0 9 / 0 3 / 0 4:
"'evil is to morality as magnolia is to paint... it's an unpleasant shade of meaning, far too liberally applied, purely on the basis that it isn't white.'"
'dorian' by will self
it would appear that the pavement in front of our front door has become a dumping ground for every nefarious and lazy bastard in the kings cross area. two beds (also filled with rubbish), two computer monitors, a washing machine and various other mountainous crap lies strewn across my exit as i type. i await the rats with eager anticipation.
received a strange 'give women the vote' centennial 50p in change. who knew such coinage existed? is this in case anyone had forgotten? had anyone forgotten? i find this kind of historical memento quite, quite odd. like commemorative stamps. who knows, in another hundred years this could be worth, ooh, upwards of 55p - "this mellow thighed chick just put my spine out of place"
plans are afoot to radically revamp the frankly sparse unsong.org discog page, offering you, the discerning(?) pub(l)ic, a larger range of goods, plus a look at projects in the pipeline as yet not given a release date. it is also my intention to make it possible to listen to excerpts from each release, together with some free website exclusive tracks. o but i am good to you.
through colleagues of a friend of mine, i've started preparatory work, as unsong, on the sound design for a computer game. it would be inappropriate at this time to post an details on the game itself but should it make it onto the shelves, rest assured all will be revealed here first(ish). i'll say that numerous recordings of water and abused metallic objects feature heavily and leave it there. it would appear that getting a game from paper into playstation is a harder job that you might imagine. comparable, say, to signing a major record deal, or getting a novel published... maybe even less likely. it seems that the industry is in such a state at the moment that the vast majority of proposals fall by the wayside, never to be made. should the game go tits up then i'll no doubt post my audio ideas for it on the website or release it on cdr. we'll see...
the pigeons seem quite keen on our new junk heap (harbingers of the rodent?). part of me is surprised it's all still there. we once (ok then, three times) threw a television out of a third floor window and the next morning all manner of indigenous scavenging human oddities (including a one legged man) came to cannibalise the remaining shell, tearing off circuit boards and squirrelling electronic parts home for fuck knows what bizarre purpose. the police turned up, looked down at the television, looked up at its exit window, then drove away again, never to return.
the downstairs mini-mart have fixed their sign; the word tobacco is now correctly spelt. now if we can only sabotage this bastard extractor fan and and so give me a fighting chance of actually getting a full night's sleep one day soon. so tired...
this little gem greeted hostess elisabeth on her recent trip home to scotland... a grinning log on legs wearing a red hat. could you sleep with this 'ornament' in the room staring at you in the dark?
saw a mouse in the ballroom of the park lane hilton today... is that statement libelous? the hotel itself is as ugly as hell from the outside, a kind of drab 60s towerblock chic. the ceiling above the stage looks like it's held together with stapled on j-cloths. i am (un?)reliably informed that apparently the staff corridors smell like dead tadpoles... apparently; or should that be allegedly?
so that's the funnel back on the cat's head again. stupid animal.
spam update: as well as random words as trojan infiltration method, they're now using lines of poetry - "i have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade" and "and how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods?" spam as subversive cultural teacher in the guise of viagra/porn salesman?
having signed up for the brilliantly funny/frightening oxbow newsletter, i received this email: "your regret at having turned down this the wrongest of roads will be delicious in the months to come. best, oxbow" and accompanying the newsletter itself: "if you desire to be relieved of the onus of having to read this monthly paean to the powers of personal persuasion, call us at 650-714-4891 with your name, address, phone number, and the best time for us to come by and just kill you. we mean like down a flight of stairs in a wheelchair kill you. and we will."
i ask you, if mr. harvey keitel is no guarantee of dependability then who/what is?!
poker evening at the mountain. great fun. as usually happens on these occasions mr. roast and myself found ourselves locked in a betting war when others had (sensibly?) bowed out with cries of "too rich for my blood" etc.; on two previous occasions this has happened and both times my hand beat his by a mere fraction... would this time be any different? the pot grew and grew. hostess elisabeth and the venerable gude swapped nervous glances. there were rumors that mr. roast had bet his bus fare. finally he saw me. roast: three nines. myself: three jacks. oooh, that'll be sore in the morning. what amazes me is the incredible lack of any definable skill i actually possess at the game... i hesitate to call it luck.
a new mattress on the junk pile!
went on a trip with mr. & mrs. liles and the hostess elisabeth to visit to 18 folgate street, spitalfields, london e1 6bx. http://www.dennissevershouse.co.uk/. "The house is a time capsule - sometimes opened up". created by one dennis severs, every room of the house is decked out to convince your brain that you have stepped back in time to the 18th and/or 19th century; the experience is one of total immersion, not one of your senses is spared. the impression given is that the owners of the house have only just left as you entered: a meal lies half eaten, candles and fires burn; a house cat wanders about (an 18th century cat?), muted voices are heard, perhaps from other rooms, canaries sing in their cages, long case clocks tick. quite honestly it's virtually impossible to describe. this is no sterile museum, no tacky trick, this is ambient art, the imagination of the visitor being the point of the whole exercise "what you imagine... is his art" though the presence of other visitors taxes your ability to 'believe' at times, knuckle down, drink it in and you're there. very much a recommended experience.
forget feeding it, 'arm wrestle my ego!' - http://www.fourinchesofego.com/wrestle.html
"a person's life story is equal to what they have plus what they want most in the world, minus what they're actually willing to sacrifice for it. you find out those things about someone and you'll know almost everything."
-from 'the contortionist's handbook' by craig clevenger
recommended: (audio) 'underarms' -cd- by the hope blister / (comestible) reservoir dog / (visual) 18 folgate street / (sensorial) 18 folgate street
reviled: (audio) that fucking extractor fan / (comestible) rollmops / (visual) mountains of crap outside my door / (sensorial) crippling t i r e d n e s s
and finally, an email of beautiful freudian slippage from hostess elisabeth: "i saw a god this morning being sick, it made me dry heave."