Further Experimentations in Anarchic Funk

The sonic adventure continues.  Put on a head sweatband, thread your 

All-Stars with your favourite day-glo laces  and

keep your pecker up.

The Wonder

 

 

I’ve lost the wonder.

No it’s true: once I had it,

now it’s gone.

The Wonder.

It’s gone. Gone and pissed off.

Vacated the premises. Put up

a nice clean fresh TO LET

sign. It’s moved in with a

younger crowd, hangs out now

with the renter students

across the street, even goes to

their bars now, you know the

ones, those ones along

Parke’s Passage, go along the

street, turn left then down

a bit.

So that’s it.

No more naturally induced

pleasure rushes for me. Oh no,

all gone now for selfish little old

me. I am purely reliant on

chemically induced turn ons

now. That, is my lot.

Nature has gone, took its leave.

You know those old unexpected

excitements induced through

clear, fresh neurons? You know

you know you know the ones

like a rush from something as

simple as a new view, or a building

at a different but affecting angle that

just made you imagine; or a

townscape or a landscape

anywhere in the world that is

not here or the smell of a city,

a new city that made you feel

moved, that made you feel alive.

Music for example used to make

me cry. Lots of it did once. But not

anymore. As a general rule only

films can make me cry these days

and this- as a general rule- only

when I am sat alone.

So there you go. Got the angle?

The only rushes I get these days

is from mooching around the

house and finding the gloopy

buzz that only a wonderful

bottle can supply. It’s the great

re-balancer you see: can you see

that? It equalises me, takes me

back to where I was before to what

I was before, before I became

‘You bastard.’ It’s a portal, a

transferor, a retro-filter. And

ohmigod it’s a cruel mistress

because it gives me glimpses of

what could be, of what I could have,

then she pushes me further away

from it, so much further away from

it so that I’m falling again, falling

all the way, away from The Wonder

and you see, therein is the catch,

the catch is being unable to forget

The Wonder but never to regain it.

The torture is to have the glimpse

and remember then know the

smack of denial.

I want to forget about The Wonder.

I want you to take it from me,

I want you to understand this:

The Wonder has fucked

off for good.

 

Skemster 19/02/97

Ginsberg Archives

 

Filched this from the New Statesman last week.  Allen Ginsberg snapped in 1953 by his old mate William Burroughs on the roof of his Lower East Side apartment.

It’s taken from ‘Beat Memories: the Photographs of Allen Ginsberg’ by Sara Greenough.  It’s just out and haven’t managed to get a copy of it yet; security at the local Waterstones is currently tight so may have to buy it off Amazon…

Snapshot

 

Alaska Unlimited

The wonderful world of dofollow has now been embraced; Lepou is braced for the worldwide [incl. Alaska]aftershock.  Come hither, cast down thine gauntlet, and doth bespoil me!!!  Or something along those lines...never really been able to get the hang of Trad. Eng. grammar, all those thys thines thous and other ths.  Whatever here's something pleasant:

Lisboa
[Mark Reed 2009]

Genovian Jetsam

Genoa is one of those Italian cities that, steeped in history as it is, is generally off the tourist track and remains all the more wonderful for that.  It is a working city; the bustle is characteristically Italian, but being a northern metropolis it has a distinct edge of more urgent, cooler Latin  efficiency.

It was for over a millennia the archetypal city-state and it’s former wealth is apparent in the abundance of it’s renaissance set pieces and there is nothing more life-affirming, than strolling down the Via Garibaldi in the early evening luxuriating in the opera music drifting down that sedate, narrow street.


Yet it is still a city ‘in business;’ a frenetic expressway may separate the city centre from it’s port but there is always Corsa Italia beyond the Fiera de Genova, where you can sunbath on the rocks that cascade into the Mediterranean and promenade in the fashion of any traditional Italian seaside resort.  Then there is the medieval warren of alleys and dead-ends to [quite literally] lose yourself in, in the old city.  I have had a love of this city for over twenty years; it has more balls than Venice, more architecture than Milan and more culture than Rome [ancient, unused relics don’t count].
                                         
It was in the marina behind the Fiera that I saw a yacht moored called ‘The Mordant Choice,’ and in a shoe shop, was served by a young man who snapped out of a languid indifference into amazingly deft efficiency, as he expertly packed a pair of shoes and elaborately gift wrapped them by moving nothing more than his hands, whilst puffing on a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth [remember those glorious days, when even shop assistants smoked?]. 

It was in a dangerously over-packed club along the Via Giacomo Buranello that I first saw Music Entablature.  The Via GB is a scruffy street in a grimy part of town by the port, distinctive in that for most of it length, it’s north side is a large wall/viaduct punctuated by occasional road tunnels, along the top of which the metro lines run.   The experience was electrifying; the euro-electronica clash with 70s glamstomp was original, utterly bonkers and complete genius.  We left the club- where sweat was quite literally running down the walls- a few pound lighter in weight and exhilarated, strolling through the dark streets of Genoa’s seedier underside, filled with a lost innocence that had as its cornerstone the belief that Ziggy Stardust really could save the world, that European integration is a reality worth working for rather than  a dream to ponder and dismiss, and that Genoa is perhaps one of the most under-rated of European cities, an urban gem in which we may just be transitory flotsam and jetsam in it’s timeline, but we are all the more enriched for being so no matter how inconsequential our own impact has been.

A Message From The Front

'The Pleurality'

from How to be A Spaceman

Zip Domingo

[2010]

Gallerific Touchdowns

There Was A Time [when time] Was A Friend

Pharos

Junk Demon [2010]

The artifactus of Dissensus

New format, new boots,and that shop The World of Leather as an experience in Lacanian confusion/dissent as you wander around it, looking at the sofas and easychairs with fold out drinks tables in the arms and wonder about this World of The New in which we live; have we really got into a contemporary situation not where we have gone too far, but have done everything there is to do, and there is no where else to go?

Red leather in particularly can have an arousing effect on me and within the premises of Commercial Retail Outlets this can be an exciting if potentially embarrassing experience. I had to leave the World of Leather under a cloud of taunt, unrequited lust. It had a certain delicious quality of denial and despicable restraint but I was too weak to face the possibility of police questioning, as intriguing as that may have been...

Jacques Rancière's idea of dissensus being at the core of true democratic practise is an alluring concept; it's diametrical opposite, consensus, is of course the default position for most western democratic establishments from the late 20th century onwards. We are led to belief that we are governed by consensus; focus groups, poll takers, survey administrators, blog pages, a million posts on thousands of ISP and other media message boards, all point to us as being able to Have Our Own Say. We live with this illusion, believing we truly are now part of the democratic process- we clearly are listened to, a majority is assessed and its wishes acted upon- when in fact it is just another establishment technique to do as it wishes, but with the added twist that it can make the population believe that it guided it's course of action, that the government is only undertaking the people's wishes. A focus group told us to do this; got nothing to do with us, guv.

In this way an illegal war in Iraq was executed; the folly of Afghanistan was embarked upon [although interestingly when public opinion reverses itself and opposes the position it once took, the Government/Establishment find it very easy to ignore this form of consensus]. Consensus is therefore a sham, a media Exploitor of National Socialist proportions. It is a meaningless political concept, which is no doubt why it is so popular with the now ubiquitous neoliberal elite which runs the world economy. Welcome to Super-Cannes.

Dissensus- the principle of conflict, argument and the pursuit of political self-determination, voice and action outside of [and therefore at times legitimately opposed to] the governance of a dominant elite is not only communally affirming, but vital for the development of harmony and equality in our society, without sacrificing diversity. At first laugh at anyone who says they wish to manage/govern through consensus, then undermine them. The aim is not to then have the last laugh, but to dismantle one more cog of neoliberal dogma in the edifice of global capitalism. You no longer need to burn party cards; shoplifting from Toys 'r Us and surreptitiously scratching the side of police cars with a carefully concealed key will suffice. For now.

Iain Banks in his latest novel 'Transitions' promotes the idea of a multiverse, through which a central body- The Concern- flits it's operatives in order to maintain order. He describes this particular world we live in, along with other materialist realities that exist parallel to it- as 'Greedist' societies. This is of course an accurate assessment.

This is Iain Bank's first book that attempts to fuse his 'mainstream' literature with the science fiction of his Iain M. Banks persona. It only partly succeeds; only his -at times obscenely- quite brilliant literary ease at painting environments and describing concepts through conversation, pulls one through to the end of the novel. This is not something I have ever experience with any other of Bank's work. It reads more like a manifesto of a couple of his political science ideas melded with a strain of speculative hard science,without any hint of a plot, and could be a third of its length. Of course few writers these days can pull this off and keep people reading and Banks is one of these, but this does not excuse him bouts of laziness and self-indulgence such as are apparent in this book. Yes, I am a hard taskmaster...the bitter sweet taunting denial of the World of Leather still fugs my senses...I need to pursue some further investigations into the strictures and idea-shifts of the hauntological movement...I'll get back to you on that one.

Dando

If dancing thrice around the split shield wasn't

enough, the bronze razor sharp the trident cracked,

where the legion whores picked across the dead, as

absent wives dreamed and sensed the worst.

Where glory tore through the heavens with the stab

of a torn standard, and Peresphone pretended to be free,

climbing out of a fissure in the earth, for another spring

of dance and glutinous, temporary glee.

New Model Faith

The world turns

the gods smile and giggle

[cheap strong cider hard times

on Mount Olympus]

nicely numbed to the realty

of rule by death cult.

How did the world get this way?

Why did it turn to the glories of blood

to self-sacrifice

to the bitterness of a barbed crown

in place of one soothed with velvet and gold?

Why worship distress over comfort,

pain over pleasure and then-

there-

find Joy?

Needing to work to find divine acceptance

to suffer, is to take you closer to God.

Is that really salvation

or did we take a wrong turn as we strolled

the banks of Axios

and lost sight of Chiron in the cooling woods

as he disapeared amongst the damp birch

for the last time

Gone Fishing....caught some trout

To forge an ingot true of supercillious intent, to raise a spear high and cry, Behold Me, Gods! For I am never to be yours!

The standard bloody and torn but the spirit smirks and giggles spouting the glories of.....gobblydegook.

Has it been so long? February but a distant frosted fist of wintery concrete slab rain stained torpor. Life passes in a skewered vision of tormented artistic cynicism- to be misunderstood, misrepresented and undersold- the true spectre of the Human Condition. The shadow alive with its own independent action and yet it does not escape you, oh no, it sticks around to see how it goes, not even your shadow wants to escape...

And why should it indeed as we hurtle relentlessly to our doom. Does not the bible speak of oceans turned black and a third of them aflame in End Times! Oh come The War of Angels, release us from our boredom! But not of course before I see the wonders of a re-bulit New Orleans, recreated in all its corporate splendour, the annoying traces of poverty and undesirable hovels hoovered away by neoliberal self-serving fervour and, who are we to complain, so long as cut price airlines continue to keep their fares low. We live not so much in a civilisation as a mobilisation- we have oil to thank for our freakish globalised stature, and we will have oil to thank for our demise. Now there, there is a neat symmetry. Who said there is No God.

Culture in various shades, geists and glowerings pervade the sight, sounds and hide of the errant scarecrow. American History X makes an impression- 1998, how did we ever miss that one? A rounded tale that shows the complex origines of racism and the power-delusions of neo-Nazism. The simple message is: hate not only doesn't pay, but no one who fills their intellect and senses with hate gains anything whatsoever from it; in such individualistic consumer orientated times, that alone should be a lesson in life to adhere to. So Choose Love.


Green Zone tries to admirably expose the Iraqi debacle and although true in mission, misfires somewhat, but still noble in its effort. The new Brett Easton Ellis book tittilates and inspires in equal measure, Jay McInerney with the Last Batchelor remains consistent in his Fitzgeraldian tribute ways and Helen Walsh's novel Brass-set in noughties Liverpool and a wonderfully twisted tale of substance abuse, big city youthful excess and rampant, proud Total self-absorption- is a wonderful unexpected discovery and possibly, the closest, most unlikely British version of Bright Lights Big City we have produced...bravo!

Slovaj Zizek: First As Tragedy, Then As Farce

Now first things first: If you want a concise, detailed analysis of the horrors of the noughties and the present financial crisis- from the far left or from any perspective for that matter- it isn't here. It's as if Zizek has himself carefully learned the advertising sound bite techniques of the corporate system he so opposes, and in its title and preface, unashamedly applied it in order to grab people's attention.

That's admittedly a cheap shot, but one can't help [guiltily] wishing he'd applied the same maxim to its content,which too often reads as a stream of consciousness with twists and turns that are, frankly, largely impenetrable. Essentially what we get, is half a book trying to prove in ever decreasing circles that capitalism is indeed an ideology [although `it' believes and acts as though it's not], and the latter half as a communist manifesto for far left 'regeneration,' but which fails - unfortunately- to develop into a practical prescription.

Personally, I have now been around the block too many times to be impressed by semantics that may thrill political scientists and philosophy buffs, but are generally too convoluted and- as such- rendered meaningless to the wider public. His concept of capitalist ideology being an ideology precisely because it denies itself to be an ideology smacks too much of philosophical gymnastics to me, written more to impress fellow intellectuals partaking of university town chi-chi dinner parties, than a head on take of the mess the world is presently in. Basically, much of the first half [with some relapses in the second] amounts at times to philosophical arguments about how black the colour of white is. Clever, but one is put in mind of Reggie Perrin's boss CJ when he said: `Thinking? I didn't get to where I am today by thinking; thinking never got the washing up done.'

Zizek is not alone in this failing, but too many on the intellectual left forget that concise and clear thought does not necessarily mean dumbing down; within simplicity of expression can lay a wide audience and this is the sort of impact we need these days for the left to be effective again.

But onto detail: his antagonism towards socialism- who he sees as an enemy of communism- is unhelpful but not unexpected from his extremist political stand point. It's another example of what the Left has always been crippled by- an inherent obsession with arguing with itself, and eventually splintering through it. Zizek is doing this already, even before the whole left wing movement has found its feet and a coherent voice again, and perhaps, lies in the fact that his position on the extreme left is possibly closer to the extremes of corporate capitalism than he dare admit.

Zizek hits the target though a number of times. For example his integration of the differing concepts of circular and linear time into a political paradigm is intriguing, and the idea of the future being affected by standing back and assumed it has already happened as a worst case scenario, and then doing something about it in the present, is a terrific way of explaining the need for contemporary action and not falling into the trap of fatalism and/or navel-gazing.

His too brief thoughts on how China's Cultural Revolution laid the groundwork for its present success with authoritarian capitalism are fascinating, as is his take on what our position towards Islamo-Fascism should be. However there's just not enough of this erudite analysis and one can't help but wish more of the book had been focussed on issues like this, which he approaches in a truly stimulating fashion, rather than meandering around issues of the Haitian Revoltution.

But there again, why try to approach a concept and do it justice in a chapter when you can devote half a book to it? Zizek falls into this academic trap far too often; bearing that in mind, I think you can find a more easily understandable distillation of Zizeks's thoughts in a book like Mark Fisher's excellent Capitalist Realism.

Looking back at this review, I'm wondering if I've been too harsh, as there clearly is an important intellect at work here. However he cannot be let off the hook for languishing in far too much selfish brainstorming over so many pages, in such important times as these. This is no time for analyses that are so dense as to be impenetrable, or, for perhaps his greatest fault- sitting too much on the proverbial fence when it comes to describing viable courses of action.

So it's only really in the last thirty pages or so that Zizek hits his stride and postulates ideas based in reality and- dare I say it- starts to make sense. It would be churlish though to say this is the only part of the book worth reading; I have to admit the book is like some particularly complex piece of music that doesn't have any impact on the first few listens, then suddenly sinks in and although not making much immediate, apparent sense, still holds a strange, beguiling beauty.

One final comment- I've deducted a star for the books strange lack of one thing: passion. This is strange, considering the closing page's strident call for `revolutionary' communist action. Despite that, this is an often difficult if eventually rewarding read; just approach it with an eye to being. on quite a few occasions, quite unreasonably baffled by 'science' and a few contradictory conclusions.

Is it time for the Sixth Republic?

'....there is no reason that the interminable subsidies that numerous relatives are compelled to offload onto their proletarianized progeny can't become a form of patronage in favour of socialsubversion. 'Becoming autonomous' could just as easily mean learning to fight in the street, to occupy empty houses, to cease working, to love each other madly, and to shoplift.'

An extract from 'The Coming Insurrection' by The Invisible Committee.

A small blue book as a call to action. At times naive, confused and hopelessly utopian, at others concise, energising, inspiring and able to hit the target effortlessly, it is above all, and for all it's faults, utterly uplifting.

2010- Shouldn't there be robots?

New year new decade new trousers.

But no robots. Yet.

What we need is the definitive book for the unwary. Meanwhile, there are fractures of prose and soul photography.

Wherever lies the lure of the underground

the impasse of a studded velvet glove

cupping your chin

you want you want you want

but you hold apprehension as if it were

a fragile gift

joy sourced free of morality

the harvester of love

the tiller of souls.

The gods of old have gone into hiding but we suspect they are asleep rather than dead to us forever. And be assured, the soul of Ulysses is kept safe in a stasis of permanent glory by their side, ready to be released into our faltering, moribund world by the gentle tilt of of it's holding, golden flask, as soon they they are awakened by the corrupt trumpet call of a people too lost in chaos.

That day may be close. The Invisible Committee has told us that as clearly as it dares, in The Coming Insurrection. The battle cry has gone up in the communes of France and across Europe; censorship has failed and from the chaos will come the radiance of equality and the slaying of feudal, neo-liberal capitalism.

The charge will be lead by Asclepius with Sophicles by his side, armoured in the glow of a thousand stars at the time a nanosecond after nova, at that time when in its own death throes, a star can light up the sky of a million planets and affect tens of thousand of civilisations.

T Pyxilis may have already gone supernova- are it's gamma rays at this very moment hurtling towards us, with only the laws of Einstein buffering us from eventual annihilation?

Meanwhile, we believe the new on-line journal Wordflute may soon materialise. We will keep you posted. An interview with Mark Reed is scheduled to appear in the first issue and we may post an extract of it soon, if we feel you have all misbehaved enough to warrant such indulgence.

Reading through Tom Sleigh's collection of poems 'Space Walk,' yet again, we have been struck by the clarity and emotional resonance of his work and how the unexpected can inform a particular moment in time.

In 'Afterlife,' the narrator ruminates on a failed relationship in the bathroom of a restaurant whilst his partner waits back at the table; the bathroom is full of the stink of someone in a cubicle having a shit. It seems a rather poignant atmosphere for him at that juncture in his day.

Absolute genius.