In an age of deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act- George Orwell
Gravity’s my enemy- M.I.A
Eminem began life as a nickname. Scrawny, weak, underfed Marshall Mathers III was bullied and abused as a child. Possibly not to the extent he extolled in his wrathful, self-loathing, vicious and messianic music, but psychologically he began as M n M, a little, round, chocolate sweetie.
The game has changed. In fact, it’s not that the game has changed, it’s that a new level of transparency has burst free into the everyday language of the post-digital age. Opinions are commodity, your followers are your bank balance and a RT is worth ten points. A favourite means that you have tweeted something of (at that instance) serious value to your audience. However, there is no way of knowing whether or not they are using that favourite (yes, I know it’s spelt favorite but I’m English) to use your information as commodity either against you or to create a matrice of tweets to promote some other scheme. Get it? Good.
I missed therapy today. Overslept by five hours. Last night I was so doped up on Promethazine (an over the counter Valium derivative) that I was tripping out nicely and enjoying my mild hallucinations of the fairy lights on my wall twinkling and undulating like silkworms. I tweeted, I wrote some notes, I watched YouTube and put on my very own concert of videos on my feed. Adele’s Skyfall should, by rights, win the Oscar for Best Song. Her critical and street credit could not be higher, and whilst I don’t particular listen to 21 often (it’s a little bland) I do respect that she is a great pop musician and I like her. And that’s enough. Skyfall is her masterpiece, and I don’t think she’ll ever write a better song about the devastating break-up that influences her art. All pain is subjective.
I’m not sure too many people are following this blog (and for those who have purchased this as a book, it began in October 2012 as a way of making sense of an ex-girlfriend’s suicide, and was continued until I found an ending) and frankly, that doesn’t matter too much. I will tweet this link once, and only once, and whilst nobody ever reacts to my writing directly, I hope that if you are reading this you are not too put off by the navel gazing. I’m currently high on Promethazine, so I think this is totally awesome and trippy.
On Saturday I went for a walk in the woods with Raf and tried to explain Bisociation to him. I like walking in the woods. It gives inspiration for the huge haunted house novel I am outlining.
“Okay,” I said. “Bisociation is the interlinking of two previously incompatible frames of reference. Like uh,” I avoided a puddle, handed my tobacco to him so he could roll me a cigarette, “insects and military intelligence.”
“That is English.”
He grinned. “Please continue.”
“Okay,” I said, pulling up my hood, “What do you call a paranoid wasp?”
Raf smiled, “Hey, that’s pretty good!”
“And that,” I said, taking the cigarette and lighting it, “feeling of mild euphoria, of epiphany, of revelation, that feeling is Bisociation.”
Raf considered this. “Sometimes you chat so much shit, but that was pretty good.”
“Both my parents were teachers,” I smile, exhaling.
I booked another ticket for The Shining: US Extended Edition at the BFI since I auto-suggestively passed out the last time. All the hip, fashionable “scene” makers were laughing the whole way through which was too much for my fragile constitution to take. This time round I had to wait two hours and borrow a smart phone off a couple of bouncy gay fashionati (the type who think simulating oral sex on each other in public is just too hip and spend their time writing letters to Europe and hanging in the coolest bars in Soho) so I could call the fifty year old manic depressive I was randomly going with. He had had a serious coke habit for years, and consoled his failures to become a cross between Jack Nicholson and Stanley Kubrick by reading Aleister Crowley’s poetry and transcribing old mix tapes onto CD. He turned up eventually, wearing a leather jacket with the word REAL painted onto it, some scarves and a cowboy hat. We went outside and picked fag butts off the floor, and I accidentally hit up a joint somebody had tossed. The screening was in NFT1 as opposed to NFT3. NFT3 is better. It’s the one they use for the premieres since the front row is far enough back from the screen to see it clearly. We had front row seats in NFT1, but nicked the seats from two intellectualti before the lights went down, making it impossible for them to kick us out. I didn’t auto-suggestively pass out this time. I had watched a documentary about Kubrick which showed footage of him playing chess against Shelley Duvall and anticipating her first eight moves. I actually like the Extended Edition more. It will be a cold day in hell before it comes onto BluRay, so I’ll keep seeing it every time it reappears after its decade absences. It’s a treat, and I’ve been dreaming about it every night since, including last night. Marilyn Manson once said that he believed dreams were “time travel”. I like that idea.