Sunday, 7 October 2018

Monlogue - from Hopeless Vibrato

MARTIN: I am Martin Costello - Hater of Paedophiles. For the last few months my daughter’s been softly tugging on my arm asking about higher education. Obviously I’m a very busy man what with leafleting and the little plastic gloves they use cost a penny each but we could be waste them on or at maybe ten pounds a glove! etc. For a while I paid it little attention thinking this was a soft phase which would pass her by and maybe leave her feeling really stupid when it all turns out to be make believe. Unbeknownst to me, however, she’d sent off UCAS applications. She received three unconditional offers which I was bloody well expected to be proud about when the little rubber fingers not fit properly a bloody disgrace at ten pounds each a glove! So I did my homework. I’d heard all about these “Universities”, snowflake replicators. Parsons Extruded Remoaners. I checked the list of courses available and to my surprise there wasn’t a single one listed as a “Social Justice” course. Perhaps Sargon’s petition had actually worked! Next I checked to see if there were any bloody well Paedos. There were two convicted staff members. Doddery old white professors. Not much of a grooming gang if you ask me. I ignored them. For once I felt my conception softly inch itself towards the door like grandparent fingers unwrapping my fingers, peeling them out of the little plastic gloves they have. My daughter. My deal. My taxes. I left myself at the door and flew back home with the leaflets. The sun let itself shiver through the curtain. My heart rate monitor. No daughter of mine. No.



The above is from a long theatre / poetic monologue piece I'm working on. The working title for the performance is "You Will Live Today", with the internal monologue under the title Hopeless Vibrato. 

There's a new Binnsclagg E.P. here for you to listen to, if you like that type of thing: Binnsclagg - Fly Away Peter Fly Away Paul

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Friday, 5 October 2018

News! Gossip! Books! OMG!

THE NEWS



Hi there.

There's loads of exciting published matter that you should go and buy immediately.

First of all look at these wonderful objects from Boiler House Press!


New collections from Nar Raha, Sophie Robinson, Francesca Lisette and Marcus Slease. All of these poets are doing incredible work. I'm also mad about boilers and gorgeous printed matter.

I may try and review these as a set. You can pre-order them here (out on November 5th):

(funded) Boiler House

And look what's new from Sad Press:


Stoked to see new work from Imogen Cassels and Naomi Weber. They can be got here:

Sad Press

I have a new book out on Pilot Press. Also any day now you'll be able to get A Queer Anthology of Rage. Here:

Pilot Press

Timothy Thornton's In Skyscraper Dawn has just dropped on The Winter Olympics Press. Solid banger.

The Winter Olympics

There's a new Press in town run by three absolute Baberaham Lincolns. A book is out by Calliope Michail, which is excellent. This is a press which supports writers and has good politics. It is here:

https://www.the87press.com/

I've made a Patreon page because I have very little money at the moment but I'm working really hard and I want some new cardigans. If you'd like to support me in my life you can do so. I will send you treats and stuff.

Help This Nervous Slow Worm Live its Best Life


GOSSIP / OMG


So the TOTALLY gorgeous poet known under Francis Crot, Pochahontis Mildew, Axle Prose, Jowself Walton etc. has only gone and landed a job at Sussex which mean's he's in the same town as me. The other week a group of us had a little intimate reading in the upstairs of our local and it was GORGEOUS. Totally. So like, we should do another but with Walton in the room. 

OMG me and Joe Luna are both at the University of Surrey now! Surrey is known as Britain's Patio!

Keston Sutherland and Stephen G. Rhodes have an exhibition on in the back of a vape shop on Western Road in Hove. It's right by me and Dolly's house so if you go give us a dot at verityspott@gmail.com and maybe we can go for a cup of tea. Here's a like to that: We Get it You Vape

Come to the next Hi Zero too. Hi Zero 64. There's going to be a Nat Raha, a David Grundy and a Gizem Okulu. It'll be a madness!

Speaking of which I'm a bit worried that Ally Law might be in prison or something. His YouTube account has been pretty quiet of late. I know he's meant to be on tour doing Madnesses every day. Lord be with you, Ally and your pals.

I'm not sure who fancies who at the moment. If you know please drop me an email. I'm also trying to get back into the agony aunt business so please drop me an email with your problems, but be aware they will be published.

Cya. xx





Tuesday, 25 September 2018

Being Passionately Wrong - an Improvisation on Reactionary and Fascist Action

Hatred and Morality

Revisionist histories and mythologies don't always manifest in society as formal ontologies. In fact I think that often (and particularly in this moment) they share a lot of their oxygen with urban myths. One that I learned as I grew up was this - that though it may be horrible to comprehend Hitler and the Nazis would not have done what they did if they didn't think that they were in the right. A friend recently recommended that I read Jean-Paul Sartre's book 'Anti-Semite and Jew'. I've not been able to give the book my full attention yet, but there are two points I'd like to think through in this short improvised essay. First of all Sartre describes the Anti-Semite (fascist) impulse as a recourse to passion. I'll come back to this later. First I'd like to address this quotation with reference to current far right strategies in public and in the media.

“Never believe that anti-Semites are completely unaware of the absurdity of their replies. They know that their remarks are frivolous, open to challenge. But they are amusing themselves, for it is their adversary who is obliged to use words responsibly, since he believes in words. The anti-Semites have the right to play. They even like to play with discourse for, by giving ridiculous reasons, they discredit the seriousness of their interlocutors. They delight in acting in bad faith, since they seek not to persuade by sound argument but to intimidate and disconcert. If you press them too closely, they will abruptly fall silent, loftily indicating by some phrase that the time for argument is past.”

If you spend any time watching right wing groups on YouTube (whether they define themselves as Identitarian, Free Speech Activists, Populists etc.) you will have seen a lot of instances of them framing arguments as having "owned" or "destroyed" an opponent. They will often have titles such as "Libtard Snowflakes Get Owned - Compilation". The term comes from gaming culture - and it is no coincidence that it mirrors in our present moment the fallout of the "gamergate" scandal - and it is used to denote a straight up victory; an irrefutable outcome. In gaming culture this might happen in a grudge match where two players play head to head, each having bragged that they were the better player. Because of what the ending looks like it never actually ends. Rarely does one gamer say "fair enough, I was owned" and gracefully leaves the lobby. Usually the owning is followed by accusations of cheating, hacking, camping or any form of foul play that might unfairly sway the outcome for the more skilled player. The arguments are based around technical skill but really owning or ownage is a rhetorical device, and that's why it's attractive to people who are knowingly illuding truthful representations of the world they inhabit.

Sartre describes the remarks of anti-semites as "frivolous". This is a violent descriptor. The voices of those that would create a hostile environment, who would enact or encourage violence against an entire race are "frivolous", I.E. throw away. As in the case of ownage the scheme of the anti-semite's argument (in Sartre's configuration) is based in their most pressing ontological axiom: That the end of philosophy is found in the defeat of the adversary. Where is the moral argument? Surely these people are conservatives bent on the preservation of a set of values that is under threat. If that is the case then the reactionary does what they do thinking that it is right. We should be careful here not to assume that there isn't a moral basis in their method but we also need to take into account the role of the vanguard. The first into battle. Professional contrarians in our culture - figures like Milo Yiannopoulos, Katie Hopkins or perhaps one of the most pertinent examples of the symptom I'm trying to Describe, namely Luke Nash Jones (of the Make Britain Great Again movement) are tasked with paving the way for figures with real power - figures like Donald Trump to ascend. The Trump campaign's main voice was not his own, but rather his army of outspoken media personalities who worked to spread disinformation, stir up untapped passions and infect a (nominally) disenfranchised public with the reassurance that there were nameable enemies who could bare the destruction of a new regime. That isn't to say that Trump himself and his administration do not embody these ideas and strategies. It is simply the case that Trump is a business man who is happy not to pay his unofficial interns to do whatever work it is needs doing on his behalf. The character of this movement is not a moral one. Quite the contrary, it is one that openly and explicitly states "I don't give a fuck about morals". It is a movement whose assurances are built upon the cathartic allowance of hatred and on the rise of the budding amateur who in a few weeks can become (the reactionary dreams) a monetised online voice dictating passion against those they do not understand and abjectly detest.

*

First Analysis - 'Make Britain Great Again' demonstrate in London

When right wing sentiment accelerates it begins to divest itself of moral characteristics. It will soon discover that, say, its recourse or lip service to a version of Christianity or traditionalism in fact on some level holds it back. It may try to ignore the teachings of Christ that sit uncomfortably alongside its end goals but eventually they become manifest through some dissident priest or other. A few weeks ago a group affiliated with the Make Britain Great Again movement were wandering around London after their protest against Facebook. The protest had been a demand for free speech on the platform. I'm sure you're familiar with the demand for free speech. Returning again to Sartre: "They even like to play with discourse for, by giving ridiculous reasons, they discredit the seriousness of their interlocutors. They delight in acting in bad faith, since they seek not to persuade by sound argument but to intimidate and disconcert.". The demand for free speech is this tactic. It ordains a mythological right with power above anything else and petulantly demands what is already owns. A kind of primitive situationism which shares its motivation with a megaphone antagonist goading the police in city centres or somebody obstinately and deliberately farting again and again in a Library. I want to draw attention to this group and the actions of that day because it demonstrates the rationale or lack thereof implicit in their spoken demands contradicted by their words and actions once passion takes hold.

Linked here is video footage of their protest earlier that day: London Protests Against Facebook Ban of Alex Jones InfoWars, Avi Yemini, and MBGA. The protest is fairly quiet. A spokesman talks to passers by about their cause and he is being fairly ecumenical. He's presenting what he imagines to be the reasonable face of an argument. The mood changes when Martin Costello (UKIP) and Luke Nash Jones take to the microphone at the rally after the march. There is something a little dilapidated about these two activists which it is difficult to pin down. I think that a part of it is a certain manner of speech. Both often address their comrades in a slightly anxious manner. Martin Costello stumbles over falsehoods wrapped up in moral consternation:

"We know how... What a pain the BBC are. Erm, they get funded by the EU as we know. They're just a complete menace to democracy. Erm, and it's time that the... the TV License was completely axed for one thing."

It's not a strong start to the "great lineup of speakers". In a sense it seems laughable. However, what is laughable in it is the tragedy of the ease of falsehood. Nothing needs explaining or elaborating. No evidence of EU funding, of the violence of (non compulsory) TV Licence payments. It is evil. It is an enemy. It is jammed in our throats. And without further ado "Mr. Luke Nash Jones!" He begins his speech by graphically describing the execution of William Tyndale which took place in order to "stop people understanding things" and "who really runs the world" and "how we're being lied to". He posits that since then "nothing has changed". "Those who see the truth; those that take the red pill are shut down". Here is the monolithic violence of liberalism as Nash Jones sees it: Social media companies are literally throttling and burning Alex Jones at the stake at a public place of execution just for spreading libel (see Jones' comments on the Sandy Hook massacre to assess the kind of 'free speech' at stake here). I won't take apart the whole speech. Needless to say the spectres of Cultural Marxism (a conspiracy theory détourned from Joseph Gobbles' 'Cultural Bolshevism' conspiracy theory weaponised in the Nazi's rise to power), clumsy Orwell references and the obligatory callback to V for Vendetta (mask held aloft).

The speeches go on and on lurching spasmodically between callbacks to traditional values, liberal values, attacks on individuals (the retired professional footballer turned crisp ambassador Gary Lineker comes up a few times) and conspiracy theories that trace their way back to the end of the first world war to name but a few. Tensions are not high. Nobody outside of the group is taking much notice. There seems to be a libidinal strain. As the formal speeches end people begin shouting more aggressively, as though the act of performing a peaceful demonstration was a form of chastity for the participants. A devotion the a certain presentation of a cause that perhaps hasn't yet (for them at that moment) been allowed to enjoy its orgasmic potential - the enemies aren't attacking them.

It's presumably after a drink in the pub that we find the group reassembled outside Bookmarks, a left wing bookshop. The mood has certainly altered. A shrill cameraman starts shouting "oi look that's an antifa place! That's the antifa flag!" Here's what happens next: Far Right Fascists invade and trash Bookmarks Bookshop, London

It would take a long time to weigh the logical contradictions in this video against the speeches made earlier. What I'm interested in is not the particulars of the logical breakage (e.g. attacking Gramsci who was surely more a political prisoner than Tommy Robinson and Alex Jones though less than William Tyndall or else the absurdity of attack a bookshop and its context in the name of free speech) but rather the speed at which the supposed motives of the day and the movement in general drop away in the excitement of action - in the enactment of sheer passion. After a fairly lackluster demonstration with a poor turnout and no tangible opposition suddenly here is an enemy. Here is the prey. The narrator of the video is particularly gleeful accusing the owner of the bookshop of being a paedophile and grabbing books at random shouting "what the fuck is that?". At this point there is nothing left but hatred of the supposed enemy. This enemy was too big to attack when it was the secure BBC but here is another manifestation. A tiny independent bookshop selling books that we haven't read and that we don't like.

The video was posted by the group whilst they were still living in the afterglow of their shrill orgy. It was removed soon afterwards when UKIP (whose acceleration crested some time ago and is now tempered by a strategic moderate facade) suspended three members who took part in the action. Luke Nash Jones then released a video statement disavowing his comrades and disassociating himself from all responsibility whilst he can be clearly seen on video coordinating every part of what happened. Truth in retrospect remains perpetually fluid, "I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir".

*

Second Analysis - Elem Kimov's 'Come and See' (Russian - Иди и смотри)

Obey all orders. All is order and discipline.

Right wing thought does not engender order. The Wehrmacht stormed through Europe crazed on methamphetamine, cocaine and morphine - drunk and bold. The invasion of Poland caused one of the greatest traffic jams on record, the cavalry at the front.

Right wing thoughts - thoughts of the self that betray the self. Thoughts that populate their worlds with morals; those morals tempted by the ambition and will of the self. Strength. Satisfaction. Above all passion.

In the Soviet war drama Come and See there is a scene that absolutely embodies the taught contradiction between the ideologies of fascist moralism and its terminal recourse to absolute passion. The scene opens with a kind of rampage in a village. Nazi soldiers on motorbikes and crowded on trucks, some running alongside. They are herding civilians who are led to believe they are being relocated. The narrator, Florya, stares aghast and shouts to the people, warning them that they are being sent to their deaths. This becomes very obvious. One of the German soldiers grabs Florya screaming and laughing "I'll teach him!" The drunken drug crazed soldiers insist on taking papers in spite of the fact they are blowing away left right and centre. A corpse tied to a door balanced on top of a motorcycle sidecar. A German officer lecturing an imagined audience. A private holding up a portrait of Hitler. A soldier climbing merrily into the church, batting away the doves nesting in the tower.

An announcement comes from a speaker: "Germany is a civilised country". The announcement continues stating that those entering Germany will need toiletries. After the people have heard this they are forced to go inside a wooden church. The soldiers begin to celebrate around the church - it becomes the centre of their spectacle. They sing and dance and eventually start throwing grenades into it. Soon there is a frenzy of cruelty. A young girl dragged by her hair, the soldier dragging her stops to light a cigarette before continuing her torture. Florya is dragged into the middle of a photoshoot, an officer holding a gun to his head. When the photo is taken they leave him on the ground.

At one point one of the most libidinal and crazed Nazis is mistakenly locked in the church. He shouts (at the people he is about to incinerate) "Let me go you shunks! I'm the police!". A moral treaty to the dead. Next an officer in the spire of the church shouts in Russian "Quiet! The meeting is open. Who wants the floor?" Then a face at the window. "Those without kids can leave through the window. Leave the children here". Florya climbs through the window. The cost of his life is to watch the slaughter.

The church is burned to the ground and Florya falls on his face in the smoke outside, having survived by becoming somehow invisible. The procession - the carnival marches on, having sacked, raped and pillaged. Civilisation restored.


The moral is insisted into a reckoning of terror. The relationship between moralism, its will and the passionate outcome. It becomes clear that nobody here believes that what they are doing is right. What is believed by the perpetrators of extreme violence in these scenes is the sheer enjoyment of that violence and the weakness of its victims.

*

Passion as it is found here is not poetic passion, passion for knowledge or even passion for religion. It is the passion of the foot soldier; the vanguard who do not care specifically for the outcome of their actions but merely that the actions themsleves take place. It is a sexual passion for the immediate gratification of owning, of destroying, of having won even though that winning might be nothing more than maleficent self gratification on its terminal course to the long knives of the next stage; but in Come and See we clearly recognise that rather than ascending to any type of utopia the violence simply occurs again and again as ideology rises on the shoulders of latest foot soldiers and their victims. 







Thursday, 1 March 2018

Snow

for Kesh.

26th - 27th February 2018.

For I have seen love
and his face is choice Heart of Hearts,
a flesh of pure fire, fusing from the center
where all Motion is one.




It started to snow at midday, maybe somewhere after
why there refused to be snow for so many years  and now
it’s hanging in the sky and I came downstairs to see
the snow and I met it with my toes and with very few flakes
at stretches apart and a cyclist glared as I ran after one and the air
was ringing with you, how it impossibly felt like a world under
the hand under the eye and the skin itself was my skin your skin
full of snow and water bumps us up and tossed to the fish
to the porthole. It upended it started it goes out of nothing for
if you, we, claw; for I have seen his face, a voice or that exacting
curve from cheek to eye of in our minds what isn’t
able to go or an unobtainable exit dangling in the sky. To one
another now it is still there the rising and falling the flakes the
accidental winning, remember when we accidentally won the
quiz but we were all and it was summer. And it was still the
end of summer still near enough that it was warm and sitting
outside of it. None of this rising and falling they have now
from Russian air I see the toadstools and the swallowtail and
the ropes and fledgeling bulkheads. Now there is no you only
the rising and dipping motion impossible not to simply stare
and if it is, if there is hell to get into its memory drifts back
and up in the order of relentless suns, waves, portholes,
collapsing into our arms they were waiting for your body’s
commencement in motion, down and outwards your soft
falling body. I want someone like the powder it is up and
varied to come and destroy this collapsing chain of snow it is
how welcome could a thing like this be as it collapsing in pain
and in the light, in the rising and falling light that is coming
in the morning, coming gently onto the surface of the world
and remaining. I want to know that this snow will never
finish until the whole of the world is gone to its gentle
shoulder. Now it starts to go, it’s all melting and all
there is is wanting. Wanting nothing more than for nothing
to ever have to melt again until everything at last is covered.

Saturday, 30 December 2017

Morals! I Believe in Evil. Love Will Overcome Hate. Bring Back Counterculture!!!!

Strange perceived triangulation of ideologemes that may be populating left consciousness.




1: The belief in evil.
2: The belief: "Love will overcome hate" / "Love conquers fear"
3: Countercultural nostalgia.


1 is now present in a similar way to, say, the frenzy of ignited passion directed at child killers (Thompson and Vennables) or school shooters - as in a belief that someone is somehow inherently evil opens the door to them being banned from our lives and our thoughts (this this is obviously unworkable and perhaps the action of banning is comes from a knowledge that them and whatever the deed that assigned them in us to the nomination 'evil' will be forever present, that we need a section to put them safely into) - that they must be stopped. This does not combat what they are doing, it refuses to question what violence is. It can help initially to comprehend and protect our trauma (this is a complicated motion. On the one hand the comprehension of horrific trauma as horrific, and to realistically say it is almost impossible to deal with. This is an initial comprehension of trauma where we are understandably overwhelmed. In this motion trauma becomes a protected category. Protection can render it almost permanent), but it is also in itself a symptom of trauma that will persist and will not be satisfied by fulfilling itself. When somebody acts against a moral code in situation of diminishing returns it is one thing to want them to not be present, to not be putting others in danger. It is quite another to consciously or unconsciously begin to believe that the individual is completely evil. This is a thing which happens to us. We can hate things without a belief in evil. The perceived contradiction is important.


2 is sometimes perhaps similarly a subset of trauma. It is a patch, and a very real hope. It is also subjectively abstract and is just as truthfully used by people who contain or believe in very different kinds of love - different ideals but who will recite their love against one another. Christian love conquers communist love, which is not love at all and vice versa. Again it is based on an abstraction, love as a precondition. It relies on the idea that if everything is stripped away there are certain human compulsions that are entirely kind. This is similar to modern comprehensions of Christianity wherein the characterisation of God as more human they actually are becomes more of a character(istic) and less of a human, less of something that is also us / inside us. God becomes unattainable. The question of our journey towards what may be fulfillment in them becomes an abstract request to a now emptying caricature. A relic God who is not God at all but a kind of symptom beyond God that doesn't work for anyone. A speeding destructive force where subjectivity is shortened and cut off. Prayers become erratic and non meditative. They become unpoetic - a simple unthought callback to an abstract hope rather than the practiced diligence of love or the unpracticed instance and ongoing improvisation of it: "love conquers fear - now I am terrified". Basically "love will overcome hate"  is made of fear and perhaps it is also afraid (unconsciously) of trying to let us work out or feel what love is or can be. Try saying "no it won't" or "no it doesn't" next time you hear it.


A very simple graphic of point one and point two might look like this:


I do not believe in evil.
Dick Cheney is not evil.
I am not able to love Dick Cheney.
Love conquers fear; I am terrified.


3 a callback to the "fuck you" / set apart 'otherness' of previous countercultural moments where subjects were way braver - a thousand times bold in the face of heavier oppression than we can now imagine. This is a historical myth, and it refuses to understand the way that hegemony eats culture. Most of the counterculture that is preserved for us is preserved because of the hegemony of dominant narratives or else because what it did became acceptable in place of the questions of acceptability it demanded being answered. In perfect contradiction the counterculturists and vanguardists argue that the 'culture of offense' (as some proponents codify their opponents on the left) are asking for too much acceptance from 'the mainstream'. This is because it is reassuring to be a part of a thing that isn't the thing you see as the thing you stand against. It is far more terrifying to consider what powers you come from, are subject to and that you in turn subject your world to. There are many contradictions inside ideas of counterculture (the most obvious being the 'inside' / 'outside' [or 'drop out'] paradigm, but it is important that whilst not throwing every single one of them into the shredder we ask questions of these very closely. It is also important within the comprehension of subject lives that we perhaps allow the fact that sometimes we are living inside a hobby. We are collecting, we are experiencing and chasing after enjoyment, which is okay. The overarching moralism that becomes attached to cultural artifacts at once deradicalizes them and establishes a historical persuation that, along with its militaristic metaphors and obsessional thrusting forward honestly wants taking to the fucking cleaners.



Here's Ellie to sing us out. Happy new year!!!!











Tuesday, 7 November 2017

The Bed Moved




I woke up a lot in the early hours, itching and feeling pretty rotten. I had diarrhea and had to keep getting up to void myself - that’s exactly the word for how it felt - voiding - unpacking. Like there was something horrible in me. We watched The Exorcist the other day. Very bad idea. I remember seeing it as a teenager and being creeped out by the noises in the attic but finding the rest of the film completely ridiculous. This time around, at thirty, I found it utterly terrifying. That daemon, Pazuzu. There’s something about it. I’ve got really messed up in my head about it, superstitious - as if by writing his name here I might somehow be inviting him in. Our house is full of ghosts, by which I mean lingering little troubles - I think that is to some extent what ghosts are; echoes that don’t seem to go away - our physical proximities crammed with repeated patterns that have to be comprehended often in exhaustion. You can be afraid of them and you can also speak to them. I have done both. There used to be this banging on the door. That was maybe eight years ago. I thought that was a daemon. It was so sudden and insistent. 

I woke up at around five and felt terrible. I do stupid things but somehow they work. I put a documentary about Stalin on and I drifted off. There is a moment when you realise it is working. When you notice that you’ve stopped listening to whatever it is and that you are thinking about something quite different. Your mind begins to perform for you and you know that sleep may well be on its way. I love that feeling. However, this time it was very deceitful. All those lines between dreams and wakefulness became scrambled and I had a dream where I was simply trying to sleep. I kept waking up inside it. At one point the bed had moved quite considerably and it was absolutely terrifying. 

My dear friend Elle and her boyfriend Jan live in a really nice little flat on Clarendon Villas. They are moving out of it soon. They have been dreaming about a disembodied voice telling them to lock the door. Their door has a Yale latch and a deadlock. They don’t use the latter. Several times they have woken up to find it tightly locked. Jan said that the last time this happened he thought he saw a man standing near to the door. The other night I was taking the rubbish out. We live in a flat up sixty eight steps in what would have once been the servant's quarters of a massive Regency townhouse. Historically one family would have occupied the building, now it’s divided into flats. The final staircase to our flat is narrower than the rest, which is spooky. Anyway, I went down all the steps with this bag of rubbish and opened the corroded bolt to the old coal cellar where we put our rubbish. As I turned round for a second I saw a face at the window of the basement flat behind me. I stared into the flat for a few seconds. The lights were off but I could tell that the huge room was empty. I ran up the stairs and all the way to the top of our square. This Halloween has done exactly what it said on the tin, or what perhaps I whispered into the tin. 




I am more or less okay with ghosts and I am aware that I romanticise them a lot. Actually I am really fond of them in many ways. Me and Timothy Thornton wrote a whole book of them, every poem was a ghost and each ghost was full of ghosts and had ghost friends to play ghostly games with. Daemons on the other hand, I renounce them in the name of Christ. That’s not a joke. I actually do that sometimes. I am really scared of them, which is like telling one of those awful columnists that you are offended by something they have written. 

The bed had shifted forwards by about a foot and to the left by about a foot and a half. There is a small wooden set of drawers on my side of the bed. I found them in the street one day. They have an American flag painted over them and I took them because they looked ridiculous and useful. Where the bed had moved the American Drawers were crammed in behind it so we couldn’t move it back. Dolly and I had to shift the room around get everything back in place. Whilst I got really frightened she remained quite calm and seemed to have quite an assurance about the nature of unexplained things. This is a trait of hers in waking life. Where I often become terrified she will see something brilliant going on or somehow embrace the nature of the mystery. We both have our panics but I think she has a greater grasp on not Daemons, or at least not letting Daemons invade and occupy, than I do. I suppose not having them drilled into you helps. I was still asleep, and this went over and over. When I was finally awake I was paralysed and sleep took me again and again some horrible nightmares. 

I woke up feeling sick. Had to void myself a few more times. I had a couple of hours to get to work but realised I probably had food poisoning or some other nastiness. Managed to call in sick and get cover, then I was sick and whilst that was happening I was convinced something was going to tap me on the shoulder. I’m not sure what else to say, but that at night I’m afraid to look in mirrors etc. and that I’ve been heavily drenched in the most obvious versions of ghosts all my life. Now they seem more apparent. No more spooky films for a while, young lady. 

Saturday, 7 October 2017

"I never said that I was Brave" pt3

(You might sleep, but you'll never dream
Onward! Progress! Or so it seems
And you might laugh, but you'll never smile
Come on in and waste away awhile)

It was hard to get to sleep last night. I was drunk and tired. I took myself home, took myself into my bed and lay there. There were sounds and expressions going back and forth through my head, through the air. I'd read every word you had written. I had tried to listen to it. There was a pit of despair in my stomach.

The body lay there. It had no words. The words do not exist. Everything is loaded. I bind you to love yourself. I bind you to your immaculate care. From doing harm to others. From doing harm to yourself.

The questions have lived in my body. They are my body. It lives underneath a microscope - in its self hatred and wrecked determinism. Its visibility is its own worst enemy. It was not put here for you - it was not put here against you. It was beaten. It was hidden. It was not an object of compassion. It broke under eyes. There were walls of eyes.

It never wished to become a theory. It never intended to hurt you. It had its life inside it forever. It kept it at bay. It never tried to stop you from speaking, even when your words were nails. Every movement it made - every sign, was the production of a question. It had you in its dreams.

It saw a small act of law as a tiny emancipation. Though it knew that the law was the enemy the law made a tiny but significant change and the body felt a tiny weight lift up. The law was in the air, under the ground, in our mouths and our hearts. No matter what we did it would hound us, bury us, coerce us.

(When dreams of rings of flowers fade and blur
Giving way to that familiar ill
Come over and part your soft white curtains
Where I'm waiting for you still)

It remembered how well dressed the moralists were when they opened the doors of the town hall and said "people of Austria, our identity is under threat." "Men of America, if you don't make a stand you will lose your jobs and your wives". These are the words of the custodians of law. They said "we need to have a fair and reasoned debate about the Jewish problem. The Jews are a threat to our identity. They are trying to infiltrate our spaces. They are unsafe." They said "womenfolk, your primacy is being threatened". All the while they enforced the primacy of women. They constrained women. They used their bodies against their bodies. They said "you are under threat." All the while those custodians of law were the threat. All the while the mind of the abuser was left unquestioned.

Bodies like this one became the icon of threat. They became abstract examples - they were subjunctive bodies. They were used to demonstrate what the custodians of the law might be allowing. They were made to be hypothetical. But listen, dear friend, listen to our weaponised bodies. Listen how they howl, how they are mocked and disassembled. Our bodies are united in their strategic capacities. I bind the law. I bind you, law. I bind you against causing harm to others. I bind you, law. I bind you to cause harm only to yourself.

And then you shocked me. You took a picture of a human being up onto a pedestal. You made an example of a human in pain. You questioned to essence of a human identity. A cold argument. Asked for a logical dissemination. I didn't think you could do that - become a custodian of the law. What would that spirit say? That immaculate compassion - the one who has seen into your heart beyond the tracts of laws and of bodies and of polarities. What would its words be? What would it make of these establishments of fixed icons? How will the spirit purge you into love? It was a coldness I had not heard in your heart before. I bind your heart against the cold.

The custodians of law threw wide the doors of the town hall. They set out the rules of engagement. They guided the voices of the people. Steered them away from their compassion. They taught their tongues to articulate their displeasure. They showed each other to the targets. They held up bodies in front of the people and said "these bodies are a threat". They said "these bodies are mentally ill". No one thought at this point about how the mentally ill should be treated. Their resolve became firm. The custodians of law said "these bodies want you to be silent. Look how they scream when we try to debate. See how their eyes are filled with hatred!"

(My stomach swears there's comfort there
In the warmth of the blankets on your bed
My stomach's always been a liar
I'll believe it's lies again)

Did you look into those eyes? Did you see what fear looks like? Did you really see hatred? "See how they do not want you to speak?" screamed the law, all the while the law kept the women in their seats, in their bridles. All the while the coercion of voices raged and hissed. The bodies on the platform were ready to take leave of this world. All the while the law whispered in the ears of the people. All the while the men looked on. All the while I bind you against the law, against coercion, against the formation of fixed polarities. All the while the bodies on the pedestal trembled and said "I bind you" through the dust in their mouths.

The bodies were photographed and examined. Their names were passed around. The discussion was the end of compassion. The law dismantled it. The law enforced and switched. The law crept into houses. I bind you to your love. I bind you against definition. I have no power. I do not exist.

The bodies in the air, their sound: "I do not exist. I do not exist. I do not exist. Only you exist. Only you exist. I do not exist." And the law fizzed, its subjunctive electricity. The spirit. The law. The sky. The body. The water. The fire. The wind. The chaos of the silent air.



(My Lord, how long to sing this song?
And my Lord, how much more of this pretending to be strong?
When she stands before your throne
Dressed in beauty not her own
All soft and small, you'll hear her call)