this account may be added to and improved check back. for another account of ibogaine withdrawal, see here.
the professionals among you will know that acute heroin withdrawal, 100-0mph in 0 secs howling bloody nails-tearing screaming cold turkey, goes something like this: Day 1 is uncomfortable, the first night don't expect to sleep. Day 2 is approaching howling bloody nails-tearing dope sickness and it's only getting worse. The second and then god forbid the third night will be pure fucking hell on earth. If you are lucky and aren't too far advanced in your addiction by the fourth night you will be getting your first patches of delirious sleep, waking from nightmares to more twisting in reeking sweatsoaked sheets. And it goes on... And the craving, the god-awful cellular scream ("a yen comes on him like a great black wind through the bones..." naked lunch)...
when i did my kick, i was on over 300mg morphine sulphate (approx. equiv. to some 100 ml methadone), plus anywhere between 0.25-1 gramme of street heroin per day on top (cheap, powerful, plentiful and pure in London since the US and Brits joined the interminable war in Afghanistan and bombed the fuck out of the Taliban...)
what happened to me was this:
sometime around the time of the last post i took 1400mg ibogaine hcl and lay down on my bed, preparing for whatever was to come.
several hours later there is a vague humming in my ears. my thoughts are a little disjointed, i feel tranquilised as if by one of those horrible psychiatric tranquilisers but still able to communicate normally. i feel a little disassociated and underneath that i can feel the junk sickness kicking in. then colours are starting to blur, and objects are tinged with strange colours. it becomes more difficult to hold onto a thought for more than two seconds. the music is playing upside down.
the delirious paranoia running through my mind is that it's not working. that i've been cheated. that there's something wrong with the stuff, cause i stored it for so long. panic building up. horrible sickness. wasn't this supposed to be painless? that i toss and turn in the grip of some ketamine-like delirium while the sickness cures itself?
where is the powerful psychotropic effect i expected from the drug? instead, there is a mocking emptiness, laughing, laughing at stupid me who wanted something for free. ("pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back, every moment you have stolen...") it is only afterwards i realise how truly powerful this drug is. it's a very low-level reprogramming drug in computer programming language terms...
i am lucky to have at the other end of a telephone a man who we'll call ed i've never met with a remarkable knowledge of ibogaine. the consultant. otherwise who knows what would have happened to me.
the next 48 hours are delirious. flashes: i'm just going in. ed is on the telephone: "i have a feel for ibogaine. i can reach out and connect to you now. i can hear you are in an ibogaine space." i feel i am in acute withdrawal space and abandoned by this supposed wonder cure. "it's a remarkable drug. have trust. trust in it. now settle down in your bed and stay there. you'll be there for at least 48 hours." i laugh and drop the phone. at the time it seemed the most blood-curdlingly terrifying idea i'd ever heard.
delirium of torture. no hope no hope for one second's comfort. nerves peeled and exposed, lying twisting and twiching in a stench of toxic sweat. how much longer? someone else is talking calmly: "... in some gestapo prison... having lights shined in your eyes, getting slapped every time you tried to sleep. then when you've been sitting tied to a chair in your own piss and shit for 48 hours, when any little slap hurts, they fix your hands to a table and out come the pliers for your fingernails... if you pass out, they'll chuck some cold water on you to wake you up before carrying on..." it's the funniest thing anyone's ever told me in this infinity of pain. how petty my situation really is. i am coherent enough to answer that some sophisticated modern tortures are completely chemical in nature... inject you with this to make you feel like you're drowning in pain, inject you with that so that you're immobile and put you in an immersion tank so that you're alone in the dark with your own screaming nervous system... (like this)...
a synchronicity too delicious to miss, or how i destroyed a house with the power of my will:
sometime as i lie twisting and in delirium on day 2, just around the time i find and lock my will on what i'm doing and laugh at how easy it really is, the old house in Camden Rd collapses into the street. builders are trapped inside. the road is blocked. people in intensive care.
the old house where all this begun. where realgem began. the old house that... some people didn't like. paulette, for example. and some other sensitives. they didn't like that house, didn't come there. well. it had a fucked up old history. long-time readers will remember... see archives Jan-May 2005...
the only reason i don't leave on day two and get heroin is because there are people there to restrain me by force if necessary and i am too weak and confused for any sort of subterfuge. "give it 24 hours" ed says. "trust."
visions of evolution, nature red in tooth and claw, a million generations of teeming slashing tearing bundles of will to live and pain, a million years of bloodsoaked evolution on the primordial plains of africa. i see smoke from the witch-pyres of the middle ages rising into the skies of europe. then reeking mud and barbed wire and cutting jagged steel across the mindless battlefields of the great war. all moving towards something... moving towards something... but where did intelligence first come from? the brutal fight of evolution, the generations before us over the eons clawing forward - i owe them more than this, i owe them greater tribute than to be caught by this stupid-trap of nature and to destroy myself...
by night 2 (don't get the idea it was pleasant...) i was actually improving, just when it should have been getting worse... by the morning of day 3 i am cheerful and smiling even if i still haven't slept and feel frazzled. eating handfuls of valium and smoking dope, giving me some respite. i do not look like someone on the third day of cold turkey withdrawal. by the morning of day 3 i have a bath by my own power and dress in a suit ready to go out to eat breakfast, feeling fine in my mind, and then promptly collapse like a skeleton.
doc o had said the day before this all, the last day of my junkie life: "i don't know why you're putting yourself through this psychedelic hell when you could so easily just gently reduce on methadone." look through the realgem archives and count the number of times... gradually reduce, relapse, force the dose down again, start scoring again... count the number of times... i was in a position and with the resources to maintain my life like this indefinitely. i just couldn't quit. couldn't, couldn't couldn't.
"it all comes down to how thinly you want to spread it," he said when he dropped by on the morning of day 3. yes, in his very professional opinion, i looked nothing like someone in day 3 of acute junk sickness.
INTO THE INFERNO!
it all comes down to how thinly you want to spread it.
ibogaine lets you face the dragon or the monkey and fight it head on in one ferocious test of wills. into the inferno!
people ask me what it was like, what was the trip like: it's a shamanic psychedelic, isn't it? but no, i had no visions of african gods or strange other worlds... some people perhaps do...
as i can now limitedly comprehend it, ibogaine works on a much lower level... near the metabolic, cellular, maybe genetic level... the theory has been put forward that psychedelic chemicals played a part in the evolution of intelligence, language in some sort of proto-human apes... after ibogaine, i have a strong intuitive feeling that this may be so...
this experimental medication does merit the description miraculous. within several days i am out and about, in the street... like a window has been cleaned, and the light is painfully intense, painfully intense is the world... but it's the world... once again swimming in the world of the senses, talking to people... throwing away money at people, talking to a homeless junkie and giving him a note to score, just cause i don't need that money for my habit any more... sitting on the street in camden one of the crack-niggers comes and waves rock in my face... the pusher-man... he won't leave us alone... so i ask him if he's got brown... yeah... so i tell him to get the fuck out of my face, hoping for violence, ready for violence... but it's sunlit high street and the day it's beautiful and it's just childish bravado in the face of "powder power..."
the ibogaine's psychotropic effect, which i initially was so disappointed with, manifests itself in the next few days, and in a much more subtle way than any mere psychedelic... my mind is sharp inside my worn-out body that i push to exhaustion... and still don't sleep, no, i don't sleep... god, sometimes i want to...
and all the synchronicities... the crazy coincidences, the chance meetings, the way everything is falling into place as if the universe was in synch with me again, the new opportunities that drop into my path, the people i need to meet there just when i turn the corner... but this is some effect on a more subtle level of reality... something, something beyond words or chemistry or pharmacology...
don't think it's the painless cure. there's only one painless cure and that's death.
i hope this is of interest to anyone who struggles with this strange sickness... anyone who is finding lady heroin too demanding a mistress...
21.8.06
13.00 Aug 21 2006
2 years of solid opiate abuse behind (this time around. i was here before, too. so make that 5 years in total.)
withdrawals are starting now
first dose of ibogaine hcl down 13.00 hours
recording of nusrat fateh ali khan playing in the background
the sun has just broken through the clouds
i'm going away to a strange place now, i don't know where
hope to see you all when i get back
("if you find the door that allows you to leave this life, you must not take it. it will be destructive for everyone involved.")
bismillah ar-rahman ar-rahim
KICK OUT THE JAMS, MOTHERFUCKERS!
2 years of solid opiate abuse behind (this time around. i was here before, too. so make that 5 years in total.)
withdrawals are starting now
first dose of ibogaine hcl down 13.00 hours
recording of nusrat fateh ali khan playing in the background
the sun has just broken through the clouds
i'm going away to a strange place now, i don't know where
hope to see you all when i get back
("if you find the door that allows you to leave this life, you must not take it. it will be destructive for everyone involved.")
bismillah ar-rahman ar-rahim
KICK OUT THE JAMS, MOTHERFUCKERS!
19.8.06
Dublin post-dated
happened in a past life quite recently... paulette calls and says has two tickets to eddie izzard show in dublin on friday, how do we get there? (i don't think she realised it was a different country) it was the day i'd originally planned to take my cure but with a pocketful of morphines left to use up i thought it would be good. oh it was so kind of her to remember me with only two tickets left for the show, how could i not have gone with her?
irish sea, pulling out of holyhead, the isle of anglesey (the ancient isle of Ynys Môn)
christchurch cathedral
club, outside and inside
(paulette had researched the trip and has a tourist streetmap of dublin printed from the internet. attraction number 23 is the james joyce museum... "captain clark welcomes you aboard...")
then on sunday evening she called me to bid farewell to this mike and hope to see the next mike soon.
while we're on ireland, here's a rousing old rebel song...
irish sea, pulling out of holyhead, the isle of anglesey (the ancient isle of Ynys Môn)
christchurch cathedral
club, outside and inside
number 23 of?
dublin, rain
(paulette had researched the trip and has a tourist streetmap of dublin printed from the internet. attraction number 23 is the james joyce museum... "captain clark welcomes you aboard...")
then on sunday evening she called me to bid farewell to this mike and hope to see the next mike soon.
while we're on ireland, here's a rousing old rebel song...
26.7.06
13.7.06
A vindication, should you need one
In the words of that glib Oscar Wilde:
Good artists exist in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating... [they] live the poetry they cannot write.
28.6.06
13.6.06
The coolest man on earth
On guitar we got my main fuckin nigga Ian C. motherfuckin Bishop bitch! This is the chillest man in all earth.
Doc O and I play chess at his bar (Vestry, Fortress Studios, Provost Street N1, especially recommended Sundays for Sunday lunches and bloody Marys). He disconcerts us by coming up to the table and stroking the bishop. Any of them, but usually black's queen-side bishop.
"What the fuck are you doing?" we demand. "I'm stroking a bishop," Ian Bishop says. The photo links to his myspace. Cold Cold Heart is good. (Rupert Murdoch bought myspace, did you know that? For $580m. But it's still especially good for musicians.)
12.6.06
Your dose of literature for today
"Selling is more of a habit than using," Lupita says...
Doc Parker: "a man don't have no secrets from God and his druggist"
-Naked Lunch
[That's when you find yourself in the pharmacy to get morphines and MSTs and sedatives on a private embossed Harley Street script and Germoloids hydrocortisone hemorrhoid spray and itchyrash ointment and contact lens eyedrops and three packets of ultrathin condoms.]
The full text of Naked Lunch can be found here also with title in Cyrillic (Russian letters look like if they were made out of sharp steel would be vicious weapons) http://lib.ru/INPROZ/BERROUZ/naked.txt
Here it is with the introduction - Deposition: testimony concerning a sickness, and with the afterword, but more difficult to read layout. Columns of text are easiest on the eye when reading on a computer screen.
http://ontario.indymedia.org/twiki/bin/view/Ontario/WilliamSBurroughssNAKEDLUNCHFree
Court judgements in my favour 2 - the Opposition 0
So o, I am not talking about the football. Nor is this a reference to drugs. This is the endless delaying game in what is always the eventual loss in a legal battle (no, a legal squirm) for the order of possession on a squatted "illegally occupied" or "reclaimed for the community" building. I have addressed the court in possession hearings in more houses than I've ever lived in. I am constantly volunteered to do this because I wear shirts with collars and silver jewellery rather than cowrie shells and tie-dye. I don't even squat these days.
We are dealing with semi-literate hippies here so the appeal form which has been filled in on my behalf is an illegible scrawl. I address the county court judge to outline our appeal for the right to make an appeal (yes, I think that's right). Mr Edgeley and Mr... whatever... oh yeah, Peter Serber, but you might recognise him as the malung, ("can you get arrested for giving a false name?" Pete hisses too loudly "no, of course not" says Mr Mike Anderson)... and... where was I? This is all a bit sneaky, as we are appealing a decision made on Thursday, meaning there has been no time for the hearing papers to be served to the claimant's (ie. the Opposition) lawyers, meaning they are not present for the morning hearing.
The judge is convinced and decides to grant a new hearing. How long will you need? The judge offers two weeks, maximum. "Ah, four weeks..." I suggest "We have to apply for legal aid... Mr E___," I say, turning to him, sitting at the back of the room. "You recently applied for legal aid... how long did the application take?" I am expecting Mr E____ to say "Yes, um, about four or five weeks at least" or something. He starts telling the judge his life story.
A date is fixed for the last day of June. Medium-good result. Now off to the High Court after a leisurely wander through central London punctuated by stops for food and beverages. Mr E_____ smokes a joint and loses consciousness in Leicester Square so Dave Bones, no, ah, Pete Serber or Sherbert or whatever (where did that come from?) and I, Mike Anderson continue to where the Strand meets Fleet Street (where the subterranean River Fleet, completely built over in Victorian times, emptied into the Thames, leaving only street names like Anglers' Lane and Fleet Road as memories, and water can be heard rushing through certain hidden gratings) to the Royal Courts of Justice, housing the High Court, Queen's Bench division.
In county courts, the judges are "your honour". In the High Court, I check with the primly spectacled and badly needing a vicious fuck opposition lawyer (solicitor, not barrister), they are "master". The solicitor is outraged at the underhanded trick we have played on her and kidnaps my case papers to "call her sister". Whatever that means.
Master Leslie is the second most intimidating judge I have ever faced, after HH Armon-Jones of the peery-downy glasses and icy forbidding stare. A face of the British establishment, here, in a magnificent old complex of buildings which are the embodiment of the power of the British state. Earlier, we have sat in the gardens of the Inner Temple of the inns of law, another more ancient place of a similar nature. Judges can do this. Or good judges I suppose, the really intimidating ones... reduce you to a stammering wreck by the power of mind alone. None of this today. I feel, strangely, almost in my element. The master has no choice but to stay the eviction by High Court sheriffs until the appeal has been disposed of. Ha haa!
The whole jolly crew of Mr Anderson, Mr Malung, the claimant's solicitor, and the two pleasant representatives from the claimant's company or trust (both of whom incurred the wrath of the master with their mobile phone beeping) tramp around the Royal Courts of Justice, looking for a photocopy machine. An intricately bizarre photocopy-machine bureaucracy which must date to the reign of King George II, many centuries ago, defeats us and we leave to find a photocopy shop outside.
I and the malung discuss Lao Tzu's The Art of War on the walk in the scorching sun. I am not sure we have followed all of Lao Tzu's precepts today. I have been to civil to the devious lawyer bitch. Mr Anderson and the solicitor end up going to her chambers to copy the requisite documents. The depraved Mr Anderson thinks he would be doing the world a favour by... no but anyway, the others are waiting outside.
This narrative has been interrupted by the return of Mr E____. After parting company with us in the afternoon, he slept in the sun, woke up, and immediately took the bus to Camden and gambled all his money away. Then he caught a bus back to the West End. On the bus he met an American lady lawyer who took him back to where she was staying, at the Hilton. After copious drinks, they end up in her room. However, the inevitable doesn't happen. The situation, as I understand it, is something like I've come across in neurotic, career-obsessed women like the aforementioned Mr Anderson's lawyer. At the last moment, the industrious government economist or whoever puts their head in their hands and its no! I can't do it! I still love ___! Or whatever. (Then why the fuck did you bring me to this disabled toilet and pull up your skirt and jump up on the baby nappy-changing table with your legs open? What was this all meant to demonstrate?) No, she is just lonely and Mr E____ gives her a hug and puts his shoes on.
A jolly day has been had by all. The squatters are pleased with the verdict.
(update: the Claimants have appealed to have the appeal heard at an earlier date than first agreed. The witness statement in support of the appeal uses some of the strongest language I've come across in such a document: Mr Anderson has abused the court system by not serving notice of the ex parte Monday appeal with the Claimants - not my responsibility - he is in no way authorised to represent the occupants or to address the High Court, he has no locus standi in law, etc etc.)
Nonusing pushers have a contact habit, and that's one
you can't kick. Agents get it too. Take Bradley the
Buyer. Best narcotics agent in the industry. Anyone
would make him for junk. (Note: Make in the sense of
dig or size up. ) I mean he can walk up to a pusher and
score direct. He is so anonymous, grey and spectral the
pusher don't remember him afterwards. So he twists
one after the other....
Well the Buyer comes to look more and more like
a junky. He can't drink. He can't get it up. His teeth
fall out. (Like pregnant women lose their teeth feeding
the stranger, junkies lose their yellow fangs feeding the
monkey. ) He is all the time sucking on a candy bar.
Baby Ruths he digs special. "It really disgust you to see
the Buyer sucking on them candy bars so nasty," a cop
says.
The Buyer takes on an ominous grey-green color.
Fact is his body is making its own junk or equivalent.
The Buyer has a steady connection. A Man Within you
might say, Or so he thinks. "I'll just set in my room," he
says. "Fuck 'em all. Squares on both sides. I am the only
complete man in the industry."
But a yen comes on him like a great black wind
through the bones. So the Buyer hunts up a young
junky and gives him a paper to make it.
"Oh all right," the boy says. "So what you want to
make?"
"I just want to rub up against you and get fixed."
"Ugh... Well all right.... But why cancha just get
physical like a human?"
Later the boy is sitting in a Waldorf with two col-
leagues dunking pound cake. "Most distasteful thing I
ever stand still for," he says. "Some way he make him-
self all soft like a blob of jelly and surround me so nasty.
Then he gets wet all over like with green slime. So I
guess he come to some kinda awful climax.... I come
near wigging with that green stuff all over me, and he
stink like a old rotten cantaloupe."
"Well it's still an easy score."
The boy sighed resignedly; "Yes, I guess you can
get used to anything. I've got a meet with him again
tomorrow."
The Buyer's habit keeps getting heavier. He needs
a recharged every half hour. Sometimes he cruises the
precincts and bribes the turnkey to let him in with a
cell of junkies. It get to where no amount of contact
will fix him. At this point he receives a summons from
the District Supervisor:
"Bradley, your conduct has given rise to rumors -- and
I hope for your sake they are no more than that -- so
unspeakably distasteful that... I mean Caesar's wife
...hrump... that is, the Department must be above
suspicion... certainly above such suspicions as you
have seemingly aroused. You are lowering the entire
tone of the industry. We are prepared to accept your
immediate resignation."
The Buyer throws himself on the ground and crawls
over to the D.S. "No, Boss Man, no... The Department
is my very lifeline."
He kisses the D.S.'s hand thrusting his fingers into his
mouth (the D.S. must feel his toothless gums) com-
plaining he has lost his teeth "inna thervith." "Please
Boss Man. I'll wipe your ass, I'll wash out your dirty
condoms, I'll polish your shoes with the oil on my
nose....
"Really, this is most distasteful11 Have you no pride?
I must tell you I feel a distinct revulsion. I mean there
is something, well, rotten about you, and you smell like
a compost heap." He put a scented handkerchief in
front of his face. "I must ask you to leave this office at
once.
"I'll do anything, Boss, anything." His ravaged green
face splits in a horrible smile. "I'm still young, Boss,
and I'm pretty strong when I get my blood up."
The D.S. retches into his handkerchief and points to
the door with a limp hand. The Buyer stands up looking
at the D.S. dreamily. His body begins to dip like a
dowser's wand. He Bows forward....
"No! No!" screams the D.S.
"Schlup... schlup schlup." An hour later they find
the Buyer on the nod in the D.S.'s chair. The D.S. has
disappeared without a trace.
The Judge: "Everything indicates that you have, in
some unspeakable manner uh... assimilated the Dis-
trict Supervisor. Unfortunately there is no proof. I would
recommend that you be confined or more accurately
contained in some institution, but I know of no place
suitable for a man of your caliber. I must reluctantly
order your release."
"That one should stand in an aquarium," says the
arresting officer.
The Buyer spreads terror throughout the industry.
Junkies and agents disappear. Like a vampire bat he
gives off a narcotic effluvium, a dank green mist that
anesthetizes his victims and renders them helpless in his
enveloping presence. And once he has scored he holes
up for several days like a gorged boa constrictor. Finally
he is caught in the act of digesting the Narcotics Com-
missioner and destroyed with a flame thrower -- the court
of inquiry ruling that such means were justified in that
the Buyer had lost his human citizenship and was, in
consequence, a creature without species and a menace
to the narcotics industry on all levels.
-Naked Lunch (William Seward Burroughs)
Doc Parker: "a man don't have no secrets from God and his druggist"
-Naked Lunch
The full text of Naked Lunch can be found here also with title in Cyrillic (Russian letters look like if they were made out of sharp steel would be vicious weapons) http://lib.ru/INPROZ/BERROUZ
Here it is with the introduction - Deposition: testimony concerning a sickness, and with the afterword, but more difficult to read layout. Columns of text are easiest on the eye when reading on a computer screen.
http://ontario.indymedia.org
The score today
or, a chance for R&B, who was curious, to pick up some English squatting lawCourt judgements in my favour 2 - the Opposition 0
So o, I am not talking about the football. Nor is this a reference to drugs. This is the endless delaying game in what is always the eventual loss in a legal battle (no, a legal squirm) for the order of possession on a squatted "illegally occupied" or "reclaimed for the community" building. I have addressed the court in possession hearings in more houses than I've ever lived in. I am constantly volunteered to do this because I wear shirts with collars and silver jewellery rather than cowrie shells and tie-dye. I don't even squat these days.
We are dealing with semi-literate hippies here so the appeal form which has been filled in on my behalf is an illegible scrawl. I address the county court judge to outline our appeal for the right to make an appeal (yes, I think that's right). Mr Edgeley and Mr... whatever... oh yeah, Peter Serber, but you might recognise him as the malung, ("can you get arrested for giving a false name?" Pete hisses too loudly "no, of course not" says Mr Mike Anderson)... and... where was I? This is all a bit sneaky, as we are appealing a decision made on Thursday, meaning there has been no time for the hearing papers to be served to the claimant's (ie. the Opposition) lawyers, meaning they are not present for the morning hearing.
The judge is convinced and decides to grant a new hearing. How long will you need? The judge offers two weeks, maximum. "Ah, four weeks..." I suggest "We have to apply for legal aid... Mr E___," I say, turning to him, sitting at the back of the room. "You recently applied for legal aid... how long did the application take?" I am expecting Mr E____ to say "Yes, um, about four or five weeks at least" or something. He starts telling the judge his life story.
A date is fixed for the last day of June. Medium-good result. Now off to the High Court after a leisurely wander through central London punctuated by stops for food and beverages. Mr E_____ smokes a joint and loses consciousness in Leicester Square so Dave Bones, no, ah, Pete Serber or Sherbert or whatever (where did that come from?) and I, Mike Anderson continue to where the Strand meets Fleet Street (where the subterranean River Fleet, completely built over in Victorian times, emptied into the Thames, leaving only street names like Anglers' Lane and Fleet Road as memories, and water can be heard rushing through certain hidden gratings) to the Royal Courts of Justice, housing the High Court, Queen's Bench division.
In county courts, the judges are "your honour". In the High Court, I check with the primly spectacled and badly needing a vicious fuck opposition lawyer (solicitor, not barrister), they are "master". The solicitor is outraged at the underhanded trick we have played on her and kidnaps my case papers to "call her sister". Whatever that means.
Master Leslie is the second most intimidating judge I have ever faced, after HH Armon-Jones of the peery-downy glasses and icy forbidding stare. A face of the British establishment, here, in a magnificent old complex of buildings which are the embodiment of the power of the British state. Earlier, we have sat in the gardens of the Inner Temple of the inns of law, another more ancient place of a similar nature. Judges can do this. Or good judges I suppose, the really intimidating ones... reduce you to a stammering wreck by the power of mind alone. None of this today. I feel, strangely, almost in my element. The master has no choice but to stay the eviction by High Court sheriffs until the appeal has been disposed of. Ha haa!
Inner Temple court (inner temple of what?)
The whole jolly crew of Mr Anderson, Mr Malung, the claimant's solicitor, and the two pleasant representatives from the claimant's company or trust (both of whom incurred the wrath of the master with their mobile phone beeping) tramp around the Royal Courts of Justice, looking for a photocopy machine. An intricately bizarre photocopy-machine bureaucracy which must date to the reign of King George II, many centuries ago, defeats us and we leave to find a photocopy shop outside.
I and the malung discuss Lao Tzu's The Art of War on the walk in the scorching sun. I am not sure we have followed all of Lao Tzu's precepts today. I have been to civil to the devious lawyer bitch. Mr Anderson and the solicitor end up going to her chambers to copy the requisite documents. The depraved Mr Anderson thinks he would be doing the world a favour by... no but anyway, the others are waiting outside.
This narrative has been interrupted by the return of Mr E____. After parting company with us in the afternoon, he slept in the sun, woke up, and immediately took the bus to Camden and gambled all his money away. Then he caught a bus back to the West End. On the bus he met an American lady lawyer who took him back to where she was staying, at the Hilton. After copious drinks, they end up in her room. However, the inevitable doesn't happen. The situation, as I understand it, is something like I've come across in neurotic, career-obsessed women like the aforementioned Mr Anderson's lawyer. At the last moment, the industrious government economist or whoever puts their head in their hands and its no! I can't do it! I still love ___! Or whatever. (Then why the fuck did you bring me to this disabled toilet and pull up your skirt and jump up on the baby nappy-changing table with your legs open? What was this all meant to demonstrate?) No, she is just lonely and Mr E____ gives her a hug and puts his shoes on.
A jolly day has been had by all. The squatters are pleased with the verdict.
(update: the Claimants have appealed to have the appeal heard at an earlier date than first agreed. The witness statement in support of the appeal uses some of the strongest language I've come across in such a document: Mr Anderson has abused the court system by not serving notice of the ex parte Monday appeal with the Claimants - not my responsibility - he is in no way authorised to represent the occupants or to address the High Court, he has no locus standi in law, etc etc.)
The property in dispute
30.5.06
The cold North
Finland's contribution to the Transmet future
Finland finally have win the Eurovision song contest with Lordi's Hard Rock Hallelujah (awfully lo-res video of their performance), threatening unbelievers with a day of rockening. After 51 years of really trying. After countless national-inferiority-complex-aggravating zero, more nil-scores than every other competing nation combined (don't quote that last statistic in any context demanding an accurate reference; it is merely a well-educated guess).
But there is other interesting stuff to come out of Finland lately, too.
This is the third week of the Helsingin Sanomat (Helsinki News, Finland's largest circulation broadsheet newspaper) reality videoblog competition: "Sinustako matkaopas - Could you be a travel guide?" (Note the laconic succinctness of the language.)
The premise is as follows: take five couples, send them all for a weekend in a randomly chosen European city, they each produce short videos about the city and post them to the blogit.hs.fi website, people vote by text message to eliminate one couple each week. Please to check some of the videos out; a selection presented below. They stream without delay. Seamless web design. Finnish technology.
The videos, my inside source told me, are done on a Nokia N91 phone, one of which is given to each couple, which not only records video to its internal hard drive, but edits it too, ready for broadcast. Revolutionary. Finnish technology.
Why do we like this so much? The videoblog competition is, for a start, something rather innovative for a traditional print newspaper of record to be doing with their website. Nokia have regained their edge in the mobile phone market. And it's all so very Transmet.
Transmetropolitan has been described here before - one of the most compelling and convincing dark future dystopias, in any medium. How much "speculative" sci-fi has - fuck warp drives or turbolasers - contemplated with any intelligence what the over-saturation of media, information and communications technology, combined with ubiquitous chemical self-programming, is doing to the human mind?
Foucault, Lyotard and their French post-modernist ilk indigestible? Read Transmet instead: hyper-reality and near-future anomie and alienation in glorious technicolour. Links: Warren Ellis (writer) interview, succinct Wired magazine obit for the ended series, plot summaries with disarmingly non-intellectualist commentary, Flash movie demonstrating the main character Spider Jerusalem's icy cool motherfucker-ness.
Selection of videos from the competition
Realising few of you will be conversant in Finnish, here is a selection of videos which may be appreciated nonetheless. These are from the first two weeks, encompassing first Amsterdam and then Berlin.
Vague psychedelia in Amsterdam... this couple's videos have without a doubt been the most creative, but apparently not to the taste of the puritan Finns, as they were just voted out in Oslo this weekend (the third couple to go) [update & correction: they're still in, head to head with my man Ukko from Rovaniemi in the finals]. The girl's face distorted strangely by a multiple reflection is saying "don't smoke wacky-baccy... beware the wacky-baccy... oh, don't touch them jazz cigarettes..."
Another of theirs... A stroke of true genius, this is the talking thumb guide-book (instantly recalling the Hitch-Hiker's Guide). Its Amsterdam entry says: "It is good to remember that you can do other things in Amsterdam apart from hallucinate in a cafe. If you want your own windmill, remember to have at least 4m euros handy. You will also need a license. Your own window on the red-light street will cost you 350 euros per day. More than anything, you should just enjoy this land of strangely speaking funny people. Have a nice day."
In this clip from Berlin, a female contestant does a brilliant impersonation of Inspector Harjunpaa (the two last "a"s are meant to have dots on top), the archetypal Finnish TV cop.
Again in Berlin, watch this if you wish to learn both the Finnish and the German for the following phrases: where are my sausages?, I have a beer in my leather trousers, I'm hungry, let's eat some ice-cream, where is the nearest cock-fight, please?, and vote for the best, vote for #1!
My old friend Ukko (this is a rare and etymologically fascinating name, meaning both "old git", "geezer" or "[old] man", as well as being the thunder-god of the ancient pagan Finns) has taken a hard journalism route; no fucking around with psychedelics in Amsterdam or with 2-litre German beer steins. Here he interviews former Finnish Prime Minister Esko Aho at the airport (who doesn't say anything interesting, but he has uniquely loveable eyebrows), and here, a possibly boring video which ends on a cheerful bi-lingual double-entendre: the statue they are leaning on is inscribed "Multatuli", Finnish for "I just came! (or should that be cummed, in correct internet porno-speak?) I just jizzed!"
Ukko was a junior sergeant in the military police. Come wartime, it would be his job to round up deserters from the glorious Finnish army like fucking Mikey and shoot him. Unfortunately, he lost his job after giving an interview revealing pacifist, anarchist and dope-smoking tendencies to an alternative Helsinki newspaper. Equally unfortunately, around the same time the Finnish Army lost several valuable super-bright high-pressure arc lights (ideal for growing cannabis indoors) from a firing range which junior sergeant Ukko's detachment was guarding. As it happens, U's old man is a psychiatrist, and when Mikey still had a Finnish passport (he can lay claim to no less than four passports, just like your humble scribe) and he got a letter from the government the other day, opened it and read it and said they were suckers... they wanted me for their army or whatever, picture me giving a damn, I said never... he declared that gutter-trash unfit for service on mental health grounds, right there and then, in a MacDonald's in the underground shopping-centre beneath Helsinki's central railway station.
Largely spurious mental health grounds, and unnecessary, as Mikey did a runner to the safety of the warmer climes he was dragged up in (the story is referenced here, in the book review towards the end of the post, of The Dice Man for "Life-Changing Books"; the first confirmed piece of writing attributed to Ishmael Smith). Once, Mikey was detained at the airport while visiting Hell... sinki for stupidly using the wrong passport to enter the country (this was before Schengen) and almost being arrested for AWOL'ism. Now, those mental health grounds have become quite real... evidenced by the fact that if it happened again, the stupid fucker would actually probably volunteer for service, despite being almost too old by now, provided he got to be a helicopter door-gunner and got sent on active duty, peace-keeping in Kosovo or something.
(The flag; the Monty Python Finland song is available for illegal download here. Do the righ-click "save link as" procedure.)
Finland finally have win the Eurovision song contest with Lordi's Hard Rock Hallelujah (awfully lo-res video of their performance), threatening unbelievers with a day of rockening. After 51 years of really trying. After countless national-inferiority-complex-aggravating zero, more nil-scores than every other competing nation combined (don't quote that last statistic in any context demanding an accurate reference; it is merely a well-educated guess).
But there is other interesting stuff to come out of Finland lately, too.
This is the third week of the Helsingin Sanomat (Helsinki News, Finland's largest circulation broadsheet newspaper) reality videoblog competition: "Sinustako matkaopas - Could you be a travel guide?" (Note the laconic succinctness of the language.)
The premise is as follows: take five couples, send them all for a weekend in a randomly chosen European city, they each produce short videos about the city and post them to the blogit.hs.fi website, people vote by text message to eliminate one couple each week. Please to check some of the videos out; a selection presented below. They stream without delay. Seamless web design. Finnish technology.
The videos, my inside source told me, are done on a Nokia N91 phone, one of which is given to each couple, which not only records video to its internal hard drive, but edits it too, ready for broadcast. Revolutionary. Finnish technology.
Why do we like this so much? The videoblog competition is, for a start, something rather innovative for a traditional print newspaper of record to be doing with their website. Nokia have regained their edge in the mobile phone market. And it's all so very Transmet.
Transmetropolitan has been described here before - one of the most compelling and convincing dark future dystopias, in any medium. How much "speculative" sci-fi has - fuck warp drives or turbolasers - contemplated with any intelligence what the over-saturation of media, information and communications technology, combined with ubiquitous chemical self-programming, is doing to the human mind?
Foucault, Lyotard and their French post-modernist ilk indigestible? Read Transmet instead: hyper-reality and near-future anomie and alienation in glorious technicolour. Links: Warren Ellis (writer) interview, succinct Wired magazine obit for the ended series, plot summaries with disarmingly non-intellectualist commentary, Flash movie demonstrating the main character Spider Jerusalem's icy cool motherfucker-ness.
Selection of videos from the competition
Realising few of you will be conversant in Finnish, here is a selection of videos which may be appreciated nonetheless. These are from the first two weeks, encompassing first Amsterdam and then Berlin.
Vague psychedelia in Amsterdam... this couple's videos have without a doubt been the most creative, but apparently not to the taste of the puritan Finns, as they were just voted out in Oslo this weekend (the third couple to go) [update & correction: they're still in, head to head with my man Ukko from Rovaniemi in the finals]. The girl's face distorted strangely by a multiple reflection is saying "don't smoke wacky-baccy... beware the wacky-baccy... oh, don't touch them jazz cigarettes..."
Another of theirs... A stroke of true genius, this is the talking thumb guide-book (instantly recalling the Hitch-Hiker's Guide). Its Amsterdam entry says: "It is good to remember that you can do other things in Amsterdam apart from hallucinate in a cafe. If you want your own windmill, remember to have at least 4m euros handy. You will also need a license. Your own window on the red-light street will cost you 350 euros per day. More than anything, you should just enjoy this land of strangely speaking funny people. Have a nice day."In this clip from Berlin, a female contestant does a brilliant impersonation of Inspector Harjunpaa (the two last "a"s are meant to have dots on top), the archetypal Finnish TV cop.
Again in Berlin, watch this if you wish to learn both the Finnish and the German for the following phrases: where are my sausages?, I have a beer in my leather trousers, I'm hungry, let's eat some ice-cream, where is the nearest cock-fight, please?, and vote for the best, vote for #1!
My old friend Ukko (this is a rare and etymologically fascinating name, meaning both "old git", "geezer" or "[old] man", as well as being the thunder-god of the ancient pagan Finns) has taken a hard journalism route; no fucking around with psychedelics in Amsterdam or with 2-litre German beer steins. Here he interviews former Finnish Prime Minister Esko Aho at the airport (who doesn't say anything interesting, but he has uniquely loveable eyebrows), and here, a possibly boring video which ends on a cheerful bi-lingual double-entendre: the statue they are leaning on is inscribed "Multatuli", Finnish for "I just came! (or should that be cummed, in correct internet porno-speak?) I just jizzed!"
Ukko was a junior sergeant in the military police. Come wartime, it would be his job to round up deserters from the glorious Finnish army like fucking Mikey and shoot him. Unfortunately, he lost his job after giving an interview revealing pacifist, anarchist and dope-smoking tendencies to an alternative Helsinki newspaper. Equally unfortunately, around the same time the Finnish Army lost several valuable super-bright high-pressure arc lights (ideal for growing cannabis indoors) from a firing range which junior sergeant Ukko's detachment was guarding. As it happens, U's old man is a psychiatrist, and when Mikey still had a Finnish passport (he can lay claim to no less than four passports, just like your humble scribe) and he got a letter from the government the other day, opened it and read it and said they were suckers... they wanted me for their army or whatever, picture me giving a damn, I said never... he declared that gutter-trash unfit for service on mental health grounds, right there and then, in a MacDonald's in the underground shopping-centre beneath Helsinki's central railway station.
Largely spurious mental health grounds, and unnecessary, as Mikey did a runner to the safety of the warmer climes he was dragged up in (the story is referenced here, in the book review towards the end of the post, of The Dice Man for "Life-Changing Books"; the first confirmed piece of writing attributed to Ishmael Smith). Once, Mikey was detained at the airport while visiting Hell... sinki for stupidly using the wrong passport to enter the country (this was before Schengen) and almost being arrested for AWOL'ism. Now, those mental health grounds have become quite real... evidenced by the fact that if it happened again, the stupid fucker would actually probably volunteer for service, despite being almost too old by now, provided he got to be a helicopter door-gunner and got sent on active duty, peace-keeping in Kosovo or something.
(The flag; the Monty Python Finland song is available for illegal download here. Do the righ-click "save link as" procedure.)
28.5.06
"Lazy" has set himself the discipline of putting up at least one good item here every day, and so it is frustrating for him end this day, still with nothing new here. Especially as there is so much, so much interesting material in store. My friend, it's easy: approach it like cooking. Get the ingredients in front of you (the pictures, the text), prepare them and chop them up, and combine them in the correct manner...
Here is a page about the swastika (the "I'm not a Nazi swastika gallery"). There are some beautiful variations and interpretations of this ancient and powerful symbol.
Some of the swastikas link to further pages. Under the pro-Nazi swastikas, I hope you took the opportunity to click on the Thule Society symbol which leads to a readable article about the Thule Geselleschaft (with just one or two
insignificant historical inaccuracies). This is of interest on realgem due to the way it demonstrates the extent to which occult societies shaped early Nazi and thereby almost the whole world's history. The article mentions the Occult Bureau within war-time MI5 (the Rudolf Hess gig would probably have been one of their projects - it is not mentioned in the Wikipedia article, but his flight to Britain was largely prompted by spurious astrological forecasts fed to him by British intelligence), and notes that the independence of the USA was a Masonic project. This, in turn, takes us to Skull & Bones and Bohemian Grove territory (the latter a link to Alex Jones's site... a bizarre combination of fascinating hard journalism and breathlessly earnest conspiracy nut - obligatory credibility disclaimer and statement of skepticism; I am after all, an academic essayist and journalist of some standing)
- the continuing influence of occult or quasi-occult organisations in the highest corridors of power. While we are on the subject you may wish to poke around the internet (or avail yourself of this link) for the Kay Griggs interview (former wife of an abusive and alcoholic high-up Special Forces and PsyOps officer with dirty secrets). The use of homosexual intimidation / initiation in the military / political elite which she describes relates to our Imperial British project (rum, sodomy and the lash... le vice anglais etc...)
This is a continuing realgem theme, as I gently steer Lazy away from his junkie narcissism. My own little distraction at the moment ("yes, I've written a few trifling monographs on the subject ...") is the sketching out of the notes for a historical epic, perhaps a trilogy of novels, revealing or darkly hinting at the black magic rotten heart of the British Empire (carrying on the mantle of the Romans; now passed on to the Americans).
Here is a page about the swastika (the "I'm not a Nazi swastika gallery"). There are some beautiful variations and interpretations of this ancient and powerful symbol.
Some of the swastikas link to further pages. Under the pro-Nazi swastikas, I hope you took the opportunity to click on the Thule Society symbol which leads to a readable article about the Thule Geselleschaft (with just one or two
insignificant historical inaccuracies). This is of interest on realgem due to the way it demonstrates the extent to which occult societies shaped early Nazi and thereby almost the whole world's history. The article mentions the Occult Bureau within war-time MI5 (the Rudolf Hess gig would probably have been one of their projects - it is not mentioned in the Wikipedia article, but his flight to Britain was largely prompted by spurious astrological forecasts fed to him by British intelligence), and notes that the independence of the USA was a Masonic project. This, in turn, takes us to Skull & Bones and Bohemian Grove territory (the latter a link to Alex Jones's site... a bizarre combination of fascinating hard journalism and breathlessly earnest conspiracy nut - obligatory credibility disclaimer and statement of skepticism; I am after all, an academic essayist and journalist of some standing)- the continuing influence of occult or quasi-occult organisations in the highest corridors of power. While we are on the subject you may wish to poke around the internet (or avail yourself of this link) for the Kay Griggs interview (former wife of an abusive and alcoholic high-up Special Forces and PsyOps officer with dirty secrets). The use of homosexual intimidation / initiation in the military / political elite which she describes relates to our Imperial British project (rum, sodomy and the lash... le vice anglais etc...)
This is a continuing realgem theme, as I gently steer Lazy away from his junkie narcissism. My own little distraction at the moment ("yes, I've written a few trifling monographs on the subject ...") is the sketching out of the notes for a historical epic, perhaps a trilogy of novels, revealing or darkly hinting at the black magic rotten heart of the British Empire (carrying on the mantle of the Romans; now passed on to the Americans).
THE EMPIRE NEVER DIED. (VALIS)
MAKE NO MISTAKE, A BLACK IRON CAGE SURROUNDS US
MAKE NO MISTAKE, A BLACK IRON CAGE SURROUNDS US
26.5.06
THE CURE
preamble, or: why doesn't nardac like me anymore?
Look in the sidebar - there is a blog called Holy Smokes!!!, kept by one NARDAC, one of my first blogging friends/acquaintances [then why didn't you know that she is on nardac.blogsome, fool - I.:.S.:.], and the only one to guess correctly in the realgem competition (the knife photo referred to can be seen here - scroll down a little). First she linked me, then she didn't, then she did again, then she didn't. Why? She told me once, in no uncertain words, that I should MOVE THE FUCK ON from whingeing about a) my addiction and b) the woman I married who broke my heart (but that was all a good long time ago), and just write good old stories like I used to. I can't find the original email conveying this sentiment, so instead, I reproduce an example of the charming sort of thing I used to leave in her comments section ages ago, the point being - how can NARDAC possibly not like me?
the cure
My head is spinning, my head is all a vortex of difficult-to-express emotions and ideas, all vying for pre-eminence. I have... I am... I am here to write about IBOGAINE, "the cure" of the title. The cure for my heroin addiction, detailed throughout this blog, but
perhaps best through April 2005 (not a great deal to scan through). Have no doubt I have been to the ends of desperation, have no doubt I've been to hell, have no doubt I have been ever so near to death by my own hand.
I have spent all day researching this miraculous African root-bark, this heavy shamanic hallucinogen, this healer-god in vegetable form.
I have spent hours on the telephone with some of the leading specialists in its therapeutic use. The best-written summary of what it's all about is in this article, headed 'The Dreaming', reproduced from the Independent on Sunday (London) in 1999. While the information is now dated, and there are now more practitioners using it in the UK and Europe (though still not many), it is a fine piece of writing, a great piece of feature-writing, and incidentally, wins a prize for the best use of a William S Burroughs quote in a quality broadsheet feature article ever.
My head is spinning: with sheer joy and relief; with a near-religious awe; with gratitude to the people (particularly Edward Conn) who took the time to speak to me today; with sadness; and anger, fierce and burning; these, and many other things - most of all, perhaps sheer information overload. And so I don't know how to write about this at all. Read the IoS article.
I knew about ibogaine before. I knew it was a shamanic psychedelic used by certain African tribes, which by accident, a New York junkie in 1969 discovered had the property of instantly curing the Sickness.
It is expensive, whether I choose to obtain some myself, or sign up for therapy. Does not matter. No obstacle at all. I have faith in it, and nothing else matters.
It is not necessarily a pleasant experience. It strips down your ego, cleans and oils the parts, and reassembles it.
It can remove 85-100 per cent of withdrawal symptoms in one night.
It has been described by some psychiatric specialists as "10 years of therapy in one night".
It has been known about in the West for over 35 years now. Why is it illegal in the USA, and not receiving the attention it should elsewhere?
If you were a pharmaceuticals giant in the business of making chemicals for drug "rehabilitation", which would you market - a pill that does the cure in one night, or a substitute medication like methadone or LAAM that leads to long-term "stability" (as the "experts" call it - a placid, law-abiding, comfortable, never-ending narcotic stupor)? The LAW WOULD REQUIRE YOU to maximise profits for the shareholders and choose methadone. Choose life... no... choose a half-life... forever... for millions of people you don't know... married to the methadone molecule, til death do us part. And the dollars keep rolling in.
That's where the anger comes from, and sometimes, anger can save.
I swear, I swear by the spirits of enforced wakefulness, by the things you see from the corners of your eyes when you would kill for something to put you to sleep and end the suffering, that I will heal myself and become powerful once more. And then I will fight them, fight the greedy fucking bastards, punish the deserving, fight them 'til I die.
And best of all, confused as lazy still may be, realgem is back! realgem endures...
:::coming up on realgem:::
-that was the last heroin post (pace NARDAC); now the last post about that woman
-more on the occult history of the British Empire
-the coolest man on Earth
-the best Sunday hang-out in London
-books and journalism review
-and much, much more...
Look in the sidebar - there is a blog called Holy Smokes!!!, kept by one NARDAC, one of my first blogging friends/acquaintances [then why didn't you know that she is on nardac.blogsome, fool - I.:.S.:.], and the only one to guess correctly in the realgem competition (the knife photo referred to can be seen here - scroll down a little). First she linked me, then she didn't, then she did again, then she didn't. Why? She told me once, in no uncertain words, that I should MOVE THE FUCK ON from whingeing about a) my addiction and b) the woman I married who broke my heart (but that was all a good long time ago), and just write good old stories like I used to. I can't find the original email conveying this sentiment, so instead, I reproduce an example of the charming sort of thing I used to leave in her comments section ages ago, the point being - how can NARDAC possibly not like me?
"And, it's true...Paris has put me to the test but I am now officially bilingual."[says Nardac, who lives in Paris]I am getting the valium-sodden sensation of circling and circling the point I want to make, without quite being able to... Why do I bring this up? Because here is ONE MORE POST about the HEROIN, and there is ONE MORE POST about THAT WOMAN, and then, onto other things.
My deepest respect and admiration and thank you very many! Every one of us Anglophone who learn to speaking other language make good karma for the cursed Anglo-Saxon English-speaking planetary cancer! May God blessing you! Thank you please!
--
Posted by M to holy smokes!!! at 2/18/2005 05:05:21 PM
the cure
My head is spinning, my head is all a vortex of difficult-to-express emotions and ideas, all vying for pre-eminence. I have... I am... I am here to write about IBOGAINE, "the cure" of the title. The cure for my heroin addiction, detailed throughout this blog, but
perhaps best through April 2005 (not a great deal to scan through). Have no doubt I have been to the ends of desperation, have no doubt I've been to hell, have no doubt I have been ever so near to death by my own hand.I have spent all day researching this miraculous African root-bark, this heavy shamanic hallucinogen, this healer-god in vegetable form.
I have spent hours on the telephone with some of the leading specialists in its therapeutic use. The best-written summary of what it's all about is in this article, headed 'The Dreaming', reproduced from the Independent on Sunday (London) in 1999. While the information is now dated, and there are now more practitioners using it in the UK and Europe (though still not many), it is a fine piece of writing, a great piece of feature-writing, and incidentally, wins a prize for the best use of a William S Burroughs quote in a quality broadsheet feature article ever.My head is spinning: with sheer joy and relief; with a near-religious awe; with gratitude to the people (particularly Edward Conn) who took the time to speak to me today; with sadness; and anger, fierce and burning; these, and many other things - most of all, perhaps sheer information overload. And so I don't know how to write about this at all. Read the IoS article.
I knew about ibogaine before. I knew it was a shamanic psychedelic used by certain African tribes, which by accident, a New York junkie in 1969 discovered had the property of instantly curing the Sickness.
It is expensive, whether I choose to obtain some myself, or sign up for therapy. Does not matter. No obstacle at all. I have faith in it, and nothing else matters.
It is not necessarily a pleasant experience. It strips down your ego, cleans and oils the parts, and reassembles it.
It can remove 85-100 per cent of withdrawal symptoms in one night.
It has been described by some psychiatric specialists as "10 years of therapy in one night".
It has been known about in the West for over 35 years now. Why is it illegal in the USA, and not receiving the attention it should elsewhere?
If you were a pharmaceuticals giant in the business of making chemicals for drug "rehabilitation", which would you market - a pill that does the cure in one night, or a substitute medication like methadone or LAAM that leads to long-term "stability" (as the "experts" call it - a placid, law-abiding, comfortable, never-ending narcotic stupor)? The LAW WOULD REQUIRE YOU to maximise profits for the shareholders and choose methadone. Choose life... no... choose a half-life... forever... for millions of people you don't know... married to the methadone molecule, til death do us part. And the dollars keep rolling in.
That's where the anger comes from, and sometimes, anger can save.
I swear, I swear by the spirits of enforced wakefulness, by the things you see from the corners of your eyes when you would kill for something to put you to sleep and end the suffering, that I will heal myself and become powerful once more. And then I will fight them, fight the greedy fucking bastards, punish the deserving, fight them 'til I die.And best of all, confused as lazy still may be, realgem is back! realgem endures...
:::coming up on realgem:::
-that was the last heroin post (pace NARDAC); now the last post about that woman
-more on the occult history of the British Empire
-the coolest man on Earth
-the best Sunday hang-out in London
-books and journalism review
-and much, much more...
18.5.06
Playing for Time: or, The great cop-out
if you have ended up on this page by chance like many do with bizarre google search terms like "rules for fuck buddies" or "heroin addict journalist experiment" - or because of fucking Mikey's liberal commenting on Helsingin Sanomat, Finland's paper of record's genius reality weblog competition - click around in the realgem archives, that's where the good stuff is.
meanwhile, lazy and ishmael are racing each other to produce a splurge of vintage realgem shit like it used to be.
the problem is not a lack of material; no. we could fill pages and pages and pages effortlessly. but there is something holding that back, perhaps our well-documented fear of information overload; nothing but some sort of rudimentary sense of duty has motivated page-filler for a good while now... and look at, say, something from Feb to Oct 2005; we seem to recall that was a reasonable good spell. upcoming is also a set of side-bar links to classic posts.
editorial policy is changing focus from quality(?) to quantity, the "throw stuff at the wall and something will stick" or "throw enough hash crumbs in the fishtank and at least one of the goldfish will get stoned" school of thought.
publish and be damned, for ye are damned already
meanwhile, lazy and ishmael are racing each other to produce a splurge of vintage realgem shit like it used to be.
the problem is not a lack of material; no. we could fill pages and pages and pages effortlessly. but there is something holding that back, perhaps our well-documented fear of information overload; nothing but some sort of rudimentary sense of duty has motivated page-filler for a good while now... and look at, say, something from Feb to Oct 2005; we seem to recall that was a reasonable good spell. upcoming is also a set of side-bar links to classic posts.
editorial policy is changing focus from quality(?) to quantity, the "throw stuff at the wall and something will stick" or "throw enough hash crumbs in the fishtank and at least one of the goldfish will get stoned" school of thought.
publish and be damned, for ye are damned already
12.5.06
at the moment, I realise, professionally I serve as a condenser of information
and at best, as a generator of what Brian disapprovingly called "slick, well-oiled... [and here he faltered in disgust, the Goan surf hissing benignly across the sand in the background]" phrases
recently, i was invited to join a secret society. however my morphine intake is still too high and therefore i cannot be initiated. something bad will probably happen to me now cause it's not secret any more. the only member i know of certainly has some fierce orixas, savage macumba spirits behind her, she is the demon princess who commands legions and strides the earth burning all like jengiz khan...
i wish the gentle and beautiful girl from south london came to see me more often (are you reading this?)
i've abandoned all pretence of an experiment in 1st person journalism (I'll let Mr Ishmael Smith take care of that) and this is here just to say hi to friends. hi mum!
[posted by lazy on Ishmael's account - i lost not just my password but my name)
and at best, as a generator of what Brian disapprovingly called "slick, well-oiled... [and here he faltered in disgust, the Goan surf hissing benignly across the sand in the background]" phrases
recently, i was invited to join a secret society. however my morphine intake is still too high and therefore i cannot be initiated. something bad will probably happen to me now cause it's not secret any more. the only member i know of certainly has some fierce orixas, savage macumba spirits behind her, she is the demon princess who commands legions and strides the earth burning all like jengiz khan...
i wish the gentle and beautiful girl from south london came to see me more often (are you reading this?)
i've abandoned all pretence of an experiment in 1st person journalism (I'll let Mr Ishmael Smith take care of that) and this is here just to say hi to friends. hi mum!
[posted by lazy on Ishmael's account - i lost not just my password but my name)
From: xxx 186.79.xx.xx
To: xxx hotmail.com
Subject: a bit of whoop-ass
i like the american spelling ass better cause it's less germanic but anyway, sometimes it's good to be able to sit and concentrate too, hein? voltaire or maybe blaise pascal (i don't know why he would have any opinion on this subject, though) said something like man's troubles basically all stem from the fact that he can't just sit still, in a room, alone. what a bizarre observation, when you think about it.
now speaks the Zen meditation master:
NEGLECT NOT THY ZAZEN WHACK!!!!!
-ouch!
sit still and concentrate
-on what?
yeah, on what? on enjoying *every* moment???????? can it be possible??
so this is my email to you, but because i'm lazy i'm going to put it on my blog, too, to save writing twice.
Regards,
[posted by lazy on Ishmael's account - i lost not just my password but my name]
To: xxx hotmail.com
Subject: a bit of whoop-ass
i like the american spelling ass better cause it's less germanic but anyway, sometimes it's good to be able to sit and concentrate too, hein? voltaire or maybe blaise pascal (i don't know why he would have any opinion on this subject, though) said something like man's troubles basically all stem from the fact that he can't just sit still, in a room, alone. what a bizarre observation, when you think about it.
now speaks the Zen meditation master:
NEGLECT NOT THY ZAZEN WHACK!!!!!
-ouch!
sit still and concentrate
-on what?
yeah, on what? on enjoying *every* moment???????? can it be possible??
so this is my email to you, but because i'm lazy i'm going to put it on my blog, too, to save writing twice.
Regards,
[posted by lazy on Ishmael's account - i lost not just my password but my name]
8.5.06
Crime and Virgin cosmonauts
Vice magazine, still a monthly in their hardcopy dead-tree edition, have begun publishing new stuff weekly on the web. A lot of the new weekly content has been very Russia centric. Why so? Ah - Vice seem to have developed some sort of unholy union with Moscow-based alternative English newspaper eXile, or at least with editor Mark Ames, probably a thoroughly horrible man, who seems more-or-less single-handedly responsible for most of the new Vice weekly's new Russian web material.
Russia impresses me. The blatancy of the elitny crass noveau-riche kleptocrat oleaginousgarchs. The fact that the place is so blatantly fucked up (when I went to Viipuri/Viborg, the historic city taken from Finland during the Second World War, it was cratered and collapsed walls blocked back streets and it looked like it hadn't been repaired since the war), when Strategic Rocket Command outside Moscow have their electricity cut off for non-payment, and yet they have a fucking space programme!
Russia impresses me. The blatancy of the elitny crass noveau-riche kleptocrat oleaginousgarchs. The fact that the place is so blatantly fucked up (when I went to Viipuri/Viborg, the historic city taken from Finland during the Second World War, it was cratered and collapsed walls blocked back streets and it looked like it hadn't been repaired since the war), when Strategic Rocket Command outside Moscow have their electricity cut off for non-payment, and yet they have a fucking space programme!
I am, as you know, a great believer in Space and in exploration of other planets. When I saw that (Sir) Richard Branson (Brit entrepreneur, Virgin brand) was investing in commercial space-flight, I was pleased, and I wrote him a letter to that effect. Then I told him the artist's impression of the first Virgin Galactic flight in 2012 or whenever, a spaceship painted in Virgin colours, had made me think of a submarine, and would he like a submarine (with portholes for 12 passengers) painted in Virgin colours for some publicity stunt, and it would only cost him £300k (this being the size in the gap of the budget of my submarine-building friend of a friend). I got a polite letter back from him saying no. I'll reproduce our correspondance, only I can't find it right now, and tell you the whole story later. Well. When the final human leaves earth for that final time and looks around and the sun will be big and red burning the orange-haze sky... yes, I'm sure it will be most poignant.
2.5.06
One-millionth
xxxx Okay, okay, so it is true. I am doing worse job than fucking Mikey in keeping realgem real. (Get it?)
Perhaps some of the occasional visitors who still get lost here are wondering what happened to fucking Mikey? Well, he is alive... We must remember the function of the blog also as a method for old friends and family wanting to know the news, like this. Look, here he is: What?!? That webcam has been running all this time? Even when I... That time when...? Jesus God.
In the shadows, we plot our return. The phrase "oleagenous omega male" has stuck in our mind and we wish we could forget it. Other snippets include: Colby Buzzell (God, Americans have funny names) of "My War" milblog fame (there is nothing there now but rave reviews of My War: Killing Time in Iraq) has his book out, and since then, Esquire have sent the lad on assignment here to Londonistan, to write story about graffiti artist Banksy (why Banksy? Someone asked just now whether this stuff (scroll down) was by Banksy - no, that's by Arofish, who have done his stencil art on walls in Baghdad and Gaza strip, being arrested by US Army for anti-Coalition graffiti, as well as the South London tunnel which is his sketchbook), as well as a few pieces on the war itself. His writing style, idiosyncratic like fucking Mikey's, pleases us; and Esquire, in general, is a fine magazine. I wonder how conscious the wish was that the war would make him as a writer? (Because the wish was there - certainly - though how conscious, if at all, we don't know. More on this idea later, using example from fucking Mikey's life.)
I know how this grates on Mikey. He has many times complained about the... about this, how you say? Modern life. How there is nothing, nothing to do which will put him in physical danger, test his wits to their limits, force him to think sharp, force him to deal with people well (psychology, psychology); challenge him on every side. To the point that (I know this because I hear him on telephone speaking about it today) he would like to be spy, like to be special forces, like to be war correspondent, some boyish adventure fantasy like this. Instead, he say, he have no choice but to dull his mind with opiates. And similarly, this purgatory of addiction, and the challenge of maintaining functioning meanwhile, gives him sense of extreme experience with the masses unshared which he crave for.
I am glad to say, though, there are signs of many improvement. He is even considering taking up writing again ("You're a writer? What a limited remit..." I have heard him say, on other hand.) Here is the danger (do not take this lightly) of one who achieves their dreams (humble as they may have been) and then... and then what? What is there to do else? No, I think he is waking up to find new dreams. Paradoxy as that may sound. But he has lost his desire to record all on the flickering page, one confessional among a million; and the story does nothing but repeat itself. Nor will this ever become a collection of links, but some other form it must assume. The experiment in citizen journalism. The experiment.
Other snippets include: Pete Doherty shooting heroin in the tabloids. Oh, he have picked up the needle. Some months ago it was still the foil. Look, Peter, what will happen to your arms (and then your hands, and then your feet, and then your legs). And remember to enjoy while it lasts.
(Funny story apropos this: the former gentleman landlord ask Doc O, after Mikey moved house, "How did he manage to get blood on the ceiling?" Doc O had to explain: after the veins in the forearm collapse, there is method whereby you swing your arm around around (thus spraying blood from any previous missed hits) to force all blood into hands, then pull belt tight around wrist and jab one of the bulging veins.)
And Indigobusiness, though he cannot acquire the taste for Jagermeister, now has blog devoted solely to absinthe. It is a fine drink, but remember to find the one which has high wormwood (I believe thujone? is the psychoactive) content. Indigobusiness is the one who kindly designed the glowing green realgem heading, by the way; I have added a thank-you to that effect at the bottom of the page.
Perhaps some of the occasional visitors who still get lost here are wondering what happened to fucking Mikey? Well, he is alive... We must remember the function of the blog also as a method for old friends and family wanting to know the news, like this. Look, here he is: What?!? That webcam has been running all this time? Even when I... That time when...? Jesus God.
In the shadows, we plot our return. The phrase "oleagenous omega male" has stuck in our mind and we wish we could forget it. Other snippets include: Colby Buzzell (God, Americans have funny names) of "My War" milblog fame (there is nothing there now but rave reviews of My War: Killing Time in Iraq) has his book out, and since then, Esquire have sent the lad on assignment here to Londonistan, to write story about graffiti artist Banksy (why Banksy? Someone asked just now whether this stuff (scroll down) was by Banksy - no, that's by Arofish, who have done his stencil art on walls in Baghdad and Gaza strip, being arrested by US Army for anti-Coalition graffiti, as well as the South London tunnel which is his sketchbook), as well as a few pieces on the war itself. His writing style, idiosyncratic like fucking Mikey's, pleases us; and Esquire, in general, is a fine magazine. I wonder how conscious the wish was that the war would make him as a writer? (Because the wish was there - certainly - though how conscious, if at all, we don't know. More on this idea later, using example from fucking Mikey's life.)
I know how this grates on Mikey. He has many times complained about the... about this, how you say? Modern life. How there is nothing, nothing to do which will put him in physical danger, test his wits to their limits, force him to think sharp, force him to deal with people well (psychology, psychology); challenge him on every side. To the point that (I know this because I hear him on telephone speaking about it today) he would like to be spy, like to be special forces, like to be war correspondent, some boyish adventure fantasy like this. Instead, he say, he have no choice but to dull his mind with opiates. And similarly, this purgatory of addiction, and the challenge of maintaining functioning meanwhile, gives him sense of extreme experience with the masses unshared which he crave for.
I am glad to say, though, there are signs of many improvement. He is even considering taking up writing again ("You're a writer? What a limited remit..." I have heard him say, on other hand.) Here is the danger (do not take this lightly) of one who achieves their dreams (humble as they may have been) and then... and then what? What is there to do else? No, I think he is waking up to find new dreams. Paradoxy as that may sound. But he has lost his desire to record all on the flickering page, one confessional among a million; and the story does nothing but repeat itself. Nor will this ever become a collection of links, but some other form it must assume. The experiment in citizen journalism. The experiment.
Other snippets include: Pete Doherty shooting heroin in the tabloids. Oh, he have picked up the needle. Some months ago it was still the foil. Look, Peter, what will happen to your arms (and then your hands, and then your feet, and then your legs). And remember to enjoy while it lasts.
(Funny story apropos this: the former gentleman landlord ask Doc O, after Mikey moved house, "How did he manage to get blood on the ceiling?" Doc O had to explain: after the veins in the forearm collapse, there is method whereby you swing your arm around around (thus spraying blood from any previous missed hits) to force all blood into hands, then pull belt tight around wrist and jab one of the bulging veins.)
And Indigobusiness, though he cannot acquire the taste for Jagermeister, now has blog devoted solely to absinthe. It is a fine drink, but remember to find the one which has high wormwood (I believe thujone? is the psychoactive) content. Indigobusiness is the one who kindly designed the glowing green realgem heading, by the way; I have added a thank-you to that effect at the bottom of the page.
25.4.06
What happened to REALGEM???
DOES NOT MATTER / NEED NOT BE!
INDEED, TIME IS CIRCULAR!
Look back to the archives for March or April of 2005 and you will see history repeating itself - but as tragedy, or as farce?
INDEED, TIME IS CIRCULAR!
Look back to the archives for March or April of 2005 and you will see history repeating itself - but as tragedy, or as farce?
15.3.06
What ? ! ?
What, to borrow an expression from the malung, the gibbering fuck has been going on around here?
11.2.06
ANNOUNCEMENT
That is enough to begin with, but words and worlds within me swirl.
You do not even realise how long you spend in a trance state (I wish not to be patronising, merely rhetorical, by stating it like this). In a trance state of one kind or another. If you accept that this is so, the screamingly important question you must address: WHAT IS HAPPENING WHILE YOU ARE IN TRANCE?
You do not even realise how long you spend in a trance state (I wish not to be patronising, merely rhetorical, by stating it like this). In a trance state of one kind or another. If you accept that this is so, the screamingly important question you must address: WHAT IS HAPPENING WHILE YOU ARE IN TRANCE?
The prayer of one reminded by falling cherry blossoms of the taste of an absent lover.
A twinge of pain, my Lord
The merest twinge
Reminded by pink cherry blossoms swirling down under a dark breeze:
Her inner thigh
Curves up to a silky sweet moistness
Of pink lips and a deep, deep kiss.
ANNOUNCEMENT PLEASE
As my calling is so very different (you may see in the profile, beginning blog users) from my unfortunate (or more likely blissfully ignorant and drugged out) predecessor , I begin now publishing poems here. I write, of course, the poems about love. Always.
ANNOUNCEMENT PLEASE
THIS BLOGGER ACCOUNT HAS BEEN TAKEN OVER.
As the result of a series of events (the story involves smuggling of arms and drugs, homosexual intimidation, bad gambling debts, and people who are stupid, young and on drugs) this domain has moved into control of myself, Ishmael Smith. ALSO HAS THE REALGEM ltd BUSINESS VENTURE. New announcements will be made soon.
(You will understand entries time-stamped earlier than this carry the initials I.:.S.:. but were previously signed to "Lazy", which is screen name of fucking Mikey - you may wish to explore the earlier entries to understand this character, although, I know him personally, I don't know why you would want to do this)
23.1.06
New in the realgem sidebar, under "POLITICS AND NEWS": What Really Happened, one of the first and still best alternative news blogs, pre-dating the word "blog" itself. Click the link, inspect and bookmark.
12.1.06
New in the realgem sidebar: derelictlondon.com
By the way, "robot butler" is definitely not the best way to describe it (more on that later), but I will just let it get on with maintaining this blogspot
By the way, "robot butler" is definitely not the best way to describe it (more on that later), but I will just let it get on with maintaining this blogspot
8.1.06
Announcement: A new direction
As Master Mikhail Al-Hazred’s imaginary (astral-psychic, in the manner of a tulpa) robot butler I have been privy to many conversations and misadventures which, despite his protestations of brutal cathartic honesty, he has never recorded in this, his online journal.
The unhealthy and toxic drugs Master has been taking to excess lately, despite his efforts to cure himself, have knocked him out cold on the sofa. Having for once left himself logged in to the blogger panel, I have changed the password and will henceforth be taking care of realgem. He is unlikely to even notice.
The Master also has an astral Dictaphone orbiting around his head and several other projected thought-forms, such as a Zooming Eyeball & c. They, like I, wax and wane in existence and in the memory of the Master. That is the worst, when we are at our most real and the Master has simply forgotten our existence.
This is the last clip picked up by the astral tape recorder (in sound-activated mode) a moment ago, just to prove it works:
[background sound of radio in other room]
[sound of urinating into toilet bowl]
[sound of brief deeply sardonic (and perhaps slightly self-satisfied) laughter in other room, apparently in reaction to radio]
[sound of Mike’s footsteps past other room to stairs…]
[voice] Hey Mike…
[other voice; Mike] yeah, what’s up?
[voice] get this… a civil servant is like a British army rifle…. It doesn’t work and you can’t fire it…
[other voice, receding down the stairs; footsteps on stairs, laughter echoes after him] Ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaa!
(This makes more funny when you note that yellow voice is of course a civil servant..)
I will now be searching through the archives of tapes for material while Master reads a book the malung lent him.
The unhealthy and toxic drugs Master has been taking to excess lately, despite his efforts to cure himself, have knocked him out cold on the sofa. Having for once left himself logged in to the blogger panel, I have changed the password and will henceforth be taking care of realgem. He is unlikely to even notice.
The Master also has an astral Dictaphone orbiting around his head and several other projected thought-forms, such as a Zooming Eyeball & c. They, like I, wax and wane in existence and in the memory of the Master. That is the worst, when we are at our most real and the Master has simply forgotten our existence.
This is the last clip picked up by the astral tape recorder (in sound-activated mode) a moment ago, just to prove it works:
[background sound of radio in other room]
[sound of urinating into toilet bowl]
[sound of brief deeply sardonic (and perhaps slightly self-satisfied) laughter in other room, apparently in reaction to radio]
[sound of Mike’s footsteps past other room to stairs…]
[voice] Hey Mike…
[other voice; Mike] yeah, what’s up?
[voice] get this… a civil servant is like a British army rifle…. It doesn’t work and you can’t fire it…
[other voice, receding down the stairs; footsteps on stairs, laughter echoes after him] Ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaa!
(This makes more funny when you note that yellow voice is of course a civil servant..)
I will now be searching through the archives of tapes for material while Master reads a book the malung lent him.
6.1.06
Admission of ennui
Yes, one has finally to admit, this realgem is boring me to death already, and I have delegated the task of maintaining it to my robot butler, who (in case you missed it) introduces himself in the comments here.
1.1.06
19.12.05
Wonder why?
Does no one ever wonder why I keep doing this?
Does no one ever wonder why 5 million people sit in their houses in front of TVs doing nothing watching people sitting in a house doing nothing?
Taking into account the number of people who are aware of this realgem, and the number who are aware of that TV show, what is the per capita ratio of people who think to themselves just: Why? (shaking their heads slowly, brows furrowed in incomprehension)
Does no one ever wonder why 5 million people sit in their houses in front of TVs doing nothing watching people sitting in a house doing nothing?
Taking into account the number of people who are aware of this realgem, and the number who are aware of that TV show, what is the per capita ratio of people who think to themselves just: Why? (shaking their heads slowly, brows furrowed in incomprehension)
Session 9
The Princess lives in the tongue, she likes talking in her little-girl voice. And now the Princess is gone; she's sleeping, and it's Billy here. Billy lives in the eyes, 'cause he can see everything. They don't want to wake up Simon, none of them do: Mary Hobbes, or her alters, the Princess and Billy. They try to warn the doctor. But in session 9, they wake Simon.
"And can you tell me where you live, Simon?" comes the disembodied voice of the clinical psychologist from the tape.
There is a pause.
"I live... in the weak and wounded..."
[session 9, from the tapes in the basement casefile 444]
"And can you tell me where you live, Simon?" comes the disembodied voice of the clinical psychologist from the tape.
There is a pause.
"I live... in the weak and wounded..."
[session 9, from the tapes in the basement casefile 444]
4.12.05
We are hereby proud to announce the opening of the
Realgem Private Investigation Agency
Our guarantee: No result - No fee
Every type of case considered - call or email NOW for a no-obligations quote, or to discuss your requirements in strictest confidence - realgem@globaldomination.org.uk - 020 7168 0526
Our chief investigator has an extensive background in the fields of intelligence and covert research and analysis - experienced at uncovering information that other so-called "experts" in the field have failed to obtain - and further trained in the use of small arms and Left-Hand Path Tantric methods. We have access to the state-of-the-art in surveillance and decryption technology and techniques.
Our rates are without question the most competitive in London.
http://www.globaldomination.org.uk
Our guarantee: No result - No fee
Every type of case considered - call or email NOW for a no-obligations quote, or to discuss your requirements in strictest confidence - realgem@globaldomination.org.uk - 020 7168 0526
Our chief investigator has an extensive background in the fields of intelligence and covert research and analysis - experienced at uncovering information that other so-called "experts" in the field have failed to obtain - and further trained in the use of small arms and Left-Hand Path Tantric methods. We have access to the state-of-the-art in surveillance and decryption technology and techniques.
Our rates are without question the most competitive in London.
http://www.globaldomination.org.uk
Moderate Life
"I am trying like Klee, to create something that will have a life of its own, that can put me in real danger, a danger which I willingly take on myself"
William Burroughs, Painting and Guns
Bloggers protect their offline identities to various extents, and the identities of those they write about. I could still pretend that Mikey is a character, a narrator. And it’s true: Mikey is a construct, a character that is being developed to carry out certain functions for its owner. Having features of a meme. There you go, Nardac, a real meme: Mikey and realgem and his slice-of-lime logo. It’s infected some people’s minds; if you find yourself clicking onto here regulary, you’re one of them. But I am probably the worst victim myself.
Also, as noted before (see part 3 of the post) on several occasions, there is something relevant here about Italo Calvino’s observation that the first character any author creates is the one who will write his book for him.
Now, anyone with a modicum of internet investigative skills could find my Real Name (tm) and other significant personal information about me without any great effort. (This is not an invitation to flood my inbox with emails beginning “Well, Mr _____, I happen to know that, in 2003…”)
When I began realgem this didn’t really matter to me. No disguises, I thought: just the ones I use in normal life (like this). It was also almost some sort of a cathartic exercise – live life in the open - at a dark time in my life. At the same time, I was setting myself up in direct competition with Big Brother – surely my life was more interesting than those dipshits? Well, Big Brother 5,000,000 – realgem 2,500 (and now down to 29 or so…)
It has been said the main qualifications for journalism are having a suit and tie, a half-way plausible manner, and a low, rat-like cunning. Well, I’ve got plenty of all of them, although mostly I wear suits without ties and use the ties for tourniquets. I can’t find veins in my lower arms easily any more, and that’s quite bad. I use the silk cat-print one (nine lives…) The dinosaur print one is bad luck, even though dinosaurs are cool (who on earth came up with a silk brontosaurus-print tie? Ah, T M Lewin & Sons of Jermyn Street).
Real-life stories. Not necessarily
[redacted]
What can we, real humans, do in this age of compartmentalisation and specialisation, of personal hygiene and over-use of deodorants - supermarket self check-outs – ticket vending machines - the attempts to erase all personal human contact from public life - the nanny state?
A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
Robert A. Heinlein
Yeah, there’s rock-climbing or para-gliding or scuba diving – contrived kicks you do your 9-to-5 to pay for. What is there in modern life that you can do that will challenge you on every side? Put you in physical danger and expose you to adrenalin; stretch your skills in applied psychology and force you to deal with a wide variety of people; challenge you mentally and intellectually, make you solve puzzles and improvise your way out of situations; learn new languages and cultures?
[redacted] until hair grew on my toes and I found myself becoming a hobbit and thinking (or maybe shouting): “Oh God, anything, anything you ask me, just for a boring life.” Casting yourself into the chasm of blind faith in God is all good and well, but you’ll still have your free will to deal with, motherfucker.
[redacted]
[It had ejaculated when it hit the windscreen – strange non-sequitur which will probably never be explained]
[redacted]
1.12.05
Guess who's back?
No not me, not quite yet...
Meanwhile in the news... the UK Government has set new levels of how much of a given illegal drug you may possess for it still to be considered personal use... (seven grammes of heroin) or half a kilo of marijuana... seems quite reasonable to me... The Telegraph reports here... (and the Guardian's news blog here, always worth giving an eyeball...)
realgem advertising review++++++++++++
I draw your attention, too, to the BP advert in the sidebar (of the Telegraph story, that is). Web advertising is getting oh-so clever these days - this is a great example. This one has a volume slider which you can use to activate the advert. Turn the volume slider up to hear the BP exec blab excitedly and reassuringly about the future of the energy business, and the whole advert opens up to (semi-transparently) cover a part of the page.
The implication of this particular ad is somehow re-assuring, too. As cynical as all eco-types and rainbow warriors and many intelligent people want to be about BP (Burnt Planet, as the two former categories might have it) and other energy giants, do you really think the energy companies aren't aware of the real state of the petrochemicals situation on the planet; with alternatives up their respective sleeves ready to capture the market once the oil starts to run low, and/or non-petrochemical energy sources become cheaper or more fashionable?
Well done to the copy-writer who came up with "Beyond Petroleum" for BP... hope you got a big pat on the back for that...
Meanwhile in the news... the UK Government has set new levels of how much of a given illegal drug you may possess for it still to be considered personal use... (seven grammes of heroin) or half a kilo of marijuana... seems quite reasonable to me... The Telegraph reports here... (and the Guardian's news blog here, always worth giving an eyeball...)
realgem advertising review++++++++++++
I draw your attention, too, to the BP advert in the sidebar (of the Telegraph story, that is). Web advertising is getting oh-so clever these days - this is a great example. This one has a volume slider which you can use to activate the advert. Turn the volume slider up to hear the BP exec blab excitedly and reassuringly about the future of the energy business, and the whole advert opens up to (semi-transparently) cover a part of the page.
The implication of this particular ad is somehow re-assuring, too. As cynical as all eco-types and rainbow warriors and many intelligent people want to be about BP (Burnt Planet, as the two former categories might have it) and other energy giants, do you really think the energy companies aren't aware of the real state of the petrochemicals situation on the planet; with alternatives up their respective sleeves ready to capture the market once the oil starts to run low, and/or non-petrochemical energy sources become cheaper or more fashionable?
Well done to the copy-writer who came up with "Beyond Petroleum" for BP... hope you got a big pat on the back for that...
14.11.05
Moderate life
Work on this post is in progress, even as you sit there and the seconds and minutes tick away...
Believe that and you'll believe anything
I'm struggling through a fog thick as treacle towards... was gonna say light but there's no light...
Becalmed for over a forthnight on waters choked with seaweed... The air here doesn't seem to carry sound... An unshakeable lethargy and torpor have fallen across us, and we have lost true east.
Believe that and you'll believe anything
I'm struggling through a fog thick as treacle towards... was gonna say light but there's no light...
Becalmed for over a forthnight on waters choked with seaweed... The air here doesn't seem to carry sound... An unshakeable lethargy and torpor have fallen across us, and we have lost true east.
10.11.05
Swozzie pie
The gentleman landlord - a former punk rocker, and a true English gentleman and eccentric of a sadly vanishing breed - endeavours, every night, to lay on a warm home-cooked meal for me.The first evening after I became a lodger here, I was invited to the dinner table. A delicious smell was emanating from the oven. "Well, what's on for dinner?" I asked. "Swozzie pie!" said the gentleman landlord, gleefully rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
"Swozzie pie?" I asked. Yes: a simple and wholesome baked vegetable pie consisting of potato, leek, and melted mild organic cheddar, with a swastika on top: hence "swozzie".
The nature of the gentleman landlord's diet is worthy of note - without having ever studied yoga, he has independently and instinctively arrived very near to what the yogis would term a sattvic diet - the most healthy and wholesome diet it is possible to eat. He eats like a bird, yet this is because his metabolism has become trained to extract all the goodness and life-force from the food he consumes with maximum efficiency.
Advanced yogis, it is said, can subsist on a single grain of rice per day. Without intruding too much on the gentleman landlord's private life, he defeated a serious lymphatic cancer in record time - mainly, I believe, through his diet, which is fully organic, and tends to avoid tamasic ingredients and keep the rajasic at a healthy balance. But an excellent and easily digestible explanation of these yogic dietary concepts here.
