and we’re going to order a Take-Away and have a chat.’ So that song just felt like a perfectly uplifting song to represent some of the light stuff in a really dark weird time.

Andrew: Your song ‘End Of The World’ is not really about the end of the world, just the end of a love affair.

Issy: Yes… I mean, yes, absolutely. We wanted that song to be open to interpretation, we’ve had lots of people being like ‘I always imagined the apocalypse’… to which I say ‘yes, that’s absolutely what it’s about.’ But it is also a metaphor of just sort-of, that missed opportunity, the feeling of regret when you’re standing there and you feel ‘OK, my chance has gone.’ Which again is representative of around 2020/2021 – this feeling of – for all people but especially – I remember when we were writing the song and I was thinking of a couple of younger friends of mine, who were just starting out at University or just starting out at a first job or something, and then it all came crashing down, and they’re stuck there, and the lives that were ahead of them were suddenly taken away from them. So that heavily influenced the song. But you’re right, it’s a metaphor. It’s a metaphor for missed opportunity.

Andrew: You played dates in Nashville. That’s an amazing city.

Archie: We have had a pretty eventful time in Nashville, actually. Yes, we’ve been twice to Nashville. We went in – was it 2019? The first time we went…

Issy: Yes.

Archie: We went in 2019 to play the ‘Americana Festival’ out there. Which was brilliant. It was a great opportunity for us, we made good connections out there too. But Nashville is incredible. Nashville is a fun place to be, for sure. It’s got music, and guitar music running through its veins. Everybody is a better guitar player than you. You go into the Bar – any Bar down the main street… what’s the main street called?

Issy: Broadway.

Archie: Yeah, any Bar down there, or any Bar in Nashville and you’ll see a guitar player, probably a kid that’d just wipe the floor with anybody back over here. And it just makes you go ‘why do I even bother to play guitar?’ Which is what you want it to be, if you want to improve, that’s the way you want it to be. And then we went back in 2022, so… last year, and this time was slightly different because – yes, Issy was pregnant. This was going to be the last trip we were going to do, and then we were going to come back and have the baby. And… how many weeks pregnant were you?

Issy: Thirty-three… thirty-two and a bit weeks.

Archie: At thirty-three weeks you’re still allowed to fly. We had a Doctor’s ‘Fit to Fly’ certificate, and Issy had had a perfectly healthy pregnancy, so we decided to go. And yes – whilst we were in Nashville, Issy got really sick really quickly and unexpectedly, and had to give birth to our little fellah while we were in Nashville!

Issy:  We were out there for the Festival again. We were out there for the ‘Americana Festival’. And we’d done two out of the three shows – so I had one more show to go. And I got sick on Friday – and the show was the Friday night. And then we were supposed to be flying home on Saturday. And so – throughout my pregnancy, I only missed one show!

Archie: It was a very scary situation, and we were very grateful to the Doctors and Nurses at the Ascension Saint Thomas Hospital in Nashville – for, yeah, keeping Issy alive and then keeping our little boy, Lucky, alive. He was in hospital for three weeks. So that was one hell of an experience. (Lucky was born six-and-a-half weeks prematurely. After he spent three weeks in intensive care, it was then another four weeks before the new family could return home to the UK.)

Issy: Now we have an American son!

Archie: He’s an American citizen. So that was an interesting, fairly unforgettable trip to Nashville.

Andrew: Is there anything else you feel you need to add before we close?

Archie: We can talk about the tour, maybe – next year?

Issy: We are really excited for next year (2024). It’s going to be a fun time. We are really proud of this record and to actually get out there and be playing the songs in front of people is going to be a really special time. And thank you – by the way, for digging so deep into our back-catalogue as well. That was a nice surprise.

Issy says, ‘when writing this album, we felt each side of vinyl told its own story. The first side is titled ‘Storm’, because that’s how these songs felt when writing them – like a storm coming thick and fast, unstoppable and full of thunder.’

Archie Sylvester adds, ‘we know how it feels to have everything pulled from underneath you. And yet, somehow the world keeps spinning and we have to figure out a way to move along with it. We hope this album and our story can offer comfort and courage to those going through anything that has scarred them, or shaped them. You are not alone. This album is for anyone who feels like an outsider…’

They are currently headlining a tour promoting Otherness.

FERRIS & SYLVESTER: THE SOUND EVIDENCE

The Yellow Line’ (EP, June 2017, own label) recorded at Youth’s Space Mountain Studios in Spain.
1. ‘Save Yourself’ 4:07, also included on ‘Sonic Booms’ compilation (2017, Folk & Honey FHCD001).
2. ‘Berlin’ 4:10, the video for single ‘Berlin’ was filmed at the Battersea Arts Centre, with pizza, cheap red wine, and ‘pills that I’m taking.’
3. ‘Cold Summer’ 3:47
4. ‘This Is What You Get’ 4:59

Made In Streatham’ (EP, February 2018, Absolute ATREP1) recorded in their kitchen
1. ‘Better In Yellow’ 2:58
2. ‘Sometimes’ 3:36, also included on ‘Countryfile: The Album’ 4CD compilation (August 2018, DMGTV070).
3. ‘The Room’ 3:24
4. ‘Loser’ 2:54
5 ‘London’s Blues’ 2:44

‘Burning River’ + ‘Sickness’ c/w ‘Flying Visit (Demo)’ January 2019 vinyl single (Absolute ARTV10)

Ferris & Sylvester’ (EP, 2020, own label)
1. ‘Burning River’
2. ‘I Dare You’
3. ‘Flying Visit’
4. ‘Sickness’
5. ‘London’s Blues’ (live at The Lexington)

I Should Be On A Train’ (vinyl EP, October 2020, LAB Records LAB204)
Atwood Magazine calls the EP ‘a bright spark of light in dark times.’
1. ‘I Should Be On A Train’, he should be leaving her ‘I should have, could have, would have… but my feet can’t come unstuck.’
2. ‘Knock You Down’ 3:25, with mellotron flutes, cello and electric guitar, a childhood nostalgia showcase for her voice, ‘I wish I was a child at school’ learning about Vikings, ‘don’t let the system knock you down.’
3. ‘Everyone Is Home’
c/w
1. ‘Good Man’, with sitar and White Stripes energy.
2. ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’, Beatles cover, slowed down with her voice gritty and with bite, more Joe Cocker than it is Ringo, a track that is ‘driven by the loneliness that surrounds these uncertain times, yet also celebrates the togetherness, bravery and resilience that has come with it.’

Live At The Real World Studio’ (2021) a 36-minute RobinBoot docu-film presenting as intimate a voyeur’s-eye view of the duo at work as we’re likely to see, includes ‘I Should Be On A Train’, ‘Knock You Down’, ‘I Dare You’, ‘Flying Visit’, ‘Sickness’ and ‘This Is How My Voice Sounds’.

Superhuman’ (LP, March 2022, Archtop Records ATRCD100) recorded in Seattle with producer Ryan Hadlock, and in Cornwall’s Sawmill Studio with previous collaborator Michael Rendall.
1. ‘Superhuman’, a full-on back-off boogaloo Blues riff, ‘I’m way too human for that.’
2. ‘Golden’
3. ‘Flying Visit’
4. ‘Sickness’
5. ‘Party’s Over’
6. ‘This Is How My Voice Sounds’
7. ‘Thunder Love’
8. ‘Breadwinner’
9. ‘Vices’
10. ‘Demons’
11. ‘Darkness I Feel’
12. ‘Special’

Storm’ (EP, 2023, Archtop Records)
1. ‘Dark Side’ 3:23

  1. ‘Imposter’ 3:30
  2. ‘Don’t Fall In Love With Me’ 4:09
    4. ‘Mother,’ 4:57
  3. ‘End of the World’ 4:00

 

Otherness’ (LP, March 2024, Archtop Records), recorded direct onto a vintage 1960s tape machine, which helps capture the warm, analogue sound that resonates throughout the set. Issued in three physical formats: a signed CD, regular black double-vinyl, and limited edition signed marbled red heavyweight double-vinyl.

(1) ‘Dark Side’, jumpy Americana with driving guitar rhythms, about a sleazy hotel assignation, ‘let go, it’s a beautiful ride to the dark side.’ With Ross Gordon on drums and Edu Bisogno on keyboards.

(2) ‘Imposter’, ‘waking up in a stranger’s bed,’ clean guitar sound, she tastes like vanilla, and she kisses like a dream, yet she feels like an imposter in her own life.

(3) ‘Don’t Fall In Love With Me’, slinky torch-song sinuousness as she warns ‘don’t fall into my dreams,’ an anti-love song which was highlighted as the BBC Introducing’s Upload of the Week.

(4) ‘Mother’, deceptively simple orchestration, her heart is thumping like the skin of a drum, this is about domestic abuse, ‘leave my father before he gets back in, Mother, I know it’s hard but we gotta get away from him’? – asking for her Mother’s strength and help, ‘we’ll never be scared again.’

(5) ‘End Of The World’, the end of a romance, a song that represents love ending as an imminent apocalypse, delivered by Issy’s gloriously heartfelt vocals, a song that feels dizzyingly out of time, a late-night haze of dream Pop ambience and torch song yearning, its beguiling beauty matched by a haunting undercurrent, accompanied by the Halo Strings quartet.

(6) ‘Out Of It’ 4:09, ‘Hello Old Friend’, nagging guitar to underline the addictive nature of her obsession.

(7) ‘Rain (intro)’ 1:40, acapella, then jerky guitar and foot-stomp rhythm, reverse-tape and soft-psychedelic close.

(8) ‘Rain’ 3:57, with the vague gospel sway, and a Travis Bickle (‘Taxi Driver’) image of a cleansing rain, ‘thank God for the rain which has helped wash away the garbage and the trash off the sidewalks.’

(9) ‘Paper Plane’ 4:35, the plane is a metaphor, ‘where are the poets, the painters to save us from all this heartache?’ We cried and prayed to a god we don’t believe in as the world changed and ‘people chose their President.’

(10) ‘What’s It Gonna Take?’ 3:40, they alternate vocals, they should slow down but she loves it in the flame. 

(11) ‘Muzzle’ 3:02 ‘I thought I saw you die today, on the corner by the shopping arcade,’ but it was only a cold-sweat dream, they close-harmonise, before it breaks into a heavy fade with heart-racing beats.

(12) ‘Headache’ 3:28, ‘like the smell before it rains’, hesitant, acoustically sparse but building into the chorus, ‘this don’t feel like love to me.’

(13) ‘The Performer’ 3:25, more percussive with jazzy intonations and keyboard.

(14) ‘Love Is Real’ 3:56, showing off the full clear range of her voice in a tasteful neo-classical setting.

(Bonus track on vinyl edition) ‘Otherness’ 2:44, slow acoustic fade in, they slip away from their host’s garden table, they’re a pair of aliens in disguise, trying to fit right in. Their voices weave in and around each other. Don’t forget our ‘otherness’. The misunderstood outsider is the classic Bedsitter troubadour pose, the ‘I Am A Rock’ thing, except that here it is their ‘otherness’ that unites them.

 

BY ANDREW DARLINGTON

 

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Interview #23: Toby Litt

 
 

TOBY LITT is an English writer with a prolific publishing record, a series of novels and collections of short stories to his name. Educated at Oxford University, he was later a writing student at the University of East Anglia under the novelist Malcolm Bradbury. Today he is Associate Professor in Creative Writing at the University of Southampton and also edits the Extinction Rebellion website Writers Rebel.

In 1997, he issued Beatniks, his debut novel, a book subtitled An English Road Movie. The work portrayed a group of young British people who share an interest in the Beat Generation writers and the musical world that surrounded them. They set out on a journey across the UK, attempting to recreate the spirit of a 40 year old literary movement.

One of our regular interviewers MALCOLM PAUL recently caught up with Litt to discuss his Beatniks book, his subsequent writing, the ways in which music shapes his creative approaches, his spiritual quests and the relationship between words on the page and the politics of wider society. We are delighted to share his wide-ranging and thoughtful responses at Rock and the Beat Generation

MP: I think my first question would be about your novel Beatniks, which I have recently re-read. It was published in 1997, which is quite a remove from both the 1960s/70s counterculture and a long open road from the Beats. You are still young compared to an older age group talking about Beats and the transitions to those countercultural developments that followed in their wake, so your relationship feels more difficult to put a finger on.

TL: When I was first promoting Beatniks, at events organised by my publisher, I met a load of the regional book reps who sell in new books to bookshops. They had the same question. I think the honest answer is that, growing up, my best friend got into Kerouac. He had copies of The Dharma Bums and The Subterraneans around the place. When he wasn’t at home, I probably picked them up and read a few paragraphs.

Years later, once I started writing, I wanted to find a way of writing about where I’d grown up. But that seemed impossible. Whatever happened in Bedford? Then I found a way in, by writing about a group of people who live there but try to ignore it entirely. I liked the idea that they were into a completely outmoded youth movement. They are doing their best to live in a different time to everyone around them.

Pictured above: Toby Litt’s Beatniks, released in 1997

MP: Did you read the Beats when you were younger? In your teens? At university? Or did you only pick up on them when you came to reference them for when you started writing Beatniks in the 1990s?

TL: I read bits and pieces of Kerouac when I was still at school. I got Ann Charters’ biography of him out of the school library. And then an anthology of Beat writing. I read Joyce Johnson’s Minor Characters. At that age, I wasn’t great at finishing books. Later on, I read On the Road. I liked The Dharma Bums more and Tristessa and, most of all, Big Sur.

MP: Was the idea of the Beatniks book, your second I believe, a project you had carried with you which you decided to work on later? Or was it a contemporaneous decision based on a recent reading of the Beats?

TL: I think the thought process went: need to write a novel about somewhere I know, only places I know apart from Oxford (which I’m not writing about) are Bedford and Brighton. How can I write about them when they’re so eventless? This was around the time I was working on Adventures in Capitalism, my first book of short stories. That was in mid-90s.

MP: Your critics, at least some and unfairly I feel, thought Beatniks was going to be an English version of On the Road. How did you feel about that?

TL: Well, I think I subtitled it ‘An English Road Movie’. I wanted it to be read alongside On the Road, but to show all ways in which we English fall short of the wild, open, hip beatnik dream. We have a fundamentally different sense of space. We’re Europeans, and that’s like being born with a number of deaths in the family.

You meet people like Neal Cassady, occasionally, but they’ve got nowhere to go! I’m speaking only for England. I think Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland and Ireland are each different. Niall Griffiths’ early novels have something of the Beat in them. And Alan Warner’s Morvern Callar.

MP: Did you think the purist Beats just missed the point by just wanting an updated Beat novel set in England? When they got a book that I think challenged some of the Beats’ ideology: spiritual voyaging.

TL: Yes.

MP: If you’d read the Beats before, do you think they influenced the way you wrote? The writer and critic C. J. Stone claimed Burroughs taught him to pare down his sentences, a bit like the New Puritans later did with a simpler writing form.

TL: I went through a Beat phase in poetry, along with a Dylan phase, when I was in my teens. And the very first novel I tried to write had some influence. But by the time I came back to it, I was more influenced by Modernist writers – James Joyce, Beckett. And then comic writers like Evelyn Waugh and Douglas Coupland.

A lot of people were attracted to the Beats and later counterculture because there was a restless searching for something inside the individual as well as at the same time wanting to live freely in society outside the norm, be it through drug taking. sex.. travelling the open road nomadically, open relationships – often misogynistic, I feel.

MP: When you wrote Beatniks, could you relate to any of the Beat rebellion and hedonistic search for freedom, inner and outer, or just rebellion in general?

TL: I wished I could. Those things didn’t seem available to me. I felt too constricted by place. After university, I travelled across America by Greyhound – San Francisco to New York. But I felt far more as if I wanted to be an invisible observer than part of some melodramatic scene.

MP: I also wanted, Toby, your explore the relationship to music – how that works for you as a writer. Does it have importance? It is an influence on you? I’m immediately thinking of the 2001 book deadkidsongs and assuming it is making some reference to Mahler’s kindertotenlieder?

TL: Yes, deadkidsongs is a brutal translation of the title of Mahler’s song cycle. And increasingly mistranslated versions of the Ruckert texts come in between the chapters of the books. They include a very sentimentalized view of children, which is meant to contrast with the boys in the gang who are at the centre of the novel.

MP: Abba make an appearance in Beatniks on the car tape. Are the group a diabolos ex machina in the plot? It strikes me as music no self respecting Beat would listen to, at least I imagine! Abba appear to signify fun in joy. Are you being iconoclastic?.

TL: This wasn’t iconoclastic. It was, as I remember, a plot point. When the Beat characters in the novel start to break out of their self-imposed restrictions, they go for something, as you say, joyous and definitely not Beat. I’ve got my own 1970s memories of Abba, and I think disco’s unifying vibe was what I was hoping to import.

MP: Does Dylan still play a part in your life? Do you continue to listen to him? Does he continue to influence your writing in some ways? Did he shape the writing of Beatniks?

TL: For a long time I wanted to be Dylan. At university, I had a folkie cap, a bit like Dylan’s in his early days in NYC. Later, I felt I had to get away from that, and from Kerouac/Ginsberg’s spontaneous bop prosody. I felt it wasn’t going to be a positive influence on me as a repressed English writer – apart from maybe showing me a different kind of rhythmic freedom. There’s a lot of embarrassing sub-Dylan poetry around, and I’ve written a chunk myself.

MP: Do you think lyrics can influence the way an author writes prose? The Czech author Jachym Topol with whom I’m currently exchanging emails, started writing novels after writing lyrics for his brother Filip’s punk band Psi Vojaci…

TL: Yes, that’s true. I think I was the first person to translate Topol’s poetry into English. I did a couple of poems in collaboration with the Czech poet Tomas Mika. I also saw Psi Vojaci play at Laterna in Prague, in 1992. Their big song was ‘Marilyn Monroe’.I’ve written, and continue to write, lots of lyrics. I’m not sure what the influence is. There’s a link between what’s singable and what’s sayable.

MP: Tell me more about your book I Play the Drums in a Band Called Okay from 2008. A case of rock ‘n’ roll excess? Did you ever entertain the idea of wanting to be a rock musician with the lifestyle that sometimes goes with it? Or as you’ve said you, do you prefer the role of spectator?

TL: I very much wanted to be rhythm guitarist in a band. That was my ideal occupation, when I was around 12 or 13. And I was in bands with my friends, but we only did one gig. I didn’t connect with the people who were into the same music as me. The drummer loved Prince and the Human League, the bassist loved Alien Sex Fiend and the singer was into oi. We didn’t fit.

Pictured above: Litt’s 2008 short story collection

MP: Did writing I Play the Drums in a Band Called Okay feel like letting your hair down? It’s a great read! Not sure Blake’s roads of excess lead to Paradise. Would you agree?

TL: After Ghost Story and Hospital, I Play the Drums… was a more free, less anxious book. I learned how to let the action happen by just watching as a group of characters grew up – or didn’t. The main narrator Clap becomes increasingly moral as he becomes more Buddhist. That’s a Beat influence coming through – on me and then on my characters.

MP: Other music you tapped into while writing Beatniks? Any jazz/bebop? Miles? Coltrane? Bird, Mingus, Monk?

TL: All of the above, but especially Bird. ‘Koko’ is the book’s theme song.

MP: Do you listen to music as a background to writing, a CD player on your writing desk? Or is silence and meditation more real?

TL: No, I usually write to music. It has to be wordless, or something I know so well I can ignore the words. Here’s one playlist I used a while ago…

MP: I read now you follow Zen Buddhism. Do you think the Beats talked about Zen but didn’t really get it or have the discipline to follow that path?

TL: I think they got it, but in a particularly American way. The idea of instant dharma. It’s a very impatient view – that satori is available. But it’s patronizing to say Kerouac didn’t get the Buddha. His engagement was sincere and profound. However, there was a lot of misreading going on.

Pictured above: The author has pursued Zen Buddhism practices

MP: Do you think the counterculture still has a role in society/culture now as much as it did with say the Beats, not to say the hippies and punks? If yes, how and why?

TL: More so, perhaps. We need to find pleasures that don’t destroy the planet – to put it very simply. If the change needed doesn’t look like a blast, it’s not going to appeal to anyone. This isn’t about a new puritanism, it’s about forms of connection that are genuine, sweaty, present and far more fulfilling than what you’ll get through corporate culture.

But they involve more work to set up. They involve building communities of resistance. They involve finding political structures that work – and that work, in an anti-fascist way, to allow people to have more freedom, do less labour, spend more time creatively.

MP: If you were to write about the Beats again – indirectly – would you feel differently about them now? Do they still have a relevance?

TL: I would write differently. But I’m not sure they’re a big preoccupation for me at the moment. I have been writing a lot about Zen, in fictional form, but that won’t come out for a while.

MP: Do you still have a yearning for the open road? Freedom? Can literary ammunition possibly stir a revolution?

TL: It was a way of being young. It’s very hard to be young now. The surveillance makes everyone self-conscious. I’m sure the envy for the freedoms of the 1960s and earlier is only going to grow. But any revolution has to come out of the conditions and the technology of the moment.

MP: Is everything too fucked up for us to be able to revolt anymore? Or should we, like you, take issues like the environment more seriously rather than living an ‘in the moment’ hedonistic lifestyle?

TL: I would say the two are connected. But living in the moment has been co-opted by corporate culture as a way of creating permanently distracted customers. If it’s always ‘next next next’, you’re not going to be a difficult citizen. You’re not really going to organise in the way that’s necessary, but also fulfilling.

 
 

 
 
 
MALCOLM PAUL
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Fire in the Wire (episode sixteen)

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Lord Tanamo – Keep on Moving
Jackie Mittoo – Totally Together
Baba Brooks – Shank I Sheck
Lady Ann – Informer
The Termites – Push it Up
Byron Lee – Rocksteady
Sound Dimension – Face Version
Prince Jammy & The Aggrovators – Wreck Up a Version
Hugh Mundell – Let’s All Unite
Augustus Pablo – Unity Dub
The Heptones – Get in the Groove
Freddie McGregor – Come Now Sister
Sugar Minott – Hang on Natty
Phyllis Dillon – Don’t Stay Away
Bob Marley and the Wailers – Natural Mystic
General Levy – Ism Schism
U-Roy – Chalice in the Palace
I-Roy – Ken Boothe Special
Ken Boothe – Home Home Home
Dennis Alcapone – Home Version
Delroy Wilson – Won’t You Come Home Now

 

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kitten Cat

She was a violin with knotted strings.
Why was I trying to tune her up ?
I could see her body quivering with tension.
Was she about to reach the final snapping point ?
Just for a pathetic little cat,
rather kitten.

“Once bitten, twice shy,” she said, eyes red.
Our earlier kitten had vanished one
day.
So, with a strict look, mom remarked,
“no way ! ”
There was a storm in my heart.

I beseeched, I pleaded.
I cajoled and coerced.
But she would have none of it. My plea went unheeded.
“No pet in the house. Never again,” was her refrain.

But the kitten played a prank.
Into mom’ s lap she jumped.
Mom was stumped.
With a reluctant hand she ruffled her fur
Purr- purr went the kitten.
The unwritten law was broken.

Now Kitty is fourteen years old,
and follows mom around, like Mary’ s little lamb.

 

 

 

 

Dr. Santosh Bakaya
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

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Sonic Archeology / Dig Deep

Mummies And Madmen Grow Dark in the Sun, Mummies and Madmen
(CD, Winter Hill/Adventures in Reality)

Back in the day – late 1970s and well into the 80s – music often lived underground, unheard and unseen. 4-track TEAC portastudios lurked in homes, borrowed and passed around friends and contacts, whilst D.I.Y. cassette labels flourished, nourished by zines, swopsies and word-of-mouth.

In Coventry, where I worked for a year and then stayed in orbit around for a few years more, due to frequent visits to a girlfriend, there was a thriving scene. For me that included the bands Attrition, Stress, Eyeless in Gaza and Bron Area (not all from Coventry itself); and the zines Adventures in Reality and Alternative Sounds. (Other bands, zines and memories are available.) Even these four bands contained an astonishing mix of influences and genres: soundscapes, electronics, punk, post-punk, electro-pop, distorted folk and what would become darkwave (Attrition) or drift towards M.O.R (Bron Area).

Eyeless in Gaza and Attrition are still in existence, reissues and/or compilations by Bron Area and Stress are available, and recent books on Coventry and zine culture in general have taken note of Adventures in Reality and Alternative Sounds, not to mention hundreds of other previously-forgotten analogue discards. Alan Rider was one of the key players in the Coventry scene, being one half of Stress, the editor of Adventures in Reality, and the provider of visuals for Attrition in concert. And now there’s another piece of musical archaeology to put alongside other excavated finds.

Most bands I knew in the 80s had several projects in hand at any one time, ranging from ad-hoc assortments of bands sharing various players, to solo efforts, to virtual bands producing music by posting tapes to each other for overdubbing, or one-off affairs made on a whim and usually released on tape with a silly moniker attached. Mummies and Madmen appear to be one such project, initially recording the title track of this release, and then a second track over a year later. These two long tracks would be released by Slob Tapes (!) as a C45 and are now rescued from oblivion and available again in digital or CD form.

The title track is by far the better one. A bass rhythm underpins the whole 22 minutes and the blurb isn’t wrong to compare it to PiL, though Jah Wobble might not think so. I was also reminded of Chrome, which is always a good thing. Bird song accompanies the intro and slowly other material is introduced: spiralling synthesizer, feedback moments and freeform guitar, distant half-heard voices. It’s slow, hypnotic and seductive, coming from nowhere, going almost nowhere, then sliding from view… Well done Alan, Gamla Stan and Cryptic Z!

The latter two (Gamla is apparently a drummer called Bob in reality) recorded ‘Red Front’ as a duo. This track is almost as long but has a very different feel to it, with a really annoying and relentless rhythmic loop high in the mix, and either a spoken or sampled monologue half-buried in the mix. This was recorded by someone who sounds very like Mark E. Smith, but presumably isn’t. To be honest, despite repeated listens there doesn’t seem to be much else going on, no hidden depths, subversive synthesizer sounds or hint of effects-laden guitars.

As someone whose ‘musical’ efforts are mostly buried and abandoned, but included very similar outings, including a very wonderful long piece made by going for a drink whilst the television, radio and hoover played together (We did remix it before it appeared on a compilation tape, honest), I wonder if a bit of self-mythologising might have worked better here? Release the title track and bullshit about the long-lost masterpiece. Just a thought.

Either way, I love the fact that so much forgotten culture, music and writing is being reissued, discussed and written about. This is a perfect example of three musicians having fun and exploring sonic space, hybridising, listening and creating original, strange music.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

Mummies and Madmen’s Bandcamp page is here.

Adventure in Reality: The Complete Collection  and Alan Rider’s Tales From the Ghost Town: The Coventry Punk Fanzine Revolution 1979-1985 are both published by Fourth Dimension. The former was reviewed for IT here.

Attrition live online here.

 

 

 

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‘NECRONOMICS 2: The “Neoliberal” approach to life.’

In part one of this article, we considered the global economic poker-game, between the elite, where the stakes are devastating people’s lives and actively damaging the climate, all species and the ecosystem. That all conflicts are economic above and beyond sectarian and historical hostilities, which are used as distractions from the core agendas of controlling global market influence. All the players know incisively the bargaining chips they hold and how to use them.

Since the publishing of the first of these articles, some parties have called each other’s hands. But this title (and metaphor) is not entirely a sardonic satire on the approach to ecological and economic survival of the elite. It is universally agreed and evidentially established, any attempt to combat the methods of the neoliberal elite will meet with intensified Necroeconomic efforts and consequences. Right now, the best, most irresponsible and stupid academic specialists, money can buy, will be strategizing the potential of any limited nuclear strike. If this doesn’t auger in a third world war, it has already increased spending on militarism, threatening to thrust endless projectiles into the carbon-rich stratosphere.

Any existing peace in this situation will not come by force, but by whatever enemies remain sitting around the same table making economic deals. They prefer to end millions of children’s lives before this inevitability. Whatever the current pin-ponging rhetoric, the development on the ground and psychology of participants has been contrary to it, compounded by determined strategic actions by individual nations, to force everybody’s hands and destabilise the structure holding up this pack of cards. Some, understandably, will see the outcome as a global pogrom to resolve the population explosion and economic dependency, as long as the key players remain at the table. Quite depressing, yes?

But this is not the mentality of the vast majority of Earth’s occupants. This is not a fight between nations who largely share common principles and hopes – it is the political minority, with historic and personal agendas. 90% of conflict casualties are civilians. Isn’t that the most obscene indulgence of these narcissists? But they are only products of biased minority perspectives. Few if any voting systems around the world represent a majority of its population or even electorate.

Coring the apple

The global political and economic system, not many would argue against, is diseased to the core. Well, to treat the disease we know both its causes and symptoms. One way is to cut out the core, but is that realistic? This disease is a mental illness only. It is to do with the psychological dependency upon money, the pressure to enforce ideologies and to outdo your opponents from within and without – the economic Stockholm Syndrome we said requires outside intervention. With what?

Speaking at Stockholm Impact/week, on the subject of ‘An Introduction to the Metacrisis;’ Daniel Schmachtenberger concluded: “I think people should let themselves become depressed… if they’re not they are so schizmed inside, it’s hard to even think of people as humans. If you can know the reality of what’s happening (in factory farms, the child sex trade, the destruction of species)… recognize that you’re depressed, [because] you love animals… that are no different than your dog… you love kids, not just your own, and the kids that are in totally fucked situations are no different to your own and the kids that have no future chance of life are no different… because you know life is beautiful and sacred and the depression is recognizing the destruction of the sacred …as opposed to [saying] ‘I’ll wait until someone figures it out’ or ‘when I figure it out, even though I’m not allocating time to trying’… talk to others that are [working it out]… and realise that you’re at a time when there is a higher possible consequence to your action [and inaction] than there has ever been for humans. That there is an obligation and meaningfulness in that, which you don’t want to waste.”

So, what agency do we each have to alter the status quo? The key points needing urgent redress are: 1, economic survival and supremacy are the core motivators; 2, leaders are forced into being psychopathic, not controlling but being controlled by the monetary economy; 3, the global population feel powerless to act; 4, nothing will change Neoliberals unless we can make peaceful regenerative pursuits more profitable than arms, drugs, data-manipulation and government conformity. These form the elements of the rot spreading through the Earth’s core.

So, how do we core it? Twenty-eight COP summits have systematically worked against the urgency of climate recovery and species survival. What can mobilise the general public to form a fundamentally different and immediate colossal economy, more rapidly than anything the monetary economy currently supports, that enables decent people the world over to intercede and rid us of this psychopathic insanity, without giving them more incentive to destroy? Let’s state right here and now – EVERY HUMAN SOLUTION, PROCESS, TECHNOLOGY AND EXPERTISE WE NEED FOR OUR PLANET AND ITS OCCUPANTS EXISTS. We will need to rely on the phenomena of nature to do the rest, but we can give it the best environment we can, instead of hurling everything bad at it in vast quantities. Money is dis-incentivising and actively throttling these solutions. Not just the profitability of harmful industries, but tax-payer’s subsidies and investment.

Beyond the core

Many proposals advocate putting the monetary system in the hands of the general public, expounding common rights, morality, community banking and even the legality of public control of governmental decisions. This is why we have seen governmental erosion of public influence. The trend has been to make people uncaring, self-seeking as a survival trend and democratic right and pre-occupied, by diluting their means of achieving what they want or need in life. Making this a self-sacrificing treadmill. Even believing other innocent non-violent people far away or very close to home, are deserving of inhumane treatment, as another dilution of their facility. This is the direct activity of governments creating then having to accommodate the fall out of hostile fiscal policies.

Not all passively eat their delivered McDonalds, whilst allowing the distended diseased children’s stomachs on charity adverts and domestic child-care abuse cases wash across their eyes. There has been greater public outcry this century than in any other. From the ‘Arab Spring’ to 2020 (and increasing) there have been:

84 public revolts & uprisings

86 national anti-war, anti-austerity & human rights marches

38 national and international students rights protests

461 other national and international demonstrations over racism, sexism, anti-corruption, women’s rights, anti-occupation, pro-democracy, independence & climate action

535 riots

26 revolutions

TOTAL 1,230 movements of public outrage in 185 of the 192 nations of Earth’s population (as of the year 2000; now 234 individual countries and additional recent escalations of hostilities).

The above does not include all military and political conflicts, ethnic cleansing and genocides, (such as China v Taiwan & Nepal; civil wars as in Syria, Philippines, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Sudan and the rest of the Sahel countries).

Why should the wealthy waste their assets, when they can get us all to do their dirty work for them, reducing material obligation and increasing profit from arms and drugs trades? Even the achievements of the Good Friday Peace Agreement – an established model for peace – was threatened, as a tabled sacrifice by Boris Johnson’s administration to ‘Get Brexit Done,’ concurrently proposing we rely on the Islamic Pound to form new alliances; having to settle on trade-relations with Japan and a new military presence in the South China Sea with the US and Australia to protect it. And now the Mediterranean, and now the Suez Canal, and now the Gulf of Aden and Gulf of Oman.

Cutting the fuel

1 – Our first step could be through monetary finance.

This is an immediate avenue we can consider, to send out a loud and clear economic message to at least signed-up democratic leaders, that we no longer support their illegal activities. This will not core the apple, but it will affect public banking and political influences immediately. (See ‘Necronomics 1:’ article by Clare Carlile, entitled: ‘Banks and Financial Institutions Benefitting from War,’ dealing with high-street banks investment in illegal armaments and war). 

When UK high-street banks calculate finance-leveraging for fossil fuel investment, they calculate each domestic ‘Customer Lifetime Value’ (CLV). This averages $1.5m per person: (around $24,000 per annum).

So, wouldn’t they do the same for armaments? Would government do any less, with most councils holding some taxes in offshore accounts? “The answer to the question ‘When is it a crime to collect or pay tax?’ is ‘Whenever we know or suspect that some of our money may be used for a criminal purpose.’” Chris Coverdale: Probityco.com. To check which banks are CRIMINALLY backing genocides and war; and to switch to banks that do not – go to https://www.switchit.green/ 

International Criminal Court Act & International Criminal Court (Scotland) Act… make it a criminal offence in the UK for any person to engage in war crimes, crimes against humanity, genocide, or conduct ancillary to such crimes. The Accessories and Abettors Act ruled that: “Whosoever shall aid, abet, counsel, or procure the commission of any indictable offence… shall be liable to be tried, indicted, and punished as a principal offender.” International Humanitarian Law states: “The principle of distinction is set out in Article 48 and 52 of Additional Protocol 1 to the Geneva Conventions. The Conventions define who is a combatant and a military object that can be lawfully attacked. Direct attacks against civilians and/or civilian objects are categorised as war crimes. Additionally, any weapon which does not allow for a distinction between civilians/civilian objects and fighters/military objects is also prohibited under IHL.” 

The context of above quotes and legal information regarding lawfully diverting tax used for war to peaceful amenities can be found at: https://www.conscienceonline.org.uk/ and https://www.probityco.com/

The only issue with reducing tax is that we make bigger enemies of government and the elite manipulating them, but at least we reduce their power. Even though the tax-payer is the unwilling backer, on top of crippling austerity and cost-of-living crisis, some will believe that conciliatory solutions are unrealistic with unreasonable people, so war and militarism should be supported. This only expands the issues mentioned above and the criminal perpetrators are counting on it. Bearing in mind, none of the most profitable businesses pay tax and most get tax concessions. But they do invest their profits in the most profitable industries.

Neoliberal Paradox

But wait – 1, neoliberalism reduced the formal labour workforce to only 12.5% of the global population. 2, the gig-economy makes up 25 to 40% of that workforce in the largest national economies. So, it begs the question, are monopoly producers and financiers the brightest sparks in the toolbox? No, they just happen to be the brightest at maximising company and shareholder profits, deflecting responsibility and keeping their jobs. This also goes for all governmental departments and United Nations divisions (who are good, motivated, concerned, inspirational people, generally). This has to illustrate another unaccounted-for aspect of the ‘Necronomy;’ the domestic policies of gentrification, monopoly, exclusivity and fiscal syphoning. Just how much potential economy are the elite slitting their own throats for? This we will illustrate.

To most, rising up has been tried and failed. So, what else have the general public already got that will re-incentivise the elite to drop the nihilistic Anthropocene they have created? What do the elite want?

Their neoliberal model is LESS RESPONSIBILITY FOR MORE PROFIT. This is the power the 99% has to relieve them of the current methods of obtaining it. This is the shock horror reality. Do we really think the elite feel secure, or are they driven by fear of losing the control they have? We have to factor in the delusion of monetary dominance, but the realistic question is: HOW CAN THE ELITE BE INCLUDED, WHILST PEACEFULLY TAKING BACK PUBLIC-CONTROL OF THE ECONOMY? Cutting out the core is a protracted bloody surgical procedure, and changing through current public political efforts is like our weakened immune system sending antibodies to ameliorate the symptoms. What we really need is a complete transfusion of the terminal bad blood. First, we create the desire for it and if that doesn’t work, it can be enforced. So, how do we inject the good blood, without it becoming contaminated?

Appropriating the 1%: THE NEW PARALLEL GLOBAL CITIZEN’S NON-MONETARY ECONOMY

Any proposal for a NEW GLOBAL CITIZEN’S ECONOMY has to be conciliatory and inclusive with positive outcomes for every individual, indiscriminately. This proposal is formed from a sixteen-year ongoing analysis, consulting over 70 academic authors and economists; over 70 alternative, complementary and crypto-currencies; 650 global networking organisations, trying to redress the effects of capitalism; anti-poverty movements; anti-capitalist movements; political public movements in the 21st century; numerous New Economic Method collectives; NGOs; charities and relief organisations; eco-campaign networks; self-sustainability communities and campaign organisations with memberships in their hundreds of millions. We outnumber the 1%.

No current ethical, socialist or libertarian economic proposal that promotes continued use of money, or monetary value, departs with what we have already seen fail, through previous regimes, including the pre-money and pre-capitalism eras and every varied political manifestation. The Green New Deal and Blue Economy have fallen on deaf ears. None of the reported 4000 alternative, complementary and crypto-currencies – neoliberalism necessitated – have succeeded in replacing money, so, where are we going wrong? A non-discriminatory economy, that Andrew Feinstein and others are suggesting, has to be something new that departs with the previous models of economy that have, throughout our entire human history, been prejudicial and preferential. That have led us to where we are now. Some realities to consider:

1 – Money hasn’t made the world go round for over a decade now – it is mostly digital accounting.

2 – Monetary price is a creation of fiction, off the top of traders’ heads, no longer governed by production costs but profit strategies for shareholders and market control.

3 – Alternative numeric systems exist, but have failed to alter money. Many mirror (or require) the monetary process and values, and some are pyramid schemes. Let’s avoid them.

The most successful NON-MONETARY economy is the Swiss WIR. A circular digital electronic ledgering system, where no physical currency changes hands. Just to get a sense of scale against the monetary economy, let’s illustrate this as a model…

STEP 1: Let’s say the global population has a non-monetary economy, like the Swiss WIR (CHW), and we are able to exchange this circular currency, as the WIR does, equalling one unit to the value of one Swiss Franc (CHF), or for the sake of argument, one US Dollar (USD).

STEP 2 – Let’s say that because it is digital and needs no pre-existing budgets, source, material assets or collateral, every individual automatically self-generates a Universal Basic Income as a foundation for living – by their daily activities or ‘abstract’ labour, (cleaning, cooking, practical maintenance, parenting, education, personal health, caring etc.) – with all other forms of FORMAL & INFORMAL WORK self-generating ADDITIONAL units. And let’s set it at the current MINIMUM UK WAGE FOR UNDER 18-year-olds (approx. $6 per hour for 8hrs work per day, for maybe 65 years of life). The equivalent in money in our example works out around $17,000 per annum for every living being, without additional formal employment. This is a worst-case scenario:

TOTAL monetary economy 2022 = $405T ($105T equity + $300T debt).
TOTAL PUBLIC ECONOMY EQUIVALENT = $140.16T EQUITY per annum, no debt.

We can begin to imagine what that would do for public-led direct democracy, global cooperation, peace, changing and enforcing law, human rights, public amenities, end to poverty and individual influence on social and environmental decisions. That’s not all…

STEP 3 – (optional), let’s decide, as a circular economy that, WITHOUT TAXATION (OR A WELFARE STATE, even dependents work to manage their illness and could even be assigned a supplement for health treatment), we can collectively leverage virtual investment, the way banks invest our domestic monetary savings.

Still working with the BASIC $17,000, per person… THE TOTAL ECONOMIC POWER OF THE CITIZEN’S VIRTUAL ECONOMY = AN EQUIVALENT OF $8,788T per year.

This is what it might look like if we return to our tower illustration: Not to scale, as the Parallel Non-Monetary Economy would not fit on the page. (Chinese TV tower on left).

Out with the old… 

Our illustration still represents monetary terms and we need to get away from this, as it always corrupts. Why is this Parallel Non-Monetary Economy (PNME) any different to the way money operates and motivates? IT IS NOT MONEY – so economists must suspend all the education they have about monetary markets, relating any monetary functions and peripheral effects that this economy effectively bypasses. This is not simply hypothetical – you need to project how it will practically affect your daily activities, affordability, control of community interests, commodities, business and employment prospects etc. currently starved by global austerity and profit strategies. All these activities CURRENTLY CONSTITUTE A TIME / PHYSICAL / MONETARY COST TO INDIVIDUALS & THE ECONOMY. The PNME turns these costs to income.

The PNME does not work the way our illustration describes; it is way superior and more expansive than illustrated, which didn’t even factor-in formal employment earnings. It did not include the extensive role of compensation for past injustices, as a windfall for kick-starting individual and collective PNME accounts. This enables all operations to function without any need for credit or debt dependencies, removing power-differentials. It will result in far more economic power for the general public, IMPLEMENTABLE THE SECOND IT IS FORMED AND ADOPTED to IMMEDIATELY counter any damaging political and legal infringements of people’s rights to life. Simply by people going about their everyday activities and opening up their options for more fulfilling pursuits. Being able to legally hold abusers to account. It invests in people’s individual ingenuity and benevolent qualities.

Firstly: it has to be robustly maintained and legally owned by the global public community and as such, have decentralised security and automatic verification systems, backed by random rotating international oversight; to police its agreed laws, principles and caveats. Secondly: it will be a free self-generating system that CANNOT be controlled by anyone else, but will exclude:

1 – Any infringement of an individual’s right to generating the PNME.

2 – Any misuse for harmful industries and commercial / political aims, such as war, armaments, addictive drugs, fossil fuel use (beyond that necessary to transition to rapid green industry); mercantilism; political decisions that do not have public care at their core for all nations.

3 – Any industry that cannot demonstrate it is making rapid significant changes to green alternatives. (And much more).

But, this isn’t just another form of money. What else makes it unique? 

…in with the new – DECOMMODIFICATION

To all appearances, it looks exactly like the way the monetary economy already operates – add / subtract accounting. The beauty of this simplicity is that nobody really needs to re-educate themselves as to the workings of this economy – they can just carry on doing daily activities but earning for it, weighing up their vastly expanded options. But what makes it fundamentally different to anything preceding it is that it is not a measure of ‘value.’ Like the Swiss WIR, while it remains static it does nothing. Only in the process of transaction does it have any power to unlock access to commodities, but the goods are not exchanged for it. The exchange is purely mathematical. The quantity of the goods and services it can acquire will be agreed upon by the international society, in consultation with various professions and expertise, or negotiated in some instances, like varying employment qualifications and localised demand or priority. So, we can think of bands, brackets, or levels. It doesn’t need to be a set figure for every distinct function, because this is not an association of value the way money is. If someone offers you a gift, do you immediately ask how much it’s worth, or base your response on it? It isn’t costing you anything. This is what will be fundamentally different to the scepticism of the monetary economy. But it is not a free lunch, it entails personal labour and ingenuity. The advantage of consistent PNME levels across the globe eliminates global inequity, economic migration and profit-maximising motives, whilst localised knowledge allows for diversity.

1 – Unlike the Swiss WIR, the PNME has NO VALUE, it does not mix with money or have any equivalent. Think of it as a numeric code, like a combination padlock, or entrance code, html, an activation code, or sports points system – basically numerical systems that bear NO relation to what they unlock, or acquire. It could be hieroglyphs, if we chose some form of encryption. What the numbers are and do will become almost irrelevant to the actions and choices they support. There is a distinct economic advantage to this. It is a parallel economy and parallels never meet. This means not only can the PNME unit be assigned different levels for access of different products, services and employment, IT CAN ALWAYS OUTPERFORM MONEY AND INCENTIVISE PRIORITY PUBLIC SERVICES where money can’t, MAKING THEM MORE PROFITABLE. How?

2 – It is key that the PNME does not threaten or require the dismantling of the monetary economy, but BOOSTS THE MONETARY ECONOMY FOR THE RIGHT REASONS, making it more profitable for every enterprise. Since the general public no longer need it and can access the same goods and services, costing only their self-generated daily units, which have no value, businesses adopting parallel PNME accounts can access goods and services without using their money. ACCESSING GOODS AND SERVICES FOR NO VALUE HAS AN EFFECT ON MONETARY ECONOMY ‘VALUES’ WITHOUT TOUCHING IT. And there will be added PNME premiums for businesses. We can only share the basic effects of the PNME in this article, but it will soon make money obsolete, even to the 1%.

        1.  Employers no longer pay wages – they are self-generated, making zero-cost EMPLOYMENT 100%

        2.  The public no longer pay taxes and welfare state is eradicated; their work and personal pursuits contribute to environmental regeneration and social cohesion, rebuilding of communities and the environment, so, their earnings are a service to society. So is any PNME business.
        3.  Participation in direct democracy – through local regional and national public assemblies – for any topic an individual is interested in earns PNME units.
        4. Current governments are no longer dependent upon corporate agendas, or competing for resource-based economic returns; they can redirect their energies into progressive actions; or the masses of legally empowered public citizens can remove/replace them with non-party direct representatives that have to cooperate to deliver public decisions. Most military expertise will go into more profitable logistical peace-initiatives.
        5.  PNME accounting relieves monetary outlay and overheads making PNME industries almost cost-free, delivering more MONETARY So, if profit is the current controller, why not give neoliberal elites the most profitable industries to invest everything in – EXCEPT THEIR MONEY! MULTINATIONAL CORPORATIONS CAN RELINQUICH THE HARMFUL AND COSTLY INDUSTRIES THAT CONTROL THE GLOBAL ECONOMY, WHILE BOOSTING PROFITS WAY BEYOND WHAT MONEY CAN EVER GIVE THEM AND BECOME MAJOR PLAYERS IN THE MOST RAPID ENVIRONMENTAL INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION HUMAN HISTORY WILL EVER RECORD.
        6.  The PNME will generate mass repatriation, restitution, re-building of all nations savaged by war and boost international relations. Removing the ‘protectionist’ violent competing for national / cultural identity, economy and resources.

Prosperity will be limited only by the choice of individual and collective pursuits. The accounting will hardly figure in people’s minds, even as the act of exchange won’t, (as it doesn’t to the wealthiest 1%); the perceived ‘value’ of what is exchanged has practically dissolved, removing once and for all time the mentality of assigning imagined preferential values – which the monetary system is – to commodities.

 

Before you dismiss the above as ideological utopianism, recall the statement by Daniel Schmachtenberger, above. This is our moment of moments. It cannot be given to you. It needs to come from you. But once you can see this working, with your own eyes, it will be yours. You will see it everywhere, changing everything, and you will never be able to un-see it. Every nation should have a contingent examining and cooperating on these calculations and project the use of all the systems available, right under our noses, as well as the solutions millions of people have already created. The PNME needs to belong to everyone, not just a single entity or body.

Next steps

An eight-part interactive video-workshop is available to consider all these statements above, the mechanism; the process; the agencies; personal effects; effects to public services and prosperity; effect upon the monetary economy; effects to a green rapid eco-revolution: how and who can bring it about. The elite won’t change what works for them. We have to re-educate them what is in their “Neoliberal” best interests – for life. 

‘The Parallel Non-Monetary (Eco)nomic Revolution of the 100%’ 

Intro; 1-8 modules; and ‘What is the PNME?’
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e24VTG4NGQA&list=PLNo7acWESakwjYqGG5iPNOiATvs8m0I9L

More detailed analysis is in the book: ‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy’ (Kendal Eaton, Sounding Off UK Publications, 2020).

FREE DOWNLOAD VERSIONS / discussions / articles / video presentations / illustrated supplements: ‘Turning Costs to Income: the Parallel Non-Monetary Accounting System’ & ‘The Parallel Economy: Past, Present & Future’ / hardcopy links: achanceforeveryone.com 

Facebook group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/641184856394195

To collaborate or book an interactive workshop for a group, please email: [email protected]

 

‘Necronomy 1: The Neoliberal Approach to Death’

 

Kendal Eaton

 

 

 

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Office Seekers

A casualty for even rookies
to the political arena is
their ability to hearken.
 
How else can sane individuals
survive the onslaught of filth:
A hash of castigation and curse?
Tossed at them without a waiver.
 
Is it their air castle? One day, we
will grow a grove of happiness;
regain our capacity to hear.

 

 

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Sanjeev Sethi
Picture Nick Victor

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. He has been published in over thirty-five countries. He is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. He was recently conferred the 2023 Setu Award for Excellence. He lives in Mumbai, India. 

X/ Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems 

 

 

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The Criminal Mind

“I do not possess a criminal mind.
My mind perpetrates the crimes.”
He says. His eyes remain on his
cuffed hands. His shoulders forge
an unfinished bridge, engineering flaws. 
I comprehend what has happened 
in the houses at the other side of the lane.
When we return, the Sun runs between 
two ends. It is a child, line survivor 
wearing blood over its raw flesh.
I pat its frame, feel the heat. Beneath 
the dark circle of my umbrella it
disappears. I shiver. Am I it in this noir?

 

 

Words and Picture Kushal Poddar

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY

Friday, April 12th

Bernie Shepherdson has alerted us all to the fact that CASHEW (“Come and Sleep Here – Everyone’s Welcome”) – the group the young people have set up in opposition to GASSE  (“Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”), the committee whose aim is to prevent the government dumping a load of unwanted foreigners on to bunk beds in our village hall  – has what he called “a significant social media presence”, and they are very popular. I do not really understand the ins and outs of it all, but he said that they have over 2500 followers on X (which I gather is, or was, Twitter) and a very active and popular Facebook page. 2500 cannot be right, can it? That’s more people than live in the village! Bernie says it means they will probably be winning the argument about whether or not we should entertain the possibility of hosting the unwanteds in the hall, because people will be listening to them and not to GASSE, because we are not saying anything, and we need to get our act together and get on X and Facebook and all the rest of it. As the Parish Council’s CLAPO (Community Liaison and Publicity Officer) the task of doing that falls on me, which is more than unfortunate. I would not know where to start, and I said we would have to talk about it at the next meeting of the Council, but with the elections only a couple of weeks or so away there is only one meeting left before things might change a lot, which I think was a brilliant argument for not doing anything. I am pretty good at that sort of thing. I should have gone into politics.

Speaking of the elections, we now know who the nominees are. I have made a list:

– Bernie Shepherdson and his wife Bernadette – a family affair: Bernie is already on the Council, and Bernadette bakes very good cakes
– William Woods, our current Treasurer & Finance Officer (harmless)
– Major Edward (“Teddy”) Thomas – the Council’s unofficial military advisor
– Miss Tindle (if she is elected, who will make the tea and bring the biscuits and tidy up after us? I am sure that kind of thing is below an actual Councillor’s status)
– Michael Whittingham – an outcast looking to return, and trouble personified. Not to be trusted.
– Bob Merchant – another returner, and probably more trouble: he is very bossy
– Miss Chloe Young – she is in my wife’s yoga class (“Oh Yeah! Yoga!”) and will definitely add a bit of glamour to the meetings
– Nancy Crowe and her daughter Naomi – evidently another family arrangement, and they are probably in league with one another
– Two young people whose names I forget but I gather are friends of Naomi Crowe, which does not bode well
my wife!

I think there are definitely some anti-GASSE people in among those, especially the lady contingent (excluding Miss Tindle) and the young people, which could mean stormy waters ahead. As a result, I have decided to stand, even though my wife has more than implied she would be happy for me not to. I have also come up with what I think is a pretty damn good leaflet to support my campaign. Here is the wording:

Frankly I think this is just too brilliant to go to waste. It will have a photo of me on it, too, wearing my GASSE armband, and my stubbly beard making me look rugged and ready for business. I had hoped that Miss Tindle’s nephew and niece would go round the houses with my leaflets, but as she is also up for election I think that is unlikely to happen. I may have to do it myself, which is a bit of a nuisance.

Saturday, April 13th

I know my wife is not happy that I intend to remain on the Parish Council, but she is putting a brave face on it, and we spent a reasonably pleasant day doing some more pottering around in the garden. In the late afternoon, when we had tidied up and were having a cup of tea in the kitchen, she said she was too tired to cook, and suggested going into Stowmarket for dinner. But I vetoed that, because the only people who can sensibly feel at all comfortable in the centre of Stowmarket on a Saturday night would need to be armed. Instead, we stayed in and I made it up to her by doing a very sumptuous steak with oven chips while she put her feet up with a glass of wine, then we watched “Addams Family Values”. To be precise, my wife watched it, and I pretended to watch it while polishing off the wine. My mind was elsewhere, although I could not say exactly where that was, though I will admit I made sure the newspaper was open and spread out on my lap.

Monday, April 15th

New hair seems to be all the rage. My wife came home from Ipswich a week or so ago looking like Cilla Black, and today I met Miss Tindle outside the shop this afternoon and she has gone for a kind of mid-career Dusty Springfield. It actually quite suits her, for reasons I shall not go into because I am a gentleman and, in the current climate, well aware that one word out of place and I will be in deep doo-doo.

I can only assume that all this personal refurbishment doing the rounds is something to do with the upcoming elections. Even Bernie Shepherdson has had something of a makeover: he is usually quite unkempt, and his hair has not seen a comb since the turn of the century, but this evening in The Wheatsheaf it was clear he has had a definite tidy-up, and his wife Bernadette, who usually looks like she has just come in from cleaning the chicken run or mucking out the stables (not that they have either, but I am painting a word picture here), this evening she was in Sybil Fawlty mode, and a tad overdressed, if I am honest. I did not know the elections were going to be a beauty contest, but I am going to stick with my rugged stubble, not because of the photo on my leaflet, or that I have already had them printed, but because I think I look pretty good.

 

 James Henderson

 

 

 

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The Troubling Lines of The Toilet

Some undefined lines shape
the walls and the door of my toilet.
Time shows its two poles these days.
The quivering lines, rebellious ones,
spill out of frames, tilt even
if my head and heart so conspire.

My safety razor falls into the basin
The pool of quasi solid white and
a red thin bloody swirl rises
for one moment and I steady myself
in the next. I stand stiff, a steep slope then.

I hear your concerns. I hear
your knocking. I listen to
the first cuckoo’s proclamation of Spring.
If I open the door, if I emerge naked
except a towel python around my neck
will you nest with me again in a world
free of worries and fire in its firmament?

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture
 Nick Victor

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Trompe l’oeil

 

 

Dominic Rivron

 

 

 

 

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Tentative Histories

Undefined Boundary. The Journal of Psychick Albion (Temporal Boundary Press)
Interzone, Cormac Pentecost & Lawrence Bailey (Temporal Boundary Press)
Tapeworks. Art & Design of 80’s Experimental Electronic Music (resampld.com)

From humble beginnings in the experimental wings of nature writing, anthropology, history and archaeology, not to mention the early 20th Century concept of ley-lines, through folklore, pagan ritual and Druidic revivals, hippies and the counterculture, the idolisation of the flâneur, and what is now known as psychogeography, have emerged Psychick Albion, alongside Folk Horror and Hauntology: terminology open enough to include anything and everything you want it to.

Undefined Boundary, which now has two years of publishing to its name, two paperback issues per annual cycle, is a case in point. Alongside what I can only call the usual suspects, such as authors Arthur Machen and Susan Cooper, the film Penda’s Fen, and the music of Current 93, we find the artist Paul Nash, author and occultist Ithell Colquhoun, singer Kate Bush, feminist experimental writer Angela Carter, Surrealist Leonora Carrington, Catharine Blake (Mrs. William Blake to you) and the mystics Margery Kempe and Julian of Norwich. Oh, Nigel Kneale’s Quatermass and Led Zeppelin too.

Landscape, magic and visionary arts are the main focus of the journal, with contributions from a wide range of authors, each with their own personal take on things. Mark Fisher and his ideas of hauntology emerges as a key touchstone here, as do what Ithell Colquhoun called ‘Influences, essence, presences […] Stirrings of life, expanding spores, limbo of germination, for all you give me, I offer thanks.’ Embedded memories, communal activities, traces of the unknown, music, painting and creative writing all become ways of navigating the world. Not all of this is inherently good, there are oppressive forces and ‘Provisional Demonology’ considered here.

Although some articles veer towards an academic approach, most adopt a fluid and reader friendly relationship with their subjects, utilising creative non-fiction strategies as a way of combining the personal and experiential with more theoretical ideas. The magazine is a warmhearted and delightful potpourri of material, with issues variously announcing themselves as ‘a resurgent psychedelia for an age of digital conformity’ or an exploration of the ‘numinous underbelly of British culture’, with the aim of ‘keeping the sacred flame [or spark] alive’.

Cormac Pentecost, the editor of Undefined Boundary, is also the writer of Interzone, a dense, wide-ranging typewritten text about areas which are ‘Invisible to cartographers, invisible to the busy and purposeful’, ‘the residual remainder left after Capital has glutted itself to sickness.’ Along with Lawrence Bailey’s photographs of discarded objects, abandoned cars and general waste and decay, Pentecost eulogises the abandoned spaces around us and suggests that ‘The edgelands are the natural place for a countercultural, subversive and radical praxis of artistic and ritual refusal to take place in’, and proposing that ‘There should be a concerted effort to claim the edgelands as a zone of autonomous artistic freedom wherein the beginnings of a new folklore should be forumulated.’

I’m not sure you can simply bring into being ‘new folklore’, which to me is something that emerges naturally from society, place and memory, but I enjoyed this provocative and inspiring pamphlet which questions capitalism and asks us to rethink community, boundaries, counterculture, and indeed how we inhabit and make use of the landscape itself.

Tapeworks is a wonderful small but thick paperback which curates and re-presents art and graphics from albums and tapes of the mostly d.i.y. electronic music scene in the 1980s. If some of the text images, often basically liner notes, make you wonder about their inclusion, the majority of the book showcases the striking use of letraset, collage, pens, typewriters and photocopiers which were de rigeur back in the day. Although I have history in the tape underground, and recognise a few names such as Attrition, Bourbonese Qualk, Coil and Sleep Chamber, most of the bands and their releases are new and unknown to me.

There is little sense of organization, thematic overview or completeness (which is probably for the best given the fetishistic and pornographic art which a lot of industrial and noise releases utilised back in the day), this book simply feels like a quirky personal selection, a gathering up of what was around before time and the relentless march of digitalisation consign both music and this art work to the dustbin of history. It’s a lovely reminder of one countercultural activity in Psychick Albion from back in the day.

 

 

Rupert Loydell

Temporal Boundary Press can be found here.

Tapeworks is available here.

 

 

 

 

 

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Why we are Anarchists

We are Anarchists because it is absolutely impossible to obtain justice for all in any other way than by destroying institutions founded on force and privilege.

We cannot believe that improvement is possible, if we still keep up the same institutions, now more rotten than in the past, or if we merely replace those whose iniquities are known by new men.

These latter become in their turn what the others were, or else become barren.

After the gradual changes of past centuries the hour has come when evolution cannot be separated from revolution, as in all birth they must be accomplished together. You can no more retard the birth of a system than you can that of living being.

In what would you that we should help those who govern—their work being only exploitation and wholesale murder—it has never been otherwise: the reason for the existence of a state is nothing but the accomplishment of some crime or other in order to assure the domination of a privileged class.

An equal division of wealth would also be as mad as capitalism is criminal: to expect any amelioration of misery by modifying laws is a piece of stupidity of which we are not capable: we have seen the work of men whose illusions have only been able to perpetuate misery — millions of years being insufficient for the least amelioration of the lot of the workers. We can now see the fin-de-siècle cutthroats and assassins. That is better. We can see power on trial — we can judge it for what it is worth.

The land which belongs to all can no more be divided than the light which also belongs to all.

When free groups of men will use for the general welfare machines which reduce the hours of labour to a few, and in many forms of production the toil of rough work will be annihilated, there will remain for the intellect of the time, some time for the pursuit of art and science; and when men are delivered from the struggle for existence, they will also be delivered from crime and grief.

The ideal alone is the truth — it is the measure of our horizon. Time was when the ideal was to live without eating an other up. Is it not so still under another form which exists in the so-called civilized countries where the exploiter eats up the exploited? Do not the people in nocks fertilize the soil by their sweat and blood?

That is what we want to destroy — this annihilation — this eating of man by an other man.

The old bogie of “Society” is dead. It is time that she was buried with the worms burrowing in her vitals, in order that the air may be pure for young Anarchy, which will be order and peace under freedom instead of order kept by the murder of the multitudes.

How did I become an Anarchist? This is how. It was during a four months voyage for New Caledonia while looking at the infinity of the sea and of the sky — feeling how miserable living beings are when taken individually — how great is the ideal when it goes beyond time and beyond the hecatombs as far as the new aurora.

There I deeply felt how each drop of water of the waves was but microscopic, but how powerful it was when joined to the ocean.

So also ought each man to be in humanity. As for the third question I am not the least bit in the world “chief” of the “International school”; the word “directrix” which my comrades have joined to my name is worth nothing either, for each of us gives freely according to his conscience the courses of instruction with which he or she has charged him or her self.

What would you have? Our tongue is poor, the words are old and so they ill express new ideas.

And finally is it not time that our limited tongues should fall into the ocean of speech and of human thought? What will be the language of mankind delivered to the new Aurora — Anarchy!

 

 

Louise Michel

 

Louise Michel (1830-1905), who has been called the ‘French grande dame of anarchy’, was a teacher, medical worker and important figure in the Paris Commune. She was deported to New Caledonia where she embraced anarchism, before being given amnesty to return to France, where she emerged as an important French Anarchist and went on speaking tours across Europe.

 

(Reprinted from The Anarchist Library)

 

 

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Late Stage Capitalism and the Pathetic Fallacy

The post brings cold in grey-black packages, slipped through the mouth in the door. It used to be that the weather just changed, and we’d keep tabs on atmospheric pressure, cloud formation, and other natural phenomena, selecting our wardrobe accordingly, and rolling out our grumbles in line with tradition. We’d strip off on sand and wrap ourselves tight against anything involving precipitation in a more-or-less predictable pattern. But the market leads where the market will, and summers were bought and sold, branded in bright folders and snapped up by the one percent. For a while, the hoi polloi could afford to switch between bursting bulbs and golden leaves, with all the attendant sartorial variations, but even they became luxury goods, and even the idea of weather shifted wholly to the metaphorical. And even though my house is choking, still the cold keeps coming. The doormat is a frostbitten tongue, burning at the touch of a single silver coin.

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

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Frontier

The thick-walled trench’s cave-darkness
lies beyond wars of every kind.
Rest here, out of the blaze—the thick air’s
stirred by the thousand breaths

This is the truth, not the stretched
non-immortal breaths burn like daylight when
sun pierces abandoned infant hands.

The stinking bodies and half-living are strewn
like matchsticks under the blue sky,
many large and small bones under ash.

Now the scorched skins catch fire
then hot becomes lukewarm, to days of calm
to come, so that the stains remain in the blood.

The sound of siren weaves the next narrative.

 

 

© Gopal Lahiri
Composite Nick Victor

 

Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata, India, based bilingual poet and critic and published in English and Bengali language. He has published 29 books to his credit and his works are translated in 16 languages. Recent credits: The Wise Owl, Catjun Mutt Press, Dissident Voice, Piker Press, Indian Literature, Kitaab, Setu, Undiscovered Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Shot Glass, The Best Asian Poetry, Converse, Cold Moon, Verse-Virtual journal and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021.

 

https://www.facebook.com/glahiri
Twitter@gopallahiri
www.amazon.in, Gopal Lahiri:

 

 

 

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A Traveller at Dusk

Take, for example, the
rate of economic growth.
Distant figures can be
discerned with some

difficulty but to the
average person dust
just looks like dust.
Then, one day, we

got a call from the
police. Rick Wakeman,
Keith Emerson, Eddie
Jobson or John Evan?

Seen from above these field patterns are
artworks. Is it possible to disagree agreeably?
Suddenly our slope isn’t so slippery. “Now all
we need is for our wings to harden,” she said.

 

 

Steve Spence

 

 

 

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Gatwick

“Would passenger Rapunzel travelling to…”
and there the announcement stops.

Did then a tower truly exist
and she verily therein installéd?
Discuss.

Given (A) The Lady (B) The Tower
likely a virtual castle formed,
stone chiming upon stone, quarry-cut blocks
domino-ringing distant acres to become
the high boundary wall (mentioned by Pevsner).

At weekends, villagers
make a leisurely circuit,
the remote tower seen briefly
through wind turmoiled trees.

Allotted time passes.
How will she then be?
Discuss.

First stop the hair Salon.“A little shorter please.”
Then Woolworths for a suitcase.
At the station, soiled diesels blast through
to the airport where, committed to the journey,
travelers shuffle bags to the desk.

And she?

A rakish Dandini hike to the stance,
a gambled innocence of gaze.
Her voice? Rarely used, a strange music.
“Why yes, is not this all one film setting?”

 

 

 

J.T.M

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Amiable Reciprocity


 
Turn to face away from glass
its penetrating rays are the
enemy caffeine after 4.00 pm
is on the list to be ticked off 
on the note above the desk
this is not a career move though
for those whose ladder is greased 
evenings become an excuse for
inexcusable communication take 
the low ground cornered & found
wanting follow procedure invest
in supply before travel to unravel
under foliage shade where horizon 
is muted & dappled at first light 

 

 
Andrew Taylor

 

 

 

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Matinee


 
No more hiding in our hovels we will meet
the storm on the hill climb the highest
cell phone tower soaked and lightning-lit
remembering that our first love was Earth
the sound of mother’s heart drumming
the beat of the world we too are nature’s
children let us not be afraid we will heft
the burden of society’s lies into wildfire blaze
warm our hands beneath darkening skies
innocence will be our map—no more if only
no more shaming or guilt—we will hold
our fragile inheritance like an old dodgeball
a folded comic book in our back pocket
pumping pedals as we race downhill
so much for the worries of high school
what do they matter now this grief
that sharpens our appetite for living
gleams like a silver dollar inside us
a coin dropped in apocalypse fountain
our long-forgotten gods must be smiling
somewhere enchanted by the fancy
in our childlike eyes wide again with wonder
taking in the end of things like a Saturday matinee
 

 

Al Fournier

 

 

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Ecologue

Fat-cat entrepreneurs greedily lap up profits,
Reduce ‘things’ to plastic-packaged parts,
Drown whale song with drilling and fracking.
Warm ice shelves in toxic oceans,
Clear forests for palm oil plantations.

A line transcendent poets have never uttered:
”Lies, Denial, Greed, Be all you ever need.”

The Eco-warrior’s intent is to defragment,
Restore Earth’s juicy wholeness instead,
Recycle outgrown mindsets,
Produce new paradigms of kindness.

Poets have carved directives for centuries
on trees in Hampstead Heath united:
“Love, Truth, Beauty, Be all you ever need.” 

 

 

Sam Burcher

 

 

 

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things I done and stuff I made

Mailing List Update – March 2024

 

 

PALESTINE


The Zionist myth that Israeli settlers “made the desert bloom” is as inaccurate as the one that Israel was a “land without a people for a people without a land”.⁠

As we can see in Gaza and the West Bank, the process of stripping the land of its people, and reducing cultivated land to slashed and burned wasteland, requires extensive, brutal violence. Olive groves that have been propagated for centuries are torn down by Israeli settlers, water sources are filled with concrete, and farmers are violently expelled from their land.⁠

In the 1948 Nakba, at least half of the Arab population of Palestine, (700,000 people,) were driven from their homes, and forbidden from returning. Villages were razed, and archaeological sites destroyed. There has been a deliberate attempt by the Israeli state to make its claim of a “land without a people” a retrospective reality. As they will attempt to do with Gaza, after this Second Nakba.⁠

According to Decolonizing Palestine: “The vast majority of cultivated agricultural land in Israel today was already being cultivated by Palestinians before their ethnic cleansing… On the eve of the 1948 war, around 739,750 acres of land were being cultivated by Palestinians. These cultivated lands were so vast, that they were “greater than the physical area which was under cultivation in Israel almost thirty years later.” The agricultural core of the Israeli state consists of cultivated farmland that was stolen from Palestinian refugees after their ethnic cleansing.”⁠

Colonial ideology has always needed to believe that conquered peoples were idle, ignorant and backwards, unable to manage their own resources, and always requiring Western intervention to improve and utilize the land beneath their feet. The more we learn about the civilisations that European colonialism has destroyed, the more we discover that we were simply importing our own ignorance into these nations, alongside our violence and disease. The people who lived there before we arrived knew all too well how to live in their own land.⁠

So no, Israel did not “make the desert bloom”, like all European colonial projects, they did little more than pave paradise and put up a parking lot.

 

FUCKS SAKE

 

 

Made some new badges for my shop, so you can constantly be saying your favourite catchphrase.

Sort of like an automated email reply but for real life

Available here.

 

 

 


EVICTION UPDATE

I’ve now had confirmation that I’ll be evicted from my studio/Museum of Neoliberalism by the end of September this year, which means it will be closing around the end of August to give me time to dismantle and move out. Still plenty of time to visit if you haven’t seen it yet!

Luckily I am progressing with plans for a move to a new studio but nothing is set in stone yet, so I don’t want to jinx it! I’m hoping for proper confirmation in the next couple of months.

To help fund the move I’ve been selling off some original artworks, including some 3D works that weren’t previously for sale, such as an edition of Action Man: Battlefield Casualties (be warned however they are not priced like toys!) If you’d like to see the updated catalogue just reply to this email and I’ll send you it over.

 

MUSEUM OF FREE DERRY

 

While I was in Ireland recently I visited Derry and the Museum of Free Derry where my Bloody Sunday Bayeux Tapestry is on display. It’s such an honour to have my work here, and it was great to see the museum itself, which is an important and fascinating history of the Troubles and of the anti-Catholic apartheid in the North which was instrumental in triggering the conflict. In many ways the city of Derry is like a microcosm of the colonisation, subjugation and partition of Ireland.

The scale of state violence from the plastic and rubber bullets, chemical weapons, batons with nails driven through them, and live ammunition that were used against a civilian population is hard to get your head around, particularly when this was happening in what is, ostensibly at least, a UK city, and within living memory.

My parents are both Irish, (as I am by citizenship, but not birth,) so I have heard and learned a lot over the years about the history of British violence in Ireland, but I still find myself surprised at horrors and injustices that were perpetrated here, and at the brazen cover-ups, whitewashing and collusion between the British state and Loyalist terrorists.

As our brilliant tour guide around the murals and sites of the Bloody Sunday massacre told us, Derry is perhaps the most rioted city in history, as people who were pushed to their limits, crammed into overcrowded housing and denied jobs, housing, and even votes based on their religion and politics, rebelled against their oppressors and shook the bars of their cages.

While “Free Derry” was a short-lived moment in the history of the struggle, it is an inspiring one and one which links to the struggles of dispossessed and oppressed people the world over. As can be seen with the many Palestine flags that hang alongside the Irish tricolour, it is the same struggle against colonisation, injustice, and oppression from here to there.

“Our revenge will be the laughter of our children” – Bobby Sands

 

PATREON ZINE

My 64-page 2023 recap zine for my Patreon backers has been mostly shipped now. But there are still copies left if you want to sign up for £3.50 a month here and get your copy.

I’ll be doing another post out by the end of the month, then as long as there are some left then every three months new subscribers will get a copy until they run out. Then there will be a new zine for 2024

 

SALE

I made a bit of a mistake recently and ordered a restock of these Don’t Believe Billionaires Mugs when I actually needed Not Piss mugs. So now I have far too many of these mugs and I don’t want to have to move them all to my new studio, so you can get one for a limited time at 20% off. Just use the code BILLIONOFF

 

 

 

Similarly I think I have too many of these Barbenheimer shirts in black and pink while on the other hand you have too few of them, so you can get an extra 20% off these by using the code PLASTIC

 

 Order here.

 

 

 


READING/WATCHING

Last night I watched The Checkpoint (2003) a documentary about IOF checkpoints in the occupied Palestinian territories – its an incredibly moving, infuriating and insightful film.

After my trip to Derry I’m also planning to rewatch Channel 4’s dramatisation of the Bloody Sunday massacre Sunday (2002) which I remember being very good when I saw it 20 years ago! As well as the new documentary on The Troubles, Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland. If anyone has recommendations on documentaries specifically about security service collusion with Loyalist terrorists in the North please let me know.

I’m also currently (slowly) reading:
Nuclear War: A ScenarioAnnie Jacobsen
Killing Hope: U.S. Military and CIA Interventions since World War II – William Blum
The Black Jacobins C. L. R. James

All of them absolutely fascinatingly grim. My favourite!

This update is public and shareable so please feel free to pass it on. If you’re not on my mailing list but would like to be you can sign up here.

Eternal thanks to anyone who’s ever backed my work on Patreon or through the shop!

And thanks for reading!

 

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Six EARTH WORDS poems for International Times for Earth Day 2024

 

The Silver Bugle by Ken Beevers

We scan the skies
for our uncommon summer visitors.
Always last to arrive,
they keep us waiting
in fear of hearing nothing.

Listening, you pick him out,
“wood warbler on the right,“ you shout,
and reverently lead me,
to the soft, repeated, trilling whistle,
like a silver bugle.

But playing the last post,
if we cannot change their plight.

You well up when you hear,
the melancholy tearful voice,
the rapid shivering,
wing quivering call,
like a spinning coin on a stone slab,
which abruptly stops.

Will it be,
heads, thin pointed bill,
beautiful dark brown eyes,
yellow eye stripe,
feathers in olive grey and lime and soda.
Or tails, – never seen, or heard again.

The charismatic double voice
is a bouncing ball,
getting closer and closer to the ground,
sad opening notes, he has flown
thousands of miles to perform.

Finally we see him,
our arboreal leaf searcher,
flitting about in the verdant canopy,
tumbling from branch to branch,
bright zesty yellow green,
in harmony with the tender shades,
of the opening leaves,
and pale branches,
of oak and beech.

Our woodland habitat is going,
and their wintering trees in the west African rainforest,
are being felled.

The W in their name will be inverted,
and warbler will become marble.

A cold memorial,
to a bird who sang
a joyful oakwood song.

Spin the coin.

Heads or tails?
It’s up to us.

 

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https://www.sciencealert.com/hundreds-of-millions-of-birds-have-vanished-across-europe-over-the-past-40-years

 

 

The Black Cross by Ken Beevers

You rode wave after wave
of sickness and nausea
until your pulse was weak
and you were as pale as the sheets.

I was worried you would die
but you were just about
clinging on.

You lay in a strange bed,
in a room with no colour.
The sickly hotel painting
was removed and replaced
with a coat hanger to support
the intravenous drip
slowly introducing fluid
to save your life.

The tube was like
the urethane surfboard leash
attached to your hand only days ago,
when the sun came out after prolonged rain,
and town and campsite emptied joyfully
onto the sands and into the sea,
like a packet of seeds.

You were so happy surfing
the wide, white tipped rollers
under a thistle blue sky.

Then, because of a secret
sewage leakage, you
ingested a parasite
and your life changed
like quicksilver, due
to a third world disease
found in water.

How could this happen
in the 21st century,
in England,
in a world surfing reserve
of flagged blue beaches?

I won’t say where this was.
But if it was a rhyming poem,
it would be a North Devon beach to avoid,
though it could be any of 37 in Devon
or 83 in the British Isles,
where sewage leaks
into the sea
after heavy rain.

Back home,
after samples were taken,
the bug was identified as Giardisis:
a notifiable, public disease.

I was so proud of our water authority.

I filled in the form, afraid
of being found out and shamed
and sent it to the inevitable black hole
we never heard from again.

Graphs and diagrams were made
by the Office of National statistics.

We know record levels of sewage
are being dumped in the sea
and hospital admissions
for waterborne diseases
are up 60% (Guardian 30 March 2024).

It’s been counted,
so that’s alright then.

At home I bought
a tin of matt black
and painted
an immaculate
black cross
on our front door
to warn people
to stay away because
there was a notifiable, 
public disease in our house.  

I was so proud of our country.

Will every door have a black cross one day?
Will it replace the cross on the Devon flag,
and the Cornish Saltire?  

The tide of public protest should make it stop,
but it won’t unless we all object.

 

Support Surfers Against Sewage! 

 

 

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2024/mar/29/hospital-admissions-for-waterborne-diseases-in-england-up-60-report-shows

 

 

 

Rite Of Passage (How To Eat Your Ortolan1) by Kate Meyer Currey

 

Starched linen skies 
suffocate branched
bones

Fallen blossom of
wing feather boughs
broken 

Felled by musket 
shots spring notes 
muffled 

By gluttony nested 
on cold porcelain 
limed

In weltered blood 
and marrow fat as
silver 

Cutlery cracks your 
fragile twigs so it’s 
goodbye

Baby bunting you’re 
a seasonal delicacy 
beware 

All you pretty larks 
there’s a traditional
recipe

For your destruction
French cuisine has
plucked 

You over as dainty 
dishes set before 
greedy 

Ogres caging you 
like Strasbourg
geese 

Craws stuffed with
millet you’re rich 
pickings 

Drowned in cognac 
no way to sing for 
your 

Last supper little 
bird now you’re a 
feast 

For internet TV
culture vultures 
gorging 

On your demise
starring in a new 
brand 

Of snuff movies
for gourmands
inhaling 

Your songs like
vapour a species 
extinguished

Dying notes linger
on spring’s silent 
tongue 

 

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1 ‘Ortolan’ is a cruel dish of little Ortolan bunting songbirds roasted and eaten whole. The poor birds are trapped in France as they fly South for the winter, are force-fed millet for 21 days (during which they triple in size, nearly bursting out of their bodies,) before they are drowned in Armagnac brandy.  

Those who partake of this abominable ritual eat the birds with their heads covered by a towel, to trap the ‘aromas’ – and historically to hide their disgraceful act and shame from God.  

French Ortolan populations are dangerously low now. In 2007 the French government finally announced its intent to enforce the long-ignored laws protecting these vulnerable birds.
 

https://twistedfood.co.uk/articles/this-is-the-horrifying-banned-dish-thats-regularly-described-as-the-most-decadent-on-earth

 

 

 

Prayer for the herring gulls by Heidi Stephenson

 

Aves, Aves, Aves Laridae!1
Aves, Aves, Aves Laridae!

Named after your favourite food
and now dying of starvation, dying out2
because we have emptied the seas,
hoovered up the herrings,
murdered the migrating mackerel,
killed off the shimmering shoals:
(trawling, drifting, trapping, netting)
for our tins, pans and field fertilizers.

And we scream, we scream
at you, our noisy neighbours,
with your loud, laughing calls,
your fledglings’ incessant peep-peeping,
(that warmed us once with mother love,
with marvellous, maritime memories,)
and curse the coastal “vermin”
for snatching at an ice-cream,
for pinching a bit of deluxe
crab and lobster sandwich,
for being forced to swallow
a boiling chip, a searing,
salt-saturated mouth-burner,
lacking all nutrition and essentials
for a desperate, daring bird –
but hungrily scavenged,
dangerously3 nose-dived for,
from among the lapful of fried fish
of the well-fed, bursting tourist.

Aves, Aves, Aves Laridae! 1
Aves, Aves, Aves Laridae!

The sea’s silver soul sailor,
sky-sweeping, wheeling siren,
keen-eyed, pale-eyed sentinel,
ancient wave wanderer…
forced to scrape and beg
for left-overs
from the tight-lipped grasping.

Forced to empty bins
and peck at paper, plastic, polystyrene.

 

1 Aves is the Latin word for bird. Laridae is the family name for the seabirds which include gulls, skimmers, terns, noddies and kittiwakes. This is a deliberate echoing of the Ave Maria (Hail Mary) prayer and Catholic hymn: Ave, Ave, Ave Maria!

2 Since 2009, herring gulls in the UK have been on the RSPB’s Red List of birds of conservation concern. The species is declining rapidly across the country (50% over the past 25 years,) contrary to public perception, despite an increase in urban areas. They are now protected by law. 

3 In St Ives a man kicked a seagull to death…for stealing a chip. Tragically, this was not an isolated incident. Human violence against hungry gulls is an increasing problem.

 

 

 

BOUTIQUE BRIXHAM by Amanda Cuthbert

 

A cacophony of gulls
shriek a water warning 
to baffled businesses

Waves rev up a rebellion  
Barriers bristle indignantly
but lose the battle

Artisan café lattes float free from tables  
as local cheeses learn to navigate
the deluge

Sewers shout as their outflow is reversed
and Primrose Properties
turns brown in dismay

The Curious Kitchen has only one question
for The Curious Bakery
What did we do?

The Bottle Shop loses not only its bottle,
but the whole lot, to sunlit carpools
of half drowned metal

The Lucky Boat longs for a lifeboat
The RNLI shop prays for a rescue
Fish float into The High Tide Fisheries

Super Sodden Stuff replaces Lifestyle Design 
Ignorant images drown at
Photography of the Discerning Dog     

Squabbling deckchairs clatter against the harbour wall,
their erstwhile occupants
no longer there to hold them back

Only the gulls remain, silent at last,
picking over human remains
near the desolate beach.                

 

 

 

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER by Nicola Fyfe

 

We are the lambs with the black spot
separated from the flock,
our pretty play forgotten.
We stand,
quietly,
alert,
listening for the cheerful calls,
of our names.
Proudly hand reared,
small in number,
kindly castrated with rubber ring—
to deaden the pain,
to kill the nerve endings,
to lessen the cortisol flooding our tiny bodies,
when only hours old,
on stumbling fragile legs.

But there is no friendly call or caress, today,
Red and Cam have no fragrant herbal treat for us;
they are subdued and don’t look us in the eye.
Waiting for what on this blue-sky day of scudding clouds?

A car pulls up,
a woman steps out into the dirt.
I sneeze at the dust
that dances in the breeze,
 that brings our mothers’ calls from distant field.
She brings her camera.
We are photogenic,
as we leap and bleat.
But these are muted greetings,
Sheepish, even …

 

***

 

‘I nearly didn’t come,’ she said.

I left the kids in bed,
still sleeping in that soft warmth of body heat.
The coffee was bitter
 in my food-writer’s kitchen of gleaming steel pans and sharpened blades.
I couldn’t face breakfast,
so quietly closed the door on domesticity.

My friends have a farm and I eat meat,
I’ve written disparaging comments of supermarket meat wrapped in plastic on polystyrene trays,
their laughable sprigs of rosemary,
mock appeal to authenticity, and
our deadened connection with the primal process.

For my readers’ benefit I would bear witness
to small-scale slaughter.
No stress,
no industrial suffering,
no terrifying journey crammed into a transporter,
no scent of terror at the abattoir.
Three lambs—
three lambs only for the farmer’s personal use.
Killed with care;
their one bad day.

So why do I feel so uneasy?

 

***

 

For fuck’s sake what are we waiting for?
She’s here,
let’s go.
A bullet in the head, one … two …
Catch Curly would you?
When I pulled him out of his mother I knew he was a lively one,
Got him … three.

A single shot to the head with a rifle—
respectful, like.
Cam bends to cut the throats,
he does it quick.
Let’s get ‘em to the shed.
‘Jen, the wheelbarrow?
Okay, I’ll get it myself.’

Camera dangling at her side,
She doesn’t look so clever now.
What did she expect?

 

***

 

The legs are tangled,
Necks slack,
As we bump along to the shed

I know they think I’m a wimp,
A townie wimp,
I’ll show them or I’ll never hear the end of it.

I’m better in my place,
behind the lens, where
professionalism conquers the numbness of death.
The readers don’t need gratuitous violence …
So, I missed the shot!
The moment—
the passing from life to death.

Hang on, a good shot here,
hanging by the back legs.
‘Hold it Cam—

‘Move the blade to the right—
perfect.’

He’s careful not to piece the flesh,
pulling the skin off the front legs—
like the kid’s passive resistance when they get undressed.

A sharp crack of the neck
 as the head is removed,
the plop of the guts,
happens,
again, and
again.
Until the three are reunited in the cool room of the local cafe,
to hang for a couple of weeks,
before being driven back to the farm,
for butchering.

 

***

 

I was invited to dinner, on the farm, three weeks’ later,
We had slow cooked lamb with silverbeet and potatoes.
The meat was pale but rich.
One lamb provides up to twenty meals.
We all enjoyed the food,
But agreed,
That given all the work and time involved to produce meat like this,
We’d eat less,
If this was the only way to get it.

I’d think more about where my next meal’s coming from,
But I won’t stop eating meat.
My headline:
Provenance Matters to Me More Than Ever.

 

***

 

So that’s it then,
it’s all over and it’s okay?
Jen’ll write another story about happy free-range chickens, and
which wine stands up to paprika.
Our throats are cut,
so you can’t hear our voices.

Can’t or won’t?

Our atoms come from star dust,
like you,
Our hearts beat and lungs exchange air,
like you,
Our brains wonder and feel,
like you

We are Curly, Fleece, and Tom,
The lambs of the black spot,
whose juices flow like blood and excuses
from your fork to red mouth.
Our grease spurts from the pan
and moistens your lips,
Our sinews tear for your pleasure.

Each taste is death,
A life lost.
Pain for your ignorant gain.
The contract of universal love—
Broken.

 

Note: This is a narrative found poem using an article from the Guardian describing a food writer witnessing the on-farm slaughter of three lambs in Australia. Characters are: the three lambs, the two farmhands Red and Cam, and Jen, the food writer.

 

Food for Earth Day thought: 

https://www.peta.org.uk/blog/how-going-vegan-helps-stop-climate-change/ 

https://www.sciencealert.com/oxford-scientists-confirm-vegan-diet-is-massively-better-for-planet 

https://www.forksoverknives.com/wellness/vegan-diet-helps-environmental-sustainability/ 

https://animalclock.org/uk/

 

 

EARTH WORDS was facilitated and produced by Heidi Stephenson at Brixham Library in Devon, and supported using public funding by the National Lottery through Arts Council England, with support in kind from Libraries Unlimited. This is a small sample of the 60 poems which resulted from the project.

 

            

 

 

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SAUSAGE Life 295

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column that occasionally says maybe but often actually means perhaps

READER: I’ve had it with Netflix.

MYSELF: Yes, I know what you mean. Its the new Blockbusters.

READER: At least at ‘Busters you would usually come home with something, even if it was an animated Scandi version of the film you actually wanted. What are we supposed to do now that proper live entertainment doesn’t exist any more? It’s all dead in the water, like our great British pantomime tradition. 

MYSELF: That’s where you’re wrong – for example last week I was lucky enough to get tickets to a 2024 production of the Vera Lynne Memorial Panto & Tea Dance at the Upper DIcker Pilates Centre, starring Jason Donovan as Rishi-Washi the Chinese money-laundry boy.

READER: Woof! That sounds edgy.

MYSELF: White Cliffs of Dover never sounded so fascist. It was not only edgy but gritty and dare I say it, daring. I mean, where else would you come across a pantomime man worked by two horses?

READER: Horses? Don’t be ridiculous. How would that work?

MYSELF: One at the front, one at the back.

READER: Of course.

MYSELF: After the Panto they had mind games, abstract expressionist face painting, pass the suspicious parcel and later, after the children had cleared off, stilting.

READER: Stilting? What’s that?

MYSELF: This is a family paper, so I’m afraid I’ll have to tell you some other time, in private. Suffice it to say everyone went home smiling.

DICTIONARY CORNER

Poppycock (n) the shrivelled penis of an opium addict
Sewage (n) the aftermath of too much needlework

WARRIORS’ WOES
Hastings & St. Leonards Warriors  have appointed a new head coach, gifted psychic and amateur ventriloquist Seaton Sluice, aka The Great Mento,who is looking forward to levitating the sagging fortunes of the ailing soccer club.
“I predict that this club is destined for the future”, he told us without moving his lips, “I see great things ahead”.
No stranger to criticism, his controversial coaching methods include encouraging the team to communicate with the dead via a Ouijaboard, teaching them card tricks and conducting training sessions with Douglas his ventriloquist dummy.
“Douglas helps me get my tactics across to the players, some of whom are, frankly, a bit thick. Battle-scarred midfield enforcer Nobby Balaclava for instance, still has to have his boots labelled left and right, and Irish striker Finnigan Swake is well known for forgetting to wear his shorts when coaching the ladies team”.
The new coach, formerly manager of Herstmonceux Cannibals FC replaces disgraced Italian supremo Sergio ‘The Horse’ Peccadillo, whose departure coincides with accusations of inappropriate behaviour with team physio Sabrina Devine (aka Lulu LaVerne). She alleges that il capo showered her with a succession of suggestive gifts, including a studded leather apron illustrated with scenes from My Fair Lady and a set of casserole dishes with pictures of scantily clad ladies whose clothes disappeared when they were put in the oven.

CAT SAT
Issue 666 of Witch, the consumer magazine dedicated to occult-based mumbo-jumbo, features an interview with Hastings inventor Professor Gordon Thinktank, in which he recommends that all black cats be fitted with his latest innovation, an anti-bad luck helmet dubbed The Cat-Nav. The satellite-linked device automatically detects when an innocent stroller’s path is likely to be crossed by the animal and transmits an electronic image of a plump, delicious mouse directly into the predatory area of the cat ‘s brain. This distracts the animal whilst emitting a piercing siren which prompts the pedestrian to take evasive action. The inventor, according to Witch, is also working on a ladder which automatically folds up when anyone attempts to walk under it.

ASK THE JUDGE
In which readers’ legal questions are addressed by His Worship Lord Justice Hyphen-Hyphen KC & Bar.

Dear Your Worship
As a one-man pantomime swan act, I implore you to settle this question once and for all. Are pantomime swans required to conform to the same Equity regulations as pantomime horses? I mean, does there have to be one small actor in the front and another one in the back? I enclose a publicity shot of me in my one-man-operated swan costume, described by Stage magazine as “more swan-like than the real thing”. However thanks to intense union pressure, I now find myself effectively blacklisted in the pantomime swan community.
Melvin Twollet, Hartlepool

VERDICT:
Whilst I sympathise with your current employment difficulties, this is a matter of health and safety. Equity rule 2177114(b) specifies that there should at all times be two small actors inside every pantomime swan, (see Quigley vs Theatre Royal Doncaster 1948), principally so that the one in the rear can act as a guard.

Your Honour,
Is it true that if one is bitten by, or receives a severe scratch from the claws of a badger (Meles meles), one might eventually turn into a badger? What I would like to know is, if that were to occur, where would one stand, legally?
Beatrice Rasputin (Mrs),
Lilliputtenden, Wessex

VERDICT:
An interesting question, which brings immediately to mind the notorious precedent of Schultz v Stott (Nottingham Crown Court 1993).
After being bitten by a badger, window-cleaner Darren Schultz woke up the following morning with the overwhelming notion that he was a badger. With the aid of hair dyes and a small fortune spent on nose operations, he was eventually able to, as he put it, “go and live in the woods with my people”.
During the court appearance shortly after his arrest for causing a nuisance in the garden of his former neighbour Angelica Stoat, council for the defence argued that since he now lived in the woods and foraged for insects and the occasional earthworm and furthermore had been cautioned on several occasions for urban bin raiding, he should now be classed as a badger. One witness for the prosecution swore under oath that Mr. Schultz, had given TB to one of his cows.
The magistrate, former dairy farmer Wilhelmina Salamander would have none of this, ruling that becoming like a badger was not the same as becoming a badger, and ordered that the defendant be culled.

 

 

Sausage Life!

 
 

 

Sausage Life!
Saol na ispíní! 

ATTENZIONE!
‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.
Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.
Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)




Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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By Colin Gibson

 

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Twilight

Pouring out the blood. The soil is saturated. Somewhere down the street the trees have pulled their roots, perforating the ground. People fleeing, carrying pails of water, blankets, nesting birds. The glaciers haven’t reached us yet. Someone said they’ve already melted and there is no more ice, no more snow, no more images of winter or spring. Pouring out the blood. The starlight and ragged moon beams. The ground is half-frozen; there are holes where the trees were. People fleeing, carrying children and birds, cats and bread. The road is scarred and stony. Tripping over and under and all along the edge of the road, flowers evaporate, bushes roll off. No one is speaking. Pouring out the blood. The soil is saturated, the sun rolling down the street, stopping where the trees had been, burning the remaining roots.

 

 

Andrea Moorhead

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Chat About the Local Elections

– It’s that time of year again, and the excitement is building.
– You’re like a buck rabbit in Spring, you always get over-excited during April. I suppose you’ve had your special trousers cleaned?
– No, it’s not that, it’s election time is coming.
– Oh, remind me not to answer the doorbell for the next week or two, the canvassers will be out and about.
– Yes, you were lucky not to be charged with assault last year.
– He had it coming. He was a Tory.
– You can’t wallop someone just for being a Tory.
– Are you sure?
– Pretty sure. Anyway, I’m thinking of voting for the Greens this time around.
– Seriously? They don’t stand a chance.
– I know, but it’ll make a nice change, and I feel like having a laugh.

 

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

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Extinction Blues


 
Shrinking habitats
(Where it isn’t at)
Your sinking city
The world over
 
Where overlaps mean plague,
Blight, exhaustion
The brink
 
Doing only damage
To beauty spot
Or sacred site
 
Your flooded street
(Your) pointless summit
(Noun or verb)
 
Bunker, turret, off planet
The elites (do not disturb) –
Secure estate & space
 
Hotter & colder
Forever doing only damage
(Your spreading suburbs)
To esteem & place.

 

 

© Stephen C. Middleton

 

 

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bread and bombs

 

from the most violent of skies:

the most heinous

of acts.

 

they’re dropping bread.

they’re dropping bombs.

 

sustenance and slaughter,

disproportionately measured

by the same hand.

 

no loaves, nor fishes

– no feast for the multitude.

no miracles for the masses.

 

– tokenistic offerings

placating adversaries.

absolutions of guilt.

 

in the faces of the forsaken:

sunken eyes

and hollowed cheeks.

 

… pray, let the crows not gather.

 

I,

as audience,

in a theatre most horrid,

can all but watch …

 

avert one’s eyes

for the sake of dignity,

of humanity?

or,

continue as witness

less never to forget?

 

 

emma lumsden

11.03.2024

 

 

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The Lavender Gospel

 


She wishes her floods of tears away,

Thinking of all the lost promises
Behind these black, smoking skeletons.
Where is my baby, husband, lover?
Where is my sister, aunt, brother?

Vultures took our houses, land and lives.

Tell me. Who is lost?  
You?  
Or us?
Come. Talk!
We are also flesh and blood.

Let us bury our fears,
Keep our precious memories.
None of us will escape from this,
Charred stains
Always in our minds.

The reckoning choice;
Together or destroyed?
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Weighed on scales of platitudes,
That will never take our pain away

.

.

Christopher  4 April 2024

 

 

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from THE ADVENTURES OF TARQUIN   

Chapter 17 – Heading North

Tarquin had been having a rather lonely time of late, since his relationship with Chantelle, an exotic dancer at Club Bonbon, had imploded more rapidly than he had expected. His optimism had faltered when it was apparent that Chantelle had no interest in helping him assemble some new flat-pack furniture from Ikea, and that they had argued about how to pronounce “Ikea” had not boded at all well. She did not even show any interest in his collection of Margaret Atwood novels! So it came as no surprise when Chantelle called time on things, and told him to stay the hell away from the club or there would be trouble big-time. This was bad news, because he had forked out for a year’s membership, and there was still ten months to go. But he knew that Chantelle knew some fearsome people there, so he was not going to take any chances.

On this particular morning, Tarquin had feigned collapse and lain prone for two or three minutes on the southbound platform of the Northern Line at Euston even though he had been heading east to be nearer his once upon a time Chinese concubine Li Mei Meng at her family home in Xiamen, Fujian Province, in the People’s Republic. His sense of direction had never been very good. Realising that no-one was going to come and offer him assistance, and that this method of meeting new people was proving to be spectacularly unsuccessful, he picked himself up and dusted himself down and checked to make sure that his copy of “Sonnets to Awfulness” by Rainy Marina Rilke had not fallen out of his coat pocket, which it had done on several occasions, as though it had been trying to escape to a better and more fulfilling life.

He had not heard from Li Mei Meng for several months; she was not replying to emails or WeChat messages. Tarquin worried that she may have fallen foul of the dastardly Chinese government. According to recent news reports, they had been clamping down on any displays of cheerfulness and the unnecessary use of cosmetics. Tarquin did not know if these reports were true. They sounded a trifle draconian, but these days you just don’t know, do you?

Deciding that the London Underground was not where he wanted to be, and that perhaps the time had come for him to seek pastures new, Tarquin abandoned his frankly idiotic plans to head to the Orient and instead made his way to the railway station that was above the ground and brought a ticket to the North of England. He had read somewhere about this land of milk and honey where the lasses were sturdy in a good way and enormous fun to be with, and where you could buy loads of things for almost no money, and he had often considered checking it out but had never gotten around to it. Now he had time a-plenty on his hands, and there was a vacancy in the paramour department, and so he thought, Why the hell not? So what if it meant learning a new language so he could talk to the Northern people and thereby conquer a heart or two? Accordingly, before very much longer, Tarquin was trying to work out how to buy a train ticket from a self-service machine that looked at him as if it couldn’t care less.

 

Conrad Titmuss

 

 

 

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‘Made Undone’ Rhiannon Crutchley

 

The Brewer’s Daughter

Some thoughts on Rhiannon Crutchley’s new album from Alan Dearling

Rhiannon Crutchley is a narrow-boat dweller and much of the content in this new album reflects her  water-borne lifestyle. It’s a highly personal and independent-minded album. As an alternative, acoustic musician, she performs under the stage name: The Brewer’s Daughter.

Her latest collection offers what are possibly folk songs for darklings! They are frequently a fulsome mix of optimism and angst. It’s a powerful, and at times, edgy and angry album.  But as the Brewer’s Daughter she profers a rich variety of styles, which she describes as, “…folk, world music, grunge, ska, blues and soul”. She is a multi-instrumentalist, performing on acoustic guitar and violin, and along with Magnus Martin (guitarist with Hawkwind) on lead guitar and on piano for the final track, ‘The Way We Were’, offers some really rather drop-dead, gorgeous instrumental and lyrical magic alongside plenty of well-crafted songs.

Even after one listen, many of the songs, like adoptive ear-worms, feel familiar, like old friends. Overall, as the Brewer’s Daughter on this new album, she often adopts a slightly sneering, challenging, working-class tone and diction. For instance, on ‘The Kitten’ she reminded me a little of Kirsty MacColl on ‘Fairytale of New York’.  Indeed, there’s a piratical swagger, a kind of minstrelsy to many of the tunes including ‘Hazel’ which comes later in the album. She offers a number of songs from her boat-dwelling life including the plaintive, ‘Waterways Lament’, that fears the demise of ‘real’ Travellers and working boats as pleasure boats cause mayhem on ‘The Cut’, as the waterways are known. In the opening number, ‘Single Berth’, there is a hint of positivity, where she sings, “There’s space for you on my single berth.”   There are also Ukrainian influences from her own heritage present in her chosen tracks, such as the eventual, powerful surge of energy in her fiddle-playing on ‘Frailach’, which reminded me a little of the old Traveller band, Tofu Love Frogs.

And, since the first listen, I’ve returned again to the closing track, ‘The Way We Were’, which could easily be used for a film soundtrack with the gently interweaving sounds of violin and piano in what is almost a semi-classical arrangement. Reminiscent of rippling water and iridescent with the repeated musical motifs that shimmer and shift. A kind of beatific ‘Tubular Bells’ for the New Age, perhaps. The track actually employs the musical theme from the second track on the album, ‘The Wolf’. ‘The Wolf’ live: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTFVhB12Tek

https://thebrewersdaughter.bandcamp.com/album/made-undone

Rhiannon, Magnus and her friend, Mel Rogers from Tarantism are part of The Brewer’s Daughter ‘Made Undone’ tour this spring.  Rhiannon told me: “Yes, it’s very difficult filling in so many roles during a release. I’m rather looking forward to being a musician again on tour, but I suppose I’ll have to be a promoter, work the door, sometimes even a sound engineer too!”

Rhiannon adds: “This (album) is made for the sake of creating something beautiful. Being completely free and independent meant that The Brewer’s Daughter has clearly made no compromise.”

‘MADE UNDONE’ – Rhiannon Crutchley on “What’s in a name?”

‘Made Undone’ also signifies the development a woman goes through when they are reaching the end of their time as ‘Maiden’. With these images I play with themes of innocence, sexuality, fertility and combine them with a look in the eye that someone only inhibits once they have fought through their adolescence and reached that point where they really have had to reign over their own world.

The use of a custom-made Ukrainian flower crown gives these notions of being a pure young woman, ready and ripe for pregnancy/marriage but paradoxically worn by myself, imposing, unmarried and childless with a rage in the eye of someone who has had enough of society’s expectations. I stand like a gypsy queen preparing to charge the battlefield. That red fuck-me lipstick is dripping in irony. Give them what they want, while you still have it. Knowing that there isn’t a chance in hell I’m going to fuck you.

Every album is cathartic. It’s like drawing a line under that chapter of your life. This is where I’m at, and man, that last chapter was a tough one. Let me release this beast, all the ashes of my past life and let me grow something beautiful from it. This offering of art-music-words-poetry is the garden that has grown from the dirt of the life I leave behind me. Take my hand and let me guide you slowly through that garden.”

 

 

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Who will look after the garden while I’m gone?

 

For Basia

 

I will,’ said January.
‘I will anchor it to the earth with snowdrops.
I will give it my stone, the garnet.’
‘It is mine,’ said February.
‘I will feed it the memory of all that grows.
I will welcome it with my stone the amethyst and with primrose.’

‘I will coax it with bloodstone and daffodil,’ said March,
Like a boxer battered by winter
I will lift myself from the frosty canvas of the earth to welcome it.’
‘With diamond and daisy I will seduce it.

“I will soak it in shower after shower,’ said April.
‘In the yawny earth its seeds will riot.’
‘I will make it dizzy with emeralds
And the fumes of the hawthorn,’ said May.
‘It will know of nothing but play.’

‘And I will adorn it with necklaces of honeysuckle and ruby,’ said June.
‘Their clasps will be made out of the honeybees wings.’
It will dance to my languid tune.’

I will contain it,’ said July.
‘I will handcuff it with briar and chrysolite,
Drug it with the scent of roses.’

August spoke from the garden’s still centre.
‘I will weep layer upon layer of sardonyx.
I will teach it the brevity of poppies.’

‘When its bones begin to creak
I will cure it with aster and opal,’
Promised September

I will guide it towards sleep with the cold light of sapphires.
For its lullaby I will provide the swan-song of dahilias,’
Said October.

‘Under the dead weight of chrysanthemums I will bury it,’
Said November.

‘I will give it a headstone of topaz, a rosary of berries.’
‘And I will guard its sleep,’ said December.
‘On a pillow of moonstone
It will dream of holly and the coming snowdrop.’

 

 

Brian Patten: Garden Lore

Paintings by Adrian Henri
https://www.adrianhenri.com/paintings?fbclid=IwAR2SQuXjVEbBdF7GauekH8zzNjFon5SnSAgBwWze4M9pQhC_72hsHQjsCtc_aem_AZpNa8-C7lkxKZjno2QHh-nibQfyTy8953eNHza_JqCaS2Zj2pdp8QOjnMWlysz_bPwQqvnHnQctKzJom1x5wUIb

Thanks to Malcolm Paul

 

 

 

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from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY

Monday, April 8th

My head is full of quandary as I try to come to terms with the fact that my wife is planning to stand for the Parish Council, and has made it fairly plain that she does not care whether or not I stand for re-election – I am already on the Council – her implication being that I should change my mind and stand down. Not that we’ve really discussed the matter. She seems to be treating it as something of a fait accompli and is swanning around quite happily as if nothing is the matter and being very very nice to me, which for some reason I am finding quite annoying, although I have to hide that of course, because before she dropped this bombshell our marital relations had been on the upswing.

She went to Ipswich this morning for shopping, and I spent the morning in the greenhouse pretending to tidy things up a bit getting things ready for the new season, although we did most of that over the Easter weekend, so I did not really do very much and listened to Radio 3 for a while, which was fairly soothing. But it was not soothing enough, so I went to The Wheatsheaf at lunchtime, and there was some real gossiping going on in there about the upcoming local elections, and especially about the elections for the Parish Council. Apparently there are all kinds of rumours going around about who is going to stand as candidates. John Garnham, the current Parish Clerk who is standing down so he and his wife Hazel can spend a few months with their daughter and her family in Canada, said he is pretty sure that Bob Merchant, who resigned from the Council last year under a cloud but whose company repaired and refurbished the village hall after the fire, is planning to stand, as is Michael Whittingham, never mind that his last act as a member of GASSE – “Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”, the organisation formed to stop our village hall being taken over by the government and used to provide living accommodation for unhappy and homeless foreigners – was to have a punch up in the car park with John Garnham. John also said he had heard that Nancy Crowe was planning to stand again – she used to be the Council’s Publicity Operations Officer (POO) – I replaced her, and am currently the CLAPO (Community Liaison and Publicity Officer) – and he said he has heard that her daughter Naomi is also planning to run. I did not think she was old enough but apparently she is 19, which is more than old enough. And she is the leading light in CASHEW -“Come and Sleep Here – Everyone’s Welcome” – which is the young people’s group set up in opposition to GASSE and who go on about human rights and all that kind of thing, so if she got on to the Council she would be anti-GASSE, and perhaps her mother would be too. He also thinks that Miss Tindle is going to stand – at the moment she just makes the tea and runs errands. William Woods, the Council’s Treasurer & Finance Officer, said it sounds like the women are planning to take over the whole Council, then someone said he should not really be talking in those rather outdated terms, at which point he drained his glass and went off in a bit of a huff.

As this little lunchtime conclave was breaking up I took John Garnham to one side and asked to have a private word. I let him know (in confidence, although it will probably be all around the village tomorrow) that my wife is planning to stand for the Council, and what did he think? What did he think about a man and wife both being on the Council? Should I run for re-election, or stand down? Or should I try to talk her out of it? His response was to say that he had always admired my wife and that she is a fine figure of a woman, and that is all he did say. It was not exactly what I wanted to hear.

I popped into the village shop on the way home, and bumped into Miss Chloe Young, who I do not really know but she is a member of my wife’s yoga class (Oh Yeah! Yoga!) and my wife introduced us to one another briefly at the Easter event in the village hall last weekend. I thought it only polite to stop and have a chat. The fact that she is a very becoming lady is neither here nor there. I had wondered how come I had never seen her around the village before, and after a rather clever bit of conversation-steering I discovered that until recently she had been working in Norwich during the week, and only coming home to the village and to her parents’ house at the weekend, and on Friday evenings she had found it very relaxing to attend my wife’s yoga class. (I did not enquire as to why she is living at her parents’ or, for that matter, how old she is. That would have seemed impertinent. I am guessing late 20s. I assume she is single . . . ) Anyhoo, she said that a month or two ago she left her job in Norwich and is now self-employed and working from her bedroom. Of course, I asked what she was self-employed doing and she said she is a Consultant and Projects Advisor for the Creative Industries and Arts Professionals (I think I have that right. It was definitely some of those words, although perhaps not in that order.) Of course I said that sounded great, even though I do not really know what it means. She is very nice. Very nice.

My wife is downstairs at the moment waiting to watch the lunar eclipse on the television. I am not that interested, but might listen to it on the radio. She came back from Ipswich with new hair: it is a new colour (somewhere in the blood orange/grapefruit/satsuma region; I am not very good with colours) and a new style (it reminds me a little bit of Cilla Black on “Blind Date”, but my memory may be playing tricks with me). She asked me if I liked it, and I said I did. I do not.

James Henderson

 

 

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The Calm Room

You have to come inside
sparkling with the pollens
of outside world
to know the room’s calmness.

You shake your head,
and one square feet of the carpet
metamorphoses. An autumn forest
rustles, and you notice
one of the leaves has no link
to any tree. It has arrived
with the words from
an unfinished story.
You need to come inside to know
what calmness is, where it resides.

Did you notice how one of you
grows older than the other,
how one knows the cat better,
how one wears the glasses bigger
to see the other in completion?

Those are not important
to know peace. Those only
appear to be so.

The last night I saw
your calm room in a snow globe,
and my fingers knock again and again
so that you see, take me in.
Now I know that you cannot.
One has to build his own,
disown it, go outside and come in.

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture
 Nick Victor

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Is now the right time to glamourize violence towards women?

 

Review of Carmen by ENB at Sadlers’ Wells Theatre, Friday 5 April 2024

Poster by Prudent-Louis Leray for Carmen’s première. Published by Choudens Pére et Fils and Imp. Lemercier et Cie

 

Is now the right time to glamourize violence towards women?

Review of Carmen by ENB at Sadlers’ Wells Theatre, Friday 5 April 2024

Poster by Prudent-Louis Leray for Carmen’s première. Published by Choudens Pére et Fils and Imp. Lemercier et Cie

 

Why was Carmen the only classical performance available in Central London on Friday 5 April? Nothing by the ENO at the Coliseum, or an alternative at the Barbican or South Bank. The choice was Carmen – the ‘new’ opera at the Royal Opera House, or Carmen – the ‘new’ ballet, by ENB at Sadler’s Wells.

No dancer can resist the pulse of Carmen – it could never have been kept jealously by the singers. For the audience, it is a blast of Andalusian summer as we emerge from winter, at a time when other favourite international dance companies are not allowed to visit England. With the first notes, our minds fill with an image of the Carmen we might all at some time have wished we could be; without looking beyond the glamour and the costume, the body and adoration. The Swedish choreographer of the new ballet, Johan Inger, promised to take us “deep into the passions and dark undercurrents of the original story.”

The ballet is no longer about a woman named Carmen – it is a portrayal of the inner turmoil of her murderer, Don Jose. There is also a new character introduced – a young teen boy, so now we have a man and a boy displacing Carmen, who is diluted to a Coppelia dancing doll, with no emotional response; an Act 1 Giselle, before the grief; a Clara ambivalent about Christmas toys. The audience doesn’t get to know her, understand her or shed a tear when she is stabbed, quick flick of the wrist, largely obscured – upstage like a bull before he is released into the arena.

Bizet proposed his opera after reading Carmen by Prosper Merimee when he lived in Rome. 3 March 1875 was the night of its premiere, and the critics decried it too immoral to be staged: the fact of Carmen’s sexuality that is, not her murder. Powdered Parisian bourgeoisie were scandalised, still filling the Opera a hundred years post-Bastille. When Bizet died 3 months later, only 30 performances in, working all night at edits on the 1200-page score to ease the challenge for weaker musicians and singers, yet striving for ever greater drama and climax, he could never have believed we’d ask 150 years in the future – why he chose this story. He left no memoir; he probably envisaged composing until he was 70, like his idol Wagner, but he died at half that age. Carmen alone is now performed worldwide, more often than all of Wagner’s operas put together, and Richard Strauss apparently said that if you want to learn how to compose, study Carmen, not Wagner.

In one of the coldest winters ever recorded, Bizet sat huddled in warm clothes, trying to rewrite the orchestra voices battling in his head. He had told friends he believed Carmen to be “full of clarity and vivacity, full of colour and melody,” all while exposing the broken human interactions of the struggling poor.

Painters were displaying their new Impressionist art in startup galleries around the city; rejecting the rigged and nepotic selection and censorship process. Victor Hugo braved forceful criticisms in the new free press, demanding the removal of the powerless government.  Louis Napoleon himself was weakened after losing the war with Prussia and ordered troops onto the streets of Paris to quell domestic strikes. Soldiers hobbled wounded and the Paris Commune took hold briefly, only to be violently crushed. It feels dark and dangerous, a mix of Hogarth and Dickens (to the Londoners), but with ever taller Les Mis barricades; and this is where Carmen was born to Bizet. Not in the sweltering, orange perfume of Seville, which Bizet never got to visit. This story could only ever be a tragedy.

The vivacity comes from Bizet’s own music, inspired by tales of the beauty and confidence of both women and men walking the Andalusian streets; and the sequined ‘glamour’ and heroics of Spain’s own amphitheatres – the bullrings. The relationships on show there are never equal: stabbed, blinded and bleeding bull versus armed man. And so, Don Jose stabs Carmen, not because he is a bullfighter, it is she who wears red, but because he caught her having sex with the Toreador and sees her striding past with a sequined jacket adorning her shoulders. Because he cannot have her, so nobody else will.

The disappointment of Carmen’s own role being reduced to a fleeting, short red-dress in the plot of this ballet, is echoed in the newly commissioned sound effect of prolonged scraping, to convey Orwellian dystopia. Yet the heart still leaps with recognition of the key pieces from Bizet’s opera, transcribed from song to instruments – warm woodwinds, flute for Carmen, reminding us of the joy we had paid to feel.

In all there are eight women, in different brightly coloured mini-skirted flamenco dresses. In one scene, they wear flesh-coloured bras to signify toplessness, but it did not seem necessary to the plot. No pointe shoes are worn, but it is all ballet, with a few flexed feet and contemporary phrases. Men are dressed as guards or are tie-and-shirt corporate types. The pas de deux and speed rolling across the stage are impressively executed.

Insufficient clues are given to explain the stage set of nine tall, cubed, mirrored, cement ‘wardrobes’. People are either shut inside them or hide behind them, lights shine, then shutters close. Perhaps they are ‘satanic mills’, massive moving furniture to cover the lack of dance.

And then there is the new character, initially bouncing his ball, curious at what the adults are doing around him. This ‘Boy’ is danced by a lead principal ballerina, which itself raises questions. The minimum age to attend this ballet is 12, although for the new version of the opera – only 8[i]. It is not sexually explicit, but the randomness and acceptability of violence may be the reason. The real world is full of extreme porn bombarding young teens. Extremist misogyny in all its forms is streamed on school buses, in classrooms and canteens, by peers.

The ‘Boy’ is a more important character than the woman Carmen, and this hijacking of the ballet’s plot is to warn us of the unstoppable perpetuated violence in society.  In the final scene, the Boy stands alone front stage, ripping the head and limbs off the ragdoll Don Jose gave him in a fantasy dream of happy families. No love, no sadness, just dismemberment.    

So, full-house on Friday night in two of London’s leading opera and ballet theatres, both showing Carmen. How long will it take to change attitudes and welcome entertainment without violence towards women? However Carmen is presented, it is not a story about the sufferings of a man or boy spot lit before us; there is a murdered woman now offstage, ignored.

Bizet is quoted as writing in 1866: “As a musician I tell you that if you were to suppress adultery, fanaticism, crime, evil, the supernatural, there would no longer be the means for writing one note.”[ii]

 As more women are encouraged to write, and are offered a voice by generous and enlightened (still-male) editors, the true extent of violence will be revealed. It will be from her point of view, but does that make any difference to the young boys watching it?  

3 March 2025 (just before International Women’s Day) is the 150th anniversary of the premiere of Carmen. Should the women of the world unite to demand a change to the ending, like Stalin did with Swan Lake so that Odette did not die and the Soviet workers did not leave the theatre downcast and demotivated? Leo Muscato directed a new version of Carmen at Teatro del Maggio Musicale in Florence 6 years ago, where Carmen shoots Don Jose.

Bizet wrote this opera in a time of war and desperate pleas for the poor people of the country to be heard. Just as we are now. Truth is truth and the young learn from the old. How do I teach my teenage son anything else?

 

Tracey Chippendale-Gammell

 

 

[1] I refuse to pay £175 upwards for a ticket to see the ROH Carmen. Fortunately, it is being broadcast to cinemas around the UK on 1 May 2024, so for £15, we can watch it and still be home before midnight. It is a very poor substitute to attend anything musical, recorded and filmed, but we do the best we can.

[1] Letter to Edmond Galabert, and G. (October 1866), as quoted in Letters of Composers: An Anthology, 1603-1945 (1946) edited by Gertrude Norman and Miriam Lubell Shrifte, p. 241

 

 

 

 

[i] I refuse to pay £175 upwards for a ticket to see the ROH Carmen. Fortunately, it is being broadcast to cinemas around the UK on 1 May 2024, so for £15, we can watch it and still be home before midnight. It is a very poor substitute to attend anything musical, recorded and filmed, but we do the best we can.

[ii] Letter to Edmond Galabert, and G. (October 1866), as quoted in Letters of Composers: An Anthology, 1603-1945 (1946) edited by Gertrude Norman and Miriam Lubell Shrifte, p. 241

 

 

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My son’s rabbit Wortel.

I want to take the rabbit on holiday.
My son says you can’t.
“Rabbits have no brains”.
(Do you need brains to go on holiday?)
I tell him rabbits do have a brains but 
they probably just think differently.
( I’m not sure how!)
I hope he doesn’t ask me how.
He doesn’t.
He mulls this over.Intense Concentration.
“No rabbits have no brain they go to Hell”
Sitting in his small cage I think the rabbit is
probably already in Hell.
My son forgets to feed him and change his water.
Clean out his cage.
So he probably spends a lot of time sitting in his own
shit hungry and thirsty.
Thinking differently.?

I want to let him go.
Release him into the flatlands  between the dykes.
He wouldn’t last long.
Perhaps a few gulps of free air..an eyeful of the
famous Dutch landscape..before being ripped
apart by some predator who just got lucky
at 4.00 am.”

 

 

 

Malcolm Paul
Illustration Nick Victor

This poem is about a conversation I had with my young son Aaron when he was about six and we were living apart. Aaron was diagnosed with autism when he was little over four years of age…

Wortel (Dutch for rabbit)

 

 

 

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Annihilation

The silver lily lifts its tired feet and floats,
as if a prayer by water’s edge,
then rustling in the yellow reeds join and
turn back to the snakeskin bodies
of slinking rivers.

Bushes thriving under hot sun,
will laugh with the wind of curse
behind them,
stones are now free from their places,
eroded and deported far away.

A jungle of concrete will slowly destroy
the spreading roots, seeds, and earthlings,
the animated hymn of birdsong,
There will be no one to carry them
back to their silent, natural way.

 

 

 

© Gopal Lahiri
Picture Nick Victor

 

Gopal Lahiri is a Kolkata, India, based bilingual poet and critic and published in English and Bengali language. He has published 29 books to his credit and his works are translated in 16 languages. Recent credits: The Wise Owl, Catjun Mutt Press, Dissident Voice, Piker Press, Indian Literature, Kitaab, Setu, Undiscovered Journal, Poetry Breakfast, Shot Glass, The Best Asian Poetry, Converse, Cold Moon, Verse-Virtual journal and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021.

 

https://www.facebook.com/glahiri
Twitter@gopallahiri
www.amazon.in, Gopal Lahiri:

 

 

 

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No Explanation Needed

You don’t need to apologise.
You can wake up, live, leave,
or turn near the gate and ask,
“Who does erect a fountain
in the garden that looks like a tree
dead and arid?”

I also keep a crystal skull on my desk
and a miniature hourglass 
whose clogged midriff stops time.
You can keep your moments 
in the globe of the past. You can flip, 
transmogrify all into the hours to come.

I say nothing. No need to explain
why I sleep, dream, stay and the way I stay. 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture
Rupert Loydell

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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David Grubb 1941-2024



There are three elements central to all my poetry and prose:
celebration, wonder, and discovering’
   – David Grubb, 2009


David Grubb was born in 1941. He worked as a psychiatric nurse, a teacher and headteacher, and for Barnados. Aghast at the fact they had several press officers simply for the royal family (in relation to the charity) he left and set up his own charity, Children’s Aid Direct. This charity was hands on, and money for staffing and administration costs was raised separately from normal donations. David often convinced lorry drivers from Reading, near where he lived, to make a trip to Bosnia or Kosovo to deliver aid; he often accompanied them, clad in a flak jacket, and wrote all the charity’s news reports and publicity material.

This writing could be persuasive, shocking and informative, but it wasn’t just about reports, news and charity work. David was a writer throughout most of his life: novels, books of poetry and an inventive autobiography, along with letterpress editions and thousands of appearances in poetry magazines and anthologies. He believed in the power of the arts, was sure that refugees, orphans and those otherwise affected by disaster and conflict needed to play, dance and tell their stories as much as they needed food and shelter. Aspiring authors too: in later years, having ‘retired’, he became a writing tutor and mentor.

His poems dealt with people, be that memories of his parents, those he met in passing, other poets, historical figures, the insane and those disregarded by society. He had strong spiritual beliefs but did not preach at others, was open to debate, conjecture and the impossibilities of belief and faith.

In addition to those who inhabited his writing, he was a dedicated husband, father and grandfather. That dedication included several years of caring for his wife, Beverley, before she had to spend her final days in a home. Ironically, David would also move to a home so his dementia could be monitored and he could be looked after. He died peacefully on Easter Monday, 2024.

Over the years he and I had not only a publisher/author relationship, but also a friendship and a dialogue in poems, where we would write back to each other’s poems that struck us, usually as new poetry collections were published. The poem below, written back in the mid 2000s, questioned the fact that David’s poems could be so bloody emotional, so moving. Was the reader being manipulated? Were poems like this a kind of propaganda rather than reportage? Was writing poems with the aim of reader empathy a good way to write? I had to read his work, however: he had asked me to by gifting me a book, and I could not help but return to one specific poem over and over again, resulting in this poem.

David and I met many times, and I was able to help him advertise his charity and assist in several one-off projects. I also read with him on many occasions, and enjoyed drinks and chats with him after. But as the poem below says, it is his reading voice I shall remember, wrapping listeners in a strong, assured musical language as he spoke of the neglected, the angelic, the hurt and forgotten.

THE POEM I DO NOT WANT TO READ
for David Grubb

This is the poem I do not want to read
but you asked me to. The one that
is more than language, that cuts
through the crap and makes me cry.
I hope you are proud of what you
have done, have made poetry do?
I prefer linguistic puzzles and games,
do not like to be upset or reminded
of what can be said or how to say it.

This is the poem I do not want to read.
It arrived in a book full of angels
and light, orchards and relatives,
ghosts from your past. The wars
you have been to revisited, along
with the madness you’ve seen.
I would rather not be told about
these things. How dare you
make words so meaningful.

This is the poem I do not want to read
but felt I ought to. Out of the marvellous,
toward epiphany, angels sing and words
are on fire, if you catch my meaning.
Or rather, if I catch your meaning, the
drift of where you are going. Where
are you going? The memory room is
no place to live – the past will fade,
the only view is next year’s rain.

This is the poem I do not want to read.
Our church clock won’t be wound up
ever again – it’s electric, plugged in
to the mains. The orchard you remember
has been felled, they don’t make cider
with apples any more. We all have our
individual methods for pushing away
what we don’t want to know, and this
is mine. Silence may tell stories but

this is the poem I do not want to read,
the poem that saves me talking to myself
or others, that gets through nostalgia to
the heart. It is the poem that says look,
I am here
and bathes in full moon’s light.
But when clouds confuse the moment
and it is impossible to read in the dark,
I am forced to remember you speaking
this poem that I do not want to read.

 

Rupert Loydell

 

 

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Close to the Dredge


Talk. 30th Anniversary Box Set (4CD, Spirit of Unicorn Music)

Wow, a box set of Talk Talk. Well overdue. Anything new on it?

Don’t be an idiot, it’s a new box set of Yes’ Talk album. Nothing to do with Talk Talk. To be honest, I wish it was.

Why? I love Yes… Tales from Close to the Starship’s Edge, Not Fragile, Going for the Nun. All great albums.

Really? Sounds like you don’t know a lot about the band or their album titles.

Well, okay, I haven’t heard them for ages. Probably because I lost all my records in a move. Anyway, I preferred Hawkwind and Deep Purple.

I can imagine.

Imagine what?

You preferring those kind of bands, and losing your LP collection.

Well, anyway. Back to the box. What’s it like? I’ve never heard of the Talk album.

Most people haven’t as the record company went bust a couple of weeks after releasing it, and it’s been out of print for ages. This 30th anniversary box is putting that to rights and adding two CDs of some live recordings and another with demo/studio versions of the music on too.

Well, that’s good isn’t it?

Umm, it’s not a great album to be honest, and the live stuff is easily available on bootleg websites. The demos too, although they are mostly Trevor Rabin solo stuff anyway.

Who is Trevor Rabin?

The guitarist.

I thought that was Steve Howe?

It was, it is, well mostly it’s Steve Howe. But there was a period of time when he wasn’t in the band, same as Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman.

No cherubic choirboy vocals about trolls and angels? No swirling cape and multilayered keyboard workouts? No steel guitars and flash-fingered guitar solos?

Not all the time, but look, Talk has Jon Anderson singing on it, but instead of Rick Wakeman there’s Tony Kaye, returned from earlier incarnations of the band. He’s a monster Hammond organ player. I saw him live with Yes a few years back.

But what about all the synthesizers? And Steve Howe?

Trevor Rabin plays keyboards and guitar on the album. He was brought into the band after the Drama album, when the follow-up didn’t work out and Yes pretty much split. Howe went off to do Asia with Geoff Downes, Chris Squire and Alan White did some stuff then got together with Rabin and Kaye, and eventually Anderson agreed to do the vocals. So they became Yes again. You must remember ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’?

Yeah, some poppy synth band back in the 80s, yeah?

No, that was Yes.

Don’t be ridiculous!

I’m not. It was 1980s poptastic Yes, with Trevor Horn (the other half of Buggles, who had been Yes’ singer on the Drama album) on production duties.

Death to all pixies, elves and sci-fi hippies!

I dunno about that, but the same version of Yes kind of limped on for a bit, then combined with what had been another band, Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe, to make a car-crash album, Union, that was mostly cobbled together in the studio using session musicians for overdubs. They then toured as a 8 piece band, with two drummers, two guitarists, and two keyboard players.

Sounds like a nightmare.

Well, some of the musicians involved said that the tour was fun, but apparently Talk, the next studio album, was more difficult to record and they ended up using loads of Trevor Rabin songs rather than band compositions. Anderson wrote lyrics over Rabin’s music and then the band added to the final songs.

So there are some fairies and spaceman and hobbits?

No. Listen, Yes have never written about that kind of crap, it’s just media bullshit. And idiots like you.

Really? So what are these songs about then?

I guess inner thoughts, spirituality, love and peace. The usual stuff. Dreams, hopes and aspiration. But no fairy tales or sci-fi. Although the record label is called Spirit of Unicorn.

Well, it sounds OK. I mean the subject matter, not the record label.

Parts of it are, but it doesn’t really sound like Yes. Rabin is more of a straight rock guitarist, and everything is a bit over-produced for my taste. There’s a couple of good tracks though: ‘The Calling’, which opens the album is okay, some good riffs and massed vocals, but ‘I Am Waiting’, which follows, is too syrupy and ethereal for my taste. 

Well, that’s half an album isn’t it? Two tracks.

Nope, they’re about 7 minutes each. There’s only one long track really, the closer, ‘Endless Dream’.

The grand finale? A major epic? A return to form?

Err, not really. It kind of crashes in but that heavy bit is only a minute or so long, a prelude to the majority of the track, which is indeed almost 12 minutes long.

Well, that sounds good.

Umm, not really. It has lots of cod keyboards from Rabin on it, and Anderson’s vocals are sunk somewhere in the mix. The lyrics are shit too, like the drums, which sound like they are either electric or treated with effects. It’s all so 1980s, so shiny and clean. Ugh.

That’s just you then?

Probably, but quite a lot of Yes fans don’t like the Rabin version of Yes either and were relieved when the classic band reformed a couple of years after Talk to record some of their best tracks and write new music again.

So you could say it was part of the journey the band were on?

You could, but I might smack you. It’s a low point of the band’s career, or part of a sustained dip.

In your opinion.

In my opinion, yes.

Surely the live recordings is less polished though?

You’re right, but most of the tracks are pop Yes, only ‘Heart of the Sunrise’, ‘I’ve Seen All Good People’ and ‘Roundabout’ are original Yes. ‘And You and I’, too, I guess, although that’s messed up with a Rabin piano solo leading into it.

They’re good though?

They’re okay. Let’s just say Steve Howe and Bill Bruford are sorely missed on ‘Heart of the Sunrise’, and no-one needs another live version of ‘Roundabout’, however good a song it is.

You’re just a miserable old sod.

I know, I know. But it’s not a great album, and the fact it was one of the first albums recorded totally digitally doesn’t help the production. It sounds dated, it doesn’t rock, it isn’t what I want from Yes. And anniversary box sets are supposed to be full of new surprising and previously unavailable extras, not recycled bootlegs.

You should have stuck with Hawkwind and Deep Purple, like me.

I should have stuck a cork in your mouth.

Rude! How would I be able to drink?

You wouldn’t.

Well, I wouldn’t be able to invite you to the pub then, would I.

Good point.

Shall we?

Yes please. I could do with a pint and a talk.

Boom boom.

Oh do shut up.

 

Johnny Machine Head Brainstorm

 

 

 

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ABOUT ERIC ERIC

Of course, it’s not his real name, though I am led to believe one half is real; the other half, as he once remarked, is “an act of concealment.”

I first came across Eric Eric in 1986 when I was editing my then magazine joe soap’s canoe. A chap I know, Richard Catchpole, sent me some of Eric’s poems. In the course of a long and rambling letter catching me up on his recent doings (he thought I was interested) Catchpole told me he had been working temporarily for a company doing the catering for a telephone engineers’ conference, and he had “fallen in” with a chap attending the event who wrote “weird little poems”, and he thought I might like to see some of them.

One of the first poems I read, and subsequently published in joe soap’s canoe 10,  was this:

     AIR

     The air is where    
     The air is. And where
     The air is, is where
     There is a stinking bus.

I was pretty much bowled over by what at first I thought to be a somewhat individual take on a minimalist approach to poetics, but I mainly fell in love with that sledgehammer of a final line that made me laugh out loud at the same time as realizing the poet and I at some point in our lives had experienced the same kind of bus service. This, for me, placed the poem absolutely in the everyday world, though for good measure it came with a dollop of questionable sanity. But also I initially assumed Catchpole was messing with me – he has his playful side, and I would not have put it past him to try and trick me into publishing a figment of his somewhat self-indulgent imagination. In fact, I was only finally convinced of Eric’s real existence when I met him briefly in Nottingham in 2008. We had kept in very occasional touch since I shut down the canoe, and he was visiting the city on some kind of training course to do with his work. He was still a sort of telephone engineer but now did something I vaguely understood to be to do with mobile phones; he said he was too near retirement to be much bothered to learn anything new, but it was a few days in a good hotel, and the financial subsidies he was getting for being away from home were excellent. Knowing I was back from China and working as the Royal Literary Fund’s Writing Fellow at Nottingham Trent University, he suggested we meet up for a drink. I knew enough about him by that time to know that, if he was indeed real, this was an uncharacteristically sociable move on his part, and I jumped at the chance to meet him. It’s an hour and ten minutes of my life I will never get back, but they do say it’s not always a good idea to meet your heroes.

But I am jumping ahead of myself.

To step back to the 1980s, I had published Eric in a couple of subsequent canoes1, but then he kind of fell off my radar until a few years later, by which time I’d shut down the magazine. But he had evidently decided that trying to goad me into opening it up again would be something of a mission for him, and his first few communications during the early 2000s somewhat harped on about it. But eventually he gave it up as a lost cause, and our contact settled into his sometimes telling me a poem of mine he’d seen was good, bad or indifferent, and sometimes letting slip an opinion or two about poetry in general.

I had learned that the poems I had published in 1990 were among the last he had written: unbeknown to me at the time, he had announced, in the personal columns of the London Times, that he wished to devote the remainder of his life to finding the perfect corduroy trousers. Eric had also shown himself to be well-read but highly opinionated. He shared my liking for the poets of the New York School: he said he admired their brains and their wit. But he also once said that John Ashbery’s poems sometimes annoyed him, although he would be able to find it in his heart to forgive if Ashbery would only respond to his invitation to go for a swim together next time they found themselves in the same city. I was never quite able to get to the bottom of that one. As for current British poetry, he told me when we met that he’d more or less given up on it. His withering assessment of some of the country’s most well-known and “much-loved” contemporary poets should probably not be repeated here (do libel laws apply on the internet?) and he said he was currently more interested in delving into the world of the pre-17th century sonnet. When I asked him if he was writing sonnets he got up, in what I gather now to be true Eric fashion, and went in search of the pub’s toilet.

When in 2016 my friend Rupert Mallin and I announced Rupert’s new art and poetry magazine, Decals of Desire, Eric pounced like a cat that had been lurking in the bushes waiting for its moment to catch a sparrow (though anyone less cat-like than Eric Eric is hard to imagine). It turned out that earlier this year he had taken up the pen again because, and I quote: “I am needed.” I had often asked him why he had never published anywhere other than the canoe, and he had simply said it didn’t interest him, and that he would probably still severely restrict what he called his “public appearances” – I had long since understood from some of the things he said that Poetry World as a whole struck him as not much more than a club for mutual back-scratching involving (with some honourable exceptions) people whose back one would not want to touch.

But anyway, he sent me a little group of poems with a note that he asked be added to them if we published: “This is some poems about people. I have others about animals, but they’re not as good.” This was quintessential Eric, and I was smitten. The first thing I noticed was that his style had not changed much in the last 30 years. Here are a couple of the poems:

     THE DOORMAN

     Sometimes I think
     I am the door
     And sometimes I know for sure

     THE ARTIST

     I have feelings
     I have feelings
     I have feelings (and some paint)

Minimalism is obviously (and somewhat paradoxically) a pretty wide-ranging and at times contentious field – a minefield, even – and how it’s poked its head in the poetry door since the early years of the last century has surely been the topic of all kinds of books and essays and arguments. For me, it’s a debate in which I’m not very interested, insofar as I don’t care how long or short a poem is, or what’s been left out or left in: let’s face it, we have even had poems with no words in them at all. Call me old-fashioned, but I respond mainly to an elegance of language and the wit and intelligence of a writer, to something subtle and elusive in a piece of writing that makes me want to be alive and thankful for having had the privilege of sharing the experience of a particular poem, no matter its form or provenance. I’m not sure if that makes me sound like a moron or a genius, but no matter.

Eric’s minimalism, by which I mean his poems’ brevity, is not about itself (as some so-called innovative poetics seem to be) and it’s not a pose or a posture or the obvious result of a definitive and reasoned poetic. Yes, Eric understands line breaks and rhetoric, and even a little bit of French (and probably some Klingon), but he understands also that some things come naturally. I once asked him how much time he might spend writing a poem, and how much he edited and/or cut down. His answer was aptly brief: very little time, no more than ten minutes including drinks and toilet breaks, and absolutely no cutting down. They start short and stay short. It occurs to me that Eric’s brevity extends not to the point where what there is to be said has for poetic reasons to be only an oblique utterance uttered obliquely, leaving the reader to bring to the text what they will, but instead reaches with a workmanlike confidence only what it considers to be its point and where it’s satisfied there’s nothing else to say. And, if there were something else to say, Eric is certainly not the man to say it. And if he were the man to say it, he wouldn’t say it in a poem because that’s not what poems are for: if he wanted to say it he could write a letter to the newspaper, or start a blog, or bang his head against a Facebook wall, or troll around on Twitter1. But he’s almost certainly better than that, and would rather spend time in his garden and grow his own onions.

I don’t think anyone else is writing poems quite like Eric Eric. For more than 30 years he has followed his own path (or fallen asleep on it) and if he had been bothered he could even have become a household name. But he isn’t bothered. He can’t even be bothered to be unknown. I love him for that. At the risk of over-exposing this somewhat retiring character, we are almost certainly going to feature him in the next issue2 of the magazine, too. He has sent some more poems, including this one:

     SELF-ASSESSMENT

     Do you think?
     Is this –
     (any good)
     ?

This little poem at first seemed to me almost inane in its simplicity, but the apparently unnecessary dash and parentheses are a wry nod towards a lack of necessity that makes us think, paradoxically, of necessity. One of the other poems he sent is about a glove puppet frog called Fred. It’s really good.

© Martin Stannard, 2016, 2024

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Notes

1. X

2. Eric’s poems were indeed featured in the 2nd issue of Decals of Desire, and he was interviewed (kind of) for the final issue (#3). It can all be found at  www.decalsofdesire.blogspot.com

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This article was first published at Best American Poetry blog in 2016: https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2016/11/about-eric-eric.html

Since it was written Eric’s poetry has featured with irregular regularity at International Times and, on rare occasions, in other literary journals, including Noon: journal of the short poem” (https://issuu.com/noonpress/docs/noon_23  – he’s on Page 108). He has also taken up tatting on an almost semi-professional basis and has achieved some renown in the field, having won several competitions. His lacey edgings have been described as “exquisite”, among other things.

Eric’s poems in joe soap’s canoe can be found online at http://martinstannard.com/jsc/jschome.html – they are in issues 10, 11 and 13.

 

 

 

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Milling

It’s a red-letter day, but there are too many men with whistles, too many women with balls and chains, and too many children, full stop. There are too many expectations, but we gather anyway, in closer proximity than anyone would really like, because any respite from the grind is to cherished like a newborn chick. Amidst the chaos, let’s hear it for the volunteers, with their clipboards and high-viz smiles, their eyes rolled up to white and speaking in tongues. And spare a thought for the cleaners, poised to swoop on dropped fag ends and consonants. Where would we be without them? Where are we with them? Where will we go when the squares and circles empty, and the red letters, still unread, return to their natural blue?

 

 

 

Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

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AN ODE TO MOTHER!

When I look at you
With the eyes of a poet
There is magic in your eyes,
Your name, your smile
And I see a full Moon
In your face.
I know
You are a blessing
Soft as snow,
Hard as pomegranate,
The God’s light: carrying his beauty
Kindness and glow.
I know you are
A cloak for my imperfections,
A muscadine for my appetites,
An ocean of patience.
I know
You have a majestic essence,
Shrouded in mystery
In the silence of cold desert nights!

 

 

 

 

© Monalisa Parida
Picture Nick Victor

 

Bio:- Monalisa Parida is an Assistant Professor of English in Bhubaneswar College of Engineering Jankia, Odisha and a prolific poetess. She is very active in social media platforms and her poems have also been translated into different languages and publish in various e-journals.
She has got 100 international awards for writing poetry. Her poems have been publishing international e-journals “New York parrot”, “The Writers Club” (USA), “Suriyadoya literary foundation”, “kabita Minar”, “Indian Periodical” (India) and “Offline Thinker “, “The Gorkha Times “ ( Nepal), “The Light House”(Portugal), “Bharatvision”(Romania), “International cultural forum for humanity and creativity”(Aleppo, Syria), “Atunispoetry.com”(Singapore) etc. And also published in various newspapers like “The Punjabi Writer Weekly(USA)”, “News Kashmir (J&K, India)”, Republic of Sungurlu (Turkey)” etc.
One of her poem published an American anthology named “The Literary Parrot Series-1 and series-2 respectively (New York, USA)”. Her poems have been translated in various languages like Hindi, Bengali, Turkish, Persian, Romanian etc. And she is the author of the book “Search For Serenity”, “My Favourite Grammar”, “Paradigm”, “Beyond Gorgeous”.

 

 

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Marina & the Curse of the Royal Yugoslavian Academy of Art P3

 

This book tells the well loved ancient folklore story of Marina, a simple traditional forest dwelling Yugoslavian mother of many children, who led a double life as a misunderstood radical performance artist.

Commissioned for a specially curated shop by artist, Marina Abramović as part of her solo exhibition at the Royal Academy from Sept 2023 – Jan 2024, the first ever solo show by a female artist in the main galleries of this historic institution since opening in 1768.  This title will tour with Marina’s show for 5 years, internationally.

With full colour illustrations and Miriam Elia’s characteristic witty storytelling style.

Miriam Elia

 

About the Author

Miriam Elia: Artist, Publisher and satirist Miriam Elia is renowned for her 2014 satirical art book ‘We go to the gallery’ in which she reillustrated Peter and Jane from the Ladybird books grappling with conceptual art. She has now published a number of books under the Dung Beetle Learning Series moniker including the 2020 UK hit ‘We do Lockdown’. Her books have been published in several languages internationally and over a quarter of a million copies are in circulation worldwide. Prints, etchings and artworks have been exhibited nationally and internationally.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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In the Realm of Tones: The Theory of Musical Equilibration and the Secret Language of Music

Where Science Meets Sonic Magic

In the world of music, a universe of emotions lies hidden. What at first glance appears to be a fleeting play of vibrations, on closer inspection reveals itself to be a profound language of the soul. The Tendency Theory invites us to decipher this language and experience the emotional power of music in a new way.

On the Trail of the Emotional Code

Philosophers and scholars have long tried to fathom the mysterious connection between music and feeling. Plato and Aristotle were just a few of the thinkers who were fascinated by the enchanting effect of tones on humans.

The Theory of Musical Equilibration: An Innovative Approach

Over the centuries, various theories have emerged to explain the emotional power of music. The Theory of Musical Equilibration, conceived by Bernd and Daniela Willimek, fits into this research landscape while also representing an innovative approach.

Will as the Key to Emotion

At the core of the theory is the idea that music does not directly evoke emotions, but rather acts as a carrier of volitional content. This volitional content, encoded in the musical structures, resonates with the listener and thus triggers emotional responses.

Will in Music: From Schopenhauer to the Tendency Theory

Philosophers such as Schopenhauer and Nietzsche already recognized the “will” as a formative element of music. The Theory of Musical Equilibration builds on this idea and concretizes it. Musical elements such as leading tones, appoggiaturas, and tendencies, which refer to subsequent tones, are interpreted as expressions of an anonymous will.

How Does the Theory of Musical Equilibration Work?

Let’s take the leading tone. Traditionally, it strives for resolution in its neighboring tone. The listener identifies with the resistance to this striving, as if he wanted to maintain the sounding tone. This identification is comparable to empathy in film – and this is where the emotional reaction arises.

Emotional Soundscapes: Major, Minor and Other

Major chords contain a leading tone that suggests the will to maintain the tone. This will is associated with agreement and consent.

Minor chords, on the other hand, lower the leading tone. The feeling of agreement fades. Depending on the volume of the minor chord, sadness or anger can be the result.

Chords with multiple leading tones increase the intensity. The desperate resistance they convey can even suggest panic and despair.

The emotional effect of chords can be further differentiated by considering the interaction of multiple harmonies and the expectation of harmonies. This allows for the musical representation of further emotions such as joy, wonder, longing, melancholy, security, fear or disappointment. In addition, music perception is influenced by further factors, which were already described in the so-called BRECVEM model by Juslin and Västfjäll.

Music as a Mirror of the Soul

The Theory of Musical Equilibration allows us to decipher the abstract volitional content in music and connect it with our own feelings. By consciously perceiving the musical structures, we gain a new access to our own emotions. Music becomes a mirror of our inner world, leading us on a journey of self-discovery and emotional development.

KB

 

Bernd Willimek

 

 

Bernd Willimek is a graduate music theorist with years of experience in music psychology, I have been researching the Theory of Musical Equilibration and its connection to human emotions and societal influence. In collaboration with my wife Daniela Willimek, a concert pianist and lecturer in piano at the Karlsruhe University of Music in Germany, I have explored how music transcends aesthetics to resonate with listeners on a deeper level.

 

Painting St Cecilia Playing The Organ painted by Jacques Stella

 

References:

Willimek, D., & Willimek, B. (2023). Revealing the mystery of emotions in sounds: The theory of musical equilibration explains the impact of ordered sounds as the listener’s identification with processes of will. Auditory Perception & Cognition, 6(1-2), 128–153. DOI: 10.1080/25742442.2023.2185064

Willimek, B., & Willimek, D. (2017). Feelings Which Strike a Chord, and Chords Which Strike a Feeling. Open Journal of Acoustics, 7(1), 10-17

Willimek, D., & Willimek, B. (2014). Why do Minor Chords Sound Sad? The Theory of Musical Equilibration and the Emotions of Chords. Journal of Psychology & Psychotherapy, 4(4), 139. https://www.longdom.org/open-access/why-do-minor-chords-sound-sad-the-theory-of-musical-equilibration-andthe-emotions-of-chords-9298.html

 

 

 

 

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Live vibes from AW61: The Andrew Weatherall Weekend– a celebration of musical energy

Some words and images ‘care of’: Alan Dearling


A three day musical celebration. Loaded with DJs – including big names such as David Holmes and Sean Johnston. Almost all had worked closely with Andrew Weatherall who left the planet in 2020. He’s sadly missed by friends and his many musical admirers. Andrew would have been 61, during AW61. Over the weekend, there were also two live electronica sets from Radioactive Man, and Sons of Slough (a duo including Andrew Weatherall’s brother, Ian).

Radioactive Man:  Keith Tenniswood

Keith Tenniswood is a British DJ, producer, and like Andrew W, a remixer. He was one half of the electronic act, Two Lone Swordsmen alongside Andrew Weatherall, and produces music on his own as Radioactive Man. He co-runs the Control Tower electro label with Simon Brown, and co-ran the Rotters Golf Club imprint with Weatherall. Tenniswood also worked with David Holmes on his album ‘Let’s Get Killed’ (1997), the Aloof, Red Snapper, Death in Vegas and Primal Scream.

In the PR ‘blurb’ it says, “Keith Tenniswood aka Radioactive Man’s performances feel like a sonic body experience, going from 130 beats per minute to 145 and back down.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LHkUuQph0M0

 

Sons of Slough

Sons of Slough (SOS is the duo, Ian Weatherall and Duncan Gray) – and they are still living in a wonderful bright, colourful aura, following their apparently rather wonderful and critically acclaimed performance at Convenanza Festival.  SOS have just returned to live duties and their first London gig in 19 years.

What makes SOS really rather great is that they combine, “Electronica, and keyboards that drift effortlessly into the world of deep dub and dancehall vibes.”

Here’s Sons of Slough ‘Live’, with New Order’s ‘In a Lonely Place’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-py7bPf2Wc

Ian Booth: “What a weekend, absolute class both nights. The live room was a bit chocka ‘n roasting… great atmosphere.”  I’d add that upstairs was pretty rammed. Friendly, but mega-hot and smoke-filled.”

                                                                       

Flightpath Estate Volume 1

This album was also launched at the AW61 event. A double vinyl release, limited to 500 copies  – no digital, no repress.

The Flightpath Estate in association with The Golden Lion, Todmorden, have compiled a double vinyl album, 10 tracks by 10 different artists who have an association with the late, much missed Andrew Weatherall.

Sounds From the Flightpath Estate includes 9 exclusive tracks, including a previously unavailable Two Lone Swordsmen track, an exclusive cover of Smokebelch by Andy Bell (Ride, Glok) and one-off recordings by Justin Robertson, Richard Sen, Hardway Bros, Timothy J. Fairplay, Sons Of Slough, Rude Audio, 10:40 and a world renowned Belfast based DJ and producer.

The Flightpath Estate is a group dedicated to the music, art and work of Andrew Weatherall which began life in 2013 and has become a virtual home to his fans, friends and family. It is also the host of the Weatherdrive, thousands of hours of recordings of Andrew Weatherall’s DJ sets, mixes and radio shows.

Sounds ‘From The Flightpath Estate’ is a compilation celebrating people and places, the outlook, aesthetic and music that Andrew Weatherall was known for, and the sense of community and love of music centred around The Golden Lion.

The sounds are forward-thinking, created with a deep understanding of the music of the past, but future-facing, dance floor oriented and made with love. Sleeve art by Personality Crisis.

During the AW61 weekend, there was a lot of merchandise on sale and even a special ale brewed by Coldwater Brewery from Manchester, who donated a plentiful supply for the party-dancers.

Clairebear Dollars:

“Thank you to everyone that donated, love you all…you raised about £2,000 through contributing to the Raffle and Auction that takes the total to around £17,000 over the past 4 years (I need to work it out properly with a cuppa when I’m home,  going to charities that Andrew supported…

This time we decided to give back and support the people of Todmorden, so Matthanee Nilavongse (Gig from the Golden Lion) is going to give some to Incredible Edibles, after all, Andrew said it was ‘The Republic Of Todmorden’.” 

One can almost feel Andrew Weatherall’s presence at his own AW61 celebration. Here he is at the controls at the Golden Lion in June 2019.  


Ian Booth shares his own personal ‘story’ and some pics from the AW61 Weekender

“We set off from Liverpool at 7pm, full of anticipation and excitement like a kid on Christmas Eve. The postcode logged into the sat nav, tunes were on, and we were off to the Golden Lion in Todmorden for a weekend with the boys. The moment we see the pub, we know we’re in for a brilliant night (as Martha ‘n Damo are on the doorstep chatting to some cadets). Within ten minutes the curtains are drawn, and the disco lights come on, the music gets a lot louder. And LOUDER!

By 9pm we are upstairs in the live room, packed to the rafters and bouncing up ‘n down on the sprung-loaded dance floor. Radioactive Man had started his live set and it was tough right from the off, electro 303 and breakbeats. It reminded me of the Sabresonic nights I attended in London in the mid-‘90s. Deep down ‘n dirty, he had me locked into his groove. By 10pm the live room emptied out a bit, as David Holmes was setting up downstairs. I was staying right here, a little bit more room to move now and the beats got heavier and darker. The punters were loving the Radioactive Man vibes and whistling and cheering to every knob twist, which he gave a little nod of respect to us all, whilst bouncing around his set up. He played a rock solid 2 hour set and I can honestly say, it was one of the best live PA’s I’ve seen and heard in a club.

We ventured back downstairs and the bar area was bouncing, David Holmes was working his magic on the decks. So many familiar faces in the crowd, handshakes and hugs ‘n kisses as we squeezed through the mayhem. The vibe was ace and the music was deep and a little slower than upstairs. We find our friends in the thick of it all, one of them says “I thought you had got lost” I replied “I did, in the music” The rest of the night was off the scale. The energy in the place is unreal, David Holmes had done Andrew Weatherall and all involved proud.

That’s what’s special about this place, everyone knows you and remembers the fun we’ve had on the previous rave ups!
 

Round 2 on Saturday:

We head to the Golden Lion about 2pm, for a hair of the dog and to catch The Flightpath Estate Djs. As we walk in I can hear Andy Bell’s rendition of ‘Smokebelch’, which is on their fantastic compilation album put out on Golden Lion Sounds. I have to say, it’s a masterpiece of a double pack LP. We headed back out around 8pm-ish again, The Flightpath Estate Djs were still hard at it. The disco lights come on again and BOOM! We’re off upstairs… Sons of Slough are doing a live set. The room was totally packed out yet again. We wasn’t sure we would get in at one point. But we had to get inside, so we politely pushed our way through the mass of people and bumped into a few more scousers we know. Sons Of Slough ripped the roof off, there was elements of Soundclash Republic in their new tracks. Their set flowed seamlessly and the place erupted on every breakdown, it was so hot up there. We headed back downstairs, where Sean Johnston had the ALFOS (Another Love from Outer Space) chug well and truly going. (Alan adds: Here are images from ALFOS 2019 with Andrew and Sean in action and a fab signed painting of them too!)

 

It wasn’t long until Duncan Gray squeezed through the chaos on the dance floor to join Sean on the decks. The music was top class all night long. We danced our socks off in honour of ‘The Guv’nor’ on his 61st birthday.

If you have never been to Todmorden, just get yourself an Airbnb and join in the fun at the best pub on the planet. I’ve been clubbing since 1986 and have had some of the best nights of my life, but I’ve never felt so at home in a venue out of town. Gig and Waka who run the Golden Lion, make everyone feel so welcome and they’ve created the friendliest monster! The spirit of acid house lives on forever and ever… Amen 😁⚔️❤️

 Ian Booth

 

 

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‘Necronomy 1: The Neoliberal Approach to Death’

”The global Living Planet Index… shows an average 68% decrease in population sizes of mammals, birds, amphibians, reptiles and fish between 1970 and 2016. A 94% decline in the LPI for the tropical sub-regions of the Americas is the largest fall observed in any part of the world (World Wildlife Fund and Zoological Society of London, 2020).” From ‘New Economy, New Systems: Radical Responses to Our Sustainability Crises;’ – The Schumacher Institute. This obviously doesn’t account for biosphere and micro-organism destruction.

According to a collective of authors, (and verification from live news coverage of increasing conflicts in nearly every nation around the globe), the economic model particularly since 2008 has developed beyond the NEOLIBERAL model – offloading of economic responsibility and functionality, whilst retaining the most profit – to the term adopted from a study of the post-communist transition to capitalism, from the Georgia Academy of Sciences in 2001. But the term first appeared much earlier:

“’NECROECONOMICS’ – the theory and practice of letting populations die in the interests of preserving the free market, first appeared in the Iberian slave trade… [in] Gil Eanes de Zurara’s ‘Chronicle of the Discovery and Conquest of Guinea’ (1453).” Anna More; University of Pennsylvania Press.

Hungarian director Bela Tarr covered this topic, acutely, in his 1994 seven-hour masterpiece, ‘Satantango.’ Not many would attempt or stick with it as he immerses us in the minutes and hours that make up the living tedium of the remote post-communist community farm that’s laid in neglect for a year. The dairy cows still turn up for work, but are left to wander. The only person the occupants trust walks to Budapest, to collect wages owed them for the previous year. It follows what appear to be developing events, but is a dissection of the scheming and avarice that had been suppressed since they lost personal independence and had to cadge from each other for subsistence.

A doctor provides his services in exchange for home cooked food, cleaning, cherry brandy, the attentions of two girls and cigarettes, logging every movement he spots from his desk. The girls and two more mature females sell their charms. One person pierces their boredom with an accordion playing a limited repetitive repertoire to dance to. He plays it more for the score than the company, at the only makeshift bar where the owner rations liquid favours and IOUs. IOUs that will only be paid when they can abandon him for good. Others plot what they’ll do if they can appropriate the whole stash. Another has no outstanding talents worthy of exchange and only a reliable mud-encrusted coat that has grown stiff with weathering. All he can do is catch as catch can and offer manual labour, if he can get it to crease when he bends. A small girl has no friends other than her cat – and no other entity she can exercise any power over. Without the money, they are all powerless and hopeless. Words ran out long ago, with most other amenities. But since the money is on the way, no one has to be friendly any more. What they lack is what keeps them static and could seal their interminable fate.

 (Photo courtesy: bookforum.com)

An economy that utilises Necroeconomic practices can rightly be called a ‘Necronomy’ and its activities ‘necronomic,’ no? Within this article are constant references to ‘economic’ as a verb or adjective – yet decide for yourself whether they should be called ‘necronomic;’ because fundamentally, Necoreconomics is counter pure-economic calculation. It dispenses with the calculation of all possible ‘externalities,’ (peripheral impacts of an economic decision), or includes only those that support profit-driven expectations. This is something we will address.

The invasion of Georgia left it with nothing to trade. Russia are trying the same with Ukraine; Saudi Arabia and UAE with Yemen and Israel with Palestine, goading Lebanon and Iran, so the wolves can circle and salivate over the spoils buried in the shifting sands. It is urgently imperative now, that we conduct a biopsy, before the disease has completed its fatal outcome. A comprehensive report would make this article a series of books. Most people seeing the symptoms believe the infection is terminal and critical. But a growing contingent of everyday people haven’t yet mentally checked out.

Today, it is the nihilistic approach to the destabilisation of all economies that threaten loss of dominant national and international control of markets; the reinstatement of ‘Protectionism’ and inter-global alliance dependencies; the cold war; nuclear and high tech arms race; tech-wars; proxy-wars; land (and sea) grabs for depleting material resources; and endorsement of far right-wing systematic undermining of public obligations, facilities and humane law. The amount of public taxes, corporate and private investment that goes into armaments, destruction of habitat and eco-system, political bribery, space exploration of uninhabitable hostile planets – (and possibly cryogenics, cloning and sperm-banks) – extends way beyond what the entire global population need to live on and preserve this most perfectly habitable planet in our solar system.

If you regard this as hyperbole, all you need to do is watch a live webinar of the UN DESA (Department of Economic & Social Affairs), or ECOSOC (Economic & Social Council) divisions, to see who is involved in bringing “relief” to those suffering the crises, either created or perpetuated by forum participants. ‘Aid’ being the euphemism for misappropriated or diverted bribery, to appease perpetrators. And they are not alone.
Most major high-street banks finance armaments in contracts with countries using them to murder thousands of children. Devastation of infrastructure required for survival, torture and rape accompany many conflicts. With numerous countries sending arms into third-party proxy conflicts. The peripheral effects and suffering extend way beyond inhumane torture, criminalised under the Geneva Convention.

Cluster munitions are indiscriminate weapons that pose a serious threat to civilian populations during and long after an attack. They spread dozens, or even hundreds, of bomblets called sub-munitions… On impact cluster munitions kill or maim anyone that is in that area. Also, many sub-munitions fail to explode on impact: they remain on the ground like landmines that kill and injure civilians long after the conflict has ended. 120 countries have signed a Convention that bans the use, production, stockpiling and transfer of cluster bombs. Yet, in 2018, the Cluster Munition Coalition found that financial institutions had invested almost $9 billion in companies producing cluster munitions. Citigroup and Old Mutual were both found to invest in companies involved.  Lloyds Bank was one of the two largest overall providers of loans to the arms companies, totalling €4.1 billion. Lloyds provided finance to General Dynamics (which has exported to Egypt and Saudi Arabia and is involved in the production of nuclear weapons) totalling €2.4 billion. For example, Barclays…” [sponsors of WIMBLEDON, the most prestigious sports event, upholding multi-culturalism, anti-racism and non-discrimination] “…lost marks under Arms & Military supply for funding companies… who have sold weapons to the Saudi regime, according to the ‘Don’t Bank on the Bomb’ report and the ‘Dirty Profits’ report.‘Banks and financial institutions profiting from weapons;’ Ethical Consumer: Clare Carlile, 7th April 2023. The use of those armaments don’t always stay in the same hands to achieve the stated political aims. And those objectives also alter. UK arms sales to Saudi Arabia, US sales to Afghanistan and UK/US support of Iran are embarrassing cases in point.

Yet most conspiracy theorists, under the banner of colonialist national ‘patriotism’ deny this, for their binary, un-nuanced, dismissive, brushstroke prejudices; egged on by Trump and Johnson, using disinformation, to oppose any significant public (not Lefty) concern and embolden (subjugate) their poison-spreading troops.

“More than 11,000 boys and girls have been killed in the war in Yemen.” UN News 11 Dec 2022. And regarding Israel bombardment of Palestine: “This war is a war on children… on their childhood and their future, said UNRWA Commissioner-General… at least 12,300 youngsters have died in the enclave in the last FOUR MONTHS, compared with 12,193 globally between 2019 and 2022.” UN News – 13 Mar’ 2024. The last number escalating to 14,000 by the completion of this article. The mainstream news reportage of the bombing of the first Gaza hospital clearly confirms it to be a cluster bomb attack.
But none of this seems to shock us anymore. It’s the incessant public-grooming mentality of the (western democratic) abusers, imposing this economic Stockholm Syndrome ninety-nine percent of the population feel powerless to address, because our true power (in legal terms) is obfuscated. This two-piece article will seek to expose 1, the insecurity of these perpetrators; and 2, the real power of the general global public.

‘Necronomics’: Economic policies and processes prioritising schemes that are leading to the death of all species and environments required for survival. Causation: ARMS MANUFACTURING & SALES : NUCLEAR RACE : DRUGS MARKET : AUSTERITY : PRIVATISATION OF PUBLIC SERVICES : FOSSIL FUEL DEPLETION : WATER POLLUTION : POLITICAL BRIBERY : PROTECTIONISM : AVIATION & TRANSPORT INDUSTRY : IMPOSED FAMINE : DROUGHT : CO2 EMISSIONS : PHARMA : MONOPOLY PRODUCTION & MARKET DOMINANCE : MONOCULTURE FARMING : FORCED MIGRATION : POACHING : MERCANTILE FISHING INDUSTRY : INDUSTRIAL ENVIRONMENTAL DECIMATION : BUILDING INDUSTRY : PLASTICS INDUSTRY : WASTE INDUSTRY : SPACE EXPLORATION : SHAREHOLDER / INVESTOR CULPABILITY : DISINFORMATION : POLITCAL & LEGAL OBFUSCATION : CLIMATE DENIAL : GREENWASH : PREJUDICIAL FOREIGN POLICY : PROXI-WARS : COLD-WAR : CIVIL WARS

The Worm Turned
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When globalization brought monetary economy as close to flat-lining as it could get in 2008, thrown into chaos by the collapse of one company, capitalists couldn’t have this. From the tenure of Gordon Brown it led to the economic philosophy of ‘Too Big to Fail’ companies, later emboldened by Brexit. What was exposed a decade later, by the Covid-19 epidemic, was that the richest corporations, somehow, were apparently too inexperienced to know how to protect their own money through the crisis. If shareholders made fewer millions in dividends they may take them elsewhere, so they threatened governments with similar outcomes to 2008. The solution was to get the poor tax-payer – many of whom could never afford to buy shares in these companies – to subsidise their reduced billions of increased profits for the shareholders, which the governments duly obliged without consultation, to the approximated tune of $12.6T, (approximately 10% of global economic equity). This despite necroeconomic policies deliberately prolonging the pandemic, to maximise profit by restricting the vaccines market. (See the book: ‘Pharmanomics:’ Nick Dearden; Verso 2023). It’s basically a street punk saying they’ll protect your car for a fiver, while they strip it for parts.

‘Too Big To Fail’ tax-payer “bail-outs:” JP Morgan Chase & Co : Goldman Sachs : Citibank : Wells Fargo : Bank of America :  Amazon : General Electric : Boeing : Exxon Mobil : AIG : Qantas : Lufthansa : RBS : Northern Rock : Bradford & Bingley.

And ‘Ghost Companies:’ “As international experience shows, dead firms do exist and ‘successfully’ function in the most developed of economies… with Japan being the most obvious example. These insolvent and, in fact, bankrupt firms which continue to operate despite their ‘mortality’ are commonly referred to as ‘zombie-firms.’ Unlike developed economies, which are exposed to the threat of the zombie-ing of the economy under the conditions of a financial crisis, this threat is even greater for the countries of post-Communist capitalism owing also to their exposure to necroeconomy.”Post-communist Capitalism and Financial Crisis, or The Mixing of the Necroeconomics and the Zombie-nomics;’ P.Gugushvill (2010). This MUST also include ‘phantom’ companies, set up to accept government contracts – usually to divert taxes into pay-offs and/or profits for the ministers and leaders involved, or their families and friends – without any infrastructure or intent to deliver the services contracted. Some are vacant office addresses. We can add protracted governmental contracts that end up abandoned or unfulfilled, the parliamentary process to pass papers for this and exorbitant litigation, by parliament, or claims against them from corporate contractors. 

Economic growth / productivity myth

Many economists will contend that capitalism has expanded social mobility and affordability, based on how many variants of yoghurt are now available on the supermarket shelves and that even the poorest and remotest communities have mobile phones and Man United tee-shirts, (probably supplied by NGOs and charities). It seems proliferation of products trumps the global economic disengagement of the vast majority of the population.

Here’s some facts to ponder: over the last part of 20th century until today – Neoliberal economic policies (using monopoly corporations, mercantilism, the rent-economy, gig-economy and profit-maximising) REDUCED the  GLOBAL FORMAL WORKFORCE to 12.5% of the population. No national population has 50% owning more than 5% of wealth. Let that sink in. It necessitates what we will consider in the next article.

People In general (and many economists, it has to be said) have very little idea how the current economy works. That is a deliberate obfuscation on the part of the banking and finance world; and what we can see, if we investigate the information documented, is so complex and protracted it switches most people off. Only the obsessive will bother. The economy is a poker-game with the highest stakes and you never give away your hand. Most confuse “Economic Growth” with the broader availability of wealth, productivity, material commodities and services. GDP (which is an inaccurate measurement of any economy) is equated with the operation of all national business, employment and market performance, whilst most of them are contracted abroad. But this is subterfuge. The fiscal economic model sustains domestic economic crises, by asserting we are dependent on the perpetrators funnelling our choices. Public services are deliberately starved of support; disaster zones left to decay; local councils left to go bankrupt; social housing areas neglected, franchised off, or sold for privatised redevelopment; waste disposal contracted to foreign companies who disregard national standards, once the ‘product’ is offshore.

And mainstream media collude with the proliferation of personality-politics, celebrity idolizing and ‘reality TV’ shows. In the BBC series ‘Streets of Gold: Mumbai’ a young girl is taken on a mystery tour by her publicist, back to the slum where she grew up. Walking those well-trodden ruts, she is gawked at by almost everyone passing. She asks why she has been brought back there and he tells her to just trust him. They turn a corner to find her poster, advertising a beauty product, plastered everywhere in large florescent-lit displays; and everyone else on bicycles, or in ragged attire, stop in their tracks to applaud her with wide open eyes of hope. The grooming process begins; it tells them – ‘she was one of us’ – every one of them can aspire to this transcendent stature of fame and fortune. Capitalism: the opium of the people, in the most rapidly developing land playing catch-up with post-war Japan, post-communist Russia and the explosion of Chinese communist-capitalism. India’s fastest expanding economy set to rival others, if it can somehow manipulate its allies to preserve the nuclear stand-off against its neighbour Pakistan. This is how Necroeconomics plays out in every nation – pacify the poor, court the rich.

Socialists, conservationists and indigenous populations alike get mown down (not always figuratively), under the bulldozer of ‘progress,’ to reinforce what has been turned into ideological fantasy: peace, individualism and prosperity, the aspirational dream supposedly achieved through the oppressive nightmare of the apocalyptic Anthropocene. Yet this ‘fantasy,’ the hope of the entire human population, has been appropriated for profit.

The wake-up call, since 2008, is that economic growth DETATCHED itself from dependency on material productivity and constricted it to the gargantuan monopolies that offer this range of choice. The high street all but collapsed as even large traders restricted their operations to online sales and remaining retailers became dependent upon the same monopoly manufacturers and distributors cutting out wholesale companies. So, when you search online for a product, what you encounter is a proliferation of choice, but usually the choice is for the same product by different licensed brands, supplied by the same mega-companies / producers / platforms. And usually from the three nations with the largest economies, US, China (approx. 2/3rds of US) & Japan (approx. 1/5th of US). Germany, UK and India are next, but so infinitesimal by comparison, along with all other national economies combined. Many Arab economies circumspect in their reporting of informal loans and cash deals, which constitute a large proportion of their economic culture.

The rent-economy, intellectual property rights and financial speculation (financialization) by 1995 made up 95% of the global economy. (‘Profit Over People: Neoliberalism and the Global Order’ – Noam Chomsky). “Only 3% of financialization concerns production.” (‘From A to X’ – John Berger 2009). 15% of that 3% from United States companies. This is old news, but add this to the formal employment rate, and it reinforces both the problem and the solutions needed. Is there still hope? On this roller-coaster, how do we gets things in perspective?

If we illustrate the entire monetary economy, in terms of the height of a building, this is how it would look: Global economy 2022 = $405T. ($105T equity + $300T debt). 1m = $1T.

State of the Enemy

Of course, the combined elite want to grow from that 1.5m height in relation to the 405m towering economy, but how? By using governments and the most profitable international trades – arms and drugs. Scrutiny of public records establishes that when it comes to supporting armed conflicts, there is no such thing as ‘Nationality.’ All sides will deal with each other to forward their economic aims. Whatever the ideological or political outlook behind what most people regard as sectarian conflicts, economic outcomes generate the slaughter house and divisions are merely the herders’ cattle-prods.

What westerners call ‘The Arab Spring’ – (The Intifada / uprising) – revolt against authoritarianism for more democratic and equitable economic control, led to far-reaching conflicts involving the major revolutions and civil wars across the region. All were influenced strongly by the western alliance and as far as China and North Korea to the east, as factions sought to support or suppress anything that interfered with far-right totalitarian, or sovereign control of the populations. Western ‘democratic’ countries outwardly condemned, spouting support for human rights whilst ‘reforming’ the human right act with a ‘Sovereign Rights Bill’ and an outright attack on Capital Hill.

“Regimes that lacked major oil wealth and hereditary succession arrangements were more likely to undergo regime change.” (‘Tracking the “Arab Spring”: Why the Modest Harvest?’ Journal of Democracy. Retrieved 27 October 2019). No coincidence, then, that both Yemen and Palestine, as the tiny poor relatives in the Arab region, ended up the pawns in an international strategic economic land-grab, to showcase to Russia and China what can happen to the control of the middle-east by western armaments and allies, without hardly lifting a finger. The US armed the UAE, Saudi Arabia and Jordan, against the Huthis with unsubstantiated claims they were being backed by Iran; at times allowing even their sworn terrorist targets, Al Qaeda, to achieve some of the allies’ objectives. “On 13 July 2020, the UK Ministry of Defence logged more than 500 Saudi air raids in possible breach of international law in Yemen… a few days after the UK government decided to resume the arms sales to Saudi Arabia, which could be used in the Yemen war, just over a year after the court of appeal ruled them unlawful.”‘Alleged breaches of international law by Saudi forces in Yemen exceed 500’. The Guardian. 13 July 2020.

Many western armament consignments somehow “disappear” on delivery. Western arms-support for the UAE funnelled down to the Sudan and Darfur, apparently without consent. It’s a Neoliberalist approach to war, but an entirely economic enterprise. (See – ‘The Shadow World: inside the global arms trade.’ Andrew Feinstein; economist and former ANC cabinet member with Nelson Mandela).

The middle-eastern carnage of the Arab populations set against each other is the way the West (US) – through political shape-shifting, bribery, money laundering and active destabilising – profits from and suppresses the influence of the major Arab wealth filtering through land and business ownership in the UK and the Americas. (For the UK, see ‘The Plunder of the Commons,’ Prof Guy Standing, 2019). No wonder this intensifies the deep genuine disturbance of the Jewish diaspora and support for Netanyahu’s Zionist agenda, even Putin declaring his support, (most likely because the oligarch cannot afford another military front against Iran and Iraq; while the US vocally tugs on the Pit Bull’s reins. It’s a tightrope, keeping the Arab States as allies and suppliers of diminishing oil and mineral resources, pitching OPEC against Russian oil manipulation. All compete and deal for strategic land and sea-grabs for fossil fuel and mineral exploration. To meet the voracious expansion of the US building trade, unsurprisingly in Arab countries like Dubai, Bahrain, Azerbaijan, Saudi Arabia and Oman, the UK royal family offer sea dredging licences within former colonial territorial waters, they somehow still own. (See ‘The Blue Commons: rescuing the economy of the sea,’ Prof Guy Standing, 2022).

The well-established parallel in Necroeconomic influence, is the rise of drug cartel control of populations, as alternative political attack dogs. Mexico, Honduras, Venezuela, Colombia, Cuba, Haiti and countless other countries are predicted to become the latest terror-grounds, already oppressed by the neoliberals, ready to sniff the blood-rag of economic promise aided by AI generated disinformation. Nothing and nowhere is off the table, including kidnappings, rape, homelessness, forced migration and all the humble everyday lives and imposed misery. No political or sectarian ideology required, simply market-control.

In most of the world’s 192 nations, STATE HAS BECOME THE ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE. Yes, even humble wide-eyed friendly trusting aspirational workers in the Indian gig-economy slave-trade, anticipating their media-climb as a nation and as individual entrepreneurs, are unwittingly systematically groomed to intensify the imposition of material destruction along with the rest of the global 99%, as mere cannon fodder. Not even kept alive for what some would argue is the pressing drive to meet the needs of a rapidly expanding population. That can easily be solved. AI is also replacing many highly educated middle-class professions and is the biggest threat to public voting, political engagement and reliable news coverage. It goes way beyond manipulating people’s armchair choices, but creates a perfect storm for the entire employment sector. Data tech industry the most profitable sector of recent years. It will be the prime tool in setting people against each other unless we make earnest effort to unite.

Truce, Ceasefire, End to hostility? Who can bring this about?
 
Rulers everywhere have divested from the general public. The longer the rope gets, the tighter the economy chokes civility. Some believe even a French-style revolution is justified. There is not only significant appetite for change; there is growing revolt. Socialists believe this will be the Schumpeter prognosis – an inevitable backlash and overthrow by the oppressed – but this avenue has already been kneecapped. The life-blood has been cut off from its legs. The Zapatistas are the longest successful public-led autonomous community occupying the undeveloped Chiapas region of Mexico. “You can tell the difference between Zapatista homes and government supporters; they’re the ones without the satellite dishes.” Their struggle against state-endorsed murder labelled them as terrorists for years, yet they made a move to reject all further violence, with decisions largely influenced by their woman’s movement. This is why every expression of socialism, especially in the global south, has been nullified by the necroeconomy and they are sick of paying with their lives. The elite need none of us and that is the least popular message to socialist devotees. It’s time to wake up to it and stop shooting the messenger. Alfonso Cuarón’s 2018 film ‘Roma’ is a graphic illustration of the tensions running in many South American countries.

Recent compliant media hype has maligned ‘the left’ and ‘populism’ as rebellious but ultimately unsuccessful and threatening movements. Is it any surprise? Populism arose not from far right political ideology and exponents of fascism they are labelled with now, (de-riguer in the imposition of Necroeconomics, what a turn-around), but from public anti-austerity outrage from all political and apolitical sectors of the general public. Portugal’s Geração à Rasca; Iceland Pots n Pans revolution; Spain’s Indignados; Greece’s Syriza movement; and Italy’s Movimento 5 stelle (started on social media by listeners to the podcasts of comedian Beppe Grillo), all constituted a public backlash, whilst Gordon Brown of the New (red-Tories) Labour, proposed stripping the elderly war veterans of their pensions. Blair colluded with Bush on an illegal war against Iraq, murdering their own UN inspector. Jeremy Corbyn was re-branded anti-Semitic and “friend of Hamas” by ‘Islamophobes,’ prompting Sir Kier Starmer to oust most of the left in his party, apart from those who couldn’t stomach the betrayal and salvaged their dignity and integrity as independents. But the Left were pushed.

Whilst the Jewish population are far more embedded and intrinsic in western culture, geo-politics, business, law and arts, in contrast to Islamic influence; all Palestinians are insultingly labelled as pro-Hamas, all Lebanese as pro-Hezbollah, just because they are strangled by the extremists control of the purse-strings, (dismissing the resistance movements in each country). To be fair, major cities have seen attacks on Mosques and Synagogues. This independent impartial author has been labelled a ‘lefty’ by protagonists of the right and a ‘pro-capitalist’ by proper lefties and ‘anti-capitalist’ by capitalists. New realities are created to support intransigent biases every day, to the point some believe a real reality doesn’t exist. You just close your eyes, cover your ears and speak no evil (oops!). Yes even the loveliest people perpetuate evil acts. Scientific and environmental evidence is insufficient to penetrate the noise-cancelling headphones. But it takes enormous effort and emotional fortitude to factor in variants that disagree with any perspective. That is the harder road to peace, when the most expedient is to pick a side and stick to it. The heartening development is that the vast majority of everyday people are sick of hearing it.

One thing people can sympathise with the moderate reasonable Left (even some with far-left views) – that the Right infringes at every turn – is that their primary preoccupation is with economic fairness and public welfare. No wonder they are ‘the enemy.’ This is partly why Mexico, Honduras, Haiti, Venezuela, Colombia, Ecuador, and Nicaragua are predicted to become future war zones. They’ve all resisted or compromised with neoliberal influence and are fractured societies. The US doesn’t have a historical glowing record of land-army foreign victories, something leaders probably find chaffing, but they are not shy to redeem that reputation and are past-masters at getting everyone else to fight for them. They are good at killing their own. A whole continent closed off by a wall they erected is not yet theirs. From Jacobin.com – 28 Oct 2023: “Defence firms RTX (Raytheon) & General Dynamics, America’s 2nd & 3rd largest government contractors, have seen stocks increase more than 10 percent since Hamas’s October 7 attack on Israel. The trend is part of a broader surge in stock performance among defence companies.” ‘The Guardian’ – 13 Feb 2024 reports: “Global defence spending increased by 9% to a record $2.2tn during 2023”

True reality is inconvenient for people who conform to biased ideologies and try to control and quantify culture and ‘public interests.’ Outdated colonialism is alive and thriving amongst the generation that had to live up to their parent and grandparent World War veterans and care more about them than their own children. If any human history remains after this, they will be the ones vilified as never learning, never listening and decimating the whole of life existing on planet Earth. Unless they make a better choice. They are actually outnumbered.

Against the tide

Many former devotees and moderates have already distanced themselves from fundamental belief systems, in practice, living successfully side by side with non-believers and other faiths without compromise; some forming civic revolts and revolutions, championing women’s rights and challenging patriarchal religious authoritarianism. This true reality, in every nation, outnumbers the fractional membership of extremism and the insatiable corporate and political ambition of the 1%. Most of these inconsequential people treat entire strangers with care and respect on encounter. Necronomics has backfired and broadened a common recognition of each other as Earth Citizens.

Countless non-partisan public campaign groups are actively exposing corruption and efforts to progress the Necroeconomy; they need to collaborate and drop egocentric protection and profiting from  mainstream intellectual property rights and copyright. Mainstream journals are now starting to print articles asking the questions about whether money has had its day, or if it should be re-invented. Stick around for ahead-of-the-curve prognosis on that and don’t waste another single second of your precious time on reforming money. It will be manipulated by those that control it. Something way superior is under our noses. 

 “There is a rapid and vast movement for public outcry… no matter what the defeats, keep pressuring, keep speaking out, keep forming collective action and even direct civic defiance. Never give up the smallest initiative, or speaking openly to friends, family, neighbours, about what we are facing and all the astounding ideas people have. What need do we have of stupid politicians? Think big and think new. We need public-led democracy and a NEW ANARCHIC ECONOMY.” (Andrew Feinstein: author ‘The Shadow world: Inside the global arms trade.’ Economist & former ANC cabinet member with Nelson Mandela. Hastings, 27 March 2024).

But many contend this will generate increased hostility from the elite. Even when you propose an economy in the interests of the elite, people automatically presume capitalists will object, or fair-minded people will… “They’ve got more than they could ever want and money works for them, why would they change?” With Stockholm Syndrome, the abused have even fallen for their abusers and it usually takes outside intervention and respite to come around. That is what the entire globe, its species and population needs right now. Respite. Trump showed why Necronomics took off; he recognized the global revolt could turn into New Year’s Eve in no-man’s land 1914 and so protested that America was not in a great place… so, peace or paranoia? Business – as usual.

“The ‘Don’t Bank on the Bomb Risky Returns’ report found that 306 financial institutions had provided financing of $747 billion to the top 24 nuclear weapons producers, like BAE and Boeing, between January 2020 and July 2022… a $61.5 billion increase from the previous year… during [which time] the ‘Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons’ (TPNW) came into force on 22 January 2021. The treaty explicitly prohibits the manufacture, production, and development of nuclear weapons, as well as assistance with those prohibited acts.”

Is there any way to stop the political ideological gamesmanship from escalating and the world forced to go over the top? What would make the elite want to change? More profit?
We have to change what we have now with what we have now. So, what is the real ‘power of the people?’ Can they offer the elite a more profitable outcome? Is profit an issue? This will be the subject of ‘NECROECONOMICS: Instalment 2 – The “Neoliberal” approach to life.’

 

‘NECRONOMICS 2: The “Neoliberal” approach to life.’
https://internationaltimes.it/necronomics-2-the-neoliberal-approach-to-life/

 

Copyright – Kendal Eaton 13 April 2024. (Author of ‘A Chance For Everyone: The Parallel Non-Monetary Economy, 2020)

 

 

 

 
   

 

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THE SMALL FACES

In order to impress me
the man who owned the carpet shop
on Caledonian Road, north London
told me the place where we were sitting
after swallowing Acid was the original
Itchycoo Park, recorded in the 60s

I had no reason to doubt him

The pulsating veins on even
the most mundane of leaves were
fascinating, juicy. I saw a smiling
caterpillar. His wife ran a button stall
in Lower Holloway, not just buttons
obviously, but coloured cotton reels,
various items of haberdashery

I don’t know why he lied,
it made no difference to the Acid

In this regard, north London
humans are identical
to their Martian counterparts
but without the square antennae

 

 

 

Steven Taylor

 

 

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THAT NIGHT OF NIGHTS

 

Night hath a thousand eyes – John Lyly 

Estranged Reflections X

 

I was gasping for a smack in the kisser as I viewed the image under extreme magnification: there were triangles, circles and straight lines. I write deep semi-suicide notes in my journal.

As the use of regressive hypnosis continued I recalled seeing rows of pulsating lights as I glided across the room wishing I could make a fast buck by hyping hot young things and paralytic nostalgia trips. I test-flew the idea in and around the planet.

I saw Carl and Lorna giggling at a candlelit table for two, he in his first Panto role as Buttons, she up the kazoo but with a plethora of interesting data.

More compulsive thrillers; more vulnerable kleptomaniacs; the sequence came to an abrupt end. Well catch that if you can!

Next I studied the Content Process Worksheet disguised as Le Grand Grimoire, seeing, in the intricate patterns of tea leaves, handbags full of junk and women behaving badly despite the panicky denials of the government. The ‘flying chariot’ theory became serious business for two men dressed in fur coats.

I stared out of the window at the rain-soaked Surrey country­side.

Then Karen’s voice entered my frazzled Dream-time:

“Vince got stuck in The Discontent because I lost the runes and I don’t want to talk to Brad any more…” she sounded distant, somehow remote, somehow conditioned in terms of size and head colour. Waifs had no impact.

The ‘visitor’ had gone but she was far from happy. There were flashbacks and high levels of anxiety. Paintings by dead artists sell better. She was surrounded by ambitious deals, tram tracks and architect-designed bus-shelters. She had a voice like cashmere that did not sit well with my natural English reserve, tapestries, flock wallpaper and good old-fashioned chintz. She had cardinal red lips and a brand new silhouette.

“Sofia, Sister Marie that is, simply vanished you know…” continued the thousand-year-old witch dressed in scarlet sequins and a talismanic waistcoat. “…over the rainbow…Oh, he can ravish you with words…” She performed a Mambo Basilisk, (just like that!) – In the background were a thousand eyes: it was one of her hottest moments. Oooh myyyy giddy aunt! This is really exciting!

Supernatural and miraculous events proved her messages to be true on that ‘night of nights’ as the last few drinkers were finally leaving Deptford Blades and the phones went berserk, old red stars faded out over the naked city and doors got kicked in. The Spear Nosed Bat Totem began to look like the Archangel Gabriel in a sculpted evening dress, sporting the lure of hidden luxury; another puzzler in need of examination.

Trapped in a life of crime Laszlo’s canine habits encouraged drug abusers and uptight engineers to take up residence, projecting dream visions of their own bodies on the parquet floor. After that, Sharon quit the scene altogether. She was not providing the interval entertainment.

She tried to get a job with Alvin and the Chipmunks but faded into restful oblivion, they had been driven apart by recriminations and a helter-skelter journey through the revolutions of the past five hundred years.

Then there were the official papers, just as the paramedics said. It was one of my earliest big screen breaks but all that was still a hundred miles away, what a tearjerker.

I froze; like I was petrified by the gaze of the Medusa. Is that it?

I swept aside the pleas of contestant couples with their eyes on flash cars, cash prizes and glam holidays. That’ll do nicely sir!

I couldn’t feel her skin, the crosstalk, the highway to heaven, the cut and the deal.

There were only videos, CDs, a bunch of flowers and strange reflections.

 

 

 

AC Evans

 

 

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The Obscurity of Heaven

 

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The bomb is in the temple, the eraser on the page.
Our timid mirrors reflect but they never take a step.
A cancer’s in the nipple, spectators usurp the stage.

We mourn heaven: “It’s obscured, so we cannot know its worth.’
And we moan that circumstance proves to be our best defense.
Clouds are integral as stars in its measurement from Earth.

Our judgment misjudges us and aborts our renaissance.
We can reject starvation without accepting poison.
The body discharges pus while mitigating relapse.

Hunkering down in our forts is desperate strategy.
To drive the enemy back we must go upon attack.
Garret verse, a poet’s corpse that has no utility.

 

Duane Vorhees

Art Rupert Loydell

 

 

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Little Red Riding Hood Bends Down to Look at a Fallen Leaf

 

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She puts her basket beside her, squats, indelicately because no one is there to see and to judge if she is graceful. The leaf is beautiful, though she knows she wouldn’t be able to convince anyone of that. She smiles, glad she doesn’t need to convince anyone of anything about her and her own life. Not that Grandma won’t welcome her with love, as always. But she isn’t truly herself with anyone else and is certain she must be the only person like that. The leaf gathers to a point at the top and its edges curl in toward the center vein. If it were a map─the veins running out to the leaf’s edges could be rivers, and if she were a raven she could fly high enough so that the rivers could be seen like this, rivers far away and stretching further away. A small gust moves the leaf and it turns on its side, a sleeper shifting.

 

John Levy

 

 

 

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Am I still an anarchist?

This isn’t going to be a well researched or thought out post, just really me sorting things out in my head in real time.

These days, I kind of stopped thinking of myself as an anarchist, and i’m wondering if that’s really correct. This is kind of a question of both what do I think and what even is anarchism. I first called myself an anarchist when I was a teenager, as many do. How much of this was because I agreed with the ideology vs because I thought it sounded cool? I’m not sure. My reading at that point included the wikipedia page for anarchism and maybe a couple of reddit posts. Eventually, I ended up reading god and the state (actually I listened to it on audiobook), and the conquest of bread (actually I never finished it). I would probably have called myself anarcho-syndicalist at this point, but I still had a pretty vague idea of what that actually entailed. At some point, the max stirner meme started to grow, so I ended up reading the ego and it’s own, which I found to be really good. This was my introduction to post-left anarchism, and the first theory that actually spoke to me on a deeper level. Like, god and the state isn’t a bad book, but it’s pretty outdated, most of the stuff in there seemed extremely self evident to the point of banality. And also about half of the book is dedicated to critiquing a system of church institutions which doesn’t really exist an more. Stirner’s philosophy contained more “aha” moments for me, and changed my outlook on certain things. It was the first book I’d ever read which dealt with ethics and philosophy beyond or behind the political which I actually cared about. After this, I slowly became more and more invested in reading theory, mostly on the anarchist library. A lot of it was either bad or mid, but some highlights include blessed is the flame, the coming insurection, beyond civilised and primitive, hello from the wired (this was and still is extremely influential on me), desert, revolutionary self-theory, and well yeah. I also read some books, my favourites being the society of the spectacle and debt: the first 5000 years. hello from the wired and reading books in general lead me to reading nick land and mark fisher, which more recently lead me to reading bataille and i’m not going to list every book I’ve ever read.
the point being, I’ve read theory, and thinking about it now listing those texts, I am reminded of how much I agree with them. This often happens. I’ll be in some discussion, or faced with some problem, and out of nowhere my brain will reach back to some anarchist text which gives me some useful framing device or information etc. So clearly, the anarchist framing has been very influential to me. In the past year and half or so, I’ve become more invested in following real world geopolitics. Paying attention to ellections and policy decisions and so on. I’ve also tried to do more research into economics and ok idk where i’m going with this. What I want this to be is, if I agree so much with these texts, what are my qualms with anarchism?

At this point, my faith in the ability of random people to actually do things well has dwindled. I’ve seen so often how “the masses” are tricked by populists into voting so obviously against their own interest. I worry about the lack of regulations and ways to enforce these regulations under anarchism. Say as an example, we want to regulate certain farming practices like limiting use of nitrogen fertalizers for environmental reasons. How would one go about regulating this? There is some idea that everyone would just agree not to use them, but how do you ensure people actually follow this agreement? Under capitalism, you can use government intervention to create incentive structures like, you could subsidise farms which follow better practices, or give them tax breaks, or you could fine farms which break regulations. With no money or authority, how is it even possible to do something like that? If no one has any need for more money, or fear of imprisonment or fining, you basically have 2 options. You’re either threatening them with physical force, which seems authoritarian and at least as bad as what we already have, or you are just rellying on good will and hoping that no one will misbehave. This seems naive to me. I think a sollution to this would probably be a focus on small localised communities where the scale is low enough that everyone is participating in organisation and is invested in the community that there is that level of trust and good will. This provides another question then

Supply chains. Anarchists are infamously bad at economics. There’s a semi meme of an anarchist explaining economics on twitter with an ms paint drawing where they grown beans and someone asks them for beans so they give them beans. This was immediately clowned on. A lot of things are more complicated to produce and distribute than beans. Insulin is a classic example. I’ve never really heard a solid answer from anarchists as to how insulin manufacture and distribution could work in a world of small autonamous anarcist communities. There is a reason why industrialisation and urbanisation arrived hand in hand. If you want to industrially produce stuff, you need a lot of labour in a small area. You need cities. I do not think it is possible to run a city of over a million people directly democratically. You can’t get a million people in a room to debate and sort things out. I think you just end up needing some sort of representative democracy in this case. Like, big cities are already divided into smaller local authorities right now, so you could have a sort of zone system like that. maybe there are many small localities of 100 or so people, who get together and decide on some policy. Most policies only have to be implemented locally, but a large number will need to be coordinated. Once you’re coordinating 300, 500, 1000 people, 10,000 people, it becomes increasingly difficult to do this without representatives. But maybe that’s ok, maybe you can have temporary representatives who are ellected to fulfil one specific task then loose their status. It’s possible. A lot of this is possible. This is kinda my point. maybe you can run a massive city like this, maybe you could coordinate large scale transcontinental supply chains like this, but is it actually more efficent than capitalism? Maybe the workers along the way of this insulin supply chain are treated better, but if it means less insulin can be produced and distributed, and downstream people are dying, is that actually any better? Capitalism is not great at distributing everything people need to everyone who needs it, but also that is arguably the central problem of human existence, honestly capitalism is definitely less bad than it could be. A sollution to this I see being maybe possible is some sort of cybersin-like programme working in a panarchist diversified economy. But this is highly experimental and abstract.

which kind of brings me to my last point, this is all very abstract. Lefties spend a lot of time arguing about completely hypothetical situations in the far distant future, you may as well be writing theory about how goku would beat superman. Honestly, I kind of agree with zizek’s latest article the left should embrace law and order. We are not in a good situation, superpowers are collapsing and the far right is on the rise globally, now is not the time to be talking of revolution, at this point we’re lucky if things stay as they are without descending into genocidal fascism. All the focus on revolutionary politics seems so, almost religious. Almost like we’re talking about the rapture here, like we’re just praying that something will save us. Nothing will save us. The revolution never comes. Even when it does, I can’t express the extent to which the majority of revolutions fail. The roots of left-anarchism, born from the enlightenment are products of a time close to the liberal revolution where these things seems relevant and possible. Remember that we had like a thousand years of feudalism. Capitalism shows no signs of collapsing under it’s own contradictions. “The death of a social machine has never been heralded by a disharmony or a dysfunction; on the contrary, social machines make a habit of feeding on the contradictions they give rise to, on the crises they provoke, on the anxieties they engender, and on the infernal operations they regenerate. Capitalism has learned this, and has ceased doubting itself, while even socialists have abandoned belief in the possibility of capitalism’s natural death by attrition. No one has ever died from contradictions. And the more it breaks down, the more it schizophrenizes, the better it works, the American way.” To me, revolutionary politics is irrelevant, leftism is outdated, and the post-left barely exists in the real world.

so does this mean i am or am not an anarchist. I still don’t know. There’s a book called seeing like a state, which is both extremely boring and extremely informative, in which the author says they’re not an anarchist, but look at the world through an anarchist bent. I think that’s probably pretty close to where I stand, that while I’m not convinced it’s possible to do away with the state, I still will continue to look at it with a large dose of skepticism. I’m not alone in my qualms with anarchism, there are many post lefties who share my thoughts and then some. In the end, what does it matter how I label myself.

nothankyou

nothankyou is an independent musician located in London.

Reprinted from nothankyou’s blog

 

 

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If that beauty

If that beauty
can not be comprised
by my soul,
how it could be
with the other one.
The one
which yellow and green
can not describe,
the one
which blue and red
(the pure blue 
and the sunrise red)
are faintly reflected?
The one
which is beyond the seasons,
beyond
the well known colours…

My soul is puzzled
and complete anticipation.

 

 

Kalin Mikhaylov
translated by Dessy Tsvetkova

 

 

 

 

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WEST OF EAST TRIBUTE STREET

I’m staying on my own at The Angry Cheese 
watching this particular Seinfeld show from Season Nine.
Naturally the room that I’m in I assume to be mine 
untl the door bursts open admitting this dusted down couple
from East Tribute Street who’d made love between
these same sheets the night before – had taken their chances 
 – kept the key. So we became a three. All of which
was deeply annoying for me as it was that part of the show
when all the best stuff had just come on… Anyway…
she locks herself in the bathroom, he pulls out a gun…
and… I had very little to say other than: ‘you know it doesn’t
always have to be this way. Listen – I’m far too scared
to shout for help or try and phone – strikes me
what you two could both use is a room of your own’. 
So I emptied out what I had left which he took
away and the plan was thereby arranged – he even came next day
with two piles of nickels and dimes in change. All said ‘n’ done.
But I have to say, looking back on the whole thing, I can’t help thinking   
about where the moral’s hiding in all of this. Assuming there is one. 

 

 

Phil Bowen

 

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Buttertubs Pass

the hilltops
            are a darker blue
against a dark blue sky

            and here I am
braking to avoid
                        rabbits!
            running out in-
                        to the headlight beam
to disappear into
            the dark void on my left

quite soon we reach the watershed
where we park up
            it’s like that point
you reach on breathing in
            the pause
                        before you breathe out
the top of a hill
            a moment of stasis
                        where everything makes sense

we step
            out of the car
breathe in
                                   
                                    breathe out

 

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Dominic Rivron

 

 

 

 

 

 

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BELA LUGOSI

In the Twilight of English Literature   –
Scattering its casket in confetti
Critic-brides undead
Entrain to Transylvania
To villages of Gifted Children
Who punch their tickets in sharp tiny teeth   –
Publishers are redundant
What is left but to outlive them?

Any carotid artery
May prove a boon against a ‘night starvation’
Art Collecting magnates out late for a ‘vape’
Have a musty brandy library flavour

London closes its bazaars   –
Homeward tends the genius
With nothing in the larder
‘Clack’ the meter’s out and takes his lights
So street-ward goes in search of dissipation

A winter’s night of brown mist from the River   –
Limehouse first or Shepherds Market shadow?

‘Might I share your hansom cab old man?
Hansom is as hansom does!’
His jocular banality appals   –
You give his scarf a twist
Then sink your jaws

Sheer poetry…
The white noise of the stars

 

 

Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

 

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Bippety and Boppety Discuss Spring Cleaning


– I’ve been spring cleaning the caravan.
– Wait a moment. I need to wake up and put on my “interested” face.
– I was in Aldi and they had a bottle of special “Caravan Cleaner”, which came in very handy.
– I think I must be dreaming.
– It’s brilliant. It’s the best £2.99 I’ve spent since those trousers in the Cancer Research shop.
– The medication is starting to kick in now. I’ll be with you in a moment.
– So, I’m ready for the new season. We can be “on the road” as soon as the decent weather arrives.
– I’m here now.
– Where do you fancy for our first weekend jaunt?
– I’ve always fancied seeing Paris between the wars. What do you think?

 

Martin Stannard

 

 

 

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The life and times of John Sinclair


John Sinclair (born October 2, 1941 in Flint, Michigan, United States) is a Detroit poet, one-time manager of the band MC5, and leader of the White Panther Party — a militantly anti-racist countercultural group of white socialists seeking to assist the Black Panthers in the Civil Rights movement — from November 1968 to July 1969.

John was sentenced to 10 years in prison in 1969 after giving two joints of marijuana to an undercover narcotics officer. This sentence inspired Abbie Hoffman to jump on the stage during The Who’s performance at Woodstock to protest. It also sparked the landmark “John Sinclair Freedom Rally” at Ann Arbor’s Crisler Arena in December 1971. The event brought together luminaries including pop musicians John Lennon (who recorded the song, “John Sinclair” on his Some Time in New York City album), Yoko Ono, David Peel, Stevie Wonder, Phil Ochs and Pete Seeger, jazz artists Archie Shepp and Roswell Rudd, and speakers Allen Ginsberg, Abbie Hoffman, Rennie Davis, David Dellinger, Jerry Rubin, and Bobby Seale. Three days after the rally, Sinclair was released from prison when the Michigan Supreme Court ruled that the state’s marijuana statutes were unconstitutional. These events inspired the creation of Ann Arbor’s annual pro-legalization Hash Bash rally, which continues to be held as of 2011, and contributed to the drive for decriminalization of marijuana under the Ann Arbor city charter (see Cannabis laws in Ann Arbor, Michigan).

In 1972, Leonard Weinglass took on the defense of Sinclair in Detroit, Michigan. The case became United States v. U.S. District Court, 407 U.S. 297 (1972) on appeal to the United States Supreme Court a landmark decision prohibiting the government’s use of electronic survelliance without a warrant.

 

 

Reprinted from Freedom News

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John Sinclair (1941-2024) The Life and Times

 

John Sinclair, poet, author of Guitar Army, manager of the MC5 rock band, White Panther Party co-founder, and early Fifth Estate writer, died of heart failure in Detroit on April 9. He was 82. He was heralded far from his Motor City base as a counterculture icon, marijuana legalization campaigner, and rock and roll enthusiast who was immortalized in a John Lennon song.

Although slight mentions were made of Sinclair as a political activist, a radical perspective formed the matrix through which all of his other work flowed. In a 2005 interview in the Detroit News, a mainstream daily, he replied to a question about the MC5, the hard-rocking, Detroit-based band he managed, “What was our world outlook? Everything must be free for everybody — that’s a good place to start. Total assault on the culture, by any means necessary. . .”

Sinclair was widely known for his campaign to legalise marijuana, for which he suffered two prison sentences, including one in 1969 of 9.5-10 years given by a vindictive Deroit judge for giving two joints to an undercover cop. He famously was released following a Free John Sinclair Rally in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in late 1971, headlined by John Lennon and Yoko Ono and also featuring Stevie Wonder, Bob Seger, Phil Ochs, jazz saxophonist Archie Shepp, and others. Among the speakers were Jane Fonda, Allen Ginsberg, Black Panther Chairman Bobby Seale, and Ed Sanders from the Fugs. Lennon sang the song he composed for the event titled, “John Sinclair.”

Sinclair was a legend in the rock and roll world. Between rom 1966-1972 he was instrumental in shaping and promoting Detroit’s Grande Ballroom, which first featured local bands from the city’s rich music scene, but later saw the greatest classic bands of the era on stage including The Who, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Cream, Grateful Dead, as well as blues artists such as Howlin’ Wolf, BB King, and John Lee Hooker. He was instrumental in bringing saxophonist John Coltrane and the Sun Ra Arkestra to the venue.

John became the manager of the MC5 as the group gained international fame for playing “high-energy rock and roll” that reflected the energy of the era and the subculture that defined it. Many later rockers and music critics defined the band as proto-punk, typified by their wild on-stage performance and high-decibel sound. Rage Against the Machine guitarist Tom Morello said the MC5 “basically invented punk rock,” a description denied by Sinclair. He told the Detroit News in a 2005 interview, the MC5 described their music as “avant rock,” and ascribed the origin of punk to another immortal local band, Iggy and the Stooges.

Sinclair, his wife Leni, a renowned photographer who documented much of the Detroit cultural and political scene in her photographs, and several others, founded the anti-racist White Panther Party (WPP) in 1968. The MC5 band was part of the milieu and often posed for promotion photos hoisting rifles. Sinclair said the point of the music  was “to drive you out of your mind and into your body.”

But the emphasis on marijuana and armed rockers didn’t impress the official left in Detroit. The late Pun Plamondon, a WPP co-founder, addressed the fact that much of the Detroit left during the 1960s dismissed the Party and the band as apolitical hippies who were only interested in getting high and listening to rock and roll. At a 2017 retrospective on the White Panthers that I hosted at the city’s Charles Wright African American Museum, which also featured John and Leni, Pun said, “To the left, we were counterculture clowns, but we went out every weekend and gave out revolutionary literature including the Fifth Estate to hundreds and hundreds of young people while the left was arguing about Mao.”

John’s poetry was recognized internationally. He wrote thousands of poems beginning in early 1960s, published along with his compatriots’ work in a seemingly endless stream of mimeographed books and broadsheets. His last public appearance, just several weeks before his death, was in Paris at the exhibit of artwork by Detroiter Mike Kelley. Although confined to a wheelchair, he made the journey from Detroit to Paris to read three poems with rock accompaniment to a wildly cheering crowd. One couldn’t ask for a better final gig.

In his bestselling 1969 manifesto for revolution, Guitar Army, Sinclair wrote, “Our culture is a revolutionary culture, a revolutionary force on the planet, the seed of the new order that will come to flower with the disintegration and collapse of the obsolete social and economic forms which presently infest the earth.” Let’s make it so.

 

 

~Peter Werbe

 

 

 

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The Calcutta Café

 

j

I read about a café 
in Calcutta in the sixties
it fixes
in my romantic mind
and I call it The Calcutta Café
though that wasn’t
and isn’t its name
all the same
it speaks to me
of a café society 
you see
each group there 
sat at its own table:
the novelists here
the playwrights screen writers there
the journos the hacks
the others elsewhere
and the poets….
ah the poets
they had their own table too
they even had their own name
which resonates down the years
of their literary fame
The Hangry Poets 
they called themselves
and here’s to explain:
claiming poverty
they professed to be hungry
claiming alienation
they professed to be angry
and being poets
they claimed of course
to be talented
collectively they were
loud opinionated wild-looking 
and as poets everywhere are
curiously attractive
theirs was 
the most sought-after table
it seems some habitués 
of The Calcutta Café
were prepared to give up
writing novels films plays
in order to be
or pretend to be poets
and thus gain a place
at The Hangry Poets’ table
and become presumably
hungry angry loud opinionated 
wild-looking
and curiously attractive too
the quality of their verse
is not known

now here’s a thing:
in 1962 the celebrated
American Beat poet 
Allen Ginsberg
while stumbling around India
in search of enlightenment
stumbled one day
into The Calcutta Café
and saw
in a flash of enlightenment
that The Angry Poets were
in some way or another
an howling outpost
of the Beat Generation
of which he was
a founding father
in turn The Hangries
recognised a fellow Hangry
and fell upon him
with glad cries
of warmth and solidarity
all this a fantastic dream
but real
though such a thing
has never happened to me
or ever will I feel
to think
the company of poets
actively sought 
by literary pretenders
their table blessed
by Allen Ginsberg’s presence
no women sat there
of course
or were invited for sure
if The Hangries had muses
they kept quiet about them
A.G. became their muse maybe
for a bond was formed
two of The Hangries
even got jobs eventually
in American universities
and ceased to be hungry
and even angry possibly
and wore tweed jackets
no doubt
with leather patches
at the elbow
the better able
to live out their fable
yet did ever again I wonder
writers deceive and scheme
to sit at
the once Hangry Poets’ table

 

 


Jeff Cloves
Altered image: Claire Palmer

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In 2001 Calcutta was re-named Kolkata
.

A Blue Hand: the Beats in India
this beautifully written account by Deborah Baker

(The Penguin Press New York 2008)
was a primary source for my poem

Below: Poet and International Times regular Kushal Poddar sent this photo
of himself outside the Coffee House in Kolkata yesterday (April 16th 2024)
which also happens to be opposite his old school.
Forming a link between the Beat poets of the 1960s and present day poetry,
the coffee house and bookshops are still thriving
.
Thanks Kushal!

 

 

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from Jim Henderson’s A SUFFOLK DIARY

Sunday, March 31st

It is Easter Sunday, and there is some catching up to do because things have taken a surprising turn and there has been little time to write in my diary. My wife unexpectedly returned from her parents’ in York last Wednesday. She said her mother was getting about alright now and that her broken ankle is well on the way to mending, and her help is no longer needed, and that is about all she did say, apart from she thought it was time she came home to see what I have been “getting up to” – her words . She said she liked my beard, which surprised me, and she has been in what I can only describe as a good mood. She knew what was happening at the village hall this weekend, because one of the ladies from her yoga class (“Oh Yeah! Yoga!”) had been in touch about their putting on a display, and when I told her that GASSE  – “Go Away! Stay Somewhere Else!”, the Parish Council’s committee organised to prevent the hall being used as a hotel for unhappy illegal immigrants – was having a stall but all we were going to have on it was some leaflets, and that I had asked Bernadette Shepherdson if she could bake some cakes but she could not because she and Bernie, her husband, were going away for an Easter break, my wife said she would organise something, and I could leave everything to her and she would sort things out. To be honest you would not know we had had a bit of a falling out over the last few months, occasioned by her unwise dalliance with a chap from Stowmarket, and I am not sure what to make of her unexpected pleasantness. I suppose I should be happy.

My wife has also said she thinks we should redecorate the living room. I said I was not sure about it, and she said we can leave it a week or two until the weather is a bit better, but we should get the garden sorted and the vegetable patch ready for the new season. It is almost as if life is suddenly back to normal – whatever that means.  Anyhoo, on Good Friday we were at the garden centre getting what we needed for the vegetable patch, seeds and the like, and we needed some new canes for the runner beans, and some netting for the fruit bushes, and we were like a good and depressingly normal married couple. We even had lunch in the garden centre restaurant – where, I have to say, they do a nice quiche at a very reasonable price.

So anyhoo, there we were in the village hall yesterday afternoon, the GASSE stall nicely decorated with a colourful tablecloth and cakes and goodies to nibble free of charge that my wife and Miss Tindle had organised between them. And my wife flitted between the stall and her yoga group who were doing their thing on their mats; she had another lady helping her run things there, who was evidently the Miss Chloe Young who had been set to deputize for her  in her absence. I have to say she is very nice, in more ways than one. I do not know where she has been hiding. The weather, which has been quite dreadful lately, behaved itself for the Fete, but it was pretty soggy over there on the old cricket ground and a lot of muddy feet plodded around the hall’s newly refurbished and polished flooring.

Today my wife and I pottered about in the garden for an hour or two, though the ground was too wet to do anything more than that: potter,  and my wife did a very nice Easter roast – lamb, of course – after which I napped for a large part of the afternoon. Then we watched “The Italian Job” on TV. My wife loves Michael Caine. I have never really  understood the attraction. She is having a bath now, and I am in bed writing my diary.

Monday, April 1st

Today over breakfast my wife announced that she intends to stand for the Parish Council. I assumed it was an April Fool, but she was serious! Talk about a bolt from the blue: I am shocked! After I picked myself up off the floor, I asked her if she thought that having a man and wife both on the Council was a good idea she said probably not, and that if I decided not to run for office then she would completely understand. To say I was a bit miffed would be an understatement, and our resurrected marital bliss has taken a bit of a knock, to be honest. She said she rather fancies being the Council Chairperson – a new broom, and all that, plus it was about time the men stood aside and let the women get a word in – and she wondered if it was actually legal for John Garnham to be both Parish Clerk and the Chairman of the Council, and probably there should be a new and separate Parish Clerk person. Frankly, I do not think anyone has ever really bothered about the distinction before. Anyhoo, I do not know anything about the technical legalities of all this stuff, but whatever the ins and outs of all that might be I am at sixes and sevens in my head. If she stands for office, should I? Or should I step aside? Can I stand to be on the Council under my wife if she becomes the Chairperson? The deadline for nominations and candidates is fast approaching and I need to make up my mind. And what about my  GASSE responsibilities? If I stand down from the Council I know I could still be in GASSE, but my wife would still be my boss . . . I admit I can be a bit old fashioned sometimes, and I know some Guardian readers will not like it when I say I do not want my wife to be my boss, but this has come as a bit of a shock to the system. Anyhoo, I am going to have a think, but whatever happens I do not intend to leave GASSE: I enjoy being the Advanced Round-the-clock Security Executive (ARSE), and I like wearing my armband.

 

 

James Henderson

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John on ‘The Way’.

Alan Dearling talks to his friend, John Wilson, about his motivation for, and experiences of, the Camino de Santiago

But first a bit of background…it’s interesting stuff, but also a tad confusing…

The routes were originally created mostly by Catholic pilgrims, and the entire network is serviced by its own mix of municipal, voluntary and commercial hostels, campsites, hotels, businesses, tour companies and guides, eateries, plus support from many cathedrals and churches at the start of the routes and along the routes themselves. In 2022, nearly half a million walkers and cyclists finished the Camino to Santiago. ‘The Way’ has also become even more famous internationally through the film of the same name starring Martin Sheen

“The Camino de Santiago (the Way of St. James) is an extensive network of ancient pilgrim routes stretching across Europe and coming together at the tomb of St. James (Santiago in Spanish) in Santiago de Compostela in northwest Spain.

The most popular route (which gets very crowded in mid-summer) is the Camino Francés which stretches 780 km (nearly 500 miles) from St. Jean-Pied-du-Port near Biarritz in France to Santiago. This route is fed by three major French routes: the Voie de Tours, the Voie de Vezelay, and the Voie du Puy. It is also joined along its route by the Camino Aragones (which is fed by the Voie d’Arles, which crosses the Pyrenees at the Somport Pass), by the Camí de Sant Jaume from Montserrat near Barcelona, the Ruta de Tunel from Irun, the Camino Primitivo from Bilbao and Oviedo, and by the Camino de Levante from Valencia and Toledo.

Other Spanish routes are the Camino Inglés from Ferrol & A Coruña, the Via de la Plata from Seville and Salamanca, and the Camino Portugues from Oporto.

The network is similar to a river system – small brooks join together to make streams, and the streams join together to make rivers, most of which join together to make the Camino Francés. During the middle ages, people walked out of their front doors and started off to Santiago, which was how the network grew up. Nowadays, cheap air travel has allowed many to fly to their starting point and often to do different sections in successive years. Some people set out on the Camino for spiritual reasons; others find spiritual reasons along the Way as they meet other pilgrims, attend pilgrim masses in churches, monasteries, and cathedrals, and see the extensive infrastructure of buildings provided for pilgrims over many centuries.”  Source: https://santiago-compostela.net/

Alan: “Tell me a bit about the background to your decision to take some time out.”

John: “I’m not always very good at expressing myself, but by talking with you perhaps you could in a sense, be my ghost writer.

Any road-up, I was sat in ‘The Pub’ thinking to myself I’m finding life boring , not life in general but my life: I had a job, money in the bank, no debts, a car, a motorbike…so on the outside you would think I was doing OK. But there was something missing – don’t know what.”

Alan: “Why did you want to go on The Way?”

John: “I’d heard of the Camino several years before, a pilgrimage for religious people… I’m not religious in the slightest, but it always sparked an interest in me, so I thought that’s what I’m gonna do. The first day of the Camino I met many people who became good friends, some religious, some not, but all on the same journey for their own reasons. We walked many miles together, staying in hostels together, eating together, visiting churches (I couldn’t help but notice most of the art depicted people wearing military clothing and carrying weapons of war)… It got me wondering, if your man Jesus did come back, would he disown what’s become of his religion….?

It’s been a great experience. Has it changed my life? I’m not sure, but I don’t regret leaving my old life behind at all.”

Alan: “I gather that you became very much part of the ‘group’ that you met along The Way and that you made your decision to leave the trail because that’s what your companions were doing… Here’s what you told me at the time of that decision…”

John: “We arrived in St Jean Pied De Port at 13: 00 today …751km from my starting point of Le Puy En Velay… Well, we walked over the border to Spain today (Roncesvalles), then we got a taxi back to St Jean de Port ‘cos we are all going home tomorrow, might see you soon, missing English beer.”

Alan: “And a day later you contacted me saying that you were…”

John: “…At train station in St Jean de Port, 31 degrees centigrade, (very warm)… on the way to Paris, see you soon back in West Yorkshire.”

Alan adds as a kind of postscript:  

I’d hoped to delve more into more of the nitty-gritty of John’s  ‘adventure’. But, here’s a bit of what I found out during his fairly brief return to his old base in Yorkshire.

I know that John gave up his rented accommodation, his job, and sold his car and motor-bike before the trip.

Quite a radical set of decisions. He had bought maps for the route on the Camino de Santiago starting in France, fairly close to Paris. He’d tried out a walking pole and decided against using it, and he had found out a fair bit of advance information about the route and system of using the hostels for the pilgrims’ routes. Most of the walkers carry backpacks holding between 30 and 40 litres. More weight is likely to prove very painful and bad for the knees and feet and a further source of blisters! A way of choosing your most suitable backpack is to consider your own body-weight, fitness level and level of pre-training. Some of the ‘posh’, rich pilgrims use pre-booked accommodations and have their luggage transferred for them. John wasn’t one of them and told me that he hadn’t wanted to use any pre-booking of trains or hostels.

At the start, John needed to purchase a ‘credential’ to get accreditation/status as a Camino pilgrim which he had to get stamped at hostels, churches, eating places etc. I believe that this gets pilgrims into hostels at a cheap rate (about 10 euros a night, I believe)…

He obtained that at the beginning of his route in France at Le Puy En Velay.

Many folk on the Camino have made fairly negative comments about the noise, especially snoring in hostel dormitories…and even bed bugs.  John also commented that it was often pretty difficult to get enough sleep. But most ‘pilgrims’ have commented upon, and enjoyed, a lot of the camaraderie, the chatting en route, new friendships and the social sessions in the hostels. The average daily target for walkers is between 20 and 25 km per day, though some only walk 10 km, some a lot more, and some actually run the route!

There is an enormous range of people by age and nationality who undertake the walk. The majority are from broadly Catholic countries. Pilgrims from the UK are relatively rare. In 2022, 438,683 people completed one of the many routes. Post-Covid more were expected on the Camino in 2023 and 2024. Nearly 95 per cent walk, but some use bicycles, travel on horseback, in wheelchairs and even have used sailboats.

John has definitely had a real ‘adventure’, an ‘experience’. He’s made some new close friendships. And it has provided lots of food for thought and consideration in planning for his options and future.

Alan: “Will you be going back to finish the Camino?”

John: “I definitely want to finish the final section of the Camino de Santiago…some of my friends are planning to go back in May 2024. I’m not sure yet, but I’d like to join them. I need to save up some money again.”

 

 

Here’s one useful on-line site offering more information and maps from the Camino trails:

https://www.santiagodecompostela.me/collections/guide-books

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Steam’s Groove – (episode 28)

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Isaac Hayes – Joe Bell
Curtis Mayfield – Pusherman
The Outlaw Blues Band – Deep Gully
Indeep – Last Night a D.J Saved My Life
Lonnie Liston Smith – Get Down Everybody
Soul Children – Who Is He (And What Is He to You)
Dennis Coffey and the Detroit Guitar Band – Scorpio
Dennis Coffey and the Detroit Guitar Band – Son of Scorpio
Earth, Wind and Fire – Africano
Dianne Reeves – Sky Islands
Idris Muhammad – Loran’s Dance
Isaac Hayes – Joy

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NERVISM

Nervism: of mouth, eyes, ears and skin: the texture and temperature of the world in our touch, on our breath.

1.
Nervism is to say in public what one dare not say in private, to make a public life free of fakery, secrets and lies.

2.
Nervism is the art of Roughness and Risk. Roughness and Risk create accidents and mistakes which open the cracks of the World’s terrible edifice – to create anew. Accidents and mistakes are True Successes.

3.
Nervism: create and think through the nerves. There are 7 billion nerve endings in the human body. Without nerves, the brain is mush.

4.
All art is lifelong play and dancing.

5.
Nervism lends itself to collaboration with others: a “nerve fest” can create a mountain of electricity, an ocean of imaginings.

6.
Artificial Intelligence has no nerves. Fingers up to AI!

7.
Nervism on craft: make patterns to break patterns.

8.
Nervism on tradition: create your own rituals, rewrite the rules, make your own rules.

9.
Nervism is a theatre of contradictions, an art of opposites, a poetry of Faraday’s dream-dancing snakes…

10.
Surrealism gave us “psychic automatism” and spontaneity. Nervism goes Beyond in the immediate impulse in fingers, on the breath, in the moment, in the movement…
I can see the lush green grass over the wall and the blue, blue sky of freedom beyond.
Hold your nerve – let it free! This is Nervism.

 

 

Rupert Mallin

Rupert Mallin is a member of the NR3 Art Depot Collective.
He blogs here.

 

 

 

 

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Unreliable narrator

Olga Tokarczuk’s prize-winning book, Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, is well-known for its unreliable narrator. For much of the novel, Janina Duszejko spins a tale in which the animal world seems to be taking revenge on a group of macho hunters. At the end of the book (spoiler alert) she reveals that it was she who murdered these odious men.

But can we be sure her closing testimony is true?

There’s a passage towards the end where Janina describes bludgeoning one of the hunters, the police commandant, to death. She then goes on to claim that she made deer prints in the snow around his body, using a preserved hoof, to suggest he had been killed by deer.

But wouldn’t that have meant all the prints were the same? A front right hoof for example, giving the impression of a herd of identical one-legged deer? Or of a single one-legged deer hopping frenziedly about during the attack, perhaps trying to keep its balance?

And how did she manage to do this without leaving a trail of her own footprints?

Has something been lost in translation? Or is the entire narrative, including the murder confessions, one sustained fantasy, none of it true?

 

 

Simon Collings

I have a new book coming out this month, Blue Eyes, from Zimzalla. It’s a zany series of episodes from an unlikely relationship between a tapir and an armadillo – playful, absurd, with dark undertones. https://zimzalla.co.uk/062-simon-collings-blue-eyes/. There’s an launch reading online on 17 April at 7pm if you’re free. I’ll be reading with Vik Shirley and Jesse Glass. Email Tom Jenks at [email protected] to register for login details. Vik will be reading from Strangers Wave, her tribute to Ian Curtis.

 

 

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Hooked

hooked up the giant screen
walk from corner to corner
probes in the fleshling shops &
the grime of repackaged tomorrows
they came here with their shovels
pickaxes & masterplan the other
side worlded a roller coaster down
to the sea & hints that within the curry
sauce floating plantation ideas from
the window high above the mall where
the searchlight interrogates the blue
the farmer lifts his bail to the fields
that’s when time was lost.
 

 

Clive Gresswell

 

 

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SAUSAGE 294

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
If anyone wants me I’ll be in The Horse, as the Trojan dog said to the little old Greek lady who’d swallowed a fly 

MYSELF: I’ve just bought one of Professor Thinktank’s latest inventions, the Swami Cordless Centrifugal Vacuum Cleaner, based on the Hindu soul system.
READER: Did you mean solar system?
MYSELF: No I did not. Pay attention. The Swami’s unique Karmic filter not only cleanses but removes any traces of negativity or selfish entitlement which may have inadvertently crept into the subconscious, so that after death one is perfectly reincarnated as good as new, spick and span, like one of Weatherspoon’s immaculate toilets.
READER: As clean as that? I want one! The Swami sounds too good to be true! But will it deal with a lifetime’s accumulated guilt? I was brought up a Roman Catholic you know.
MYSELF: Steady on, it’s not that good.

HUG A TORY
In an exclusive interview with Sausage Life, Suella Braverman, the woman so often accused of cold, empathy-free remoteness reveals her warm human side to our political correspondent Semolina Marinade.
SM: Good morning Mrs. Braverman, and may I say you are looking unusually lovely today?
BRAVERMAN: Unusually? What do you mean?
SM: Er, what I mean is, you are looking lovely in an unusually lovely way, especially those shoes.
BRAVERMAN: I didn’t get them for nothing, if that’s what you’re insinuating.
SM: Certainly not ma’am. Now then, I’ve prepared some questions, some of which may not be on the list your secretary gave me this morning, so let’s start with a burning issue which…
BRAVERMAN: This lady’s not for burning!
SM: Ha ha! No, I’m sure, but a lot of our readers want to know this; are you a cat person or a dog person?
BRAVERMAN: Of course that would very much depend on the dog or cat, and whether or not these animals were eligible to remain in the UK but I will be better able to answer that question once we have begun to transport illegally imported dogs and cats to Rwanda and my team of researchers have finished number-crunching the results of our dog/cat focus group survey indicating which would be the most popular answer. Next question.
SM: OK, West Side Story, or Cats?
BRAVERMAN: Cats again? What are you getting at? I refer you to the answer I didn’t give earlier.
SM: Finally Mrs Braverman, will we still be in the Eurovision Song Contest now that we have achieved total Brexit?
BRAVERMAN: Oh dear. Look, if I were to let the cat….or dog…out of the bag, where would that leave our negotiating position? If you expect me to give you a hot and cold running commentary on my secret plans, then you clearly do not understand the meaning of the word boats, nor for that matter, stop.
SL: Thank you Mrs Braverman.

IN, OUT, OR BOTH?
BGP candidate Ron Gravy has outlined his plans to have all public entrance and exit signs rewritten in Welsh. ” The British Gravytrain Party,” he told a meeting of The Upper Dickere Signwriter’s Guild, “is the only party brave enough to stand up for the austerity-hit signwriters of East Sussex and Kent. My plan is simple. The Welsh word for entrance is Pwellygogolly, and the word for exit is Eisteddicarephylly, which would mean not only 50-75% more income for the signwriter and his poor hungry children, but a welcome boost for the struggling paint industry”.

READER: So that means the Welsh for Brexit, would be Breisteddicarephylly?
MYSELF: (Sighing), I suppose it would, yes.

WORD DEAF
by Dick Shea & Harry Korner
YAI (n) artificial geordie intelligence
Chatbot (n) talking anus

THE CAULIFLOWER RICE COMPLEX
Those of you who thought that cauliflower rice, was just cauliflower made into rice are in for a shock – things are much worse than you think. Underage cauliflowers, (almost always female and from poor educationally-deprived rural backgrounds), are procured by children working for ruthless bearded hipster gangs. After being illegally smuggled into the country they are forced to sleep with many varieties of rice, (sometimes up to 15kg a day). As soon as the cauliflower falls pregnant, the resulting offspring is removed and trafficked to up-and-coming urban areas, where it is auctioned to artisan restaurants by bearded men dressed as lumberjacks. Next week: Spiralised goat spaghetti

NEARLY FAMOUS
Potential stars were born at Hestmonceaux’s premier venue The Cats Pajama, where a capacity audience witnessed the final heat of local promoter Lou Mogulstein’s International Battle of the Bands. The first and second placed acts, as judged by a panel of industry experts, will be signed up to a watertight 25-year contract by Mogulstein and Cats Pajama owner Reg “Grassy” Knowles’ record label ADHD;
Outright winners, with their trademark giant inflatable walrus floating above them, were The Eskimo Pink Floyd, who delighted the audience by performing Dark Side of The Moon behind a huge wall of ice blocks, which gradually melted to reveal the band, clad in the traditional sealskins of the North American Inuit, flanked by the Motorcycle Display Penguins of Anchorage.
In second place, Christian Death-Rock outfit Snake-Venom Enema performed a blistering set of brand new material, but were sensible enough to include some mosh-pit favourites, like the distortion-drenched Jesus, Where Art Thou Now? and the heavy metal headbanger The Lord Is Watching And He Knoweth Thy Dirty Secret from their debut album Shark Vomit.
In the one downside to what was an otherwise excellent evening, Cockmarlin-based leather garage quartet Acid Reflux appeared onstage an hour late, and then let a pack of dangerous dogs loose on some disgruntled members of the audience. One ex-fan said, “That’s it. I will never go to a Seaweed gig again. Last time they played here they threw cigars into the audience which exploded when you lit them – which wasn’t too bad if you didn’t smoke – but frankly, this is going too far.”

 

 

Sausage Life!
Saol na ispíní! 

ATTENZIONE!
‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.
Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.
Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)




Click image to connect. Alice’s Crazy Moon is an offbeat monthly podcast hosted by Alice Platt (BBC, Soho Radio) with the help of roaming reporter Bird Guano a.k.a Colin Gibson (Comic Strip Presents, Sausage Life). Each episode will centre around a different topic chosen by YOU the listener! The show is eclectic mix of music, facts about the artists and songs and a number of surrealistic and bizarre phone-ins and commercials from Bird Guano. Not forgetting everyones favourite poet, Big Pillow!

NB: IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A PAID SUBSCRIPTION TO SPOTIFY, THE SONGS WILL BE OF RESTRICTED LENGTH

 

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

 

 



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By Colin Gibson

 

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A FUTURISTIC BEAUTY

Estranged Reflections IX

“Oh, noooo” chocoholic part-time exorcist Father Boris (pronounced Bah-reece) Alt staggered backwards across the cell as the emaciated body of Fraulein Michel levitated five feet above her ill-made bed. She uttered a stream of barbarous, incomprehensible speech: “Nagavithi-girtabkitab-al-uhudcamazotznepenthe-wexnaelgegernefaerpingalucidemildebigogmagogshukkothtetahatiaur-hekaushichirionbollocksysgygroth. . .”

Because TV violence incites crime nations face global extinction. Maybe, just maybe…

Look again.

I shook my head.

“Could you run me cold bath?” I asked, fearing a vision of The Spear Nosed Bat Totem against the night sky.

A Fascine dumped a bundle of rods and barbed wire into a nearby shop doorway. I just lay there my head in a whirl. Then I heard the phrase “And stick these spangled feathers in thy hat…”

I looked up and there she was…

She grabbed my hands, she ushered me in – a streetwise Empress Josephine. Clearly a baby doll won’t do. She was flashy, trashy, upbeat and dazzling in her minimono kimono; a geisha for the twenty-first century, a futuristic beauty covered in white diamonds decadent against her pale skin.

This was no longer ‘real life’, mad Shukkoth laughter carried on the Solar Wind. What does it all mean? You may well ask!

No longer a Neanderthal male stereotype loathsome Face-Ache Flapper, the Groper of the Yard, is well into a malodorous transformation: hands and legs turn into multi-mouthed, sucking, lenticular appendages, trench-coat turns into an iridescent exoskeletal carapace. He, she or it leaves a glistening trail of silver slime up the staircase, eyes on stalks and money in the bank.

“Filthy, lousy lezzie scum!” it screams, the sound of its voice like nails scraping glass.

Images of bullying, rape and vicious interrogations spatter the airwaves: evenings of lust and pain in smoky basement venues with a heavy use of woodwind, brass and percussion.

Holed-up in her wardrobe, hiding behind a rack of fake leopard skin overcoats, smelling of mothballs, waiting for the end of everything, wearing fatigues and a jauntily tilted beret, her pulsating crystal ball gleaming among the sheets on the four poster bed, Sister Marie imagined herself at a chi-chi cocktail party in Deptford.

Even as the foul smelling ooze began to creep under the bedroom door to the sound of a hilariously over excitable soundtrack, she materialised at the bar. Talk us through what happened.

Everyone was there of course, everyone that is ‘cept Ron. There was Carl and Lorna, Brad and Beryl, and Nancy Bosch. There was Laszlo ‘Beach Bum’ Zednick with Sharon, there was Hans and Gerda in kinky black uniforms and Vince going on and on about his psycho mum. The ghostly image of my Aunt Ada beckoned from the shadows, more nauseating than Shirley Temple growing up in scary times.

Surgeons helped themselves to parts of women’s bodies. Photographers and their muses showered down like confetti at a wedding party. As usual she ended up squirming and pinging the elastic. This was self-mutilation expressed through clothing.

Somewhere in Kettering Brad said “So cast the runes, sweetheart, we’ve got to get him back.”

Karen looked startled.

“They must be here some­where,” she gasped, rummaging through the junk in her handbag.

As it so happened, Vince had violently translocated from Bayswater to a rubbish-filled blue telephone box in Leicester Square (clunk). This was The Winter of Discontent. An out-of-work gravedigger explains his plans for a chain of brothels in Amsterdam and glass-walled bistros in Birmingham (where else). Vince attended a black-tie dinner beneath a magnificent Rubens ceiling.

“Die yuppie scum!” snarled the guard charging into the banqueting room waving a street-sweeper. Boys will be boys.

The American public gasped in disbelief. It was a volatile era after seventies fashionability and eighties oblivion: max chat, backchat, chat away, reach out for instant contact and connections, lots of babble such as ‘gaga’ and ‘dada’. It doesn’t mean anything, but it keeps the canary happy.

Ask your health visitor for advice. This is not some Boys Own adventure. Innocent bystanders were confronted with ugly home truths and plied with booze and pills, a macabre marriage of dark flashbacks from the dim and distant past.

Then The Thing came on through. Next door’s dog went into a barking frenzy as the Face-Ache Monster kicked in the door. A vast hole opened up in the Op Art carpet. Overhead an asteroid collided with a Northrop XRB-49A.

“These babies are huge…” said the pilot exploding continuously in his glow-in-the-dark T-shirt.

Unwelcome guests established a foothold in a bloodthirsty future. Nerve jangling and engrossingly over-the-top, the scenario is labyrinthine, and non-believers can only try their best. After-burner flames flared from exhaust ports. Leave the mysterious lights, head for home and examine their warped psyches and hateful peccadilloes.

The camera never captured the image of John Thomas as his astral time bomb booby trap engulfed the vile apparition before any damage was done. The crystal ball vanished through the floor… amplification of recent domestic horrors, shocking detals and dastardly spies.

The ‘visitor’ had returned.

Too late

 

 

AC Evans

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Marine

Free? No. The sea scurries 
to and fro, and sniff the toes
of two continents.
I feed it dreams until a mariner 
emerges from the shanty and forbids.

If he says, “You mate, may
join my voyage.” shall I feel free?
No. Although 

one always joins the seaman
even if in his dream, and dreams that 
they chase white fog of time,

and that at a certain triangle their harpoon
pierces, passes through the dimensions’ 
thin skin. He knows that the sail itself
feeds the waves. It is forbidden.

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar
Picture
Nick Victor

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Cornville

 
                    John Henry Waddell 1921 – 2019
                    Ruth Waddell 1925 – 2023
 

A short way downhill from the house
a stream runs through the marriage
of foliage to light. Where a visiting car turns
to park red earth provides
a circle for the naked
forms exposed to every shade of weather:
relaxed, exultant, cast
so deep in thought the local storms
can never interrupt. One so close
to tipping over, she
is set against the sky and balanced
on a caution as though
bronze could breathe.
                                Salad and drawings
for lunch; never waste
a model’s time. Backbone, trees, the current’s
easy pace are all
creation’s lines for charcoal
to retrace. And when a body has to pause
the new growth around it
greens and glows
a little brighter for the cardinal
now there now gone in a moment too quick
to be reclaimed. From the studio’s
high ceiling
                 innocents float between rising
and a fall. At the darkest hour
of night the sculptor shakes the dreams out from
his mind and goes to pick up
where he left off reaching, catching,
flying the bodies’ weight
away. It’s time to give spirit form
and spirits when they fly
fly high. The work
endures. The afternoon drifts
back down from clay and bronze
to pastel, water, trees that bend and a dog
so old he’s happy
that the grass remembers him.

David Chorlton

 

 

 

 

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