L'ÉPOUVANTAIL

Engagement is not Appeasement: why we should hang in there with the EU

2011-12-16T13:14:00.001Z

There’s a lot of fuss in various media about those who have dared to suggest the UK is a middling sized European power with little sway in the big, Real World, outside of it’s involvement in the EU and it’s [tenuous’ links to the US through the ‘special relationship’ are anti-patriotic defeatists. And by saying we should be fully involved in shaping the EU rather than standing on the ever barren, icy side-lines in our Union Jack waistcoats clutching an Airfix model of a Spitfire, makes us appeasers.
I don't see any appeasing going on here at all however. But I do see though- in a few isolated places of hope- a good dose of reality being swallowed.
The machinations of the EU may at times seen like the Mafia and it admittedly leans towards the autocratic rather than the democratic, but remember we have a press dominated by rabid anti-European hysteria [and that's putting it mildly] that permeates UK society so completely with it's unreasonableness- and often OUTRIGHT LIES- that it's difficult sometimes even for the most open-minded to develop informed judgements.
Whatever, hyperbole about the EU being ran like the Mafia doesn't help, nor is there the imminent threat of a new USSR on our doorstep etc etc etc. Even if you take that concept on board, this government and Cameron's actions at the summit DID NOT amount to us standing up to the EU. IT AMOUNTED TO US RUNNING AWAY.
There's lots of talk about Cameron using a veto last week to stop the EU in it's tracks. It was nothing of the sort. A veto stops things; he stopped nothing.
We have to be very careful not to get hysterical about the evils of the EU. Just bear this in mind: after centuries of slaughtering each other in Europe, the EU has delivered over sixty years of peace, where talking has replaced warfare. In an alternative universe, Cameron and the other leaders of Europe in all probability have left that summit last week, and returned to their capitals to ready their troops for warfare. REAL warfare, with 21st century weapons.
I think to have the threat of that reality being reduced to the almost completely implausible is a huge endorsement of the success- and need- for the EU, don't you? So lets be show our real bulldog spirit by getting stuck into the EU and working to shape it more in our image, rather than running away and daydreaming fantasies about returning to our [long lost] empire days.

How Sarkozy made the UK Billy-No Mates in one quick master class of political intelligence

2011-12-12T20:48:00.001Z

L’Épouvantail is unashamedly a pan-European enthusiastic; the EU may be imperfect and lacking often in basic, democratic instinct, but as the recent summit proved, sitting around a dinner table talking about problems, and then going home to face the politicians and press at home with sound bites, is preferable to them leaving the table and going home to ready the troops.

Well Cameron seems to be enjoying the adulation of his party at the moment, but after seeing his body language at and after the summit, I strongly suspect in ten years time when his memoirs are published he will pin-point that summit and this week when he realised he'd made a huge mis-calculation, and it spelt the beginning of the end of his political career.

Cameron made an horrendous mistake at that summit, and through his inexperience as both a domestic and international politician, has put the UK in a very, very disadvantaged position. When all the flag waving and jumping up and down singing Rule Britannia has stopped, more and more people will realise just that, as the true consequences of us effectively being booted out of the EU decision making process becomes all too clear.

As said above, L’Épouvantail is not a huge fan of the way the EU has developed in recent times; for years it’s been clear that it naturally inclines towards beings run by a technocratic elite from behind closed doors, and their European Project is hugely ambitious, massively bank-rolled, and very, very powerful. But the only way we can oppose the excesses of this behemoth and it's un-democratic instincts, is by being at the heart of the EU and making our voice heard, because believe it or not, we ARE listened to and supported an awful lot in EU affairs by other member states than our shameless, lying, rabidly beyond-all-sense-of-reason-and-proportion anti-European media care to report [an anti-European press incidentally ran almost exclusively by non-Europeans and tax exiles by the way, but that's another issue].

The EU's member states are not structured in a Them against Us way at all; in fact in it's day to day running, many of 'them' are on our side.

Although it’s appreciable how hard Cameron's job was, somehow he has managed to achieve the worst of all possible outcomes, and allowed Sarkozy in particular, to change that day-to-day face of the EU around, and make us the villainous, outcast, Billy No-Mates. Cameron has been totally outclassed on the world stage here, and we really, really should be careful about how much celebration we indulge in, because our country is about to enter a dark period where our politicians are not up to the job of protecting us adequately, and we are going to be very quickly dominated by a European super-state which, without us having a voice within it, will potentially become increasingly autocratic and that- in the long run- will make the world a much more dangerous place.

The Strange Non-Death of Neo-Liberalism by Colin Crouch

2011-08-24T14:38:00.004+01:00

Just as it appeared with the financial crisis of 2007-08 that Neo-Liberalism had taken a firm, apparently fatal knock-out blow and all us, as we saw it lying on the boxing ring floor, were about to wake up and finally able to see the odious ideology for all the sham and elitist self-serving twaddle that it is... well back it bounces all shiny and new, ready to fight another round as if secretly pumped with steroids to help it along the way.

Well not exactly secretly; the political elite makes no bones about it's love affair with Neo-Liberalism; in fact our political class on not just both sides of the Atlantic but now the Channel as well, are well and truly incorporated within the ideological clutches of the Neo-Liberal behemoth and, because of that, it's not difficult to feel as if the developed world in the 21st century is going to remain thoroughly fucked for the foreseeable future.

But let's not feel too pessimistic on this wonderful summer's day as the rain streams down outside and our wonderful government- the very same one that last year was telling us we were nearly bankrupt from ridiculous socialist policies, but can then find a billion quid to bomb civilians with in Libya- crows about a successful campaign of war in the ME. Let's turn to this rather excellent work in question.

Colin Crouch’s book takes it’s cue from George Dangerfield’s 1936 classic ‘The Strange Death of Liberal England,’ in which Dangerfield tried to explain the sudden collapse in the early 20th century, of the political ideas and a party that had dominated the late Victorian Age and pre-WW1 Britain. With Neo-Liberalism, he does however turn this analysis on it’s head; his aim is to explain why, following a huge economic and political crisis based fairly and squarely within the ideologies of Neo-Liberalism, it hasn’t collapsed and, indeed, hasn’t just survived but is getting back on it’s feet again determined to get back to business as usual.

This resilience of Neo-Liberalism is a fascinating phenomenon and a rich seam of socio-political analysis to mine, and Crouch does an admirable job of it. He charts the fundamental aspect of Neo-Liberalism that is simple but rarely acknowledged- either through myopia on the Left, or wilful masking and divertive myth-making on the Right, that actually existing- as opposed to ideologically pure- Neo-Liberalism is in no way as devoted to free markets as it relentlessly professes to be.

Crouch clearly explains how the trans global corporation is the true embodiment of Neo-Liberal economic theory, and that in reality has nothing to do with maintaining open, free markets in a democratic, ‘libertarian’ political structure free of overt influence from the state. It is more to do with transferring power from the state- which by definition is believed by Neo-Liberals to be at best inefficient, at worst corrupt and nothing but self-serving, as well as naturally erring towards the creation of monopolies at the expense of consumer choice- to the private sector. but the shape of this private sector is not one of a raft of competing small-medium size enterprises, but that of a small number of increasingly inter-related, planet-striding corporations. He also interestingly explains a key aspect of Neo-Liberalism that the ideology uses at the core of all it’s arguments to explain away this process: when cornered on such issues, they carefully describe the process of corporatism as one of enhancing consumer ‘welfare,’ not consumer 'choice.' So, as long as wealth is being created somewhere in the system- even if it is concentrated amongst only a select few- it enhances consumer welfare no matter what.

The irony of this anti-state rhetoric- that everything characteristically wrong with the state in Neo-Liberal analysis has in fact, been merely transferred to the private sector- is still strangely lost on many people, but Crouch successfully shows us how this is in fact the reality of the 21st Century. At the core of Neo-Liberalism is not the urge to free everyone from the shackles of a nanny state into a vibrant world of competing privately run firms, but the direct aim to privatise power into a small group of the global elite. And this privatisation process can be seen at work relentlessly around us day in day out. The turning of private, corporate debt into public debt in the aftermath of the 2008-09 crash; the switching of corporate failure and market inefficiencies into an issue of overtly expensive and un-necessary public services; the process of now moving that public state debt onto the ordinary citizen through forcing them further into debt; the eroding of their living standards by high inflation/low interest rates etc., and so it goes on…

Colin Crouch has therefore provided us with a timely, much needed and erudite analysis of how a political ideology that, in the ‘normal’ state of affairs would be on it’s knees gasping it’s last breath, has perversely emerged stronger from it's crisis primarily because unlike in previous crises, where the key players where toppled by world events- such as the Keynsians in the 70s- the key players and proponents of Neo-Liberalism, namely the corporations, were saved and maintained by the state to get back to what they do best: creating profit for themselves and themselves alone.

Not just the Left, but the moderate Right needs to understand this, and must get to grips with the neo-Liberal phenomenon and fully understand it before our social democracy and values are made even more difficult to repair, and this book is a good starting point from which to do just that.

The Tenderloin by John Butler

2011-06-22T11:31:00.001+01:00

Well how time flies and 2011 becomes subject to some sort of time dilation effect whereby months become weeks and the hours in a day become nothing but blinks and frowns…
The Tenderloinis a district in San Francisco don’t you know, and this book, just about to be published in the UK has passed by my jaded eyes recently.
Now then if I had a pound for every book cover that had the hyperbolic statement `a spectacular new Irish talent' splattered across it, I'd be a rich scarecrow. So it was with such a grumpy attitude I approached this book and unfortunately [again], my reservations were well founded. Someone like John Butler may have contributed to The Irish Times, San Francisco Chronicle and written/directed shorts for the Irish Film Board etc etc etc, but a good novelist and subsequent debut novel it does not necessarily make.....
The basic premise of The Tenderloin is promising; it charts the early dot.com years in California, as seen through the eyes of an Irish émigré, even if it is another case of the Irish apparently being able to drift effortlessly into and around the US penniless and without employment, when the rest of the western world has to queue for green cards.
The central character, Evan, arrives in San Francisco in 1995 as a 21 year old virgin. He at first bums around not doing very much feeling intensely lonely, gets a job in the lower reaches of a flash, start-up dot.com business where he develops a crush on his [male] boss. He then has to struggle [well a bit anyway], with his [perhaps] latent homosexuality, loses connection with his best friend who he'd travelled to California with and alienates Roisin, another close friend who had travelled out to team up with them, and then goes home.
And that's about it.
There are some hints at the absurdity of this huge, new business model as neoliberal ideology finally hit its stride in the early 90s, but no sense of any real insight into its true nature, and I think that is a massive missed opportunity, and there are plenty of others like that in this novel.
To be fair there are some truly touching moments of insight in the book though. For example Evan in his loneliness starts following families [at a distance] into Fisherman's Wharf some evenings, just to try and glean some innocent, familial warmth from them. He casually tells someone about this in a bar but ends up getting cold shouldered as some sort of pervert. This is a clever illustration of how you can feel deep disconnectedness in a foreign country and the insular, judgemental nature of our culture these days. There is also a genuinely funny scene where Evan has an encounter with an ice sculpture, and a nice set piece when Evan is out sailing with his boss and wife and things go awry, but these parts of the narrative where Butler hits his stride only added to my frustration with the book in its entirety, and the nagging feeling that it could all have been so much better.
The book really only takes off as an intriguing novel at the very end, where the perspective changes from Evan to his friend Roisin, which fascinatingly puts Evan into a wholly new perspective, with his proto-alcoholism laid bare and the hint of life and people going in circles-cycles. These final few pages are Butler really writing and are very, very good, and the sole reason I had to in the end give this book three rather than two stars. In fact if you do start reading the book, it is worth hanging in there for the final sequence alone.
To be honest, at the end of the day I think the book has been published too soon, with probably only 75% of the editing/writing process done properly. And I read the final advanced copy, so it is not work in progress. It is also telling that the publisher's blurb informs us proudly that there is a lot of movie interest in it, and that makes sense, because in the end, one can't help feeling it has been written with the focus firmly on a screenplay first, and as a rounded novel second.
One final thing: technicalities. Butler uses that technique so beloved of the Celtic fringe: the use of hyphens instead of speech marks. It takes great skill and attention to detail to pull this off, which writers like Roddy Doyle and Niall Griffiths on the whole manage to do, but this author doesn't. The whole flow of the narrative is broken as you keep having to work out who is saying what to who, and unfortunately it makes the whole book more laborious to read than it should be. It really is a technical trend in contemporary novel writing that should be put quietly to sleep.
So on the whole,
despite the publishers blurb, Butler isn't a new Brett Easton Ellis or Nick Hornby. He doesn't have the droll irony and cool detachment of BEE, nor has he the metrosexual `confused but well-meaning' gentle humour of Hornby. In the end he has produced a book more like something a committee might write and, ultimately, is as a result strangely soulless.
Now looking back over this review I feel as if maybe I have been a little harsh; there is the potential for a great book in here somewhere and I wouldn't discourage anyone from reading it at all, because Butler can write emotively and with a fair degree of charm when he wants too. But it's been wasted in this book, and it may once again be down to the poor quality control [a.k.a. laziness] of some of our major publishers these days, who seem unprepared to push further the writers they have signed up, or even look for extraordinary writers to define the new century we are all hurtling through.

When I Fever Dream it is in Mathematics [of that you can be sure]

2011-01-25T21:18:00.001Z

cold sweat slapped on my body as if carelessly

but with

paradoxical studied abandon by a pastry brush

a pastry brush of

demented purpose and I have solved

issues of mathematical complexity

with the mental agility of a bat flying radar-down

cruising with eyes alone

for a laugh

then there is

my propensity for influenza-induced equational dexterity

a novel way to solving brain aching conundrums such as

inter-dimensional matter transference well well well

I know how now yes I do

of that you can be sure

I worked it out in my fever it’s all down to a certain number

all you’ve got to do is bracket it

and

do the good old

( )

and square it by a -3

wish though

I could remember the

number in the

brackets

she was right I should at all times keep my trusty

Blackpool Zoo Pen and Notebook handy on the bedside table

I have only myself to blame and now to the other

dream

I can see a house in the distance it’s a big bugger

a bit ramshackle but the equations hold together

the gutters are integers the chimney is a cosine

and the caretaker a fraction of the man I always wanted to be

there he is tending the garden of prime numbers but

the green house, the one

full of near-extinct logarithms has had most

of its glass panes broken but that is another issue

another story for another lifetime

and my ancestors are stood there in front of the house

they are beckoning me encouraging me

and all that stands between my good self and my ancestors are

a large number of topiary figures

some shaped like small birds ones a wren

defo [and a neat little wooden gate swings]

the rest the rest they are an assortment of jungle animals

an elephant laurel bush a lion hawthorn

a large alligator

privet

and I look and look and think it all looks like too much effort

and then

WAKE UP

Raise a flag of vengeful calculus

and

radiate.

2011-01-08T19:18:00.000Z

http://vimeo.com/9669156
WE HAVE BAND enjoy enjoy enjoy

Further Experimentations in Anarchic Funk

2010-11-09T20:51:00.000Z

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

2010-10-25T19:16:00.001+01:00

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

2010-08-29T18:48:00.001+01:00

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

2010-08-29T17:36:00.001+01:00

Alaska Unlimited

2010-08-27T20:28:00.001+01:00

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

2010-08-27T16:56:00.010+01:00

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.

2010-08-27T16:55:00.002+01:00

A Message From The Front

2010-08-23T20:29:00.001+01:00

'The Pleurality'

from How to be A Spaceman

Zip Domingo

[2010]

Gallerific Touchdowns

2010-08-23T20:21:00.001+01:00

There Was A Time [when time] Was A Friend

2010-08-23T20:17:00.000+01:00

Pharos

2010-08-23T20:14:00.000+01:00

Junk Demon [2010]

The artifactus of Dissensus

2010-08-04T20:52:00.002+01:00

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

2010-07-06T16:14:00.004+01:00

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

2010-07-04T15:38:00.002+01:00

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

2010-07-04T15:00:00.004+01:00

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

2010-02-11T20:32:00.000Z

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?

2010-01-27T14:43:00.003Z

'....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?

2010-01-18T19:18:00.006Z

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.

2009-11-04T20:46:00.000Z

I believe in this...

...late summer mists across the evening park...

...as I pass the time of day then head home,

steeped in thoughts of Monument Hill.

I'm not going to give up until I see

the eyes of angels staring lovingly at me

the prince of peace my guide will be

across dry stone walls and glen and fee...

...caught lost in the diaries of

Josephine.

The siren call of Diana, the guiding light

of the good shepherd high, high

in the sky

my lover's sword dragged through the

damp loam my heart is full

as my soul merged warrior love

returns home to me.

Raymond Carver

2009-10-02T16:12:00.007+01:00

Came across a fascinating article in the Observer magazine last weekend [27-09-09]. Tess Gallagher, the widowed wife of the great American writer Raymond Carver- to whom we as a collective are slavishly devoted to- is publishing 'uncut' manuscripts of her late husband's in a volume called 'Beginners'.

She describes it herself as an 'item of interest rather than a finished piece of work-a bootleg if you will.' In fact she is doing so as some controversy has emerged recently over the level of input Carver's editor, Gordon Lish had over his manuscripts. Indeed if some of Carver's own thoughts [often anguished] over the matter are taken into account, it seems as if it may have been considerable.

So how much of Carver's work, and in particular the term 'Carveresque' which has entered literary verbal currency,can be truly attributed to that one man?

Well this throws up some interesting issues. Carver and Lish were certainly a formidable partnership; Lish was an influential literary figure and championed amongst others, writers such as Don DeLillo and Richard Ford. Lish took Carver under his wing and published some of his first stories in Esquire.

He had a strong editorial influence over Carver's work and it is argued had a direct hand in shaping Carver's 'minimalist' style. He also heavily influence the story titles, and the collection titles. Carver's collection initially called 'Beginners,' was changed by Lish to 'What We Talk About When We Talk About Love,' and of course, the rest is history.

One is however inclined to ask- so just what is the fuss about? Lish's influence over the final versions of Carver's stories is highlighted in the magazine with an example; Lish edits a lot of the sentence structures and changes many names of the characters, but did he alter the overall theme and the structure of the stories too? Some of Carver's diary entries outline his annoyance that he may at times have done just that. But, the fact remains depite Carver's initial annoyance at this, he still allowed the stories to be published in their altered [Lish would no doubt argue improved] form.

This does however throw up some fascinating fundamental issues over the nature and perception of 'writers' in modern, western literature. Literature, of all the arts- perhaps along with fine art- is defined by sole practioners. A piece of literary art- say a book- is presented to the public and 99% of the time, is seen as entirely the product of that one name on the dust cover.

Of course this is equally, 99% of the time, untrue. A book that goes from original manuscript to final product with no changes at all is a very rare thing indeed, although of course the degree of its 'adaption' through the editing process does of course vary.

In the case of Carver, from the evidence, we don't really believe his value is diminished by Lish's input as an editor. In fact it appears that is what he clearly did- EDIT, although he obviously had more control over the shape of Carver's work than some others.

But at the end of the day, so what? The stories were Carver's, the themes and atmosphere were his, the heart in them most certainly is. Music in particular is full of great partnerships- Lennon and McCartney, Leib and Stoller, Lloyd Webber and Rice. No eyebrows are raised about artistic partnerships in that field. Maybe literature too should be more accepting of the reality of artistic partnerships and not throw up it hands in [mock] surprise when it is revealed that editors and others 'behind the scenes' can have a profound effect on a writers final output.

Maybe what we now know as 'Carveresque' was a product of a writing partnership more accurately described as Carver and Lish. The essense of Carver's genius is still there though for all to see and although Lish may have given him focus and edited him with great skill [after all isn't that what editors are paid for?] it's clear the world would not have Carver's wonderful body of work [and poetry- don't forget the poetry] without Raymond Carver himself.

The Glories of Kent

2009-10-02T11:02:00.003+01:00

It's nice to see we have had a visitor from Kent!

A glorious suburb of dragons, kittens and martial arts, welcome! It's neighbouring kingdoms roll off the tongue like a litany of lost mystical lands and half whispered fables...Petts Wood, Bromley [with it's hallowed temple, 'Habitat'], St. Mary Cray. Oh the glories, oh the tragic losses, the brave lost battles with the torn battered flag raised high, defiant, by the last man as the hordes puncture him with spear and arrow...

And what of the lost knights of Chislehurst, the levitation legends of Farnborough, the white witches of Hextable? Oh to be a young blade in My Lordship Lane at your feet, fencing practise in Norman park, the gallops of Hayes, the learning of mystical oriental arts from esteemed masters early in the morn, amidst the dawn sprites of Sparrow Common...

...a world of wonder ahead, supping mead in Penge until the stars appear to be in reach, Lo! they can be taken down and caressed, as you lie within the ghost shadows of that lost wonder the Crystal Palace, high on the hill looking at the glittering spires of Londinium, dimension dancing on mescalin!

Welcome, warrior of the southern downs, partake of some vittals, enjoy!

Summers Swansong

2009-10-02T10:58:00.002+01:00

The summer is long gone and it's back to business as usual. More to come soon, stay tuned in and get those halloween plans firmed up.

David Hockney and Computer Art

2009-08-01T14:19:00.004+01:00

We have always been admirers of David Hockney's art and appreciative of his often pioneering approach to pushing back the boundaries of artistic practise- whilst still of course managing to make a healthy living from it.

He has recently embraced computer techniques to create images and enhance his own photographs and brushwork. An exhibition of some 28 examples of this has just finished in a London gallery.

The works are striking, in particular the one above depicting rain on Bridlington promenade which is evocative and compelling in its naivety. The showing is on the whole we feel, a success although there are some duds in there and one cannot shrug off the lingering feeling that are these being shown because they are Hockney's, or because they are accomplished art?

Whatever brand Hockney is alive and well and who's complaining. He is no doubt on the cutting edge of a new movement in art as computing packages become ever more sophisticated, although we would debate the validity of his statement that Photoshop software for example, has only just reached the point where it can be successfully used for artistic purposes. That capability has existed in many earlier versions and of course in other packages and, as he himself said justifying the use of computers, it is a tool as much as a brush, so one suspects that in reality he has just discovered these computer capabilities, not that they have finally evolved to his needs.

Whatever, a small beef. One could argue that his style of art is ideally suited to the tools offered by computer software and his small screen designs he makes on his iphone- we particularly like his idea of painting flowers on it, then sending them to his friends!- some of the examples of this are as equally charming as the picture shown above.

There are- and will continue to be in growing numbers- finer examples of computer-aided art than his, but he has the name to command attention to the technique which is all to the good.

As the internet is shaking up the complacent, closeted and self-congratulatory world of publishing and journalism, so are computer techniques doing the same to the world of fine art. This is an exciting time for artists prepared to experiment and explore [and by in turn, for the public at large] and a worrying one for those stuck to the comforts of their place in the establishment.

Long may Hockney continue to challenge them and thus encourage others to do the same.

Poetry Competions: A Waste of Money, or the The Price of Art?

2009-07-24T11:58:00.003+01:00

All fields of art are subjective and at the mercy of assessment and criticism. In fact the finer the art, the keener the adjudicators of it's practise are, to overlay their intellectualism onto it's perceived qualities. The debate on what is 'good' and 'bad' art is a perennial one; it has always gone on and will of course never be resolved. The criteria also change from age to age, to say nothing of from person to person in any one particular time of art.

The idea of 'art' competitions is in itself arguably a untenable one. Can such a subjective field of human expression be truly 'judged' by ones peers and, as it is in many judgmental situations, by appointed superiors? And in the arts, who appoints these superiors? There is a fair argument to be had, that many are essentially self appointed, or emergent from an [originally self-appointed] illuminati and so what true worth does their judgment hold?

Ben Brinkburn, poet and proud grump, has recently written an interesting treatese on this issue, in particular regard to those exotic and particularly fascinatingly corrupt beasts, Poetry Competitions. It is shown below.

I Hate Poetry Experts and Competitions.

Occasionally I weaken and enter a poetry competition then as soon as the envelope has been eaten by the bored post box outside the butcher's, I immediately regret the few quid I've just squandered musing ruefully that it would have been better spent in the pub.

However I always make sure I enclose an envelope for the results; this cost of a second class stamp is the most useful expenditure of the whole exercise. When you get the results list [which with 99.9% certainty you will not be on], check some of the names on the web. Goggle them. Anybody worth their poetic salt has a web presence these days [witness my own grumpy effort] and people who are well connected enough to win poetry competitions DEFINITELY have a web presence, because it takes a certain type of self-promotionalist to win poetry competitions.

So google the winners/almost rans. You will only have to scratch the surface to find connections between them, the organisers of the competition, and by default the judges.

The world of poetry is a small, intense, thoroughly corrupted world. I like to think of it as something akin to a group of aesthetes drunk on port, cavorting around a plush club room masturbating themselves and their friends in one orgy of self-congratulation, back-scratching, score keeping and artifice.

Poetry publishers, magazine editors, competition organizers and judges are the amongst some of the most dubious of taste arbitrators and literary ‘experts’ in the field of the arts- not just literature- and that’s saying something. Smug, aloof and self-promotional to the point of hollow narcissism are terms that spring readily to mind [they even beat literary agents in the relentless application of these qualities].

Other gross offenders are Creative Writer Tutors. If ever there was truism to the notion that those who can write, write and get paid for it, and those that can’t teach it and get paid for it, having 'Creative Writing Tutor' on your passport is one of them.

The world of words is now full of Experts. There are now in fact more people 'Expert' at assessing literature than practicing it. This is no more apparent than in the literary ghetto of Poetry than elsewhere in the spectrum of wordcraft. It embraces the cliquiest, clubbiest of paramours; it encourages it's members to be self-congratulatory, self-assessing, auto-masturbatory, and practise an unerring aloof confidence in the knowledge of their inherent skill in judgment and criticism of others work- to those outside of the club that is. But once within it's hallowed confines…

...therein, you may bask in the mutual appreciation society that is poetry clubs with their attendant [fixed] competitions and the small poetry presses that are the self appointed arbitrators of taste and practise in the fair art of poetry and prose.

But ask yourself this- look at the plethora of small poetry presses, magazines and their associated [fixed] competitions here and in the US. Can they all be populated with experts? Are they all, collectively, a reliable gold standard in their assessment of what is ‘good’ [and therefore publishable] poetry?

Of course not- many of it's owners/sponsors are stuck up self-anointed aesthetes who through an inherent inferiority complex- developed no doubt from bullying in the school canteen at an early age [no Boltsin-Naipe, I’m having your jam roly-poly today!]- some are well meaning poetry buffs, a few are talented outsiders who never made it into the club for a variety of reasons [each one no doubt more interesting in the tale than any Expert Poem about concrete seagulls and/or drinking tea in Cambodia wearing straw sandals] and operate blithely- usually with half a bottle of vodka in hand- at the margins, and many more again are self-inflated egotists who always fancied setting up a magazine- the kudos, the attention- and a poetry one is the simplest and most direct way to exercise critical power over their peers.

So: very few real experts, many chancers and carefully masked, low-esteem ridden self-appointed arbitrators of taste and talent who, particularly these days, know their way around website design.

These are the people who judge your poetry entries in their dubious ‘open’ competitions at 3-5 GBP a pop. The simple process of selecting a shortlist and eventual winner[s] of most competitions is this:

The organisers trouser the fee first then look at the entrant. This is the most important part, and the primary reason for running the competition in the first place. Then look at the entrant. Is he/she a subscriber to the magazine? No, so bin it. That usually halves the pile. Then there is the scanning over of names that are recognizable [forget about this not happening even if it’s assured to be an ‘anonymous entry' judgment. The short listing assessors still get to see the real names, all is fair in love and war after all].

Then the short list gets in front of the primary judge[s]. They look at the entrants, pull out the names they recognize [particularly ones they drink/email/blog/ with, tutor, or simply ‘owe one’]. This then gets down to the hardest of assessments for the judge[s], who need to trade off favours and repayments in an equitable but primarily self-serving way.

The result: one of the poetry world’s lovey’s is invariably selected. In essence, this is 9/10 a person who a] subscribes to the magazine [if a mag contest] b] is recognizable as a member of an on-line or real life poetry group c] has been or is in the process of being tutored by one of the judges in a Creative Writing course d] has previously won a prize or e] is a new writer who is a friend/lover/relation of one of the judges or by association, one of the magazine publishing board.

The chances of getting anywhere in a poetry competition are therefore very slim. Unless you have unlimited funds and can afford subscriptions to every poetry magazine in the land, that alone should be enough to convince you to save your money, only enter poetry competitions that are free [and certainly NOT Arts Council funded magazines and projects that charge a fee- THEY SHOULD OF ALL THE COMPETITION THROWERS BE FREE] and find other ways to promote your work.

And there is nowt wrong with as much self promotion as you can manage. After all in the world of poetry expert artifice, your opinion on the value of your work is as good as anybody else’s; poetry is a pure expression of one’s inner self, it is a defining, concentrated moment of your psyche beamed down on to a page. It is YOU. if other people like it, all well and good. If so called poetry ‘experts’ tell you it is rubbish, ignore them. If you look at it and think it is accomplished, then that is all to the good. It is all you need. You’re not going to make a fortune or a career out of poetry, so what does it matter if self-appointed assessors don’t like it? Just get it out there and into print anyway you can, and see what the great world public make of it, because at the end of the day, they are the only ones that matter [after yourself.]

Rant over. I'm off out now to buy some dog food for the cat.

'Ugly Ben' Brinkburn, Shildon UK

R.Rev. H.R.H. Cheesespike and 'Electrycal Contraptions.'

2009-07-20T11:58:00.004+01:00

Here's a snippet from the Right Rev's memoirs in the 'Wiltshire Days.' Seems to be struggling with the joys of Television and in particular his favourite soap opera viewing.

…aye the wonders of the modern Appliances of Science

doth mesmerize my ancient heart and it is BEFORE GOD

that I doth kneel and give thanks and praise for His Mercy

and the gifts of the ‘Electrytc’ and such devices to transmute

the labours of man.

Aye this wonderment indeed that I have oft pondered

and in partic. the terrifying yet sublime joyes of the

‘Electrytc Televisional Contraption’ which is a box of marvels

and of speculative awe. It is true Strange Phenomenon

that doth manifest itself within a plastyc box and it is as

One admits before the eremitical Wrath of God a Verye

Useful Appliance for the control of grandchildren whose

wealth fare I commend to You Our Father Above and

His Son, the Good Shepherd of all our offspring

OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST AND SAVIOUR

Amen.

Althougheth as of a cruel winters eve as I Struggle with the

contortions of a Verytable Sermon for Evensong it can be

annoying to have youngsters bouncing and whooping as if

whirling dervishes or at worste, possessed by the black

enamours of the Darke Prince himself so help us

Almighty God as One attempts to scribe whilst a programme

on the ‘Electrytc Televisional Contraption’ doth show ‘X-Factor’

and yet when after a toilsome day battling with the demons

of the mind in the local post office And Elsewhere, to then

try to sit down and release the shackles of tiredness whlst

watching a programme on the ‘Electrytc Televisional

Contraption’ about simple and at times violent folke

ensconced in the bear pit of the East End streets of our fair

Capital of The Empire tempers can snap and said children

are brayed and naresay cuffed out of the room so that silence

and contemplation on the plight of those less fortunate in

their urban morass may be enjoyed….

It's interesting to note that there are many notes scribbled on torn out pages from the bible stuffed into the last volume of his memoires relating to the perceived attributes of various tV models, their direct impact upon Christian worship, their ability to distort truth and human function by the 'verytable diabolical practyse of Adervizerment' and their ultimate value to The Godhead.

there were also some irate letters from pensioners over a specific 18 month period complaining about Cheesespike's anti-televisual activities and two bills from Radio Rentals for damage to said sets [all japanese brands] in their High Street shop.

The Secret Life of Biro pt 2

2009-07-17T18:37:00.003+01:00

A further extract from Edmundo Bagel's twilight years memoires, charting his keen fascination with pens, pencils and other writing instruments. in fact he had an extensive collection, all carefully catalogued and even some very valuable examples of German Art Nouveau fountain pens but alas the bulk was sold off to satisfy a blackmail demand from a clique of former close friends who were also- alas- chronic [bad] gamblers. The text as discovered by Lynx [with footnote] runs as follows:

Parker fountain pens are the most wonderful objects. True articles of the fusion of Function, Art and God.

Such wonders can issue from it's finely crafted nib; the greatest sketches, the finest words of love sent to a lost [and violently spiteful] former lover and, of course, words about anit-dysporian intellectual stand points where one argues that God is god but maybe not; god is Man or maybe man is man or maybe man is god or is there in fact more than one God there are in fact Gods: is there a three multiplicity or are there on reflection, many aspects of Man?

I ask myself these questions many times in the day and end up saying to myself: ' of course they are Bagel, all of your ideas are right!'

Then I feel stupid and slap myself across the face a number of times and find I quite enjoy it and so do the same again but then I realise I must centre myself. This is getting silly and so I make the shape of an Iris and slump into my favourite- if rather torn and stained- armchair.

But Spirits come from the nib of a Parker pen, I am convinced of it.

Spirits that chase rainbows; to a world where blue children live.

Oft have I dreamt of such sylvan skies and toast and jam served by small bears in little hats....

I am also oft called a dualist and I do not know why because there is only one me, there is, there is only one me and my pens. When I look in the mirror I see me- apart from God- the non-god, the Pencil Sharpener.

The me that would like to fire bomb the local University’s Philosophy Department and the Me, that Me, that had a chance to become a successful soul singer but was -cruelly- thwarted.

As such I assess this argument to be flawed because there may be me, but of course conversely there is not because it is all an illusion.

It's clearly obvious.

The mirror lies.

It is mere glass with a silvered wooden backing, probably from IKEA price 12 GBP but I prefer my Heal’s hall mirror 650 GBP because the quality of it's reflectiveness is so much more... pure.

I joined an embroidery circle recently.

A strange thing for a man to do I admit, but I am continually trying to push out the boundaries of my existence, to go beyond the God/human experience to push, no less, the cosmic envelope and so going cross gender in terms of the bourgeoisie's perception of recieved wisdom industrial activity seemed to be a logical starting point.

I did not of course dress as a woman. In all modesty my legs are quite good but the make up and wig just did not work so I went as a proud, equalitist man.

I did of course have my two pencils, three pens and my cherished pencil sharpener with me so I felt fortified and although at first nervous, I began to quickly enjoy it, embroidering pictures of cottages, anchors, eagles and only once did the word 'wank' emerge.

I was at first all fingers and thumbs and would frequently find myself explaining the dormant potent power of my pencil sharpener to the ladies but they were friendly and supportive until my fifth session when one of the ladies suddenly stood up and shouted: 'What have The Romans ever done for us!'

We were all quite stunned and I reached instinctively for the comfort of my pencil sharpener and found itin the left pocket of my Harris tweed jacket and felt its strength.

I was rather inclined to stand up and reply:

'Do you not mean God? Rather than the Romans, are you in fact not asking by a juxtaposition of historico-spiritual terminology what has God ever done for us?'

I am thus well fired up and prepared for a functionalist anti-reductionist debate but hold my tongue. Only to recover consciousness a few minutes later realising I was actually holding my tongue and rolling around on the floor salivating profusely.

Later on in the hospital I considered my predicament in relationship to God and The Lack of Reality.

I began to understand after seven days that the combination of Port, Vodka and Seroxat may have played a big part in The Illusion. However at some point I reached for my jacket and found my pencils, pens and most importantly my silver sharpener were still there so I felt as if Reality may really be here, but I equally realised that I had to keep writing the books becauseI needed the money...

Ed's note: Well that's enough for this installment I suppose. It's interesting to add though that Bagel, after the sexual and intellectual strictures of Latvia, the BDSM experiences of his University lectureships in Germany and then Brooklyn, ended up for some time in California in the seventies and, being musically inclined, fell in with a funk-soul crowd for a while. One of his best friends was in fact the legendary Lou Rawls and it is widely acknowledged [although of course entirely unprovable] that Bagel wrote the line 'you'll never find, another love like mine,' after many tequila's and a session in the tub.

Of course he was never credited for it, Rawls has always streniously denied it and so his steady decline into an alcohol and perscription drugs fuelled depression began that lasted for most of the eighties.

But such is life...or maybe not as the illusionists believe, eh ;-)

Edmundo Tomsk Bagel [1928-2005]- A Brief History pt 1: The Early Latvian Years

2009-07-16T13:31:00.002+01:00

Edmundo 'Tommi' Bagel was born in the inter-war years of Latvian national freedom between the lifting of the shackles of Imperial Russia, and the imposition of them again in the different guise of Soviet communism in 1945. These were national freedoms and a state of ethnic self-determinism that would not be seen again until 'perestroika' and eventual Independence again in 1991.

His father was a baker who ran a small shop in the heart of the old city. Bagel- or 'Tommi' as he was exclusively, affectionately known by his family and friends- spent his formative years in this hot, yeast-laden environment under the stern but fair guidance of his father [who Bagel would describe as having a 'thundering velvet hand' in his early years but was generally 'a sycophantic, collaborating bastard' in later ones] where he would rise at 4am every morning to help feed the ovens, doing the best part of a days work from age seven every day until his late teens, before going to school and later, college and university.

Most of his pre-teens were experienced during the Great Patriotic War as Latvian pride was slain first by invading Russian Communists who were no better in their motives than the czarists, and then soon after by a sweeping invasion of German Nazis who, at first, Bagel's father welcomed [as in common with many Latvians, his family shared a German ancestry] but the welcome was soon tempered by the draconian control of the new Nazi governance and the disappearance of Jewish neighbours to the work camps at Salispils and what would in later years be revealed to be a concentration camp at Kaiserwald.

The Bagel family was largely left untouched however, particularly due to their vital bread making service, the shrewd opening of a cafe on the ground floor of a recently vacated Jewish neighbours townhouse that offered discounts to German military users, and more discreet services on the upper floors provided by willing young women recruited and organised by Mrs Bagel. This proved to be a life saving exercise for the Bagels- particularly as Jewish heritage lurked in the murk of the family gene pool if it was stirred enough- as well as being a decent little earner in such hard times.

Edmundo relieved the mental and physical stress and drudgery of this existence by immersing himself as a boy in an alternative world of sprites, spirits, woodland creatures and astronomy. He would often gaze at the stars from the rooftop of their townhouse in the heart of Riga [now in an area rightly so protected by UNESCO as an area of architectural excellence, particularly in the style of 'Jugenstil' [German Art Nouveau]] through a makeshift telescope of bottle bottoms, stained glass from a nearby shell wrecked church, bicycle wheel spokes [the abandoned Jewish house had had eight bicycles left in it's garden] and a hood made from wheat grain sacks from the bakery.

This was in time replaced by a real telescope provided by Edmundo's first mentor, Ubergruppenfurhrer Gustav Heinrich Aegerter-Shenkelberg VI, an SS officer who took a shine to the young boy and taking him under his wing particularly when discovering Edmundo's fascination with the cosmos, which mirrored that of Aegerter-Shenkelberg's, a complex man worthy of study in his own right he was an obsessive about the possibility of space travel and a key instigator in interesting the young Bagel in Rocket Science, Aeronautics, Ballooning, Alternative Theologies, the Cultivation of Cacti, the breeding of rare frogs and German Philosophers amongst many other things, such as providing the young Edmundo with many valuable copies of the American 'Astounding' magazine.

The German occupation war years were therefore halcyon days for the young Bagel, and in future memoires he was not embarrassed to say that he had 'a very good war.'

By 1944 though, the German occupiers were fleeing and stability in Bagel's life was coming to an end. He was sixteen years old and his elementary school days were nearing completion. The University of Latvia was calling but trauma was first to stalk the young man; he was to witness Aegerter-Shenkelberg- the man he had come to regard as another father- being put against a wall in the street, shot and, shortly afterwards, his father shaking hands in congratulation with the dishevelled rag-tag group of corrupt and boorish Russian soldiers who had done the deed. This was to have a profound effect on young Bagel's world view, as was the murder of his developing frog collection by his father in one of his baking ovens after he had drank two bottles of vodka with the representatives of their new Russian masters.

The future scientist-philosopher-theologian was finding his emotive and intellectual groundings. It was time to develop them in the wider world.

A Welcome

2009-07-15T18:17:00.002+01:00

We warmly welcome our first follower Bill Knott, an American writer and poet we greatly admire and it is a very pleasant surprise to see that he has dropped in here.

For anyone else passing this infant site, it is firmly recommended that you seek out his work, and enjoy.

Edmundo Bagel [1935-2005]

2009-07-15T11:47:00.004+01:00

There is much archived material about this intriguing man. Below is an extract from his memoirs

to give a taster. It was found by Exeter as she trawled through a mass of information 'acquired' from a dumpster at the back of Leipzig University's Archives and Historical Records Department, whilst lying low in a Montana log cabin for a couple of months last year [file notes have been retained where salient]:

Came across this in my readings, written by some Edmundo Tomsk Bagel but thought it was worth sharing in a reductionist existential fashion. whatever see what you think [can't print it all because it goes on forever but, you know...]

What’s It Like to be a Pen? Bagel thinks…

The Secret life of Biro pt 1

I have this dream. One that needs to come to full realization. To design a pen in order to reach the divine. To grasp that almost unreachable goal of inky light....oh how I ponder.

I love pens. They are quite wonderful artifacts. Utilitarian but Spiritual at the same time. Disposable but still capable of reaching heights of enlightened bliss through their use as writing instruments. Disposable is of course used as an open ended word that is multi-faceted- some pens are blatantly more disposable than others, for example a rudimentary pencil purloined [accidentally of course] from IKEA is ultimately, as beautiful an artifact as it may be, of less value than an 18 carat gold plated Ronson the loss of which would cause much sufferance to oneself. The humble pen [and of course pencil, the much derided lesser sibling] nonetheless has its rightful place in the pantheon of writing utensils with as much validity- I would strongly argue- as the most finely crafted goose feather quill dipped in a chalice of a cherished one's blood in order to seal a Lover's Tryst. But I digress.

I have presently in my pocket two pencils, a sharpener, and three pens.

The first pencil is approximately four inches long, a good noble size, and is blue and very sharp. I use it to tick of my household chores list and sharpen it twice a day [the household chore list is updated on a daily basis but this is not the forum to discuss that at the moment]. My sharpener is about half of an inch long, silver, and a cherished memento from my school days where I was habitually bullied, but I always had my sharpener in hand to comfort me. It is on it's thirty-first blade, at the time of writing. I do not however keep this sharpener continually in my pocket now, but in a small brown coffee jar lid that sits on a radiator shelf in the hall of my house.

The second pencil is black with gold piping down it's sides and is about two and a half inches long. A little too small for my liking and it's a little blunt and not as sharp as the blue one but nonetheless it is perfectly serviceable for day-to-day use like scribbling down ideas about God and Death to oneself and the like. I keep it more for sentimental reasons than effective usage and call it Mr Stubby.

The first pen is yellow and plastic and has black ink and a fine nib. The end has however snapped off revealing the slim, inner see through plastic tube of ink which clearly supplies the nib but, more often than not, often slips out of the yellow plastic housing.

I rarely use this pen and do not know why i keep it in my pocket. I have occasionally scribbled about life and it all possibly being one big dream- an illusion no less- where what I think or do is of no consequence because there is a Greater Plan but I admit at times these thoughts have come after a few glasses of good Port and, I must confess, much Vodka.

The second pen is another 'disposable' type in clear plastic but the top inch of which bears the markings of pensive teeth and the blue stopper at the end is badly chewed. I use this this pen for crosswords, scribbling aide-memoires such as ‘Asda: more twiglets and sherry’ and filling out betting slips. I am on a good run at the moment and like to think of this as my Lucky Pen and am worried it will run out soon. I am also worried that I may even be starting to think of it as My Magic Pen and as such am prey to worries that my mental health may be deteriorating again.

The third pen is a Pilot drawing pen 0.35mm width nib. it has a nice detachable lid that, when the pen is in use, fits snugly on to the top of the pen’s very tactile and quite soothingly smooth shaft. I like to use this pen for bold gestures such as letters to the Radio Times, sketching out planting plans for my walled rear courtyard garden and writing hymns.

Pens are so much more than what at first greets the eye and I believe their spiritual dimension goes largely unacknowledged, their true purpose as a prime mechanism to reaching enlightenment sorely undersung….

[to be continued...just getting all of his stuff sorted out- This is an extract from memoires in his later years when he lived in semi-retirement in Liverpool, England- Lynx]

Fantasy Architecture

2009-07-12T19:34:00.002+01:00

What joyful elegance can be found in the architectural visions of artists that never saw a single stone lain in their realisation.

To the right is an example. It is called 'An Aviary' by Felix Vionnois and can be seen in the Ecole Nationale Superieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris. It is one of a series which we will share with you in due course, gems lost in the mass of Parisian galleries and private collections. It is one man's vision of a purity in architecture; perfect form set in a parkland full of reflective, inspired calm, devoid of ennui and unbalance. It is a sophisticated statement of man's presence within Arcadia, of his oneness with the natural world, but at the same time an unashamed statement of man's dominance over the natural environment but it is not [or at should not] be one of overseeing control, like a master over his conquered slave concubine, more one of benign custodianship.

This is illustrated by the function of the building. An aviary, a beautiful structure dedicated to the nurture of birds. Space to be free of wing but safe from predictors and cared for by skilled avarians. A civilised statement of metropolitan environmental intent.

An Introduction To The Presidium

2009-07-11T13:25:00.002+01:00

L’Épouvantail, whilst in it’s totality an amorphous, ever shifting alliance of minds, it has at it’s core four personalities who sit as the collective’s presidium. They are:

Anton Dubbelyou, of mixed French and Algerian blood, lives on a Paris-New York axis although maintains an office in Soho, London from which L’Épouvantail operations are based and a small mews house in Mayfair. He specializes in the study of Religious Records and Icons. His hobbies include compiling and researching a compendium of bizarre sex practices and unusual forms of human sexual expression. As the accepted chairman of the Presidium, he manages the overall direction and ethos of the L’Épouvantail Collective. When working, he lives alone [apart from a staff of thirteen] in a Burgundian château. When social networking and enjoying recreational pursuits such as sailing his yacht ‘Le Jeune Fleur,’ he is based in New York in a Greenwich Village brownstone, which he shares with the famous agony aunt Fiona McCluster who is twenty years his senior. This relationship began before and has continued after his wife and young family were mysteriously killed in the unexpected explosion of the car they were traveling in, in the French countryside, a mysterious ‘accident’ for many years a fascination of those intent on tracking down and exterminating the activities of Satanic Cults.

He is sanguine about reaching the end of his current four decade on the planet, and looks forward with resigned puzzlement to the next four.

Lynx Exeter resides in Hermosa Beach, LA during the summer months, her autumn in either an Icelandic Spa or a Nepalese temple retreat dependent on the form and level of recovery she requires from the type and intensity of the excesses she has enjoyed during the summer and spends her winters in a small, invariably damp cottage in the English Cotswolds. She is an accomplished thriller and chick-lit writer, basing most of her work on her experiences at an younger age in the Southern Californian porn industry. Without fail she spends every summer solstice in the woods outside of Ukiah CA celebrating with a Hindu sect, and every winter solstice chained for twenty four hours to a standing stone in Avebury, Wiltshire, England.

Whi is an accomplished alumni of the National University of Singapore where she studied medicine and was expected to become a leading neurosurgeon after her ground breaking Doctorate thesis. She however was intent on pursuing more esoteric areas of research and practice which has involved developing the world’s leading database of unexplainable phenomenon which has become a bible for Ufologists, a detailed biography of her father who was a leading activist during the ‘Nanyang riots’ during the founding of the National University of Singapore’ and who was shot by an anarchist during the ‘Curriculum Crisis,’ a time of heated protest and debate over the rights of mandarin speakers to have their own language curriculum handbooks and courses, and has recently completed an epic poem over three volumes that includes every word in the Collins English Gem Dictionary.

She is an habitual user of hallucinogenic drugs which she sees as a vital part of her everyday experience; once told she will die at thirty by an Azerbaijani mystic she is intent on finding a door into a parallel brane where she is destined to live for longer. it does however have unusual but harmless periods of debilitating side effect whereby she believes she is a Shanghai skyscraper which a restaurant in her brain for considerable periods of time.

The Zedster was born and still lives in Liverpool, England. Spending most of his childhood within institutions, first for basic child care purposes then for juvenile delinquency control, by his late teens he escaped the grasp of local police and villains to collect glasses and bottles in an Ibizan nightclub. Applying his drug dealing expertise learnt on Merseyside sink estates to the Balearics, he soon had made enough money to open his own nightclub at the age of twenty-one, with his own famous Friday night ‘Penguin Interference’ DJ set. Similar problems to back home however soon stalked him and within two years he turned himself in to the Spanish authorities for incarceration, which was safer than the option of staying on the outside.

In a decrepit prison in Alhambra, against the odds, he became fluent in Spanish, Portuguese and Russian, learnt the science of musicology, became an expert on advanced computer filing techniques [and hacking] after becoming the prison librarian and developed a keen interest in astronomy and the Ancient Mystics. He also at that time had the words ‘Never Confuse Information With Knowledge’ inscribed across his shoulder blades, Everton FC around his left bicep, Real Zaragoza around his right bicep and a large penguin on his left inner thigh.

Upon release he returned to the UK and undertook a degree in Information Technology in which he received a First Distinction and his thesis on creating the ultimate rhythm was widely acclaimed. Determined to stay close to his roots, this did not however distract him form some recreational drug dealing ‘to keep his hand in,’ and through which he met Lynx Exeter on one of her length Beatles pilgrimages to the city of Liverpool. He was quickly absorbed into the collective and is a key source of information on the occult and mystical symbolism as well as being the invaluably skilled party organiser for the biannual Collective conferences.

The Right Reverend Horatio Rye Hill Cheesespike [1921-2007]

2009-07-10T20:07:00.004+01:00

L'Épouvantail is currently involved in finding and publishing the life story, musings and sermons of the late Right Reverend Horatio Rye Hill Cheesespike [1921-2007] a hugely misunderstood, progressive Anglican priest who amongst other achievements had an immense impact on the mentally unstable patients of Numbscull Priory [North Yorks] during the fifties, which lead to the establishment of the notorious Crackpot Savants and their activities across the north of England during the late fifties and into the sixties which became known as the 'Sermon Disturbances,' and which eventually led to the Reverend Rye Hill Cheesespike's first period of incarceration at Her Majesty's Pleasure for continually breaking the peace, and a side issue of tax evasion.

Soon after his release he caused uproar in the General Synod over his theories on the bestiality, spent further time in Belmarsh Prison due to a misunderstanding involving tattoos, serious incidents of drunk and disorderliness in Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds city centres, as well as his organisations recruitment policies. There were also, once again tax irregularities including investigations by Customs and Excise centred primarily around containers imported into Bootle Docks, that involved his latest group dedicated to the Glory of God, the Servants Of Christ United.

He however he put his second spell 'inside' to good use, helping him to both dry out and establish a new, fresher adaptive Christian movement [called the 'small 'c' christendom faction']. An altogether more peaceful organization- although it did dabble in agitprop activities in the early eighties and for some time adopted a Red Star over a Cross emblem- it enabled him to return into the Church of England’s mainstream fold after a time in which he also, during a period of hard times, worked as a bingo caller in Blackpool and where he became known as the 'Pastor of The Golden Mile.'

Eventually he managed to obtain a sleepy pastoral parish of his own in Wiltshire, although he continued, as he had done through all his life, to struggle with the demon monkey [as he described it] of drink and to his dying day maintaining that he was channeling the spirit of a long dead vicar from the eighteenth century.

Extracts of his work sermons and memoirs are presently being collated and restored. Here is a sample:

aye tis oft I hath pondered the tranquility therein apparent in the oneness of the without partic. as I scribe my humble evensong sermon which I offer with contrite heart to Our Father Above and his Son, OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST AND SAVIOUR Amen.

As the cruel wyndes of Autumn doth bloweth around the gables of mine humble abode I admiteth that sweet nectar is what I doth naught sip but tis a charger of pale stout followed I do declare versooth by a verytable grand glass of golden spirit from the Scottish Isles and aye, tis ashamedly I must admiteth it but I do do oft open a flagon of 'Whyte Lightning' strong cyder which doth remindeth me of mine innocent seminary dayes in Dorset, that most gracious of countyes in our wonderous God's Country which lieth under the protection of Her Highness THE QUEEN May God blesseth Her and aye, I doth confess, that the sparrows and monkeys doth apeareth before mine glasslike eyes as the chancel candlelight doth flicker in these dark nights of November, as I ponder the in of the outness then lo the inside out of the withness...

etc

AIDE MEMOIRE:

i] BIDDING PRAYERS 5-11 TO BE USED

ii] PLAYCE WEEKLY ORDER AT VERYTABLE WINE EMPORIUM 'MAJESTIC' praise be to God amen

There is clear indication of his state of mind at this time, which is later in his career during the twilight ministry of his time as a parish priest in Wiltshire. Anton is presently working on a transcript which includes a critique of this period in his life and may well contribute something soon directly in relation to the above extract form the Right reverends memoirs.

Angels, Destiny and Confusion

2009-07-09T11:17:00.003+01:00

The angel motif in the sidebar is an extract from a painting by Raphael in 1513. It is in a Dresden art gallery and it's patronage is unclear although it is likely it was intended to decorate the tomb of Pope Julius II and, understandably, the primary figures of Mary, the infant Jesus and the two saints- Sixtus and Barbara- are suitably solemn.

At the bottom of the painting are however two much more interesting characters. Two cherubs: are they feeling mischievous? and one is shown. Is the cherub feeling mischievous or simply bored at the solemnity above? Is it a deliberate introduction of levity, or a celebration of childlikeness in the face of mourning? Is it an Illuminati political statement? Or did Raphael just like to paint angels?

We will never know.

2009-07-05T13:47:00.000+01:00

Welcome to this blogspot. It is currently under construction. Exciting things are to be revealed here, in particular our research into the varied and intellectually challenging world of Edmundo Bagel whose lost [and at times deliberately hidden] works are being uncovered by us and, who we believe, deserves to be re-established as one of Latvia's great heroes as well as the equally fascinating lifestory and religious tracts of the Right Reverend Horatio Rye Hill Cheesepike, which we feel strongly needs to be once again given an audience in the twenty-first century.

We are as such dedicated to re-publishing the works of some of the great lost minds of the previous century as well as our own commentaries on art, literature and philosophy. Watch this space.