Feeling combination of dead folk scene Bob Dylan meets Liu Cixin in a MMOG Myst reboot.

Among the terms of reference: title nod to 1990s hopes that, by recognising ways archonic structures are used to sell things, and the ways they work to enforce certain ways of thought, what it might be possible to reroute some or any of it to combat it, to enact constructive modes of being.

FX: Talking Heads loop – ‘still waiting’.

Meanwhile, looking about the wreckage, incredulous. Gesturing at the device:

‘Einstein never said Insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results he just thought it while visualising light beam rides and scrolling his feeds.’
‘ok boomer’.
‘it’s 2020 but there’s an absence of vision?’
All glances over flatscreen spectacles, projections on the lenses, shaking the heads, murmuring ‘far out’, then heading further in.

There’s a different buzz from the phone. 24 hour party line people shift working the no help desk. Stupid questions inviting snappy answers. It is correct now to speak only of spectrums rather than binaries: press one for yes, press two for no. Add more here: after much consideration I wish t’be considered as opposed to taxonomies and fonder of metaphor.

Flipping the handset across the sofa in a caffeine haze of wtf emojis. Unable to express adequately without cartoon faces. Ehh, plus ça change, doc! Content variance is all. Febrile nightsweats still occasioned by vistas of disaster. In the dream cafe, chalkboard lists today’s special: cream of disease and climate catastrophe. Waking inclined to enthusiastically welcome the blood and fire just to rid us of this incessance.

Ah, the old songs are the best! And all the new ways it’s all infinitely worse are all old too. An apocalyptic strain… the same as it ever was (same as it ever was).

Nah, feelin’ groovy really. Actual mood: increase the peace. Keeping it in mind, manifesting it in the manifestos. Action is the new reaction? Much remains tentative. That moment in theoretical experiments where you just have to start smashing particles off each other. Hoping something doesn’t split fabric
(choose: 13 for tentacles spilling in from the 11th dimension; 69 for lunges in tight velvet trousers; 23 to use the Light Spell from the Rockworm tribe).

Culture jamming still/now fits to describe what seems – SEEMS – increasingly-needed action.

Ai, me! “Theemeth” – for tho ever it wath!
Exeunt Sylvester, pursued by a Bard.

Meanwhile, more FX: strong signals from the global work state. Soundclash w/counterdisinformation. Get over here, stand over there. Listen, does anyone actually want anything doing? Concentrate and ask again later.

Whistles of bandwidth shifts. Taking inspirations where one can. Pirate radio vibes via soundcloud, bandcamp, text scrolls by from the idles of blogging (yes! to typos), to the republic of newsletters, to the twittersphere… in some sense circuit diagrams, ever increasing circles in water… surface tension movements?

Another curator fielding correspondence: something about lost marbles, sordid details to follow.

Feels like everyone’s got a newsletter. We all saw the news.

He’s behind you!

All aforegoing writing has had its place and day. Skins litter the sandy floor of the terrarium. The case is closed. Something dimly glimpsed fades out of view.


Liner notes for the difficult first album.

MMXX lends itself to lines drawn in sand, scratched on walls in northern Britain. This like every year requires you do awake your faith. Lean into it.

Dial shifts again. Hey look! Kojey Radical just read my mind:

I can’t go back to feelin’ like I wanna die, feelin’ like I’ll never fly

L.O. To identify and analyse the components of sonnets

Year 7! Stop this racket! Settle down!
That you’ve arrived late from PE is bad
enough without …you acting like a clown,
Grimaldi. Quiet while I’m speaking, lad.
The objective this lesson is up – DAN!
You need to get your backside on your chair
and planner on your desk, now, please, young man.
The objective, you may have seen, is there…
on the board, Lewis; it’s on the board,
if you were paying attention you’d have seen
it, instead of wasting time we can’t afford
throwing a basketball around with Jean.
Yes, you can pick it up at four pm
from welfare, where I’m sure there’ll be a chat
about why it has ended up with them.
I’m only glad it’s not a cricket bat.
Chewing gum in the bin, Jean, thank – good shot!
Now, can I start this lesson off, or what?


This post should have gone out yesterday, but technical difficulties, soz.

Great excitement as the table project drew a little closer to completion. After a final sand and wipe, it was time to coat the timber to stop it drying out, and to protect it from moisture. Osmo (titular character in an Everybody Loves Raymond-style vehicle, with Cockneys) is the product of choice on this course. The instructions on the tin and from the carpenters were to apply sparingly, which turned out to be simultaneously a soothing and stressful process.

Underside first, where the initial opportunities to explore the parameters of ‘sparingly’ proved that it really does mean hardly any at all. Little rivulets forming along the joins, occasioning those runs up the legs with the brush to redistribute. One technique suggested was to slather it on across the grain before finishing off along the grain, and that seemed to work quite well on the larger faces. Also, starting slightly in from the edges, to avoid too much overflow.

Then, a hilariously thumby moment of turning the whole thing upside down to move on to the top. So soothing. Along and back, along, back… Yet this was also where the stress entered into it. The quest for non-drip perfection, when every brush stroke along the top squeegeed tiny drops of product over the edges. Dab… check… dab dab… check…

Eventually, though, there it was.

Shining like my eyes. The brush went in the Brush Mate tin, where brushes are prevented from drying out and hardening without having to wash them. I had a slight crusty qualm about the use of chemicals so powerful they have to be kept shut in a box at all times, but that was easily disregarded in the giddy excitement of the finish.

And that was pretty much it for the evening: leave it to dry, with the possibility of further smoothing, and another coat or so to complete it, after the Easter break.

I intended to have a go at some more dovetail joints for the remaining hour or so, but my own joints seemed to be seizing up, and uh-oh, bit of a thick nose and sore throat, just in time for the holidays, of course.

“Oh, Osmo… you nugget!”
(Osmo turns to camera, Jack Benny expression; canned laughter and credits)

“OK, so, our main character exits the crematorium. They check their phone. There’s an email from work. They’ve been selected for redundancy.”

“Aw, c’mon!”


Life’s too funny sometimes.

Had a productive night despite “not feeling it” in any sort of sense. By the end of that process, managed to have actually achieved something, even though I didn’t really feel like I had, but I had.

O mind, what slipp’ry fuckery is this
with which thou dost my daily chores attend?
Surely thou couldst thy chunterings abate,
if only for a bless’d second’s respite;
turn from thy dull and prating rattle
to modes melodious, soothing and becalmed,
not these inconstant-yet-constant alarms,
that squeak, and chide, and taunt, and offer nought
but discord and doubt, when thou couldst assure
with but one word of self-love, cheer or praise?

– Anon., At the Sign of The Doubtful Salmon, c.1609



Tough times throughout at the moment. Some bad vibes on a personal employment level, and the continuing global vibes of impending disaster in every sphere.

Still, another moment to reflect on how much more crushingly disappointing it would all feel if I were still drinking alcohol.


Holding the manager’s gaze with a serious expression, he placed a forefinger between his lips and began to wobble it up and down while emitting a low tone.

Exit interview strategy #23

Further to the recent Sugar Mountain post, and feeling bloatier than Bloaty McBloatface, I decided to take evasive action and not have any sugar today. I think I even managed to not have any fruit.

The whole of my lower intestines are gurgling like some entity in a Stephen King story.

Oh yes. Heheheheheh. Bloat.

Bloop Blup

Still heeeere, Bloaty boy. You NEED something sugary.


There’s no avoiding this, Bloaty boy.

Hey, sweet tooth boy!



You’re going to feel reeeeeaaaaaal sorry when you don’t get some more of that sucrose slurped down. Yes sir.

Srowwwllllllllllllllllllllll brip

Hey! Heeeeeyyyyyyyyyy! Bloat.



And so forth. All talk. I’ve stopped listening. It’ll be tapping on the window later on. Same routine, slightly muted, through the glass.




Next Page »