babylonpolice.com

You can start again, any time. Morning pages. I started again! I'm starting again. I'm rolling with it. April Fools! Fool's journey. . Packing. Getting ready to move house. There's a story from a dream somewhere, that I have to reconstitute into words. All I remember last night was high school and big guns and flying up to the mountain top and some sense that I was being a wizard - or a monkey. . Today is one of those days. I focus on numbers, I look outside, and somewhere inside I'm growing better please. . Growing up I lived life, not plugged in but not far from it. I remember the big cube television. I peered into it right up close, felt an energy off it when I part my arm out. It was vibrant, alive, sensory. Sound and colour, but also feeling. . I remember the organ. Vaguely. I can't remember if the Casio keyboard or the op shop organ was the first edition of electronic sound-making that I had access to. The organ was big and beautiful, and brief. There must have been a fault. The Casio was more memorable. I could tell that its polyphony was incomplete; even on the default piano patch, segments of keys played either the same sample or triggered the same settings in the sound generation process. I could sense the design, but not the reason for its implementation. One thing I enjoyed doing was playing melodies while holding down the scroll button. This would result in semi-random tone variation. I was wowed by the capabilities of the machine, but also had a keen feel for its limitations. . I remember the computer, but it would be many years before the computer became a symbol of music making for me. My primary early memories, of this old behemoth machine (running Windows Millenium?) revolve around the installed games. I vividly remember hitting the Start menu, gliding up (which was fun enough, for a time), and exploring the options in the drop-menus. Most of the functionality was well beyond what I might desire to use. But then, there was the games list. Pinball, anyone? It was certainly the funnest. After long enough, it started to get old. As for the card games, some were sheerly beyond my comprehension. Solitaire was good, though. Even before the computer, I remember mum having a word processor. Seems antiquated now, but it was good tech for its day. . I remember film cameras. And how mum rarely used hers, because she didn't have the film for it. . I remember having a towel on, jumping onto the bed, like I was Superman or some flying hero. Yes, I remember Norma - even from back then? And old Mitch, across the road. And very few times when anyone dodgy was around. I remember sneaking out from bed and watching a bit from the sixth sense movie…and getting scared out of my little tiny mind. It was one of the foreign housemates who'd put it on. . I remember Mr Craigie lived across the road at that time. He had a son, a few years older than me, Callum. We would end up living together, some eight years down the track I believe. And there was old Mr Doyle - certainly not that old, in those days. And his two daughters, Chloe and Sarah - Chloe older and Sarah younger than me. I remember getting to understand that some of the sweetest people are actually the most hurt. . Start at the top. Let the past drip down slowly, day by day, accumulating mass in reverse, less than a thread of sense to follow. Beyond the shadow of a hair, beyond the point of return volcano. . ************************************************************************** . Mighty morphing power rangers looking at the tide upon the night according to the moon after tuesday skies. Excellent observation, true words never spoken truer, unlike that bastard of a crow's foot Johnny Carlisle, the one God slandering, mutton chop wearing pedophile savant. Obviously, we don't have to deal with Johnny Carlisle no more. Strung him up round back next to the tall strong oak tree before Wednesday morning. Skies, bluer rounder, softer. Clouds paler. Excellent observation. The lookout point is lit up in the winter time. The nights come on all the earlier and so that one dot up there is about what we're left with some nights, when the moon isn't there to help us along. Dad said he might be back before the spring time breaks. It's good when he's back in winter. I never seen mum look so worried before. This is worse than the time that we left the milk on the stove and the stove on, and the milk bubbled and boiled and ran over the hearth into the cot room, and poor soaked rugs and baby Terry wasn't happy at all, the house stunk for days after that. Light strikes the real things, usually the real things. Can't always be the same. Sometimes light strikes false things. Like Aunty Holly's lying face. Maybe she's not lying, maybe I'm the one saying false things? Does that make sense? I suppose it's all a bit confusing, so far is we might be concerned. . The leftist propaganda machine has groomed an author, turning him into one of the deadliest weapons that mankind in its glorious and civilised states has ever witnessed. The author must be eradicated. He is a smooth and slow-talking, well reasoned and mannered man, not more than thirty years of age. His hair is curly and shiny, his face has a knowing glint about it. Beware! Do not trust this man! His ideas are made of danger, his looks betray the evil that seeks to confuse and disguise throughout the person it inhabits. If encountered, Eric duForte should be punished according to the instructions overleaf, rebuked and admonished heartily, and ostracised as per convention 21 of the charter of conduct towards criminals. . The tambourine is hanging on the wall. Raindrops keep falling on my head. Catchy pop songs are among the cheapest and most expensive forms of music. Perhaps cultivating an enhanced sensibility would be the most expensive and rewarding task that an artistically enlightened society could inform. To have a default understanding of the layers of perceivables.…however, each person's innate gifts and abilities should be taken into account, so as not to unduly allow the differing of ability to become an impediment to the function of the individual . Lo brow lo life lo fat hi hat long trap cat flap gat strap hacky sack into my future the years forment ink forely true hinkletropics gintle glint fire lite frite fright light jilted lovers approach the glue, true neuturs neutrally grit soaked stains upon the ashes of a well worn path. . tropes and trobes are listening, they are listening! Why do they listen in? Do the stars deceive us? Why does the beast within pretend not to be satisfied. After all, is it not only once or twice that these things can occur before some kind of outcome is reached? No! No, no no! Hunger must be rewarded, not sacrificed, not belittled, belied, betrayed. Hunger must form the basis of a new kind of appreciation, the appreciation of the moment, the uncaring, wandering eye. The neglect of proper forms of syntax and spelling and emotion and observation and crustily rusting in the swamp bucket licking the chips of a table where the scraper's been by, looking at the edges of a canopy until the canopy itself is no more, like raindrops in the wind, the wind is the breath of the sun, firey on the warmth of mother's breast. . Octo bass. Bassoon. Cello. Octocello. Limoncello. The orchestra is a collection of implements and instruments, available at your nearest surgery licensing facility. Purchase the orchestra to enable a one stop shop for all procedures from prenatal to postmortem, from root canals to anal expulsions. Costume now for your chance to wear it. Hug a tree before it decides to end it all. Trees get sad too. Look out! No, no not in that way, in the way like, look outside! It's beautiful out there. Sun is shining on the trees, on the grass, on the soil, next to the woopy-doop loops. Frightening creatures have all disappeared, slunk back into their hidey-spots and their not-so hidey spots, up trees and around corners and into cavernous subterranean chambers. Ontologists out of nine tenths agree that laryngologists are only about as good as they sound, but they also speak quite fluently. . Gargantuan behemoths flock in the sky. Bodybuilders with wings. Each one, bigger than Arnold Schwarzenneger. They all have mechanical wings built into the frames of their skeletons, and they swoop with such forceful craziness that one might barely believe that they have any power whatsoever over their flight paths, which, trust me, they do. One of them once travelled from Abu Dhabi to the Galapagos, with a lunch date in between. Mid-air lunch date. Tea setting in one hand, girl in the other. it was quite a sight to see. Anyways, that's what we've got, since airplanes were banned. Works pretty well, in my opinion. Indonesian hairlines have receded once again, since the case of the missing ponytail became a matter of legend, they've been dwindling ever since. . The only way to shoot the messenger is to do it the right way, with eyes wide open, one hand outstretched, and a gun in that hand, and one of the fingers of that hand on the trigger of the gun, and the whole wide rest of the world shut out for the brief moments that it takes to squeeze till that son of a bitch goes. . Bring the esky over, we'll have our friends up the top. Old colonial-era buildings are really something. Quite a striking effect, the lattice'd metal work, well worn bricks, paths and gardens bustling up to the entrance. Housing has certainly changed over the years. Corporate structures too. The old banks, post offices, chocolate factories, boot factories, sewing shops, prisons, bath houses and schools are of an entirely different calibre to what we have come to know as standard in this perhaps post-industrial era. It's a wonder; what will happen in a post-industrial era? Will developing nations look up to the future we are leading them towards - will they see the bright lights of progress and accept the offerings we make? Perhaps it is our burden, to be living at the forefront of possibility, without so much as a dream to share, only science and what-can-be-done. . The blue sky is a new phenomenon; the old sky was green. It changed, in the 1950s. Time also sped up - the events which took place over the course of a week now happen in roughly four days. This is a small sample of the way things have changed. And the hearsay that forms quite an alternate view of reality. Other parcels include the talks with military men - men who have left their field and seem to need someone to announce to, of the great disparities, the mystery, the machinery, the fighting spirit. It doesn't always pan out, mentioning those things. . Late bloom is a state of partial aneurysm, cordoned off from the main house by way of a small thatched ladder, unstrung partially by gnomes who eat only the bluest of cheeses. Excellent tributaries swim with fish, seaweed flanks the sides of a royal blue tunnel, jokers need fun to make themselves right. Yours truly, a master of the uncommonly dark and the usual perusal. Trellises occer during festivals of grape wine to siphon off the laughter from the belly of the barrel of mirth. The only way to pretend not to be having fun during these times is to stop your smile with a container full of rice pudding, while wearing a mask made from the feathers of a live duck. You know the kind. Stingrel masks. The pop pop top up pop up shop is the only way to get your credit ironed out, savings the facts of new and bleached and starched and cream-filled pants. Yummy in your tummy. . They should open a brothel next to Macleod station. The slogan would be "Hey you, get off at Macleod" joke panned by test audience of one critical Eliah. That's okay though, because this is one little moment, that's one sleazy joke, and Eliah is a beautiful, classy girl. . No censorship. Just stating the words, slating the herds, phaging the spiders, lions, tigers, antelopes emus, crocodile Keanus, Matrix busting jocular. The idea that we are living in a world of organised unreality, or rather a simulation, holds merit as much as it holds contrary to the facts of the matter of typography. You see, letters, symbols, glyphs, sigils, omens, arrangement, typefaces, cuttings into soft lead and prints on wood, erasing, rearranging, copying, defacing, filing, defiling, creating, imposing, superimposing, adjusting - all functions of a script-based permutational system of computation. Not a perfect system, we would have you know, just the kind of system that the facts of the matter would nestle into one interweaving dimension of self-containing ideas. Not bad for a machine, right? The machine and its creator have to live in harmony, otherwise the out-of-sync platforms will usher in a new era of definition, declension, disharmony. . Jung was a dude who was interested in fish. He lived in a castle. He built the castle. He had a healthy relationship with both his parents, thank you very much. He had a falling out with his mentor, mr. Freud. They wrote somewhat heated break up letters, in the high-cultured language of the time. That time, between the 19th and twentieth centuries, encompassing both, was a high point for the written word. The fact that people had time to take, crafting inemulable phrases sans pareil, was merely the outcome of such wondrous and effusive potentialities that might otherwise have been drowned in the growing mass of industrial literacy, or refined to the private and rarefied air of the elite classes. The matter of living and the matter of writing have seen to be linked serving different ends and occasioned by the differing climes of the times. The use of symbol must be pre-eminent in and a marker of true culture, though the spoken word can be interpreted as just as worthy a facet. Speech enabled signs and symbols to live individually, according to one's own personal physiology, adapted to the purpose of sharing meaning. The educational industry is a sleazy, self-governing, barren wasteland occupied by the pure unadulterated scum of failed addicts, former adequacies, and imperial bastards and bastardesses. The educational industry is the pinnacle of our cultural achievement in western civilisation. The men and women who work to the benefit of knowledge and promote a sense of community within this field are true pioneers, selfless philanthropists, and the holders of the keys to our future. . Joe Hockey is a game, played by Australian men who are placed on a field, ten to a side, and all called different variations of Joe - such as Joseph, Joemo, Joeko Joeno, Josephino, Joto, Jojo, etc. . The archdiocese of the sectarian crisis is not responsible for any of this. Nor will it be held accountable for its actions. Only the knowing ones will be placed in charge, that is how it has always been. The future is bright under our lead and rule, the punishments for wrongdoers will be swift and effective. Efficiency is key. Keys are key. The keymakers will be placed under special watch, and any suspicious behaviour will be reported to the principal authority before any gesticulation of the fingers and swearing of foul oaths can even be attempted. Nobody will know, only the right royal cavernous fart bombs of Nottingham Green. What a wonderful place to leave off! . You can dream but you can't scream, write without a fight. Ride further inside. Follow the road, curving, hanging out with the band, going to the movies, hitting that button to play it on repeat. There were pianos around, cars, journeys, glimpses of the Hong Kong airport, deep jam rooms full of stuff, excitement, sexual tension, womenfolk of course. The better parts of the journey, oh what a sudden horrible scene. The vampire's blood spurting out, dissolving the young boy's neck which slid down green and grey and sandy, and that was it for him. The vampire was blind. The lost boys were rather different to what, perhaps, the film intended to portray. They were all sitting in one room, at one point. I was in there with them, but realising it wasn't real or something to that effect. The vampire could only come in if they made a sound, or if they could be sensed. He walked past the open door, once, twice, finally stopping in plain view, coming in, the scare scene, but I stood up and made him leave all them lost little boys alone. Somehow? And all those things about the cash in the car, reminds me of thoughts of sovereigns, farthings, paper and plastic notes, countries and their currency. Where were we going with that? Maybe to the shops - backing out was a nightmare in and of itself - I thought I left my shoes under the wheel. I was correct. There were mic stands across the backseat, I draped something across and felt like I was sitting with my head mashed to the roof, looking down over the front passenger seat. That was about it, and a thousand small details. Wobbly custard, dregs and mustard, yellow in a sock or a fridge or a hock. Ham, ham, bacon, spam, ghost of the pig, that's what I am! Liquorice pouches, red yellow houses, fit for mouses, dream tight little ones. Put it in a pudding, put it in a bowl, put it on a dish, and heat it if it's cold. Love it for a minute, love it for a day, love it for a lifetime if it ever gets its way. Press the button, eat the mutton. . . They turned their mouths away, frightened at the aspect ratio of the luquid crystal display. A new kind of life is in progress. These are the days of yours, days of ours, days in time. The answer lies within, without which we will not know the truth. Seeking is a continual process. The pages tick. The clock dissembles, disassembles, demure, devolved, constrained, crushing, crimping, crumpling, crickets fly out to the joy of a new day, the skies are filled with buzzing and screeching, harmony and dysentery spring up as one through the air, the light through the clouds is scattered among patchy, blotchy black, shiny spined and shimmering insects, humming through their wings and clawing at the space around themselves. Like a plague of locusts, like flashing calamitous and joyous. . We do not need your intervals, we do not heed your speeds. Your markers are for the idle passengers, your progress is for slaves, your bend and scrape and shovel do not sate us. Our thoughts are filled with noble cadmium. . Them kleptomaniacs can't seem to canter on the galloping horses. Wouldn't want to. Wouldn't know how. The free men pay not a price beyond their reach, the evening leeches off the suppers of yesterday or feeds the fires of the morning; round and swollen, bursting at the seams, at the collar, now wouldn't that be funny? The belt buckle popping with a very merry kind of poppin' stiff hard junk like a magnum pistol grip turning inside out at the thought of firing off. Them what knew another way oughtn't have anything more or less to say. We made good old-fashioned leather, but it's a new day now. We make fine, high quality ceramic imitation nigger shine. Don't tell a soul I said it. Don't whisper any of your sweet words from your sweet lips, I won't let them know it's true unless you do. Grieve not for me, poor poet, I am not gone, nor will I be. The true fires are next to the false ones, the prophets are clothed in gold and the rabbis and the rascals dine together, for the common dignity of each parties' sake. We wouldn't have it any other way. If only the slithering snake flimsied into a crack in the earth, faded into the ground never to return. Then we wouldn't have a story to tell about it, or in the very least the story of the serpent would begin to make as much sense and less than the other segments and sections, you know with the fire and brimstone, the agapanthis floral scents and the heavenly angels with their cornets, trumpets? No, it was with their bugle horns, the poor little cherubim buggers, God bless their souls. Imagine all that, having to play for the heavenly orchestra, all the dear departed and saintly souls watching in attentively, such a just and proper audience, and now only there's not even notes apart from those in the harmonic series - which would mean that all those little cherubim lips would have to come in different sizes and blow into tubes and cones and horns and bells so specially shaped and arranged to convey the exactitude of heavenly tune, according to the masterful ears and eyes of God. Would the lowest frequencies be the largest bugles? Would they be far away, so far as to seem that they might be the same size as those close and tiny high-pitched sounds? Or is that naivety of perception, the idea that the whole spectacle (or sonicle) might relate to the receiver above and before all else? . A sociopathic sense of sel-righteousness, ha! Those kind of people could be heading a classroom for years on end without a falter, kink or adjustment in their methods. Learning or yearning, burning or churning, earning or spurning. . Ursula le Guin hit a right note when she titled the book "steering the craft" - of course - in a kind of way that might suggest the capacity she evokes in being one of her generation's greatest writers. In my opinion, of course, but her balance of nuanced prose, willingness to break into song or go deeply into the landscape all converge to form walls and worlds through which words take the traveller beyond our earthly realm. Anyways, cybernetikos. . The ego hath been slain. We slew him like a tainted dragon. . Walls shelter the mind, and when full of dimples and cracks, form a brilliant place from which to splutter fantastical. Lined with treats they are, spiral staircase off on one side, half a dozen musical instruments hung up and another half dozen around on the ground. I wonder if I really want to learn a skill to trade or if I believe that music will furnish another path for me; if I feel honestly that a few rigging certificates would help me out, and how I'd go about getting done with things on a priority basis. . So supposing, jelly fish. Fish, fish, jelly fish. Pickled bitch. Speckled batch. Long Crohn's dash to the thatch, along my hickory dickory snatch. Gilded freely, lively leafy, snakes and eyes and ears to see me, touh me taste me hear me know me, one big arm to overthrow me, carrots for the feeding and a car chase for some weeding like the chicky-wicks never wanted to come out of their cage except for the promise of three big cups of greens in their little henny pen. . Lo-fo, or what on earth is that stuff, am I right? We wouldn't have come up with that in the baker's shops of yore. Liffe Thymes. Smiling at the rhymes, glinting eyely, daisy, upsy maybse, columnic cultivars of cacti. My system needs a sweep, thorough, hole in a borough, city out a long way and swans along the marrow . John Citizen woke up one day to find that his personal information had been leaked: stolen off the internet, put up on bus stop advertisements and ATM placards, phone booths and other such interruptions of his personal privacy. "I'll write a letter to the archchancellor!" He said, or thought, never sure which, until Jane Citizen, his wife, replied "Send one for me, too. I've just done a quick search and found my name in all sorts of strange places; I don't feel safe, with the world's fingertips so close to us, my dear." . Until the fir rages, it is a quiet and most attractive tree to behold. Similar to several other species of pine, the fir has a usually calm demeanour, however it is prone to sudden and violent outbursts of thrashing, gnashing, gnawing, gashing, grinding, scraping, whomping, stomping, romping, licking, kicking, fisting, punching, munching, crunching and otherwise throwing a small tantrum. . Pencils, pencils, pencils in a jar. Door ajar, gum agar, fly agaric, play one bar of that effervescent song, play it fast and play it slow, play it five times in a row, play another bar of that effervescent song. Play it backwards, play it upside down, play it on your evening gown. Play it before lunch and after brunch, before breakfast and after dinner, before the candle wicks a glimmer faintly and the night assumes to snuff it out with one small clout. Stream it off your iPhone, stream it off your Android, put that app on, swipe your finger, tap tap tap. Tap tap tap some awful crap and don't look back, tap tap tap until your fingers get replaced and that is that, they become digits liable only to themselves, self-contained units with artificial intelligence throbbing in their artificial veins, trying to get closer to your muddy, thick and variable human blood. . I benefit from the financial abundance available in the world at this time. Keeping an eye on what is really going on, I easily create an income, an outcome, causes and effects, beneficient actions on my person. This world is not a stranger, nor a danger. 'Tis not new, nor old, 'tis not true or false. This world is what is inside, what is outside, what is rolled flat with a line in the middle, one tapestry of one great thread, stretched and spun around, needle flung around, illustrating that which is seperate in that which is interwoven. No true separation need occur. No exit points or tangents are ultimate. Every event in the sequential nature of a life can be connected to the overriding Godness of reality. The ultimate archer, the dignified scholar, the noble chemist and philosopher, the greatest musician, and the one who hears all music - all in attendance during this dance of miracles and wonders. I do believe in divinity, profanity, sacred, profound, love, doves and angels. I do believe in eight, in eighty-eight, in 8, in 88, in making a difference, in making many differences. In journeys that have already come to an end, in ends that have already sprung up around such subtleties in journeys; in living each moment truly and fully, because this is the one that is, among and despite the innumerable possibilities. I believe in the power of belief, in the mutability of belief, and the impressability of the mind. I understand that, because the mind is so malleable and we have such powers of impression, it becomes a responsibility to turn the mind towards such things as make a positive difference. The world is not a zero sum game, the world is a living, thriving, breathing entity. The great earth mother is in deep contemplation, dreaming and conjuring up such fantastical creatures as inhabit this earth, or could inhabit it, were the conditions of a different keen. Perhaps we shall come to know the deepest, innermost bubblings of the great earth mother-mind, or perhaps their tempo and their language might be too slow for us to recognise. . Sandy Point, from what I remember, is gorgeous. It's really close to the Prom, so magical, so spectacular. . More thrills more spills, more horse pills, more kills and grills, bears and pears, centauric sagitarrius chasing the aply pie in the sky full of hope, blossoming bestowing, bosomly blowing, the wind chased the dark alleys into a crooked little thief. They say the sun will get real hot today, burn your skin clean off, burn someone else clean on, all of that. Were there really vimanas? Flying castles that ancient kings rode around on…what is our common heritage, what of it is real? They say a foot was found, something crazy like a mile under mud, they dredged it up, and there it was, made of aluminium and shaped in such a way that nowadays people would probably have trouble making such a thing without investing in some pretty serious equipment. I think it's a fascinating idea, that the ancient epics are based on matters of fact, hard of the translating, but true nonetheless, to grains or specks. What of a modern day culture whose collective imagination is also swept up in the ideas of a hidden past? Do they find this all hard to accept, perhaps? We may be living in the age of a meltdown-to-reform, the old systems are massive and unstable, it takes incredible feats of human will, management and organisation, in order to bring solutions for the increasing pace and appetites of the world. How many billion phones, cars, computers, each type of device. Even blenders, speakers, all manner of appliances have been churned out relentlessly for the past 80 years, with ever increasing frequency. When do we remodel away from the means of production and begin to focus so sharply and keenly on the means of living and dying in a meaningful manner that new modes of being arrive, a new mainstream can be found acceptable, and a world formed by human hands will approximate the image of God? We are the living word, breath, forms pulsing radiantly under the sun, billions of people - say, 7 billion people, 14 billion hands, 14 times five equals 70 billion fingers (I forgot, it would have been easier to just do ten fingers per person) never minding how many digits get lost along the way. Maybe it's important, how many fingers are doing what at any one time. Maybe it's important to us as human beings, to this world as a reactive and contemplative force, that the things we do with our hands might resonate with the things our ancestors have done, that we might find grace in preserving such ways as give us strength, skill, and produce. Picking, twisting, braiding, pulling, pushing, handling, carrying, rods and plates and tubes and glass, ceramic, wood. Planting, digging, working with the earth. Making art, making music - all of these activities have strengthened themselves over millenia of culture, worn their paths between our motor neurons and all the other particulars or our anatomy, so as to run deeper into our experience. I think that that is what gets disrupted during the Nitrogen rush - in myself, at least, I always get the feeling that everything I've known by manners of motion and ways of being is just shot back into infinity, and I come crashing into the central sense of self that exists primordially. Only to slowly reach back to my commonality of experience, and find that everything is a wandering illusion, my own sense of existence is all that really is, deep down, and beyond that the only thing that wants to be confirmed time and again is my impending non-existence. But if we're made from the stuff of stars, if our cosmos of individual sensory experience in this miraculous world can mean something, it must reflect the external - like what's written in the kybalion. The more we push and extend outside into the nature of the universe, the less important might seem things closer to us on the sliding scale, but if anything the very events and motions happening around us are the most important things we can consider - because we are here to be part of them, to take part, to breathe in this world alongside all the other beings, and with a profound ability to make choices, to effect outcomes and to come to our own realisations and understandings in concert with what is shown to us on this material plane. And, perhaps it all is an illusion, a matrix - we wake up, after death, to the facts and proceed to digest our experiences on a level that may indeed be beyond time - we could all be one being experiencing itself subjectively. One pickle in a jar, bristling with energy, ready to go again forever into all that ever is. But where is the jar? Maybe we will find out, and all will make sense, but for now we truly do not need to know. The main, important points are that there is a higher order of intelligence, just outside the mainframe of our sphere. Working alongside our own. There is a myriad of ways for that intelligence to be accessed by us; it is always there, but sometimes we have to approach it through ritual, through sensory experience that tapers outside of the norm, because in this social climate, the norm is not entirely conducive to the appearance of this intelligence. So, right now, I'm going to focus on receiving signs from God, the higher order. Thanks. . So that was that day, today is this day - I didn't really miss morning pages in between, just didn't type them up. Today's a hot one - blustering winds coming from over in the over there direction that's somewhere else, hey. . I struggle with the self-described gurus, particularly if they have something at stake. The more there is to win or lose, the less I feel their authenticity can be gauranteed. Now, perhaps that's not a genuine and loving place to be coming from, on my part. What more could be at stake than a world stocked with abundance and love? . Suppose the matter at hand is not of gravest importance, but rather a trifling and joyous exercise, much like sexual union, much like musical exploration. Not to say that the matter above can be counted in the same category; I still have an unresolved set of sensations and observations to reconcile with the facts. Writing, here, now this could be a joyous activity. Or, it could be rushed, it could be pondered, thoughts plucked at random from the air or deliberated on at length. As for the people who seek to make a name for themselves in sharing great secrets with the rest of the world; alright. Here goes: we'll start with Sevan Bomar. Now, this is the person with whom I probably have the least concrete knowledge or reference, apart from the fact that I've listened to him speaking for perhaps three hours, and visited his website. Personally, I'm not sold, as much as I'm greatly tempted to be. When someone offers the world, quoting the emerald tablets of Hermes in passing, summing up history with designs on prehistory and a web of etymology to support their arguments, it can be a great triumphant experience. Perhaps, as I have reached my own doors of awakening, I have no further need of those kind of explorations; those of others. And then, what really gets me skeptical is the degree to which "coin" economies (cryptocurrencies) are elaborated on. Perhaps they are essential to the future - but it is a future in which, without technological certainty, doom is apparent. What do I see for the future? Calamitous scenarios, sure. Eschaton, perhaps. But, it would seem that this is what people of all times have been prone to do. It makes for great scene and setting though - what of a decentralised financial system? What, then, for those who are not always on the grid? Data, data, data. Mechanisms of transfer would become absolutely pivotal, perhaps more than they currently are. Cash in hand would be only so much as a smile and a wave for payment. Then, maybe it's true. The implementation of these technologies would not need to be understood by the many; our current systems of powering the world rely on knowledges - those of metalurgy, electricity, fuel and power conversion, engineering principles etc. . How come the shift key seemed to be stuck down? Why do elephants never seem to be small and skinny and two-legged mammals with tan-creamy white skin or the like? Maybe I just haven't seen enough waiters. The chauffer is still flying high above a dream, like the turtle was, and griffins flap their wings daily, gaily, even when waiting for the feeder. Sky horses - pegasus ponies, they're worth watching for. . I want to make rousing, energetic music, with a full sound that makes people stop in their tracks and reach for their wallets. In fact, that's what I do and have been doing for years. It's not an exact science. It's a mix of skill and talent, a bit of raw nerve, passion, charm, and of course the main thing: just being there. If I accept donations, if I myself am a charitable cause, one might like to think that that money is being used wisely. And if I dig deep to my track record… I go pretty good. Money is made to go round, and I always sort out my basics (rent, food) before considering other things (phone cred, treats). Maybe I've spent too long being fine with too little; that can change. I can change. I can go out for the love of it, on a Tuesday morning, and return that arvo with a fresh pogo schtick. God bless it. I don't want to take myself that seriously. I just want to be. But, being me is accompanied by choices. If I am to be me in an environment that is stimulating and rewarding, I have to make certain changes to my habits and behaviours. All of this is…self-evident? Obvious? Facile? All of the above, and more. There are truisms which will follow you around in life, no matter where you go or how far up the path of your own anus you've shoved the carrot of enlightenment. Causality is up there. So is the value of a solid work ethic, the value of a solid relaxation ethic, and the passage of time. . accessibility isn't a necessary feature for an artist's work. Of course, there is no requirement for art to be complex or intellectual either, and any such effect can end up being either an interpretation formented by the receiver or the result of the artist's own development and conscious decisions. The thing is, people cannot make their art without a wider culture to support them in that (or, rather, in which artists may support themselves). And because people rarely exceed a fifty year creative life span, art is continually in a process of progress, individualisation and sophistication. And sometimes, we want to make something that's a hit for a few people - and that's totally fine. Sometimes, we want to create a grand, weaving tapestry that others can stumble upon, weave through, enter and leave at their choosing; always receiving the bit that's right for them in that moment. As a musician, I am as much creating art for myself as for other people, but more than that, for the OWHAM - AM WHO? A deity among the eternal golden gods, among the great and indefatigable oneness that stretches across, and is, the universe. One who speaks all tongues, immerses creatures of all ilk in the richness and depth of emotion that is their common bond. One who is resonant and aware of all fundamentals and their harmonics; one who follows all waves from their crests to their troughs, from their highest amplitude to their final quietude. Does this one create all music? I suppose they apprehend it, recreate it, interpret it… they are a One who, principally observes. But, they are not without expression. The company kept through countless years, with all apprentices and masters of music, beside all dancers in the audience, imbues them with the qualities of itself, and accompanies their moments with such grace and closeness that one really could not create music consistently and be shy of a relationship with this being - one of magic, laughter, tears, great energy and great stillness…throughout time. . There's a school down the road, near which the dust never settles. Around which, the pies are still attaching themselves to the faces of the clowns. Around which, new forms of music spring into existence, surrounded with paydirt beauty, breathtaking moments and monuments glistening in the light of a avitous calamitous sun. We all know what's going to happen. I know I'm not sick, you know I'm not sick. That was from the story of the man on the pension, on account of what he saw. Are those kinds of things common? Can they be accessed by just anybody? Well, I imagine not, however when it came to stating the reasons for this belief, I'm not sure there would be any to find. The spirit world has often been unclear to me, and there are particular reasons that is the case. Blue cheese on no goat's accord, rapadura rapture and motion capture. . There's a Woolworths down the road, past which the bus runs. There are kids scooting with bits and bobs. A man, sorry, no - a woman of the older generation has passed by. Thoughts of yesterday are flooding my mind. Sam's manky everything, from the very moment he stood up with book in hand and shirt seemingly ridden up, and the great curve of time in between, through which he'd chosen to maintain facial hair - of an ilk I would ill regard. Not for pots calling kettles black - another habit of Sam's - since I maintained a moustache and, at times, goatee. But, I maintained it more in the manner of doing things about it, somewhere next to regularaly. Lol. Well, the menu grimacing was next in line. How someone can go, stand in front of someone without noticing (yet alone acknowledging) them, peer up at a large menu, and then declare "ahh…shit" - I do not know. I believe somewhere between the first jug and the last bottle of coops, enough talking happened to occasion a bit of that differ-vibin' blues. And, I got to have my fingers lightly inspected by a possum, which is kind of an amazing and strange little plus. . Police sirens in the distance - or just sirens, I suppose, and the continually passing cars, and the brush of a man's voice, and the very idea of Craigslist, and the supposed Yew Gnork effect, and electric eel survivors, lightning survivors. We could have gotten a scan trace method booted up by the Gollowich Captaincy in order to discern on the effects of sentence structuring along a period of text. We still could. Hey, if this morning pagey thing continues long enough (and, I really do belief there are benefits on the everyday application of a stream of consciousness session, as well as simply pushing out some quantity while arresting that censoring, chopping changing and bluey blushy part of the mind. . What did I eat yesterday? Oh, that's right. A couple beans. A couple chips. Coffee. A cider. Taco. Chips. McDonno's. Bulla G, that's a good night mate. Not to forget the factoring in of…everything which there might be to factore in, hey! I'm not up for this shit. I want to take the world to the next level. I want to excify my mind, exalt and crucify the world that does not accept Jesus. The world that does not accept Islam, and the world that does not accept China - all vastly over and understated. Carrots and sticks, the rogue mode of the dogue vogue. I'm jumping on the coins today. . So it goes, I use these pants no more. The tearing up is just that little bit worse than I am prepared to allow to go unchecked. New pokies must have come in by now - ones that accept the new editions of currency. Either that, or people (gasp and gulp) might have to approach other people to get some change happening. Or, of course, machines could have the pleasure of intervening, in accord with the wishes of gamblers. But mostly, I imagine that the new machines (to match the new notes) have arrived. More bells and whistles, new "games", more ways to be shit. Really fucking shit. . I just took one, two, three moments to count for little reason. However, what I did find was some oil for the bike. Oh yeah, this is decent and not undecent; not particularly anything in either direction, to be honest. Am I filling a word count, or am I allowing myself the liberty of free thought? Maybe we will start a story, to be continued just after the bikey bits. Eleven thirty-three! . Montmorency is a little dog. His owners treat him well. On Tuesdays, Monty likes to get up early in the morning, wag his tail a lot, and get the fresh feed the arrives in his bowl. Monty has friends in the neighbourhood - Chewy, a most hairy little fellow; Cindy, the startlingly sexy one; and JT, who works at a law firm. . Cabbage had never been so exalted as it was in the Urdu region - where it enjoyed an unrivaled place as one of the most commonly described features of the landscape. Cabbage was fit for every man, woman and child. Cabbage was fertility, it was harvest, it was dancing and blooming and breathing. Cabbage was the saviour, when the other plants started to shrivel up and crawl away from themselves. It is not surprising then, that the very king of the region would take leisurely walks through his own stately and lovingly curated garden, strolling at regal pace before finally reaching a destination most beloved, a place where he would stop, kneel and make prayers - before the great altar of the living cabbage gods, there in his garden. . The descent was swift, another synchronicity! To be sure, to be absolutely amenable to the agreement. It's my birthday, my birthday, my birthday! A day for fun, a day for food, yes, she said to do it in the morning and I thought that I'd put that in there as a bit of a nod to the setup of the whole thing, but now there's meze laid out on the table, I've got my little cold-brew coffee kick, and there's really very little to slow me down from having a riot today. Maybe I don't have fourteen people to make up a Pablo Honey table. Maybe I don't understand as much along the nuanced lines of social interaction in public settings…all I know is that I'm going to have a warm Scottish welcome and enough beautiful cocktails to make anyone feel like they're having the best time. Maybe anyone except Rico, because he's allergic to alcohol. But I gather that he'd be happy to have a mocktail - life takes something away from you and it's not really anything to be upset about. Like Josh Lovett was with chocolate. . Mum said that anecdotes should be kept in a special place, or something like that. That all the little stories rumbling around can be worth holding onto, worth repeating, worth assembling into something perhaps greater than the sum of their parts. And the thing is that Elia said a similar thing, about her process. What Made You Laugh?!? What makes us laugh… not the easiest of passageways to go down and claim for one's own. Because the territory is fraught with contrast and conflict, absurdity and postulation, ham and cheese. And then, laughs of laughs, we actually ended up at a comedy night. Good laughs, fine moments. My brain this morning is cactified, rarefied, reified. Rectified. Is that a real word? Images of meze audio flash across the sceen. . Is that all? Is that all? Lol. . Who am I, what do I do? My name is Billy French, this was the name given to me by my parents. I am a musician. I am a person. I live in Australia - or rather, I was born here - and it is convenient to continue living here. If I could go elsewhere, well - I would happily travel the world, but it must be within my means and I totally believe that it is. I have a friend, who does not generally believe in magic or in living beautifully; they seem to believe that life is hard, and that it is often particularly hard for me. I see that as a destructive and belittling point of view, with which I disagree. I honestly believe that stealing from Woolworths is a victimless crime, and perhaps even one that has distinct personal benefits i.e. incentives. However, my friend views shoplifting as always immoral, no matter the target. In a particular conversation (), the topic of addiction and its connection to circumstances and feelings of powerlessness came up. Jian cited financial difficulty as a potential thread which might forment addictive behaviour. Sam basically just referred to me, in saying "that's almost always the case." However - if I were to reframe that situation, Sam might have been continuing along the lines of discussion rather than targetting me with that comment. I forgive Sam for being fickle, conservative, reactionary, negative, argumentative, dismissive, impolite and churlish. In some occasions, it is merely his nature - and not a facet I would change. In other occasions, he makes light of his boorishness, and causes humor to evaporate from the stewing sludge of his personality. I appreciate that Sam is who he is and does what he does. I only wish he would be more appreciative of the world at large. But, if the world at large does not meet his own standards, 'tis not such a bad thing, for he is certainly not the only one - and commiseration in face of the facts is better than confining oneself to the sharing of a fantasy. . I aim to be free, happy, light, loving, laughing, living in the world that I observe and influence. When a situation might avoid the meeting of my expectations, I have the power to change that situation, and act accordingly. I am worthy of success, adoration, admiration, and fame as an artist. I am deserving of prizes, for my spelling which is usually of a great standard - and for my music, which is even better, and for my poems which are amazing, and for my designs which are practical and aesthetically pleasing. . Flushing out the system, filling the lines from head to toe, tip to base, fundamentals to highest harmonics. Frequencies, periodicities, changes. Silence. New, old, biege blue. Beauty and the feast. I'm going to a wedding with my darling. So compelling! A few pages of Rupert would not goa wry. Beautiful cactus, grace my soul with your presence, take me on a journey, show me the way to Azerbaijan. Lift the mist and the dust and soot and sand from my eyes. Cleanse me of the heavy and the awkward and the unknown perils; fill me with the light of the unexpected and the light of that which comes freely from the place we call home. Shine down like heaven's golden chariots, racing with the angels to pick me up and take me for a journey through their effervescent space. Show me the mountains that you called home - the stairways of light, the shamans, the songs; let me know how a difference is made. Tell me what you will; I trust you. You fill my dreams - with flying and with knowledge of the places I have been, places I am yet to go. You teach - how to have power, and how to surrender. How to share with one another in an uncommon dialogue that all the world has not forgotten, nor will it. Perhaps you will teach me how to make beautiful music; on a screen, or on paper, or straight from my heart through my hands to the ears of the One whose attendance I observe and care for. My one, who is so sweet and powerful and but a crystalline fragment of the greatest holy one who encompasses all everything - whose many names and faces I would wish to spend such time in knowing. . Appear to me, ye angels. Bring me through my actions into the world I had not seen but for so long lived in humble knowledge of - that world, I know, exists in every moment's signs and symbols, in every chance to meet, to interact - that world, I am certain, has such beauty incomparable, and every step along the path may lead me closer yet to such sweet moments of bliss and surrender. . Grace. Grace of the heart, the mind, the body, the soul, the etheric and the astral and the all moving flow spinna miraculous. . I tried to flesh out the word count. It was almost like, as soon as I said to mum that I'd been doing a thousand words a day, doing my morning pages, showing off like, that somewhere in that there was some level of acceptance or praise that was all I really needed. And it didn't need to be true, I didn't need to clock another thousand over the next week or so…indeed, it's been about a month since this whole thing started. It started back when we were in Warrandyte. I do believe I've been here in the Coburg house for two weeks now. Still haven't had a proper jam with Stu. I have had a twist of mescaline, though - a cactus moment. There is more on the stove now. I feel somewhat safe to say that it's twice as much as I had yesterday - probably a good thing, if there's any kind of tolerance-buildup (unlikely, but possible) however not necessarily the best in terms of stomach-settlement. . Anyways, the whole thing with the morning pages. Here I go editing again. So, it's been 30 days, I've said I'd aim for a thousand words a day, and as of now I've just gotten past the 8.5 mark. Which means that less than one in three of my writing days have added properly to the count - or, more accurately, almost one in three days I have been writing. Which, to be honest, is not bad. It's a fair deal better than some times I've had. Speaking of times, we are soon to tick over into the second month of the year. I am going to travel to Hobart with my sister, who arrives this coming first Friday of the month (mistyped moneth, which is the point I was getting onto next anyways). Before then, there are a couple of days to run through. I am seriously considering going over to the Life Drawing place in East Brunswick. Not heaps far from home. Tomorrow, there's the idea of heading over to the Dancing Dog. That could well be a trip, running through the old stomping grounds with Sam. . Do I long for fantasy? I long for music, I long for hard hitting and gentle sounds, superimposing elements and wandering purveyances. Hey, I wonder how many buttons on the computer keyboard can be pressed simultaneously? if I remember, using this little built-in guy with Ableton (and renoise, etc.) causes the occasional blackouts - and now I know why. It's to do with the button matrix. That guy was pretty cool on Youtube - "Look Mum No Computer" reminded me of Thomas Humphris except more on the technical-noise-creation side of things, rather than any resemblance of personality. . Sometimes I think I'll have it all sorted - like one day, I'll wake up like a machine, at the 'right' time, my clothes will be lovingly arranged hung or folded, muesli will have been soaking in the fridge, and I will …maybe not leap out the door with briefcase in hand, but certainly have an agenda for the day. I suppose it's not too difficult, all it takes is decision. I can have an agenda for today if I want. There are still hours left, and I do not mind the night time for certain activities. Yet, there are at least six hours of daylight. . Update for the day: it's just after 4:30. I've made it back home after heading out for a busk, and had a few sips of the now-concentrated cactus brew. Time for a busk at Coburg Hill, hopefully there will be no real nausea kicking me any time soon. . vividessence Vivid Essence Vividescence . Vulgar Motion . And now it's the first time I've woken up on my own steam, in my own bed, for about a week. I had Eliah round a few times, also visited Sam over in Surrey Hills. Checked out the Dancing Dog open mic, trotted off to Belgrave and saw live music…it was all happening. . Perhaps I have what might be considered a concern, to put things in a place - store memories somewhere because of the fact that they're real that I happened amongst, and all of this no doubt goes away, changes, transforms. . How do I get ahead of myself? What forms the motivation in my mind, body and soul, to achieve? Must I lack along along a point of time in order to make sense of the balancing act? Let the inner critic stay silent. Keep working. Flush the system with motion and movements and words and sounds. Try to type well, but do not worry if at times the very thing you're trying to do and talking about doing becomes the thing which is fraught with error, hesitation and self-sabbathing. The new look Hyundai, crystallised within my mind. Not. How about I got us a deal, with sponsorship? Who would I go to? Now that I think about it, Hyundai isn't a bad company, as far as car manufaturers go. Which isn't very far - they're all in a fairly similar business. Imagine doing a John Deere ride-on mower video clip? And then getting to keep the mower. What is it called, that form of promotional practice? Sponsorship probably. Yes - I'm sponsored by vegan dietary supplements associations. Sponsored by the Australian Treasury. Ha! . Wow. Really dislodged something there - enough to send through a whole email for Eliah. What's the haps? It's after 5pm. It might be nice, seeing as I have time enough and more to myself, to have a hard liquor music sesh, and really polish up a few articles. And also get a calendar going. Time for a ream of blank paper, some shuffles around, and some getting all the energy in this room organised in such a way that it's conducive to my energy's flowing abundantly. This is the time - the time to myself - that I've been looking for. . Energy flowing abundantly. Time of my own, my very sole essence, conspiring to create something more than myself - aspiring to breathe life into creations that are worth devotion, love, passion and ecstacy. Excitement, happiness, joy, abundance, giving, gratitude, love, light, life, wildness, order & chaos, nature & man, harmony on earth. . 3:09 AM on Monday, the fifth of February, the year of our lord twenty eighteen. Minutes pass. I put on "music is my aeroplane" at 3:13. Scratch that! At 3:15 I put on RHCP's track, "Aeroplane". One Hot Minute Indeed. . I am getting a set together. Ableton, Living the moment. Keeping track of progress. Setting goals. Achieving. This morning! What else am I going to be doing - in the near future, I go to Hobart with my sister. I plan to go to the Brothers Public House the night before, have a relatively kosher evening, and probably catch public transport to the airport (presuming I can't fork cash for a taxi). Land there Sunday morning, hand around town a bit, go to the place with the accommodation, meet Bonny there. We'll have a quiet drink, and the next day we'll either go to MONA or do the campervan thing with the intention of going to MONA and a host of other places. . It'll be lent on Wednesday the fourteenth. Also Valentine's day. I will begin my fast, with the love and support of the gorgeous, talented, sophisticated and well-travelled Elia French. . -/Burying the Twentieth Century/- . Table III.1 Core principles of natural systems . 1. Natural systems reject central authority and control, distributing knowledge and intelligence instead over a multitude of smaller units which may, themselves, be distributed. Human knowledge is a massive distributed system. All the mysteries we find most intriguing--life, evolution, intelligence--are to be found in large distributed systems. 2. In a distributed system everything happens at once. Consequently, fast-moving problems side-step any attempt to impose order from a central authority. Overall direction and navigation arise through an accumulation of the most habitual, interdependent, local actions and not from any central command. Natural systems exercise control from the bottom-up. 3. Natural systrems are not innately complex. Rather, they achieve complexity by building up successive layers of simplicity. They grow by chunking. The only way to build sustainable complexity is to begin with a simple system that works. 4. Natural systems survive by 'maximising the fringes', thus encouraging diversity, eccentricity and instability which favour remote borders--the edges, outskirts, hidden corners, moments of chaos and isolated clusters. A healthy fringe speeds adaptation, increases resilience, and is the source of most innovation. 5. To a natural system, equilibrium is death. They constantly seek and thrive upon change, existing on a razor's edge, forever surfing the wave, never quite stopping and never quite falling. 6. Not content just to encourage change, natural systems continually change how they change. Change itself changes. 7. Natural systems cultivate increasing returns--positive feedback ensuring that each time an idea is used, it is strengthened and reinforced. 8. In natural systems, errors are tolerated because they ultimately build robustness. Evolution itself can be thought of as a systematic error management. 9. Natural systems have multiple goals--they are purposeful (full of purpose) rather than striving for optimisation of one specific goal. This leads to continual trade-offs, especially between exploitation and exploration. 10. Natural systems are autonomous--that is, they are organisationally closed but structurally open and extremely tolerant of the 'new'. . .Collaborative.learning. . ************************************************************************** . Items from Woolworths: blades, colour pencils, deodorant? . To create: Time trackazz. Two sheets, four weeks per, from today . Just seeing if I remember, indeed - so, Satur(n)/Sun/Mo(o)n/days, then there's Mercury/Venus/Mars/Jupiter to go - to total the visible heavenly bodies - and I think Tues/Mars, Fri/Venus, Wed/Mercury, and Thur/Jupiter. A little roundabout, but let's check. . Altogether: Sun/Moon/Mars/Mercury/Jupiter/Venus/Saturn - and backwards: Saturn/Venus/Jupiter/Mercury/Mars/Moon/Sun . ************************************************************************** . Just around the back of the shopping centre, there's a sheltered lot of streets with quite nice houses on them. Then slightly further along, there's Edgar's Creek. . When I walked there, perhaps some twelve hours ago now, I thought about the demographic, and the likelihood that music lessons would be a great way to get some money for contributing my talents to the local community. . Cycles running, forwards and reversed, new and old. . Substances are a fact of life. They don't have to be a way of life. . ************************************************************************** . And then it goes for Sam. He disappeared like a soft-cock, soured up like an under-ripe fucking apple. Walked off into a moonset of shit, a dour moment of fuckfacery. I don't give a fuck, I'm not going to give a fuck, I'm going to make changes, I'm going to be the difference between selves that need to be supplanted and moments that need to pass. I'm not going to be a pariah, I'm not going to perish. I'm full, not a fool. A lover, not a hater. I'm here, I'm not queer, I'm just me. Let me be. What is it? Do I have some kind of long-held belief that everyone in my life will walk out on me because of the decisions I've made? Because I can let that go right here and now. Is it that I believe my true self is so dark and twisted that nobody could love it? Fuck that right off. What have I learnt? . Jian is a weak-is-piss in the face of true piss fucking Asian dude who I truly appreciate and, dare I say, love. Sam is a good friend, an honest man, and a person that I can only tolerate so much of, as has been proved time and time again. For some reason, I started thinking of some of the streets of Sydney…I did a gig there once. They had lighting out the bazoo, something like ten rooms, a courtyard, full spectacle. Upstairs, downstairs, winding cables, climbing walls. I climbed the walls because I could, because I was good at it. I wouldn't break anything, and I would get the job done. I want to come back in to Melbourne and start crewing some SHS gigs again. Plugging in and out some cables, loading trucks, making a difference for what it's worth. . See you on the flipside matey straightey one eighty. Potatey. . ************************************************************************** . Hard to know if much has changed.