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Didya ever wake up to find
A day that broke up your mind?
Destroyed yer notion
of c(i(r(c)u)l)ar time?

Did you ever wake up with a start from a dream {of self analysis} which seemed so true and telling and X RAY accurate that you wondered why to bother to continue putting one foot in front of the other?
And then but when you finally did ...

Did you ever wake up with some odd, quite disabling injury, and have no idea how it got there? I've woken up this morning with one of the toes (one adjacent to Big Ted) on my left foot all swollen and tetchy; I sure didn't kick anything in anger yesterday - not while I was awake, any rate. Maybe my anger is so deeply buried it only surfaces in REM states, where I get up in a Zombie haze (not that different from waking me, then) and go kick my neighbour's new car or something. (Long story.) (He used to be into rnb and jazz and House and long strange nights; now it's babies and waxing his car on Sunday and COMPLETE You Vill Not Play Za Muzik SILENCE. He freaked out and called COIL LIVE "your BLOODY STUPID music" the other day when he knew he was losing an argument with me. (Like shooting Big Brother contestants in a barrel.) So I've put a curse - quite mild one, don't worry - on him and all his descendants. Ordinary everyday sitcom type stuff.)
Anyway, my toe hurts.
And my soul, too.

Did you ever wake up and wonder why you were doing what you were doing and not doing something else? (OK OK, I know I've got a comparatively cushy soft machine life; I mean in a WIDER sense...)

Two things have been bugging me lately. Like:

i) Should I have gone to Art School in 1977? Instead of BLANKing off for that "year" off and ... well, the rest is History and REPEATS.
But should I have done - and now be doing - something visual? Was it what I was meant to do, in some THELEMIC sense, some cosmic Job Shop scheme of things? Why do I find drawing/painting so EASY and - proper, finished - writing so HARD? What would a shrink make of the fact that I more and more obsessively cover all my notebooks with this strange personalised half-doodle half Cy Twombly or Basquiat type code-scrawl? Thus obliterating or obscuring or OVER WRITING/riding the WRITING BENEATH it.
Putting it under erasure.
One more suspended gesture.
Or rather, one more course of ACTION suspended, half broached, gestured in the direction of but not completed.
I'll do it later.

ii) Why music writing not MUSIC ITSELF? This has been bugging me for a while - like, I've been searching for some turnaround Lacanian moment in my life When This Was Decided, but some of you other buggers Out There who also ply this shameful trade - it must have crossed your mind sometimes too, no? There must have been some moment when you were spending 1000s of words slagging off, I dunno, Paul Weller or someone, and then a little worm of doubt crept in, like, a) what kind of work is this for a grown man, and b) AT LEAST HE'S GOT THE BALLS TO DO IT, TO LIVE HIS DREAM. Even if I think his dream is the musical equivalent of polishing your car every Sunday. {O-H: always the sarcasm, always! Like - you with an empty bank account and him set up for life, like he really gives a shit!*}

I mean, this has been bugging me for a while now, being devils advocate to myself on bleak midnight hours, I mean, you can't help but think such thoughts when you're sent records to review that sound like 70 mins of unedited TV static or a 22 minute remix of stepping on a snail, y'know?
But what REALLY got to me was a comment by PHEW [intvwed by BIBA KOPF in the current WIRE]
She'd had an epiphany back at home in Japan, seeing some footage of the PISTOLS, so flew all the way to the UK in 1977 to see them.
Phew: "... and I realised this was not something you were supposed to watch, it was something you were supposed to do."
I just find that commment retrospectively devastating, I really do.

Although, fair dues, in my teens I was playing a guitar at the time, but I sat in my room playing 3 hour long would-be Fahey/Bailey type unlistenable deconstructions, with all types of open tunings and extravagant capo use and much frenzied use of an empty Colman's mustard jar. {And no, obsessive fanboys, NO ARCHIVES HAVE SURVIVED.}

Today, I'd probably have my own label and play at Viennese Arts Festivals with Lorren Mazzacane Connors and be hero worshipped by Kim n Thurston ... "God, there's this 15 year old kid in Nor-folk England?, he's amazin', does these home made cassetes where he's left the TV on in the background and he feeds his guitar thru this crappy Woolworths amp, and it's like Greil Marcus sez, this kid could be like, today's version of those old Blues guys... You can almost HEAR the flatness of Norfolk in his playing ..."

[... ALL THIS to be contd;
partly bcoz I can't read the other notes I've made/squiggled over this morning, well, I can read one, but I'm still half asleep and I've got LOADS of Poorly Paid Work to do and anyway besides, I dunno, fuck it, after what I've just said, starting a yak yak cross-blog "debate" about the relative deserving worth of KYLIE {vs eg Goldfrapp}, seems somehow deeply depressing to me today.

{* The odd thing is, though, THEY DO. They cling on resentfully to some passing insult you fired off as "criticism" in a speed-addled deadline rush way back in 1981, and you can't even recall saying it, but THEY REMEMBER IT WORD FOR WORD and it's BOTHERED THEM EVER SINCE, for all their money and success and jamming with Mac Rebenack and doing heroin with .... no, that's just gossip, can't put that in here. A law suit - oh, right, that's JUST what the Pill Box needs right now. Resources? You know the phrase "zero gravity" ... ?}

d WEEBosfeer

Loving the work of I Feel Love and {nu one on me, which hey, admittedly, isn't saying much} A Time For Fear at the moment. And whichever one of you Out There it was called me "Head Girl"?
As long as it's not meant as some childish lower sixth smutty innuendo then it's a badge I'll wear with pride. And strictness. Lots of strictness.

But can I also just say to Angus, tho (and whoever else it is uses the same blogger layout as I Feel Love} that none of the links or your contact spot or etc uh seem to work.

... oh, and to Angus and Mark re their current TOM JONES yak over the fence, here's a hyper link out of complete dark abyssal space: did you know that "WHAT'S NEW PUSSYCAT?" (I think this is common knowledge but I'll go on, don't go on, I'll go on anyway ... ) derived - so the whisssspery story goes - from WARREN BEATTY's then telephonic 'Hey ... Hon' "pick up" line?


Did you ever get that feeling where it's not even a matter of -

[ ...........]

- Girl, that doesn't even come close ..."*

{* on second thoughts, I decided this was WAY too personal, for now.}


So you wake up and go to let them in and one of the little rascals has INVADED POLAND in the night and left it on your Welcome Mat for you! Aaaaah! Who's dadikins cootsy wootsy lickle band of bored, blank eyed assassins and TORTURERS then?

LISTENING POST: Angus MacLise; Nine Inch Nails; Koko Taylor; Muddy Waters; Jackie Mittoo; The Impressions' "For Your Precious Love"; Carla Bozulich; Cat Power; Coil; Chet Baker ...

posted by Ian 7/29/2003 12:04:00 PM

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