The sky in South Wales is wet with blue ocean - there are puddles of clouds simmering across its misty surface; rocks of mountain penetrate the forever blue and dashes of green algae form forests and tapestry of flower and grasses. This is green living - among the glass, concrete, and stone - the lucid and the dreaming, the natural and the spacious living conditions created in the circular sky.
I am awake in this - the sun is bleating, and beating down at me - my sunglasses are alight with Holy fire and I cannot move from fear of falling into some wondrous abyss.
The red slate and brick and wall and block are made from hands that pressed the clay and worked the earth and I look on them and think they are as beautiful as the earth they sprang from.
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Monday, 16 February 2009
Facebook IS A WASTE OF TIME
I am sat in this dungeon of swelter, sweat and grinding teeth - the computer lab. It is quarter past one and so many are trying so desperately to finish their banal and endlessly pointless work by half past three. I guage that roughly 32% of them will make it. That's a conservative guess, though.
Some 'enchanted evening! Or rather, some enchanted afternoon, it seems to me, as I gaze over the monitor at a sea of Facebook profiles and shell my ears from the mindless machine gun clattering of chubby fingers on keys. It is a warzone, and any minute now, a bomb will fall. Someone, quite quietly, and privately, will notice that that picture they thought condemned to the fordibben tundras of the Yukon has returned with dire vengeance on its lips - captioned so poetically with 'Nikki last night! Well wasted!!!! lol :)' - Cute. Cute joke. Or more horrendously, someone will realise with staid horror that the boy they boned last weekend is secretly a woman/dog/television, and dating Cameron Diaz - or someone less exciting, because of course most people are in this room. The sniper's rifle poised at the back of Glenda and Hilda, waiting to 'confirm' their status as 'It's complicated' - who will find out? Who will care? Unfortunately, the answer to both these questions would seem to be 'absolutely fucking everybody'.
There is a supreme lack of privacy inherent in Facebook which is fundamentally repugnant to me. The ugliest side of this is that refusal to enter its swampy depths renders you a luddite, a recluse, or worse still, a pariah. I feel like I am fighting a swarm of zombified b-movie actors who tell me that once I accept my fate and get dragged kicking and screaming into the world of pretending people actually give a shit about my life - everything will be alright, and everything will be peaceful. I will love Big Brother...erm...Facebook, that is.
Some 'enchanted evening! Or rather, some enchanted afternoon, it seems to me, as I gaze over the monitor at a sea of Facebook profiles and shell my ears from the mindless machine gun clattering of chubby fingers on keys. It is a warzone, and any minute now, a bomb will fall. Someone, quite quietly, and privately, will notice that that picture they thought condemned to the fordibben tundras of the Yukon has returned with dire vengeance on its lips - captioned so poetically with 'Nikki last night! Well wasted!!!! lol :)' - Cute. Cute joke. Or more horrendously, someone will realise with staid horror that the boy they boned last weekend is secretly a woman/dog/television, and dating Cameron Diaz - or someone less exciting, because of course most people are in this room. The sniper's rifle poised at the back of Glenda and Hilda, waiting to 'confirm' their status as 'It's complicated' - who will find out? Who will care? Unfortunately, the answer to both these questions would seem to be 'absolutely fucking everybody'.
There is a supreme lack of privacy inherent in Facebook which is fundamentally repugnant to me. The ugliest side of this is that refusal to enter its swampy depths renders you a luddite, a recluse, or worse still, a pariah. I feel like I am fighting a swarm of zombified b-movie actors who tell me that once I accept my fate and get dragged kicking and screaming into the world of pretending people actually give a shit about my life - everything will be alright, and everything will be peaceful. I will love Big Brother...erm...Facebook, that is.
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Love is a waste of time?
It's easy to pick on Valentine's Day because it exists as that peculiar 'holiday' that nobody actually wants but everyone seems to indulge in regardless.
For those in a relationship - of any length - there is felt a need to 'turn it up to 11' as it were. It seems silly that anyone should expect to be extra passionate and romantic just because of a tic in the calender. Moreover, if you have a headache, or are feeling a bit blue, you feel all the more shit for not wanting to 'do the duty'. It's silly, and not a particularly original complaint but it stands all the same.
That aside....Have a lovely day, love birds.
For those in a relationship - of any length - there is felt a need to 'turn it up to 11' as it were. It seems silly that anyone should expect to be extra passionate and romantic just because of a tic in the calender. Moreover, if you have a headache, or are feeling a bit blue, you feel all the more shit for not wanting to 'do the duty'. It's silly, and not a particularly original complaint but it stands all the same.
That aside....Have a lovely day, love birds.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Drinking alone is a waste of time
I was supposed to be talking about something interesting today - but that just didn't pan out. Such is life.
So I am sat here - in this corner of non-existence - the light is flickering like some tedious party - and I have an empty glass. The sound of the ice clanking against the tumbler is almost enough to keep me sane. I have been staring at a blank screen for what feels like an eon. A whole age of human history has danced flourescently across this white array of pixels, where my eyes are desperately trying to find some semblance of form- some substance.
Soon it will be time to pour myself another drink. I wish to the gods of old that I had a bottle of Scotch here, instead of this loathesome and repugnant cluster of cheap bottled courage.
I have swallowed even the ice now.
Perhaps you would care to hear what I am trying to write? No?
This blog post is substitute for some actual work. Some real creative work which has eluded me, thus far it has been just out of my grasp. I am struggling like a man reaching for a wire to tap into some well of something....or shit...I dunno.
More tomorrow...or later. Night.
So I am sat here - in this corner of non-existence - the light is flickering like some tedious party - and I have an empty glass. The sound of the ice clanking against the tumbler is almost enough to keep me sane. I have been staring at a blank screen for what feels like an eon. A whole age of human history has danced flourescently across this white array of pixels, where my eyes are desperately trying to find some semblance of form- some substance.
Soon it will be time to pour myself another drink. I wish to the gods of old that I had a bottle of Scotch here, instead of this loathesome and repugnant cluster of cheap bottled courage.
I have swallowed even the ice now.
Perhaps you would care to hear what I am trying to write? No?
This blog post is substitute for some actual work. Some real creative work which has eluded me, thus far it has been just out of my grasp. I am struggling like a man reaching for a wire to tap into some well of something....or shit...I dunno.
More tomorrow...or later. Night.
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Monday, 9 February 2009
Mondays and cultural isolationism are a waste of time
Everyone hates getting up on Mondays, that's an irrefutable fact, it would seem. I, however, being a do nothing layabout, have no such intense hatred towards this dullest of days. It rains, and it's the second day of the week. That is all the mileage that can be dragged out of talking about Mondays.
On to the essence -the marrow of today's entry.
It is beyond me, how we [the British], as a nation, can be so fantastically petrified of globalisation. There are people, alive in this country who are convinced that as as nation, or as a people - we are inherently superior to every other nation or people on the planet simply by virtue of being born on this rot of an island.
The idea of globalisation has obsoleted - or indeed made impossible - the political isolationism that defined US foreign policy in the early twentieth century. That level of autonomy and national introversion is now completely irrelevant, and so it should be. Whether or not the birthplace of globalisation lies in the UN, Kissinger, or the Internet, is really quite irrelevant - what matters is that today - in this world where the general elections of a foreign country are followed more eagerly than that of our own - there are still people out there who cling to an ineffable idea of 'Britishness', an idea so monstrous that those who support it should be spanked quite violently.
'Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel' - Samuel Johnston is reputed to have said, and although this is reported and the context is lost to us, I am going to use the words superficially to clarify my point. Patriotism cannot be the way of the future, only the way of history - patriotism is a perfectly acceptable box in which to place national heroes, whatever one of those is; but as an ideal, as a way to deliver ones opinions, it is most revolting.
My primary disagreement with the issue lies in its prevalence, and its over saturation. It's transplant into the world of the wannabe-artistic-elite is something I find ghastly on all levels. So many conversations end with something along the lines of 'but of course, it's British, so it has to be better' or 'of course Americans never have the same heart as British films' - it's utter nonsense, and rubbish of the highest order - especially when you are comparing British and American art which, at least in dramatic terms, are nearly identical.
There is nothing charming or endearing about our national inferiority complex. Grey skies and rusty skylines do not make great art, no matter how much fans of L.S. Lowry would have you believe. There is something about a great majority of British art which seems down on itself, because it feels it has to be. But this is depressing. Not in a thought provoking, intelligent way, such as Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colours trilogy, or Sam Mendes' American Beauty - both elegantly and intelligently peel away the veneer of contemporary life in a very natural and beautiful manner - but instead in a blunt, brutal, and unsatisfying 'vision' of modern Britain. The worst perpetrator of these crimes is celebrated filmmaker Shane Meadows, whose revolting idea of Britishness has led to some of the most dirty, violent, and ugly portrayals of Britain that I have had the misfortune to view. This is not clever film making. It is clearly some vile and ultimately unnecessary revolt against the staid Britishness of Brief Encounter or The Great Escape.
We are not in the gutter, but people like Shane Meadows seem to think that not only are we in the gutter, but that we should revel in this. That we are a nation of 'hard' bald men in stone wash denim jackets speaking a language that is only barely recognisable as English. Are we proud of this? Is this a view of Britain we feel pleased to throw to the world, to digest and interpret. I think not.
More tomorrow.
On to the essence -the marrow of today's entry.
It is beyond me, how we [the British], as a nation, can be so fantastically petrified of globalisation. There are people, alive in this country who are convinced that as as nation, or as a people - we are inherently superior to every other nation or people on the planet simply by virtue of being born on this rot of an island.
The idea of globalisation has obsoleted - or indeed made impossible - the political isolationism that defined US foreign policy in the early twentieth century. That level of autonomy and national introversion is now completely irrelevant, and so it should be. Whether or not the birthplace of globalisation lies in the UN, Kissinger, or the Internet, is really quite irrelevant - what matters is that today - in this world where the general elections of a foreign country are followed more eagerly than that of our own - there are still people out there who cling to an ineffable idea of 'Britishness', an idea so monstrous that those who support it should be spanked quite violently.
'Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel' - Samuel Johnston is reputed to have said, and although this is reported and the context is lost to us, I am going to use the words superficially to clarify my point. Patriotism cannot be the way of the future, only the way of history - patriotism is a perfectly acceptable box in which to place national heroes, whatever one of those is; but as an ideal, as a way to deliver ones opinions, it is most revolting.
My primary disagreement with the issue lies in its prevalence, and its over saturation. It's transplant into the world of the wannabe-artistic-elite is something I find ghastly on all levels. So many conversations end with something along the lines of 'but of course, it's British, so it has to be better' or 'of course Americans never have the same heart as British films' - it's utter nonsense, and rubbish of the highest order - especially when you are comparing British and American art which, at least in dramatic terms, are nearly identical.
There is nothing charming or endearing about our national inferiority complex. Grey skies and rusty skylines do not make great art, no matter how much fans of L.S. Lowry would have you believe. There is something about a great majority of British art which seems down on itself, because it feels it has to be. But this is depressing. Not in a thought provoking, intelligent way, such as Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colours trilogy, or Sam Mendes' American Beauty - both elegantly and intelligently peel away the veneer of contemporary life in a very natural and beautiful manner - but instead in a blunt, brutal, and unsatisfying 'vision' of modern Britain. The worst perpetrator of these crimes is celebrated filmmaker Shane Meadows, whose revolting idea of Britishness has led to some of the most dirty, violent, and ugly portrayals of Britain that I have had the misfortune to view. This is not clever film making. It is clearly some vile and ultimately unnecessary revolt against the staid Britishness of Brief Encounter or The Great Escape.
We are not in the gutter, but people like Shane Meadows seem to think that not only are we in the gutter, but that we should revel in this. That we are a nation of 'hard' bald men in stone wash denim jackets speaking a language that is only barely recognisable as English. Are we proud of this? Is this a view of Britain we feel pleased to throw to the world, to digest and interpret. I think not.
More tomorrow.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
Weathermen are a waste of time
It has just been brought to my attention that we are to expect snow - here, in the north of England. Forgive me, but after the recent lack of snow I cannot imagine why we would have any tonight. Weathermen are notorious for their miscalculations and I dare the sky to prove me wrong.
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