Yet Another Graphomaniacs Compendium |
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Blues Bar Dialogue circa April 1993.
Labels: harrogate notebook bluesbar 1993 Saturday, June 07, 2008
From my notebook 04/04/91I remember waking up and thinking "that was a good dream". Now I can't remember what it was that I dreamt. It pisses me off that I'm so creative in my dreams yet when I wake I cannot seem to find any coherent images of metaphors that have not been used one thousand times. My dreams all seem to be of travelling and changing, yet in real life I get nowhere! "Travelling and falling, these are the best dreams you can have." This, accoording to the Senoi, the dream - tribe via Le Guin. What lies at the end of dreams? Life is a cul-de-sac with a decidedly dead end...not a very good metaphor, but..from the nipples of the mother-goddess flow the milk of life. An even worse metaphor, then.. Labels: harrogate dreams metaphors godawful 1991 Sunday Afternoon Porno Video1 Switching onThe buzzing of phosphor dots re-arranging themselves 2 Switching offThe listless eyes absorb the sophistry of simulated sleaze Labels: porn poem poetry nilhilism shit From my notebook: 08/03/91My refusal to indulge in secondary process thinking lead swiftly to insanity...not at all wise was it? All this isms pique my ire: situationalism, feminism, Stalinism, Internationalism. Ismism is the interlocked disease of our time, the intellectual equivalent of cheap clothes made by sweatshop labour. Ok I've been a total shit to Katrina and must apologize. To conflate physical beauty with vapidity and vanity seems a particularly obtuse mistake for a epistemologist to make. I'm not really a writer just an lexical auditor with pretensions to becoming experimental epistemologist. Periphasis. A word to conjure with. Conversation with Tom Alexander: Rising conflict can be built out of attack and counter-attack. Rhythm and contrast. Look for those things everywhere, they are bedrock basics. Nick Pollard: As a writer, beer is better. North, fifty seven, peristalsis. Nine, six, five, clime, slime. Rhymye. Claim nothing for your own or you will reap what is sown. Note that there is hope. The Tories just got the Judith Hanna treatment in the recent by-election. Good. Flush turds down the pan, they belong in the sewers with the rats. My ancestors were wise: "Don't give a man a sword until he knows how to dance." Rites of passage. Time to drop the old things and go on.
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The Journal
A miscellany of topics that intersest me: deaf culture, game design, politics as soap opera, the cyborg condition and the experience of learning to hear again. Other topics presented are speculative fiction and imaginary cities. There are appearences of snippets of work in progress, public rants, pointless posts and Mish the Mouse. The Writer
A lower middle class cyborg living an innocous life in a suburban village near Newcastle On Tyne, in the United Kingdom. Mostly autobiographical and creative notes posts and musings on the topic du jour. Archives
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