Edged To Division

No longer will I be subjecting you, if you indeed exist, to top ten/eleven album variations every time my mind decides to change — not here, at any rate. In other words, I'm splitting my atoms, leaving my Eves untouched, by dedicating this mess before you to things on the fuction side of the fence, and devoting an entirely new page —now titled Think Hollow — to my flights of not entirely lying: badly researched essays and the like. Rather than write the ones I'm supposed to, with narrow frames in which to work, and horrendously closed off and utterly uninthralling matters of subject no herman being in their right mind would enjoy writing or invest any effort in beyond what seems to be required, I am going to employ most of my admittedly less than super pen-handling skills writing junk that actually interests me, and has no socio-something-or-rather value whatsoever, but which satisfies the highly personal requirement of "I actually feel like writing this". It will, most likely, end up being mostly focused on the aural side of things, but it has no particular theme beyond its nonness in the face of fiction, so anything on anything could crop up and and at will. Wow. Could that well be the first instance of two "And"s side by side actually making sense? I'm going to put that in bold now.

Anyway, that's the cut and jibe of the matter. There's been an ugly essay-what-ist rearing to get out all along, and recent internal compositions along those lines have inspired this sudden unleashen, although maybe the tubular bell himself, often dubbed a ball of something or rather, might have had a hand in it, much as I don't want to admit it. But mostly it's because I have the constant urge to post slightly updated versions of those top ten/eleven things every ten seconds, and it kind of jars with the rest of this junk.

So there you go. I might even be at the new place more frequently.

Oily in the Morning

Anyway, as I was saying, I was pounding the beat down Peanut Lane, my shoes in a right mess, when out of the corner of my eye comes a tear. Now, I'll admit I tried to avoid him at first — tears aren't the most illuminating of companies to keep, you see. But I soon saw reason (behind the boat shed, smoking a fag) and he convinced me to see straight. Straight wasn't in his office, however, so I went back to smoking, pleading on his doorstep with a handful of azaleas. But the deadly Mr. S. was having none of it — not even when I tried to force it — thus leaving me, again, I guess you could say, without sense; he took all my money too.

Two days later, I found myself atop a four-story car park, and I waved to him joyously, who, being a phobe, did not appreciate being used as a flag. Either way, his consternation had nothing of an effect on me, and I was free to prick my ears to this newfound car park friend:

"I spend the nigh un a walkun bed, and all swords of woiled things huppand. You know the drell: korpets wobblun, guy-scrabers, vunny-looking beeble — beeble oo need beeble. It was absloodly amasin. N then, uv cores, I waig up and it sall borun and nomul agin. *hack* Excuse me."

I listened in amazement. Withdrawing and paying him, I returned my attention to myself and asked if all was true. He told me no, all was not true — in fact all had been cheating on him for several years. I reasoned with him, who had just walked in on the conversation and I engaged in an act of fiction, and then I reasoned, in turn, with myself, saying that maybe the fault lay with several years. He then countered by saying everyone lay with several years, and I was not happy. To anyway who knew the both of us, as well as me and not happy, this would be already quite clear, but I say it to all those who may, for some reason, think we are the same, another person entirely.

This was a real corker, wasn't it?

Blind Pulling the Blind

Thank hock I made it beneath, just, N.Z.'s favourite number, plus two zeros. Yes, it was another of those worthy causes I throw myself in front of trains for, all in the name of defiance. Incidentally, that is also the name of the thing which for me has no end; something is being defied, yes, but what?

Yesterday I was out doing things — viz. eating curlies — and I happened to think up an appropriate ending to this.

The Flying Englishman

So off he treads, headed for the eloquence, rain and apparently decent cups of brown, and then to the hot hole for contrast and a cinematic backdrop. Here's a hat off to him. The second in as many months to do so, perhaps with differing reasons, perhaps not. Less of a coy fool about it, that's for sure. He who clinks the drinks obviously doesn't go for such cowardly deceit. Deceit is for lying, yet lying on deceit is mighty uncomfortable.

'Luck and see you as September closes.

A Sock for Justness

Feeling the steady flow of wistful at a time like this is like a tomb of flowers, i'n't it? You creep down ever so slowly, remove garb, nod to the partition and steady into temporary decline, where you, as a second person foil for the first, quietly and painfully admit the absence of a spine. It's not much fun wobbling about the ol' day-to-day, but it feels like a brace, and is as hard to break, especially. But for anyone with a spine, it would be like snapping a particularly easy-to-snap twig. I wonder if you can buy one. Still, there's no point coding the world's non-issues. Let's get down to the business of who puts what where.

Vicious Fancies

This is where it lops off the edge. Rather than cast my mind to the Monuments of M—™ , I have instead decided to be more accurate and slate my passing-fancies — the things fresh in the back of my skull. Once here followed a list. Now, not.

The Benefits of Boredom

I was on my way home from either school or a drinking session somewhere, and waiting at the station for a train that seemed to be punctual only to the hour. Gazing at my watch didn't make the time go any faster, surprisingly, so I fished my flip phone from my pocket and began mashing the buttons. After a while of doing this, I noticed the phone switch to camera mode and display a blurry image of the ground below me. This intrigued me immensely and I began snapping wildly at the surrounding environment, capturing this fence and that bin, and this discarded chocolate bar wrapper and that tree. Soon, however, I grew tired of this and I begun to wonder what I could do to make it more interesting. Then it struck me. What would happen if I took a picture of myself? Instead of merely theorising this thought, I held the phone out in front of me, uttered a small prayer and snapped. I opened my eyes. I was still there. Panting, I reviewed the picture on the phone. It was incredible. It was... me.

After snapping approximately forty four similar shots, I was startled to discover that it had lost none of its charm. Indeed I even began to hope the train would be delayed even longer and give me more excuses to further my Art. But, alas, the train did arrive, and its crowded carriages stunted my photography. I used this time to review the photos I had already taken. They were all incredible. To the casual observer, they may all look so similar that you'd wonder why I took so many, but to anyone with an open mind, they were a revelation. I excelled in subtlety. A slight change of angle here, a minor tilt of the head there and, in extreme cases, a change in location, was all I needed to explore the inner depths of my soul. And it never got indulgent. Perhaps that was the thing that surprised me most. No matter how many seemingly identical photos I took of myself, they all maintained a freshness and vitality that would put most galleries to shame.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I'd squeeze someone else's head in there, but they were much less successful and, as a result, much rarer. They were crass rather than intimate and personal; they had no point. With the self-portraits, I was exploring a theme, and each photo developed that theme; with the group shots, I was just having fun with my friends. Now, there's nothing wrong with having fun with friends, but really, it's not art.

Having thousands of shots on my phone was all very well and good, but nobody was seeing them but me. That was indulgent, I'll admit. So I decided to upload them to my website, which was probably the most significant development in my art. Now everybody saw them. And everybody loved them. I was afraid people wouldn't understand it, and there were a couple of people who clearly didn't, but on the whole the response was overwhelmingly positive. I had struck gold.

The great thing about the series is that it will always remain fresh and interesting. Why? Because I keep changing. It's a reflection of me, where I'm at when I took it. It's comforting. It's a friend when you're lonely. I hope you all enjoy it.

Loveless

We're Doing It For Love:
A Benefit Tribute Concert For Arthur Lee.
Coming soon. Beacon Theatre. All ages.

One and half masterpieces ain't bad.

My previous post, written before his death, was called "The Steaming Sounds Of Love". It was a reference to a Steely Dan song. The Dean of American rock critics, Robert Christgau, once made a passing connection between Love and Steely Dan. "Steaming" is a synonym for dead. Coincidental?

The Steaming Sounds of Love

A baker's dozen rode the pedestal to one of the more memorable speeches delivered in that hall, and there wasn't a dry ice in the house (mainly because at this point they were comprised solely of flowers). Upon completion, the dozen or so danced shallowly off the spotlight and strode out of view, to little consternation — the consternation of little — and the hall was left in the ruin it enjoyed for the majority. As the people rose from their flowery seats, a caution rang out from a police box and sent the usual labour into backspin. Each was burnt, singed and easily overemployed in their prospects, but it was undertaken in such a joyous manner that you couldn't help but stand back, lip your chosen finger and admire. Indeed the arising ecstasy was so infectious that three passers were bedridden by noon, and a cure wasn't concocted until the following.

The public usually don't address such matters formally, so it's up to ministers and paper-juicers to express either their consternation or joy or ecstasy in fancy small words, of the people. Too many times, however, these articulations are simply extracts of what could extend to several volumes, at least. And usually, they aren't concerned with the right angles, or imbued with the right moral sense, but their existence is as vital as a rising sun.

It is personally considered that each person worth their salt should at some point spin either 1997 or 2001's comebacks while clicking or viewing that early '90s sequel inspired by the much earlier rollercoaster, which has inturn spurned the latest projection sequel, during Christmas time.