In an age of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary
act- George Orwell
Gravity’s my enemy-
M.I.A
Eminem began life as a nickname. Scrawny, weak, underfed Marshall Mathers III was bullied and abused as a child. Possibly not to the extent he extolled in his wrathful, self-loathing, vicious and messianic music, but psychologically he began as M n M, a little, round, chocolate sweetie.
The game has changed. In fact, it’s not that the game has changed, it’s
that a new level of transparency has burst free into the everyday language of
the post-digital age. Opinions are commodity, your followers are your bank
balance and a RT is worth ten points. A favourite means that you have tweeted
something of (at that instance) serious value to your audience. However, there
is no way of knowing whether or not they are using that favourite (yes, I know
it’s spelt favorite but I’m English) to use your information as commodity
either against you or to create a matrice of tweets to promote some other
scheme. Get it? Good.
I missed therapy today. Overslept by five hours. Last night I was so
doped up on Promethazine (an over the counter Valium derivative) that I was
tripping out nicely and enjoying my mild hallucinations of the fairy lights on
my wall twinkling and undulating like silkworms. I tweeted, I wrote some notes,
I watched YouTube and put on my very own concert of videos on my feed. Adele’s Skyfall should, by rights, win the Oscar
for Best Song. Her critical and street credit could not be higher, and whilst I
don’t particular listen to 21 often (it’s
a little bland) I do respect that she is a great pop musician and I like her.
And that’s enough. Skyfall is her
masterpiece, and I don’t think she’ll ever write a better song about the
devastating break-up that influences her art. All pain is subjective.
I’m not sure too many people are following this blog (and for those who
have purchased this as a book, it began in October 2012 as a way of making
sense of an ex-girlfriend’s suicide, and was continued until I found an ending)
and frankly, that doesn’t matter too much. I will tweet this link once, and
only once, and whilst nobody ever reacts to my writing directly, I hope that if
you are reading this you are not too put off by the navel gazing. I’m currently
high on Promethazine, so I think this is totally awesome and trippy.
On Saturday I went for a walk in the woods with Raf and tried to explain
Bisociation to him. I like walking in the woods. It gives inspiration for the
huge haunted house novel I am outlining.
“Okay,” I said. “Bisociation is the interlinking of two previously
incompatible frames of reference. Like uh,” I avoided a puddle, handed my
tobacco to him so he could roll me a cigarette, “insects and military
intelligence.”
“English, bruv.”
“That is English.”
He grinned. “Please continue.”
“Okay,” I said, pulling up my hood, “What do you call a paranoid wasp?”
“What?”
“KGB.”
Raf smiled, “Hey, that’s pretty good!”
“And that,” I said, taking the cigarette and lighting it, “feeling of
mild euphoria, of epiphany, of revelation, that feeling is Bisociation.”
Raf considered this. “Sometimes you chat so much shit, but that was
pretty good.”
“Both my parents were teachers,” I smile, exhaling.
I booked another ticket for The
Shining: US Extended Edition at the BFI since I auto-suggestively passed
out the last time. All the hip, fashionable “scene” makers were laughing the
whole way through which was too much for my fragile constitution to take. This
time round I had to wait two hours and borrow a smart phone off a couple of
bouncy gay fashionati (the type who think simulating oral sex on each other in
public is just too hip and spend their time writing letters to Europe and
hanging in the coolest bars in Soho) so I could call the fifty year old manic
depressive I was randomly going with. He had had a serious coke habit for
years, and consoled his failures to become a cross between Jack Nicholson and Stanley Kubrick by reading Aleister
Crowley’s poetry and transcribing old mix tapes onto CD. He turned up eventually,
wearing a leather jacket with the word REAL painted onto it, some scarves and a
cowboy hat. We went outside and picked fag butts off the floor, and I
accidentally hit up a joint somebody had tossed. The screening was in NFT1 as
opposed to NFT3. NFT3 is better. It’s the one they use for the premieres since
the front row is far enough back from the screen to see it clearly. We had
front row seats in NFT1, but nicked the seats from two intellectualti before
the lights went down, making it impossible for them to kick us out. I didn’t
auto-suggestively pass out this time. I had watched a documentary about Kubrick
which showed footage of him playing chess against Shelley Duvall and
anticipating her first eight moves. I actually like the Extended Edition more.
It will be a cold day in hell before it comes onto BluRay, so I’ll keep seeing
it every time it reappears after its decade absences. It’s a treat, and I’ve
been dreaming about it every night since, including last night. Marilyn Manson
once said that he believed dreams were “time travel”. I like that idea.
A.W.M 05/12/2012
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