Alasdair Watson

My friend Alistair Pulling is talking. This is part of what he’s saying.

“Keeping things going. Ensuring the system continues. Looking at the Universe and thinking that if you can’t live forever in body or soul, you can pass your bodily information on. Your genes can survive, join with others and survive indefinitely.

In order to do this, you need to have sex. I like sex.

If you think that your soul is going to live forever then why bother spreading those genes? Your genitals will shrivel up and die whilst the rest of you lives on and goes to choir practice and afternoon tea.

Far better not to believe in an afterlife, or any supernatural trappings that might indicate that your soul will go on, so that you can have mighty, swinging organs of reproduction that get regular use whilst you live the life that you do have to the full.”

Go and read the rest of what he has to tell you about Big Rocks.

And then go back and look here, and here and here and probably in a few other places in there that I’ve missed.

Ali’s talent for this sort of thing makes me very envious indeed, as I sit here wrestling with yet another 9A column, trying to work out what the fuck it is I’m talking about.

But anyway, yes. Go and listen to the clever man speak.

It’s a miracle! I put some more photos up!

Couple of nights out with friends. Of interest to no-one my me and my friends who where there. But they were a couple of particularly good nights out, and I wanted a record of them on-line where I could get to them, and y’know, it’s my damn photo album. As usual, if there’s a photo of you there that you don’t want on-line, I’ll yank it if you drop me a mail.

This has the feel of a “restored from backup” job. I got a load of old email, from about two weeks back, and my blog had been dialed back by about the same amount of time. I’m hoping the new stuff will filter through over the next day or so, but if you’ve sent me mail and not had a response, you may want to send it again…

Beginning to go completely insane. Surely it’ll come back soon, won’t it? Also, becoming seriously concerned about the fact that I don’t seem to be able to get my central heating to work, even a little. Winter’s going to be a bastard, in this flat…

My e-mail appears to be dead. It was being a bit flaky last night, but I rashly assumed that it’d be sorted out by the time I watched a few hours of DVD. So I did that, intending to write a few mails afterward. And then it wasn’t back. Fine, I thought. I’m exhausted anyway, I’ll get an early night, and things will be back in the morning.

No such luck. If it doesn’t come back at some point today, I’m going to kill something. I know that sounds a bit pathetic, but sometimes it really is all that keeps me sane during the week…

To those of you I owe mail, I apologise. I’ll be be in touch as soon as I can.

“The lesson today is how to die.”

Oh, stop looking at me like that. I’m not being literal. But let me explain why there *are* good reasons.

Lately, this is the part of the week that I try and pretend doesn’t exist – Sunday afternoon/evening. I hate it. From the point I finish work on Friday, it’s squatting there at the end of the weekend, waiting for me. It’s the point that I have to leave South London and come back here to Woodford for the week, return to my own flat. Living in a hotel all week wasn’t this fucking depressing. I leave behind my friends and my family, and suddenly I’m one of the doomed people from The Birth Caul, whose life is work and sleep, then the weekend, then Monday, and work and sleep and work and sleep. It’s not me, the deadened and numb way I get through the week.

I remember when Sunday night used to be a night I quite looked forward to – unwind after the weekend, sit and watch telly with friends. It wasn’t something I was bothered by at all. I’d go to bed relaxed and refreshed and ready for a week of work, rather than this dreadful stretched-out Monday-morning dread of the coming week that lasts all through Sunday night. I don’t like this “living for the weekend” shit, that is a side effect of living two hours away from most of my friends (and don’t think I’ve missed the irony of the fact that I’ve moved away, then promptly started a relationship with someone who lives but a short and easy bus ride from where I used to live).

So, that’s another weekend done, then. Fucking hooray.

Well, it wasn’t a wake, or even a real party, but I’m listening to The Dropkick Murphys version of that song right now. And I used to like drinking in that pub from time to time in Edinburgh. I’ve got a weakness for Oirish music, you see..

So, I saw Top Of The Pops the other night. Not Friday, you understand. Thursday. In the studio. It was a lot of fun, and an interesting insight into how one of Britain great musical institutions is put together. Apparently, I turned up on the show a disturbing number of times last night. It’s a weird experience, being enthusiatisic on cue, as is required of the audience. (Yes, that wild screaming before and after every song is faked I’m afraid…) Still, taking the term ecstatic experience a bit literally, and tying the whole thing into the secret word “totep” in Invisibles style, I took the opportunity afforded me, and expect weirdness in the next few weeks.

And I’m going back again at the beginning of October, thanks to Ryan, so if it works, I’ve got an opening for a repeat performance. Just got to work out what to do with it…

I’ve been feeling increasingly trapped by the English language lately, on several levels. It’s becoming clear just how inefficient a means of communicating it is. Sure, I can provoke a reaction with words, I can even occaisionally manage to communicate what’s in my head, without it becoming lost in ten thousand other things. My Ninth Art columns are a particular victim of this – most of the most interesting ideas in them (which is to say, the ones that kepe me thinking about them and unable to make up my mind if the notion is clever or bullshit) I lay out there are one sentence as an aside to a larger column. They’re mentioned in passing, and no more, because I can’t actually formulate a coherent opinion on them.

But what I have real trouble doing is conveying a precise feeling, without lapsing into purple prose. I can’t get the precision I want out of my mother tounge. There aren’t words for the concepts I really want to convey, because they’re your/my own experiences, hugely, intensely personal things, and still, they’re the only things that are worth talking about. So I perpetrate god-awful prose, most of it in private, trying to arrive at some kind of technique through which to filter my experience, without sounding like some overblown eejit. Well, no more than I do normally.

Grant Morrison’s Invisibles series had the notion that high-dimensional/more enlightened beings would not talk in words, but instead in “emotional aggregates”, which is exactly what I find myself reaching towards these days. Trying to refine communication down to the point where there’s no barrier between the words and the experiences and emotions they’re conveying.

But in this eternal quest to write something I’m happy with, I think I’ve just hit a stumbling block that I can’t get past. It doesn’t matter if I can conquer my weak prose fiction skills and write a novel, or master the five act drama form, or even set aside my loathing and write poetry, the one form I will never master is songwriting. I just don’t speak music. I can’t sing, I can’t play an instrument, I just don’t understand music on any level beyond enjoying the experience of listening to it. Every single time I’ve tried to do anything musical, I have failed laughably. It’s simply not within the range of my gifts.

This is starting to fuck me off slightly, because I don’t know anything closer to “talking in emotional aggregates” than music. Music has a much more direct key to the emotions than any set of words – why d’you think that there’s no film or TV shown that doesn’t have a sountrack playing near-contastanly, even if it’s almost conpletely concealed in the background? It’s providing subliminal emotional cues. It’s no accident that Joss Whedon just the soundtrack out of that episode of Buffy – it produced a weird numb shock effect, that made the show draining and hard to watch, the perfect effect. The absence of the soundtrack was much more noticeable than any soundtrack ever is.

But try how I might, and despite what the horrorscope I read for laughs on the train yesterday might say, I don’t think I’ll ever manage songwriting.

So it’s back to beating around with a completely different toolset for me.

Well, after I’ve finished tidying up, that is.

Addendum: not five minutes after writing this, I found myself reading Keiron Gillen and Natalie Sandells rather excellent Hit which is in a similar sort of vein to my thoughts, only funny.

In the enternal quest to get people to pay attenion to their shite, spammers resort to ever more devious subject lines. I have just recieved one that reads “Wow, you’re cute.”

I deleted it unread, then collapsed laughing. I really don’t quite get why…

Haven’t listened to this in ages. Got the music on random shuffle, the laundry done, time to relax. I should be working, but I’m shattered after the weekend, and all I want to do is crash out, especailly since tonight and tomorrow are the only quiet nights in I’ve got this week – I’m seeing Fin again on Wednesday, and going to a gig at Gossips, then I’m out for Thursday night with the comics mob, Friday in Carshalton, probably, and then Antony and Marcia’s drinks on Saturday. I kinda feel like I haven’t seen enough of the WEF crowd lately anyway, and I haven’t seen some of the folk that’ll be attending this in ages, so I’m really looking forward to it.

But I kinda feel like lately I’m lurching from one weekend to the next, with scarely enough time to gather my thoughts in between. Not the weekends are bad, far from it. They’re the bit that I endure the rest of the week to get to. But I still haven’t settled into Woodford. I don’t think I will – it’s not my place on this edge of London. I head South at the weekends, and the pavement comes alive under my feet, a crackle of memory and story in the tarmac, and things work properly again. And it’s not that there aren’t stories here on the edge of this primeval forest – this was Churchill’s seat, the Pankhursts are from nearby, and fuck, there’s Iron Age ruins and Big Dead Bones nearby – the place ought to hum with ghosts.

But they’re not talking to me. They know where my head is – in the centre, and worse, South, with Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, with the Saxons and the Romans. Out West with Dee and Elizabeth. Anywhere but here in this weird melange of concrete and grass that won’t make sense from any angle.

As you’ve probably twigged, this is just an excercise in kicking the dust out of my head, trying to get the words started for the evening. It seems to have worked, so I’ll see you later.

And I’m going to use Big Dead Bones as a title for something one day, I promise.