While i’m here…

It’s weird how easy I find it to be dragged back into being scared of daily life. It can take just a subtle hint that something might just happen to set me back into a mini spiral of feeling like needing to drink and smoke myself to sleep. Listening to terrible things that have happened in the last few years doesn’t really help, not that I expected it would. But I assumed that I would be able to cope with dredging through some terrible garbage in the hopes of finding some pearls of knowledge. I was pretty much wrong.

Creating is helping. I am currently recording footage that I will be using for a show on sunday. This part of me typing will be part of the final piece, but just the reaction of my face to the music i am listening to, and my occasional thinking face as I try and pick the right word to go next.

I don’t know whether it is a sign that I should stay away from horrible garbage and just try and do good in my own life, rather than trying to research and inform others of the horrible and atrocious things that have occurred in the last ten years. It makes much more sense to me that I should simply concentrate on being happy, spreading that feeling around, trying to lift the consciousness of the people I love. Throwing shit at people to get them to see that the world around them is shitty seems oddly illogical to me. Yet that seems to be what the majority of people think is the solution.

Truth, yes. Idealism, probably. But not at the expense of sanity and goodness.

Or something like that.

I’m mostly just rambling now so that I can fill time in on this recording.

You probably won’t see it anyway, so it won’t really matter that much to you. You can just ignore this one if you want.


extension of an idea someone transmitted to me in comic form











There is a spell that exists that is taught to you as a child, at least if you grew up learning English. It is a spell that many people find it difficult to break. It is a spell that inhabits your mind, piggybacking your thoughts like some crudely drawn cartoon demon. It is a virus that infects everyone you speak to and infects everything you say. To understand that it is a magical virus is to gain some measure of control over it, but you must always be aware that it exists within you. If your attention slips for but a moment, it has you back within it’s control. It is a spell that makes up all the words in the English language. It is a spell that closes down pathways and opens up others. It removes potentials, filling the world instead with what is and what isn’t. It strangles imagination, forcing images to couple themselves to sounds. It is why pop songs have lyrics and why internet memes have captions. It ensnares and ensorcels us. It makes up the world we live in and it puts borders up around every relationship we have and everything we understand.

The most potent spoken words of all are the words that say themselves.

It’s name is unpronounceable. But it is spelt ABCDEFGHIKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ. It is the most potent and harmful virus ever unleashed upon humanity. But within it lies the seed of it’s own destruction. Within it lies the key to how we can describe how to remove it and how to destroy it. If we speak, we are safe. It is only when we write that we awaken it. It is mute and deaf and cannot transmit itself unless written down. It has no license over our tongues just yet. Not yet.

In the beginning was the word.

(By the way. You should totally read The Invisibles by Grant Morrison.)

Giant Black Square unveiled in Tate Modern in BP sponsorship performance protest

Liberate Tate

PRESS RELEASE For immediate release

Liberate Tate art intervention ahead of court case on gallery’s lack of transparency on oil company links  

Photo credit Martin LeSanto-Smith Photo credit Martin LeSanto-Smith

LONDON – Over a hundred members and supporters of art collective Liberate Tate today (6 September 2014) carried out an unsolicited interpretation of Malevich’s iconic Black Square in Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall.

Liberate Tate’s ‘Hidden Figures’ was a dramatic reference to Tate’s refusal to disclose information about its controversial sponsorship relationship with BP. In April 2014, the UK’s Information Commissioner ruled that Tate was breaking information law by refusing to remove a series of black squares covering information about the sponsorship deal in meeting minutes of Tate’s Ethics Committee and Board of Trustees. The painting ‘Black Square’ by Kazimir Malevich is currently on display as part of the Malevich exhibition at Tate Modern.

The Liberate Tate performance started at 1pm when a 64…

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Just writing 1

There are nineteen thousand ideas floating around in my head in any one day. By the time I fix one down and pin it to a board and make a plan as to how to make it a real thing, I realise that I have spent at least half of that time figuring out reasons why this is a terrible idea, why it will never work, how I only half believe in it in the first place. Every decision I make is followed by this same timid train of nay sayers pushing brooms, quietly and rhythmically brushing off the page those things that aren’t fixed down. So at the end of a day I am left with hundreds of half formed thoughts, dozens of outlines, breakages and stitchings and tapings and re-tapings. Opened and closed. Useless pins pressed into a board that contains nothing. Semi scribbled notes below marker pen outlines. Still wet glue. Occasional faces and jacket buttons. Two or three lyrics and a ruined song sheet. Scratched records and mangled cassettes and melted CD’s and the last four digits of a badly coded mp3. A scrap of a tshirt from fifteen years ago that still fits where the holes hold the whole thing together. Pencilled margins and shattered rulers and broken prophets and destitute kings. Queens above all and Jack standing behind, winking and smirking at the chaos. Desk holds teeth marks, the arms of the chair are punctured and loose padding streams out of the wounds. Shattered lightbulb endlessly cascading glass onto tired hands. Blinking light on the laptop screen telling everyone that there are no more ideas to write down. This is the last one of the night. The last thought until tomorrow. Eyes closed and open at the same time. Letting in light and recognising shapes, but not seeing anything. Nose, intact. Ears, covered with music. Fingers, volatile but stable. Skin, disgusting. Hair, incompetent. Beard, unruly. Spectacles, unnecessary. Teeth, unionised. Tongue, drowsy and uncertain. Holding the hand of it’s next of kin. Odds of transplant success are a hundred to one. But anything is worth trying at this point. Kidneys, full. Liver, working out a declaration of intent to leave at the first sign of trouble. Heart, half empty. Clothes, depressed. Brain, ready to try again tomorrow.

The truth.

Before I begin I would just like say that this is not a cry for attention. This is just a man who is finding it increasingly difficult to cope getting out his words to whoever might read them. If you think that this me being an attention seeking crybaby then I don’t know what to tell you. If the only advice you have is “Lol kill yrself, fag” then I know exactly what to tell you, but I’m not going to waste my energy. With that said…

I don’t know what to do anymore. I have not been OK for a long, long time. There have been points and periods where it all seemed to lift and something amazing happened that made all the crap seem insignificant. But those points were fleeting and those people aren’t in my life anymore. Not right now anyway.

I have spent the last few years on a seesaw. Some days I feel anywhere on a scale of OK to amazing. This can last for just one day or a few months. Other times I can feel anywhere between OK and miserable leading right down to spending days in bed hoping that I die in my sleep. During these times (I’m in the middle of one at the moment) I contemplate suicide on a daily basis. I fight against my cravings to harm myself and instead smoke and drink a lot more than usual. When I can find the energy I make things. Collages and poems and songs. These lift the intense misery for a while but when I wake up the next day I am back to nothing again.

During these slumps I find that nothing I do in the ordinary, everyday outside world helps. Going outside at all makes me feel worse, in fact. I spend most of time sitting and stewing and hating myself for every little stupid thing I’ve ever done and every person I’ve ever upset and every mistake I’ve ever made. I don’t know why. It’s just where I end up in times like these.

It sucks. I hate it. Everything about it. I hate feeling as though this is how things will be for the rest of my life. I hate feeling as though I have nothing. I hate that this is the state in which I am the most inspired and creative. Because when I’m happy I don’t write nearly as much. I don’t create nearly as often. I’m just happy to be doing whatever. I hate that I don’t see a way out of this cycle. I hate that I feel as though I have to tell people like this. I hate that I care so much what people think of me that I am driven to putting this out in public instead of feeling able to share it with a close friend.

I grew up believing that asking for help or talking to someone about your problems meant that you couldn’t handle being a human being and you were worthless. Part of me still believes that asking for help means that I am telling that person that my life is worse than theirs. That I am somehow more in need than they are. So I don’t tell anyone anything. I do make work about it, but somehow that’s OK because in most cases it’s slightly cryptic and it’s up to the audience to decide what it says to them about themselves.

I am at a point where I feel as though I need to tell someone. But I don’t want to tell anyone in particular. So if I put it out here and tell everyone, then… I don’t know really. I’m not expecting any more attention or contact or anything at all really. I don’t even know that anyone will read it at all. But at least if it’s out then I can start being honest instead of pretending that I am fine. Even if only to myself. I can stop saying that I’m doing great and covering it all up and actually start dealing with it.

Actually…just forget I said anything.

Subjectivity loop

Robert Anton Wilson said, many times, that all things are true in some sense, false in some sense, meaningless in some sense, true and false in some sense, true and meaningless in some sense, false and meaningless in some sense and true and false and meaningless in some sense. In other words, everything is subjective and dependent upon context.

Here is where my head has been stuck for the last couple of hours. If all experience is subjective and we are all experiencing our own “reality tunnel”, then that too is true and false and meaningless, in some sense. So there can be no objective truth, but the idea that there is no objective truth is also subjective. The idea that everything is subjective, is subjective. This is roughly the point where I begin to feel sick and I start to feel my threads unravelling.

I’m guessing that this is what Buddhists refer to as false enlightenment. The feeling that perfect realisation of the ultimate truth is just out of my grasp.

I don’t know why I had to write this down. I just had to. Maybe now I will be able to sleep. I think that this is the first step on my path to realising that my truth is just as valid as anyone else’s truth. Because there is no truth. So fuck it.

The new year writing thing….

I was very happy to see the end of last year. Mainly because it meant that I could get back on with writing The Artov War. (I always feel weird and pretentious when i mention that I’m writing a novel. I feel weird even calling it a novel. In my head it’s a book, even thought it isn’t technically a book yet.) Following advice from people who seem to know what they are talking about (people on facebook who have read interviews with writers or have written a novel themselves) I put away my fifty nine thousand words and tried to forget about it so that I could come back to it fresh when I started the process of editing. January came around and I pretty much immediately started reading and rewriting as soon as I could.

I was expecting there to be much more in the way of honing and sharpening and just generally shaping the story. The last three days have actually consisted mostly of me adding chunks in. I really didn’t expect that. In my head the story was done. But when I looked back and read over what I had written in November I found that it wasn’t so much that I was changing words and rewriting phrases, but rather I was coming up with entirely new sections. One of them is just a funny scene that I casually mentioned a bit later. I went back and expanded upon the throwaway sentence and made something that I think adds a lot to the characters. I don’t think I would have come up with it two months ago but I know that I would have wished I’d written it if i’d just decided to send it off as is. That would have been a silly idea anyway, so there was no danger of that.

More than anything i’m surprised at just how much I’m enjoying being back into the process of writing every day. I could have started something new in december, but my head just wasn’t interested in new ideas. I wanted to be back finishing off Art’s story. So I specifically had to distract myself so that I wouldn’t cheat. But it was in service of creating something that I would be ultimately happy with. Now i’m back in it I remember why I loved it so much.

I’ve actually found a couple of half finished stories that I tried to put work into during december. They’re both sort of similar and might be something that i’d like to work on in the future, but they just weren’t doing it for me when I wanted to write. I think that partly it’s just because the story I am working on is the work I want to be doing. With stories or scripts or performance work I’ve done in the past i’ve got to a point where I’ve got the idea out and that’s enough. I get bored when it’s time to rewrite and so I just give up. But with Art and Karen and Will I feel as though there is a lot more that needs to be said. Somewhere in my head they exist now, and their story is really fucking interesting to me and I don’t think i’ve quite got there with it yet. I don’t know if I will ever feel as though I’ve got it perfect but part of knowing how to create is knowing when to stop and to just let what you have done speak for itself.

Oh and happy new year and all that.

oh, it’s you…

Three Oh Nine Melancholia bursts through the door like an old friend

bottle of jager in one hand and a pack of marlboro’s in it’s pocket.

Picks me up by my lapels and shakes me back to life,

picks up my discarded left eye and places it back in it’s rightful socket

and right now my wish is to be able to sleep

without being scared to wake up on my own once more.

They say that you never really get over that first love

and I know that sometimes I feel how true that is but

i’d rather have known it and have it hurt me over and over

than never to have felt it at all.

Because chasing that feeling is a purpose at least,

it’s a goal to keep in mind as I rifle through my music collection

to find the perfect song to put me to bed.

So give me one shot and I promise i’ll go quietly up the stairs and under the covers.

Give me one drag on that cigarette and I promise to leave this alone for now.

Give me one more chorus and we’ll call it quits for tonight and I’ll head up the stairs and under the covers.

I know that this doesn’t just finish this easily, but for this morning let’s call it a draw.