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28 Frimaire

a-n-d ... ?

I've been trying to find a way to break this silence but I just can't.

I've NO idea why, really.
(Or: lots of vague ideas, but no clear absence-defining winner.)

I have been trying.
I have been making/taking voluminous never ending notes, just like at the beginning, just before the War. The War defines things for me (that's why The Pill Box began, after all, even tho it keeps popping up in Music Blog resumes and roadmaps), in a way I can scarcely begin to delineate. At the same time, I don't want to become a boor - I don't want to become some circa-1981 Keep Music Real faux naif nutjob, who gives the impression music/culture is inane and poisonous unless it is somehow in the service of "politics".

At the same time, I have to say most (stress: MOST) music feels irrelevant to me right now in a way I scarcely want to admit. And I'm not even sure where the "politics" thing fits into a balanced life. Recently, reading my third book of the month about massacres and hypocrisy and undercover genocide and realpolitik I started getting horrible psychsomatic stomach pains. Actual BILE! In the 21st Century! Such surges of super psychopathic anger with no place to go: I mean ... is it worth it? {"A new winter coat ..."}

{And YES: as soon as I stopped reading books about Ariel Sharon and Rwanda, the pains went away. No other symptoms, no other side effects, no other shifts ...)

Some of these books, I started to pencil sections I would maybe quote here ... but then the pencil lines went on for page, after page, after page, after page ... what's the point? They're out there, if you want them. Is a blog still a blog if it's just me quoting huge chunks of someone else's work? I have a feeling it isn't. And therein lies a problem, because I seem to have painted myself into a corner here: I have become SO disaffected with the media world of "comment" and opinion and (especially) columnists that I really begin to wonder what the point or purpose of individual "opinion" is, in political terms. If I think the likes of John Cale and Pluramon and Matmos, say, are "interesting", but leave me completely and utterly cold: that's in the debatable realm of taste or opinion. Whereas I don't think something like the use by Israel's supporters of accusations of "anti semitism" as a shield for horrific tactics of attrition really ought to admit of mere "opinion". Opinion is PRECISELY the problem here. (There was a column recently, by Julie Burchill, in the Saturday Guardian, that I felt was one of the most obscene and unjustifiable pieces of "writing" I've ever read in a public forum. And even my anger in this instance made me angry: I shouldnt LET something so trivial and reflex "contrary" and moronically "shocking" elicit the energy of rage from me. I should probably just avoid such things altogether ... I mean: no one sets out to deliberately step in a pile of dog sick in the street, do they? And the "difference" here seems to me far from figural, and moot.)

I feel humorless and angry and dried out, and tired, tired of feeling humorless and angry and ...

I don't want to publish something here which is relentless and loveless and just huge blocs of quotation.
But I don't want to add to the babble.

Years and (oh!) YURS ago, in a completely different context (which remains a private joke to this day) Danny Baker said, one rushed NME Letters Page week: THIS IS THE AGE OF THE FACT, NOT THE OPINION. That is kinda how I feel right now. Just mocking Blair or Bush, or uttering vague insinuations or imprecations of dislike or distrust or demonisation simply isn't enough. It is FACTS which are damning. And Lord knows the FACTS, when you uncover them, sure are damning enough already.

But I'm not a squared off fact-based classical Reporter type of guy. That's not something I've ever done. Which leaves me ... ?

So ... at the moment, I feel utterly stranded.

Between one thread (gone) .. and another (as yet unlocated).

I suspect that the answer (in some measure) lies in some kind of sublimation into "fiction": which I HAVE been working on.

I feel damned up, fidgety, dull minded, irritable, causeless.
(When I want to feel like BATAILLE: equally ON FIRE with politics as perversion.)

I feel ...

"When you've fallen on the highway
and you're lying in the rain,
and they ask you how you're feeling
of course you say you can't complain-
If you're squeezed for information,
that's when you've got to play it dumb:
You just say you're out there waiting
for the miracle to come

Nothing left to do
when you've got to go on waiting
for the miracle to come

- ---- ?

My favourite, most played music of 2003 came from: Rickie Lee Jones (New), Neil Young (Reissue) and Nina Simone (Eternal). And I can find NOTHING to say about such music, I cannot find the syntax to discuss these songs ...perhaps ... perhaps because of late these people have provided me with the only little places of silence, and reflection, and sacredness I have been able to find ... a place which is not fear and anger and rage and disappointment. And I want to keep those places, all to myself (undespoiled by mere opinion or comparison or temporal list making).

And I can't decide whether to do a huge list here of all of 2003's books - because books have been mainly what 2003 was for me. At the moment they feel like a weight, not a joy. A NECESSARY weight; but a weight all the same. Just glancing against them threatens such a DELUGE of ...

No, then: no.

Not yet.

(Yet one step.)

posted by Ian 12/18/2003 08:40:00 AM

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