Today’s quotation in the Birthday Book is from 18th century poet Edward Young, also quoted at the start of the month, so doing very well for himself. It is the renowned phrase on prevarication:

Procrastination is the thief of time:
Year after year it steals, ’til all are fled
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.

Particularly pertinent a pick, procrastination, seeing as I’d decided on this as the topic when plotting out the month alphabetically back in March, marking it down as one of the definites, thinking ‘I could get these ones done and cued up now,’ simultaneously knowing that I would do no such thing and would get to the 19th – around, say, 19.30 – and still be putting the finishing touches to it, more likely the commencing touches.

There is something about putting things off. Somehow if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing at the last possible moment. Granted, you may be robbed of time and at the mercies of that moment, but that can have a remarkable effect of sharpening the focus on essential – rather than perhaps vast – concerns. The need for concision. A distillation of your intent. One’s unconscious processing of the task over those (shall we say metaphorical) years of deferred action has all but completed the work, so when the issue is finally addressed, it is simply the right time to open the sluice gates, the conduits of panic, to allow what has already been done out to fill the awaiting vessel.

If you’d ‘just done it’ back when you had more time, it probably wouldn’t be anywhere near as pure an expression of what you really mean.

So, let’s lift a glass to getting it done later. In a minute.

I haven’t written anything for a while, and I’m not sure if my voice is going to sound gravelly or squeaky when it does come out. If I’m croaky or grumpy or boring or some other dwarf, bear with.

Instead of getting straight out of bed this morning, when my brain started buzzing at 05.30, I turned and tossed, trying different pillow combinations. For the first time in weeks, knowing I had a bit of holiday time, I let myself enjoy the wake-up noises. The birds. The way sleeping dreams bring your undealt with waking preoccupations into focus, and also deposit wyrd unbidden shit in front of you with a Derren Brown smile. You go ‘uhh?’ as you wake up and reach for the water with one and a half-eyes open. I wonder why I’m referring to myself in the second person. Distant early morning sound of bottle avalanche into recycling bins outside. It’s echoed a few seconds later by a closer sound a few octaves down, a deeper intake of breath through the nose as J turns over in her sleep. The fridge fanning itself as I sink into the sofa is a little like the five tone synth refrain in the song Come Home by James.

Family and personal matters, musical pasts and future love scenarios surfacing, jumping out of the primordial soup, crouton dolphins… I cannot take any of this too seriously, one of two blue tits just flew into the roof of the balcony, really cracking its head. Flew off tweeting grumpily. Its colleague remained on the feeder looking baffled for a second, and I giggled. Sorry, blue tit! The local birds always set off some latent Basil Fotherington-Thomas whimsy, which is always great for cheering the mind.

Right, wakey. It’s 06.14 where I am. Heat wave weekend gives way to grey Monday skies, as it should be. It looks like it may rain this morning. I came to suddenly about 30 minutes ago, assisted by the precessional cycle of birdsong: an alarum of tits, crows, blackbirds, collared doves, pigeons, sparrows, larks ascending. I’m making the larks up, I don’t think we have any larks.

Larks! I actually woke up from an exciting Inception-esque nested surreality escapade, in which I spotted an old friend I had recently dreamed about and excitedly began telling them about how I’d dreamed about them the other day, and it must have been a sign… We went round the old school, discussing his academic progress, then ended up going to a music festival. DS, if you can decipher any of this collared dove-addled memory game bollocks, and why you might keep featuring in it, get in touch.

Some of it was me mind harking back to some recent massive music broadcast extravaganza or other. Watching Glastonbury Festival on TV, I couldn’t put my finger on what was so awful about it [beat]… Of course, it was the omnipresence, the forced amazingness of it all, the ‘Last Night of the Proms in wellies’ Spiked noted drily. Stuff like the embarrassingly desperate performance from U2, Coldplay’s blandness still ruling the world: a towering, entirely wet latte of decaffeinated syrupy goo… Beyonce and Janelle Monae sort of saving the day for pop (insert diacritics pun here)… but as I woke up it was the apocalyptic tinny radio sound of Jessie J, echoing around a deserted, dried-up campsite, ‘It’s not about the money, money, money’, this unconvincing Kenobi-Orwellian mantra stuck on an increasingly deranged loop, wafting around the discarded tents, spent barbecues, H&M trilbies crushed into the mud, flowers in the dustbin.

Ah, maybe we’ll come back to “the music”. Cultural and metacultural analyses excite me not recently, among the reasons I don’t post as much here. These come from a number of different angles in my polyhedral wonderbrain. Reading too much, for several. I just finished teacher training (woop!), so I’m relaxing by, er, reading more… all over boingboing, 3QD, the Daily Grail, indymedia, TED, like I just worked out what the internet was for. But for my own lack of commentary, as if I owe or anyone requires an apology, soz.

I’ve realised that it’s perhaps just that my filters have improved. As an enthusiastic yet undisciplined zine maker & writer, in the past I felt personally moved to opine at the slightest provocation, often taking as little as months to vent my spleen. Now, though… I can’t bring myself to pass remark on everything that happens in the level of detail I used to. I don’t get as annoyed about ephemeral stuff for as long… and on global issues, say, neo-imperial intercession in Libya, I think I’ve been pretty consistent about the non-value of warring, and I start to feel like a one note samba dancer on a planet full of military two-steppers. As if I owe or anyone requires my opinion in the scheme of things, if scheme there is, if things there be.

All that twopenn’orth commentary nonsense is what I’ve been using Twitter for: look at this shit/shiny, shorturl, grumble/enthuse, forget about it.

Then, ah, then you see, glib Western modernity malaise, then I get all angsty about my lack of engagement. See, music, for a good example, used to be the most important thing in the world for me. My fixes of Select, Melody Maker, NME, my own forays into zines… becoming Audiogalaxy and Soulseek and the other online paradises where musical weed grows by the side of the road. A time of consciousness expansion, a never-ending DMT rush through decades of different sounds, digital cities, skyscrapers of folders, mountains of bits… then proselytised by digital hip priests, academic ruination, the curse of over-reading, Pitchfork-wielding hipster mob at my castle gates… gnashing my teeth in my sleep then waking up to soaked sheets in relief, in realisation that it was all a side-effect of my consumption and computing, coming full circle to love the pop, hate the culture, something like that, allowing that feeling of being lost in music, perking up to get down for a good tune when it happens, but not being so fucking uptight about it.

Happily, along with the wordy tech/esoterica reading, I keep stumbling upon and tumbling into good stuff, through KEKW, Julian Cope, etc. I am slowly making my noise with the world of music again. That rumble in the chest.

Further manifestations of having time for writing will occur, but yeah, that’s how it was this morning.

Via Anorak, this super ‘supermoon’ image… lovingly recycled, as munitions go off in Libya, for another in an infrequent series, ‘Ain’t coinkidink too cute?’

A.E. Waite, issuing, as usual, from a cloud:

“The Tower has been spoken of as the chastisement of pride and the intellect overwhelmed…”
The Moon “…directs a calm gaze upon the unrest below; the dew of thought falls; the message is: Peace, be still.”

I love all this shit. Freak out, far out, in out, put the kettle on.