Bad wisdom - aphorism 2

"The past is a broken escalator, it's apparent stability makes it all the more hazardous."

Bad wisdom - aphorism 1

...that night I went to sleep with a multitude of thoughts, all of them nonsense. A random assortment of verbs and nouns, a pick n mix of quasi-wisdom, just waiting to be scooped into the paper bag of tomorrow, only to be carelessly ripped open by mid-morning; a sugary snack for elevenses...

"Leave to the cupboard, the custard, the butter, the mayonnaise; for only water, smooth and pure, has the viscocity of life."

More words on waking

morning broke like a vase

like a crème brûlée

like a deleuzian egg

an exclusive story

like a window wrapped round a body

like a small clay pot made in primary school

a chalked blackbored stressed teacher

a heart, a glass, a high e string

a tradition, a perdition, a peircing ring

morning broken:

a pellucid canvas dripping moisture.

Sunday

Sunday struck with impertinence, an overzealous neighbour with a chainsaw. The toils of last night roused a plenitude of demons to torment my nightly rest, and i could not have wished it to be over sooner. But though dawn broke and plastered my pale walls with a strip of orange, my eyes remained fastened. As the morning began it was no longer the demons of sleep that would prolong my discomfort, but the prospects of the waking hours of Sunday. No longer would my eyes stay glued to the back of my head, peering into the chaotic darkness of the unconscious, the strangely welcoming and comforting landscape of nonsensical narratives, people i recognise occupying places i do not.

The day had to be dealt with. My stomach turned at the sight of breakfast, A coffee was all that could be managed. My bedroom seemed most inhabitable, as if all potential sitting spots were occupied by unwelcome visitors, the rancid memories that pinned themselves to the furniture. I turned in disgust, left the house. I had no plans, and instead left the decision to the objects upon my person. No wallet, no phone. Four pound sixteen in change and a travelcard.

It was one of those stubborn self-satisfied days. One unchanging character for the duration: overcast, take it or leave it. Today the sun only existed as a point of fact, in earlier times we would have thought it dead or angry. At the same time, prospects for rain looked slim, the sky seemed to lack the energy to make the effort. I cared not for rain today, it would not matter. I would not be cold, i had a jacket. Rain on me if you dare, i will dry given time.

I wondered if my travelcard bore me any financial recompense. Had i funds? Begone, travelcard, i said as i walked, you offend me. A wonderful realisation had horizoned, that truth that defined the line 'twixt Catford and Waterloo East. No barriers, free journey. and i vowed to seize this fortune, for it might be my last. to the station!

The park i crossed has been refurbished. young trees stand helped up with sticks and wire, slides and swings sit on protective rubber surfaces. the river has been artificially realigned in an attempt to bring it back from the previous artificial straightening which just looked too manmade. the manmade of now has to be disguised, the hyperreality of landscape redevelopment. a new park for the community, to offset the anger felt at government spending and deepening insecurity and inequality.

And into the backside of Catford, as if there is a part of it which does not merit the term 'backside'. At the station the touch-in plinth where my money would be inhaled taunted me as i approached, but i refused to be drawn into a confrontation, and passed indignantly. no violence or bad language was expended, just disregard. The train was bleak, empty except for a few Sunday travellers, all looking aimless, occupying this strange respite from two sandwiched weeks of labour.

This route takes us scenically north to London Bridge, rising above ground level to peer into the contemporary flats which overlook Greenwich. They watch lunchtime Sunday tv as the roast bubbles in the oven, at least that's what i expect. I wondered, as the gent opposite peered into the financial times and cleared his throat, when, if ever, a roast might be presented to me on some distant future wholesome Sunday.

But today was not that day. Waterloo's sky was no less bleak than Catford's, but i strode past the barriers with a sunny satisfaction. Free travel encourages travel, i realised today, for i had no purpose in Waterloo, no purpose whatsoever. Central London greeted me with traffic, litter, and glances of indifference; a antidote to quell all ails that confounded me this Sunday morn. I banished them to the peripheries of my mind, to only be apprehended in the proper circumstances: an untidy bedroom as the light fades.

Time's haste found new fuel this afternoon. Every time i glanced at one of the glowing clocks fastened to Nineteenth century buildings the best part of an hour had passed. Space seemed to turn as i willed it, the whim of my ambling reconstituting the landscape around me. I refrained from making decisions, instead allowing directions to present themselves. I never turned around, never looked both ways before crossing.

The sky was darkening like a flat panel light with struggling batteries. i hastened back to Waterloo. Back onto the train, back amongst the same aimless travellers, everyone going in reverse.

I sit here recalling Sunday, the holiday from the walls i am captive to, the walls at which i stare, rethinking my vocabulary. Is vocabulary the most appropriate word, i have the luxury to question. Rethinking is one thing, the deferral of the inevitable pastime of thinking. The holiday is over now, until the demons of wake are overwhelmed by those of sleep.

Nyx 5 - Myth

Issue 5 of the renowned cultural magazine Nyx is to be launched on the 27th May. Centered around the sprawling topic of myth, you can expect to find thoughts relating to Pepsi, revolutionaries, Rage Against the Machine, the Big Society, Happiness and post-simian becomings.

http://www.nyxnoctournal.com/home.htm

*

There will be those who's eyes dodge the lens of their glasses, who peer over the frame with the stern eyes of critique and dismiss the whole affair without uttering a word. And those who put the printed word to death long ago and have long since ceased their lament. And still those who put 2 fingers up and say go away your argument is flawed and you're an obscurantist.

But to you I say I may put ice cream in my coffee! I may have African rooibos and red thyme shower gel! And dammit when the time comes to address the problem of the nature of myths which are in turn products of the myths that constitute our understanding of the world, you better believe I'll give you an an answer. Now fetch my pipe!

Sketch for a theory of invisibility

As hopeless prisoners of ourselves, cruelly predisposed to a sensory faith, we are never able to not hear the tree crash but know of its sound. Aliens to the event, it ceases to matter. The question of the acoustic residue of a crashing tree becomes replaced by another: did the tree ever fall?

As cohabitants in the house of ego, that merciless housewife of apparent unity, we only care for the status of the tree insofar as it effects the immediacy of our being. The question is once more supplanted: does the tree exist?

To some, it may; to I, it does not - other issues are at hand. But I do not question the realist; I am prepared to concede that it exists, but is invisible.

To be visible is:

1. to influence the nature of the field of vision.

2. to register upon the perceptive apparatus of the observer.

3. to be mediated.

The degree of visibility/invisibility is correlative to the degree of obse

rvation.

This is the ontological condition of being visible.

The tree in question, its existence and its acoustic qualities, bear no significance, for these questions only come into being once the tree has been deemed visible. Until then, it is invisible and immaterial.

Thus, to be invisible is:

1. to not influence the nature of the field of vision.

2. to fail to register upon the perceptive apparatus of the observer.

3. to be isolated.

Invisibility is a matter of negation.

On attaining invisibility

One cannot decide to be invisible, it can only occur through the co-operation with perceptive beings, and their ability to not perceive.

The insignificance of the object leads to its failure to be observed, thus to be insignificant is to increase chance of invisibility.

Insignificance is the inability to affect the environment, it is stasis manifest in suspension; a perimeter that connects to nothing.

Invisibility is the visual non-manifestation of the force of neglect.

The invisible lacks substance; it lacks the impetus with which to become visible. The invisible thus secures its own sustained invisibility.

To be invisible is to not be: to not be is to not be invisible: the condition of double negation.

The invisible non-being's sustained non-being is assured. This is the one and only attribute of the invisible - endlessness.

End.

On this day . . .

Police Numbers to be Cut.

Government crack down on gang culture.

Home secretary Theresa May is committed to new measures to prevent 'known hooligans' (pictured) from attending future demonstrations. Said May on the gang's violence during recent protests, 'The message to those who carry out violence is "You will be caught and you will be punished."'

But the Police, a gang based in London but with a network spanning the nation, have been notoriously difficult to indict, having frequently eluded continued efforts to bring them to justice. Attempts to resolve high profile cases such as the deaths of Ian Tomlinson and Jean Charles de Menezes end up being thwarted by the bureaucracy of the Independent Police Complaints Commission, and the problems of violence at protests and institutionalised racism continue to thrive.

Without the ability to completely crush the Police, the hope is that cutting numbers may combat some problems.