Blog of Funk

The End Of The Future As We Know It

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 03:56:31 -0500

Banks are failing globally, the credit crunch has turned into the meltdown, and 2008 is becoming 1929. Bizarrely, this massive implosion appeared rather innocently in an I Ching reading I made last year when I asked about selling my flat and moving.

I can hear sarcasm and ridicule from rationalists, too nervous to desert their pints of proof, resounding about the cold, tiled Victorian toilets of their tiny minds, but what the fuck. I do read the I Ching sometimes, and I also read the Tao Te Ching, and hey, I study Lao Tzu. I find them all useful, representing a key philosophy in my understanding of life, and I thank God they are there for me.

Remembering this unexpected guidance, I spent this year of 2008 reiterating regularly to my nearest and dearest - who know me well enough to know that I tend to balance the artistic and irrational with the sublimely logical - to remember that the shit would really hit the fan in September. No, I kept saying, shit will REALLY hit the fan. It says here (points to HEXAGRAM 20)

Yes, but that's just you asking about your flat sale, came the reply.

Sure, I said, but if it's relevant, it will appear.

In all of these things, interpretation is important. So, I interpreted future events, it turns out, pretty accurately. And, I just had an idea that the fan would be big and this torrid pile of stinking capitalist shit would be spread wide - wide enough to affect my minor domestic transaction.

Thus, this year I have spent the past eight months quietly and deeply reorganising my life on the basis of this esoteric advice, as well as my own observations, and I'm ninety nine percent finished. I have been (and will be) steadily pruning this blog over the months - expect that to continue. Most of the posts over the past two months have been reprints - not that anyone noticed! I have started another blog which I will shortly reveal, it will not be public like this one, and those of you who want to come with me for the next ride, I'm very happy to have you along.

I set up a Yahoo group which you're welcome to join - email theothersideofeverything-subscribe@yahoogroups.com to stay in the funky loop or if you have a Yahoo ID already, go here. In the new place, you'll get more of the same stuff you've enjoyed here, but less censored, more colourful, certainly as honest, and hopefully as entertaining.

I will post the details of my next phase to this group.

Just one addition: while capitalism spasms like a dying man in need of medical intervention which it cannot afford, I've been finding some comfort in this remarkable conceptual framing of the situation and its possible outcomes by Dmitry Orlov, Closing the 'Collapse Gap'. As my friend The Obstructionist points out, you can find fault with some of Orlov's comparisons - especially if you're not prepared to see the vulnerability of the United States framed in terms of other dissimilar nations - but his detailed comparison of the US with the USSR at the end of communism is fascinating and absorbing reading.

See you on the vegetable plot.

The Illusion of Permanence

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 08:14:51 -0500

This spontaneous outpouring came as I realised very strongly that all the wealth that surrounds us in the developed world makes us believe in the illusion of permanence… later I took the audio and used it in musical composition which embodies abrupt and dramatic change.

I get it slightly wrong as I stream the thought directly into the phone, but that's ok - what's a little initial confusion between permanence and impermanence between friends, especially when you are speaking as you are thinking? I make up for the mistake later on.

I shamelessly quote myself in this audio, remembering something I wrote June 2005.

Sex, Booze And Guns

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 06:17:11 -0500

Children who drink alcoholic milk called Kefir are much less likely to get food allergies, says the Society of Chemical Industry. The fermented cow-juice inhibits the allergen specific antibody Immunoglobulin E (IgE). Reading this oddly reminded me of the conversation I had with The Mighty P.P. about decency.

I was recalling how in the first dot com boom, in 1998, a venture-capitalised US start up, using the domain www.www.com (it's no longer there) approached me to run their musical European operations. They had (don't they always) BIG plans to be the next big "content" channel. They offered me $50k p.a., a really nice place to live in California, shares in the company, and I was tempted. I was single, I was just coming out of my first sabbatical, and I was up for a change. This could have been it, so I researched the company and looked at what was on offer.

Pretty soon I realised a couple of things about this company which raised significant doubts about its long-term prospects. First, it was a put-together, top-down, formulaic affair, constructed by people with little or no knowledge of culture. This was evident by the fact that my would-be boss - in charge of the US - was possessed of one single claim to fame, viz, that he had sold Real Media to the US military. I searched in vain for some indication that he had editorial, journalistic or entertainment business credentials but found none.

Second, as I skimmed through the few deals they had in place, it was obvious that they were aiming this cultural offering right at the very narrowest, most conservative audience within mainstream America, and that this was not going to convince anyone outside of these communities, and especially not in Europe, used to art house radicalism and regular revolutions of the wheel which defy censorship. I remember having the nipple conversation with the lovely woman who was trying to recruit me.

Me: "The problem is censorship. For a European, a nipple or a bare bottom is quite normal and natural. In the States, it's indecency. How much leeway will I be allowed here?"

Her: "How do you mean? Are we talking pornography here?"

Me: "Um, no. Just the nipple. Not hard-core pornography. You know, like in paintings?

Her: "No I don't think we have those kinds of paintings here."

Me: "Ummm... you do. Maybe you haven't seen them? Paintings by Titian, for example, or any from the renaissance... you know, often they have religious or classical themes."

Her: "And these paintings show sex?"

Me: "No, just naked bodies."

Her: "I'm not sure about that."

Me: "It's just that we don't have any problem with these kinds of images. They have been part of our culture for hundreds of years and we can understand the difference between them and pornography."

Her: "I'm not sure that's a view we can take."

I decided not to take the job.

The Mighty P.P. is a British parent. He's fairly tolerant but he won't take shit, as we say in these parts. When it comes to drawing the line, he will do, but he rarely needs to - his kids seem pretty balanced. So, he was in the States, staying with some friends, and they were discussing alcohol. He said that he allowed his 13 year old to drink half a pint of cider (fermented apples) at a summer music festival. His American hosts were appalled by this - "Don't you know you can be locked up for administering alcohol or drugs to a minor?" - and so he ran through the arguments that supervised exposure is better than a ban, which fuels unguided experimentation, but they were having none of it.

As he told his tale, I recall being allowed the same indulgence as a child and smiled at the memory. I recalled my Italian friends calmly giving very watered-down wine to their five year old, just to make sure it was no big deal and that being left out didn't encourage over-curiosity. It had worked for them, they explained. Wine was food, was it not? A part of life which must be understood to be properly enjoyed.

So, The Mighty P.P. continued, he was staying with this perfectly nice, normal US family, and while they were chatting about these cultural differences, he heard sudden repeated shots and became alarmed. "Don't worry, that's just Tommy," he was reassured. "Tommy! Come here and show your AK47." Turned out that one of their two kids had a replica AK47 BB gun, and the other, a model Uzi. The kids, he was told, were encouraged to use these, and every so often, taken to a large canyon nearby, and given the real thing, with real bullets, just to make sure they could use guns properly. As the shots resounded and richocheted, a police car would sometimes turn up to check them out. Seeing a happy, gun-slinging, all-American family in action, the cop would simply say, "Be safe now!" and drive off.

Here lies an acute blindness on the part of the Great American Public, and some bizarre and twisted values. Sex, or more particularly, the public celebration of sexuality, is wrong and bad, and along with alcohol, drugs, gambling, part of the gushing font of liberal evil - but violence is absolutely wonderful. It's an embedded, condoned, feted part of the American psyche, this love of guns, and it goes to the very top - NRA being incredibly well-organised lobbyists - and down to the deepest roots of US family life.

I recall the murder rate on the Canadian side of the border being a hell of a lot lower than the American, with the same amount of guns available to both. I don't recall any children being shot to death in a schoolhouse by a nipple.

So complete is the conservative victory over the American mind, you'd think the 60s revolution, make love, not war, never happened.

Tits Out For Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 18:11:30 -0500

The enterprising Wing Tai company, a leading retailer, has been stocking a line of cosmetics including "Virtuous vanilla" lip balm and a "Get Tight with Christ" hand and body cream, featuring a picture of Christ flanked by two adoring women. BBC

Singapore's Christians seem to have misplaced one of the key messages of their middle-eastern import, Jesus Christ, son of God, who let's not forget, scandalised decent, law-abiding, clean-living, Roman-resisting Jews everywhere by hanging out with the lowest of the low, prostitutes, tax collectors, the sick, the grieving, the abandoned and the destitute, and preaching a doctrine of tolerance and forgiveness, with a spectacular "live and let live" death thrown in to top it all off.

This is not new, of course, and neither are contradictions within Christianity or any other religion. But there is something about people in groups which operates on a completely different level. At a certain point, individual rationality and compassion give way to the workings of the pack, and this goes for capitalists and Christians alike.

Greatly stimulated by this news, and hearing I have commissioned my own brand of miracle cosmetics, toiletries, sex toys and everyday household items, regular usage as per instructions guaranteeing your place in heaven, or your money back. Jesus, being good, wise and having a cracking sense of humour will laugh, especially at the artful irony of the cash/bliss juxtaposition.

It Feels Good When I Stop

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 09:07:35 -0500

"Why do you bang your head against the wall?"
"It feels good when I stop".

I always got this joke, even as a very young child, when infants like myself were aghast at the concept of self-inflicted pain and couldn't move past the mental-patient image to the punchline beyond. It was mostly fun being a savvy seven year old, but other times, my schadenfreude would cause concern among adults.

"Miss, he's saying horrible things!" whinged and whimpered a young classmate to the useless Australian replacement teacher. "He says he'll put pins in my head and scratch my brain!"

The teacher was often just as shocked by the details of the warped suggestions I was making as I tested the power of words almost randomly - certainly with no malice - on the subjects of my experimentation.

Once I was taken out of class and found myself facing the Headmistress, who was a lovely woman. She seemed tired as she looked across at me, standing on the other side of her desk, keeping my face bland so as not to appear too pleased with myself.

She interrogated me gently to probe the reasons for my shocking language, and I feigned innocence. I did not intend to harm their delicate psyches, Miss. I was only joking.

"Not everyone shares your sense of humour, Deek," she said, frowning, wondering what adult environment I was being exposed to which would produce such a variety of colourful and unpleasant scenes I was conjuring up to play across the ever-ready TV screen minds of my young colleagues.

I didn't know enough at that stage to refer her to my medical notes and reassure her that this was not early-stage psychosis, but actually post-traumatic stress disorder from my parents' divorce, with the added crunch of real adult brainkiller drugs.

All children go through phases where they test the boundaries of their power; early on I realised mine would never be in brute strength or physical performance, but words it was going to be.

For my own amusement, I would think of the most excruciating thing I could, tortures, situations of pain and terror, and then find the words to quickly impart the information to my unwilling, unsuspecting victims. I avoided being punched by appearing to be offering them a secret thrill. Some girls (particularly girls, who being more advanced would appreciate all the more) having received the sick shock, squirmed and cringed, ran off to try to rid themselves of the evil thought that now had a hold of their mind, would return with friends, to observe them as I spoke the disruptive magic formulae.

I was immune, of course. I had stopped banging my head, and it felt wonderful.

Back in March 2007, I wrote:

I've not been able to write much recently... how many blog posts start like that? Not Blog of Funk, which has managed a consistent 3.26 posts per week since June 2004, and that average doesn't take into account the other blogs I've written along the way. Not that I am blowing my own prolific trumpet. I have on several occasions wondered why the hell I am still blogging... what pleasure do I still get from this activity, which once provided me with such reward?

I used to feel connected through blogging; to myself, as I checked into my journal, reviewing and remarking upon things present and past; to others, as reactions came in to something I had written. But as podcasting and blogging have become more central to work, the freedoms of expression and to simply be able to speak my mind and be myself have diminished, and these have been replaced by a growing sense of responsibility which runs counter to art, and to maintain verbal output comes to seem a necessity rather than a natural product of my interests and enquiries into the substance of life. Leaving it alone for a while is always an option.

Someone once defined Web 2.0 as internet which relies on Google, and when I deconstructed that, actually it is scarily true, and I do not feel good about it at all.

In the words of Spike Milligan, just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they are not after me. Google is far more insidious than you think and this is not a joke - just like the Borg, they will assimilate you. They don't just want to own ideas (Google Books), mechanisms of income (AdWords, Checkout) and the planet we inhabit (Google Earth) our streets and homes (Street View) - they want to own our future. With Chrome, they even released a web browser which de facto owned your intellectual property. For similar reasons, I resisted Microsoft as broadly and as consistently as possible ever since starting to use computers, to my great benefit.

So in the same way that I fear not telling you this short tale of a childhood long since departed, because I am not seeking approval or attempting to comfort you, I not only know that I am going to stop writing this blog, but I now have a clear vision and reason for stopping, which has been nagging away at me over the past two years.

With our collective future in general hanging precariously in the balance, I've decided to do things differently. I am not going to disappear, at least not in that "where's he gone?" way, I'm just changing my modus operandum.

This is going to be fun.

Mabon: The Beginning Of Everything

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 04:28:39 -0500

It's coming up to that wonderful time once more, the Autumn Equinox, another Pagan holy day stolen by the Christians and turned into Harvest Festival. Mabon was the son of Mordon, the Goddess of the earth, the Pagan festival celebrates his birth; and of course, this is John Keats' season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Day and night are of equal measure. Here in the north, it's getting dark at 8pm and there is a freshness to the mornings, even though the afternoons can still turn your skin brown.

I love this sketch of Keats; it gives him a romantic intensity and reminds me of his awful tubercular death.

The coming of Autumn always brings out in me a deeply introspective side, the balance to the energy which we experience as we anticipate winter and all our rural collective memories tell us to fix the roof and fill the cellar with turnips, apples and potatoes. I still possess notebooks full of whimsy, produced by the season which all romantics love the most, because, as Patrick Keiller pointed out to me, it is the beginning of everything.

John Keats - To Autumn

I

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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
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,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

II

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;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
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;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Everyone's Best Mate

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 18:01:22 -0500

He is held in affection and esteem. The comfort of that kind face, the open-hearted honesty, the modesty, the easy charm and the wit. An admirable, talented, popular man, made more so by his obvious vulnerability.

Apparently hiding nothing, holding nothing back, so easy to relax in his presence, they say, should you ever meet him, except for a certain awkward shyness. He witnesses vagaries of human behaviour by dint of an essential consumptive intimacy, and all of the above attributes command a deft ability to slip beneath the surface of people and into their affections.

He shares all, yet he says little.

Should you ever meet everyone's best mate, be very, very careful what you say and do. Be on your guard, no matter that you are feeling the urge just to be yourself. Do not look too deeply past the light playing on the surface of the water. Do not point out the stones on the river bed. Do not say, water has a soft and gentle surface, but to breathe it is to drown.

Whatever you do, avoid direct competition, or anything that might be interpreted as such, which will draw unpredictable sniper fire. He who lives with contradictions, fights with contradictions.

Do not try to compete with a liquid version of truth, even with your own demonstrable clarity, as logic will not serve you, because reason has no place to enter.

If you remain calm, you will be cold and heartless, and if you show your passion, you will be dangerously enraged and irrational. If you ask for proof, once it is given you will be in debt. If you seek to prosper soberly, you will be taken by drunks as a madman. If you get drunk, this will be the proof of your inner chaos, moral decay and secret vices.

Such is the power of everyone's best mate.

In such a situation, it is best to withdraw and await death.

Annual Sex

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 03:32:19 -0500

Overpopulation is the reason why we as a species are out of balance with nature. It's really that simple, and I think we all know why, in our secret, greedy little hearts, that situation has arisen: sex.

Too much sex is killing the environment. No matter that we can use contraceptives, we don't, or at least, not enough of the time to prevent the messy collision of cells that generates another prototype saint or sinner, i.e. fellow human being.

Six billion is five billion too many. It cannot last, and it will not last. However, you can bet your bottom that once wars, famine, mass population movement to escape rising sea-levels and rampaging strains of obscure biological weapons, of which we as yet know nothing, escaping from a Hungarian or perhaps Chinese laboratory, enter the biosphere spreading hitherto untreatable diseases and havoc in whatever landmass they infect, leaving only a few scattered pockets of humanity living in the sad and useless remnants of the promised high-tech future that never was, that the remaining homo sapiens will still be obeying the biological imperative, having sex, and making babies.

I have therefore decided to promote a new paradigm which, if widely adopted, will at least start to mend the appalling exhaustion of the planet which is brought about by there being too many of us: ANNUAL SEX.

Annual Sex as a way of life will return sex to the special place it once enjoyed, a place of precious celebration and rare pleasure. Gone will be the daily exhortations to measure life success by this crude yardstick. Sex sells will no longer be the mantra of the mass market. Sexual rarity will increase value, bring peace to nations, and bring about cohesive societies. Nakedness will be no longer be taboo; gender relations will lose iniquity. Sexual stamina will be rewarded since no limit will be put upon the length of the single, annual sexual act. The entire world will once again love, live and breathe, secure in the knowledge that we are in balance with our environment.

All this will be brought about by genetically modified toothpaste.

Remember: you read it here first.

The Fate of Romantics

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 12:33:52 -0500

"The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in '68,
And he told me all romantics meet the same fate someday
Cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe..."

'The Last Time I Saw Richard' by Joni Mitchell

Behind every cynic is a disappointed romantic, is the often quoted adage. In my case, the romantic does not leave when the cynic enters. He lurks behind the sofa, ready to start a revolution with expensive cologne, rich, dark chocolate, and blood-red roses.

Cynicism is born of experience. I am cynical about doctors, and yet, I am romantic about healing.

Being cynical means being safe - I destroy false hope with the machinery of my clever mind. I also prevent myself from seeking help when I need it, which frankly, is just dumb. I know where the dumbness comes from - my childhood. I found it there in a doctor's surgery, being given stupid drugs I didn't need.

Now, though, my own revolution is upon me, the turning around of my sofa. I have managed to avoid confronting the issue of my deeper health whilst moderating my worst excesses in the romantic belief that since I am not that indulgent that much of the time, I should be ok. Actually, I have no idea how well or sick I am, but I am not entirely well. I went to the doctor yesterday. She looked at the strange bruising on my legs and asked me if I had HIV (I don't). She asked me how much alcohol I drink. I felt guilty about that one. She sent me off to hospital on Monday where my blood is being tested for practically everything you can imagine including lipids, diabetes, lymph, liver and kidney function, and a whole heap of extras.

I am making gallows humour remarks to everyone who cares. I am not quite in mortal fear, but I admit to being rattled. If the first doctor hadn't called in the second doctor.. if the doctor hadn't said, "Call me Thursday, and I'll tell you whether you have to come in immediately or not."

"Fuck!" I thought, as I left clutching the referral. And then again, "Shit!"

On the way home, I was pondering about whether this was my hedonistic past catching up with me, when I noticed an old associate of mine from 13 years back riding past on his bike, no lights, in the half-dark. I called, he stopped, we chatted. He used to be a drinker - not now, he's been dry 7 or 8 years, he told me matter of factly. As we caught up, I saw that in his battered face, there was a real spark of survival. I found myself recalling with amusement how he nearly electrocuted me once. He told me that those many years back, I had been a selfish bastard. I knew what he meant, but without any rancour, replied that I wasn't that bad. We chatted more, and told him about my visit to the surgery, and the reasons why, and that I might have a screwed up liver, and that despite my cheery demeanour, I was scared. "The liver can recover," he said, "but you have to let it."

Then he recounted the story of Chay Blythe, the famous yachtsman. He had been told he had Hodgkins Lymphoma and was given four years to live. He was offered "the mustard gas, the chemicals and everything.. but he said, well, if I've only four years to live, I've always wanted to row round the world, it will take me that long to do it. I think I'll do that rather than be crippled by the your medicine. He set off and achieved his goal. Four years later, still not dead, he set off on another mission. 30 years more he lived.."

I am not deeply religious, but I needed that positivity, and I thanked God for it. Bless Simon. Of course there is no mention of this fabulous bravery in any of the search engine references I can find. Apparently Sir Chay is alive and you can book him for a motivational lecture - maybe I should look into it... would certainly give me something to write about. The factual truth in this case is irrelevant - he was giving me clear guidance on my attitude, which I needed. It made me mindful of the wonderful Warren Zevon song, My Shit's Fucked Up which he wrote and recorded with the body failure that killed him.

"Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things."

Winston Churchill

When I was looking for the Joni Mitchell quote, I found this next to it. Neat, Winston, neat, especially from a man who smoked and drank all his life. I had planned to write on the subject of letters this month; instead I will devote Gibson to all things healthy.

Whatever Simon's kindness, optimism, I am about to be presented with facts about my biochemistry which is a fairly daunting prospect. I don't want to end up as the Ivan Noble of Funk. I am going to have to give my system its 50,000 mile service, which could even lead to yoga. Fuck! Better make that kundalini yoga.

First published November 2005.

You Only Live Twice Again

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 02:01:17 -0500

It is not the physical death of the body, nor mortal fear inspired by religious myth, nor the agony of physical failure that worries me. The death that I fear so much is that which we experience in disappointment, the death of hope.

I did experience hopelessness once or twice as a child, but not as a young adult. Throughout my 20s and halfway through my 30s I remained strong, shrugged off defeats, persisted, came back and enjoyed victories. When things went wrong, I turned up a collar of determined optimism. When the collar didn't work anymore, I changed it to dogged fatalism. My psyche rose intact several times from ashes, smacked into shape by the iron hammer of events, forged in heat, and remained recognisably, cheerfully, pugnaciously mine. Everything would work out, eventually. Until one day, I woke up and everything in my life was in pieces, and what wasn't broken had gone, and with it, my hope.

Despite extreme mental trauma and occasional psychosis, I retained sufficient sanity during this long period of clinical depression to recognise that, since I am not by nature suicidal, I would have to continue life, with or without hope, until my body expired. I had no feelings about this one way or the other. I presumed hope may return, but even this presumption was a message from a past now unavailable for further comment, an abstract, vague, unrelated memory from a version of me that was now dead. I had not yet got around to clearing away the body, there were parts of it rotting everywhere. I could recognise them by the fact that they resembled me as I had been.

Emotionally, I was flatlining, dragging myself from bed to kitchen to bathroom to bed. I kept the TV on, even as I slept, awakening to stare blankly at the screen again without changing channel. I didn't care what I watched, as long as it wasn't music, which disturbed me - it just had to take the final remnant of concentration. When my eyes hurt, then I employed a radio. Talk radio was best, or sport, or world news. I didn't leave the house. I was agoraphobic. I had enough food for a week, ten days, mostly canned, dried. Nothing fresh. I was thinking anxiously about that ten-minute trip to the shop to re-stock for five days, if I was thinking anything at all.

I had a prescription for a low-level SRI from my doctor, but I was scared to take it.

Two months before the crash. It was the Edinburgh Festival, cultural showcase for the world, and I was producing interactive content in a rock club, with art-music acts like The Divine Comedy, and suffering the indignities of a cocaine-addled promoter's bipolar behaviour.

It was a hot August, 1997. My girlfriend was appearing in a cool Edinburgh show, one half of a physical performance duo, which was doing well, eyecatching posters up all around town, decent to good reviews, newspaper coverage, and as I had spent as much time building her career as mine, I was pleased. There was no recognition of this, though, from her work partner, an uptight controlling character who resented my influence, and who created conflict. I felt I had to always avoid the "choose between" syndrome - between work and relationship, between work partner and love partner, between training and sex, between domestic life and touring. Anyhow, for once, we were able to attend the same festival on different gigs, and I had looked forward to it.

About a week into the month-long festival, one night the promoter asked me to go to the front of the stage and video; as soon as I did, I was grabbed left and right by two huge security men, lifted bodily, and carried through the amused crowd to front of house.

Apoplectic, I insisted that I was acting on request of the promoter, and demanded that they find him to verify. He was nowhere to be seen. Turns out he had wanted the material, but had a deal with the band management that nobody would video them, and he was sending me into the pit to see how true it was. The venue manager looked apologetically at me, seeing my disgust, and sensing the truth of my story, as he said in his gentle Scots accent, "Sorry mate I am going to have to ask you to leave." I left, thinking of of throwing bricks through windows, of torching cars, boiling and raging.

I walked home down Princes Street, to the nice flat at the other end of town where we were staying, cursing the puffed-up conceited pimp who had humiliated me on a whim. The kind journalist who was putting me up took me out and poured beer down my neck, consoled me, advised me to let it drop. The next day, I took legal advice. Yes I could sue them. No it probably wasn't worth it. My hope began to leave me, then, although I didn't know it until sometime later.

Having no further work to do, but with more than half a month's tenure remaining in a pleasant flat in a capital city full of beauty and culture, I determined to enjoy myself, but it was not easy. I was harbouring a morbid fear which had come from a dream at the beginning of the month, before we left and came north. I had woken up with a voice in my head, my own voice, but as if spoken to me, not by me. It said, "You haven't got very much longer to live."

I struggled fully awake, shocked at the experience. I had been dreaming, but the dream had disappeared. All I had was the final line, certain and indisputable. "You haven't got very much longer to live." Fuck. I remember jumping out of bed and trying to rationalise, but it was impossible. I had just been told that my number was up. It was a dream, it was only a dream, I told myself. As I waited for the morning kettle to boil, I shivered, as if a ghost had walked over my grave. Later I recounted the tale to several friends, and did my best to laugh it off, but I had never, and still to this day have never experienced anything like it. It was so direct a warning, and however irrationally, I knew that I was kidding myself that it was not meant for me, and I tried hard to suppress the memory.

After the video debacle, as the empty days moved on towards September, although I could not yet see my depression, I realised that physically I was in trouble. I had chronic fatigue, insomnia, loss of appetite, occasional palpitations. I had finished working for the company I had set up three years previously. I was in a waiting room. I was waiting to see what happened next. I had no idea what it would be. This was a new thing. I felt directionless. I may have drifted for periods in the past, but even that was conscious drifting. In this I had no option.

In Edinburgh, a kind female red-haired GP saw me and told me I had ME, that I needed to relax, stop working immediately, and go see my GP as soon as I got back to London. I looked at her blankly as she talked chirpily about relaxation tapes, sensing her worries about my mental health, thinking, you are very nice, and you are right, but you have no idea how to deal with me, no idea what I am experiencing, none at all. I knew I needed to relax, but it was deeper than that. I needed to let go of the years of holding it together, for myself and those around me.

I went back to the flat and thought about how isolated I was, and the lack of intimacy in my love relationship. Although we were both locked into our work and had been under strain, I thought everything would be fine. I thought our love was strong enough to last. I thought I would get the support I had given. I got nothing except a terse request not to rock the boat.

Thus I found myself alone in a foreign city with no work and no companionship, and I spent time walking around, just anywhere. I found myself up on the castle rock, looking across Edinburgh. I found myself watching an obscure play in a tiny, dirty theatre, surrounded by Spanish students. I found myself at the bus station, looking at destinations. I had some money at least, so I went shopping. I bought, over a period of three weeks, black shoes, black trousers, a white shirt and a black jacket. Funeral attire, I realised later.

The final week dragged to a close, and we were joined by old friends who somewhat distracted me with their family energy and good heartedness. I was feeling tired more than anything now, as my emotions closed up, shut down, and more and more the expectation grew in me that my dream was right. I was witnessing each day as if it was my last, I had abandoned all thoughts of anything future, baffling attempts to draw me into conversation so that I could just wait to see which second on that ticking clock would be my last. We survived the last night, the fireworks, the bonhomie, the drink.

It was Sunday, August 31st, 1997. A bright, sunny morning in Edinburgh. We packed the van, ready to leave. "Diana is dead!" announced S, just back from the shops. Cue general disbelief and mild consternation all round. My head started to spin. "How? When?" I marched to the shops and bought a copy of every newspaper - the first editions with partially-clothed paparazzi pictures of Diana and Dodi on the beach, full of claims that the relationship was destoying the royal family, the second editions, respectful R.I.P. headlines, with all scandal removed. I walked back to the van, slowly, thinking, "You haven't got very much longer to live." It wasn't me. I wasn't meant for me. It was Diana, it was about Diana's death. I felt a wave of euphoria, and I smiled for the first time in three weeks. "You know the best thing about this?" I asked a Scots passer-by, showing him the paper. "It's not me." I caught a bemused grimace back, and decided it was too complicated to explain.

It is amazing how long one can labour under particular illusions, the accuracy of one's perceptions and analysis being chief among them, illusions revealing their clever mechanisms at the moment of downfall, suddenly unmissable mountains appearing as the mists vanish.

As the great tide of grief swept the nation over the following week, it had a soothing effect on me. I felt that somehow I had caught an advance glimpse of this very public death, and interpreted it as my own, and so while all of Britain wept for this stolen icon, I experienced relief, and a resurgence of hope. But, I was still wrong. My lovely partner went to Venezuela, and although she sent me postcards and faxes proclaiming love and loyalty, she left me within a week of her return. And then, die I did, although not physically, or permanently. Just for a while.

Recommended reading:

Who Says Art Is Powerless?

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 09:00:54 -0500

A giant inflatable dog turd created by the American artist Paul McCarthy was blown from its moorings at a Swiss museum, bringing down a power line and breaking a window before landing in the grounds of a children's home.

The exhibit, entitled Complex Shit, is the size of a house. It has a safety system that is supposed to deflate it in bad weather, but it did not work on this occasion. (Guardian)

3am Pain In The Neck

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 21:16:54 -0500

It's 3am and the sweaty night has me thrown me awake, with itchy bug eyes and a sore throat. I am not well right now which is a drag as I have a lot to do this week. And yet, what I have to do next clearly is get well. Oh it's only a virus - but then it is a virus, those devilish, evolving, clever-to-the-point-of-indestructible life forms which follow humans to our graves, and half the time put us into them.

The virus wouldn't have got me but for the amount of work I'm doing which is putting a strain on me. Who am I kidding that the one is not connected to the other? I'm staggering around trying to find and take pain killers and drinking water and bizarrely feeling very hungry, even though I ate perfectly well yesterday and it's the middle of the night.

It is those phrases like "pain in the neck" used to describe stress which give it away. My neck is actually very uncomfortable and sore right now. Thank God it's not a real pain in the arse, which would be hemorrhoids.

Gah. Meh. Bah.

Three Fat Ladies, All The Eights

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 04:23:58 -0500

If you live in the east, eight being a good number, today is particularly auspicious and it's no surprise that 8.8.8 has been chosen to kick off the Beijing Olympics.

As a musician I like the date a lot. It's everything from a barnyard stomp to a verse/bridge/chorus and it suits me fine. It's one-two-three-four double stable, a good place to put two teams of horses before they bolt. It's a nice, fat number - eight also phonically sounding "ate" and looking like a "fat lady" as the bingo caller so accurately says.

As for the sports, they can take a running jump. I'm mindful of the 1,000 Tibetan monks locked up for the duration, of the Falun Gong followers buried minus harvested body parts, of the brutality of the state in all its forms.

My own Olympics, the Chav Olympics, to be held in four years in London's east end, should we ever get there, will be known as the Drug Olympics, with athletes sponsored by pharmaceutical companies, sporting shamelessly remodelled bodies and competing beyond human limitation. Included (and I've said this before but it's worth repeating) will be Olympic Darts, Olympic Poker, Olympic Penny-Up-The-Wall. The 100 metre sprint will feature professional strippers who begin decked out in sporting fashion paraphernalia and end sweaty and naked; and the triathlon will be Coughing, Spitting and Swearing.

Now I'm going to lie down for a month.

Couldn't Be Fucking Arsed

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 14:16:23 -0500

Thank fuck for London's freedom, its words, its expressive, peerless language. I've been attempting some life firsts recently, about which I have written little. One of them is to try and establish an honest and potentially meaningful relationship with my work, and another, with my father. Not my step-father, he's fine. No, I'm talking about the old guy whose life I walked into three years ago after over thirty years of absence.

After establishing cordial relations, and witnessing some degree of affection, I thought I'd find out why the fuck he didn't come and find us, his first three children, once the dust of his failed relationship with my mother had settled, so I wrote an email and waited. I haven't got any kind of satisfactory answer, just indications that he doesn't possess the courage to be honest. Suffice to say, it's a tall ask for a 71 year old used to ignoring what he doesn't wish to confront about this past actions, now faced with implacable, articulate me, the non-prodigal son. I'm not bearing any anger, but I do require an answer. I definitely get the feeling that this one could very easily run and run, never to be resolved.

I write this blog for personal freedom's sake, not to entertain or show off. If I did it for any other reason, it would simply be an exercise in crap enhancement. I am sure there are those out there who think that's the case anyway, without me giving them more cause for slaggery.

The fact that I write for a living matters not one jot here. I deal with famous people and so what? About this aspect of my life, I couldn't give a flying trapeze fuck. I care about my family, my girlfriend and her family, my friends, our health, our prospects for a better life.

I'm here to love art and music, sex and food, to make jokes and laugh, to dance, to cavort, to unashamedly steal whatever I need, to gain insight and achieve healing. I care about my work only because I intend to achieve something I can be proud of before I die, and that had better be soon.

So, I don't really care if you see me with my pants down. I don't care if any of us fall over. It doesn't matter that you're a twat, and that I'm a dickhead, because at least that makes us human, which, cursing and error-prone, is just the way we're born.

Minipods Of Funk On DeepBlue FM

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 19:23:27 -0500

During August I am producing a daily (Monday to Friday) lunchtime feature on DeepBlue FM, a holiday season Bournemouth-based radio station. Martyn (The Hat) asked me very nicely, so how could I refuse? It means that instead of sixty or so minutes of podcasting once a month, in August I am producing more than double that in daily bite-sized minipod chunks. If you haven't subscribed, this is a good time to do so.

To celebrate Olympic month, I'm also running a competition on behalf of the Free Tibet Campaign. You could win a night out at a Chinese Restaurant! So mosey on over to Funkpod.co.uk and check that out. Did you notice the comments made by the architect of the Olympic stadium? That's what I'm talking about.

Exercise Your Rights

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 17:34:39 -0500

I've just published Pod of Funk number thirty five which contains a competition, and also the promise of twenty podcasts throughout August. The music is the usual groovulous mixture, and the competition focuses on China's human rights record, which extends of course to Darfur, let us not forget, which China supplies with (banned) military aid as they massacre their own people.

Enjoy the tunes - enter the competition - listen to the radio - buy the t-shirt!

Harmony, Heresy, Hearsay, Hairspray

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 04:43:45 -0500

I was flattered to be asked recently to contribute to a book which is being compiled by a writer, but found myself struggling to articulate my mixed feelings on the subject matter, which is "web 2.0".

Aside from the fact that I already contributed a chapter on podcasting to a comprehensive book on the subject last year, I have become wary of entering into group enterprises without ensuring that my contribution was going to be welcome. "I'm not cynical, but..." I heard myself saying, and that was the point at which I remembered.

Cynicism is the refuge of the disappointed romantic. Have I been romantic about the internet? The answer to that is - of course, since I have been a romantic person and probably will be a romantic person. What do I mean by that? I suppose I mean that I have idealised the web and its potential for affording change, both in my own life - even though fourteen years ago it was instrumental in changing my fortunes and re-orienting me - and in the lives of others. But have the changes been anything other than superficial?

I remember the web before porn. I remember the effort it took to simply download a single page which included images. I had to learn HTML to produce my own pages - when Blogger arrived, it was the time-saving device which I had been anticipating. Podcasting was always going to happen. So that makes me a one-time Model T Ford owner in an age of sleek, comfortable, airstreamed, air-bagged Macbook Air fans. Do I see any improvements in communication because of the prevalence of the internet?

Do I compare thee to the telephone, to the printing press, to radio and television? Do I refer to my feeling of growing uneasiness as Google becomes the de facto font of all knowledge, gobbling up the world's entire library of books, recording your neighbourhood, your street, your home, replacing the verb "to search"? Do I reserve my obscure pride in knowing how this all works and being able to usurp it for my own ends for quiet moments of reflection with intimate friends, or do I write a blog post which will be indexed and added to the file on Blogger user 13492090203145178551 (it used to be much shorter, but because my blog is so big, I couldn't migrate to the New Blogger until after million of other people), profile viewed 11,839 times as of now, containing the same fictional mantras as repeated elsewhere, presenting a carefully constructed lie about me, the person?

Does the internet, ancient or modern, actually assist anyone in communicating better, more effectively whatever that means, more profoundly, or is it just about convenience? Ease of access, speed of output. No need to scratch the surface of the paper, no need for the mark, the finger pressure - not even the old sound of metal laboriously hitting ribbon, with the occasional pause for correction fluid.

We don't take risks without referring to this know-all engine. We cease to make journeys if the weather prediction is less than optimum. We cease to consider a thought worthy of note unless it is transmitted, tagged, tweeted, bookmarked. We cease to conduct relationships face to face even in physical presence. We have become confused by the 2,140,000,000 results for "love" (related searches: love poems, courtney love, love quotes, love quizzes) and we click click click through the pages instead of finding the love in our hearts. What used to be our living flesh, beating, vulnerable blood-soaked muscle, is just smooth silicon, sand slipping unstoppably away.

We don't need more, we need less. Less speed, less reach, less hard drive space, less bluetooth add-ons, less menu options, less podcasts, less widgets, less friends. Better to maintain the value with the friends we actually have, to develop what we call our "internet friends" into bona fide, appreciative, supportive, substantial, respectful relationships. Best to remember Dunbar and our limited capacity for meaningful engagement.

"To seek," said Picasso, "is nothing. To find is the thing." And now we say, "to find is nothing. To share is the thing."

I just had to share that with you.

Apartheid Meets Teletubbies In Racist Smarties Ad

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 12:02:30 -0500

The first time I saw this Smarties advert on British television, my jaw dropped. Could they really be using segregation on the basis of colour in an ad for a popular children's sweet?

Synopsis: an idyllic, pastoral Teletubbies-style scene is shattered by the return of the Blue Smartie. The other Smarties run in fear, scooping up babies, and hide in the tube (homestead) and slam the door. Blue is excluded until he explains that now he has no artificial ingredients, he's safe. "He's one of us now!" they cry, welcoming him back.

The guy who is forced out of the Smarties tube to explain this eugenic-style decision, although he happens to be dressed in yellow, is played by a black actor.

This is in incredibly bad taste to begin with, but reinforcing the racism with this not-so-subtle touch really makes this advert the worst I have seen in a long while. I really find it deeply offensive, the more so since it is aimed at children. It reinforces negative racial stereotypes, and presents exclusion on the basis of colour difference as acceptable. Segregation has been banished in many countries such as South Africa and the USA which previously suffered terribly from this awful bias. I think it should be taken off the air.

For the record, I've asked several people "of colour" to borrow the modern phrase what they think and they agree with me.

What do you think? Let me know, and maybe leave a comment on their YouTube page. It's unlikely to appear there, but another (unofficial) YouTube thread does have some debate although it's on a typically crass level.

Or, you could do as I did and complain to the Advertising Standards Authority.

Another Month, Another Mayhem

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 03:07:30 -0500

It's the full moon once again, for those of you are interested, and equally for those of you who don't notice these things, or who pay as much attention to them as you would the shape of any particular cloud or the reflection of an attractive body in a pavement puddle. Oh come on, don't say you weren't looking up whilst looking down.

Being observant isn't the same as being suggestible, obviously, but if you can bring both of these qualities to bear at the same instant then you're really onto something. Those "random" synaptic blasts come up with the craziest shit, like putting a lighter-than-air inert gas on the menu of a NoHo café. Grilled helium cheese, eh, who'd have thunk it?

Alternative Accident

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 00:28:36 -0500

Yesterday, GGF and I enjoyed a pleasant day on the south bank of the Thames. We cycled down took in a couple of art exhibitions, we saw a capoeira performance, we ate chocolate cake and drank black coffee whilst listening to people read out architectural treatises from inside a clear plastic inflatable bubble.

Then we cycled into the west end, ate Japanese food at Misato in Wardour Street, sat in the sun for while. We bought tickets for Persepolis, that wonderful animated film by Marjane Satrapy and when we came out, after all that, we were pretty mellow.

On the way down to the Thames we'd been less mellow. GGF had been a little bit annoyed that I was zooming ahead in my confident London cyclist's manner, and she called out, so we had stopped and sat on a cold stone wall and chatted until we got to the bottom of it. She was right - we were cycling together, I could afford to slow down, so I did. In fact, I took this as a sign for the day - slow down. I don't always feel the need to do this, but I really wanted to have a mellow day, so I figured the cold arse was worth it.

On our way back, we headed up to Holborn and positioned ourselves at the front of the traffic queue diagonally opposite Central St Martin's Theatre, waiting for the lights to change. The cars had thinned out as the evening drew in. London lights have all been phased to allow plenty of time for pedestrians to cross the wide thoroughfares, and we were patiently waiting for the green light, with another cyclist to our right after the cars crossing from the right, next to the Kingsway Underpass had ceased.

The lights changed, and the cyclist beside us moved off, so, still in not-so-fast mode, I started to move off after him before the cars started to hem us in. Something wasn't right, I heard GGF's shout of alarm, heard a loud car horn, looked up to see a black Ford practically on top of my front wheel, and a black face cursing me through the windscreen. I didn't catch it all, just the anger.

Assessing the situation, I heard someone say, "The light is green!"

"The light is green!" I sputtered, "You shot a red light!"

"No I didn't fucking shoot a red light!" he yelled, and drove off.

The lights were still green. I turned to see GGF's concerned face, indicated we should cross. We did, and I pulled up shortly afterwards, gave her a hug.

"He was crazy!" she said, "the light was green!" "Yes, the light was green," I said, "But I am OK, and I could have died, so, I am really very happy."

A little later on, I realised my bike chain needed some manual adjustment after the abrupt stop I'd made, and so we stopped again. I was using a chocolate wrapper to try to prevent oil getting all over my hands, and a guy walked up to me and, with a slightly wacked out but kind smile, said, "Do you want to use these?" and offered me a bunch of clean tissues which I gratefully accepted.

In another universe, the man offered me the tissues as I went to cross the lights, distracting me for a second and slowing me down. The cyclist to my right was killed, we both witnessed his awful death, gave statements to the police, and evidence at the trial. In another, the car driver saw me too late, and veering out of control, he critically injured the driver of another car and paralysed a pedestrian, himself suffering only whiplash injuries. Later the press expressed outrage at the leniency of his punishment.

In another, we never healed our argument, and I never slowed down. The car hit my front wheel, I was injured, I'm still in intensive care, fighting for my life. In yet another, he didn't brake, I didn't brake, and I went under the car. I'm now lying cold in a mortuary prior to being prepared for my funeral, my loved ones are grieving, and somewhere else the wacked out man still has a bunch of clean tissues in his pocket.

The Nokia Software Challenge

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 23:56:34 -0500

I woke up thirty minutes ago at 5am. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of thinking something very precise and clear. This time, it was how to go about winning a competition in which I am no expert. I was thinking, well at least my beginning point is the profound knowledge of my ignorance.

The competition was a strange one. I found myself in an executive reality-show scenario where the group of winners, suited and booted, young-ish uber-earnest types - presumably heat winners - were being given their final challenge, and this was to write the software which Nokia should have included in their smart phones.

"That's right," said our dapper host, "all the functions which we all know should be in there..." - and here's where my freshly awoken mind erased all the details which might be really useful to recall, as I cannot now remember any of the detailed specifications which so impressed these candidates, but of course, they were wonderfully precise and very useful.

Cut to a future scene. Deek sits in the wooden-framed window seat of his country house, surveying green manicured lawns stretching into misty woodland and lakes beyond.

"So, is it true?" asks a curious voice off camera, "you literally dreamed up the groundbreaking suite of mobile software which made you your fortune, and coded the entire thing within a month?"

"Just like the man said..."

Except in the dream, I knew that I had none of the skills needed to construct the software, so for all my wit and understanding, I was going to have to rely on my connections, my ability to take shortcuts, and crucially, to persuade others to aid the cause of rejuvenating the Nokia smartphone capabilities. Quite what I was doing in this challenge surprised me not however, since many times in this life I have found myself in the position of having to take on tasks for which I have no adequate preparation, or even prior intention, so this kind of thing is grist to the mill.

In real life, before bed I had spent some time setting up my Nokia N95 email client, so it was easy to spot the origins of this odd dream. What interests me now that I am awake is how in the dream I quickly cast aside any pretense of having powers beyond my actual experience, and instead, concentrated on devising a strategy that would allow me to have a chance of winning without having to actually take on an impossibly steep learning curve.

As the dream dissipated into my sudden and complete awakening, I was thinking that the task was extremely likely to be completely and utterly beyond me, and wondering whether I should just relax and enjoy the month which I was supposedly about to dedicate to the struggle for mobile code supremacy. Enjoy it, surf the effort, and look to change the game into one I could win.

Now that feels like good really advice.

BBC Spinal Tap

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 01:48:10 -0500

No matter how esteemed your corporation or your institution, there is always some wag who will find a way to usurp the carefully manicured lawn of your public image with a comedy molehill.

Whilst catching up on the epic Murray v Gasquet Wimbledon tennis battle, I noticed this morning that the embedded BBC news player goes, just like Nigel Tufnel's Spinal Tap amplifiers, up to eleven.

Well done BBC - my commendation for this elegant means of achieving superior audio quality. It is comforting to know that whenever I want that extra push over the cliff top, the BBC player (unlike all the others) can provide it.

Accidental Realisations Are More Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 16:48:55 -0500

It was 23rd April, 2008, at quarter past three in the afternoon, in the heart of the Troodos mountains that I spouted accidental insight which made me stop in my tracks.

I can't really explain it except to say I didn't mean to say anything at all profound. But, I realised at once that I really was being shown something that I ought to listen to, despite the fact it had come from my own mouth, and since returning, I've been working steadily on preparing my way forward.

Disillusionment

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 06:41:09 -0500

The state of disillusionment is a frequently unhappy one, but disillusionment itself we should really welcome, as the freeing of oneself from falsehoods or wrong thinking is a necessary part of evolution, without which we are entrapped.

Just thought I'd mention it.

Simple

noreply@blogger.com (Deek Deekster) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 11:14:00 -0500

Arnold Schoenberg the composer defined the creative process as "contracting into abundance".

Innit.