The Alchemist's Diary, on the IV day of Elliptica, in months or years past...
I have abandoned the Great Work, of transmuting personality by smelting with the Alchemical Fire. Transmuting into what... that is immaterial the ability to change is what matters. I have abandoned the Great Work, and hence suffer, cursed...
I spend too much time reading Wikipedia. I really love it, immersed in information, bathing in knowledge. The browse history is a meandering highway through ecleptic mindscapes.
I am easily more addicted to Wikipedia than to any internet pornography, and think how many endless hours of wonderful degradation you can instantly access through redtube or some such...
But am I somehow, unthinkably, psychically metabolising it into some sort of self-secreted drug? Am I hypnotising myself with it, or am I feeding some sort of strange autistic disorder?
But think of the voracious appetite to know so many things: the distance to the horizon, the sidereal year and an integer that counts the day on the Julian calendar since lunchtime, Monday January 1st in fourthousandsevenhundredwhatever before Christ... ah there you go, it didn't even stay in your mind...
But that is just an arbitrary number, why memorise such? What else do I remember... Maybe for that existential angst combined with a sense of urgency there is no (temporary) cure like heroin. (And the permanent cure for heroin is death.)
Hmm. What sort of a man can Samuel Beckett have been?
I'm sure there were many more thoughts... Hmm, I forget... Tomorrow we return with the pragmatic question of how to monetise/rationalise this Wikiobsession. An encyclopedist I shall be, no longer an alchemist... an encyclopedophile, yes....
23.8.08
19.8.08
The Tell-Tale Heart
The office manager in the institute is absolutely and completely insane. It must be so. His name is Julian, and one of his eyes glares out madly in a different direction, like the old man in the Poe story... the stare of his mad eye is a stare to drive one mad himself... Why does he stay every day so late into the night? Wandering around, going in the girls' toilets, wandering, peering... Listening on his phone line whenever anyone in the building is making a phone call... Trying to deny me my breakfast tickets...
-Tio, es totalmente loco... Semana pasada, tomó un martillo y clavos, y ¡bam! bam! bam! Cerró la ventana, para siempre... porque... shhhh... Vienen...
We now have a plan to push him over the edge. As he wanders and peers, whenever he passes, a whisper:
-Julian...
-¿Que?
-¿Como? No, yo no dije nada...
-Juliancito... es tu abuela...
-¡¿ ?!!
-¿Julian, estas bien? No, no he oído nada...
-Julian... soy Vladimir Putin... tengo una misión urgente y muy importante para tí...
Slowly but surely we will drive him over the edge. To what end, I am not so certain, although it was my idea to organise a golpe de estado in the oficina... Breakfast tickets for everyone!
But perhaps I should explain Lazy's position here a little. It is an institute which does intensive immersion English courses (among many other short courses in an eclectic variety of subjects) for young people from all around Spain. They have classes from morning to evening with only breaks for meals, but in order to immediately put into practice what they have learned in class, they do not even get a break then, because Lazy - as I keep calling him but shouldn't as it might be a self-fulfilling prophecy thing - eats lunch and dinner with them and engages them in (sometimes reluctant) conversation.
Both meals are generally three-course and extras affairs with coffee after lunch and too much wine to drink at dinner. The majority of the students are always girls, for some reason. Oh, and he has to twice a week organise informal English activities for the students, which can involve wandering around the old town or getting drunk til the small hours. This is a salaried position, the meals obviously covered, plus those all-important tickets for breakfast.
The main requirements for the position are:
-the ability to show up at an appointed time and place a total of 12 times per week for one hour, 10 of which are meals, 5 of which are evening meals that can stretch much longer than an hour what with the wine and sobremesa and that
-the ability to drink the same Señoría de Iniesto with dinner every night. now you think this is a joke, but this is a very red, very heavy, cloudy and tannin-rich wine, and it is destroying digestive system
-the ability to absorb more or less the same large, rich, meat- and seafood-heavy meals, on a weekly repeating menu
-the ability and inclination to actively engage Spanish mostly girls in conversation, in English, over meals and drinks
This, of course, is rather a healthy routine in the circumstances, and Lazy's brain chemistry is probably markedly improving. It leaves him a lot of time for the other writing stuff, which I will now try and make him finish.
-Tio, es totalmente loco... Semana pasada, tomó un martillo y clavos, y ¡bam! bam! bam! Cerró la ventana, para siempre... porque... shhhh... Vienen...
We now have a plan to push him over the edge. As he wanders and peers, whenever he passes, a whisper:
-Julian...
-¿Que?
-¿Como? No, yo no dije nada...
-Juliancito... es tu abuela...
-¡¿ ?!!
-¿Julian, estas bien? No, no he oído nada...
-Julian... soy Vladimir Putin... tengo una misión urgente y muy importante para tí...
Slowly but surely we will drive him over the edge. To what end, I am not so certain, although it was my idea to organise a golpe de estado in the oficina... Breakfast tickets for everyone!
But perhaps I should explain Lazy's position here a little. It is an institute which does intensive immersion English courses (among many other short courses in an eclectic variety of subjects) for young people from all around Spain. They have classes from morning to evening with only breaks for meals, but in order to immediately put into practice what they have learned in class, they do not even get a break then, because Lazy - as I keep calling him but shouldn't as it might be a self-fulfilling prophecy thing - eats lunch and dinner with them and engages them in (sometimes reluctant) conversation.
Both meals are generally three-course and extras affairs with coffee after lunch and too much wine to drink at dinner. The majority of the students are always girls, for some reason. Oh, and he has to twice a week organise informal English activities for the students, which can involve wandering around the old town or getting drunk til the small hours. This is a salaried position, the meals obviously covered, plus those all-important tickets for breakfast.
The main requirements for the position are:
-the ability to show up at an appointed time and place a total of 12 times per week for one hour, 10 of which are meals, 5 of which are evening meals that can stretch much longer than an hour what with the wine and sobremesa and that
-the ability to drink the same Señoría de Iniesto with dinner every night. now you think this is a joke, but this is a very red, very heavy, cloudy and tannin-rich wine, and it is destroying digestive system
-the ability to absorb more or less the same large, rich, meat- and seafood-heavy meals, on a weekly repeating menu
-the ability and inclination to actively engage Spanish mostly girls in conversation, in English, over meals and drinks
This, of course, is rather a healthy routine in the circumstances, and Lazy's brain chemistry is probably markedly improving. It leaves him a lot of time for the other writing stuff, which I will now try and make him finish.
Update
Lazy has gradually started the work of improving and upgrading his this realgem thing, applying labels and writing new words.... Thank you and much love to all who still visit....
A reason to rise in the mornings
I have started carrying a notebook everywhere with me just like I used to. For words I want to remember, for example, but also for catching fleeting ideas. I always always used to have a notebook at arm's reach. The best ideas come unexpected, often as you are drifting away to sleep, and I have to catch and preserve them. Often on waking I have forgotten what I wrote, and discover with some astonishment.
"Face down lying dead in the bloody snow... What a life wasted, that could have been spent drinking on street corners..." I wrote in some hypnogogic haze the other night. It seemed like some sort of an insight or epiphany at the time. I have a vague memory I was dreaming about the stories of Red Army soldiers linking arms and singing songs as they trudged all in a line abreast towards Finnish lines to clear the minefields in '39 or '40...
But my God, how bleak, how dark, how desolate, that voice inside...
Thank God I now have a reason to get out of bed in the mornings (everyone needs one, y'know...). That reason is breakfast. I get breakfast tickets to one of the nicest hotels in town as one the perks of my position, and I have to be out of the door by 9.30 or 10.30am at the absolute very latest to make it there for breakfast time. If that seems not at all early to you, may I remind you of the former morphinist's chronic and crippling insomnia.
Funny how the little things can make such a difference. Everyone needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning or you may as well shoot yourself. Maybe tomorrow it will be driven by the desire to throw myself into some great work, or sheer joie de vivre to see the beauty of another day, or que será. But for now, mine is breakfast, which is as good a goddamn reason as any.
"Face down lying dead in the bloody snow... What a life wasted, that could have been spent drinking on street corners..." I wrote in some hypnogogic haze the other night. It seemed like some sort of an insight or epiphany at the time. I have a vague memory I was dreaming about the stories of Red Army soldiers linking arms and singing songs as they trudged all in a line abreast towards Finnish lines to clear the minefields in '39 or '40...
But my God, how bleak, how dark, how desolate, that voice inside...
Thank God I now have a reason to get out of bed in the mornings (everyone needs one, y'know...). That reason is breakfast. I get breakfast tickets to one of the nicest hotels in town as one the perks of my position, and I have to be out of the door by 9.30 or 10.30am at the absolute very latest to make it there for breakfast time. If that seems not at all early to you, may I remind you of the former morphinist's chronic and crippling insomnia.
Funny how the little things can make such a difference. Everyone needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning or you may as well shoot yourself. Maybe tomorrow it will be driven by the desire to throw myself into some great work, or sheer joie de vivre to see the beauty of another day, or que será. But for now, mine is breakfast, which is as good a goddamn reason as any.
Contra Movistar
I bought a Spanish SIM card for my phone. You have to provide ID when buying even a pre-pay SIM in lots of countries on the continent, did you know that? I gave her my driving licence. She frowned at the unfamiliar-looking card. "¿Que problema? ¡Es un carné de conducir del Reino Unido!" I said as if I couldn't believe anyone would even dare to question a document issued by Her Britannic Majesty's government's DVLA. In Swansea. Goddamit.
She mumbled something and went to check with her manager. No good, it didn't have an ID number on it. "No tenemos numeros en Inglaterra..." I said indignantly.
O todavía no... Hello, England, say no to the goddamn ID cards! Riot, riot if you have to!
But wonderful as all the bizarre legal idiosyncracies, opportunities for bureaucratic and financial obfuscation and manipulation, and ability to avoid governmental interference in the UK there are, they still don't make the average lifestyle that much better...
Still, God save the Queen. I got drunk on gin and tonic (the Empire's drink: quinine for the malaria, lemon for the scurvy, alcohol for the violence) but still couldn't sleep til six, even with the help of Morocco's finest and a few mild sedatives, my right leg twitching and tapping away all by itself. And I wake a couple hours later shivering and covered in cold sweat.
It's such an old story, you've heard it all before...
She mumbled something and went to check with her manager. No good, it didn't have an ID number on it. "No tenemos numeros en Inglaterra..." I said indignantly.
O todavía no... Hello, England, say no to the goddamn ID cards! Riot, riot if you have to!
But wonderful as all the bizarre legal idiosyncracies, opportunities for bureaucratic and financial obfuscation and manipulation, and ability to avoid governmental interference in the UK there are, they still don't make the average lifestyle that much better...
Still, God save the Queen. I got drunk on gin and tonic (the Empire's drink: quinine for the malaria, lemon for the scurvy, alcohol for the violence) but still couldn't sleep til six, even with the help of Morocco's finest and a few mild sedatives, my right leg twitching and tapping away all by itself. And I wake a couple hours later shivering and covered in cold sweat.
It's such an old story, you've heard it all before...
17.8.08
It is dark and the air is warm and fragrant with summer
So Lazy was pulled out of a big Merc people-carrier full of horribly be-dreadlocked obvious stoners at Dover ("Well, you're obviously some sort of a band or something," the Kent police officer said, peering around the bongo-drum laden interior, and then asking me aside.)
"What I want to know is how you fit in with these people?" he asked suspiciously, looking at the Pak and Afghan stamps in the passport and the cropped hair and more-or-less neat clothes, and the usual questions: where from, what do, how can I classify you in my scheme of things?
Jesus, what to say? It's no good being flippant with these people. I told him I'm a journalist (which I am when I'm not being a PR flack - maybe this is one of the sources of the schizophrenia?) and blah blah blah. He told me they were obviously concerned because these are like dangerous countries, but conversely, maybe I could help them with anything, if I keep my ear to the ground out there...
Of course, officer, I would be delighted, most delighted... He actually shook my hand, and we are through and soon having a quick reefer on the deck of the night ferry. France flashes by in a haze again (France, to me: nice motorway rest stops) and it is night again by the time we are pulling through into Spain. ¡Viva!
They dropped me off in Valladolid in the middle of the night and carried on to Portugal and I started to make my way a little further south through warm Spanish night. I don't remember how, exactly, but I arrived. Yes, Lazy did. The town is pretty, the women are beautiful, the weather clement and the food is good. I can see how ones have fallen in love with this place. Here and not going fucking nowhere, puta madre.
"What I want to know is how you fit in with these people?" he asked suspiciously, looking at the Pak and Afghan stamps in the passport and the cropped hair and more-or-less neat clothes, and the usual questions: where from, what do, how can I classify you in my scheme of things?
Jesus, what to say? It's no good being flippant with these people. I told him I'm a journalist (which I am when I'm not being a PR flack - maybe this is one of the sources of the schizophrenia?) and blah blah blah. He told me they were obviously concerned because these are like dangerous countries, but conversely, maybe I could help them with anything, if I keep my ear to the ground out there...
Of course, officer, I would be delighted, most delighted... He actually shook my hand, and we are through and soon having a quick reefer on the deck of the night ferry. France flashes by in a haze again (France, to me: nice motorway rest stops) and it is night again by the time we are pulling through into Spain. ¡Viva!
They dropped me off in Valladolid in the middle of the night and carried on to Portugal and I started to make my way a little further south through warm Spanish night. I don't remember how, exactly, but I arrived. Yes, Lazy did. The town is pretty, the women are beautiful, the weather clement and the food is good. I can see how ones have fallen in love with this place. Here and not going fucking nowhere, puta madre.
15.8.08
Lost in La Mancha
Are you from somewhere? Anywhere?
I have a strange hazy memory of arriving in London in the hot June of 2000, and specifically remember telling people I'd be around, well, for a couple of weeks.
Eight years pass quickly. Shockingly so. With nothing to show for it. Well, an almost-profession, which is good for paying the bar bills. And all the other stuff. You probably know, anyway.
And really, I was never for the cold and protestant north. Never I was. And what I do for money, honey? I can do it anywhere, whatever it is. Putting words together. But it so saddens me I have stopped writing for the pleasure of it (was there ever such?), or doing it for the need to put it out, what was inside, somehow.
Look, maybe I will keep writing here. Or point you to somewhere else interesting on the web.
It will all add up to something, one day.
One day.
ONE DAY I WILL KNOW WHAT THAT GODDAM MADNESS SCRATCHING ALWAYS AT THE EDGE OF MY MIND IS, AND CAST IT OUT WITH THE GODDAMN DEMONS!
Sale, demonios!
Y... ¿que mas? Mejor aqui, mejor aqui, sin duda, ninguna puta duda. But I have to remember, I have to remember, remember. something.
I have a strange hazy memory of arriving in London in the hot June of 2000, and specifically remember telling people I'd be around, well, for a couple of weeks.
Eight years pass quickly. Shockingly so. With nothing to show for it. Well, an almost-profession, which is good for paying the bar bills. And all the other stuff. You probably know, anyway.
And really, I was never for the cold and protestant north. Never I was. And what I do for money, honey? I can do it anywhere, whatever it is. Putting words together. But it so saddens me I have stopped writing for the pleasure of it (was there ever such?), or doing it for the need to put it out, what was inside, somehow.
Look, maybe I will keep writing here. Or point you to somewhere else interesting on the web.
It will all add up to something, one day.
One day.
ONE DAY I WILL KNOW WHAT THAT GODDAM MADNESS SCRATCHING ALWAYS AT THE EDGE OF MY MIND IS, AND CAST IT OUT WITH THE GODDAMN DEMONS!
Sale, demonios!
Y... ¿que mas? Mejor aqui, mejor aqui, sin duda, ninguna puta duda. But I have to remember, I have to remember, remember. something.
Santa Marinella
This song has been fucking beautiful to me from the first I ever heard it. Here with subtitles to help with Gogol Bordello/Eugene Hütz's gutter Italian/Russian.
Oh, the gutter again. I always liked that Oscar Wilde phrase - we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. But I've been lying here stargazing for so long now...
26.5.08
5 minutes left. 5 minutes.
[Whatever happens, my friend, keep writing.
-Why the hell?
Because you will spend a lifetime writing complete drivel, scratching on the great toilet wall of the internet, howling across empty fields, and then even as the clock counts down the last minutes to your execution, you will write the perfect poem, the beauty of which will move souls in centuries to come...]
5 minutes is plenty.
And what is the meaning of this? you will ask...
Poets, bloggers and other scribblers with over-developed senses of melodrama need a suitably melodramatic reply when interrogated by that sinister looming monster, futility...
-Why the hell?
Because you will spend a lifetime writing complete drivel, scratching on the great toilet wall of the internet, howling across empty fields, and then even as the clock counts down the last minutes to your execution, you will write the perfect poem, the beauty of which will move souls in centuries to come...]
5 minutes is plenty.
And what is the meaning of this? you will ask...
Poets, bloggers and other scribblers with over-developed senses of melodrama need a suitably melodramatic reply when interrogated by that sinister looming monster, futility...
20.5.08
12.3.08
dice man
i was absurdly touched, i will admit to you, when someone pointed out to me a review i wrote of the dice man and promptly forgot about years ago features on the author's website. right at the top, you notice, just above the sunday telegraph, anthony burgess and colin wilson.
the last time i tried looking luke rhinehart up on the internets (that was years and years ago - internet years, at least) he still seemed like the j. d. salingerish reclusive author, like not much hard facts or anything, but in the last few years he seems to have discovered the net and now he actually seems to have a myspace and everything.
the last time i tried looking luke rhinehart up on the internets (that was years and years ago - internet years, at least) he still seemed like the j. d. salingerish reclusive author, like not much hard facts or anything, but in the last few years he seems to have discovered the net and now he actually seems to have a myspace and everything.
7.3.08
28.2.08
SixKindsOfChris at 0823 today
That doesn't begin to detail the scope of it: more than 600 public bodies have the power to bug citizens, and the report listed 1,088 cases where the rules were broken in a 9 month period.
comments from 'A Government That Listens' on Guardian blogs
That doesn't begin to detail the scope of it: more than 600 public bodies have the power to bug citizens, and the report listed 1,088 cases where the rules were broken in a 9 month period.
Daisy88 at 0842 today
Do you think MI5 is reading this blog, and this comment by me?
liberati at 0847 today
Unlikely. I only got as far as the first sentence
JaneT at 0853 today
How can you feel qualified to comment on something you haven't even read, liberati?
liberati at 0902 today
That's funny. Is this your first time on the internet?
JaneT at 0907 today
Don't patronise me, you wanker
SPECIAL- RELATIONSHIP at 0917 today
I'D JUST LIKE TO SAY THANK YOU TO THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICERS WHO MONITOR US FOR OUR OWN PROTECTION
GCHQopcom #21399# at 0921 today
you're welcome
MaxPersons at 0925 today
It's a difficult balance - our privacy is important, but of course the intelligence services need to be able to do their work without being hindered.
GCHQopcom #21399# at 0929 today
a-men
SixKindsOfChris at 0936 today
It's clear we've completely lost sight of any "balance". Wiretap evidence isn't even admissible in court, and yet we're spying on litterers.
JaneT at 0948 today
GCHQ - are you really monitoring this blog?
GCHQopcom #21399# at 0954 today
Sort of. It's my lunch hour, so I'm listening but I'm not really paying attention
Daisy88 at 0957 today
Hanging is too good for litterers, IMHO
BigDorrit at 1002 today
Eating lunch at 10am are you mad!!!!!!!!!!
GCHQopcom #21399# at 1011 today
I'm on a weird shift - late night Facebook duty. I get hungry at odd times.
ElSmell at 1019 today
I think the security services are doing a great job, but then I feel like I have to say that or I'll be put in jail.
Daisy88 at 1024 today
Yeah, that's why I said that thing about litterers - keep them guessing.
MaxPersons at 1028 today
There are already legal protections in place. The question is whether they are sufficient, and whether they are enforced
JaneT at 1033 today
The question is, what is the best protection against having your phone tapped and your emails read by the govt?
liberati at 1045 today
Being boring
JaneT at 1052 today
You're safe then
comments from 'A Government That Listens' on Guardian blogs
20.2.08
no more stories.
oh dear what's happening?
i find every present moment so endlessly entertaining... life is so funny i'm going to laugh myself to death one day...
but i just don't feel like telling the internet stories about it any more.
i would like to contribute to the net somehow, though. give me a cable to hold or something.
what, you don't need me? -don't worry, we've got loads of experts on the job. we've got a couple experts to every foot of internet cable, all the way down the line to you...
oh dear what's happening?
i find every present moment so endlessly entertaining... life is so funny i'm going to laugh myself to death one day...
but i just don't feel like telling the internet stories about it any more.
i would like to contribute to the net somehow, though. give me a cable to hold or something.
what, you don't need me? -don't worry, we've got loads of experts on the job. we've got a couple experts to every foot of internet cable, all the way down the line to you...
still waiting
blast your mind so that all the human pleasures of life just seem like more essential corpse maintenance, yess...
(and then everything just falls apart after that...
"Look... I can tell when it's the voices in my head and when it's them doing it...")
(and then everything just falls apart after that...
"Look... I can tell when it's the voices in my head and when it's them doing it...")
19.2.08
take a chance you stupid ho
i have been living such a wholesome life lately that something was bound to happen sooner or later. still not quite like the time before realgem, but fingertip pushups, zen archery, yoga stretches, memorising persian verb forms and proper home-cooked meals abound.
on saturday it was a real effort to force that glass of wine down before eating anything other than breakfast. although if i'm all so yogic and everything now one might ask why i had felt compelled to dose myself with temazepam and valium and tramadol in the morning, no kidding, but it's really not the rule these days... but once it was down, that glass, my god, the next one and the one after that felt so right... got in touch with my inner self who turns out to be a fucking alcoholic...
i didn't really feel like drinking that left-over wine but some demon drove me... i didn't really feel like going out, but the malung's band was playing nearby... i didn't really feel like talking to that girl but some demon drove me, hissing but isn't she fucking deliciousss, preciousss? in my ear like some demented fucking gollum... fuck yeah of course she is, cafe latte skin and perfect tits, and then she vanish sometime in the morning-after with a phone and a credit card and some money and 40g of high-grade maroccy from the desk.
so we have a very contrite Lazy sitting with coffee under a hung-over and mournful sunday sky. jesus fuck, what can i do? set my psycho friends to hunt her down? police?
"what you gonna tell them? i slept with an underage girl and then she stole my phone and drugs?" says arofish. ha ha. fucking funny guy, that arofish.
it only takes a very short time to find the necessary attitude-adjustment switch in my head and then everything seems funny as hell again. the real moral of the story is not to tell anyone on this goddamn street anything or everyone will know by lunchtime. "but what should we do if we see her again?" asks too many people. "ask if she'd meet me again and i'd love to buy her a drink," is the correct glib response, and why the fuck do you care? "i heard about what happened... i'm sorry about that..." they actually say. what the fuck are you sorry about? i'm not. what did you do to me that you're sorry about?
i can't even feel angry at that dumb whore. she was just a slutty opportunist with a lovely ass and a pretty face, adventurous and totally non-sentimental; i can't hate anyone for those qualities. but the gossiping twittering i-don't-have-a-life-myself's, on the other hand, put me into a cursing murderous rage.
how completely absurd to commiserate with someone who has just learned a valuable lesson about this or that, like maybe basic pharmacology. that's what it often is, you know, these things that happen when god leans out of the sky to whack you over the head with some inexplicable thing, pay attention, you fucking idiot... and fuck you all, i'd do it all again anytime...
on saturday it was a real effort to force that glass of wine down before eating anything other than breakfast. although if i'm all so yogic and everything now one might ask why i had felt compelled to dose myself with temazepam and valium and tramadol in the morning, no kidding, but it's really not the rule these days... but once it was down, that glass, my god, the next one and the one after that felt so right... got in touch with my inner self who turns out to be a fucking alcoholic...
i didn't really feel like drinking that left-over wine but some demon drove me... i didn't really feel like going out, but the malung's band was playing nearby... i didn't really feel like talking to that girl but some demon drove me, hissing but isn't she fucking deliciousss, preciousss? in my ear like some demented fucking gollum... fuck yeah of course she is, cafe latte skin and perfect tits, and then she vanish sometime in the morning-after with a phone and a credit card and some money and 40g of high-grade maroccy from the desk.
so we have a very contrite Lazy sitting with coffee under a hung-over and mournful sunday sky. jesus fuck, what can i do? set my psycho friends to hunt her down? police?
"what you gonna tell them? i slept with an underage girl and then she stole my phone and drugs?" says arofish. ha ha. fucking funny guy, that arofish.
it only takes a very short time to find the necessary attitude-adjustment switch in my head and then everything seems funny as hell again. the real moral of the story is not to tell anyone on this goddamn street anything or everyone will know by lunchtime. "but what should we do if we see her again?" asks too many people. "ask if she'd meet me again and i'd love to buy her a drink," is the correct glib response, and why the fuck do you care? "i heard about what happened... i'm sorry about that..." they actually say. what the fuck are you sorry about? i'm not. what did you do to me that you're sorry about?
i can't even feel angry at that dumb whore. she was just a slutty opportunist with a lovely ass and a pretty face, adventurous and totally non-sentimental; i can't hate anyone for those qualities. but the gossiping twittering i-don't-have-a-life-myself's, on the other hand, put me into a cursing murderous rage.
how completely absurd to commiserate with someone who has just learned a valuable lesson about this or that, like maybe basic pharmacology. that's what it often is, you know, these things that happen when god leans out of the sky to whack you over the head with some inexplicable thing, pay attention, you fucking idiot... and fuck you all, i'd do it all again anytime...
9.2.08
well i haven't been here for a while. some people, i can see, do keep checking for signs of life...
then there are all those people who click through from google searches on 'chemical torture' (realgem is still at #1 as of this posting...). they read this through in a couple of minutes and most don't look at anything else here but click straight through to the Atlantic Monthly article or then to ishmael smith's profile. i wonder what they make of that. some of these come from very strange IPs, .mil servers, or searches on 'how to tie an afghan scarf' from security corp addresses.
but to the first group above, i suppose a thank-you for keeping an eye out and an apology for the recent erratic copy-and-paste posting is in order...
take care & take control
then there are all those people who click through from google searches on 'chemical torture' (realgem is still at #1 as of this posting...). they read this through in a couple of minutes and most don't look at anything else here but click straight through to the Atlantic Monthly article or then to ishmael smith's profile. i wonder what they make of that. some of these come from very strange IPs, .mil servers, or searches on 'how to tie an afghan scarf' from security corp addresses.
but to the first group above, i suppose a thank-you for keeping an eye out and an apology for the recent erratic copy-and-paste posting is in order...
take care & take control
1.2.08
Fuck Buttons at ICA, in Big City Redneck: "A friend recently informed me that the dark ambient rubric has now become known as “Illbient”. Fuck Buttons are bona-fide positivists, in both attitude and sound so it occurs to me that they/their sound could be described as “wellbient”. That’s not to say that darker, more intense moments do not exist in Fuck Buttons music...
...to me, anyway, this bodes well for an electronic/experimental/industrial-influenced outfit in terms of the “I believe in coincidence but I just don’t trust it” perspective...
Normally, this kind of positivism would make me want to pull my teeth out with pliers, their seeds of love falling on the stony ground that is my dry, blackened soul. But despite the fact that these boys are to my battered old psyche possibly too young to have experienced any real distress in their lives, there is a genuinely uplifting aspect to them both as people and in their music." (text Dr Otter, photos Lazy as always)
[[[[Fuck Buttons myspace]]] (playing a few gigs in Austin, Texas mid-March you Texas visitors might want to know)
10.1.08
Neglect Not the Black Arts
Bleeds personality from you – acquires mannerisms and characteristics from the people he parasites off – a shifting composite of his present hosts.
She’s starting to see things out of the corners of her eyes. It’s one of the first symptoms - I remember when it happened to me. Painful dilation of the mind occasioned by the insertion of an unusually large new idea.
Shako was standing facing the wall with his back to them. On the wall he had daubed a strange cruciform symbol using the blood from the cut on his arm. The lights flickered back on by themselves. The evil had evaporated from the air.
“Are you okay?”
He stood with his back to them, ignoring them. As they gathered around him, he slowly turned to them, with his head tilted back and a strange lopsided half-smile on his face. His eyes had turned an unnaturally icy blue-white, which focused not on them but on something in the distance – listening eyes. The ice gripped them all again.
Shako’s features were shifting – something was struggling under the skin. Ulrika realised with a chill that he was swallowing the demon.
The feral children have somehow unwittingly invoked ancient alien war gods.
GIVE. SYMPATHISE. CONTROL.
She’s starting to see things out of the corners of her eyes. It’s one of the first symptoms - I remember when it happened to me. Painful dilation of the mind occasioned by the insertion of an unusually large new idea.
Shako was standing facing the wall with his back to them. On the wall he had daubed a strange cruciform symbol using the blood from the cut on his arm. The lights flickered back on by themselves. The evil had evaporated from the air.
“Are you okay?”
He stood with his back to them, ignoring them. As they gathered around him, he slowly turned to them, with his head tilted back and a strange lopsided half-smile on his face. His eyes had turned an unnaturally icy blue-white, which focused not on them but on something in the distance – listening eyes. The ice gripped them all again.
Shako’s features were shifting – something was struggling under the skin. Ulrika realised with a chill that he was swallowing the demon.
The feral children have somehow unwittingly invoked ancient alien war gods.
GIVE. SYMPATHISE. CONTROL.
8.1.08
Essential corpse maintenance
The corpse is hungry, so force some food into it. The corpse feels desire, find it release. The corpse needs cleaning, scrub it and wash its coverings.
Keep that corpse stumbling forward until it lies down for oblivion, eventually for the last time.
Yes, it is a ghastly vision of life. Sometimes the light just hits the ground at the wrong angle, you know. You grate your teeth and see right into the core of things, but a core that is loathsome and humans should not know. Sartre called it the Nausea; I suppose at least that he was talking about the same thing. It is that moment of sickening realisation, that moment that I think Burroughs' title Naked Lunch refers to - that naked "frozen moment when everyone sees what is at the end of every fork".
Keep that corpse stumbling forward until it lies down for oblivion, eventually for the last time.
Yes, it is a ghastly vision of life. Sometimes the light just hits the ground at the wrong angle, you know. You grate your teeth and see right into the core of things, but a core that is loathsome and humans should not know. Sartre called it the Nausea; I suppose at least that he was talking about the same thing. It is that moment of sickening realisation, that moment that I think Burroughs' title Naked Lunch refers to - that naked "frozen moment when everyone sees what is at the end of every fork".
30.12.07
Deeper and deeper in a happy world in the middle of the day
Lying head on the table. I could hear the scratching of a pen on paper, the regular clink and thud of a glass being lifted and put down again. I watched an ant struggle in spilled water. The background chatter of conversation and the occasional clatter of cutlery on china came in broken waves, part drowned out in sine-wave interference. An occasional shouted order behind the counter.
I’d actually been in a good mood when I’d decided to kill myself. It had seemed like a sort of groovy idea at the time. I’d sat there with the hosepipe through the car window and the engine on, singing Beautiful Sunday to myself, humming the bits I couldn’t remember, while the car filled with exhaust fumes.
Then I sneezed violently and a ball of bad thoughts flew out of my nose. I thought ‘Fuck this,’ got out of the car and went to find the closest bar. Then memory sort of fades, but for disturbing and vague dreams and visions: a big toe splits open and peels away revealing an eye which blinks and surveys the room...
Now somewhere, depressed and wretched, head on a restaurant table. But where? I wasn’t interested in finding out.
A hand appeared, hesitated, wiped away the spilt water and the ant with what looked like a wet kitten, disappeared. Uncertain pause. Then a voice, inquiring, perfunctory, unconcerned.
‘Are you alright, sir?’
Carefully now. This is the genius of the madman; like a chessmaster, my mind flicked through all the responses open to me and possible reactions thereto. What was the bare minimum I needed to say to make him leave me alone?
‘Yeah. Fine. Another one, please.’
...
::::::
realgem: the story finally continues, or what?
I’d actually been in a good mood when I’d decided to kill myself. It had seemed like a sort of groovy idea at the time. I’d sat there with the hosepipe through the car window and the engine on, singing Beautiful Sunday to myself, humming the bits I couldn’t remember, while the car filled with exhaust fumes.
Then I sneezed violently and a ball of bad thoughts flew out of my nose. I thought ‘Fuck this,’ got out of the car and went to find the closest bar. Then memory sort of fades, but for disturbing and vague dreams and visions: a big toe splits open and peels away revealing an eye which blinks and surveys the room...
Now somewhere, depressed and wretched, head on a restaurant table. But where? I wasn’t interested in finding out.
A hand appeared, hesitated, wiped away the spilt water and the ant with what looked like a wet kitten, disappeared. Uncertain pause. Then a voice, inquiring, perfunctory, unconcerned.
‘Are you alright, sir?’
Carefully now. This is the genius of the madman; like a chessmaster, my mind flicked through all the responses open to me and possible reactions thereto. What was the bare minimum I needed to say to make him leave me alone?
‘Yeah. Fine. Another one, please.’
...
::::::
realgem: the story finally continues, or what?
Messages from across time
Skinny manic figure in a lab coat rummaging through the clothes outside the charity shop door.
-are you a doctor?
-no, I'm a mad scientist.
-mad scientist? Biochemist or something?
-psychopharmacist.
-here, look at these books… do you want this book?
Take them away from their context and these people become too flat to be visible. (but who knows what mind-blowing dimensions a nondescript someone, a vague irritating presence, could develop in the right context?)
They (all of those people, who take that stuff), they say "we" instead of "I" - like they're speaking for a hive.
(A hive is like a… like ants or bees, social insects all together - they have a hive mind - one ant is stupid but a million together are intelligent , I explain. Yes, just like Brazilians, she says. You put ten together and they look smarter. Together we're really intelligent.)
Oh no, the laptop's on... the ants have been at the internet again, looking up formulas for explosives and manuals on robotics... they're up to something...
[20,000 years down the line humans have evolved, but ants have come a long way too… they have recently been granted limited civil rights, like the legal right for each hive to own currency and work for a living, though no protection against an individual ant being squashed arbitrarily… they buy miniaturised computer gadgets… mad scientists programme pheromonal virtual reality entertainment and the ants rush to buy… the mutation of their culture is incredibly fast… as a virtual and commercial entity, a hive will demonstrate an endearingly eccentric personality
people peeled back, layers of reality peeled away… circuits and a sense of movement beneath…]
-are you a doctor?
-no, I'm a mad scientist.
-mad scientist? Biochemist or something?
-psychopharmacist.
-here, look at these books… do you want this book?
Take them away from their context and these people become too flat to be visible. (but who knows what mind-blowing dimensions a nondescript someone, a vague irritating presence, could develop in the right context?)
They (all of those people, who take that stuff), they say "we" instead of "I" - like they're speaking for a hive.
(A hive is like a… like ants or bees, social insects all together - they have a hive mind - one ant is stupid but a million together are intelligent , I explain. Yes, just like Brazilians, she says. You put ten together and they look smarter. Together we're really intelligent.)
Oh no, the laptop's on... the ants have been at the internet again, looking up formulas for explosives and manuals on robotics... they're up to something...
[20,000 years down the line humans have evolved, but ants have come a long way too… they have recently been granted limited civil rights, like the legal right for each hive to own currency and work for a living, though no protection against an individual ant being squashed arbitrarily… they buy miniaturised computer gadgets… mad scientists programme pheromonal virtual reality entertainment and the ants rush to buy… the mutation of their culture is incredibly fast… as a virtual and commercial entity, a hive will demonstrate an endearingly eccentric personality
people peeled back, layers of reality peeled away… circuits and a sense of movement beneath…]
A note of appreciation to whoever
Hot cold hot cold hot cold hot cold
I watch the false dawn and then the dawn, windows full of winter sky.
She's soft and warm. Mumbles in a dream and holds on to me tight. I'm soaked in poison sweat of nightmares, my skin crawls, I twitch and shiver and kick. She doesn't mind.
I watch the dawn, window full of sky, her breaths measuring time, reassuring me that it's still passing. Time heals all troubles.
"Sometimes, give also thanks to God..." (Falakzeb the pimp and drug dealer)
I watch the false dawn and then the dawn, windows full of winter sky.
She's soft and warm. Mumbles in a dream and holds on to me tight. I'm soaked in poison sweat of nightmares, my skin crawls, I twitch and shiver and kick. She doesn't mind.
I watch the dawn, window full of sky, her breaths measuring time, reassuring me that it's still passing. Time heals all troubles.
"Sometimes, give also thanks to God..." (Falakzeb the pimp and drug dealer)
25.12.07
Out of context
I'm not meant to be here.
I'm meant to be somewhere where there is some call for my gallows humour and ability to somehow keep smiling in the face of the sickest horror.
Will we see guerilla warfare and total social breakdown on the streets of London in our lifetimes?
It is difficult to imagine, but I ask many people that question, and am surprised at how many intelligent, reasoned and non-apocalyptic people say yes...
We will be quite well-stationed here... bounded on two sides by railway embankments and on one by a row of houses, the outward windows of which can be sandbagged... we would seize the abandoned signal-master's junction
house, one machine gun there... another two in top corner windows to cover the sole access onto the street... the beautiful garden in the middle an oasis of peace and calm and a source of vegetables and food, with maybe a mortar emplacement hidden in the rose bushes...
I'm desperately looking forward to it...
1.12.07
Barry Adamson at the South Bank, reviewed in Big City Redneck: 'Still louche as fuck and the epitome of dark, laid back menace, Adamson’s set, - despite the overtly cultured instrumentation and surroundings- is still lyrically grounded in the shadow realms of hard drugs and hard knocks. “This is a song about gardening,” he states before launching into a swinging tale of crack use.' (Doc Otter, and photos by Lazy)
[ ... ]
time passes
[ ... ]
in some sort of nod to linear narrative: 'I went to a war zone and fell down some stairs'
and then something happened. i was enveloped in warmth and floating for quite a while. and i wake up to find, once again, horrifyingly, what small fortune i've flushed down the toilet of my veins this time.
oh it wasn't meant to happen this way again...
well it was fun while it lasted.
now make a point of experiencing everything very carefully to discover exactly what those things were again, those little pleasures that are meant to make life worth living... observe carefully and pass no judgement... and hold on wherever you find something warm and beautiful... whenever you find a moment where monstrous empty futility or the darkness and horror is unable to touch you...
time passes
[ ... ]
in some sort of nod to linear narrative: 'I went to a war zone and fell down some stairs'
and then something happened. i was enveloped in warmth and floating for quite a while. and i wake up to find, once again, horrifyingly, what small fortune i've flushed down the toilet of my veins this time.
oh it wasn't meant to happen this way again...
well it was fun while it lasted.
now make a point of experiencing everything very carefully to discover exactly what those things were again, those little pleasures that are meant to make life worth living... observe carefully and pass no judgement... and hold on wherever you find something warm and beautiful... whenever you find a moment where monstrous empty futility or the darkness and horror is unable to touch you...
23.9.07
A meditation on pain
There's just too much of it.
Of course it is biologically necessary, but often we would get the message that there is something dreadfully wrong happening to our soft tissue/bones/organs from much less.
There is no need for quite so much of it.
I don't know what the theological implication is. "Curse God and die!" they said to Job. Hahaha! It's not that easy. I tried.
God indeed. I don't think there is a God, yet. I think that's what this is all about, this brutal struggle of life: we are building God, but he's not ready yet. The blood sacrifice of millions of generations of shocking pain, the blood shed by evolution.
One day the benevolent and incandescent one will rise.
Of course it is biologically necessary, but often we would get the message that there is something dreadfully wrong happening to our soft tissue/bones/organs from much less.
There is no need for quite so much of it.
I don't know what the theological implication is. "Curse God and die!" they said to Job. Hahaha! It's not that easy. I tried.
God indeed. I don't think there is a God, yet. I think that's what this is all about, this brutal struggle of life: we are building God, but he's not ready yet. The blood sacrifice of millions of generations of shocking pain, the blood shed by evolution.
One day the benevolent and incandescent one will rise.
23.7.07
"what are you here for?" they ask me.
"what, right here? drinking beer. or did you mean more generally in Kabul or Afghanistan?"
"yeah that's what I meant. what are you doing in Afghanistan?"
my standard answer eventually became to deliberate a bit, look at them, cock my head to one side and say: "tourism?"
"like fuck you are" they say.
"what, right here? drinking beer. or did you mean more generally in Kabul or Afghanistan?"
"yeah that's what I meant. what are you doing in Afghanistan?"
my standard answer eventually became to deliberate a bit, look at them, cock my head to one side and say: "tourism?"
"like fuck you are" they say.
The death of the king
The old king passed away today. There is no return to those days of enlightened monarchy, now, and there never was. This present democratic project, I give it about two years at most... Still sustained by some measure of hope and optimism and foreign support... After the elections 18 months from now when people see that even if they have gained and are ready to use the right to replace the government they elected, business carries on as usual, situation normal all fucked-up...
from South Asia News:
from South Asia News:
Mohammad Zahir Shah - the last king of Afghanistan, who ushered in a 1964 constitution that brought democracy to Afghanistan before a coup forced him into exile - died on Monday morning at the age of 92.
Crowned in 1933 at 19 after witnessing the assassination of his father, Zahir Shah put into effect a constitution that made Afghanistan a constitutional monarchy with free elections and universal suffrage, a parliament and the emancipation of women.
He kept Afghanistan neutral through World War II and the Cold War before a coup led by a cousin deposed him after 40 years on the throne, ending a 226-year Pashtun dynasty. As his country descended into violence in the following decades, Zahir Shah lived quietly in a villa outside Rome.
He only returned to Afghanistan in 2002 after a US-led invasion ousted the country's fundamentalist Islamic Taliban regime. His reign was remembered with nostalgia by many Afghans as a long period of peace. Monarchists called for his restoration to the throne, but he refused.
Instead, a postwar 'loya jirga,' a traditional council of tribal elders, declared him the 'Father of the Nation,' but he said a title given to him by the people was his favourite.
'They call me 'Baba', which means grandfather or father.' he said. 'That is the title I like best.'
Dar-ul-Aman ["place of peace"] PalaceIt is very peaceful, like a graveyard. No one comes here, and the sandbagged observation emplacements in the palace ruins are abandoned by the soldiers who spend the days drinking tea in the shade of the nearest chaikhana
What used to be the gardens are now a desolate sun-baked rubble-strewn waste, strewn with old shell casings and empty ampoules of morphine
Layers of Russian, English and Dari tags plus impact scar
Coolest kid ever
... the "dinosaurs rule" t-shirt, his own juice stall that sells beers, the threatening grimaces and throat-cutting gestures at the fruit sellers who try to park themselves too near his stall and hog the shadow of the tree
21.7.07
Here be scorpion-smokers
[--> amazon.com]The three largest markets in the world by dollar volume, so it is said, are the trades in arms, oil and drugs. In Afghanistan these three intertwine with chaotic and unpredictable geopolitical, economic and chemical / psychopharmacological consequences that are felt far far away - in the boardrooms of global energy concerns, in the warm rush in a junkie's veins in London, in the weapon markets of the Bulgarian Black Sea.
The petroleum and natural gas factor in the civil war is explored in Ahmed Rashid's definitive Taliban: Militant Islam, Oil and Fundamentalism in Central Asia.
The petroleum and natural gas factor in the civil war is explored in Ahmed Rashid's definitive Taliban: Militant Islam, Oil and Fundamentalism in Central Asia.
And for the most comprehensive overview of the drugs connection we now have a strong contender. Look, it even clicks through to Amazon... go ahead and buy a copy... Until we get around to publishing the realgem overview of the Afghan drug scene, this book is thorough and may I say even scholarly without being dry. David MacDonald (formerly of the Afghan Interim Government Counter-Narcotics Directorate) tries to sort the scorpion tales from the truth while searching for the elusive smokers of scorpion tails.
These latter which you can find, scorpion smokers that is. As to hard and fast facts about the Afghan-global heroin trade, the international 'official' statistics and facts (UN, US Govt, UK FCO, international drug-enforcement agencies, intelligence organisations, consultancies and think-tanks) as far as the heroin / opium economy are concerned are all made up. All of them. It wouldn't gall me as much if I knew I couldn't make up even better statistics myself, and for half the money.
This being so, anecdotal evidence is worth more than any quantitative statistical evidence in this particular field, and here we have an overview presented by someone with obvious extensive personal experience of this complex subject...
(Ah, I do have to mention though, AREU have done some solid research on the opium economy focusing on the farmers themselves.)
(zippedy-doo-dah, zippedy-deh...)
(pretty poppies in badakshan)
20.7.07
Russians
'come in, come in! this is igor, he is colonel in soviet... no i mean russian army, and assistant military attache. the attache is also coming soon. and here is freddie. he is a german colonialist.' handshakes all around; the chinese woman off to the side in the tight shimmery top is being paid to be here for decoration, looks on impassively and says nothing. 'here, i present you mikey, he is here representing the queen of great britain. have some vodka.'
and so we are drinking like russians do, standing for toasts and then downing gloopy ice-cold raw vodka. no one else on earth drinks like this. the russian military attache is an avuncular old fellow with a very colonial english-looking ginger moustache. as i have been involuntarily promoted to unofficial emissary of hm the queen for the evening, he immediately sits down next to me and earnestly hand on my knee begins explaining how britain and russia are both countries of great history, culture and destiny, and how it is vital that the two nations cooperate and strengthen their friendship at this critical time. i gravely agree and promise to do my best. he bemoans criminals like berezovsky who emigrate to london to smear the good name of russia. there is a toast to putin.
'putin? what was putin? he was a nothing, a clerk, a paper-shuffler. he was a colonel in the kgb. but really this is nothing special in the kgb, to be a colonel.'
'no, he was in the foreign intelligence directorate.... he was active agent in the west, in bonn...'
'ha, the only special thing about him is he came back...' says the east german lt-col. 'anyway, who is your military attache to berlin now?'
'what, is not zhukov?' the russians laugh.
'but this berezovsky, he is an incredibly intelligent man. you must know this. he was graduate of the special forestry institute,' breaks in the colonel.
'ah, the special forestry institute,' we all nod.
'yes, this is the top secret school of the space intelligence programme. anyone who studies there has to be a genius. there is no question of this, the man has the mind of a genius.'
our host is the german lt-col, also a military attache, fluent in russian and from the east. 'you must have started your officer's career before reunification. how did they assimilate the GDR army into the bundeswehr at reunification?' i am curious.
'they got rid of all the top officers. very few were left. but the only ones they kept were ones who had studied in the soviet union.'
more vodka is poured and the russian attache starts to mumble out yet another toast about british-russian friendship.
'but why is britain so tied to america?' demands freddie the german colonialist, who is also a full colonel in the bundeswehr. 'britain needs to come closer to germany. if britain supported europe more we could build a superpower.'
'yes, it's a humiliating situation,' i agree. 'but we need the turks for greater europe. we can't do it without the turks, and we can't do it without the british.'
freddie thrusts his hand at me, we shake hands. 'yes! you are right! this man understands!' he stands up to proclaim to everyone and promptly falls over.
the russian colonel keeps describing his country as soviet, and then correcting himself to russia.
'it is good to be shuravi ['soviet' dari/pashtu] in afghanistan now. when you say you are shuravi they like very much. it is better than to be american. they say we and you, we fought eye to eye... it was war, it was war with... how you say? honour. yes, it is good to be shuravi now.'
someone helps freddie off in search of a woman. it is only us$100 to rent a submissive chinese chick for 24 hours but i have taken 3 xanax as well as the litre of stolichnaya and don't even remember passing out. it is the smoothest gentlest entry into unconsciousness i have ever piloted.
and so we are drinking like russians do, standing for toasts and then downing gloopy ice-cold raw vodka. no one else on earth drinks like this. the russian military attache is an avuncular old fellow with a very colonial english-looking ginger moustache. as i have been involuntarily promoted to unofficial emissary of hm the queen for the evening, he immediately sits down next to me and earnestly hand on my knee begins explaining how britain and russia are both countries of great history, culture and destiny, and how it is vital that the two nations cooperate and strengthen their friendship at this critical time. i gravely agree and promise to do my best. he bemoans criminals like berezovsky who emigrate to london to smear the good name of russia. there is a toast to putin.
'putin? what was putin? he was a nothing, a clerk, a paper-shuffler. he was a colonel in the kgb. but really this is nothing special in the kgb, to be a colonel.'
'no, he was in the foreign intelligence directorate.... he was active agent in the west, in bonn...'
'ha, the only special thing about him is he came back...' says the east german lt-col. 'anyway, who is your military attache to berlin now?'
'what, is not zhukov?' the russians laugh.
'but this berezovsky, he is an incredibly intelligent man. you must know this. he was graduate of the special forestry institute,' breaks in the colonel.
'ah, the special forestry institute,' we all nod.
'yes, this is the top secret school of the space intelligence programme. anyone who studies there has to be a genius. there is no question of this, the man has the mind of a genius.'
our host is the german lt-col, also a military attache, fluent in russian and from the east. 'you must have started your officer's career before reunification. how did they assimilate the GDR army into the bundeswehr at reunification?' i am curious.
'they got rid of all the top officers. very few were left. but the only ones they kept were ones who had studied in the soviet union.'
more vodka is poured and the russian attache starts to mumble out yet another toast about british-russian friendship.
'but why is britain so tied to america?' demands freddie the german colonialist, who is also a full colonel in the bundeswehr. 'britain needs to come closer to germany. if britain supported europe more we could build a superpower.'
'yes, it's a humiliating situation,' i agree. 'but we need the turks for greater europe. we can't do it without the turks, and we can't do it without the british.'
freddie thrusts his hand at me, we shake hands. 'yes! you are right! this man understands!' he stands up to proclaim to everyone and promptly falls over.
the russian colonel keeps describing his country as soviet, and then correcting himself to russia.
'it is good to be shuravi ['soviet' dari/pashtu] in afghanistan now. when you say you are shuravi they like very much. it is better than to be american. they say we and you, we fought eye to eye... it was war, it was war with... how you say? honour. yes, it is good to be shuravi now.'
someone helps freddie off in search of a woman. it is only us$100 to rent a submissive chinese chick for 24 hours but i have taken 3 xanax as well as the litre of stolichnaya and don't even remember passing out. it is the smoothest gentlest entry into unconsciousness i have ever piloted.
why the fuck are you wearing your press ID on that silly strap around your neck when it's 10pm and we're all here trying to relax, in the bar drinking? oh, it's just like the security contractors who like going out drinking with a gun on their hip. they think the chicks dig it. another question then. why the FUCKING HELL are you wearing a Dubai t-shirt? Dubai is a fucking aberration. if I had just one wish, one atomic bomb to use, i would nuke dubai. why? god, haven't you ever walked around there? anyway, it terrifies me. it's the sort of place that if you just happened to have walked past someone smoking a joint, the microscopic residue the smoke left on your arm would be enough to get you ten years inside. yeah, that is one fucking ugly t-shirt advertising a fucking ugly town. what, you're not listening? you seem to be zoning out a bit. confused, eyes anxiously flicking around the room to find someone more important to talk to, and futile.
19.7.07
good things here
one truly beautiful thing for one who has escaped the dog-loving country of the brits is that people take it as a matter of course that you viciously kick an annoying dog, even if it's someone's pet.
another is the afghan scarf, multi-use checkered piece of cloth, which sort of makes me think of the hitchhikers' guide towel. you can wrap it around your neck. you can drape it over your head to keep the sun off. you can wrap it around your head like a turban. you can wrap it around your face in order to keep the dust out of your nose and mouth. you can casually drape it over your shoulders and use it as a handkerchief. you can put it over your face or lie down on it when taking a nap. you can tie it around your face and walk around looking like a palestinian terrorist and no one will spare you a second glance. it is good to have an afghan scarf, like when hailing a cab at night.
'oh you're foreign. i thought you were panjshiri until i heard you talking now,' taxi driver says. but by that time we have already agreed the fare and no one is quoting me ridiculous inflated price in dollars. 'so what are you doing in afghanistan?'
i look at them a bit and then give an exaggerated 'i have no fucking idea, believe me' shrug and they laugh.
'anyway, you're speaking farsi well. where are you from?'
'actually i don't really understand farsi, i only just started with it. do you speak urdu?'
taxi drivers almost always understand urdu and then i can start explaining today's made-up story of where i'm from.
multi-lingual company is great. you can play silly linguistic games like chinese telephones, whereby someone says something to the next person in, say, persian, which the second person translates on into english, thence the third into urdu and so on, and thence into finnish... and so "these are indeed the tallest sunflowers i have ever seen in my life" becomes "fuck me what a big flower".
another is the afghan scarf, multi-use checkered piece of cloth, which sort of makes me think of the hitchhikers' guide towel. you can wrap it around your neck. you can drape it over your head to keep the sun off. you can wrap it around your head like a turban. you can wrap it around your face in order to keep the dust out of your nose and mouth. you can casually drape it over your shoulders and use it as a handkerchief. you can put it over your face or lie down on it when taking a nap. you can tie it around your face and walk around looking like a palestinian terrorist and no one will spare you a second glance. it is good to have an afghan scarf, like when hailing a cab at night.
'oh you're foreign. i thought you were panjshiri until i heard you talking now,' taxi driver says. but by that time we have already agreed the fare and no one is quoting me ridiculous inflated price in dollars. 'so what are you doing in afghanistan?'
i look at them a bit and then give an exaggerated 'i have no fucking idea, believe me' shrug and they laugh.
'anyway, you're speaking farsi well. where are you from?'
'actually i don't really understand farsi, i only just started with it. do you speak urdu?'
taxi drivers almost always understand urdu and then i can start explaining today's made-up story of where i'm from.
multi-lingual company is great. you can play silly linguistic games like chinese telephones, whereby someone says something to the next person in, say, persian, which the second person translates on into english, thence the third into urdu and so on, and thence into finnish... and so "these are indeed the tallest sunflowers i have ever seen in my life" becomes "fuck me what a big flower".
17.7.07
If you refuse a few times and they still insist you know they're serious and not just being polite
STATEMENT OF THE ISLAMIC EMIRATE OF AFGHANISTAN* ABOUT THE COMMENTS OF A HUMAN RIGHTS ORGANISATION
(*as opposed to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan)
Published in Al-Emerah on Sun 1 July 2007
source/translation: AfghanWire Ltd.
The Islamic Emirate has always respected and respects human rights that match the Islamic policy, beliefs and charter/constitution of the Islamic Emirate. All the people of the world, and especially the people of Afghanistan, know that NATO and American forces have always ruthlessly bombarded with heavy bombs. The obvious examples are the recent events in Nangarhar, Shindand [Herat], in Maroof district of Kandahar and Sangin of Helmand where tens of civilians were martyred. As the aforementioned administration accuses the Taliban of [being responsible for] the civilian casualties, [we say that] this is not real and true. This questions the independence of the institution. We believe that the institution issues false reports in order to make its donors happy and access financial privileges.
Most military operations of the Taliban take place in mountainous areas, highways, military bases and government and foreign forces where there are no settlements. We call on the international organisations to prepare grounds for liberal and independent journalists to travel to the battlefield and areas of wars. The mujahideen of the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan will do their best to maintain security for independent journalists so that the realities can be revealed to the people. The coalition forces prevent the travel of independent journalists to the battlefield in order to conceal their crimes.
If the Taliban were against their people and nation, then the nation would not support them so strongly [“wildly”]. The institution wants to divert the attention of the people from the crimes and cruelties of NATO and the American forces. The movement of the Taliban is a national movement which emerged from the people, so that it never gets pleased and satisfied. As the result of the indiscriminate bombardments of the invader forces, the mujahideen of the Islamic Emirate are respected more by the people as each day passes.
14.7.07
10.7.07
Who is Mikey Camel? Part ad nauseum
Finally we have a photograph of this elusive and shady character...
7.7.07
Typing practice
I keep forgetting what the purpose of this realgem exercise was. While I try to remember, we here present some glib idiot observations for those unfamiliar with the environment in Kabul.
Languages - We have Afghan Persian or Dari, spoken in Kabul and throughout central, west and northern Afghanistan, and the language of literature, culture and government. We have Pashtu, the oldest surviving Indo-European language alongside, I believe, Lithuanian, and bloody difficult to learn, spoken throughout the tribal south and east. There are many minority languages, such as Pashai, spoken by the kuchi, who are nomadic gypsy goat and camel herding types, plus Uzbek and Turkmen, which are Turkic languages spoken in the north. English is not widely understood, and any given person on the street is just as likely or unlikely to speak Russian or German, a legacy of communist-era educational exchange policies - such as which ISAF / UN / the Coalition have incidentally absolutely failed to implement.
Urdu is relatively well-understood, as so many people have spent time as refugees in or have other connections to Pakistan. It is not, however, recommended to walk around starting conversations in Urdu and assuming people will understand, as to many people, Pakistan is the home of the Taliban, suicide bombers, dodgy counterfeit electronics, over-spiced food, and Pakistanis, ie. everything evil, essentially.
However, if you know any Urdu, you will be at a great advantage if attempting to learn Dari, as it is full of Urdu words. Or more accurately, Urdu is full of Persian words. Urdu is and always was a bastard mixture of different languages, including English, created in and for the army camps of the vast and disparate Mughal Empire and later the British Raj. I was watching Pervez Musharraf on al Jazeera the other day, addressing the nation in Urdu after the Lal Masjid incident. One fairly typical sentence went something along the lines of: "Pakistan ka population me to social divisiveness bahut increase kia, is liyee pressure develop hua..."
Salad - The salads in this country generally consist of three slices of cucumber, two slices of tomato, one slice of onion and a green chili artfully arranged next to a mountain of grilled meat and nan bread, for decoration. Gutt. Don't be a vegetarian here. People will think you're weird.
Alcohol - For all that this is the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, it is actually much easier to buy booze than in Pakistan, Iran, or even several states of India. Even a great many conservative, bearded, and apparently good Muslim patriarch types will often display a great fondness for Stolichnaya. For many people, alcohol is a status drug (like cocaine and yuppies in the 80s/early 90s), while hashish and opium are common and vulgar.
Burqas - The infamous blue all-enveloping things that in Pashtun areas are worn by pretty much all women in public and are not uncommon elsewhere as well. So how on earth do you check out girls in the street when you can't see them? Watch the locals carefully and take your cue from them - stare hungrily at their feet. Yes! It's amazing what you can learn to tell about women from their ankles and feet!
UN departments and NGOs - There are hundreds and hundreds of different NGOs getting in on the war reconstruction industry scam, and hundreds and hundreds of foreigners riding the UN gravy-train in hundreds of different UN departments. There is an absolutely bewildering array of different acronyms to master, and we aren't even beginning to consider the military here.
Examples: "Ok, I'll see you at UNIPLIP", "No no no, you're on the wrong side of town, I said UNIPLOP!", "Hi, I work for UNAPOG", "Were all the UNIPUTT people at the party?", "No, but most of the UNMOCRAP crowd were there".
Therefore I have decided to set up a FAKE U.N. BUREAU, or in UN bureaucracy-speak, to UNILATERALLY INSTITUTE A NEW U.N. DEVELOPMENT AGENCY!
No one will notice! They'll all fall for it! The working title for now will be UNANT (inspired by seeing an ant dragging a huge leaf get lost and start going in circles, hence United Nations Ant Navigation Training). I'll put a big white and blue UN sign outside, drive around in a big white SUV with UN painted in blue on the side, infiltrate the UN scene, and generate impenetrable reports and papers and incomprehensible protocols and institute committees that sit for years, until they have no choice but to legitimise my bureau.
Journalists - I have started to hate journalists and journalism with a vengeance. With a couple of exceptions, I grudgingly add. Fucking vultures, fucking futile, smug, self-congratulatory self-important wastes of space and oxygen. Do something fucking useful for a change. It's all one great big circle-jerk. It makes me hate myself and wish I'd done something genuinely useful with my life. It makes me want to join the US military, 'cause then I could waste press reporters and TV vehicles with a .50-cal from the comfort of a Black Hawk chopper and eat plastic-wrapped pre-fried vacuum-packed eggs for breakfast. That would be great. At least the first part.
Humvees - I just can't get around it, but I hate those damn things. There is something wrong with the whole aesthetic factor. To my eye they just scream at you to shoot them with an RPG.
The security situation in Kabul - I was at first disoriented by how very quiet it was in Kabul. Even in Peshawar and elsewhere in NWFP, there is a constant background crackle of happy-fire in the evenings. Here, total silence, except for one far-off and muted explosion a week or two ago, which was caused by a car-bomb that splattered two American 'security contractors' (ie. private-sector as opposed to public-sector grunts).
Most foreign media organisations and NGOs and particularly UN departments have strict security rules for their staff, including lists of security-approved restaurants, guest houses and venues. Consequently many ex-pats never see anything of Afghanistan beyond a few 'safe' streets through the tinted windows of an SUV and a few ex-pat restaurants and bars, and many journalists arrive and get their stories from secondary sources, with a quote or two from some authentic real locals that their fixers dig up for them.
Conversation among certain ex-pat circles in Kabul often revolves around the 'security situation', and how suicidally foolhardy it is for a foreigner like me to move around in local taxis, walk around at night, and especially to accompany Afghans to unknown locations and not let anyone know where I'm going. There is, after all, still a war going on in this country, and the number of attacks against foreigners both civilian and military have been steadily increasing the last couple of years.
However, any understanding of this should include, firstly, the knowledge that "Afghanistan situation spiralling out of control" is a headline and "Many Afghans actually like foreigners being here and think the Taliban are nutcases" is not, and secondly, that all the security consultants and officers of the various organisations have to justify their continuing over-blown salaries while avoiding being re-posted to Kandahar or somewhere even less hospitable.
The worst risk of violent death in most of central to north Afghanistan is probably being too near a US public or private-sector military convoy just when an IED or a flock of chickens flapping across the road startles the .50-cal machine-gunner, who then lays waste to everything in sight.
Languages - We have Afghan Persian or Dari, spoken in Kabul and throughout central, west and northern Afghanistan, and the language of literature, culture and government. We have Pashtu, the oldest surviving Indo-European language alongside, I believe, Lithuanian, and bloody difficult to learn, spoken throughout the tribal south and east. There are many minority languages, such as Pashai, spoken by the kuchi, who are nomadic gypsy goat and camel herding types, plus Uzbek and Turkmen, which are Turkic languages spoken in the north. English is not widely understood, and any given person on the street is just as likely or unlikely to speak Russian or German, a legacy of communist-era educational exchange policies - such as which ISAF / UN / the Coalition have incidentally absolutely failed to implement.
Urdu is relatively well-understood, as so many people have spent time as refugees in or have other connections to Pakistan. It is not, however, recommended to walk around starting conversations in Urdu and assuming people will understand, as to many people, Pakistan is the home of the Taliban, suicide bombers, dodgy counterfeit electronics, over-spiced food, and Pakistanis, ie. everything evil, essentially.
However, if you know any Urdu, you will be at a great advantage if attempting to learn Dari, as it is full of Urdu words. Or more accurately, Urdu is full of Persian words. Urdu is and always was a bastard mixture of different languages, including English, created in and for the army camps of the vast and disparate Mughal Empire and later the British Raj. I was watching Pervez Musharraf on al Jazeera the other day, addressing the nation in Urdu after the Lal Masjid incident. One fairly typical sentence went something along the lines of: "Pakistan ka population me to social divisiveness bahut increase kia, is liyee pressure develop hua..."
Salad - The salads in this country generally consist of three slices of cucumber, two slices of tomato, one slice of onion and a green chili artfully arranged next to a mountain of grilled meat and nan bread, for decoration. Gutt. Don't be a vegetarian here. People will think you're weird.
Alcohol - For all that this is the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan, it is actually much easier to buy booze than in Pakistan, Iran, or even several states of India. Even a great many conservative, bearded, and apparently good Muslim patriarch types will often display a great fondness for Stolichnaya. For many people, alcohol is a status drug (like cocaine and yuppies in the 80s/early 90s), while hashish and opium are common and vulgar.
Burqas - The infamous blue all-enveloping things that in Pashtun areas are worn by pretty much all women in public and are not uncommon elsewhere as well. So how on earth do you check out girls in the street when you can't see them? Watch the locals carefully and take your cue from them - stare hungrily at their feet. Yes! It's amazing what you can learn to tell about women from their ankles and feet!
UN departments and NGOs - There are hundreds and hundreds of different NGOs getting in on the war reconstruction industry scam, and hundreds and hundreds of foreigners riding the UN gravy-train in hundreds of different UN departments. There is an absolutely bewildering array of different acronyms to master, and we aren't even beginning to consider the military here.
Examples: "Ok, I'll see you at UNIPLIP", "No no no, you're on the wrong side of town, I said UNIPLOP!", "Hi, I work for UNAPOG", "Were all the UNIPUTT people at the party?", "No, but most of the UNMOCRAP crowd were there".
Therefore I have decided to set up a FAKE U.N. BUREAU, or in UN bureaucracy-speak, to UNILATERALLY INSTITUTE A NEW U.N. DEVELOPMENT AGENCY!
No one will notice! They'll all fall for it! The working title for now will be UNANT (inspired by seeing an ant dragging a huge leaf get lost and start going in circles, hence United Nations Ant Navigation Training). I'll put a big white and blue UN sign outside, drive around in a big white SUV with UN painted in blue on the side, infiltrate the UN scene, and generate impenetrable reports and papers and incomprehensible protocols and institute committees that sit for years, until they have no choice but to legitimise my bureau.
Journalists - I have started to hate journalists and journalism with a vengeance. With a couple of exceptions, I grudgingly add. Fucking vultures, fucking futile, smug, self-congratulatory self-important wastes of space and oxygen. Do something fucking useful for a change. It's all one great big circle-jerk. It makes me hate myself and wish I'd done something genuinely useful with my life. It makes me want to join the US military, 'cause then I could waste press reporters and TV vehicles with a .50-cal from the comfort of a Black Hawk chopper and eat plastic-wrapped pre-fried vacuum-packed eggs for breakfast. That would be great. At least the first part.
Humvees - I just can't get around it, but I hate those damn things. There is something wrong with the whole aesthetic factor. To my eye they just scream at you to shoot them with an RPG.
The security situation in Kabul - I was at first disoriented by how very quiet it was in Kabul. Even in Peshawar and elsewhere in NWFP, there is a constant background crackle of happy-fire in the evenings. Here, total silence, except for one far-off and muted explosion a week or two ago, which was caused by a car-bomb that splattered two American 'security contractors' (ie. private-sector as opposed to public-sector grunts).
Most foreign media organisations and NGOs and particularly UN departments have strict security rules for their staff, including lists of security-approved restaurants, guest houses and venues. Consequently many ex-pats never see anything of Afghanistan beyond a few 'safe' streets through the tinted windows of an SUV and a few ex-pat restaurants and bars, and many journalists arrive and get their stories from secondary sources, with a quote or two from some authentic real locals that their fixers dig up for them.
Conversation among certain ex-pat circles in Kabul often revolves around the 'security situation', and how suicidally foolhardy it is for a foreigner like me to move around in local taxis, walk around at night, and especially to accompany Afghans to unknown locations and not let anyone know where I'm going. There is, after all, still a war going on in this country, and the number of attacks against foreigners both civilian and military have been steadily increasing the last couple of years.
However, any understanding of this should include, firstly, the knowledge that "Afghanistan situation spiralling out of control" is a headline and "Many Afghans actually like foreigners being here and think the Taliban are nutcases" is not, and secondly, that all the security consultants and officers of the various organisations have to justify their continuing over-blown salaries while avoiding being re-posted to Kandahar or somewhere even less hospitable.
The worst risk of violent death in most of central to north Afghanistan is probably being too near a US public or private-sector military convoy just when an IED or a flock of chickens flapping across the road startles the .50-cal machine-gunner, who then lays waste to everything in sight.
4.7.07
Long drive for someone with nothing to think about
Fun games to play to enliven long gruelling drives on Afghan roads
[again, hopefully to be added to]
Playing chicken with ISAF convoys
You're not allowed to pass ISAF convoys. They are authorised to shoot. If you get stuck behind tortuously slow heavy military transports plus escorts hogging the road, that's just too bad.
Of course, this provides opportunities for great entertainment. Come as close as you can to tailgating the rear vehicle. Weave left and right erratically. Attempt to accelerate past by driving up the bank by the side of the road, preferably on the right.
If you get a soldier leaning out of one of the vehicles and pointing a rifle at you, you get 10 points. If you get a warning shot, 25 points. If you get a badly-aimed burst of automatic fire that miraculously misses everyone in your vehicle, 50 points. If you end up severely injured, 100 points. If your passengers are wounded, you lose all your points. If you end up dead, you miss your next turn and all turns thereafter.
Stop for green tea and cigarettes, change drivers, catch up that convoy, and repeat.
Incidentally, it is not recommended to play this game with American ISAF convoys, as not only will you end up dead (which is your own affair, after all), but you will probably be responsible for massive loss of life as they call in airstrikes on every herd of goats, village, roadside kebab guy and Afghan police checkpoint within a mile radius.
Fun with minefields
Pull over by the side of the road by a minefield. These are often clearly marked using red-painted rocks (white paint means the area is de-mined and safe, blue means it's a former battlefield or potential minefield which hasn't been checked yet).
Take turns throwing great big heavy rocks or goats into the minefield until something goes bang. First one to set off an explosion obviously wins.
[again, hopefully to be added to]
Playing chicken with ISAF convoys
You're not allowed to pass ISAF convoys. They are authorised to shoot. If you get stuck behind tortuously slow heavy military transports plus escorts hogging the road, that's just too bad.
Of course, this provides opportunities for great entertainment. Come as close as you can to tailgating the rear vehicle. Weave left and right erratically. Attempt to accelerate past by driving up the bank by the side of the road, preferably on the right.
If you get a soldier leaning out of one of the vehicles and pointing a rifle at you, you get 10 points. If you get a warning shot, 25 points. If you get a badly-aimed burst of automatic fire that miraculously misses everyone in your vehicle, 50 points. If you end up severely injured, 100 points. If your passengers are wounded, you lose all your points. If you end up dead, you miss your next turn and all turns thereafter.
Stop for green tea and cigarettes, change drivers, catch up that convoy, and repeat.
Incidentally, it is not recommended to play this game with American ISAF convoys, as not only will you end up dead (which is your own affair, after all), but you will probably be responsible for massive loss of life as they call in airstrikes on every herd of goats, village, roadside kebab guy and Afghan police checkpoint within a mile radius.
Fun with minefields
Pull over by the side of the road by a minefield. These are often clearly marked using red-painted rocks (white paint means the area is de-mined and safe, blue means it's a former battlefield or potential minefield which hasn't been checked yet).
Take turns throwing great big heavy rocks or goats into the minefield until something goes bang. First one to set off an explosion obviously wins.
24.6.07
Sites of pilgrimage
Rouza Masjid, Mazar-i-Sharif: here lies hazrat Ali, first imam of the Shia. I always thought it was in Najaf or somewhere, in Iraq, but apparently they're just bluffing.
Mazar-i-Rabia Balkhi, Balkh: the tomb of Rabia Balkhi, 9th century princess-poetess of Balkh. She fell in love with a slave, and was either killed by her own brother due to the unacceptable royal-slave nature of the affair, or slashed her own wrists after the slave was sent away or killed by her family. She wrote her last verses in her own blood, supposedly on the walls of the room now beneath this tombstone. Over the centuries, her grave became a shrine for the prayers of young lovers beset by impossible circumstances... The caretaker, a gentle and ancient man, doesn't speak except to mumble obscure prayers... If you photograph him, he will assume a pious and prayerful expression...Below a view of the mosque opposite the shrine and the old white-beard with the enigmatic smile who props it up...
Masjed-e-Nau-Gumbad, Balkh: nearby is also the Mosque of the Nine Domes, Afghanistan's oldest mosque (9th century), slowly crumbling next to a tranquil pool in the vicious dusty winds that often sweep the plain. Also the malung-ish caretaker.
23.6.07
Things you can do with wrecked armour
If you have had decades of conflict in your back yard and the whole place is a dreadful mess, despair not! Here we bring you some creative ideas for the use of war detritus for the discerning home-maker.
[this post will be updated with more and better pictures as they arrive, until I get completely bored at least]
Abandoned APCs can be used as roadside advertising billboards.
Tank tracks can be embedded in the road to make excellent speed bumps.
If you have a large number of trashed APCs, don't leave them lying around in a big mess; stack them neatly on top of each other in the river and build a petrol station on top of them.
The engine compartment of an old T-55 makes a marvellous place to plant a shrubbery.
Trashed upside-down tanks are also absolutely splendid for preventing avalanches and soil erosion.
Spent artillery shell casings are just the thing for sealing the ends of your roof beams to prevent rot; or why not go the whole way and line your whole roof with them?
They also make good traffic cones.
[this post will be updated with more and better pictures as they arrive, until I get completely bored at least]
Abandoned APCs can be used as roadside advertising billboards.
Tank tracks can be embedded in the road to make excellent speed bumps.
If you have a large number of trashed APCs, don't leave them lying around in a big mess; stack them neatly on top of each other in the river and build a petrol station on top of them.
The engine compartment of an old T-55 makes a marvellous place to plant a shrubbery.
Trashed upside-down tanks are also absolutely splendid for preventing avalanches and soil erosion.
Spent artillery shell casings are just the thing for sealing the ends of your roof beams to prevent rot; or why not go the whole way and line your whole roof with them?
They also make good traffic cones.
20.6.07
[approximate stream of consciousness:
-this is just like Peshawar! It feels so good to be back!
-whatthefuckwasthat?? This is a totally strange and alien country.
-oh the food the smells the feel in the air, this is just like coming home!
-whaat?? the hell is going on??
-oh this is great, just like how I remembered everything!
-what's that? where am I? someone explain??]
[the town is hard at work re-constructing itself... the most incredible scaffolding!]"Az kojai? Uzbekistan?" [where you from? Uzbekistan?] some people keep insisting on asking.
Uzbekistan??
So so so so so. Look too foreign to be Afghan, but not foreign enough to be American.
Incidentally, I am vaguely pleased at how Finland's international profile has improved in the last few years. It always used to be: "Pinnland? What? You mean England?" Now it's: "Finland? Good! Nokia is best phone!"
[Nokia with Persian characters and predictive texting in Urdu and Arabic...]
Magic plastic bag
At Heathrow they made me put my miniature travel-sized toothpaste tube in a clear plastic bag. Due to the security situation, you know? Liquid bomb plot and all that?
And a good thing that was, too. Because as it happens, I had concealed just enough plastic explosive in there so that, in combination with an empty brandy miniature to make a shaped charge with, it would have been just about enough to fracture one of the windows and cause explosive de-pressurisation.
But that damn plastic bag. I sat there all flight, just staring at my toothpaste - so near, and yet so unreachable!
And a good thing that was, too. Because as it happens, I had concealed just enough plastic explosive in there so that, in combination with an empty brandy miniature to make a shaped charge with, it would have been just about enough to fracture one of the windows and cause explosive de-pressurisation.
But that damn plastic bag. I sat there all flight, just staring at my toothpaste - so near, and yet so unreachable!
19.6.07
"Estimate kin, those nearest whereof thou art sprung"
From: Grandad
To: Lazy
Re: gardening
Like you I think Iraq was a disaster for us, if only Tony Blair was not in dear Georges pocket, I should think he was after a plum job in America when he is no longer Prime Minister, or am I becoming cynical.
Akghanistan is different it is suppoesed to be a Nato operation, although it seems to be UK and Canada soldiers doing the fighting and dying. The Americans just Kill the odd Nato soldier and Afghan civilians by so called "friendly fire" I often think it is as dangerous having the Yanks around as the Taliban.
In Korea the much vaunted Gen. MacArthur left our regiment of about 600 men the "Glorious Glosters" [Gloucestershire Regiment] to hold a Chinese army of over 12000 while the American marines ran away-sorry made a strategic withdrawal. 350 Glosters were killed or captured when they ran out of food and amunition, abandoned by the American military and those who did escape did so because a British armoured column waited for them, without orders as the Americans were long gone.
The wisteria is out in the garden and the tulips and daffodils......
To: Lazy
Re: gardening
Like you I think Iraq was a disaster for us, if only Tony Blair was not in dear Georges pocket, I should think he was after a plum job in America when he is no longer Prime Minister, or am I becoming cynical.
Akghanistan is different it is suppoesed to be a Nato operation, although it seems to be UK and Canada soldiers doing the fighting and dying. The Americans just Kill the odd Nato soldier and Afghan civilians by so called "friendly fire" I often think it is as dangerous having the Yanks around as the Taliban.
In Korea the much vaunted Gen. MacArthur left our regiment of about 600 men the "Glorious Glosters" [Gloucestershire Regiment] to hold a Chinese army of over 12000 while the American marines ran away-sorry made a strategic withdrawal. 350 Glosters were killed or captured when they ran out of food and amunition, abandoned by the American military and those who did escape did so because a British armoured column waited for them, without orders as the Americans were long gone.
If you do go to a fighting Zone, be as cautious regarding your safety if there are Yanks involved as of the "enemy"
The wisteria is out in the garden and the tulips and daffodils......
15.6.07
i woke up from a strange dream. it was about 8pm, i was still sitting outside the bar holding a drink and the japanese girl had gone. the sun set blood red in the smoke.
other people.
i can't write about anything any more in case someone mistakes it for fact.
but i felt like writing about the essential rightness of the evening and the perfection of the door squeaking as it moved once with the breeze, later, when i was sitting alone staring at the sky.
fuck.
you can't afford to lose it now, great things are at stake. spread disinformation. think. think. they're almost on to you.
i'm so paranoid i will call up and change the meeting place at the last moment, in case they've set something up... i mean, why choose that bar with the big fucking windows? who is watching through a 300mm lens? will they be wired?
jesus fuck.
someone tell me it's my own twisted psychopathology.
other people.
i can't write about anything any more in case someone mistakes it for fact.
but i felt like writing about the essential rightness of the evening and the perfection of the door squeaking as it moved once with the breeze, later, when i was sitting alone staring at the sky.
fuck.
you can't afford to lose it now, great things are at stake. spread disinformation. think. think. they're almost on to you.
i'm so paranoid i will call up and change the meeting place at the last moment, in case they've set something up... i mean, why choose that bar with the big fucking windows? who is watching through a 300mm lens? will they be wired?
jesus fuck.
someone tell me it's my own twisted psychopathology.
21.5.07
Afghanistan: Hashashin trailer
Brilliant. This is meant to be a trailer for a feature length film. The film-maker is called Emre Mirza, I think Turkish, and the name of the American who speaks Pashtu and passes for Afghan is John Cristopher Turner. The production is French, guessing by the sub-titles.
Does anyone out there know anything more about this film? Send information, please.
(We have an update, with an anonymous comment seemingly originating from Bali, Indonesia, according to which Mr Mirza is a fraud and has no rights to this footage. Other sources also suggest that he cut and run from filming in Afghanistan, stealing a quantity of irreplacable footage which didn't belong to him.)
(We have an update, with an anonymous comment seemingly originating from Bali, Indonesia, according to which Mr Mirza is a fraud and has no rights to this footage. Other sources also suggest that he cut and run from filming in Afghanistan, stealing a quantity of irreplacable footage which didn't belong to him.)