VII

Such a long time since the last post, I had to go back and check what number I was at.

Listening to podcasts of Stewart Lee moaning about twitter. My account's been dead for years now. Point is, I would share that fear, everyone knowing about you, or rather, everyone can know about you, but then I see the reality of it right here. Sure, everyone has access to what you publish on the internet, but the thing, the point, the big goddamn BUT, is, will they? Hell no. Consider people employ others to make sure they have friends and followers and likes, and think "how much effort am I making to make this stand out?" The best way to hide is probably to book a flight to Belgium, throw the ticket in a bin, steal a boat in the dead of night, row to the Outer Hebrides, and sit in a cave. The next best way is to just hang around in a huge crowd, acting normal, not attracting attention to yourself. The third is to be so ridiculous people feel the need to actively ignore you. I like to think this blog is a synthesis of the three, but that's hubris. If I haven't been clear enough yet, in the online fucking ocean, who is gonna try hunt you down, or even bump into you and pause.

It's almost a psychological necessity to be paranoid, to think you are being watched, but when it builds up too much, you just have to look at the numbers and breathe again. I am making no effort to make this at all evident. There may be a link to this on my facebook page (again, anyone I don't want to know about me isn't a friend on facebook, and who is gonna care when they see you in the physical world), but it's well hidden. After a year I remembered that the reason I wrote this was that I got a kick out the act, not the product. And it's more difficult for me to lose something that's online. And it doesn't clog up memory on my laptop. So why the hell not?

Topical/anachronistic quote of the week: "We say to pigs: Daddy, we will not be held to ransom. The people's law is lovelier than lovely.

VI

Allow me to introduce (or don't, it's your loss):

 Well, not so much the band as the owner of the hand in the photo. Ole's been a friend of mine for a couple of years, and is generally known for tornadoes of enthusiasm and excellent taste in music. He also happens to be a damn fine artist, designing album covers and drawing the kind of ghoulish creatures we all love (if "we" have any taste). This talented fucker has just started a blog, so go fetch: http://drawnrazor.blogspot.com/

Ole also introduced me to the Copenhagen punk scene, got me drunk on absinthe for the first time, and makes me feel bad for never having properly learned to skate.

V

In which I talk about crap as well as just talking it

This is my literature overload night. From what I hear, it's pretty common. So in search of some shite to soothe me, I came across this:


Bukowski, along with the band of bummers that is the Beats, is the kind of author I mentally belittle people for liking. For kicks, you know. But some days (such as today) I need to descend from the paper castle for air. And so the smell of H pie comes wafting along. On the one hand I don't think Bukowski is someone to be particularly admired, imitated or romaticised. But this sad fuck is voicing something I think every day, except he had the guts or arrogance to think he could do better. I usually put it down to my ignorance of contemporary literature of any kind (grand Franzen glasses theft aside), but damn, the shit's really flung about in carefully packaged heaps these dayse. Picked up one the other week, some magazine called Popshot. The name should have warned me.

So if anyone is reading this, and think you know better, hook me up to this word fountain I've missed. And by the way, I might not think much of it, but I actually do enjoy old Charlie B's work. I'm gonna have to work this out slowly...

IV

The Last Matter I'll Say Upon the Word

I have spoken to my dissertation supervisor, he is a Joyce expert. He admitted to me that he has never read FW from start to finish. His excuse: "That's not the point."

This isn't the point either:

III

Sense, or the Lack of It

i) Learning to Read FW; Ross Noble; Swallowing Pride


Lets face it, about 10 pages in, Finnegans Wake feels like being punched in the head with puns (shit, that should've been "pun-ched"). I'm about 125 pages in now, and am starting to regain some feeling in my face. Because the thing that actually makes FW problematic is not the book itself, but the aura of evil impenetrability that other people have surrounded it with. Sure, it's different, but fuck, man, it's funny! Once you understand this all the dread disappears and you start to get it. The same way you get "The Jabberwocky" or Ross Noble's verbal meanderings. Why is something that is both nonsensical and understandable at the same time so funny? Hell knows, but the point is always to flow with it, allow yourself to drift with it and pick up its internal logic. But even so, if you want to tackle FW, you may as well do yourself a favour and pick up a copy of Campbell and Robinson's A Skeleton Key to Finnegans Wake. Initially it felt like cheating, but it's good to have around at that page 10 panic. I mostly just read the short summaries of each chapter at the beginning of the Skeleton Key, just as I would read the Argument of Paradise Lost or the Iliad. Anyway, just stop worrying and learn to love the pun-bomb.

ii)

I love the barefacedness of this trailer. I'm a big fan of trash of all types, but especially when it so ridiculously disregards any kind of sense in order to mash as much awesomeness into a single film. My only fear is that it may try to make some sense, and that would be a tragedy.

II

or Why I'm Sick of Hearing About How Weed's Never Killed Anyone

Pretty self-explanatory, really. Whenever I'm sitting back, contemplating the fuzziness of my elbows, there's always some dick ready to talk about the great benefits of weed. This rant is aimed at that anyone who has tried to engage me and other people in this kind of conversation. First of all,

                TALKING

In most situations talking is classified as ok, and even when I can't be assed to utter words myself, listening to people talk shit is just the kind of airy activity that keeps my brain on the pleasant side of consciousness. However. If talk drifts away from the slow, spacey "dude, what if..." monologues to that earnest, cheese-grater tone, I'm gonna blog your ass back to 1995. So:

               EVER HEARD OF A GUY CALLED BOB MARLEY?

I don't want to get too controversial now, but something tells me there was more to his cancer than his love of jam. Know what I'm sayin'? At any rate, even without resorting to unproven celebrity examples, the idea that weed is actually good for you pisses me off.

Ok, think about this a second: how many people do you know who drink? And how many of them are debilitated in their day-to-day life by it? Now think about how many people you know who smoke weed. How many of them are permanently fucked? I guess it's because weed becomes some kind of cult for some idiots, like the above-mentioned perpetrator.

But hell, I'm not trying to make some great, structured argument here, my main point is this:

.

Cheap trick. But I digress. Most of us don't smoke because we think it's good for us. We know it's a stupid idea and part of the enjoyment is in doing something stupid. Hell, most of it is. And to have some poor deluded soul try and ruin it for me because he needs reassurance is as bad as someone running into a cinema and shouting spoilers at me. Doing stupid stuff is fine, as long as you know it's dumb and you don't pretend it's actually a great idea and decide to dedicate your life to it.

I actually don't care if I'm right or not. Maybe weed doesn't harm anywhere near as much as alcohol and tobacco (I doubt it, but I might be wrong). That's not really the point. It's the person that chooses to share this shit with me that I despise. The kind that think doctors are out to get you and that everything bad in your life is due to some kind of generic "bad energy". Mitchell and Webb are more eloquent and to the point than me: Homeopathy A&E .

So smoke up, shut up, and leave me in my warm, fuzzy peace.

I

Balance: (from "Enciclopædia Mendacis") "[...]The son of Tully, known as Litully, described the property of balance thus: 'like the lull between the sober and the drunkard, between work and sleep, it is the moment in which the earth moves under our feet and takes us to our desires.' Though largely known for his pederasty and collection of Thracian pottery, Litully has been highly regarded by the inebriated of all ages for this and other maxims."

The other day I decided it would be fun to stack stones on top of each other. And it was. Apparently some regard this as art. Well, it's pretty and mind-emptying at any rate, no brainwork involved. All that is needed are hands to feel the point of balance. Mine aren't even very steady, and my sense of my own balance is terrible, so I'm guessing most people will be able to reproduce their own stone stacks.

 There once was some guy on a beach
With a few bits of stone in his reach,
He stacked them together
and  found they were better
Than just sitting there, thinking of all the work he had to do for next term, wondering if he would finish Finnegans Wake, and generally being bored on the beach.

Currently downloading the audiobook of FW, because cheats will be cheats.