"No attempt at ethical or social seduction can eradicate from my heart a deep burning hatred for the Tory Party. So far as I am concerned they are lower than vermin - Nye Bevan
Today woke up with great sadness and anger, the Tories insidious N.H.S bill has been passed. Medical experts believe the tory's changes will do horrible harm to our health service. It makes me wonder who the hell voted for the tories. Their policies when they put themselves up for election seemed to suggest to me an ideology of pure hatred, and one of divide and rule. Perhaps they are the same people who spent yesterday fawning over the Queen in Westminster, whilst our beloved N.H.S was being kicked in the guts. The people who voted for them and those who have kept them in power, the lib dems have sounded the death knell for the N.H.S and for this they should be thouroughly ashamed. The N.H.S is to me like the pulse of the nation, essential, where my father worked and dedicated himself to, for over 30 years. The people who voted for the Conservatives are the same people who must accept resposibility for the slow demonisation of the unemployed, the marginalised, the weak, the mentally ill. So David Cameron and Andrew Lansley keep on smiling as they rob the poor to pay the rich. Proving time and again, what contemptable bastards they are. Their Budget today, proving that we really are not in it all together, housing buget cuts already means soaring homelessness, the poorer you are the hardest your hit, tax cuts for the rich... nothing about the thieving banks, help for students, help for people getting jobs, for communities that they have already started battering apart. Yesterday I was full of Springs promise, celebrating the rebirth of nature, today I try to keep on keeping on, just...... so let me compare for a moment . The Conservatives like to think of themselves as ineradicable, indestrutible and imperishable, but like their nearest relation the cockroach this is not true, when crushed they can make a horrible cracking sound...... we must not let them defeat us, we have the power to beat them back. Ah I'm feeling better already.
essayist, novelist, absurdist philosopher, futurist... maverick genius, political activist, visionary, prophet, discordian, existentalist prober of imagination, anto-fundamentalist.... profoundity leaps in his works, just when I think i'm getting what he's told me, he leads me on to another thread. Born in Brooklyn , Wilson was many things, his books ended up in many a hipsters library, the counterculture embraced him, some however could not seperate fact or fiction. His 'Illuminatis' trilogy - Eye of the Pyramid, Golden Apple, and Leviathon incorporated elments from the cult literature of the time: borrowing elements of Colin Wilson, Philip K Dick, Flann O' Brien, Carlos Castenada, Timothy Leary and Kurt Vonnegut in a mix that bordered on the academic to the downright hilarious, like some philosopher writing on some heavy duty drugs. He did prodigiously consume and was an advocate for the taking of all sort of drugs, and became a strong opponent of what he called " the war on some drugs." Initially though had started using cannabis as a way to alleviate the misfortunes of Post-polio syndrome. He worked with psychedelic guru Timothy Leary on two books Neuropolitics ( 1978) and The Game of Life (1979) and began to become a serious practitioner of stoned sensations. Writing under the influence , he said he wrote the first draft of each book "straight, the second stoned, then straight, then stoned, and so on , until i'm absolutely delighted with every sentence, Or until irate editors start reminding me about deadlines, whichever comes first." A prodigious talent, he went on to write numerous books, and became linked with the Church of the Sub-Genius, the Association for Consciousness Exploration and E.Prime. He taught me to never trust anything that I read, but along with Burroughs I keep returning. Even though in life and in his books the sentiment is one of anti-religion, their is to me a semi mythical,mysticism to his work, but then drugs are known for taken us to the furthest reaches of human consciousness, and a lot of us who take these sacrements , have a rebellious nature already, and even before taking anything illicit we were questioning, reason and all forms of authority. But Robert Anton Wilson pushed all possibities, becoming a master crafter of disinfomation, conspiracy theories and twinkling pages full of suspect devices. Otherworks were the Schroedinger's Cat trilogy (80-81) Prometheus Rising (1983) and William Reich in Hell (1987) By the time he departed this planet, he had found himself many devotees and with his grey hair and long white goatee had taken on the air of a taoist sage, prophet or sorceror. He had also manged to upset a considerable amount of people, he'd stopped paying his taxes and was in considerable debt, a strong advocate of freedom in its many forms, his political and social credos were ones of questioning, EVERYTHING, so their were quite a few enemies out there. Some say the C.I.A killed him , others that he is very much alive, theories grow. What he definitely did teach was that " the universe contains a maybe." So he might be hovering around somehere, illuminating an argument with some cunning laughter.
The following fim Maybe Logic is a fascinating , hilarious and mind-bending journey in his mult-dimensional life, spanning 35 years and the best of 100 hours of footage, thorughly tweaked, tansmuted and regenerated. It feature Tom Robbins, R U Sirius, Ivan Stang, Paul Krassner, Valerie Corral and Douglas Rushkoff. The soundtrack includes music by the Boards of canada, Animals on Wheels, Tarentel, Funki Porcini, Amon Tobin and the Cinematic Orchestra and others. However all the above I may have just simply made up, who knows for definite.
"There are periods of history when the visions of mad men and dope fiends are a better guide to reality than the common sense interpretaton of data available to the so called normal mind. This is one such period, if you haven't noticed already."
" There is no governer anywhere, you are all absolutely free. There is no restraint that cannot be escaped. We are all absolutely free. If everybody could go into dhyana at will, nobody could be controlled - by fear of prison, by fear of death, even. All existing Society is based on keeping those fears alive, to control the masses, Ten people who know would be more dangerous than a million armed anarchists."
- Robert Anton Wilson
MAYBE LOGIC: The Lives & Ideas of Robert Anton Wilson
Rachel Corrie was killed 9 years ago today in the Gaza Strip in Palestine on March 16th 2003, trying to prevent the demolition of the home of a Palestinian family.
She was crushed to death by an Israeli bulldozer whilst undertaking nonviolent direct action. Her name has not been forgotten and carries on being an inspiration to solidarity activists around the globe. Today we remember her.
Borders are the gallows
Of our collective egos
Subjective, lines in sand
In the water, seperating everything
Fear is the cause of seperation
Backed with illicit conversations
Procured by constant condemnations
National blood painted persuasions
Here's my song for the free
No, it's not about praise and publicity
Coprotocracy, what a hypocricy
Aristocracy verses democracy
Fear is the cause of seperation
Backed with illicit conversations
Procured by constant condemnations
National blood-painted persuasions
The king is dead and now
We're dancing in the streets
As the waters rise
We're merely covering our feet
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
Fear is the cause of seperation
Backed with illicit condemnations
National blood-painted persuasions
Tear is the cause of seperation
Backed with illicit conversations
Procured by constant condemnations
National bloo-painted persuasions
The king is dead, and now we're dancing in the streets
As the waters rise, we're merely covering our feet
Your gods are dead and now we're dancing in the streets
As the waters rise we're merely covering in defeat
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
I never let you go
Never let you go
Never let you go
Never let you go
Never let you go
' the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirious of everything at the same time the one's wo never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars in the middle you see the bluecenter light pop and everything goes Awww!' - Jack Kerouac.
Today is the birthday of visionary, iconclastic writer and poet, Jack Kerouac. The shaman of the Beat Generation . Born 12/3/22 of a French-Canadian family in the factory town of Lowel, Mass, U.S.A.
Variously called the Beat Generations apostle, poet, hero, laureate, saint? Through his own life story he created a work of fiction .Soared so high, that in the end unfortunately found his own human skin, then found himself out of his depth in bottled delusion, where the burning ship had become his own.
In his life, he had been part of a culture and people , who burned like meteors. Jack Kerouac was the Beat Generations very own mythologiser, he and his band of brothers helped redeem a bit of America's soul. His legacy, like that of the Beat Culture, still alive, still relevant, still taking root.
Along with his friends, Corso, Burroughs, Ginsberg, Ferllinghetti etc, he paved a way for a whole host of dreamers searching for risk, some form of adventure. Colouring our worlds with their crazy visions, their minds in revolt, searching for future's possibilities. Hand in hand with rebellion, against the conventions of the times.
Jack Kerouac in his eighteen books and many others under Jack's influence were to me important epiphanies on my own path of self discovery. He taught me about "Spontaneous prose." - writing without revising....... He called this " a spontaneous bop prosody." which is a bit like a jazz musician taking an improvised solo, and taking it as far as he could go, no editing , no pause of breath. Sometimes what is left, has no meaning, a void, but often their is a glimmer, that spells hope, that can become endless, can run off the page, infinite but accessible.
On my bookshelf at home Keroucs influence groans on my bookcases, his own works, sharing spaces with others , that were touched by his inspiration.
Their is something about his tragic, magic life that still resonates, hums, their will always be new connections, outhouses where seeds will forever drift. New poets will emerge, try to experience, the whole wide world, and words will dance, impulsively between time, forever and forever. Some might go out to the garden and pick lunch. Enthusiasims will be shared, thougyhs will be exchanged, and for some the personal will always be political. Passion will ignite. Jack was not immortal, though for me his words are, he left this planet on October 21 1969, 47 years , his search for inner lamentation cut tragically short. Still yearning for his mother, but lost in a catholic guilt, that had always consumed him. Stuck in sad exile, his mystical breath had grown tired , what was once beautiful had begun to drift towards bitterness.
So happy birthday Jack.....your impact continues to be felt....satori breath ... om switchin on.... tomorrow's dawns chorus echoes, anethetizing the sky.... sentences littered with wild perception, language as a spell that leaves us forever hooked. In human existence our contradictions will abound, freeze framed, on the road to nowhere. Kicks joy darkness.
William S. Burroughs and Jack Kerouac, 1953
Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Kerouac,
Greeenwich Village, 1957.
Jack Kerouac on the Steve Allen show 1958.
A freewheeling Kerouac
interviewed by Fernando Pirano
Kerouac: The movie (1985)
Their are numerous pages and books devoted to Kerouac and the Beats , if you look you will find what your looking for, the searching is part of the journey.Here's a wikilink, better than nothing? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_kerouac andsome of his poetry
POOR SOTTISH KEROUAC
Poor sottish Kerouac with his thumb in his eye
Getting interested in literature again
Through a mote of dust just flew by
How should I know that the dead were born?
Does Master cry?
The weeds Ophelia wound with
and Chatterton measured in the moon
are the weeds of Goethe, Wang Wei,
and the Golden Courtesans
Imagining recommending a prefecture
for a man in the madhouse
rain
Sleep well, my angel
Make some eggs
The house in the moor
The house is a monument
In the moor of the grave
Whatever that means
The white dove descended in disguise?
WOMAN
A woman is beautiful
but
you have to swing
and swing and swing
and swing like
a hankerchief in the
wind
149th Chorus
I keep falling in love
with my mother
I dont want to hurt her
=Of all people to hurt
Every time I see her
she's grown older
But her uniform always
amazes me
For its Dutch simplicity
And the Doll she is.
The doll-like way
she stands
Bowlegged in my dreams,
Waiting to serve me
And I am only an Apache
Smoking Hashi
In old Cabashy
By the Lamp
2111th Chorus
The wheel of the quivering meat
conception
Turns in the Void expelling human beings,
Pigs, turtles, frogs, insects, nits,
Mice, Lice, Lizards, rats, roan
Racinghorses, poxy bucolic pigtics,
Horrible unnameable lice of vultures
Murderous attacking dog-armies
Of Africa, Rhinos roaming in the jungle
Vast boars and huge gigantic bull
Elephants, rams, eagles, condors,
Pones and Porcupines and Pills-
All the endless conception of living
beings
Gnashing everywhere in Consciousness
Throughout the ten directions of space
Occupying all the quarters in and out,
From supermicroscopic no-bug
To huge Galaxy Lightyear Bowell
Illuminating the sky of one mind
AND THEN THEY GOT HIM
The Oil of the Olive
Bittersweet taffies
Bittersweet cabbage
Cabbage soup made right
A hunk a grass
In a big barrel
Stunk but Good
163rd Chorus
Left the Tombs to go
and look at the
Millions of cut glass-
-a guy clocking them,
as you look you sawllow,
you get so fat
you can't leave the building
-stand straight,
don't tip over, breathe
in such a way yr fatness
deflates, go back to
the Tombs,
ride the elevator-
he tips over again'
gazes on the Lights,
eats them, is clocked,
gets so fat
he can leave elevator,
has to stand straight
and breathe out the fat -
-hurry back to the Tombs
242nd Chorus
The sound in your mind
is the first sound
that you could sing
If you were singing
at a cash register
with nothing on yr mind-
But when that grim reper
comes to lay you
look out my lady
He will steal all you got
while you dingle with the dangle
and having robbed you
Vanish
Which will be your best reward,
T'were better to get rid o
John O'Twill, then sit a mortying
In this Half Eternity with nobody
To save the old man being hanged
In my closet for nothing
And everybody watches
When the act is done-
Stop the murder and the suicide!
All's well!
I am the Guard
Where man has not been to give them names objects on desert islands do not know what they are. Taking no chances they stand still and wait quietly excited for hundreds of thousands of years.
Alone
If you are mortar it is hard to feel well-disposed towards the two bricks you are squashed between or even a sense of community. Ivor Cutler's kitchen domain.
Poems reprinted from A Flat Man Trigram Press 1977.
As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing: "Bread and roses! Bread and roses!"
As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!
As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.
Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.
Yes, it is bread we fight for - but we fight for roses, too!
As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more drudge and idler - ten that toil where one reposes,
But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses.
The above poem written by James Mc Millan was written to celebrate the movement for women's rights and was first published in American Magazine in 1911, and is closely associated with the Lawrence Textile mill strike of 1911, where the above picture was taken. During this strike, which was in protest of a reduction in pay, under the leadership of the Industrial Workers of the World ( The Wobblies) and led primarily by the women workforce, the women mill workers carried signs that quoted the poem, reading 'we want bread and roses too.' It has since become an anthem for labor rights, and especially the rights of working women, across the globe.
' . . . life demands that the duality in men and women be freed to function, released from hate or guilt. All wars derive from lack of empathy: the incapacity of one to understand and accept the likeness or difference of another. Whether in nations or the encounters of race and sex, competition then replaces compassion; subjection excludes mutality. Only through this duality in each can a man and a woman have empathy for each other. The best lovers are men who can imagine and even feel the specific pleasures of women; women who know the passions and vulnerabilities of the penis - triumphant or tender - in themselves. Without empathy, men and women, husbands and wives, become tools of each other: competitors, rivals, master and slave, buyer and seller. In this war the aggressions of the wholly ' feminine' woman are just as destructive (mostly to the male) as the aggressions of the wholly 'masculine' man. For centuries the need to prove this image of masculanity has lain at the root of death: the killing of self and others in the wars of competition and conquest; the perversion of humanity itself. We need each other's qualities if we are to understand each other in love amnd life. The beautiful difference of our biological selves will not diminish through this mutual fusion. It should indeed flower, expand; blow the mind as well as the flesh. When women can cherish the vulnerability of men as much as men can exult in the strength of women, anew breed could lift a ruinous yoke from both. We could both breathe free.
