Reverse Abstraction
I've been thinking a lot about charicatures recently, in that their extreme exaggerations offer a very good indicator of how a person views the world around them. Most people might consider charicature to exist only as political cartoons within the opinion pages or possibly the less-than-flattering portraits that can be drawn by "artists" on the streets of any major holiday destination.

Do you have any particular physical qualities or abnormalities? Prepare to have them blown out of proportion for comedic effect! You're getting the chance to see how the world views you, albeit amplified. It's a humbling experience, without a doubt, as your innermost fears are most definitely realised.

Are my ears really that big? My head resembles a turnip! How can anyone love me when I look like this?

Here's the killer bit: We all create charicatures of everyone we know in our heads. It's not done out of malice, only necessity. This process merely assists us in interpreting and storing relevant information.

A few years ago, I started writing about an idea that I refer to as reverse abstraction, which can be defined as the method of breaking down an abstract concept into its constituents, in order to gain a better understanding of both the subject and the way in which the viewer's brain categorises data.

Consider a block of information, with a defined label, such as "chair". In my mind, a chair is a chair, in its most basic form. I understand this term when I see it on paper and hear it in language, although it tends to suffer from single-cube rationality unless there are additional descriptive adjectives that can break down this cube and provide interpretive texture that offsets the inherently simplified single-cube self-misrepresentation.

In effect, we are all programmed to take abstraction to its logical conclusion, for our general benefit. Could you imagine how difficult it would be to make sense of the world when a dining room chair and a desk chair were considered completely different objects, due mainly to how they look, feel, and work, as well as our understanding of their uses? We need the lowest common denominator. For sanity.

When I was a kid, I remember staring at a cereal box for so long that it began to look completely different, although none of its physical properties had changed. Suddenly, I could see the colour of the box, the font used in the product's name, the photograph of a sugar-coated, corn-based foodstuff suspended in a bowl of liquid that was no doubt white glue (which is a known trick of the trade).

I was never able to look at the box again the same way because I had broken it in my mind, into representative pieces. This was my first understanding of reverse abstraction, although it took me twenty years and numerous experiences to finally give it a name.

There is a form of relationship therapy that involves having a couple sit down and stare into each others' eyes for several minutes, in order to break down previous notions and provide a means of seeing the person as they truly are, internally as well as externally. From what I understand, this is actually a very effective method of intervention, and I can see why.

Charicatures are merely lazy, compact depictions.

If a total stranger on the street can do it to you, couldn't everyone?

Be careful.

You might not like how you "look" to others.

20090515 ^up

Growth
There was a time in the recent past when I would tell you that I didn't have any hobbies, but I guess things have changed. Nowadays, I apparently embrace horticulture, albeit on a small scale. I've been growing various herbs for a few weeks and have recently branched out to some vegetables. If you're anything like me, you're used to buying your greens wrapped in plastic. They're nothing more than cheap commodities, for my consumption. In a global marketplace, there is no such thing as "seasonal veg", and all of a sudden places like Israel and even Thailand don't seem that far away.

The Northern and Southern hemispheres do a good job of being the reversable yin and yang of seasons. Flights only take a few hours, right? The concepts of winter and summer merely depend on your latitude at any given time.

When I had land at my disposal, I didn't give a fucking shit. Now that I consider soil in terms of inches on my windowsill rather than acres, I've turned down the volume and started listening. Now that I consider planting with the intention of reaping...

I've been doing a lot of reconsidering.

Any plant than intends to reach the flowering stage needs to ensure that there is enough room for the vast network of roots that will be necessary.

The thing about plants that really gets me is that they all look the same at the point shortly after germination. We could say the same about animals, with regards to the embryo, which is in just as much need of disambiguation. In the early stages, there's not much of a visible difference between a piglet and a baby human.

Of course it makes sense.

Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Remember me to one who lives there. She once was a true love of mine.

After germination comes the seedling. The embryonic leaves of dicotyledons, as their name implies, start out with two distinct leaves on a single plant.

And often they look a lot like two hearts.

Of course it makes sense.

20090512 ^up

Postcard from Budapest
I would say that at least 50% of my time here had typically been spent submerged in hot, smelly, sulfur-infused water of the numerous thermal baths scattered around the city centre. This was the main reason I had come to visit, and I definitely took advantage of what was on offer.

(I'd recommend that others do the same. The Hungarian forint is fucked at the moment, around 324 to the pound, so get in there, pronto.)

Nevertheless, I had decided to go out and visit the sites that didn't cause my fingertips to go pruney. Checking through my "Top 10 Budapest" guidebook (the only ones I tend to buy these days, as they're small and have lots of photos and maps, rather than the Lonely Planet guides that have too many words for me to even consider taking the time to read), I knew that I had to visit St. Stephen's Basicilica. I had already walked the length of Vaci Utca, having lunch at the very Westerinised Burger King, chosen simply because it was cheap and cheerful, not to mention what I knew and enjoyed. My evenings were spent paying far too much for Eastern European cuisine in the expensive Buda side of town, near my hotel, so I didn't mind slumming it at lunchtime.

There's something odd about visiting a church as part of a crowd that is taking photographs and talking incessantly only about architecture. In this age, we can separate design and workmanship from the grandioseness-inspired, jaw-dropping notion that was surely the original intention of what we are presented with. Glory to God, in the highest! Sure.

"The neoclassical style is so similar to St Paul's Cathedral in London, don't you think?"

"Stand there. I'll take a photo upwards to get that nice dome in the background. Smile!"

"The light in here sucks. Hold on. I need to turn on the flash."

As I eventually found myself near the main altar, containing a life-sized marble statue of St. Stephen, I noticed an older man and woman sitting on the frontmost seats, heads bowed. I took solace in their reverence, amidst the distasteful hustle and bustle all around us. As I gingerly sat down beside them, the foot of my chair squeaked loudly against the stone floor, and I couldn't help but wince in complete embarrassment, my facial expression almost as if in physical pain. I tilted my head downwards and attempted to say a prayer, as it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Although it wasn't my intention, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation between the devoutly religious couple beside me.

"That's nice."

"Oh no, your eyes are closed."

"We should take that one again, earlier in the day."

The couple weren't bowed in prayer. They were looking through their holiday snaps via the little screen on the back of their digital camera.

I got up and walked away.

Honestly, I think I've been walking ever since.

20090406 ^up

ballboy - I don't have time to stand here with you fighting about the size of my dick
Sex is natural. Sex is good. Not everybody does it, but everybody should. Sex is natural. Sex is fun. Sex is best when it's one on one...

Forget the hippies from the Summer of Love, my generation was the first to be constantly bombarded from a young age by in-your-face sexual references that went beyond high-brow, harmless, Benny Hill-esque innuendo and double entendres into completely unknown territories. I consider myself to have been sexualised since at least 5 years-old (I can give proper reference to this), and things merely picked up momentum from there. Although I put this early development down to an enhanced intellect and a holistic understanding of the world around me (of course), I was witness to the period when the floodgates truly opened to the idea that "sex sells".

I don't have time to stand here with you, fighting about the size of my dick. I've got a meeting to get to and a gun to pick up first.

Pornography has a lot to answer for, which is why Channel 4 here in the UK has commissioned a television programme that seeks to educate teenagers about the reality of sex and male/female bodies. I dread to think what kids these days think, thanks to the all-pervasive internet. Fake tits and giant cocks and Brazillian waxes all around! The premise is simple: accept that teenagers have been blinkered by internet porn so try to present real people and real bodies to them in order to alleviate personal fears and achieve some form of actual education on the matter, for the better.

This would never, EVER happen in America. Full-frontal nudity on network television?! Egads! We'd rather show someone being blown to pieces by an AK-47 in the Friday night edited (for verbal profanity) 9 o'clock war film than to present humanity in its naked state. Were we to do the latter, it would be against God's will! Adam, cover yourself with that fig leaf, now! There is no penis. There is no vagina. However, there is a grenade. And a dollar bill. And an apple pie!

And I don't have time to stand in the rain, fighting about all the same things again. If I don't leave now, then I'll be too late to ever get back. And in 24 hours, I've lived a hundred lives. I've shot one man dead and watched another two die. And it's touch and go if I should run or hide. And it's touch and go if I can live through the night.

I commend this programme, not only for its frank and open discussion about important issues but also for the fact that it even exists. Great Britain has the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Western Europe.

And is second only, in the world, to the United States of America.

Where education is truly lacking.

Because no one wants to say a fucking word.

Literally.

Well I've got the money, and I've got the truck, but it's too close to call whether I've got the luck, but I'm too far in to even dream of getting back out.

In the course of writing this article, I don't know if I am more upset about the general lack of "real" sex education in schools or the fact that the vast majority of internet pornography (and Western, capitalistic society in general) is presenting an idealised, plasticised idea of sex. Moreso the latter, to be perfectly honest. Traditonal schools are dead and/or dying. The internet is now the new informant. I wouldn't dare use the word "teacher", as this idea has lost all meaning. The Information Age will have a considerable and unforeseen impact on the current and subsequent generations, and there is nothing that can be done to stop this from happening.

And I wish all the fighting had taken less time. I could have been in and out. We could have laughed through the night, but sometimes days can be seconds and seconds can be your whole life.

Don't get me wrong, I have embraced pornography on the interweb since its inception, even when I was involved in 2400-baud-modem-dial-up bullentin boards when I was a pre-teen in the early 90's, when the graphics were neither VGA quality nor even resembling photo-realism is any sense. Now THAT is desperate. ANSI character porn. However, I did seek it out. And what I found then was still idealised, at best.

It's not the bullet that causes the pain. It's the hole that it leaves when it comes out again. And the blood in the sunshine disappears just like the rain.

The best thing about interweb porn these days is that it's completely open to personal tastes, which to me moves back towards a truly human ideology, rather than the plasticised, Playboy, Sun Page 3 fake-bodied concept presented in magazines and television. Granted, I do not accept any form of pornography that is immoral, illegal or degrades another human being. However, I am open to the idea that there are countless people in the world, most of which are different from one another in one way or another.

And I'm dying for breathing. I'm blind in one eye, but here's what I choose to take me into the night:

The best thing that is going to happen from the new generation is to put everyone on a level playing field, as pre-perceived "deviance" will be downgraded to a non-conceptualised acceptance of reality. I am completely open to the idea that people will follow their inner instinct, from which everyone will benefit. Maybe I'm being overly-Romanticised, but I think that there is a person for everyone in this world, and all one needs to do is find their perfect partner.

You beautiful and drunk and singing softly to yourself.

I never said it was going to be easy, but it will happen.

You beautiful and drunk and singing softly to yourself.

I hope that Gordon doesn't mind me stealing his song like this. Besides, he's a teacher.

20090401 ^up

Beirut - Elephant Gun
I was in Fopp the other day, on Byres Road, with the intention of picking up the latest Beirut album. I realised that I didn't have their first release, Gulag Orkestar, so I bought that instead. As luck would have it, the Lon Gisland EP is now included as a bonus disc, so this pleased me to no end. Sometimes I'm a bit late to catch the train that constantly departs to The Land of Good Music, and this is yet another such occasion.

But... what the heck?! Has convenient compact disc packaging presented me with my current favourite song? Why, yes. Yes it has.

I don't know about you, but I've always had a fear of "world music" for as long as I can remember. It's in-built. No one ever told me that it was a deplorable musical genre, but for some reason I just knew it. The worst perpetrator is surely Paul Simon. One day he's writing great pop/folk songs and mere decades later, BAM!, he's discovered African music and wants to shove a rock-hard pop cock right up it. No thanks. There's also talk that Sting tried to go down this route, but I'd say that he simply went limp and decided to make middle-of-the-road-soft-rock-radio fodder. Fuck you, Sting. Tantric style.

So, you can understand my disinterest in anything flying under this banner, outside of Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Don't get me wrong. Their shit is tight. And everyone knows it. David Byrne was probably the only decent cross-over artist to pull it off, but he can usually do no wrong. Plus, he hated the use of the term and wrote an editorial in The New York Times entitled I Hate World Music. It's been a catch-all for all non-Western music for quite some time, which is surely misrepresentative.

If I was young, I'd flee this town. I'd bury my dreams underground. As did I, we drink to die, we drink tonight.

Enter Zach Condon, some white, middle class, American kid from New Mexico. Through his travels, he picks up on the vibe of traditional European folk music and emulates it, to maximum benefit. All of a sudden, world music doesn't seem so bad. To the contrary, it feels right.

Far from home, elephant guns. Let's take them down, one by one. We'll lay it down. It's not been found, it's not around.

Let's go back in time about 150 years or so to rich aristocrats on holiday in far-flung lands, mixing things up by wanting to witness and embrace the unfamiliar, although bringing their conveniences with them. The unknown mercenaries have been sent in advance, clearing the way, setting the scene for the inescapable hegemony that was yet to come. But the trophies are to be claimed. First and foremost.

When I was a kid, I used to stand at the bathroom sink and mix isopropyl alcohol with peroxide, just to watch them fight. Eventually, the solution would reach homeostatis, so I'd just drain the sink and start again. Like Caesar sending out a new batch of gladiators for his amusement. Kill or be killed. Or just fuse into one. A single state. Truly united.

At the end of the day, when you mix all of the colours in the rainbow, you simply end up with brown.

Let the seasons begin! It rolls right on! Let the seasons begin! Take the big king down!

The first time I watched this video, I got chills. It is probably the best representation of what it means to be human that I've come across in a very long time. It's a celebration of life. Both a wedding dance and a funeral dirge. The ecstasy and the tragedy, both of which are fleeting and ephemeral, although horribly pungent and remembered in full up until our dying day. It's a song for the world, using the music of the world. If you don't believe me, check out the YouTube comments in various languages from all the people in love with the song because it struck the right chord.

And it rips through the silence of our camp, at night. And it rips through the night.

There is a long alley perpendicular to Gordon Street in Glasgow, just beside the Somerfield. The alley leads only to a dingy dead end. However, some guerilla horticulturists have planted flowers in the exposed dirt and chained a shopping trolley filled with soil and grass to a drain pipe.

And it rips through the silence. All that is left is all that I hide.

Rather than being greeted with a wall of nothing at the end, there's a sign stating You Are Beautiful.

I'd like to think that's what life's about.

For all of us.

20090316 ^up

Bright Eyes - The City Has Sex
OK, I'll put my hands up. Conor Oberst is the best lyricist of this generation. Whenever I feel the need to write something, not only do I consider the song for its relevance, I also analyse and critique the lyrics. Moreso. It's easy enough to extrapolate from a song title and the general feel of a song, but fuck me, the lyrics make the song. Mr Oberst does it better than anyone. Anyone. On this planet. Right now.

The city has sex with itself, I suppose, as the concrete collides, while the scenery grows. And the lonely, once bandaged, lay fully exposed, having undressed their wounds for each other.

I often think that most people are too aware of our surroundings to actually feel the need to comment. This merely stems from the disillusion that occurs when we are too busy expecting it to question what 'it' is. The present can change so quickly that we find ourselves accepting before we truly understand what's going on.

We're simply too busy separating ourselves from those who don't get it.

There is a small walkway/subway in the west of Edinburgh, in between Fountainbridge and Dalry Road. The cement walls contain various forms of graffiti, some of which follow the accepted forms of English spelling and grammar. Some don't. Although I'd like to think that there is someone out there clever enough to misspell on purpose, to make a point, it's not that simple. People are idiots, and I just need to accept it. That doesn't mean that I can't appreciate stupidity, as it's nothing but a mirror.

And there's a boy in a basement with a four-track machine. He's been strumming and screaming all night, down there. The tape hiss will cover the words that he sings. They say it's better to bury your sadness in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to awake from its sleep and burst into green.

Although I didn't have a basement, I had a closet where I would record songs on my four-track, many moons ago. Instead of a pop filter, I typically used a pair of boxer shorts in front of the microphone. They always kept the hard P's at bay. Damn them. Screaming at underwear isn't as mad as it sounds. Isn't it better to soften the blow?

Well I've cried, and you'd think I'd be better for it, but the sadness just sleeps, and it stays in my spine for the rest of my life.

Maybe this says a bit too much about my fears, but the first time I heard this song, I automatically thought about the herpes virus and how it lies dormant in the spine. There's a good chance that this was intended.

And I've learned, and you'd think I'd be something more now, but it just goes to show it is not what you know, it is what you were thinking at the time.

What kills me about Mr Oberst is that he was incredibly young when he wrote this particular song. That level of observation is unwarranted at that age (18 years old); an appreciation of sex and intimacy and, especially, better judgement.

This feeling's familiar, I've been here before. In a kitchen this quiet I waited for a sign or just something that might reassure me of anything close to meaning or motion (with a reason to move).

A reason to move. Yes, therein lies this issue. Laziness is rampant and self-continuous. From an outside perspective, when do we know when we're just flailing? Appropriating the position of a drawn-out swan song?

I need something I want to be close to. And I scream, but I still don't know why I do it, because the sound never stays, it just swells and decays, so what is the point? Why try to fight what is now so certain?

Not only is it coming, it is already here! The fight cannot begin, much less persist, without a note of reckoning, but it all depends on the accepting recipient. One cannot accept that without being aware of their equal levels of transience and trancendence.

The truth is all that I am is a passing event that will be forgotten.

I need to get out of here for a while, in order to gain some form of perspective. C'est bon. Je sais plus de le monde comprende.

20090309 ^up

Bright Eyes & Britt Daniel - Southern State
So, yeah. I've had a lot of spare time on my hands so far in 2009. For once in my life, I can honestly say that I now suffer from insomnia, which is significant for someone who is more accustomed to expressing a mild form of narcolepsy, falling asleep at any given stationary opportunity. It's a welcome change, albeit an equally annoying one.

They say that idle hands are the Devil's tools, but if that's the case, I've yet to carry out anything of note. Maybe his tools are meant to be rusty and useless. Maybe therein lies the tragedy. And the comedy.

Well, the songs you sung spiralled and hung round like echoes or ripples on a pond. So you circled the globe. Spent a year on the road, without ever going home more than a couple of days, then you leave right away. Run to a girl you barely know, but you like how she sings, and you can't help but think that there's something that she knows and could teach you.

Without a constant barrage of necessity, in the business sense, sitting in front of a computer, shifting ones and zeroes, my mind is free to wander as it sees fit. When the act of creation dissipates, the earning for learning takes hold. I've learned a little something from everyone I've met, but my brain works like a sponge. It soaks up enough until it's full, then I can't help but wring it dry and start all over again. Right now, I'm urgently craving new input, much the same as Johnny 5 from Short Circuit.

"No disassemble!" Not yet, at least. I still need to dance with Ally Sheedy.

Well, you're sleeping in that Southern state where the bars are filled with people you can't hate, but try as you try, you still can't relate to them. You drink that whiskey down as they ask you, "Are you who you say you are?"

Trying to recreate oneself is more difficult than I first considered. The thirst for input is unquenchable. I've been buying books and reading internet-sourced information on various subjects, learning just enough to know that I don't want to learn any more of a given topic. So I jump and jump and jump. Fiction. Non-fiction. The lines are getting blurry. There's a bit of both in each.

"The fact that we can't tell makes us like you even more."

They also say that a jack of all trades is a master of none. Fair enough. But what if I don't want to be a specialist in one given area? What if I don't fit into the Henry Ford assembly line, part of the Division of Labour that made such sense to Adam Smith back in 1776 as he wrote The Wealth of Nations?

What should a cog do when it recognises its function? Downplay? Differentiate? Accept?

So you're trying again or just visiting friends, one had just had his heart broke. For the first time in his life he realized there are times when you can't make it alone.

Maybe the cog should understand that it is in good company, as the world is full of nothing but cogs, all turning one machine or another. Some cogs are lucky enough to be a part of numerous clockworks, all pushing time forward. The cycle is understood and necessary. Sponge and spring. Alpha and Omega. All at the same time, forever.

But now you're giving advice, as if you had the right to use a word like "love". No, no, it's a negotiable term. What gets said's not what's heard. So it's different then for everyone.

Sometimes I do wish I lived the simple life, on a farm "back home" in South Carolina, but I'd just be running away from the life I know now. My concept of time would change from days to seasons, associating phases of the moon with crops and the breeding of cows. With less distraction, the years would probably pass much quicker than expected, but the nights would last longer, and I would definitely self-medicate with alcohol, out of boredom. I'd end up just like my forefathers, drunk, letting time slip by. Then again, maybe I don't necessarily need to move back for that.

But you've been hanging around that college town with your new life, your new lover you found, and you're keeping her up at night, bringing her down. She'll watch you drink yourself to death but won't ask you, "Is this really what you want?"

No, it's not. Honest.

Or are you just sticking with it now 'cause it's all you got?

Right now, maybe, but this too will pass. I'm getting a bit bored of this boredom, believe me. Sometime very soon, I'm sure you'll hear me proudly state:

Number 5 is ALIVE!

God, I hope so.

20090217 ^up

The Second Hand Marching Band - Don't
There is something you should know. Don't go outside in the rain and the snow. There is no reward. We try to get somewhere that we cannot. Don't go outside in the rain and the snow.

Precipitation is an interesting thing. It follows a well-defined cycle, from source back to source, through various means. It all depends on the presence of heat.

Water is a constant.

Uisge beatha.

You're lost and feeling the pinch of the frost.

Once again, Glasgow is coated in a soft blanket of snow, and baby, it's cold outside. I'm sitting here watching the latest episode of Lost, comtemplating the taut string that is time. I used to consider the same thing without the need of Hollywood's influence, but we all forget the basics from time to time.

Don't feel afraid of the things you have found.

A few years ago, through one of the numerous mathematical texts I've acquired, I read about the Aymara people from the Andes, a society that differentiates themselves from us by seeing the past as physically in front of them, with the future to their backs. This makes a lot of sense to me, as we only really know the past from our own perspective, from what we've seen and learned. The future is an unknown.

Imagine that you lived your life with a pole extruding from your chest, on which you were balanced. As time passed, the pole grew in length. The recent past was in sight and could be easily recalled from memory, although the distant past was, well, distant. Out of sight. Lacking definition. You can't see the future, although your vision in the present is likely to allow up to 180 degrees, so you have a good idea of where you're heading. But you're effectively still blind.

I always believed the time was right, but I had no confirmation. Would you care, too? What'd you say to me? We are both alone, without.

If the pole was attached to my back, then I could face and foresee the future. I would simply wait to embrace it.

Which ideology is more appropriate?

I guess it depends on how well you think you can manipulate the future.

There is something you should know. Don't go outside in the rain and the snow. There is no reward. We try to get somewhere that we cannot. Don't go outside in the rain and the snow.

Without going into too much detail, organic life is not possible without the presence of water. It has a polar nature, to our benefit. It is a main constituent of our bodies.

It has more than one useful form.

No matter what your ideology, I'd like to think that the aforementioned pole is made of water. Of course I'm speaking in purely metaphysicial sense, but I would like to draw together two of the constants of nature as we know it.

Water is a conduit, like time. It don't give a fuck.

But I do, and I sure as hell want to take advantage of the 180 degrees of perception at my disposal.

Fifty percent is surely more than enough to get by.

20090209 ^up

Animal Collective - Lion in a Coma
For whatever reason, I have refrained from listening to the seminal album by the Beach Boys, Pet Sounds, all of my life. For a number of years, I have always considered this to be the Holy Grail of pop music, and I've never thought I was "ready" to embrace the album in all of its glory. C'mon, this is the album that Brian Wilson went crazy making, after the Beatles brought out Rubber Soul and blew his mind. From what I understand, the release of Revolver pushed him over the edge, as he couldn't match it, and he was never the same again.

Respect.

This wilderness up in my head, this wilderness up in my head, this wilderness needs to get right out of my clothes and get into my bedroom!

I finally bought Pet Sounds about a month ago, and you know what? It don't impress me much. Don't get me wrong, it's a masterpiece, but the Cup o' Christ it ain't. Without a doubt, I should be listening with the ears of someone who lived in 1966, as it was truly remarkable for the time. However, I just can't do it. Yes, it was other-worldly way back when, but music has been so incredibly transformed since then that I can't even begin to rate it 40+ years in retrospect.

So, what if the Beach Boys existed in 2009? They'd sound a helluva lot like Animal Collective. Their new album, Merriweather Post Pavillion is truly amazing. I can't recall the last time that I heard music that was so beautifully disturbing and relevant.

Is there no reason it can be the way it was musically? My three best friends so casually just letting go so joyfully, and if I let my spirit thrive, I'll always be happy or down. Is it just trying to divide? It makes me think my dearest things are not what they're supposed to be. I trick myself when it gets hard. I've got to keep up, oh my god, and hope that I will not be wrong and keep my faith in sound and song.

I am entertained. I am challenged. I am unaware of the time signature... and this pleases me.

Sometimes the sun will shine. Yes, I am just feelin' fine. Sometimes I'm not aware where I am or what I care. Sometimes I'm well-to-do, but I don't know what to do. Sometimes I don't agree with my thoughts on being free.

Here lately, I've been listening to this album whilst falling asleep, as I appreciate the soothing unfamiliarity. It tickles my brain.

Please don't leave me, things that feel good! I've been lucky trying to feel good!

Indeed.

By the way, My Girls gets my vote as song of the year.

Sorry, Mr Wilson. You've been usurped.

Although it took a considerable amount of time.

20090204 ^up

of Montreal - For Our Elegant Caste
"This is the price and the promise of citizenship."

So... what is the price? Apparently, just 33 pounds and 28 pence!

Something tells me that this wasn't exactly what President Obama meant in his inaugural address. (Side note: As much as I really do like the guy and have a surprising amount of blind faith in him and what he can do for America, I still have trouble saying/writing "President Obama". Maybe this says a bit too much about how my mind was twisted at a young age, but the only word that sounds correct after President is Reagan. I digress.)

Two weeks ago, I finally took the Life in the UK test, which is now a pre-requisite when applying for British nationalisation. As I'm entering my 12th year here, I figured it was a good idea to finally get this sorted. After all this time, I'm surely leaning more towards feeling Scottish than American. Or am I?

Where do my loyalties lie? With whom do I most identify? Where is home?

We can do it softcore, if you want, but you should know I take it both ways.

I guess I'm stuck within the intersection of two sets in a Venn diagram, rather happily, to be honest. Which way do the scales tip? Maybe I prefer to attempt striking a perfect balance, shifting back and forth, jumping in and out, as I see fit, when it best suits the occasion. Wax on. Wax off. Crane technique.

We can do it softcore, if you want, but you should know that I go both ways.

The only problem with not choosing sides is, well, not choosing sides. People can sense indecision, and there is definitely a deep-rooted "with us or against us" mentality that is difficult is shake. No one really likes those who ride the fence, particularly when decisions need to be made or alliances need to be understood. Besides, riding a fence isn't exactly comfortable, from my experience. Especially when it's barbed wire.

If you stand in the middle of the road, you're surely going to get hit by an oncoming car, unless the road is actually two lanes going in opposite directions. That gives you the opportunity to walk safely between the streams of traffic for as long as you want, watching and waiting for just the right moment to choose which side will be the one to run you down.

Then I was wrapped in discourse with the magazine reader. The mutual conclusion was I'm not worth knowing because I'm probably dead. So I'm exposed, but no solution. Lalalalalala! Lalalalalala!

Wait a minute, I don't think I'm talking about citizenship anymore.

20090129 ^up

The Apples In Stereo - Energy
Congratulations. We've made it to another year. What will 2009 bring us? Better yet, what will we bring to 2009?

And the world is made of energy. And the world is electricity. And the world is made of energy. And there's a light inside of you. And there's a light inside of me.

I got an email from The Apples In Stereo this week. They wanted to tell me that this song was now being used in a new Pepsi ad campaign.

Was I pleased? Yes. And no. They surely made some money out of it, but I felt a bit... dirty about the whole thing.

This isn't too bad at all for a throwaway pop song. Kudos. However, for a severely clever band who create songs of a non-Pythagorean nature and KNOW what this means, I can't help but sit on the fence.

Maybe I'm just worried about how quickly anyone would sell their soul for a quick buck. Then again, the band were signed by Elijah Wood, which surely opened a lot of doors. Hell, he even directed this video.

I like this band, I like Elijah, and fuck me, I like Pepsi. I even like that they like each other! As much as the staunch anti-establishment ethos runs through my veins, all of this is acceptable and, dare I say, welcome. It's surely a means to an end. I hope.

This is the new year, and, once again... I don't feel any different.

It's gonna be alright!

We're gonna see sunlight!

Ah huh, yeah!

20090103 ^up

Doug Martsch - Cracked and Crazed
I try to be graceful, you only want more. I try to be peaceful, you only want war. I try to be calm, but you stir up such hate. I offer my palm, but you've closed all the gates.

There's a relatively recent "old saying" that for every success story there are 100/1000/1000000/n failures. As we live in a celebrity-obsessed culture, it gives the false impression that everyone can be famous, if only for the fifteen minutes that Warhol envisaged over 40 years ago. The masses are fickle. The masses are spoon-fed a perpetual present, and they forget to remember.

I try to stand up, you're pushing me down. I fill up the cup, you throw it to the ground. I'm trying to live, to act for your sake. I'm trying to give, but you only take.

Although I used to believe that the biggest problem with Western society was its laziness, I have come to realise that this merely stems from a fear of failure. Is to be complacent to be comfortable? Or accepting one's lot in life? Or just one step closer to dead?

Oh! Take my days, my months, my years. Take my blood, my sweat, my tears. But not my heart.

Whilst searching for Built to Spill/Doug Martsch-related material on the interweb, I happened across this rather beautiful-sounding pop song. From what I can gather, a man by the name of Devon Reed was producing a film entitled The Bigtop, and although it has never come to fruition, a soundtrack was released last year.

I've seen leaves in a gust and torches combust, jackles and wolves in the raw. Waves breaking fierce and daggers that pierce; I've stood and I've faced them all. I've seen gears that could crush and guysers that gush, life you could buy with the bones. Soldiers that march and deserts that parch, with them all I have taken my chance.

So, what happened to the film? I can't find any other information, and it's not listed on IMDB, which surely means that it's been shelved indefinitely. Apparently, The Bigtop was meant to be a musical, and Devon Reed wrote all of the songs, although they were performed by a strange mixture of no-names and indie-rock elite, such as Damien Jurado, Matthew Sweet and Doug Martsch. WTF?!

But you, you're the only one who beat me down. Yes you, you're the only one who stole my crown. So you, you're the only one I set to free. And you, you're the only one who made me weep.

There is no current web presence for Mr. Reed, and all that remains is a blog that hasn't been updated in over a year and a half. (With that said, I would recommend that people read his Defcon 5 short story from the bottom up.) What happened? Is he dead? Did he fail as a film-maker, have a nervous breakdown and then decide to drop off the face of the Earth? Who knows. I'm scared shitless of failing at the smallest of things, so I can't even imagine what it must feel like to put my heart, soul and money into something that falls apart on a grand scale. Not everyone can be Orson Welles or Vincent Gallo in their first outing, although I can more than appreciate the drive and determination required to even attempt such a thing.

You have left me cracked and crazed, and you did it with love. (Oh, that's right!) Oh, you did it with love. (One more time!) Oh, you did it with love.

If we were honest with ourselves, we only really do things in life that we love, although 'love' does have many guises. Devon Reed, if you're out there, please do get in touch via the address above.

I'd like for us to go for a pint sometime. You can tell me how it is.

Hey, at least you tried.

20081228 ^up

Freshly-Picked Tingle's Rosy Rupeeland
Still single at 35, Tingle sets off on a search for happiness!

Believe it or not, what you see above is the tagline for this Nintendo DS game, as written in soft pastel-coloured letters on the back of the box. Seriously.

Let me break this down: Your character is a depressed middle-aged man, unable to find true love and happiness via the sanctity of marriage/children, who has opted to embrace a life of fantasy and monetary endeavours in order to provide some form of excitement and self-fulfillment. Your money is, literally, your life(meter). AND you become a green-clothed fairy with a prominent case of rhinophyma, a major sign of prolonged alcoholism.

So, is Tingle an innocent children's character or a miserable, super-capitalistic, hard-drinking, homosexual stereotype?

You decide!

I happened upon this gem a couple of weeks ago and stood in disbelief for about 20 minutes. Picking it up. Putting it down. Picking it up again. I was both tickled and horrified, yet considerably intrigued. In the end, I decided that a mere photograph would suffice. I was wrong. Oh so wrong.

Last weekend, I went back to the shop to lay claim on Tingle. Alas, he was gone.

The most disturbing thing of all is that on Christmas morning, a child will awaken somewhere in Glasgow to find this menacing creature waiting for them, ready to pounce on their unsuspecting, young mind. Never before has a game warranted an 18+ rating as much as this surely does.

I need to play it.

20081222 ^up

Fallout 3
I like shooting zombies.

As much as I detest wasting my life playing stupid video games, I have spent quite a few hours fucking about with Resident Evil 4 during the last year. Truth be told, I enjoyed it. I still do.

Two weeks ago, I picked up Fallout 3, which puts me in the position of a guy who has basically crawled out of a hole in the ground, where I've spent my entire life in a protective shell of friends/family, to find the surface world completely destroyed. Toxic. Deadly. Unknown.

The best thing about this game is that, although there is an "end", some form of achievement, you can be any type of person you want to reach that end. You can kill every moving thing in your sight. You can sneak around and completely avoid contact. You can communicate with people and try to make the best of a bad situation. You can also use people for your own means.

It's basically... life as we know it.

I'm rubbish at video games. Seriously. I think things through far too much. And I die. Repeatedly. In order to try out various scenarios. I save the game before bad things are likely to happen... because I want to try again when things turn for the worse. There's surely some element of perfectionism in there somewhere, but you have to admit, it's incredibly logical.

Wouldn't you?

Aren't you?

Granted, I'm not shooting zombies now, but I am more accepting to the idea of dehumanising those people I do not understand. Consider the current scene in Iraq or Afghantistan. Is there a military answer? If I were placed in either situation, would I kill and ask questions later? Probably. My life is more important than anyone's, isn't it? Can you appreciate that notion?

Of course I'm studying the current budget figures, in terms of dropping VAT to 15%, and I spend far too much time watching Bloomberg Television. It's just one of those things. Why not obsess about money? It makes the world go 'round. Some people say the same thing about love, and they're right. Both are right.

All of this makes me want to grow a beard. In disgust and in disinterest. In protest. To say that you know that I know. I'm just too aware of that which makes the "what".

Truth and reconciliation. There's more than can be said here.

It is finished. For now.

20081126 ^up

Only Son - Long Live the Future
Scotland Street Public School was designed by the celebrated architect/artist, Charles Rennie Mackintosh (1868-1928), between 1903-06 for the School Board of Glasgow. When the school opened in the Kingston area on the 15th August 1906, it served a growing population employed by the shipbuilding industry and engineering works in and around the River Clyde, whose families lived in the vast number of tenement flats in the nearby area.

By the 1970's, the decline in the shipping industry and the introduction of a new motorway had led to the destruction of complete neighbourhoods, including Kingston. All in the name of progress. This school was effectively severed from reality, and as one could imagine, it was shut down in 1979. Today it functions as an education museum, allowing people to see how students have been taught over various times during the last 100 years. Even now, it's in the middle of nowhere. Beautiful, austere and rather irrelevant.

Long live the wide open future, right? Drew a picture of this place, just to have it to erase.

If I ever accomplish anything in life, I would like to install a motorised pole in the grave on which my body is spiked, set to be constantly turning. It'll add some truth to the possible commentary, when things outside of my control change for what appears to be for the worse. At the time, of course. I reserve the right to stop spinning at any point.

What I want is out of reach. What I want is over.

The fundamental problem with our own personal logic is that it is based on information from the past. It shapes who we are and how we think and what we do. Enlightenment is taking a logical leap of faith from a foundation built by what/who has come before us.

We always seem to think that we know better, but that's why good teachers are so important. They help us to see things in perspective, in order to understand all layers of representation, rather than just the one that we can easily identify with.

Any point in space, no matter how apparently transfixed it may appear at a single moment in time, has an infinite number of possibilities in which to move.

Consider a proton. From the sun in this particular solar system. Taking just over 8 minutes, from source, to shine through a window in an "old school" and hit me in the face.

To teach me a lesson. A valuable one.

20081123 ^up

How Mad Are You?
BBC. Horizon. Question. Panel that determines. Sanity. Half mad. Half normal. Who? Actions and attitudes. To controlled scenarios. To be dissected.

Limited evidence. Conclusions. Wrong?

Obsessive. Compulsive. Disorder?

Bi-polar. Depressed. Normal?

The main concept presented tonight was the inability for experts to diagnose psychiatric health, in relation to a person's responses when compared with others within a controlled group. The Rosenhan experiment was referenced, as this was a famous published study that took place back in 1972, regarding the admission of healthy "pseudopatients" into psychiatric hospitals in the US.

As one could easily imagine, the study generated a considerable amount of controversy due to the mis-interpretation of mental illness by trained medical practitioners. Of the eight admissions, seven were diagnosed with schizophrenia, with the remaining individual exhibiting manic-depression.

Although I can appreciate that people were acting in an environment that was far too naive, accepting and blinded, thereby susceptible to misgivings, one can't help but question those in positions of authority and judgement. Wearing a Sheriff's Badge of Science and Reason. Flown under the banner of the "greater good".

Separation. Fragmentation. Discombobulation.

We are both sides of the equation. For better or for worse.

As it should be.

20081111 ^up

The Number Devil
During lunch the other day, my friend Neil pointed out that having 10 fingers actually allows us to count all the way up to 1023, which you have to admit is pretty impressive.

One hand on its own goes up to 31.

The Internation Symbol for "Rock On" = 18, and this is quite apt, being that this number is 6+6+6. If I were to push the boat out, it has been noted that this gesture looks like three cojoined sixes, when taking a side view. I don't give a damn about The Devil, but the binary correlation is quite amusing, you have to admit.

In a related story, I am hoping to mentor a 10-year-old with Asperger syndrome who happens to have a keen interest in mathematics.

My intention is to present some fundamental concepts of number theory by using an interesting little book called The Number Devil. Although written for a younger audience, this book is actually a good introduction for anyone who would like to get a primer on... well... mathematical concepts.

Trust me, this stuff is bad ass.

20081107 ^up

Postcard from Dublin
I found myself walking aimlessly, as one does in my particular predicament. Once I reached the end of Grafton Street, a pedestrianised shopping zone, approaching Trinity College from the south, I stood still with my rolling suitcase for about ten minutes.

My eyes darted repeated up and down and up again, from the tour bus visitor map to the scene in front of me. Although I knew where I was, it wasn't much help in this instance.

A friendly, distinguishedly-disheveled older gentleman, with wild white hair and a green tweed jacket, approached me from the left and asked, rather pleasantly,

"Can I help you?"

"I don't know."

"Where are you going?"

"I... don't know."

At that moment, I felt something hit my chest. A bird had shat on me.

"A bird just shat on me!"

The man smiled and nodded, as if he understood both the how and the why, then turned and walked away.

Everyone knows that to be hit by bird droppings is considered good luck. From an Irish standpoint, I must have won the jackpot.

Did I mention that my shirt was green?

20081019 ^up

1010

My watch died Friday morning.

A bit of a shock.

It resembled a peace sign.


20081013 ^up

Belle And Sebastian - The Model
I will confess to you because you made me think about the times you turn the picture on to me and I'll turn over, the vision was a masterpiece of comic timing. You wouldn't laugh at all. And I wondered what the boy was thinking. The picture was an old collage of something classical. The model with a tragic air. Because without a doubt he'd given up the fight. The ghost of somebody at his side.

I keep wanting to believe that there are two types of people: those who embrace their minds and those who embrace their bodies. I've always been placing emphasis on the former, letting the latter slip almost on purpose, as I saw vanity in physical representation. I saw vanity as a negative. Now I'm not so sure. A healthy body isn't vain. It's actually just common sense.

I will confess to you because I didn't think about the message as I walked down the alleyway. It was a Sunday. All my friends deserted me because you painted me as the fraud I really was. And if you think you see with just your eyes you're mad, 'cause Lisa learned a lot from putting on a blindfold when she knew she had been bad. She met another blind kid at a fancy dress. It was the best sex she ever had.

When I close my eyes, it's generally a metaphor. Disinterest. Dislocation. Disdain.

It is disturbing to see a person with their fingers extended and curved in a menacing way. It takes effort. Effort by those who understand the implications. They either widen their eyes, for show, or they don't, as a covert notion. A flashlight shone from under the chin. A "Muhahahaha!"

I'll send a dress to you because it's needing badly taken in, but I was so embarressed that I missed your party It was me that paid for it eventually because you know how much I wanted to meet your friend the star of stage and local press, the dream of all the bowlie kids that hang around here. And I'm no different from the rest. I'm not too proud to say that I'm okay with the girl next door who's famous for showing her chest.

There was an 08/08/08 party yesterday, put on by a friend of mine (that I don't know), which I didn't attend. Even though I should have shown up with a registration plate with only an 8 on it, saying that I had to outbid some Chinese guy by 5 bajillion for it. That would've been sweet. And now it's just a fantasy.

I love Brownian motion. Both in liquids and in the air. It makes me consider the similarities between the two. Birds and fish aren't that different. Swirl and curve and solvent. Air, water, wine. Oh, how we love to swirl!

You're not impressed by me, but it's a funny way for you to tell me. A whisper in a choir stall. The man was talking about you simultaneously. Frankly, I let my heavy eyelids flutter because I have been sleeping badly lately.

There's a man, probably about my age, with a young son, about two years-old, staring out of the bay window in the flat across from mine. Right now.

Purpose. I'm at the end of the tether. Where a man has nothing else and has to embrace something, someone else. I'll be dead within the year, if I don't sort things out. Either physically or mentally. Without a doubt.

20080809 ^up

Ray's Vast Basement - I Can Be Alone
About six years ago, which I still consider a relative eternity of space/time, I met a very influential person in my life. Let's call her Trixie Belden, from PDX via SanFran via Pennsylvania. It was the first time that I came across a person whom I connected with on a metaphysical level. I had recently split up from Alexis and was living my life as I saw fit, which was probably the most fertile period of my life so far, outside of procreation.

Everything was possible. I was living on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, out clubbing most nights, writing songs in my spare time, embracing music and having a lot of sex with random people. I even had to lie about my age to get into a popular over-25 disco, in which I ended up having an obscene amount of fun over several months.

You can call me Joe. When I come and go, real slow. I rode my bike to see the girl I like, just last night. A cabin by the marsh, lying on the roof, staring at the stars. And she is so warm, like butter on corn, whispering in my ear.

Looking back, the only problem I had was... my distance from the membrane. Let me explain. If one were to consider themselves surrounded by a sphere, mine was probably about ten feet in diameter. No one was getting anywhere close to me. This was probably fall-out from the marriage experience, where I wanted to ensure that a safe distance was in place. Surely, this is human nature. The only problem is that I was completely disconnected. Eyes and voice and demeanour are not to be trusted. The fucked up thing about all of this is that I didn't even know what was going on, in general. I'm being retrospectively psycho-analytic, but I can see easily things for what they were at the time.

Anyway...

Trixie was there to introduce me to loads of music, music that changed my perspective, changed me as a person. Yeah, music does have that power, hence the reason why I give a shit about it now and then.

She says, "If you're gonna leave, leave me now, but if you wanna fly, I'll show you how."

Anyone who has known me in the last 5 years knows this song. It's a staple of the repertoire. I play it for me, rather than for anyone else. As a reminder. A warning. A friend.

I've travelled far to play you my guitar. And this song, I wrote it all wrong. I meant to make you smile, but that could take a while.

Not a lot of people know about Ray's Vast Basement, which is a shame. This is a great song, on a truly fantasic album, which everyone should own.

I am actually honoured to write about it now.

Thanks, Trixie Bee. I have been well and truly pollinated.

20080809 ^up

Bright Eyes - Bowl of Oranges
The weather has changed in Glasgow, of late. Although we've only entered into August, I can't help but feel that the temperature has dropped, suddenly, as if it needed to do so in order to put us in our place. Last night I felt it necessary to close my windows, as I was actually too cold for the first time in months.

As those who know me best would reiterate, I am a man engulfed by a constant force of heat/uncomfortableness, hence the reason why I prefer Scotland to South Carolina. I don't like to sweat, even though I do it oh so well. For me to say that I'm actually chilled, the temperature must surely be sub-acceptable by the general public. Practically frozen.

The rain, it started tapping on the window near my bed. There was a loophole in my dreaming, so I got out of it. And to my surprise my eyes were wide and already open. Just my nightstand and my dresser where those nightmares had just been.

Things were warm, sticky even, until it rained at the weekend. A proper, heavy shower. Due to this, I was under the impression that my world was clean. Crisp. Like the ideology used in a beer advert. From the Rockies. Possibly Coors Light.

So I dressed myself and left them, out into the gray streets. But everything seemed different and completely new to me. The sky, the trees, houses, buildings, even my own body.

Yesterday was spent reading the last few chapters of American Psycho, followed by the film adaptation, which I originally saw when it came out years ago, even though I didn't remember most of the scenes, other than those which related to the perfect business card. Which haunts me even now. My desire knows no bounds in that realm, to be perfectly honest. Beyond that, Book = great. Film = shit.

Of course the plot was the same and quite a substantial amount of dialogue was ripped straight from the book, but I just felt disappointed by the whole affair. As much as I wanted to laugh at Patrick Bateman and the "oh, look at my distance from reality, which is based on a bloated and over-ripe-non-sentimentality of the human condition" ideal that he epitomised (it's my bag), I couldn't help but consider the source material, the 'social commentary', if you will. Holding up a mirror. Reminding us why the Roman Empire fell, due to it's own self-destructive apathy and inward gaze.

Not willing to grow. Expand. Become something better than itself. That would involve some form of outward consideration. Potkettleblack.

I could offer the same damning critique about the cinematic version of Less Than Zero, even though I refuse to watch the film again because I know that it is going to be sub-par to the mental menagerie that the book has afforded me. Were I a man with unlimited funds and a connection to ex-pat Americano students living in Edinburgh during the festival season, I would direct an adaptation based even moreso on the book's actual storyline, with no fucking punches pulled, simply titled <0. Of course.

And I came upon a doctor who appeared in quite poor health. I said, "There's nothing that I can do for you that you can't do for yourself." He said, "Oh yes you can. Just hold my hand. I think that would help." So I sat with him a while, and then I asked him how he felt.

He said, "I think I'm cured. No, in fact, I'm sure of it. Thank you stranger for your therapeutic smile."

Words. Are. Cheap. We are becoming more and more aware of our representations of presentation. And we distance ourselves from our terminology. And through it. Speaking without repercussions. Reciprocated monologues. Talking at people.

And we'll just keep working on the problem we know we'll never solve of love's uneven remainder, our lives are fractions of a whole. But if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall, then I think we would see the beauty then, we would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges, like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.

As far as I'm concerned, this still life has never been more representative: Realistic, boring 'art'.

20080806 ^up

Death Cab For Cutie - Grapevine Fires
It's a funny thing, trying to convince the world that you're still alive.

When the wind picked up, the fire spread, and the grapevines seemed left for dead. And the northern sky looked like the end of days. The end of days.

Over the last few weeks, I've been working rather late in the office. Much to my chagrin, motion sensors have been installed, determining when it is most prudent to turn off the lights. In general, I can appreciate this energy-saving measure. However, one tends to consider their influence on the world when the lights go out around them, simply because they're not making enough physical motions.

A wake up call to a rented room sounded like an alarm of impending doom to warn us it's only a matter of time before we all burn.

When everything goes dark, I start waving my arms wildly, as if I'm in a life raft floating aimlessly in the Pacific, trying desperately to attract the attention of some random Japanese fishing boat approaching in the distance. It's somewhat condescending, but I am relieved when the lights do turn back on, even though I feel a wee bit silly about the whole fiasco.

I. Am. Alive?

Of course this escapade has done nothing more than make me question the sentiment. Am I really amongst the living? In the truest sense? Am I more than a function?

We bought some wine and some paper cups, near your daughter's school when we picked her up and drove to a cemetery on a hill. And we watched the plumes paint the sky gray, as she laughed and danced through the field of graves. There I knew it would be alright, that everything would be alright.

It's a toss up. Things are a fine mesh of shite and brilliance.

And the news reports on the radio said it was getting worse as the ocean air fanned the flames, but I couldn't think of anywhere I would have rather been to watch it all burn away, to burn away.

It might be that I embrace change more than it is capable of presenting itself. For this I cannot possibly apologise. The concept of burning a parcel of land is far too understandable for me, knowing that fallow earth is rich and relevant to the future. Sustainability.

The firemen worked in double shifts, with prayers for rain on their lips, and they knew it was only a matter of time.

Time is time is time. Static notion. End point.

And then we move on.

20080803 ^up

Bloc Party - Song For Clay (Disappear Here)
No two ways about it, I've never been keen on reading a book that has the words "Now a major motion picture!" on the cover, even less so ones that use photographs from said film. Given the choice between the original cover artwork or an actor's face, it's a simple decision. In the past, I've gone out of my way to NOT read books that have movie adaptations, especially if I've actually experienced the latter first. I have trouble getting over the feeling of being tainted, misled, full of pre-conceived notions of who the characters are, especially how they look and move and speak and laugh and kiss and fuck and allthatjazz.

Besides, I already know how the story is going to end. With that said, there's surely an argument from the "it's a journey, not a destination" camp. Literature, when well-written, could be savoured with each sentence. Notice the use of the word could. I am generally not that sort of reader. All I'm saying is that there are usually two main reasons for making the comment that life is too short. Both are valid.

I am trying to be heroic in an age of modernity.

Today I picked up an old copy of Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis from a charity shop for a mere 50 pence. Although I have thoroughly enjoyed his other books, I've always stopped myself from reading this one because I've seen the film a few times over the years. It was a big hit in the late 80's starring Robert Downey Jr. along with two other acting mainstays of the time, Jami Gertz and Andrew McCarthy. Guess who are sitting pretty on the cover of this book?

(C'mon... 50p! I never said it was a rule.)

So I enjoy and I devour flesh and wine and luxury, but in my heart I am so lukewarm. Nothing ever really touches me.

Let's put this in perspective: some disaffected young man is writing about a song by a disaffected young man that is based on a book by yet another disaffected young man. Actually, I'm the oldest of the group, and I don't fit the young tag anymore, unless it is used in some other relative sense. Kele from Bloc Party was probably about 26 when he penned this song, yet BEE was only 21 when his book was published, way back in 1985. Pretty impressive, and rather concerning, given the heavy, nihilistic tone of the novel.

From the moment I first heard this song, I wanted to give Kele a high five on nailing what I think he wanted to convey. Not only are the lyrics heavily influenced by Less Than Zero (Clay is the main character and "Disappear here" is a prevailing notion throughout the story that is first presented as an unintentionally-disturbing L.A. billboard slogan), but the song itself is influenced by the theme song for the film, a cover of Hazy Shade of Winter by The Bangles, which was originally released by Simon and Garfunkle 20 years earlier. You just can't go wrong with a good guitar riff over a rocktastic 1-2-3-4 snare-heavy beat.

At the Trois Garcons, we meet at precisely 9 o'clock. I order the foie gras and I eat it with complete disdain.

When I started reading the book earlier today, it was lunchtime, and I was sitting alone in KFC. I thought about what it must be like to live a life of unabashed luxury, yet to still find fault in the absence of gratitude brought about by the lack of any actual struggle worth noting, just like these pitiful and unpitiable characters.

I ate my greasy, delicious fried chicken with complete, and knowing, disdain.

20080712 ^up

It really is that simple...
01010101 01101110 01100010 01100101 01101100 01101001 01100101 01110110 01100001 01100010 01101100 01100101 00101100 00100000 01101001 01110011 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01101001 01110100 00111111 00100000 00100000 01001111 01101110 01100101 01110011 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01111010 01100101 01110010 01101111 01110011 00101110 00100000 00100000 01010100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110011 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110111 00101101 01101100 01100101 01110110 01100101 01101100 00100000 01100001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01100111 01100101 01110100 01110011 00101110 00001101 00001010 00001101 00001010 01001001 01110100 00101110 00100000 00100000 01001001 01010100 00101110 00100000 00100000 01001001 01101110 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110100 01100101 01100011 01101000 01101110 01101111 01101100 01101111 01100111 01111001 00101110 00001101 00001010 00001101 00001010 01001011 01101110 01101111 01110111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01111001 01110011 01100101 01101100 01100110 00101110

20080708 ^up

Yo La Tengo - By The Time It Gets Dark
Today is the longest day of the year. It's the first day of summer, but you wouldn't know that here in Scotland. I actually can't remember the last time it was as cold and rainy as it is now. However, it's after 10 PM, and the sky is not yet dark.

Baby, every cloud has a silver lining. Baby, every dog really has its day. And it matters to me to see you smiling. Why don’t we blow all your cares away?

I have spent the day with my in-laws, which isn't such a bad thing. It was the Armadale Gala Day. There was a parade.

Yesterday’s gone and will be forgotten, and today is where every new day starts. Got to be free like the leaves in Autumn. You may be sad but it never lasts.

Maybe it's a fitting end to this day to be sitting here watching Interview With The Vampire, being reminded of far too many aspects of the human condition.

Fiction is rife with fact.

And maybe, by the evening we’ll be laughing. Just wait and see all the changes there’ll be by the time it gets dark.

Sunrise, sunset. It's easy to see how our ancestors associated the light of day with goodness and the dark of night with evil. When the sun went down, that marked the time in which to sleep. To be awake in the dark is to be an animal, worse than that, a beast, who is surely up to no good.

Photosynthesis. Vitamin D. To be a slave, to be a plant or a bug that yearns for the energy of the sun. We do it.

We could go out walking out in the sunshine. Look at all the people out in the street. Hurrying away to their business functions, waiting for a taxi for aching feet.

Due to the fact that our eyes can perceive the 'visible' spectrum of light, it is extremely difficult to even begin to understand any additional levels of perspective. Humanity is synonymous with perfection, to a fault. We continue to perpetuate this.

Light up your face, baby. Let’s get going. Wanna see a change in those weary eyes. We’ll have some fun. Take a boat out rowing. Why ever should life so serious?

As William Corgan so eloquently said in song, youth is wasted on the young. The key word is "appreciation". I don't think that I can give a definition of what it means to really appreciate anything, as this is undoubtedly a selfish act, in itself.

And maybe, by the evening we’ll be laughing. Just wait and see all the changes there’ll be, by the time it gets dark.

There's a lot to be said for Romantic notions.

20080621 ^up

Grandaddy - Everything Beautiful Is Far Away
He just finished eating dinner and stepped outside the cave to smoke a cigarette he'd made from rolled up photo paper. They were pictures of things back on Earth.

I seek out patterns.

It's surely a human characteristic, picking up on both the subtle and not-so-suble "truths" that surround us.

He looked out on the grey-ish white expanse of uninhabited terrain he now called home. He'd seen plenty of mirages and imaginary visitors up until then, so he wasn't sure what to think when he saw swans, and they were wading on the shores of a pale white lake that he'd never seen there before. And it was quite beautiful, and it was far away, 'cause everything beautiful is far away.

A while back, I went to go visit my mates at their flat during a recording session for The Red Well, a band of which they're both members. As I walked in, I could see that Barry had been drawing a picture of a strange-looking face, which I didn't quite understand at first. He then pointed to the bag of striped pasta on a shelf in the sitting room. I burst out laughing. I laughed until I cried, which is the best kind of laugh.

Can you see the face? Of course you do! Although we don't have a perfect human head on offer, there are definitely features that are visible, notable. The reason for this is because the human form is based on a general ratio that is found throughout nature, so much so that it is referred to as the Golden Ratio, roughly 1.61803...

It's time for a quick mathematics lesson on the Fibonacci Sequence: 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55... As you can see, the sum of the two preceding numbers in the sequence are used to produce the next number. As the numbers continue to grow on towards infinity, the ratio between the numbers comes closer and closer to the Golden Ratio.

Look at your pointer finger. There are three sections, separated by joints. If you were to measure the length of the top bit, then multiply by the ratio, you'd get the length of the middle bit. Multiply the middle bit by the ratio, and you'll get the length of the bottom bit. It's true.

The human face is also positioned sympathetically towards this ratio. It's the reason why we see "faces" in random shapes and images. The distance between the eyes, nose, mouth. All of it. I see faces in clouds, in slabs of marble, in dirt. Further to this, I search through faces for faces. I would say that I stare at the face of almost every person I walk past on the street, looking for patterns, familiarity. I have done this since birth.

He knew he was as good as gone, but gone was somewhere he really didn't mind going to. Since the shuttle had crashed, many years had passed, and the pictures of his loved ones that he drew on the walls of the cave had finally faded. He put out his smoke and proceeded toward the lake, repeating to himself, "Everything beautiful is far away."

I seek out patterns. Patterns that make sense.

20080611 ^up

Cyndi Lauper - The Goonies 'R' Good Enough
Heeeey! Yoooou! Guuuuys!

Here we are, hanging onto strains of greed and blues. Break the chain, then we break down. Oh it's not real if you don't feel it. Unspoken expectations, ideals you used to play with; they've finally taken shape for us.

More often than not, I just don't know the right words, especially when something, anything, needs to be said.

There's a memorable scene towards the end of the film where Andi is attempting to play an organ made of bones, in order to help the gang escape from the Fratelli family. Each time she messes up the notes, the ground crumbles beneath them.

Mikey turns to her and says, wholeheartedly and without a hint of sarcasm, "I believe in you. Goonies always make mistakes. Just don't make any more." He is the voice of reason, the voice of optimism and hope. Even though he doesn't realise it at the time, he's the leader of the gang and everyone else knows it.

What's good enough for you is good enough for me. It's good enough. It's good enough for me. Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!

This song was the first single I ever bought, on 45 RPM vinyl, from a supermarket (Food Town, later to be known as Food Lion, yes, you heard me right, Food Lion), in Gastonia, North Carolina. A couple of weeks later, I bought the Prince single for "Purple Rain", with the b-side of "When Doves Cry". I remember playing both of these on my portable Mickey Mouse record player, where Mickey's arm was the stylus. I was 8 years old.

Old fashioned superstitions I find too hard to break.

Yes, I can be rather anal, and I am fully aware of the fact that the video for this song points out a discrepancy in the film. When the Goonies meet up with their families at the end, there is a comment from Data about how they had to deal with an octopus. As this scene was actually deleted from the film, it makes absolutely no sense. Whoever was in charge of continuity should be ashamed.

What's good enough for you is good enough for me. It's good enough. It's good enough for me.

I'm a Goonie, you're a Goonie. We know this, and we fully appreciate it. That's just how we roll.

As we already know, Goonies always make mistakes.

20080528 ^up

Beirut - A Sunday Smile
There's something to be said for minimalism.

Short. Punchy. To the point.

All I want is the best for our lives, my dear.

I have a favourite quote from Friedrich Nietzsche, one of the few people who have ever lived that I'd like to meet. Posthumously, of course, yet not in the zombie sense.

"My ambition is to say in ten sentences what everyone says in a book - what everyone does not say in a book."

And you know my wishes are sincere.

I love this song.

20080520 ^up

Built To Spill - Now And Then
Within the last year, I've noticed that an increasing number of Victorian tennement properties for sale in Glasgow have included close-up photos of cornicing in their schedules. I'm guessing that this is to highlight an additional period feature that hasn't been lost through the brutality of time and ever-changing fads. Out with the old, in with the new, right?

Maybe I tend to over-romanticise the past, forgetting that things do generally change for a good reason. For instance, the introduction of central heating removed the need for fireplaces in every room, no matter how beautiful or ornate they happened to be. Functionality usually overtakes sentimentality, and it doesn't apologise. Decisions are made with the best of intentions, and they are always made in the present.

I can just imagine some lady back in the 80's telling her husband, "Honey, just imagine how much more space this bedroom room would have without that useless fireplace in the middle of the wall! If we got rid of it, the bed would fit nicely there, along with a new chest of drawers."

There is always some good reason, at the time.

Now and then, sometimes when you're thinking about when you were always drinking and how friend, ships came in one evening. You loudly pretend connecting had some meaning, but now you don't, 'cause you can't recall why you were possessed to say something like, "Come along with me and find a new direction."

I am a creature of habit, like most. Back when I bought this place last year, I had every intention of turning it somewhat into the flat I had back in Edinburgh a few years ago, right down to the paint colour I'd use in the sitting room, Deep Adam Green. Same furniture, same white trim on the woodwork, even the same type of ivy in a pot on the bookshelf. On the surface, things appear to be very similar, although there are innumerable differences. Personal preferences. Decisions made, as they always are, in the present. If we do look to the past for inspiration, a sense of familiarity, or just because it's easier, that is more than allowed.

There's no telling how long ago the fireplace was removed from the sitting room in this flat. I thought about putting one back in, but if I'm not going to use the fire, why do I want a wall-killer that's nothing more than a ornament without a proper function?

And now you don't, 'cause you can't.

20080519 ^up

Frightened Rabbit - Head Rolls Off
Jesus is just a Spanish boy's name. How come one man got so much fame? And to any me, it's pointless to anybody that doesn't have faith.

I am a simple man. With rather basic wants and needs. Although music surely fits comfortably somewhere between the two, I can't help but recognise the profound effect that it often has on my life. When I hear a good song with even better lyrics, it seeps into my brain and subconsciously triggers the chemical reactions that control any number of electrical impulses. Call them responses, thoughts, feelings, what have you. I'm just a conduit. Information needs to be processed.

It wants to be processed.

When it's all gone, something carries on. And it's not morbid at all, it's just when nature's had enough of you. When my blood stops, someone else's will have not. When my head rolls off, someone else's will turn. And while I'm alive, I'll make tiny changes to Earth.

As mentioned in previous articles, I am quite partial to songs of the "happysad" variety, for surely obvious reasons. Happy is fine. Sad is fine. However, when you mix things up, when you can experience both poles in equal measure, it's not a zero-sum game. You actually jump up a level. Mathematically speaking, in this case, 1 plus -1 isn't nothing, it's 10.

No... it's more like adding 1 and -1 and realising that you're actually carrying out a mathematical operation. You see the bigger picture.

I guess I mean that an understanding of perspective is gained, and you're able to transcend to the point that you can see a "set" rather than merely items (apple, orange, donkey, etc.) in that set. To recognise this set is to fundamentally change the way in which you view said items.

Georg Cantor, the father of set theory, presented interesting ideas over a hundred years ago on the concept of infinity and on numbers in general, which are well worth a read. One of the notions that he extrapolated from this is the set of all sets, the logical representation of what some would define as "God".

So you can burn me because we'll all be the same; the same way. Dirt in someone's eye that's cried down the drain.

What is this container, this super-set? Is it an entity in its own right, or is it merely a collective of the constituents? We're venturing dangerously into Michel Foucault territory surrounding what is referred to as "gaze", albeit for good reason.

I believe in a house in the clouds, and God's got His dead friends 'round. He's painted all the walls in red to remind them they're all dead. And you know, and it's all gone, something carries on, and it's not morbid at all, it's just when nature's had enough of you. When my blood stops, someone else's will have not. When my head rolls off, someone else's will turn.

Maybe Dolly Parton's character in Steel Magnolias was on to something when she claimed that "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion". What perspective she must have!

You can mark my words, I'll make changes to Earth. While I'm alive, I'll make tiny changes to Earth.

This little ditty, made by some guys in Glasgow that I would like to consider friends (or contemporaries in the least), makes me think about a helluva lot of stuff, some of which you've read above. For that, I cannot thank them enough. Besides, it's probably the finest song that John Cougar Mellencamp never wrote.

Earth continues to be changed, for the best, and you damn well know it.

20080501 ^up

Menomena - The Pelican
I speak to my dad about twice a year, at most, but that doesn't mean that I don't think about him. We just don't talk on the phone very often. It's a guy thing. Years ago, I used to phone him quite regularly, and the conversation usually went along the following lines:

"So, Dad, how's it going?" To which he would reply, as he always did, "Same shit, another day." By the end of the phone call, I was generally depressed and despondent, going from excited speech into a monotonous drone. Such was the influence of my father.

Take it when I'm not looking! Take it from my hook while it's still kicking! Don't you feel it when I start reeling? I guess some things never change, and I still hold the reins on what you're feeling.

Over time, I simply learned to not even bother with a connection. My dad is a bit of an "out of sight, out of mind" kind of dude, which is something I've learned oh too well and can fully appreciate. It doesn't mean that neither of us don't give a shit. Life is just more relevant when you're face-to-face with someone. Eveything else is simply fantasy. Undetermined.

Of course I know that a person is living and breathing when I'm not there, but it's the whole Schrödinger's Cat type of scenario. This experiment requires an observer to be truly valid. Indeterminacy says that there can be more than one correct answer to a problem which physically can only have one answer.

I've just been sitting here watching that Mel Gibson film, Signs. Several years ago, Mel was in my neck of the woods filming The Patriot, in Historic Brattonsville. I have worked there before, as an actor pretending to be the son of a wealthy land-owner during the late 18th century. Yes, I have worn period garb. And I like it.

Anyway, Mel was driving around on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle, when he happened to come across Henry's Knob, a big hill across the road from where I grew up. He pulled up at my Dad's automotive garage and was interested about the hill. Who owned it? Could he go up on it? My dad recognised him as "Mad Max" and asked if he wanted to hang out at our house to get away from it all. We have a pool, you know.

Did my dad see Mel as William Wallace? Did he see a Scottish connection (me) as a topic of conversation? No and No. That's cool. My dad was always a big fan of Mad Max, so I can't hold that against him. I personally prefer the Beyond Thunderdome version of Mr. Max, but that was the biggest budget of the series and had the Tina Turner connection. We don't need another hero. It's true.

The Stewart crest shows a pelican piercing its own flesh in order to feed its children with blood.

Virescit vulnere virtus!

Courage grows strong at the wound!

We're far too literal these days. It's a shame, and this says quite a bit about our pathetic way of viewing the world around us. What's wrong with dishing out a huge helping of allegory? Let's get Biblical, goddammit.

Take it when I'm enjoying! Take it from my mouth while I'm still chewing! Don't you feel it when I start pulling back? I guess some birds never learn. One day these tides will turn and leave you nothing!

Prodigal. Minimal. I know my surname, and I know what that implies.

20080212 ^up

Sufjan Stevens - Star Of Wonder
There is generally some form of valid reasoning behind most things that we know and take for granted. January, for instance, is named after Janus, a Roman god with two faces conveniently positioned in opposite directions. Past and future. End and beginning. Heads and... heads.

As I closed 2007 with a festive ditty by Sufjan Stevens, it's only fitting to flip the same coin and use another one for the start of 2008, especially as this happened to be the song from the compilation that I wanted to write about all along. It sounds truly beautiful, even magical. Last week, as the snow was falling in Edinburgh, this was the perfect soundtrack, from the very first note.

I call you from the comet's cradle. I found you trembling by yourself. When the night falls, lightly on your right winged shoulder, slightly when the night gets colder.

Back when I was about eight years old, I sat down with an encyclopedia and wrote a report about black holes. This wasn't a school assignment. It was just something I felt compelled to do at the time. Even then, I knew enough about the universe to consider how important this concept was in the grand scheme of things. Truth be told, they even sound bad ass.

Oh conscience, where will you carry me?

When finished, I folded the sheet of wide-ruled notebook paper and put it in the middle of our massive family Bible, complete with golden-edged pages and interspersed full-colour images of the whole holy gang. This was the most important filing cabinet in our home. About a year and a half ago, I remembered the paper and asked my mom to send me a photocopy, for reference. She obliged.

We see the star of wonder. Wonderful night falls. We see you, we see you there.

The most interesting thing about a black hole is that it isn't a void. It isn't nothing. On the contrary, scientists are led to believe that these phenomena occur when a star collapses upon itself, creating a central point that's referred to as a singularity, where unimaginable mass is compacted into the smallest possible volume. With mass comes gravity, and with such intense gravitation, there reaches a stage where even light cannot escape. For all intents and purposes, it's invisible, at least beyond our rather primitive sense of sight.

I see the stars coming down there, coming down there to the yard. I see the stars coming down there, coming down there to my heart.

It goes without saying that resolutions are usually rather pointless, so I'll refrain from commenting about any here.

Besides, I've already made my point.

20080108 ^up

Sufjan Stevens - Get Behind Me, Santa!
Joy to the world, the Lord is come! Figuratively and literally. Don't worry ladies, he gets to be an egg at Easter. And a bunny rabbit, which pretty much symbolises sex in my book. And raised from the dead. No, not as a bunny rabbit. Speaking of which, what is the etymology of "bunny rabbit" when one word or the other would surely suffice? All I know is that a bunny is likely to be cuter, but that's based purely on personal opinion.

Yes, it's that special time of year once again when we like to celebrate the strange mix of Pagan, Christian and, above all, Capitalistic ideology. Am I excited? Yes. And very much no.

The Christmas Curmudgeon: "I know what you're doing to me, boy! You move so fast like a psychopathic color TV, with your Christmas bag and your jolly face and the reindeer stomping all over the place!"

Santa Claus and his busy-body elves: "Take it easy what you gotta be so absurd! You make it sound like Christmas is a 4-letter word. It's a fact of life whether you like it or not, so put your hands together and give it a shot!"

I've already received a present from myself, in the form of Sufjan Steven's box set of Christmas songs. For those of you who don't know, he has been recording covers of "familiar classics" as well as some of his own festive creations for the last several years, and now we are blessed with the full collection in one handy package.

Let me break it down for you: It's Sufjan. Doing Christmas songs. In the Sufjan style. Fantastic.

Something tells me that I will be listening to this long after the season has ended, as well as making it the de facto holiday music in my household for many, many years to come. (Sorry, Neil Diamond. Your collection is great as well, but I secretly take the piss out of you. It's best that you found out now. I've grown up, and I just don't feel comfortable with having too much kitsch in my life anymore. It's not you, it's me. We can still have fun from time to time, but that's all it'll be, just a bit of fun.)

The Christmas Curmudgeon: "I don't care about family and shopping malls, candy canes or the carolers decking the halls. I don't care what you say, Santa Claus. You're a bad brother breakin' into people's garages!"

Santa Claus and his busy-body elves: "You got it wrong 'cause I'm just another regular guy with superpowers and a penchant for the yule tide. Is it a crime to give a little once in a while? I travel 'round the world tryin' to make people smile!"

Granted, I am not really into celebrating Christmas these days, but it doesn't mean that I'm against it. Oh no. The holiday definitely has its place, and it usually does more good than harm for most people. Have you ever considered how shitty winter would be without a distraction?

Christmas time! Christmas time! Christmas time! We're having a good time!

Having a "good time" usually means getting drunk in a social setting, at least it definitely seems to be the case these days. I've heard so many people admit that they can't wait until January so that they don't feel compelled to drink themselves to death anymore. Merry Christmas, indeed. Sure, it's fun, but in the aforementioned Neil Diamond sense.

Christmas time! Christmas time! Christmas time! We're having a good time!

The photograph you see here is one of my favourites. It was taken in The Dome, in Edinburgh... as I was standing at the bar.

20071222 ^up

Modest Mouse - Talking Shit About A Pretty Sunset
Although I didn't think it was humanly possible, I have been without a home interweb connection for almost two months. A life spent online is a life not truly lived, to be honest, but it's incredibly nice to have a steady stream of sweet, sweet high-grade data being pumped straight into the main vein of my new residence. It helps to occupy the time during these cold nights of late, although I have done a good job of using television as a short-term replacement.

I claim I'm not excited with my life any more, so I blame this town, this job, these friends. The truth is it's myself.

Distraction has been my preferred vice recently, where I have been opting for anything that keeps me from doing the things that I need to get on with, such as renovating my flat or moving forward with Operation: XLONZ, not to mention all of the other crazy projects that I come up with each day. Maybe I'm waiting for the new year. Maybe I'm a lazy bastard. Maybe I'm just biding my time.

By the way, what else does one "bide"? Does that verb work with anything else? I will need to bide about that and get back to you.

I'm trying to understand myself and pinpoint where I am. When I finally get it figured out, I've change the whole damn plan.

When Alexis and I were still living in Aberdeen, probably 9 years ago, we sat down one night and made a list of where we wanted to be in one year, as well as five years into the future. My items were either music or work-related, and I eventually accomplished all of them, as my plans weren't too far-fetched, at least in my personal sense of what was achievable. Kinda sad, really, even though I should probably feel proud or something. Nope, doesn't work.

What about now? Well, I have one major project that I fantasize about every single day, but it has yet to come to fruition, due to all of the biding that I've been up to. Whilst I bide, I think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think. And think.

I've changed my mind so much I can't even trust it. My mind changed me so much I can't even trust myself.

Think.Plan.Think.Plan.Think.

20071204 ^up

Khaya - Death 2 Numbers
Let's get something straight, right now. Khaya are the most important band to have ever come out of Edinburgh, which says a lot because they dis-banded a few years ago. Although it's impossible to remember how the subject came up, I actually had a discussion about this on Friday night in the pub, and two of my music scenester friends pretty much told me that I was talking absolute bollocks. No matter. This band had great songs, great albums, as well as a certain air of bitter/hopeful self-acknowledgement and self-destruction that made them relevant and believable. To me, relevance is key.

I wish I were FIRE!

The song Death 2 Numbers is the stand-out track on the last EP they released, mainly because it's both noisily manic and infectiously poppy, with merely a handful of lyrics that say so much with so little. Fucking bravo, Mr Dan Mutch. No one has done it better since Black Francis.

Just because there's no second verse doesn't mean it's not a song, Anna!

Now, let's talk about numbers, which are still very much alive.

The last week or so has seen me becoming obsessed with yet another new mathematical concept I came up with that will surely be forgotten about tomorrow, when I conclude that it doesn't really matter to anyone else, in the grand scheme of things. Do you care about explosive root precision ratios? I thought not. However, it's basically something that could be used as a basis for general information storage methods, whether it be computer file sizes or DNA, but I don't feel the need to find a practical use. I search for beauty in simplicity, through numerical form. That shit gets me hot. I can't help it.

Something odd happened to me this weekend. The views of a person, writing something very similar to my own thoughts on the nature of the universe, made me question how I really felt, deep down, in my heart. The latest issue of New Scientist (Vol 195, No 2621) has a cover story written by MIT physicist Max Tegmark about the reality of numbers. He basically argues that our philisophical notions, from a purely human standpoint, based on what we can observe and rationalise, obstruct our understanding of the universe around us. As the followers of Pythagorean ideas already knew 1500 years ago, everything is number (although we have no reason to fear the irrationals, such as the square root of 2, which drove those fuckers crazy).

It's likely that Tegmark's "mathematical universe hypothesis" didn't sit well with me because it was so fucking obvious and didn't deliver the goods. OF COURSE he's right, but he's not telling us anything that is of any relevance, other than some generalistic, over-arching notion. As you already know, relevance is key.

Just because I was wondering doesn't mean I didn't know in my heart.

Even if Khaya wanted to wish death upon numbers, I'm not holding it against them. They matter to me, and numbers matter to me, and if I'm lucky in this life, what matters to me is relevant to others and will have an impact on the future of humanity.

I just wish everyone had the same delusions of grandeur. Maybe I also wish that I were fire, to light a flame under the asses of others.

20070918 ^up

The Apples In Stereo - Sunndal Song
Today, I have decided to take the Sorry Bus. As you can see from the photo, its destination is "Sorry". The last time I came across this magic vehicle, about 9 months ago, it was driving down Queen Street in Glasgow, but I was too slow to capture it with the camera on my trusty mobile phone. I've thought about its importance continuously ever since. Today, however, the bus appeared just when I needed it.

I've been a bit of dick to a lot of people over the last month or so. My head has been stuck too far up my own arse to be any use to anyone. Thank the Good Lord (TM) that I started back to work today because it put me in a much better mood than I had been previously. This could be down to the introduction of structure in my daily life, or maybe it's due to the need to interact with other human beings rather than sit alone and curse myself for being such a pathetic bastard. So it goes. I'll take whatever works.

Anyway, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. As much as I hate saying that, being that these are generally the words of a person who says just enough to get by, just enough to smooth things over until the next time he needs to utter the hollow, useless whispers of nothings for yet another reason. Apologies shouldn't be necessary, as far as I'm concerned. How we live our lives and how we treat others should guarantee that, from the onset.

And so when you're down, I'll lift you up, I'll be the one who's always sure of where you are and all the things you need to know.

So, what song are they playing on the Sorry Bus, you may ask? Well, this one, of course. It acts as a reminder of the importance of the people you care about, as well as those who give a damn about you.

This song is so fucking happy that it makes me want to burst right here and now into a million tons of multi-coloured confetti to cover the entire planet (in an eco-friendly way, of course).

And when you're tired and think the moon forgot to shine on you, you'll see. Just wait for me to show you.

Just wait for me to show you! I promise that it won't take too long.

20070903 ^up

Pictures From America: Part II
Planes smell a lot like hospitals. I guess it's fitting because the combination covers bringing one into the world, taking one around the world and finally taking one out of the world. One is very busy, it seems. Whenever people are in either, we tend to have a lot of time in which to think. Let's just say that I've been in hospitals and on planes a lot over the last two months.

My sister recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy named Grayson. You see, her middle name is Gray, and had the baby been a girl, she would have been Gracie. It's basically an old school Scandinavian naming convention, and I like it. There is now another human being on th