Home, London. That deep grain hometown feeling in this amorphous human expanse. People don’t know the vast galaxies we made in the corners, central supermassive black holes that could pull us the world outside in a moment, translate out our activities everywhere in a neutron flash. Finding your strange style, and ours, in fashion on the west coast of Mexico, before I knew about the patterns life throws up, yes, but still I tend to think that one was our celestial fashion vomit. And the deep vein connection / anonymous comfortability. Our legs sweat against each other, bus seat thighs. Shades of skin and expression. Cosy down into this, shouty silent safety in the shadow of the city suited thieves and their machinations, illumination symbols twisting around the lot. A twilight Thames embankment walk with my work boss teaching me all kinds of meanings to this imagery I grew up with, always surrounding us. Brixton, Dalston, Brick Lane bustle and swirl, a jumble pot of lives, dreams and hurry… bright orange lights and glowing shop fronts at the top of late 80s Crystal Palace Hill, with its tall metal tower characters and Victorian monsters hiding in green trees. Feet out on grassy parks in warm summertime, humbum, people and people for centuries and miles and miles, views out of windows, from hilltops, endless endless habitations, vibrations, perception points. The mysteries made at playtime, breaking out our moves for shifty molecular twists, vibrating resonance in our threads and stories. Oh, dreams, customs, food, festivals, telly soaps, potions, gods, candles, a same but different choose your own adventure yearning, playing, building, oh joyous sore confusion in the gritty caged playspace, digging for an Otherworld in the dry dirt under a lump of concrete, beneath the holly tree.
The shadow, so enormous.
You know how so, as big as the light, as…
It skitters and cuts at every vessel in you.
It tugs at your heart and spits acid in your stomach.
You know it.
The tactile and tacit pleasure
it seems is found
by those ones
in the stamping on, sidelining, eliminating
of the paths of “others”..
weaker others. Our complicity.
The rot at the heart of capitalism,
at the heart of these motions in nothing we
You’re no good, what’s the use?
We pull out corners, we seethe..
We, those who find ourselves here,
we watch and move and still
we breathe and watch
and watch and breathe
and aim to let it go, we
cover our heads in wing like blankets
and sing “kill the rich! kill the rich!”
We tentacle up our faces with our
hands, we hide in the shadows,
we take refuge in the everynothing,
we yearn and weep and howl,
and the individual stories,
are always so much bigger
or the same, the same
and billions of atoms,
billions of stars…
I want to say “Here we are kids,
this is it.” I want to say
“Chin up, it just happened”
But No, or maybe a bit
I see you, leaving, I see you,
growing, I retch, I spit. I hear
Party til you’re dead lads,
it’s only just begun.
But a puff of smoke,
A parody of itself.. I..
don’t know how to fight,
I don’t know how to play my part in the
bursting vessels, flowing vessels,
this pipes pipes pipes,
This outwards, inwards deep deep hum,
This arena of such unbridled joy
and such hot hot empty desire,
Violence. I don’t know
See how we get on with that.
I love you.
Broad sweep of singing, wild cloaks, wild weather, not safe
as in a constant watch out for the
time to leave, as in a constant watch out
for, a constant action against
those baddies, those vampires, not just any,
and how to get across in words
this broad sweep of our cloak, this scoop up into wings,
this skin shedding, meta-morph paracosm,
this illusion, this broad stroke reality.
Head wool on the outside, mutating beasts
learning our responsibility in our reality and
so often playing out our virtual neuroses again
and again, as you said. Or in
a movement to protect from
a thing we all sense
Every day. We are not always clear about it,
and we sense it in and from the very best things, and ourselves,
as well as in enormity in this fabric, every strand and every space of the game that we must play….
And in the patterns.
And we speed out our activities to be ones of collaboration and
Peace. Love. And we speed out our activities to expand, to fill the
very real, very imaginary
Whole Universe. In final suspension of time,
as in / out, you, your love. NOW.
All power and vulnerability, all lost children,
all dedications, sacrifices to….
all Gods into, all shades of
this heart. Forever, forever, in growing, surviving as long as,
until it’s final. This final, final, final, always changing Never
So many stories to tell. Community, play, old friends in strengthening in new friends. A summer, all Brighton, all travel, all small space make own culture (especially at Supernormal Festival). All more than could be expected. Release play, learning, being ok, some vital: “right path sonny jim, carry on moar!” Laffing. Such new / old companions, comrades, compatriots.
To learn that the purpose isn’t always the purpose it seems to be. To create things that change, that facilitate this beautiful tribe and the folk in it to grow and change and sweep about, without doing what we thought or imagined (yet). To be happy for it.
This bubble afloat. We’re from the future. Gender mess gay children. A summer in Owold ASStral, reconnect through science. New dimensions (as if it isn’t big enough!), new colours, new life. We make it. Thumbs up.
Their unfeasible reality that continues, biting at heals – a terror – even to us – to our bright-arse inventive friends and their brilliant children. Dismantle of better rules of play continues alarmingly. People suffer. Sometimes we scream and hide.
Our new life is action, is a work against this work, is a work for ***^^^**** Universe/ourselves/itself. No need to have this work as punishment – it is in their interests. We’re from the future. I a mess of hopes and dreams, as ever, ever, all those forces on my side give messages of carry on, and I will. I do. Despair is a terror. Breaks happen, and we move. I stand with everyone in times of horror. Yes, and dive about on my own escapade. I just wrote this thinking of Lou Reed. (Although the formatting is not right, no matter). As I write this a beautiful tangle strand appears adrift in friends, their messages, the same message:
Here we are.
For the Athens gang. Ross Kemp on.
Athens all sunshine and storms and tankies and tankards and tanktops and rebetika dances and St James’ Infirmary as the height of humans and gentleness and splendid yabbering and splatters of the same kind of BE QUIET THEY ARE PAYING MORE DOWNSTAIRS nonsense you get at home and ACAB and the best cheese pies and food in general. Oh and if you go to the end of the end of the line on the tram there’s a bunch of kids who wish they were in made in chelsea listening to that kind of minor key autotune power pop that makes me want to slit even vein or probably just walk away softly, which we did.
Elsewhere turf war graffiti. Golden Dawn is it? Anti fascist slogans. Symbols are so changeable. Fuck The Police. Glimmers of old worlds that remain above and below. Mountains peeking from the city surroundings. Make new bustle. Art Art Art. Destroy Smash Forever . No. It’s hard to say. A sense of resilience that seems unstoppable. A fragility. An impermanence. More hospitality blooming in one person than you might know existed in the universe if you had not come to this part of the world.
Passion flower tendrils pull world view magnetism, smash together lego block galaxies. A sense of getting this version of communism as intended by the people I know and others in a way I never had before. Magic as in a shift in every breath. Moment. Photon. Silence. Lego men visitations. No need to definite our questions of who or what. //Intention to keep any centralisation for the benefit of people and not for policing and punishment and that kind of power. A constant discussion on policing by the state, organisations, cops one meets in daily situations, each other, inside ourselves. The possibility of developing ways of living without any of that. Living better and for each other and ourselves. Not new ideas but seem newly thrown bandicoot like. A new PsychedelicAnarchoCommunism. Is it? Lol. Interesting debates with others encountered. Talk of violence/not violence. Not known. Worlds are the same and not the same. Listening. We are all confused and learning. Cosmic (and terrestrial) dafties. Destructive Writing. Breakdown professional focus. Tidy tidy mind focus. Sellable focus. Order best, their order focus. No Whitewashing. Gallery spaces. Worlds. Slowly building to cosmic bouzouki. Yes, proper cosmic.
No there isn’t a conclusion. It continues in here and out there. I myself feel a love for everyone I went with and encountered and played, debated with on that trip. Even the one person who was quite the sleazebag cop himself. Ha! But no, I digress – more things to destroy to make way – patriarchy and old men who consider the world and everything in it theirs to dictate and not a dance with those they encounter.
I myself intend to enter into such days long dialogue raptures at more frequent intervals with good and willing humans and to celebrate these moments when they come along. With those again, with others. Special fragments. Life.
A version of this features in Immediate Responses.
Such indescribable head cracks in a sea of threatened violence, actual violence, early promise. Couldn’t know where to begin – the threat of established FINISH THE JOB, the pocket humans trapped in the model village with all care taken
lilt sway, we grew up with expectations from the state. Even in our world we somehow believed that it served us. I guess because in some reality sense it did. We were whelped from its clean safety. Small organisms observed at length and dealt with in the mafia sense. The level of organisation is mind blowing. The seagulls don’t know about it. Clever one climbs aboard a train, takes a ride to another town. They can’t know who built the train. To them is it a natural force, like a metal built wind? Do we behave much the same? Things work, more or less, and we use them. We seem to tend to forget the stories we are told which are too much, if we are told them at all. Our empire being built as it is on such suffering and death at a distance. Children in the DRC. Unknown children.
Digression. I would be sad and angry. It is brilliantly impossible to be sad or angry walking up the road to meet my baby in the sunshine with Pata Pata by Miriam Makeba whirling through me. I had no idea. The sun is still out and the trees are a universe of life force in each new stretching leaf. People are sad and look untrusting but are so beautiful. The last few days have. I do quake with what is coming. I am not convinced that there is anything left for us in this semblance of state and democracy. If I am honest I am not as prepared as I would like to be. I am still often a territorial creature although I have become less proud about admitting it and seem to see it more. We may have to leave, but I am not willing to stay here and leave people behind. People who need help we don’t know how to provide without a state. Worse with a state in the way. Perhaps we must learn. Besides at some point that is more or less all of us.
I won’t think about blood. Imagine if we governed ourselves for what we needed. This is full anarchy and always was, it’s just that the sometimes benevolent despots took over, like people always say they will. Their true colours show. It’s already happened and that is. I wonder where to turn next. I wonder at all the discussion and organising that is already taking place. I feel we must rely more on ourselves now and learn to look after each other. Stop fooling ourselves that they will take care of us. And I feel that we will. There is hope and it is inside us. People live. A friend of mine is in a hospice with cancer, she is only just 32. Errors. I think of her and I think of Miriam Makeba. I think of my mother. I think of love. Of the flitter flutter of moments that seem to tie into patterns out.
Cracks let light in. There is a strength in us that I may only just be beginning to tap into. A care in the flap of the wings of geese.