and then, right before my eyes, he exploded into a thousand pieces of glass.

The following occured during the summer, when I was still waiting to embark on the MA I have now started. It looks ahead to a time which I have finally reached, from where, in turn, I now look back to what I was once expecting. I put it up now partly because I havn't been bothered to do so thus far, and because I now have a slightly clearer idea about what cultural studies is. And that question, dear reader, is of troubling concern to this me of yesterday. Not that it matters, i now realise, for half the time my associates concern themselves with discussing what cultural studies is and is going to be. No one really knows, you see.

*

I am soon going to London to study. This summer is mostly spent in the westcounty, somewhere between a state of preperation and anxious academic malnutrition. A heavy dose of procrastinaiton accompanies me, even though I have nothing to do. I was asked by the man, as he peeked up at me from his position on the floor, So why are you going to london?

To do a Masters.

Oh right, he said. Is that in a subject?

It is - Cultural Studies.

'Oh right. And eh. So eh, what does that involve?' He was protecting his eyes from falling dust. His rounded glasses were on the floor beside him. He had blue overalls, and a head shaped like the Isle of Wight.

It was a question frequently asked of me by people enquiring about the future. They would invariably not actually care, but still felt obliged to be clear on the matter. An ambiguity shrouded the name, Cultural Studies. Understandably so, I guess, for what is culture? Only, like, everything.

So I said: well, things like the philosophy of art, political theory, literary theory, media studies -

'Oh yeah,' he said wiping his brow. 'My sister's in media. She's a caterer, works on set. Does walk on parts from time to time, yeah. Not easy getting into media. She was lucky, met a weatherman, bought a dog off him. Though, a Masters has got to help ey.'

'Yeah, well, I mean, it's not media per se. It would be more . . . studying the media from the peripheries, and -'

'Lots of opportunities as a weatherman. Or woman, I might add. High turnover, you see. The only keepers are the ones with the right names, you know? Like Jon Snow, David Frost, and there's eh, Dan Snow. Yep, they've been reporting the weather for years, for years.'

He continued: ' . . . but not many stay on, 'specially with regular names. There was that one, that woman, a real looker she was. Sarah, eh. Sarah something. You know the one?'

Alas I didn't.

'Where is she now?' he mused. 'See, they dont hang about for long. They get into the meteorological department, away from the public. The public hates them, you see, always have done. The British and the weather. There's some magical connection, there is. The English await the weather like the lonely old woman awaiting her visiting grandchildren.' He sat up, as if suddenly happening upon something unmissable in the corner of his mind. 'And the weather report is like a card, or phonecall saying - "we're on our way". Nothing worse than the wrath of disappointed grandparents, we all know it. So the weathermen are the bringers of good, but misleading, news, Cos they're always wrong, right? The grandchildren always have better plans.'

'How's it coming on?' I asked. He stood up and looked at me. He held a blackened tissue.

'See, not many people know it,' he said, 'but the first day of summer, traditionally the 3rd wednesday of May, is national "taunt the weatherman" day. It came about because news anchors were getting bitter about the attention the weatherman was getting, back in the sixties, this was. So they started changing the script, or putting up messages on the screen behind them. You could get away with anything on TV then. Yeah, they'd have a report of a fine day ahead, a fine day, and you'd have sun plastered all over the country, with bits of blue tak. But he'd be saying, "so get out yer raincoats, if your heading out today, because this weather is set to stay." The chap on the newsdeck would be creasing up. These days, on the third wednesday of May, they do things like that. April fools for weathermen, and women, I might add. Well, won't be long now mate. Just got to check the eh -

'But now,' he said turning back to me, 'It's a bit sinister. If you're a weatherman you better get used to abuse on the streets, that's right, on the streets. "You said it would be sunny," they screech. "My washing's on the line!" Oh dear. They throw fruit, they throw pasties. Depends where you are - what shops are nearby I suppose. I think I'd throw a spanner. Although that might hurt. No, I have no issue with the weatherman. So, do you come at it from the media, or the meteorological, angle then, you prospective weathermen?'

'Well I don't want to be a weatherman, I'm studying Cultural Studies.

'Right, well we're almost done here. You're semi-converter plasma conducter was shot, so I replaced that. And the old jig ramp could do with a greasy make-over. But that's your perogative, son. Last thing I want to do is sell you a greasy make-over - '

I nodded.

' - but in all honesty, without a make-over your ramp will fail and your jig flap could fall off on the way home.'

'OK, well. Do what you need to do.'

He shuffled off, continued in silence. No more did we speak. I looked down the road, pretending something interesting was down there. Tomorrow, I'll have the same thing with the boiler man.

Day X and the University for Srategic Optimism

Yesterday, November 24th, thousands of students, teachers, academics and generally disillusioned persons - totally maybe 130,000 nationwide, according to a Guardian estimate - staged a walk-out from their places of schooling and places of work and spent hours upon hours adding their opinion in this education cuts / general cuts debate. The fact that it has come to this, where the anger has grown to an extent that the media latch on to pinpointed moments of aggression and exploit it in an attempt to undermine 'students' (the Daily Mail's curious attack on female students is the most perplexing spin I have yet to see), only makes apparent the hopeless process of debate through which fair decisions are supposed to be made.

". . . the way thatmore heads and hearts will be won in this country is by reasoned argument." says Michael Gove. But alas, that approach doesn't actually have much effect does it now. One may note the current lack of agreement in the LibDem corner of the coalition on these issues, and the shouting down of MPs who appear to have a view which runs contrary to the consensus.

Thus,

Millbank - 10th November

and,

Whitehall - 24th November

On this day, during the march police used their notorious kettling techniques to box in thousands of protesters until well into the evening, effectively removing their right to protest. But the story continued nonetheless . . .

As fifty or so policement made a bright yellow line at the Trafalgar end of Whitehall, pushing around young girls who are trying to get out the way and not allowing any access to the pub there, seemingly preparing a full-speed-ahead charge at the marauding (or subdued, freezing, boxed-in) protesters.

But they were out-flanked by an extremely well co-ordinated march heading west at pace. Chaos in the square ensued as excitement grew, amplified by a few dozen fiends on mopeds donning Guy Fawkes masks. The rapidity of this march, the elusiveness of their stategy forbade the police from getting a grasp on the situation, and, as far as I know, it came to a head next to Charing Cross station, with a tiny kettle - an evening tea-for-one, almost - and many a "LET THEM OUT" and "SHAME ON YOU" being directed at police from bystanders.

------------

Elsewhere, a few hours earlier, and with extremely good behaviour, the University for Strategic Optimism held their inaugural lecture in a LloydsTSB near Tower Bridge. Thirty-ish individuals joined the few customers already in the bank and witnessed the esteemed Dr. Etienne Lantier give the course outline for Higher Education, Neo-liberalism and the State. Only the bank manager didn't like it - too challenged by the set reading, one might assume. Within 7 minutes they were gone, off towards the growing tensions in central London.

The video is heeeeere! as is lecture notes and future plans and a healthy buzz.

http://universityforstrategicoptimism.wordpress.com/

And keep out a curious eye for future lectures in locations yet to be disclosed.

do grills dream of electric toasters?

i recently tried to put music on here. suffice to say that that that that didn't work.

am i strolling a little too close to the the sandy shore of jounalville?

each time i restart the play i give up for i deem the play rubbish. why is that? am i apathetic towards it? have i lost my ability to write? (did it ever exist?) is the concept too vague, leaving me little to latch on to, like a paperclip used to spread butter on a slice of bread on a warm day? my inability to write at the moment concerns me. it makes me question my future; my rather presumptuous and totally undefined future, somewhere within the vast spreading and diluting world of writingness. its not just the quality, but the ability to produce. just anything. the grasp of inertia doth indeed have some sway over me. lord, doesn't it take a while to get going.

i was standing on some uneven rocks on the sea front. i wanted a place to sit and write, to mull over this ever deepening problem. two potentialities arose - sit upon the rocky ledge of despair, against the wall. Or aim for the ledge edge, as it were; legs a-dangling, nothing but sea for many a mile. by the time these options made themselves apparent, however, they had presented their inadequacies. the rocky ground was far too bumpy to ever be comfortable, and, legs a-dangling, in this wind, i would risk a dangerous danger - i would be ill advise to jump in after the inevitably wind-swept notebook, which i would soon lose beneath the waves. what i wanted was a quieter spot than i had found all day, let me escape this day wherein the summer beach goers alone had descended upon the town. i saw ice creams, sea gulls, scooters, dogs and leads. an indiscernible babble, the summer soundtrack. i needed to get away from this world i seem to find so uninspiring, where my writing remains so stale. here i was, stood against a wall on a bumpy rocky sea front ledge thing, failing to do this.

i was just about to go when two boys arrived. now i couldn't go, for it would seem like i couldn't stand them, or they intimidated me, or some such reason. i now had to stay for a short while. they peered off the ledge down towards the sea. down there was another ledge, over which the tide was just about pushing the waves. a subdued wave would curiously venture onto the concrete ledge, half-heartedly spread over it, like an upper-class woman in a dressing gown mounting a leather sofa in a provocative way to impress an indifferent dinner guest; before trickling into the sea. this ledge ran all the round the sea wall to the beach. i think i knew what was going on - these intrepid explorers, kid A and kid B, were going to scale this ledge, challenge the threatening rising tides, and make it round to the other side; to victory on the beach.

'the water's a bit high,' said the taller kid.

'how are we gonna get round?' said the shorter kid.

'we can't, that's how.'

that's how?

tears at the party

A quick scan of the party assured me that I knew absolutely no one, except, of course, the lovely Amy Knight, everybody's friend, our honourable hostess. But this was little consolation, for Amy Knight was certain to be preoccupied for the duration, taking up her rightful position of centre of attention.

I, on the other hand, had resigned to a familier role; the detached mass of inconsequentiality to be found lingering in a corner, in an inpenetrable circle reaching a metre in all directions. But, experienced as I have become in this regard, the role greeted me with a strange comfort. With a beer in my hand, my reliable friend, I gauged how long it would be before I could realistically leave.

But I was not alone, as I had thought. There were two of us. Another member of my species hoverred above the buffet, unreacheable to all apart from one reliable friend, a can of beer. As the party continued, Amy Knight at its epicentre, we two stood alone, clinging to separate corners of the room, listening to the music.

As he prodded a pork pie, the Sinead O'Connor version of the song Nothing Compares 2 U came on the stereo. The man's head rose slightly in appreciation, as if acknowledging the god of music, and standing there by the buffet, he hesitated to eat his pork pie, and simply closed his eyes.

He was a squashed accordian of a man, a stomach disproportional to his height, and I struggled between states of bewilderment, awkwardness and sheer laughter as he stood there, eyes closed, head raised, holding a pork pie out in front of him. After a short while, before the song had finished, he roused himself from this trance and approached the dizzy circle of friends as they attentively listened to the humorous tales of Amy Knight.

'—and the irony was that he was a doctor too! ' she exclaimed, and roared with laughter. The ensemble around her roared in equal measure, and showed no signs of stopping. In the chaos of uncontrollable laughter, a gap in the circle provided a way in and was casually occupied by the approaching man.

'Nothing compares to you,' he said matter-of-factly towards Amy Knight, in a northern accent which I was too ignorant to place. The laughter was cut, and promptly spluttered out.

'Oh, erm, this is Lenny Carmichael,' said Amy Knight, attempting to regain her composure.

'Call me Darwin,' replied Lenny Carmichael, addressing the perplexed audience.

'Oh, yes, ...Darwin,' said Amy Knight. And then with some effort, 'Darwin is from the office.'

Darwin seemed to enjoy the attention, but unbeknownst to him a serious lull had replaced the jovial atmosphere. An awkward silence of inconceivable magnitude ensued, and Sinead O'Connor shone though with newfound clarity, crooning to her incomparable Other. A cross-fire of glances darted across the circle as Darwin stood there rocking on his heels.

With professional aptitude, Amy Knight flung into action, hoping to reclaim the party and get it under control. The reactions of the onlookers seemed to encourage this.

'So the doctor—'

'Those tears,' Darwin intercepted. He was not done yet.

'Those tears?' inquired one of the women, unaware of what she could be getting herself into.

'Those tears were real,' Darwin said.

'Sinead O'Connor's tears?' asked another woman.

'Oh yes,' he said, closing his eyes and biting his lip. 'Those tears were real.'

Another set of glances were exchanged, and Amy Knight's attempt had failed. From the comfort of my refuge I saw Darwin socially free-falling. I had a desire to run away on his behalf.

But Amy Knight was right on the button, soaring back into action from what looked to be a sorry defeat.

'The doctor had no idea, so...'

And she continued as the circle closed and slowly pushed Darwin out. He calmly pivoted on the spot, and headed back to the buffet, his beer firmly in his grasp.

You and me, we're the same, I said to Darwin Carmichael in silence, except that I am aware of the condition. We are the party no-hopers, forever cast to the sidelines, unable to penetrate the collective. Our purpose, to set the bench mark for the in-crowd, to remind them of their luxuries. I could have been the man attempting to integrate as Darwin had done, I realised with a shudder. I made a mental note to never utter a word to a person at a party.

And I knew, somewhere in the vast world of music television, Sinead O'Connor was weeping for the both of us.

as i make my way

This belt isn't quite right, coming undone like this all the time. It's ok when I'm still, it's the walking movement that does it; makes it flick out of place and come loose. But I don't know exactly how, and I'll never know, will I? I can't walk down the street studying my crotch in an attempt to work out exactly how this belt works it's way undone, can I Imagine if we all wore braces. Well, not the women obviously. Although, I bet some women would, if they were cool, and it was cool.

No, if braces were the norm, I would simply find some way of struggling with braces instead of belts.

Maybe I should have bought some wine. Can't go back to the shop now, or can I? If I am going to get some, let's turn back now before getting to far away from the shop, or I'm just wasting steps.

Argh, why didn't I think about it before passing the shop? I could have considered the problem far more rationally; an informed desicion based on money, self-worth, and consideration, not how far past the shop I have gone. They're not going to be happy, I'm always late. Extra late as a result of this wine situation. Maybe I should get two bottles by way of apology. No, one will be enough. It's a gesture, not an apology, let's not get off on the wrong foot — these dinner party things are, after all, with nice, kind, best intentions. I needn't convince myself I will be tutted at.

Hmm, £3.99 a bottle. Will they know it's a cheap wine? Will they assume it's cheap because I bought it? Now come on, I don't give that impression, do I? £5.99? Why not. Chewing gum? Sure. Longer queue than usual, Tuesdays must be becoming more fashionable a-night for drinking. Probably the students.

You don't get many shops with a bell on the door these days, it seems. It has a niceness to it, like, 'we know you're here, our attention will be appropriately directed at the soonest posible moment.' That ring establishes a brief relationship to be shared between shopper and shopkeeper, and signifies its end as you leave. Ding.

It's getting dark. If I only had a bike I could do this journey in seconds. Granted, many seconds it would be, but fewer seconds than my current performance. Ah, but I'd probably smash the bottle of wine. They have the thinnest bags in the world. One should not have to hold the bottle when surrounded by the bag, for the handles should suffice. These handles are not up to the task.

I wonder where the cracks in the pavement myth comes from. If everyone was always conscious of it, avoiding cracks on all journeys, then city centres would surely be a comical place — everyone staring down at the floor, dodging cracks at all cost. Would make for some well placed irony too, I'd say — concentrating too hard on cracks to escape the perils of an approaching bus, par example.

But people don't usually focus on cracks when they're walking do they? Only on lesuirely strolls. No, other things occupy the mind, leaving unsuspecting cracks in pavements the world over being ruthlessly trodden on. Maybe thats where all the evil in the world comes from; our failing to remember to dodge cracks, and the ensueing bad luck.

A tricky road to cross, this one. As soon as those lights change, these ones change, and when they change back, those ones change, leaving the road constantly packed full of cars - big, metal, crushing, cars. Why aren't cars big and fluffy? Surely a car's exterior could be soft, like a teddy bear, and deaths on the road would siese. Ah, a gap in the traffic always appears, sooner or later. Patience, young pedestrian, Yoda would say. Use the zebra crossing, Obe Wan would add.

Pavement, though. That's a good word. One would have to admit, however, that 'sidewalk' makes more sense - it's at the 'side' of the road, and you 'walk' on it. Say what you see, America. It couldn't be simpler. Edgepath? It's not brilliant, I admit. What we need is rotary pavements, or conveyor belt pavements (a la airport terminal), then maybe I wouldn't be running late. Well, 'pavement' is better than 'sidewalk'. If nothing else, we have that.

Blasted belt! I must look like such an idiot casually doing up my belt as I walk down the road, It comes undone! Should I explain this to onlookers? Or make a sign? BELT MAY COME UNDONE - DO NOT BE ALARMED - IT IS A SIMPLE MALFUNCTION. No, too long, needs to be catchy, so a simple glance will convey the message. BELT BROKEN: - NO OFFENCE. How seriously am I considering this? Maybe a new belt would be a better idea.

Was it number 32 or 34? I've been here at least 3 times, I really should know. Well, if all the houses didn't look so similar . . . Shall I phone one of them? No, surely I can't admit to not knowing which house it is after all those visits, it's just not normal. Let's try 32, what's the worst that can happen? Everyone will survive, it's no big deal.

"Hello!"

"Hi, sorry I'm late."

"Not at all, not at all! Come in."

"Great, here's some wine."

review 3

round 3 - the machine as considered by florence, rage, and radiohead.

for rage, the machine is the other - that to which they proclaim to rage against. for florence, the machine is the companion; that which constitues the other half of the partnership. both consider animate living things to be in fact machinic (sic(k)) - inhuman creations deviod of individual agency. rage are addressing political systems, systems of power. systems constituted by individuals who, by the very nature of the system, create a sort of machine unto themselves; each individual performing small taks but none really holding any real power. the power is realised through the combined participation of the individuals. the resulting machine is the oppressor. florence's machine is her machine, she is the puppeteer. the machine is her slave. but this machine too is formed from people, people playing instruments, who individually hold little power, little influence, but once drawn together, to realise the musical ideas, create songs. the dichotomy is one of figurative standpoints, opposed upon these overseers by themselves. they both claim to wield power over the machine, whether in rebellion against it or utilising it, but their view of the machine is held in different lights. one could see florences's standpoint as one of opimism - the machine is at her beck and call. but is she as in control of her machine as she might like to think? what happens when the machine abandons her? does her machine end with band members? should it include the synths, the managers, a & r, the industry? rage by contrast see only the negative, and rage against it with a supreme irony they surely must be aware of, being situated deeply within the machine of their nightmares, feeding off it. but let us not undermine them for this, the argument is too easy. the condition of late capitalism does not permit critiique from anywhere apart from within, this is its nature. radiohead knew this, and became the machine, enveloped it, embraced its cold ability to exemplify itself in the song fitter happier. here the machine is used to create, like with florence, and to undermine, a la rage, by going one further than the other two; fully removing the human, not attempting to challenge or control it, thereby unvieling the true nature of the situation - a morbid acceptance to the posthuman condition. pessimistic? surely not.

Review#2

round 2: Clark

the first half of the song 'Suns of Temper' cannot be conceived of anything less than having a purpose, and thus existing for that. in this respect, it gains a life which most music fails to have, for what is music's purpose? this half of this song is there to provide a space for the second half, which would not work if it came out of nowhere. it lays the red carpet, it clears the air. for this reason it has a purpose within music unshared with other pieces; it relates directly to its 2nd half in an explicit way which whole pieces fail to do themselves; indeed, throughout an album only a continuity of mood is shared usually. thus, where the first half serves the 2nd half, realising its efficacy, doing the manual labour, the 2nd half, of which the importance is assumed to be centralised, lacks any purpose beyond the abstract purpose of music.

so, when this half of the song finally fades away, leaving a lingering tension and an uneasy space where the mess has been removed, the full impact of the 2nd half can be felt, which enters like a huge monster happy that you didn't predict his entrance. but the severe depth of this part is compromised within itself, albeit not as a fault but a necessity. that is to say, it is as if the clarity of its force should not be truly exhibited, for it is a cliché threatening to happen. the layers of noise prohibit the cliché from emerging. that is its necessary compromise.

here we are reminded of the irony which flows through the album, made obvious by a glance towards the 1950's American (assumedly) suburbanites on the record sleeve. but of course in the digital age music (potentially) has no image, so the irony may never be known. we are further reminded of Barthes' proclamation of the Death of the Author, which makes itself relevant once again. it is in its destination, not its origin, where we can ascribe meaning. let us not assume. we can receive the changing quirks of the album, the clichés and disruptions to form as a playful appropriation and reinvention of standards. or we may see these as serious musical gestures. and is either one wrong? Barthes would say no, for intention is secondary to reception, and the resulting opinion validates itself. Clark is thus offering us a wealth of material to consider, occupying some space outside the judgements of cool and uncool. keep your dubstep, i've got irony-core.