Mar. 16th, 2005
11:32 pm - My favourite picture I've taken
Seville in the summer, and the reason Europe is deadly.
Mar. 11th, 2005
12:35 am - Train Writing
"It's unbelievably dark. Light! Hello! Light!", Paul cried from his cushy seat, being consumed by sugar rush and cabin fever.
"Light... light... dark... dark... dark... light... truck... truck... dark... dark..."
Paul made a mental catalogue of the countryside, or as the case alternately was, the city- or town-side.
He restlessly drummed on the table. David disapproved, with a look. Paul quietened down. He was cooped up. He couldn't find an outlet. Buzzing, almost, on youth and adrenaline, sugar and Pepsi, but confined, boxed into his seat.
"Stop writing about me", he said. I looked at him and waited for him to do something.
People gathered and wondered what was going on, so I showed them. Paul became conscious of himself and started trying to tell me what to write. He became immediately uninteresting to me, I moved on.
I feel like taking drugs. In my head I'm just outside of Barstow, in body, I'm a boring fuck. What to do? This train journey has been good, in a bad sort of way, which is sometimes the best.
Coady's listening to Donall's Mogwai. Donall's overextending his professed area of expertise again by commenting on an album he hasn't listened to.
Cathy's bored. Boredboredbordboredbordbord. And restless. This train is a chicken coop of hyper teenagers with nothing to do. Aido and Uzy are down the back with Heineken. Somebody's listening to Scissor Sisters. Or not anymore. Tiresome, this.
Oh the wonders of overlooking Drogheda at night. Streetlights in an underwhelming circuit town sort of way.
I smell of stale sweat. Miserlou's on again. It lost effect the 5th time.
Feb. 22nd, 2005
11:02 pm - Observations
Today some crazy shit happened that made me think about the way the world's happening. Not really crazy, but crazy enough to make me think.
I'm doing work experience in a school, in 1st class with a lot of 6 year olds. When everyone had packed up at the end of the day, there was a jumper left. Normal school happenings.
Then a West African kid, probably Nigerian, called Raymond picked it up and said "Cé leis é?" (Whose is it, in Irish). Then another kid, probably from further down Africa, or in the middle, said "Ní liomsa é". (It's not mine). I was absolutely shocked with pleasure.
Earlier in the day, Senadin, a Bosnian kid with less than perfect English managed to pick out a gúna (dress) from an array of clothes without any hints.
Later on, while working in Penneys, a Muslim man, most likely Pashtun, was shopping for sexy underwear with his wife. Okay, not so weird. But his wife was in a full Burkha. What the hell is going on, I thought. And I still think that, because they bought silken pyjamas and sexy lingerie.
A few days ago, a Chinese family passed through Penneys. They spoke Chinese exclusively, very, very broken English. When they were leaving, the child's eyes lit up. Perfect English, he said "Burger King!". Made me want to read Naomi Klein.
I love this Brave New World, with the new people, and the colour and the excitement of difference.
Feb. 21st, 2005
07:29 pm - Death of the Beat
Hunter S. Thompson went and did it, and I respect him like fuck for doing it, whatever his reasons. The man spoke whatever shit was in his head for his whole life, he did drugs up to his death and complained about shit. Basically, he did what he wanted. And when he was done, he killed himself. 65 years of age and nothing more to look forward to. He's already laid in place his legacy to teenagers discovering Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and to journalists who thought it was taboo to use colloquialisms. Did he have to take a shotgun to himself? Probably not. But hell, the man lived to see Johnny Depp play him in a movie. He can probably stomach a gruesome death.
His death is more than a death in itself. He's the last of the beat line left. The original generation are all dead physically now, and have been dead as a force for a few decades. Ginsberg bowed out old and sick to death of the 90s but a happy Jewish pensioner, knowing he'd left his mark. The other notable S. of the world, William Burroughs, went in 1997 too, but not until after he'd collaborated with REM and seen a movie made of Naked Lunch and classic status given to the Soft Machine, the Wild Boys and the Nova Express. Ken Kesey went in 2001 of boring cancer having faded long before. Kerouac died a proper beat death, not wealthy and not deified, puking blood in his own home before he'd finished being relevany.
Somehow though, Hunter S. had to be the nark who promised to die before the year 2000 but then never did. He had to be the poor bastard who fought the man since McCarthy and then lived to see the Patriot Act introduced. He was in danger of being the comedy grandad commenting on how shit the world had become.
So he Hemingwayed. He shot himself. He's joined the great beat narcathon in the sky. Goodbye man. You did well.
Feb. 20th, 2005
01:14 am - Radiohead
I have renewed my devotion to Radiohead.
There was this lad, Richard, in Penneys, who said he finds Radiohead to be bland and uninteresting. I was absolutely awestruck. He was like "my opinion" and all this wank. I couldn't properly ask him what he meant. So I came home and the video of Radiohead at Glastonbury 2003 was done. I threw it on.
This band are the everything and the all, the Tao and the Dharma and God and the absence thereof and everything there is to know. Channelled through five blokes from Oxford, who happened to go to school together. And were chosen as conduits for the universal truth. Because there is no other explanation.
"Andy, can you turn on the lights please?"
And so an entire species were enlightened. If they chose to believe. Not Richard. Not a lot of people. Depressing music. Moany fucker. Bland. Psycho dwarf. And it saddens me to hear this sort of thing, because I'm not being overbearing and trying to assert my opinion, and be right, it's that Radiohead are the greatest band ever and I can't understand why people don't realise.
So Paranoid Android came on the video. It was bang bang jam jam et cetera, until the middle bit. The rain down. Thom was stood there, face scrunched up like a psycho dwarf, but I could see the pure light emanating. He was singing purest truth. Fucking hell. And then rock kicked back in and turned me sideways. I thought I had time to recover. But the next song was Idioteque
And there is nothing more conducive to epiphany than Idioteque. So I had one. Or three. And I jolted and vibrated (ask my brother, he was well confused) and sang along and was healed and knew, momentarily, all there is to know). Then Everything In It's Right Place. I nearly cried. And I nearly died.
Radiohead own all.
Feb. 18th, 2005
05:09 pm - The first entry
Okay, right, here's the thing. I woke up this morning, and it was 2.15, and I felt very pleased with myself. Because I haven't slept properly all midterm due to the gig and bank appointments, I woke up filled with physical pleasure and the mental fog of having just disappeared until the fresh part of the day was dead and the birds had fucked off.
I had, if you will, "slept the best part of the day into the ground" (Kicking in the Brain - Jerome's Law)
So I was up then. I leaned over to view my reading options. Sartre, which is nice, but more of an afternoon read really. Zarathustra... nah, too pleased within myself to question it and stuff... FHM... em... probably not... so I viewed "Europeans", which is a book of photographs of people from Europe who are without a doubt the best people in the world. Especially the Russians, and maybe the Greeks.
I scratched a bit, because I was itchy. Then there is the ubiquitous part of the lazy morning you don't need to hear about. THEN! Nothing interesting continued to happen.
Went downstairs. Made noodles. Chicken ones. In David's house, Paul, David and Mark all shared one packet. In my house, that's ridiculous. It was nice. i went to the little room (this one), and loudly listened to Talk Show Host. You can't touch Talk Show Host with an eighty foot pole. You can't even hold an eighty foot pole, because it would sway and snap from being unsupported at the top.
Updated the website.
Talked to Laurey and swapped versions of Fight in the Dark for a while. Then Katharine. Duffy, Paul, Paddy and others passed by.
Made this livejournal.
Figured out ways of making my life less interesting, so people will actually die while reading this.