I’ve made the long voyage home. The feeling of home, toes warm carpet, window squared still, room hug corners, know it so well. I’ve made the long voyage home and left only glint behind me. This morning was had on the shores of hurried gathering of things together, a hurried clompety clompety to the railway pssshhhco! pssshhhhco! And countryside rolled slightly in a way I will miss when I’m future. Curled on of my few comfortable horizontals, that know me, I am drying after a session of splashing and washing and stretching. I’ve made the long voyage home.

What have I left to give?
I still have something of a live moment I experienced about a week ago now, a live moment in my place of this morning’s departure.
That something is difficult to articulate, it’s natural to expose, so let me expose myself. in strands, like the texture of something palpable, the voice has the texture of a face I know, the face touched like sacred slightly rough skin, thickened yet so intricate, so true, the voice levitates but also stretched and placed kinetically, a sound of sensitive looks, a sound of hurt, registered, then unleashed in opened fists upon the vast air of an attentive ocean-coloured mind.

I’m listening to the audio, the voice, I’m not watching the video, I’m typing, I’m scrolling, I’m here, perched at home, yet internet still, I still dangle myself exposed in the irksome ink of in-between realms, contentedly, where I belong, and I feel a sense of belonging to this song as well.

The live moment? In York. My university town, my 80% of the year, I know York a lot partly through the live performance of and organised by Sam Griffiths. Sam is one of the few artists who deserves more than just a plug, and since I’ve forgotten how to do plugs without simultaneously pouring out my soul, it’s only a matter of time until this particular plug sucks me up into the dark for my reducing a  sensational song-writing talent, Sam, into a few slightly confusing sentences amidst a post about someone who played a gig that he put on.

The live moment had this mentioned song called Salmon Run, by Amy Ellis, another artist in York.

It’s up there with the best of 2014 and today is along with the late December archives, the best kind.

Gggiven & out



Wait for it to load, etched grey red way back in 2001, on October 30th, Life’s [Full of] Possibilities, D[o]n['t ]tel[l] eximposed with grave hairs, piling up the side, and then the hegemonic affair, drifting sky with a blue nose, angled upward, where the church enveloped upon itself and made haste, where the bird yawning stars slowly fell to the ground and was graced with the comfort of a few finger tips, where the shoulder blades, extracted and exploited for their rigidity, were brandished before the abstract haze, planted growing in the eyes of man wearing a shirt with the top two buttons undone, the dog asleep, the crowded round, ringing in his ears, applauding, the radio switches on and it’s 199.6 FM and it’s a montage of all his all time favourite moments when he was falling beneath the brittle ache of a moon circled, in white yellow, the child wearing a cardboard golden crown, holding his waist with a mischievous might, a dream to fray, a dream to look forward to, a hand to hold its arms. Scared of her, they sung songs and he continued to tremble in his jumped up socks, looking feverish, scared to look at her, the system broke and alienated the girl’s touch, too heavy even to type when asked upon, the date ended slowly. They went back to their respective homes and missed the joy of the day just passed numbered. The TV turned on and Chris Tarrant was doing an impression of an ostrich celebrating its eggs. Eggs for everybody! Their eyes glazed over and slowly failed to fall asleep.

James Figurine keep up the good work with Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Keep working it. Don’t let the eyes glaze over.

Time capsule # # / Consciousness stream to annul all the wanderings on my essayist process / my internet world, you’re in the straits

Time Capsule #

I’ve been thinking a lot recently through the idea of ‘time capsules’. Reflecting on my currents through the eyes of the future, rather than of the embedded now. It’s a terrain of thought that is not unexplored. Figures of the day often remark upon the ‘right side of history’ and so on, and although such a mark betrays an old fashion of black and white objective categorizing – right and wrong – the transcendental spirit of future history is there, all lit-up, a moment of imagination.

So, I thought, instead of letting days pass for longer, innately inactive, I’d just post and posit something, some song that sits on the roof of my mouth day-in-day-out like a disk on a dashboard, but yet never finds the right moment for the outside fresh little pockets of air. That is, day-in-day-out, since a half-year or so. However.

I just want to say 2014′s new arriving Artifact #1 by Conor Oberst. This artist is the last of a century lineage of what everyone was excited about when progressivism became a common word. The last rock. Breath need not be caught nor sense made as genres and realities spindle off into the infinite particulates of a disillusioned plethora of localities because, after this 40-year-long revolution, Conor Oberst will be one of the few faint memories, still somehow fulfilling the globe’s global awareness – something I know I will play to my 6 future children, sitting around a dusty hum in an old Petrol car I found in an abandoned back-yard – the place I hid it all those years ago. They’ll be half-sleeping as we drive off into an old fashion of black and white hills. I hear some future past self reading this right now, doing some hard-lined analysis whilst surveying some grey white sky, breathing in deep breaths of petrol fumes, a contented haze, thinking about the sorts of things I think about now, but a bit differently.

Yes. Time-capsules are real. {} Essay be over now. All the above completely relate to the gorgeous embracing metadata that defines Artifact #1.

Few Stars

Stay friends, fool the fear, find rhythm; do both with an album called Wrong by Nicholas Nicholas, as suggested by Bandcamp’s fabulous ‘Fan Spotlight’ - namely a fan called david finley busch from Missouri, and further suggested by A Pocket Full of Seeds, heartily, Meet Me In The Park, above, highly, above any (of this) wordy tangle. It’s above all of it, all the syllables and all the ideas, the inexternal agreements; they are signed in something that feels like Rhythm. Through the speakers, that rhythm is clear, through the window, I’ve been conditioned to think in years, I’ve been conditioned by a few stars.

I am only hearing this through my laptop speakers, but then again I can only see the stars and the moon at present through the kitchen window, past my reflection. The list would go on, but currently I can only access my activity and various recollected mediums through the fog of my psychology… Pause … I see the days ahead through the lens of a tiring day, in some ways, in other ways that’s not true and I’m seeing fireplace and comfort through the lens of, it’s winter of course, a distant ritualistic homecoming.

It’s important to think about the music blog. This thing has been the space through which I’ve seen most moods since January 2010. It’s the same for every reader. This wesbite is a net of sorts that captures the disposition you cradled before you clicked, it always does. It will leave you feeling ____, a double-meaning – yet only relatively speaking: according to a single line of thought. Thank goodness we don’t have those. Thank goodness we’re 3D.

In that light, let me expose a name suggested by a name, and through this medium, let me offer you an emotional space. The music on the website is real, I felt it – that should be enough to know that you might too.

We live in a world where all things are supposed to be logged as if they’re all something objectively scalped from our emotional geographical topologically sentimental realities. As if, music-blog-speaking, I the writer have some proficiency and some entitlement to talk about ‘music’ intellectually. Almost as if I’m a music scientist or something, a music historian, officially, formally, a music ‘enthusiast’. That’s completely. At a lot of levels. Wrong.. I’m just | We’re* all just people who seek rhythm. Our actual bedtime breakfast itchy hungry affection disposed reality is always relevant. It’s up to us rid this reality of all the sterility that is imposed upon it by the faceless one dimensional ‘world’ politics in which it currently inheres, in which it was inherited. It’s up to us to vocalise our empty space, make that empty space palpable, surfable, reachable – an empty space is something to be shared and outlined, not to be diagnosed within to the silence of a thickly entangled abstract nightmare,

This language is tired. My soul isn’t, and I’m sick of the symptoms endured from being sold the idea that the soul is something separate from my remembering skin, from the ache of my ears, somehow seasick in a kitchen, suddenly spirited, a tidy room, zing! Then again, sat down, eating preservatives, artificial daze, gloop! Something hugs: perhaps a fresh thought felt, caught before a pre-sunrising spire, a dim truth realised in some slanty Sunday smile, some bird’s sound architecture for a peculiar morning, felt, ropes! Metaphors like yo-yos, tied up around my middle. The electric guitars all over again, my laptop speaks softly, I’m typing all over again, it’s good to be home somewhat.

Stay friends, fool the fear, find rhythm; do both with an album called Wrong by Nicholas Nicholas, as suggested by Bandcamp’s fabulous ‘Fan Spotlight’ - namely a fan called david finley busch from Missouri, and further suggested by A Pocket Full of Seeds, heartily and sincerely, Meet Me In The Park, above, highly, above any (of this) wordy tangle. It’s above all of it, all the syllables and all the ideas, the internal agreements; they are signed in something that feels like Rhythm. Through the speakers, that rhythm is clear, through the window, I’ve been conditioned to think in years, I’ve been conditioned by a few stars.

It’s “Buy Now – name your price”, so we have a choice. Give it up for Bandcamp!

Stay okay,


Cramps, Context, Trains, Throat; Listeners turn to Kiko King & creativemaze


Boom crash bang {*} {*} The edges of the vacuum feel like the rough insides of a dry lifeless early morning throat. And now I am observing those edges from afar, as if distinct from, as if separate from, the yearns and yelps of peaceless ache; the throat is an empty word, the sucking and sucking of thoughts on the things they past, the things they future. These objects are made up in dimensions much similar to those that contain the raws of rhythm, from the opening to the ending, the beat to its next, to the opening bars once more. My feet argue with the floor, transition, my arms fight the air, transition, my body is an abrasive uplifting process.

The train comes to a sudden halt and the passengers turn to statues. Crying uncontrollably hysterically. The countryside continues to blur past, fast. The train is motionless, silent, my aisle-d mind taps me on the shoulder and tries to squeeze past. My tears come back to comfort me, forming bubbles, floating above my head, popping on the windows.

I’m contained by dimensions much the same as those that contain the spilling imaginations of drunk entertainers, the beautiful red stains of drunk listeners, of midnight taxi-drivers and taxi-passengers and the suburban roads in which they light up like fumbled filter-cigarettes.

Can’t stop. Crying. Can’t wheedle yourself out. Can’t squeeze past.

This song is that song that made me feel full of myself for the first time and it was that time when the reverend announced that “Electronic Music is here, and it’s here to stay”. He thought he was referring specifically to Daft Punk and for all we know he probably was. I thought he was. At the time, my mind got to its feet and drifted elsewhere, out the doors, frantically listening to Harder Better Faster but never quite making it to Stronger. Still, I was left with a feeling that stirred what inklings and inkless and mysterious ‘acoustic’ mind-matter I had at the time. Something was suddenly real, continuous. Something was beating. I was still, listening alone, in public, imagining a DJ with a DJ deck, fisting “big beats” to a nightlit audience; a congregation of my partying intoxicated thoughts.

Conversely, that was a time that felt like a girl’s world in 2004. It was 2004 and I was scrolling my News Feed, all my friends, my life, flashing before my eyes, just for but a second. That was a time that felt timeless, parallel, 2007, a time of electric dreams for some pre-historic reality, a time of excitement for the art of digital dance move and secret virtual discos.

That timeframe is still hung up on the many walls of we, the listener.

And I’m somehow still being a listener, dangling dust on a wall, and my state’s washing itself up over and again on the Soundcloud website and I’m streaming hard, making tracks, getting it good, yeah MAN, it’s an artist’s 21st century story, dressed in uploaded orange. The sound comes through the internet as it always does. Post-does post-dance. I’ll message them to say I blogged them to say that they had me for a moment, they had my love and existence and attention, my past future, my reverend, they have my recommendation, my fingers at the ready, fumbling for the train I can’t get out of, the throat I can’t escape. That train and my statues, that black hole throat and its swirling friction of ache, those ghosts and their transport that bangs and charges through our natural substance, our community trust, our electronic mail. Everyone has that train, it just needs its platform, “please alight here” and aglow your fumbled pent up cigarettes: this song, this song is a platform.


A train of thought for Kiko King & creative maze, for this song above called Cramps, for the others as well, for the last 2 hours minutes it all got underway.

Lastly, The View, Empty

Every day arises amidst the brittle edges of an open eye, an ache and blinking, gasping for home, a frantic composure, an adjustment. And likewise each word of each breakfast, watered down in cold air, some resilient blur, an almost organised table, a jumper on a chair, sat on and then removed. The sound of the morning world slowly strokes the grey walls, the picture-frames glint, the morning yawns white through the window.

The system breaks down and one no longer racks one’s brains, the night’s dreams are dead now, gone, forgotten, piled up in sweats, displayed on some half-idealised shelf that obscures the living room with a slant. Not put up correctly.

However, later, somehow, now, it’s the edge of the brink of the big wide cliff faced confusion, the midday, the evening mounted up to, the view, the view! And all the bodies and the brittles, all the itchy jumpers and the morning greys, they, somehow, gradually, unmistakably, clearly, wholly, disappear.

(As far as I can tell, Marcus scanned my x-rayed shoulder a few years ago and layered it onto his photo)

The dreams never died, never lived. The silence always was. The realisation plays, the song: the chords were playing when I awoke, and they will be playing when I go home and unmake my bed. The chords made some silence visible, sustained, visible, with light pluckings and a crowd of soft stings of all love and all embrace at the side, the peripherals. Past future soft threads, warm comforting thoughts, music. The crescendo was there, the diminuendo also. It was all. It was all the real system, the system that never broke down.

This post comes after a few weeks of maxed-out volume of everything that paradigmatically happens. University can be the most intense raw exposure a ‘citizen’ can endure to the agressive macho faceless paradigm HE belongs to. A period of conditions and conditions that preside by way of ‘future career options’, ‘academic practise’, ‘employability’, ‘economic constraints’, ‘marking schemes’, ‘review’, ‘feedback’, ‘unprofessional’ ; these stuffs are today’s scripture and it’s force-fed you within every crack and cranny of every institution within the university’s world – it permeates an uncomfortable level of fear and neuroticism that we have come to know so well within all our commodofied interactions: yes,  conversation is an institution too. It’s relieving to realise this. It’s relieving to realise this, listen to a song, for all its reluctance to be an online commodity (indeed, a miscellaneous mp3 file on a miscellaneous blog’s SoundCloud account), feel a feeling of peaceful virtual settlement, write a blog post on the world wide web, A Pocket Full of Seeds, and then continue.  Would recommend all the above.

If you want to know about the origins of this song, Kosik the artist, the compilation it was released on called Wein, Weib und Gesang, the netlabel called Kikapu that released that compilation (a compilation that has settled well on my iPod for a few years now), then follow this link: