Archive for July, 2012

controversial subject matter perhaps, but I couldn't let this accidental juxtaposition go uncaptured. The newspaper in question is The Sun.


I’ve just had the most hallucinatory, dirty, dangerous, cyberpunkish and bizzare narrative based dream and I’m trying to decide if I should try like hell to hold onto these sense impressions and images or just let them sink.

out of the fragments I can pick one or two things that I feel able to describe. Part of the dream took part in the episode selection level of quake, there was something of a nervous system immersion thing going on with the players, whose dialogue was largely to do with some urban/digital underground scene that bordered on the illegal. There was a very real possibility to death. At one point there was a police raid, during which I ducked out back into the real world to track down this girl who I had met earlier but whose connection had been cut, to let her know what was going on. She was interning at some tech office. When we dived back in the government agents were completely out of their minds, as if they were high on pcp, and had performed surgery on one of their prisoners, a close friend of the intern, and replaced her head with that of a parrot. There was blood everywhere. Her actual head was slithering about on metal snake-like protrusion coming out of her neck, like a symbolic representation of her spinal column, howling in agonising pain – like she was dying in stuttering, artifact-laden slow motion.

I got the impression that this subculture looked to the past (our present and near-past) for its iconography, slang, and references.

::::meaning is constructed behind the eye::::

how to get a fragment of prose onto my blog, twitter account and facebook in one post. ^_^

::::Ballard Quote::::

“I used to start the working day once I returned from delivering the children to school, at 9:30 in the morning, with a large Scotch. It separated me from the domestic world, like a huge dose of novocaine injected into reality in the same way that a dentist calms a fractious patient so that he can get on with some fancy bridgework.”

Twitter is great for certain things. If you are expressing yourself with only 128 characters it brings a certain clarity of thought, encouraging not only levity but also the sharing of fleeting impressions. It can also be a great conversational tool. My first thought was to post this musing to twitter but, at the end of the day, more people following this blog than follow me on twitter. Also, I do like to go on a bit…


I am currently reading The Drowned World by JG Ballard. I got it out from the library over a year ago along with a few other Ballard titles and kinda forgot to return it. Another county library system I owe money to added to an already extensive list. Reading it I am struck by its inherent cinematic nature – The urge I have to film it is overwhelmingly strong and I find myself pondering how a certain paragraph, page or scene would be expressed in a screenplay and through the camera lens. I think if done right it could equal the works of Tarkofsky in its expression of the interior. In fact, Tarkofsky would of been a perfect directorial candidate for a adaptation.

I have recently been struck by a thought concerning science fiction cinema – With the exception of perhaps ‘Alien’ all the greats have been based on short stories and novels. What is it about science fiction that makes it so inherently unsuited to being expressed in screenplay form from inception? (ooh! Inception! No, wait, wasn’t that based on a short story by Nolan’s brother?)

Maybe I’m wrong and getting carried away with this notion of mine. What do you think?


Happy birthday (posthumously) to iconic literary man Jean-Paul Sartre, master of existential thought, prolific writer and long time companion of Simone de Beauvoir who today would be turning 107. In NAUSEA, Sartre wrote:

“This is what I thought: for the most banal even to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.”

For us, as writers, we feel conflicted. Choosing to live or tell seems somewhat impossible as we live to tell and tell to live and live to live in some sort of “chicken vs. egg” tangled web of messiness. We feel that in living, the writer continues to experience…

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another tight piece of writing put out by the Pygmy Giant.

The Pygmy Giant

by Bob Jacobs

I’m ironing in the front room when the television screen goes blank. Tom huddles into the corner of the sofa sucking his thumb. Ellie’s hand pauses in mid-air clutching a crayon. We wait, expecting the picture to return.

The light on the iron is dead. “Power cut,” I tell them.

Tom sucks and waits. “Terrorists,” Ellie says.

“I don’t think so, darling.”

“They’ve blown up the power station. Samantha’s dad said they would.”

“There’s nothing around here for terrorists to blow up, Ellie.”

“Samantha’s dad is a teacher. He knows everything.” Case proved, Ellie’s crayon sweeps back and forth across her drawing. “It’s the Muslims,” she adds.

“Ellie! Not all Muslims are bad.”

“I know,” she says. The crayon hovers. “There are good Muslims and bad Muslims. The bad ones are terrorists.”

“There are good and bad non-Muslims too, you know.”

Ellie colours in her drawing while…

View original post 350 more words


::::gonna eat the sky:::: [ photography ]

no posts recently. First it was Wimbledon (an event my gf has sucked me into over the past few years), now it is a frenzy of DIY. my hands are lumps of diseased meat etched with fingerprints. After laying horrendous with the epoxy and fibre board and fake wood grain upon thee floor, Stripping away decades upon decades of paint all the way back to when Queen Victoria enjoyed a toke to help with menstrual cramps is no eaSY task. Not at all. in the corners of steps the mocking begins. Can’t get rid, not easily, gloss upon gloss upon gloss upon. To add insult to injury my face is trying to kill me. Well, my mouth.

Well, my teeth. one tooth really. It wants to end me.

Anyway, just wanted to say hi.


::::Charlotte Sometimes::The Cure:::: [ lyrics ]

all the faces
all the voices blur
change to one face
change to one voice
prepare yourself for bed
the light seems bright
and glares on white walls
all the sounds of
charlotte sometimes
into the night with
charlotte sometimes

night after night she lay alone in bed
her eyes so open to the dark
the streets all looked so strange
they seemed so far away
but charlotte did not cry

the people seemed so close
playing expressionless games
the people seemed
so close
so many
different names…

sometimes i’m dreaming
where all the other people dance
sometimes i’m dreaming
charlotte sometimes
sometimes i’m dreaming
expressionless the trance
sometimes i’m dreaming
so many different names
sometimes i’m dreaming
the sounds all stay the same
sometimes i’m dreaming
she hopes to open shadowed eyes
on a different world
come to me
scared princess
charlotte sometimes

on that bleak track
(see the sun is gone again)
the tears were pouring down her face
she was crying and crying for a girl
who died so many years before…

sometimes i dream
where all the other people dance
sometimes i dream
charlotte sometimes
sometimes i dream
the sounds all stay the same
sometimes i’m dreaming
there are so many different names
sometimes i dream
sometimes i dream…

charlotte sometimes crying for herself
charlotte sometimes dreams a wall around herself
but it’s always with love
with so much love it looks like
everything else
of charlotte sometimes
so far away
glass sealed and pretty
charlotte sometimes

::::A hole in my tooth:::: [writing]

I have a hole in my tooth. Because of this i’ve been swallowing entire packets of over-the-counter ibuprofen-codeine cocktails at a time, bouncing between the two pharmacies in this no-horse town so as not to raise suspicion. Needless to say I’ve been mashed most of the time, something I must admit I’ve been enjoying, but frankly things are getting a little tedious – in a waking up at 5am with the screaming abdabs kind of way. right now I’m waiting for a dose to kick in whilst white-hot needles pierce my tender nerve endings. Luckily, there is whisky – take a small mouthful straight and swish it about your mouth until your tongue and cheeks burn screaming sweet agony. Keep going. Keep going.

Keep going until you cannot stand it no more.

Now swallow.

That’ll give you a few minutes release.

I wish I could just go to the dentist, but i can’t. My dentist is a cunt.

Oh well, time for another handful me thinks.

part i
part ii
part iii
author’s blog


My soul calls out to me,
“Come be alone!”
So I drive out toward the place
Where I love to sit,
Deep in the park
Where the birds sing sweet,
And I can ponder and think.

And speaking of thinking,
As I feel that pull,
I stop and decide to avoid the fates.
I’ll go completely the opposite way.
I drive to a lonely strand—
A sandy shoreline where nobody ever bothers to go,
Or bothers to stop, for that matter.

I step out of my car and survey
The empty, wind blown beach.
A wasteland of tumbled up weeds,
Briars, and blackberries
Give way to grain after grain of sterile sand.

The winds are pushing the waves to the limit.
They pound and turn, relentless, and crash,
Over and over, lulling me into their rhythm and pulling me close.

I think about sitting right down on the sand,
But the repetitive beating and pulse of the sea
Has hypnotized my soul.

All in this world I can see for this moment
Is wading steadily into that water
And relieving my every qualm
In the heart of it’s conquering waves.

My feet reach the wet, overpowered layer,
And the first bit of water foams and sprays on them.
My toes gasp a bit
But hold on for dear life
As I continue out to my knees.

Trudging now against all opposition
That would push me back to a sanded seat,
I’m in all the way
Up to my narrowed waist.

My soaking clothes hang wet and heavy,
Floating in the excess, pulling in the tow.
I pull my shorts off and fling them beachward,
My top quickly following.

I dive straight headlong into the waves,
Riding them, big, and gently swelled.
I’m completely free, exhilarated,
By their overwhelming largeness,
And all of my helpless flails.

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking—
I feel a Whitman moment coming,
A riptide of multitude proposing,
Floating me out of control.

Suddenly bobbing up like a cork
From an elegant bottle of perfectly aged wine,
It’s him,
Out of nowhere,
The strange good looking man,
Skinny dipping with me.

His landfall a few short meters there,
Nonchalantly sharing my wave,
A smile on his brow
Like a navy frogman,
I wonder if he opens his eyes under water.
I kind of think he did.

His knowing eyes stare deep, right thru me.
To the soul who tried to avoid
His chancy advances,
He speaks the words
Stronger and more delicious than any,
Then he twines and turns me up in his arms.

I feel my heart going down for the third time,
While only the mocking bird’s throat can chant
The pains and joys,
The uniting of here and hereafter,
As you sing to me
In fitful risings and fallings
Your transparent hints and reminiscings.


By Tai Carmen

The story goes like a joke: five monkeys and a banana. Or a parable: under the banana there was a ladder, and every time a monkey climbed the ladder to reach for the banana, he and the other monkeys in the group received a shock of cold water. Eventually no one reached for the banana at all.

In this famous experiment, monkeys conditioned not to pursue the banana were replaced one by one with unconditioned monkeys. Each time a new member of the group began to climb the ladder to get the forbidden fruit, the rest of the group dissuaded him by force, regardless of whether they themselves had experienced the cold water spray. The banana had become taboo.

Eventually the entire group was replaced with monkeys who had never experienced the water spray firsthand, yet the banana remained untouched. The conditioning had become self-perpetuating, independently functioning upon its…

View original post 410 more words

Cat Hepburn

scriptwriter | spoken word artist | educator


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