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{Friday}

 
RHYME NEVER SLEEPS. . .

Woke up this morning, not with a Song in my Head, as per norm {this last week: two M Wards, two David Sylvians and Leonard Cohen's 'Closing Time'} but with a little fully formed rhyme (it would be pushing it to call it a poem I think).
But I forgot to write it down and now it's gone. . .

It was about always liking Neil Young in interviews, and then so going back to listen to his music but never really being convinced by the music the way I am by his interviews - but you see what I've just said is boring and MOJO man and who cares, whereas the Neil-i-hew was funny & sparky & witty & Penjeman-esque. . .

It was only four lines, and I think it ended:
'- that I really should listen to him more!"


BLOGGING A DEAD HORS?

Has anyone else had any run-ins with the NEW Blogger set-up?

I spent most of yesterday cursing and swearing and fondling my wrecking bar {to be said in HOMER vox: '...wrecking bar ... computer screen; computer screen ... wrecking bar...'} while trying to set up a tres SIMPLE Second Page, where I'd post longer, more Out There/Unpublished older stuff . . .HA! {-said in Edna Crabapple vox}. Yeah, right: some chance.

The new BLOGGER thing initially seems great: simpler and streamlined and less fiddly, which is v. cool & welcome for techno idiots like me.
But that is where the good news ends.

Everything else was a nightmare, from the TOTALLY inadequate & screwed up templates... but soft, angry Pawboy: this isn't some nerdy chat room. {Altho I would like to kno' who beat me to using "pensieve" as a blog adress, buggers.}

I still want to do this X-tra page. . . but only if I can get it looking the way I want, and not like sheer migraine in print, and one moreover that takes longer to set down and compose than it took to write (which, believe me, is saying something).

'LATER' WITH JACQUES DERRIDA's RECKLESS BLOGGER. . .

I'd already had some enquiries whether I'll be using The Pill Box to air any unpublished work of mine (OK: a solitary hint from Simon) - texts which with the creak & varnish of years have taken on a certain infamous or apochryphal quality.

Do they exist? Are they monstrously unreadable?
Encyclopaedic, or kabbala-on-a-pinhead? Mere ficiones within my fevered imagination, symbolic dreams of some Ideal Text, where unfortunately all the work has gone on thinking/talking them up . . .leaving little more than a few scattered jewel-perfect opening paragraphs and an ash of melancholy footnotes?

Well, they do exist, after a fashion.

Which, this work in general, if you factor in the very first thought of it, and when I started making notes, will be something like (oh LORD) 21 this year. . . which no longer feels funny to me, but imminently, precipitatively tragic. There are personal reasons for this lag, yes yes, and some of all that will be "dealt with" in the texts themselves (which are still being written), in one way or another but mostly another, which is to say these are decidedly NOT straightforwardly confessional ruminations (in case that's what you were panting for. . .right).

I used to joke to people that the three things that had turned my world upside down were the THREE D's: drink, drugs and Derrida.
Deferral begins with D, too, of course, and if anything, it's Derrida that's been both the biggest influence on this work (its conception - or "puncept" - of a new science of listening, a grammaphonology), and possibly also the biggest 'drag' on its completion. Which, I don't necessarily see this as a "bad" thing, as it is has predominantly been through the 'medium' of this blurry project I maintained my nervy autodidact's grasp on any kind of self-education in such Theory as I know.
But footnote-spotted deferral can get addictive, too - it can be a 'maintenance' habit in more ways than one. . .

But finally, a bill will always be presented:
'TIME'S UP, sir.
Please settle your DEBT or you'll be back out in the street with all History's other little tramps... with all your dimmed latitudes & pesky italics & endless 'NB's. . .'
Mmm. When you put it like that...

Or, put it another way: it is not, finally, an altogether 'healthy' state of affairs to feel like you've got a walk-on part - and always playing spectres, what's more - in the 'production' of your own life.

Thus the thought of a second weblog: the logic being that if I have the enforced 'deadline' of daily publishing sections of this {lost} work, it might force me to finally decide on definitive versions, and let them go. . . cut short the chatter, get something started, shake some action.

And I have to say, it was working already; even if I no longer know where to begin with some of them. . .

But some of them are already a bit of a trial to read anyway - so it's no good posting them on a page where you lose patience/concentration after a few lines. . .


BIZLIST

Last Few Days. . .

Pulp
David Sylvian
"Don't Cry My Love": Omar Faruk Tekbilek w/ Steve Shehan

The Manchurian Candidate · Richard Condon {A1 brilliant!}
Moments of Truth · 12 20th Century Women Writers · Lorna Sage
Christine Brook-Rose
John Betjeman
The Double Bond: Primo Levi A Biography · Carole Angier
Into The Looking Glass Wood · Alberto Manguel
The Sopranos on the Couch · Maurice Yacowar

And, playing right now:

WHALERIDER · Lisa Gerrard

. . .which sounds MORE than a bit 1992 e-z-y Ambient on a slick German label to me, but, I am bound to say, it seems to work astonishingly well as background breakfast muzak which soothes the angry Pawboy where nothing else so far this morning worked AT ALL. . . and so but NB-est Pawgirl, PLEAZ send Thamelitz/Sylvian SOON before I start to listen to old Orb & Tangerine Dream records or something. . .


MAY TRICKS

The Matrix is, of course, everywhere.

This is both its lure & its cost.

But couldn't telling all us little Neos (and aren't we all, finally, as 'wooden' as Keanu? wouldn't all our faces look that DUUUUDE! GNARLY! dumb & full of stun if we were told we were living inside a giant simulacrum?... uh, where are we now, dude? Right. Giant Sim mul'akem: so, it's Muslim is it? Pesky turban dudes, damn.

Soorry, paw dudes, whisker chicks, where are we? (Knew I shouldn't have sat up the other night, in hysterics, actual tears of laughter dropping to my lap, watching Johnny Mne-numma-nuh-dick.)

The Matrix Re-Publicised. Right.

Tie-in cross-hype adverts, "Making of' "documentaries", articles on the 'virutal' Keanu, articles on how there is a tsunami of articles about articles warning us about those other those other thoughtless kind articles about The Matrix hype 'phenomenon' and so on and so on.
The Matrix, in other words, has become part of the the matrix.

Mind you, when it comes down to it, er, I don't know a single person above the age of 6 or 7 who's the least bit interested, really, in seeing it. Do you? (I mean: outside of hacks and hackademics like us who get paid to go see it and write sizzly Zizek stlye stuff about it.)

Thus, the matrix spreads - and, just like its hick cousin Big Brother, its success primarily consists in making us think that even ignoring it is a priori a form of 'coming to terms' with its omnipresence.

I actually watched the [original] Matrix the other night [Channel 5] and found it woefully depressing. For all the 'Alice thru the Cocteau on X reading a Carlos Castenada think piece by William Gibson while doing advanced Yoga' pretensions, in the end. . .guns. Guns n guns n guns n BIGGER guns n MORE guns n FASTER guns and gun worship and gun porno and gun culture promo & tinkle tinkle tinkle the lovingly orchestrated sound of empty bullet casings hitting concrete which the Brothers in arms seem to love to eavesdrop on the way some of us love the sound of a sleeping womans breath and GUN SPERM falling from the sky like nerve gas tadpoles and big big big bigger guns... oh, jesus, ENUFF already.

Like, it has these pretensions to MIND speed, but in the end - a man stands in beautiful hardware hi tech helicopter hovering like a vacant stare or boundlessly bland thought firing off his BIG CANNON trrr trrr trrr round and round like american history x blah blah blah blood blood blood... yeah yeah we see, we get the picture. If you can spend this much on FAKE warfare and intel, just imagine. .. yes, we SEE.

At least Johnny Mnemonic is FUNNY!

In fact I can easily see the latter - in years to come - being erected as a kind of Rocky Horror Picture Show semi-ironic cult classic, in which we all dress up as our favourite characters and Yak and Yok along to the abysmal is-he-JOKING? William Gibson script. (Now we know why producers turned down his other 'subversive' scripts for the Alien franchise & such: no conspiracy: they were just DUDs. Some people just don't get the necessary ECONOMY of movie writing and if Johnny M is anything to go by, Gibson is one of them.)
As for. . .
Sorry dudes. Drifted off into whalemuzik and lost the thread there but completely with this . . .whales are , like, huge, y'know? Oh god, that reminds me. Johnny Mnemonic. Keanu and the DOLPHIN. "Have you done this before? Has the ... FISH?"

But: more on Johnny M, later. Let's make this a CULT CLASSIC together and defeat the a priori triumph of the oh-so-serious solemn and 'we got you beat, already' consensus of The Matrix.

- ---- +

"If I had my life to live all over again, I'd do it all exactly the same - only I wouldn't read Beowulf."
Woody Allen, quoted in The Independent

"If I had my life to live all over again, I'd do it all exactly the same - only I wouldn't see Interiors, Shadows & Fog, September and Another Woman."
Everyone here at The Pill Box








posted by Ian 5/23/2003 11:11:00 AM

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