cease the pain of your useless and pointless knowledge...

So I'm having a few issues with my memory on my computer which shall unfortunately make this a rather pictureless blog post as I can't seem to make it do anything.. stupid thing.. 

I just felt the urge to rant.. rave ... complain etc. at some inanimate form of correspondence with the no people who read this anyway... firstly Happy nearly Brigitte Bardot's Birthday (I've been reading the G2 sorry... how utterly predictable)

secondly... I've decided that the furthering of my life is going to go towards a quest I'm going to set myself...once I have some money from shamelessly hanging myself with my bank swipe pass... as I sit in a bit of a state on my bedroom floor as it is a big muddle around me and cry because my printer won't work for some godforbidden reason... I have decided to shed off such shackles of mundane shitness, printers included in that... 

Right my quest.. 

I'm going to go and buy a map of America (later the world.. though that might be even more moneys that I have not got)

and I"m going to map out a big path of places mentioned in Dylan songs.. Pathetic perhaps.. yes.. maybe unoriginal but it's sure going to be a way to travel around.. I'm meant to be going to various places already but frankly I want to go where everybody wait, nobody knows my name... where I can get ridiculously maudlin without pissing anybody off, where I can smile inanely at myself in a corn field for a while with a nice book.. I don't know... I want to be stuck inside of Mobile with or without the Memphis blues... I'm not sure I want place related blues but they do sound rather decadent don't they.... 

Oxford town.. (ok, this one could be potentially closer to home but where's the fun in that.. I like it as a place but it's not the belly of my spiritual enlightenment or any kind of potential fulfilled at that.. I have always felt a fondness for the place.. mostly because of my big infatuation with Sebastian Flyte and the fact that Jeremy Irons and Anthony Andrews make me want to dance for some kind of joy in my silly little heart...I also felt somewhat rejected by there considering my cleverness, which I'm in no way suggesting isn't apparent, is also not what I think would go down particularly well there, I've far too much leisurely spirit, far too much old school "I'm going to wear a big scarf be damned if I'm sent down this term" etc...sigh)

I"m going to ride on mail trains and have tombstone blues.. and realise it does take a lot to laugh, and a train to cry.... trains do make me cry... I always seem to feel ridiculously emotional on trains.. either too happy or too sad... coming or going.. leaving or wenting... being or nothing... seeing or sleeping doing or eating... writing or reading... falling or spinning.. 

Right now I'm feeling like the sad eyed lady of the well not high or low lands.. and this takes me to my next point that I"m probably in a mess about my entire life because of Dylan.. he created some stupid ideals in my head.. letting me think that romantic ramblings are the way forward... and I'm fucked if I'm going to deny that childhood notion... I'm in the process of making a leopard skin pill box hat.. making a big brass bead.. getting my Lady Chatterly out with a man who's clothes are dirty but his hands are clean.. blatantly Mellors.... ah I wonder if DH Lawrence saw that one coming... a few things I think of when I think of him, Sean Bean, people moaning about the Rainbow, Dylan.... sex..... and washing machines.. yup I ruined a poor old man in Camberwell's washing machine in his launderette because I accidentally put my book through the wash.. the reason I spent the entirety of Leeds festival 2005 finding sex scenes all over my clothes on fairground rides.... 

I can rent a Buick 6 (I"m not sure I can pull of car related puns so that's where that one ends..)

and live the dream man.. haha.. God I would never imagine myself saying that stupid phrase.. maybe I"m turning this into a Springsteen testament tour instead of Dylan's Decadent Day trips or the like. 

Because right now I am tired of myself and all of my creations.. I paint and I don't like them that much.. I look out windows and get annoyed that nothing looks as good as the fucking brilliant skyline outside my window.. a simple row of houses and their chimneys set against a shocking pink striped jet of sky shot out of some New Romantic's sky blue pink Eyeshadow box.... I am getting so aggravated by everything.. watching all these people starting new and interesting things... I'm sick of repetition and tired of everything... and I'm sure I don't really mean that but I'm fucking aggravated.. Shall I leave it at that? I'm tired of nothing.. tired of the fact that nothing looks as good as it is.. or is that the other way around? no matter... I reckon my conclusions should be more drastic.. see I can't even use my own words anymore.. sigh.. 

I would use tangled up in blue.. but David Cameron has somewhat ruined that for me.. as a politically aware, artistic, silly, graduated, supposedly vaguely intelligent, almost deemed slightly sensible, overly emotional, wannabe teenage stroppy git with a foot that's just gone to sleep surely there should be more interesting and grasping things in this world... or I've just not found all of them yet.. 

I'm not sure how much of this is nonsense bought on my ranting needs or just self pitying crap.. I think it's a nice melancholic mix of the two.. and If you've actually read it I applaud you cos there's no way in Hell I'm going to read it back.. 

I'm going to use my own pictures.. that's a good idea... right... I"m going to put in fitting images.. and I'm going to make it some kind of mish mash puzzle of crap.. 

see even now my stupid Philosophy degree makes me immediately think of Kierkegaard when I listen to Highway 61 Revisited.. yup... Abraham and Isaac.. leaps of faith.. hot hunchbacked philosophical sexpots and aw foot's coming back to life.. if only Kierkegaard had a weird whirring noise and guitars that followed him.. everybody always makes him sound a bit mad and I love him... yes his words tortured me for a year but apparently I"m a glutton for punishment... 

If you haven't noticed yet this rather slapdash post is an experiment of Dada like ranting.. I say Dada but I think I've managed full sentences for most of it.. 

Turnip.. the sky .. write the monkeys.. don't eat cheese.. hats are cyphons. eat the moon's light. etc. 

Maybe I should attempt an entirely surrealist post.. 

hmm.. what was my point.. oh yes.. it was that this post has been the product of me putting on every Dylan album I own and as the songs come on writing in context with them.. I like it.. It's suits me.. it's not easter time but I do have Tom Thumb's blues.. or not.. I stole them and ran away... 

They got some hungry women there and they'll really make a mess out of you... 

I think I should've actually written my dissertation now I read this back as it's been an enjoyable ramble... it was going to be the pretentiously titled ... actually no.. let's just leave it at Dylan related.. I might want to write it one day... 

if you're looking to get silly you'd better go back to where you came.. 

This is here because the first thing that came up when I wrote Dylan was Dylan Moran.. and this is a bit of actual genius.. excuse the bad quality of the video but it was the only one I could find.... Thank you for your letter.. your enclosed nasty niminy piminy little note... I am afraid your letter is most unsuitable for me at this time...

And yes I am aware that it is traditionally that it is bad form to reply to any kind of criticism or rejection.... but in this as with all else I am an innovator so I may address you as Piss midget...

"Everyone agreed he was write to kill the publisher, and to do it with a Flugel Horn was a stroke of genius,..... here have this basket of things and come and stay for the weekend..."

OH Bernard...this is what I will undeniably be like when my first rambling crap book novella will be rejected by the likes of those who have no taste and crap into buckets  made from carefully arranged copies of the Financial Times... I am feeling bitter and entwisted towards the world of publishing .. not only can I not get a job there but I undoubtedly will not have any of the nonsense I have pained over published as the nonsense category is no doubt filled with Simon Schama and his silly ideas on historical things... and various things that I forced myself to forget after Dutch History at ALevel... 

knob

yes.. I am aware that that does not really put my standard of vocabulary and wit at the highest point it's ever seen but knob it is and knob it must remain...

Right again my computer is disallowing any photographic nonsense I may adhere to this post therefore random youtube videos a go go.... 

All submitted in 10ft high braille. 

x Good Day x (piss midgets)

This song was not written about me.. apparently....

Sing Me to Sleep, Sing Me to Sleep I'm Tired and I want to Go to Bed.....

So, I'm a working girl now.. 

(I found the picture.. it made me smile)

Alors I am very very very tired... Getting up at 6am is not that fun but it has let me see the morning within a funny new scape of daytimeness. 

Daytimeness is a new experience for me. Well, not entirely new but it is different to my previous slumming. As long as I don't turn into a Ricky Gervais sitcom fodder wet dream (no NO dancing in the aisles between the computers to whatever ridiculous song that Ricky "um.. yeah.. I'm funny.. yeah twat" Gervais is actually pretending to be dancing to. 

As of the signed agreement I'm not allowed to mention ANYTHING about my work.. but I DO HAVE A HEADSET

That is all. 

Well tis not all but tis all I shall say for now.. I do have exciting other things and stuff.. none of this would give away any information of any sort. Vaguely incongruous. 

So as tiredness sinks in and I flounder on the sofa in various states of undress watching the Commitments and mentally forming a band in my head.. I shall write something exciting. I was thinking today of books and films and music that would enliven any dead old working environment (and for the record my working environment doesn't seem that dead.. here's hoping anyway)

So... I attempted to read Tristan Tzara's "Seven Dada Manifestoes and Lampisteries" in the staff room which I didn't get round to reading much but it was beautiful and vaguely nihilistic in a surreal and backward way. 

"It seems that this exists: more logical, very logical, too logical, less logical, not very logical, really logical, fairly logical. 

Well then, draw the inferences. 

"I have."

Now think of the person you love most. 

"Have you?"

Tell me the number and I'll tell you the lottery.  "

Maybe having finished a Philosophy degree you no longer become a philosopher, maybe an Aphilosopher or perhaps like Monsieur A A the Antiphilosopher. I'm not against philosophy per ce but maybe you have to be a bit to fully understand it. Does that sound contradictory I don't know I think the Dada and work systems are getting to my poor frazzled brain. 

This may be a rather muddled blog.. but tis a blog nonetheless and it may also not be very long and full of pretty pictures and videos instead.. 

So I've looked at a book or two and I was wondering what songs might liven the mood up.. So I've been listening to Billy Idol's "White Wedding", and finding Billy slightly too sexy for a weird peroxide haired, leather wearing gimp It might have something to do with Spike. But still.. I'm finding strange things amusing nay arousing at the moment haha..I've also had Video Killed the Radiostar stuck in my head for about 3days... and if you ever need a song to liven up the deadliest of shops (ie. Home Bargains-  ok I lie I love it in there.. Wasabi peas and cheap canvases.. ) made even more exciting by a big blast of Vive Le Rock.. (watch out Rock is going STAARWAAARS)

But I've just realised that having somehow bought the commitments ages ago on an Amazon binge and not having watching it that I've missed out on a rather excellently sountracked film.. and some rather excellent lines.. "Irish are the blacks of Europe" not a bit politcaly incorrect then.. "Bigger than the Rolling Stones?" "Rolling Stones Terry? Who the fuck are they?"

I do often talk to Terry Wogan in the bath... fun bath times with Terry..

The lord blows my trumpet.. 

I'm loving the soul... If you've never been to a Heebies night go and enjoy.. where else can you twist in the world? Where else can you twist better than in a dungeony cavern style club in the moist and dank dampness dancing with the crazies. 

Beatles related shenanigans are still going on in town.. mostly related to the Box set and the Rock Band release ( Which I really really really want.. not that I've ever played Rock Band before.. but I also want the box set.. please if anybody wants to give me £179.... please...)

On a related note I watched Help! the other day .. it was incredible.. I love it.. this is the trailer it's tres amusing.. 

Kalihayaaaaaaa.. Who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to have a film revolving around trying to cut Ringo's hands off? Trying to paint him read? Trying to sacrifice him? Letting John have sarcastic little quips? Letting Paul shrink? Making racial sterotypes? Letting the Beatles sing on a ski slope and in various random locations? Who thought of them? a FUCKING GENIUS THAT'S WHO..






I absolutely adored it.. it was the most incredibly funny and heartwarming and sarcastic and even utterly ridiculous film I've ever seen and I adored every second. It not only reminds you how amazing and bloody gorgeous a band they were (I seriously fancy every single one of them ...Though John and George..sigh.. ) but how awful some bands are now.. and makes you wonder if anybody could do any better (and insert predictable anti Oasis quip about how they've tried but failed miserably cos they're fucking awful... ) it all ends in sacrificial madness on a beach how can anything go wrong.. 

I'm going to start a band.. I don't know how or what about but I reckon my lack of talent is wasted on work..sigh.. it's wasted on the world.. and the lack of talent in a world full of shitty talented people and talent shows showing their talent and making dicks out of themselves should stand me in good stead to be spat upon, wrestled to the ground by corporate musicness and sit on the face of the world's shit music.... I have rhythm.. just maybe not any kind of musical mind.. apparently I can't sing (along to Beirut anyway) but fuck that.. 

I'm trying to knit.. occassionally.. but apparently I'm not allowed to wear woolen scarves in work.. which seems odd.. and bit silly especially when it gets cold. 

So my creative output in the last few days has I'm afraid stretched to Dada and packed lunches.. and daydreaming about rude things in the office.. rude things indeed.. 

So in a minute.. I'm going to go to sleep.. and listen to Asleep the namesake for my blog today.... A sad and lovely song by the Smiths (you probably knew that already) and cry a little and sigh a little bit more.. and mourn the death of yet another fish.. woeful.. 

but the lyrics are all too true for a way I'm feeling at the moment.. a certain melancholy that only happens when the sun starts to go down later and Autumn sets in..  o well.. Morrissey you old grump you have made me a cynic before my time and I can never thank you enough. 

So I have been mainly: Starting my sentences with:So

Knitting... my scarf.. at intervals... 

eating.. some rather delicious butcher (not Iceland but proper butcher with included Butcher conversation which somehow made it more exciting) and roast sweet potato roasted with locally grown garlic.. 

sigh

I've mostly been listening to: Beirut.. dreaming of a wistful holiday walking in some Eastern European hills with nothing but a lonely tree, Beirut playing in the distance, as a village slowly goes about it's business with lights burning the darkened sky underneath a cascade of pretty twinkling stars bellowing their light across the distance of a confused lonely sheep. 

This video is utterly my favourite video on youtube.. of all the videos in the world.. it is my favourite (Beirut) song and I can't listen to it without wanting to do something utterly melancholic or Romantic... this is what love and fear sounds like when they've woken up together after a very long car ride in the rain... Zach Condon wanders around the streets of Paris (my favourite place)singing my favourite song acoustically with nothing but the gorgeous lyrics and the street for company and some bemused restaurant goers.. This doesn't include the excellent use of the quotation from La Bete Humaine... 

"Oh non je t'en prie, nous ne sommes pas chez nous.

-Oh je t'assures que ce n'est pas grave.
-Non laisse moi !
-Qu'est-ce que tu as aujourd'hui ?
-Je sais que les hommes me degoutent. Vous ne pensez qu'c ca" (nope men they disgust me too they're always thinking of THAT..) 

I read somewhere that a person thought this was what it was like when you go to meet a lover after not seeing them for hours, days, years.... The worry and fear that something will have changed.. It's been a long time, long time now.. since I've seen you smile... most beautiful song. 

I'm feeling somewhat volatile and crackly.. a bit confused and tired.. a bit sleepy and sad.. and happy and cold. 

A sight for sore eyes tired of contradictions. 

The Working world, does it suit us? Who knows... but a bit of love and a bit of a cuddle can make anything better... and a sleep.. oh and Adam Ant...and Keats..... it smells like this poem outside... 

 

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,	5
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;	10
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;	15
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;	20
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day	25
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;	30
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. I could talk about it for days but instead I'll just go to sleep and dream about it

NIght night.. xx