A Novel – When Hungry I Read

February 20, 2016




When I woke I was alone in a tent untouched. The heat had returned from the cold. The photographer had finished off sleeping in the vehicle, to dream without caution. I climbed from my rest and was already considering the evolution of pain. What I needed was psychosomatic medicine to ease the symptoms of a life. My brain and body hurt, my lumbar at best poor. And just as water molecules evaporate in the icebox leaving the mystery of depleted cubes of ice, my liquid energy too had dissolved.

My companion had already brewed mint tea made out of what water there was. The tea sat on the engine part of the vehicle waiting for me. The fire of the night had gone out as if someone had thrown a dry black paint ball at a beautiful yellow canvas. I was not hungry, I was never hungry. Hungry reminds me of men, they are good at this and in feats of engineering. I lit the first and I was buzzed by it. I needed to pee. I had words but I was deprived of their meaning by the longitude of my fatigue. My companion messed around with the tent, folding it, lifting it and squeezing the life out of it. The breeze was already sweeping away the sand as if I had never been there at all. We were being rubbed out. Time was on the move. Today I would try and find the things I thought I had dreamt. The artist must entice the world to bend to their provocation, to its originality. We must never bow to the masses but lift them. Anything else is not art but sales. Learn that today. If you give people what they want you grow rich. If you give people what they don’t know, they grow richer.

Behind the tailpipe of the brute I squat and pee. I smell of asparagus. I walk a little, stretch, arch my soul and sip the tea. I remembered walking through a graveyard as a child, a child’s graveyard, and laying my head on a little bump of bunting covered earth. What must we go through to feel nothing? Some say more, some say less. I can still hear what I thought that tiny hill of ground was saying to me. ‘Life is no alternative.’ Later I spoke to my companion quietly through the window of the beast but he did not seem to hear me. His eyes were closed; I looked at his face as it rested while waiting for me; he was young, twenties, wore a jazzy little beard on his chin and it suited him should ever he take it off. Christmas last, when I met some King and Queen at their palace made of crystal, I had been introduced to their son. He had the same set beard but nothing in the eyes, he had tried to seduce me as if I were just more riches given. My brain makes connections of tenuous things. It is a tool to complicate the ordinary. I thought it was the worst job going being him, the pseudo-majestic. He was as pompous and empty as the education regime that had kept from him all life’s necessary gifts. He was like a mortal God, he knew we wanted to believe in him, but ultimately did not. As people, the King and Queen were culturally learned, and from fabulous things, but they were as unloved as me. They had met everybody and it seemed could do nothing with it to benefit mankind. I cupped my breasts in my hands; it was good to hold me.

You can get rich but you cannot get love in the same way. In my line of work love is what you keep in reserve to dance with.

The strain in her slender neck was the end of a leading career for the principal dancer and the beginning of mine. She would dance again but never in the same capacity. I, her understudy, had replaced the prima ballerina’s steps in the performance and from my success I continued to lead. They wrote of me as her natural successor and her suicide was assured. And even at such a simple age it began to appear, that I was instrumental in the fate of others. The effect of me touched people, sometimes as a cure, sometimes as a curse and sometimes just the art of a simple dancer.

The fuel station was the first sign of life we had seen all morning. I pulled in and slipped out to stretch my legs. There was stiffness in my eyes that had not occurred to me before. I bought toothpaste, cigarettes and a bottle of water. Ordered espresso but no one knew what it was. They said there was a diner a thousand miles away. I was sure there was.

I drank water heavily, leaned into the sun and closed those eyes behind my sunglasses. No more than a little moment mirage, to pepper the day in dreaming. And there I found myself a place to get lost in and entered it wholly. Around the waterfall, sumptuously carved people had been and left for me the froth of their lives to play in. I released my companion from the chains I held to see if he could fly, he took his camera and shot where light was compromised. As he disappeared I pulled off my clothes and dived in to the waterfall. Beneath the surface tension the acoustics of water heaved and mooed. Like amniotic fluid it calmed my sensors and blurred my perceptions and at its surface it lapped at my breast rivets. I came out of the water and swung my body to those glorious ghost rhythms inside of me. It was a seductive, a meditative instinct. I dried in the air without chill. I ached between my legs for his passion. I dropped back into my body and climbed into the driver’s seat and my companion said,

“Where are we heading?”

We were in the middle of a strangled heart where compliments were hard to believe; where we needed to change the way we make love.

“You can only make love to a stranger once,” I told him.

In my life I danced and things around me improved in the same way that some people take to working. Art makes people free; work is the parasitic form of this. All people looking for something are looking for art without knowing it; it is the only thing I am sure of. Money can only buy art, but it’s a poor comparison.

I did not like the music on the radio so I turned it off. Music engineered for people to dance to that has no grace is crude and purely mathematical. It is for people who do not actually enjoy music, but use it as a substance. The brute was a riot of power; such mechanical things are the way men add to the poetry of life on Earth. Beneath the sand I found a road that drove straight into the horizon. My companion had found a laptop and said someone had already hosted pages dedicated to my escape. I sensed he was being kind. He talked about the technology involved in receiving such information out there in the nowhere and my mind returned to the substance of living. People had become more fascinated with other people than with themselves and if they were not they were just selfish. Everything in the modern age is more interesting than you, even when it is not. Smile on it.

I was pregnant with a child so deadly that it could potentially kill everything that lives on the planet. I could let it go out here. Let the Earth begin a new evolution. It crossed my mind.

Let me spend the day eating bonbons.



A Novel – When Hungry I Read

February 18, 2016




Scheherazade was beautiful. I watched her dance. How gracefully she removed the angles from her body and made them curve and flow. She was how I imagined love would feel. Dedicated and determined to dance, we shall all ache and suffer in watching her. Nobody touched the floor more lightly. She had perfected the vertical line; this woman shall fall upon the bed of all man’s desire. I was a photographer, paid to capture what it was she could do with her perfected biology. And she moved with such clarity, such definition, that to contain her in pictures was to study the stress graces themselves. Black and white are the true colours of photography, anything else is just recognised as life. The more you watch someone dance the more you learn that to live is a restless journey. She had been quoted in the press recently as saying that she found the more she spoke the less people knew her, and they had printed it for everyone to read and add in the continuum. But she could dance and with it tell stories; she spoke the language of our bodies. I could smell the puff of moisture she left in the air as she danced through it. Let her smell like a woman, not a lady. With my camera I held what other people missed. In art school we used to say photography makes people see. As a photographer I told the truth. All of life is art, careful how you see it. Scheherazade made what wasn’t there appear. I held her for a moment and she was gone. This was the view from finely tuned eyes.

The press conference had been scheduled in for weeks in voluptuous buildings out in the heat of the city. They were promoting the dance ‘Unrecognised Legislators of Man’ (those who speak for the world but have no ambition to govern) and a book of photographs to accompany the music by The Heroin Jazz Orchestra. It was to commemorate the finishing of the war. The war was over. ‘Everyone lost,’ she had said to the press in tears. But it had only been replaced by another, a more profitable, a far more aggressive strain and as much as we all wanted to think the artists of the world had become the voice of an anti-war generation, we knew ultimately we were not. Politics shall see to that. And as much as we tried to focus on the end of that war, we had in a way all been made redundant, superseded by the beginning of the next. The dancer bowed down her head to this and I photographed her in sorrow.

And so Scheherazade stood up in an interview, dropped the mic and walked. Leaving nothing but a bunch of bored reporters with a better story than the one they came to write. And in her exodus to their enquiring lies, whatever she was about to embark on I followed. Following was in a photographer’s qualification. Maybe she could no longer be congratulated for a war that really wasn’t over, maybe the artist (this artist) needed to draw a line of perspective above the bullshit of contractual obligations. They had asked impertinent questions about her private life and it outsold all conflicts. Nobody seemed to care about the war, about all that hurt anymore. The wretched art of life she called it. It was well documented in the press how she trampled her way through life if only to get the required response, but they did not see the good she did. ‘The Prima Donna Show’ they called it. They all loved to loathe her, but at that precise moment the balance tipped, she stood up and walked away. It was like walking away from an argument that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter… this was the highest form of argument resolution!

The media was such a bitch to her and she didn’t work it well. Celebrity is the true death of the imagination she had told the press. People were dumb enough to believe in people they didn’t even know, written by people who didn’t believe in what they wrote. Scheherazade had become whatever people thought she was. But she didn’t need to exist anymore in the warmth of a hotel reception. Maybe to be forgotten is the only way forward. As for me, I followed her with my camera as she sped from her artistic collapse out into the light and heat.

She blipped the doors of a magnificent all terrain vehicle and we climbed in. I said nothing, waiting for her to scream at me to get the fuck out! After a moment quiet she started the engine and drove out of the city as if she had a plan. I said nothing, could not believe she had allowed me an audience, an intimate space with this devilish creature. What was running through her mind, what was bleeding through her brain? The controls around her seemed so massive next to her slight dancer’s frame. Scheherazade messed around with the gears she hadn’t quite mastered and huffed, irritated by it. She thumped on the steering wheel unlike a man, annoyed with herself not it or them. I was quiet by her side; it crossed my mind that she didn’t even know I was there. She panted, physically changing the stress of the air with her control, calming her soul and remarkably mine. I wanted to live around the corner of her mouth. The radio found the world we were about to leave, its details no more than opinion now. The heat was unbelievable in there and I fiddled with the air conditioning and she didn’t even turn her head. She took out her cigarettes and smoked. She was fixed and unaccountable.

My girlfriend was back in her apartment on the sane side of life waiting for me to finish and fly back to her. We were about to start living together; it was of course the natural progression from casual to permanence. I didn’t much like the statistics of marriage; I have always believed to not marry would improve the figures. She was a palaeontologist and liked it most when we cycled into the mountains and I took what she called dirty pictures of her. I had once photographed her vaginal pubic hair that she had had printed in seven pairs of her knickers. It was a palaeontologist thing I didn’t really understand, she mocked. I was sure we would grow old but right now I was being driven into the middle of nowhere with a dancer getting lost in something I had no control over. I had artistic licence that allowed me to follow certain creative freedoms. I could write off tempestuous actions as someone else’s cause if I got the picture. Yet always, unfortunately, the freedoms I followed belonged to other people. I followed. I had come to terms with what I was. But I had an alibi for what it was I was doing now and I would hang on to it just as long as I could. You flatter yourself if you believe photography can be learned.

I waited patiently beside her for the artist to recognise me, perhaps to hear her sultry little voice. Hers was the voice in a whisper. Whispers do not have a recognised pitch. Her words; shrouded in mystery.

Scheherazade tore me from the life I was living and dragged me out into the desert of heat and cold. Then suddenly she wound down her window and yelped and screamed into the desert air the shocking sound of her inner relief. The wandering refugees on the roadside shouted back and she threw her jewellery to them and a book to read. Her internal inhibitors were not as restricted as mine, my heart still cold in comparison. And then she looked at me and for the first time smiled, as if she knew. I could have sworn two people were having the exact same moment, differently.



A Novel – When Hungry I Read

February 18, 2016




A day is twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes long.  Forget what you think you know.

As the sun left that particular day it took with it every bit of heat. You don’t see dark like this anymore. The modern world had forgotten how to be night. But here, out here in the desert, a total blackness came on like the prelude to light, pressing itself into the meat of you. Suffocating your breath until you become it, until you fall deeply into its sleep. And with it a deafening silence awoke in me, as if someone had turned up the night. I opened my eyes.

Above me the star-sprinkled sky so inspired by heaven looked on, an aid in my moral perpetuity. I danced lit in moon-glow and I cried a little in doing so. Then the desert graced me in sound. The miracle of life speaks above the silence. Nature has sent many more potential victims than predators. Predator or victim, decide which one you are and go be the best of it. But out there you could feel the sheer power of both. I was at the mercy of my wild and nervous behaviour. To be above nature’s requirement is how we define being civilised and I was sick of it, sick with it. Gone were the industrial things my life had become so endured by, forced into simplicity from. I lay a while on cool sand wrapped in woollen garments, looked up at that planetarium of light and wondered what worlds were out there. What were the secrets the universe was not giving up? What was left to know? Where was God? Who was I? Where does it all go? Will it ever end? Why me?

I had gotten off the mad road late that afternoon and wandered into the sand hills of the desert in a vehicle so bullish and powerful that nowhere could escape that tramp in me. In the back of the brute I had locked cases of my past. I carried them; sometime soon it would be time to leave them behind. But for now I just needed distance, to become mothered by the morning dew of this full and beautiful world. I craved arousing things that could bring me to where I was heading. Between apes and man are the ugly automated people I have been touched by, the people I deal in, this pornographic vision of love. Their purpose was for sale, they were not of creative affairs; if this is so, then you are born from the hounds of diplomacy. But no more can I take the strain just to live this life. Let me scream it with the might of my body until my uvula dances freely.

“This is not progress!” And from here I will carry my own bags; my libido no more in masquerade, now I must become what is too long subdued.

Travelling light had never been easier. The technologies could do everything but feed me where I was at my hungriest. In the city I had become a name, a provider; I was insured legs to stand upon. But how they mourn with unopened matriarchal gifts. In necessary times we find the strength in that which is already there. So I come to this day to see for myself what calls at my window when I dream.

My companion is made of a certain chemistry that fills in the parts I lack. And at the same time it is as if my companion does not exist and I am forgetful around that. We have lived together now for twenty hours. We shared water but did not need to talk. We had both been in the press conference together and left in full flow, without a word between us. We had walked away from the highly polished vertical stones that proclaimed in foolishness that the man-made world was here to last. I could take no more of that, and so I left and climbed into the heavy-duty carrier. For too long I have known the singularity of this day. But when we know tomorrow as today the human prospect has already accepted its demise. Free the prison, free the mind and free your conditioned perspective. All three are best served without compass or conclusion. If I had intended to disappear it was subliminal. This was no more than a movement that takes you somewhere without you knowing it, the highest form of impulse. Escape has the same madness as love or lust. Everywhere mapped has already been explored; I was about to draw a map of my own path.

“It would take us a thousand years to see what we are today”, I whispered to my companion.

I passed the inhabitants of this their desert world and asked for directions to a place I did not know how to find. They obliged me with skinny pointing fingers, like summer sticks. Go until you become uncomfortable with what you once were. I understood. Keep an ear to your soul and be ready to kiss their knuckles in thanks. And I left them with gifts of gold and words the professor used. I grew a need to feed their Gods at the mouth of the mountain but maybe I would come back this way. Maybe one day I would throw my bags into their volcano.

The nomadic found my photographer and me that first night and gave us tinder with which to light warming fire. We swapped unknown languages; we tried at communication harder than that of the known words. They talked and referred to the skies with gestures of love and kin. They passed around some type of root that I sucked which at first made my lips tingle and then my lips disappeared from the feel of my face. And into view fell the things that until that moment I had not seen with enough clarity. And I knew I would get bloody and savour it. I knew only how to be scared of the people born in cities. As I looked through the fire the people I sat with were leaving, my companion and I remained alone. Into the night they rode on horses, into a darkness through which they did not seem to fear what they could not see. To run free and at speed into total darkness shall open both time and mind. Life is unfinished.

It was here we found our secrets, my companion and I. It is in my smell, it is caramel, it rolls down my curves, my unfinished lines. I am twenty-nine years old and a ballet dancer. Close your eyes and open your mind so I can explain the truth. My name is Scheherazade, and I am a woman.




That Thing We Do To Silence

January 18, 2015

The Art Of Protest

Modern music is boring! I am scared by its banality, by its reason to exist. The media have stolen its honesty and made it superficial, made it irrelevant and left us hungry and short changed. Music has been rendered a slogan, an empty gesture, a sound bite indeed; it is dressed up without substance, it is superficially bang tidy. Today music is being engineered without passion; it treads a bland monotonous path as if all that paved the way to this moment has been no more than a wasted passage of time. Yet the musical collective of this world is enormous, varied, vibrant, exciting, intelligent, life inducing and wild; and so filled with love and humanity that it burns with the self same light that once filled our greatest musical journeys.

So if music is still alive out there, grinding with youthful, inventive, uncontrollable verve, why is it so dull? Switch on your radio and receive a snapshot of today’s musical poverty, fit only for mainstream turned down minds. They are promoting what will sell, regardless of its worth. The multi-million sellers today have stood on the shoulders of greatness and passed it off as their own and we continue to be fooled that sales is a sign of worth. But it is not! It is like judging the happiness of a family by the price of the house in which they live. It is all a farce; as is the positions of the charts or the best sellers list, they are just slots paid for by the record and publishing companies, to make you believe what it is you are buying is approved.

Music doesn’t care what you look like, even if you care what it looks like, music, it is no better for rich mans ears than for the poor. The more perfect the voice, the less it usually has to say! If you listen to music through bad headphones, you never get to know how beautiful it really sounds. At the same time if you only listen to what they want you to buy you will never learn of music’s utter sublimity, you will remain deaf to how rich this thing can really be. Modern music has become a manufactured commodity; pop stars are just the peddlers of snake oil.

But defiant change is coming. Where our creativity is not blighted by the record corporation. I hear it now. Music is alive and inventive in cafes and clubs, on street corners and rooftops, online, deep in your hearts; in your head, on your lips, in the harmony and disharmony of lives and loves. Our musical presence is alive; it lives for us on the curves of her rhythm and the gravel of her voice. Let it be invented in bedrooms, in prison yards, with attitude and reason, released by those in love with music not money, make it without time signatures, dream it, live it, bend it and break it, offend god, don’t apologize, turn it up, record the cry of freedom and love, screw the control of commercialism, bang stuff, scream, sing, damn your soul and condemn your body to let your music be! Music really can set you free!

Make music, make new music, don’t allow the shallow marketers to robe you of your musical heritage or more importantly our musical future. Lose the label. Find the rebel. Lose the genre. Be free, not instructed nor frustrated. Let your prejudice go. Learn how to hear it again, listen to it all and throw the whole world at it.

Life is boring which is why we have art!




November 26, 2013

It is always hard for me to believe that we go to war. It is even harder to believe that we accept it so readily, that we are convinced so easily of the mandate of war. Are we informed, do we care? Do we stand on the right side? Who do you choose to believe? Do we know the circumstance, the timeline, the pipeline, the truth behind the fact? The price of life. The meaning behind the headlines, the stink behind the bullshit. Do we remember the Resolution that damned both sides to war? Religion, money or prejudice; which suited your mind? Is it an act of humanity or terror? Did we hear their side in reason and think accordingly? Did you see the movie or the documentary? Do you believe Mr President, the anchorman, the prime minister, the soldier, the doctor, the industry or do you trust a politician? But we do remember those “Weapons of Mass Destruction” don’t we? And behold, war harnesses the power of advertising.

The greedy generation wears “What Can I Do?” sprayed across hipster tight t-shirts. Where is their fight, the stomping, the graffiti; where is their primal urge to rebel? But their acceptance has been sold to them on every device, on every campaign of sale, on every pitch upon this new cathartic life. Social media has controlled us to conform within its polite, political parameters. We can speak to the world now, but only in courteous, accepted tones. LOL. Music, once the gauge of youth rebellion, the temperature of the soul is now lost. It has disappeared from campuses, is non-existent on itunes, empty from the music papers. It is becoming more and more Eurovision and less the temperament of defiance. Music companies, too concerned by sales in a changing market to rock the boat, too polite to sign up a reaction. Music has become a commodity and is no longer a revolution. I spit blood to this! Music has become bland, more sterile than I ever dared believe. The charts are a sham, they tell you what they want you to buy. It has been rounded, perfumed and cauterized of all expression. But this is not the order of the world changing; this is not evolution, this is not the free spirit of young people. This is control.

But it isn’t our involvement with war that frightens me most, it is in our simple act of acceptance. Shall we honestly not care that we kill our own kind? Today we accept the killing of innocent people and make those that carry out such crimes heroes; I shudder at the advertising connotations of this. Look out, we are being sold a war and we believe it. Governments know this.

I say bring on the hackers, the bloggers, the terrorists of convention, a class of redemption, the musician, the artist, writers, the iconoclasts and allow them to give us back our voice. Turn off the television people; it will have you dull and programmed. We have more power collectively, than sedative control allows you to believe! An easy life is a cowards life, and it shall reap its rewards in pointless, cowardly ways.


August 23, 2013



In the last one hundred and fifty years of our magnificent intelligence, we have been responsible for the most unbelievable leaps foreward for our kind in recorded history. The computer, medicine, philosophy, science, arts, design, communication, aeronautics, stratospheric’s; people are more enlightened, dreams are now even possible; the canon of our worth is now almost unimaginable. And as much as the false leaders all want to take the credit for these creations, it is has nothing to do with a single one of them; but they can make speeches on it.

The world is a fundamentally different place than it was before the Great War; you remember the one that millions of innocent people got shot in. Today sees just another leader, another effigy, another fool on the hill; but we’ve seen it all before, it’s all the same, new logo: same design. Don’t let them hold us back, don’t let politics or religion stifle or take the credit for our unrivaled prowess! Mankind stood on the moon, not a nation, not a religion not a political party.

Today’s governments are at the forefound of nothing, preaching to an old world on out-moded media; on televisions, in radio friendly, bible belt words, spelled out in yesterdays Times, with pseudo-leaked reports, in the sound bites of bullshit. But the Internet generation shall succeed politics and religion. It follows a different command; its very design is of the order of progress. It is very difficult for the email generation to believe in holy water, as it is difficult for the YouTube generation to believe in party political broadcasts. Today the computer age owns the world. The young are in control, and if you don’t believe me, you just try and ignore them!

So how are the dinosaurs that control us doing today? We grow enough food to feed the world but half of its people are starving. We march for peace but the world is at war. They shore up flood and famine until such time as we can excuse ourselves of blame. The people have faught to take back a freedom that had been promised for so long that we no longer know what it is, instead we now settle on a new form of freedom; today freedom is adjusted by the amount you get paid. The markets have spread poverty and ignorance further and further and shared the wealth and influence with itself. Gods political wing is not uniting the people but ironically pushing mankind further and further apart. All over the world women are still fighting to take back the rights they deserve. In a post-racial world why is racism rising? Human rights, poverty, welfare, justice, hatred, torture, land mines, the death penalty and the thirsty refugees. Just because you believe what you are being told, don’t make it right!

But humankind is a believer, a follower en masse, a pack animal; seldom an individual. We want to believe in God even if we don’t. We belong to politics but who really trusts them? Religions eventually become mythology and politics are eventually overcome by revolution. But what frightens me most, is what it is we are willing to believe.

From the earth came Mankind. From his inability to control himself came God, from the love of his own design came Kings and Emperors and from our social indifference came politics. It appears that each significant form of control takes less and less time to fall. Stand up!


August 19, 2013

Just let me be. Leave me alone to write my music: to write my blog and to be in love. Leave me to intervene with my own bucktoothed philosophy: to be inventive and foolish and to find expression in the low bow of trees and in the reluctant corners of eyes. I had begun to use the words that nobody spoke of; the ideas that nobody came with. Those that knew me disowned me and crossed the street, and those not of my acquaintance hung down their heads and let me in. As time passed I told the truth as I saw it and eventually nobody but my love came to my door. So now I hide in the cleft of music that resonates beneath words. To find that which should not be said, and say it first. There is of course considerable juicy pleasure in scratching your ass, but very few would like it recommended at table. We are all born stupid. Written on the wall of my studio it states ‘In this room I am free’. People have commented poorly on this but it is true. Freedom is that which you do alone, it is individual at its source. Do not confuse loneliness with being alone; they are not the same thing. Being in love and being alone; now, this feeds the artist where they are their hungriest. So I drift into the opportunities that guitars have to offer, the voices obtainable from my piano and the words in my head that stitch these things together. And she brings me rice noodles and fish when I become famished. This is the view from my room and it is universal.

There is one unifying factor that binds nation to nation and people to people. You can hear the answer in the street, on the voices that spill from downtown kitchens; you can feel it in the yearning for individuality in every crowd that surges together; it is in the distance, and it is also inside your heart. What is it we all crave but can never receive enough? You can feel it profoundly in the ugly, you can see it if you examine your own image, in bikinis and in suits, in porno, the baby, the lover, the lonely; it sprouts from the teenagers loudly willing to be heard, to the voices of nightlife saying come and get me; it rises from cigarettes and coffee like quality French girls; it is in prohibition, in censorship, in the elevator chatter on the fourteenth floor, to the subterranean rumbling behind locked toilet doors, from pimps to pushers to pullers; from all of hospitality to philosophy, in music, in violence, in lipstick, in humor, in the denouncement of god. And no it is not sex! This thing we crave shines for a light when we already have one, it’s in the taxis, the paperboy, and in our dreams, it rises in the hush of longing, from the edge of the tightrope, at the lip of the cliff, in funny and in tattoos, in the lost and in the found, in painting and at temple. It can be transmitted through our five senses, through sight, sound and touch, and increasingly provocatively through scent and taste. The flow of our world is identified upon the self same thing. Everything we do we do for attention. Read it again.

But our need for attention in the modern era has gone berserk. The superficial has never been so seriously taken. Our children’s desire for fame is to be recognized not for what they can do but out of a desperate need to be loved, loved not for what they are but what they want to be. Fame has superseded the product it peddles. Will we ever match the attention we crave? How much do we need, how much will it cost and what are you prepared to pay for it with? How much is too much? Are we all just setting out our meds readied for disappointment and depression? But what is the cause of our junky obsession with attention? Is it our parents, is it femininity, masculinity, is it money to buy a boat and a sack of cocaine to bring on better quality attention, is it in your subscribers, your re-tweets, is it the fear of loneliness, is it the longing of acceptance, is it to be idolized, fantasized, recognized, close your eyes and smile that you made it all the way to notoriety? Is it the shallow mark of modern validation? Is it only a publicity tool that the marketing strategists exploit? Or is it real? But only those of justified attention shall know what it really means. Your life is yours for the giving away!

Love is her who makes silence for my noise.




August 15, 2013

Nature is God! Nature is that which we must obey. It is our mother, our father; it brings us into life and returns us to the earth. Nature is in our very design, in every breath we take, in each orgasm we export. But disregard it at your peril, for it is the price of everything. We are not above it, we are not superior to its intention; its elemental concepts govern the core of every single one of us. But as our rage with nature continues, we still rely on unproven faiths other than the thing that we know supports all life on earth. So beware, nature’s greatest power isn’t going to allow one arrogant dominating species to run roughshod over the earth at the cost of all other life. It will cut our lifeline; it will de-select us in flood, in plague or in food. We shall be undone by it if we continue to abuse it with such righteous contempt. Human life has existed in but a blink of geological time; and in just one hundred and fifty industrial, politicised years we have altered the fragile balance between earth, sea and sky. We have raped it, disrespected it and destroyed it until the ground can no longer possess the power with which to yield and sustain life.

So here is my thought on human evolution and other games. Man invents time to make sense of the natural world, over-riding his connection with nature. Eventually growing an arrogant perception that says he is above the natural order of life, crowning himself king of the world. In planetary time we have come so far so fast and this is both our magnitude and our downfall. Today we have reached the zenith in human achievement and its by-product is to no longer have any respect for nature, the natural order or the natural world. The manual evolution of Humankind believes that our pace in progress is greater than that of longevity. And if this is so, then our demise shall follow. There is a perfect analogy seen from the implausibly inventive and beautiful International Space Station, our wise blue marble is beginning to discolour. The human is damaging itself and earth for the benefit of nothing. And we are desperately trying to support a species on earth that is so rampantly over-populated, destructive and increasingly stupid. If we continue to support that which nature cannot maintain, nature will punish us with de-selection. But these are not my laws; these are the laws that govern nature. Nature, not god, is the force with which all of life must reckon.

If we are not making our species stronger, it is no longer evolving and therefore it becomes diminished by its own futility. Another greedy dynasty of man spiralling down into great swathes of society that is wasted, unwanted and worthless. But if we want our race to survive we must adhere to nature’s law. We must promote new human life with purpose and harmony. A life without a purpose is undone; a life without harmony is unbalanced. Even the simplest organisms have a purpose and this is what we must reckon with; this is what we must promote if we are to evolve. We are growing people alone, ruined at birth by their acceptance of their pitiful future, a future without prospect, with Crystal Meth, toting guns, promoting misery and violent extremes, with nothing but a life in the replication of poverty and pregnancy, doomed to live without hope and dreams.

One animal killing another is how life survives and both sides grow stronger as a result of it. But for the Americans to drop a nuclear bomb on Hiroshima in order to threaten Russia with its power and intention, this is the beginning of the end and serves no purpose in the progress of mankind. But we have flouted our responsibility to protect life on earth in so many horrendous, unforgiving ways and most have the narrowest most pitiful view of all, financial gain. How does your god justify that? Akin to the religious manuals that do not speak of the dinosaurs, the religious-orders give little or no support to nature. We have ill managed and condemned so many species to their extinction through ignorance and greed and in the process managed our own kind in squalor and in hatred. The planet cannot tolerate us as we are. There are so many people that it is impossible to implement a feeding programme to sustain them all. Mental health and suicide is outrageously on the rise. We are consuming precious natural resources at a non-replenishable level and we seem unable to cease our plunder. The unwanted generation is with us, without purpose or chance. Of course the oil companies do not care for the planet, it is stitched into their very concept and we are buying it.  And if you pretend it isn’t so… it still is!

So life needs a purpose in order to survive, take away the purpose and you take away the reason to live. If we do not adhere to nature’s guidelines we will not survive the next thousand years. Look at this planet, all filled with an exciting myriad of people and cultures and music and foods and architecture and laughter and kites and love and communication all hating each other. All frightened of each other, all wary of their own kind. But man does not naturally hate man; it is not in the interest of a species to want to kill itself. Hatred and prejudice are learned, and the teacher is politics. Politicians build up walls, design boundaries; they take us to war convincing us that they are in power to protect the people from the people. They draw up rules that we all must follow, and all the time they are pushing apart what they should be bringing together. Politics governs without creativity, without compassion and bereft of evolution. If dictatorships evolve into democracies, democracy must evolve a purpose greater than markets and money.

Nature is God. When (she) shakes the mountain to the ground and buries a village, we all arrive to the rescue. We come from all corners of the world to pull them out until we bleed with clawing fingers to find just one more person alive. We come without political design to help each other; without race and religion, bereft of social standing or law. These things have no meaning at this level, at the level of humanity; they have no influence, no priority, just mankind helping mankind. Give the people a purpose and they become it. Take away their purpose and they cease to evolve. At the tsunami, the whole world come ashore to help, we see people throwing themselves at the mercy of nature to try and stop one more child from drowning. So let us promote the values of human life. The value of us. To nurture people to understand what it means to be alive. Let us give and offer a purpose, a reason to be a man or a woman and stop promoting hatred between, skin colour or race or religion, or political ideals. Tear down those tired old walls that persecute us, that keep us in fear of each other, tear down those walls so we can see and share in the curve of the world.  And stop spinning those tired old plates.

Nature is not scared of the truth; it lives, survives and becomes greater by it. But I am just a songwriter with nothing to lose but the odd album sale.




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