THE RHETORIC OF BODIES POSSESSED

Just like any cat, I hate doors - whenever I can, I leave them open.

Cats hate them because they block their freedom to patrol and to explore their territory (which is why they keep meowing to be let out and then, seemingly rather perversely to us humans, cry to be let in again after having accomplished their brief survey). To me, doors are another manifestation of our modern love of self-imposed restrictions that, while giving us an illusion of security, in fact represent a cage.

One of the first flats I shared was with 3 or 4 transient others, and as usual I would typically leave my room door ajar while sleeping - it wasn't a deliberate strategy but it was occasionally interpreted (and accepted) as an invitation to make a furtive night-time visitation. That happened at a small family guest house I was once staying at in Blackpool and, assuming the 'visitor' was a fellow guest (actually the landlady), was most taken aback when she demanded £25 before agreeing to leave the room...

PC

In case anyone's remotely interested, here are my test results just in from the Political Compass:

Economic Left/Right: -3.50
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -9.03

SIGNIFICANCES 2

Some further personal definitions.

#4: romantic
How romantic do you consider yourself? It's a question that seems to come up in rather unexpected contexts. The funny thing is I use the word a lot and often feel the need to immediately qualify it. But why? Romance to me isn't some weedy supplicating tacky card gesture or late night 7-11 flowers or a gimmicky proposal or a box of Milk Tray. It's about surrender, passion, laughter, lost control, screams, tenderness, loneliness, ecstasy, danger, madness, fantasy, tragedy, cruelty, protecti0n, exhilaration; it's full of all of these wild contradictions - but crucially, all experienced with that someone with the purpose of transcending the numb prism of life itself, and paradoxically, to thereby celebrate it.

#5: yes
I don't mean yeah or yep or the other lazy variants, I mean yes which is a far far sexier word. I love to really emphasise that glorious final s to get it rich and compelling; to get that subtext of deep promise that will grant you the permission to do something, anything, any thing that might happen to be lingering there in our mysterious imaginations.

REVISIONISM

I have a suspicion that adults don't have a fucking clue what being a child is really like - and of course I include myself in recognising the limitation of being able to remember all sorts of once upon a time things that happened - but not what it is genuinely like or how it feels.

You would think that as adults, all of us having underwent childhood (presumably), we would have a better understanding of what being a child is all about. And yet, in many ways adults behave and adopt attitudes that belie their experiences of those early formative years. Furthermore, books and films are full of examples of this curious form of anthropomorphism: child roles being merely voices for us adults to romanticise, idealise, or fantasise what it is to be young; or else our very own words and ideas are simply put into their compliant unquestioning mouths. For decades, if not centuries, women have had to put up with male authors and scriptwriters doing this to them - in some ways it must be even worse for kids. Because, by definition, they'll probably never get the chance to do anything about it.

AN APPOSITION OF OPPOSITES

Haven't you ever thought about the difference between what doesn't make sense and what you're used to doing?

There are times when you get up bright and early in the morning and see the legions of office and shop workers scurrying towards their bleak everyday destinations, looks of grim determination on their withered faces. All cheap suits, bad shoes and bus passes. It appears so alien it's like you belong to another species of creature. Or you might witness the measly 30 minute lunchtime breaks where these same battery hens form orderly queues in the fucking godawful Tesco Metro to buy their 'meals'. (By the way, since when did a bag of crisps, soggy sandwich and tin of Coke constitute a 'meal'?) The beckoning allure of weekend alcohol culture is the release and the conversation. And finally and wearily, the congested chase to get back to the trouble waiting at home. Do we really call this evolution? You call this a life?

Routine is the mortal enemy of fulfilment: doing things the same way, at the same time, in the same place, for no particular reason other than to continue doing it all over the next day. It anaesthetises before first killing what's inside you, and then by default what's around you.

SIGNIFICANCES

Personal definitions of some of my oft-used words and expressions.

#1: subtext
To me, the subtext is that which lies beneath, behind and beyond the actual words we use: the inwardly felt expression flowing without interruption and thereby giving those words life and a reason for existing. The subtext contains a web of intricate hypotheses of both insignificant and great truths all made up of the objects of our attention combined with our hidden motivations. Subtext often has unintended interpretations made by others because its complex potential is difficult to design and control successfully, but it is, nevertheless, always revelatory.

#2: force the truth
#3: resonate
I often use the phrase force the truth and resonate together in an artistic context. Truth to me isn't something concrete, definite or factual; it's simply a notion that contains an internal harmony (and thereby the resonate metaphor), perhaps like a well-tuned musical instrument - in one sense a subjective experience, yet in another, one that many can mutually appreciate in the same way. To force the truth therefore is to break through barriers with the implicit intention of discovering this purity of resonance and harmony; force reflecting the degree of artistic single-mindedness, aggressive intensity, or the simple heartfelt passion required.

RUN IT ON ME 2

Preview of the cover for the forthcoming album Racket - artwork by Stefan Danielsson.

DIRTY DOG

There's not much funnier than a naughty dirty dog.

When I was growing up we used to have a mongrel called Growler who was a villainous counter surfer who one Christmas managed to snatch the entire family turkey while no-one was looking, and scoffed it all right down to the bones, before scampering upstairs to the master bedroom to sleep it off. I laughed so much and thought he deserved a glass of cognac and a cigar for his cheeky exploits. This dog was what reminded me of Growler, who would think nothing of peeing up against my auntie's leg, or even brazenly sniffing and licking her crotch area with his long rough eager plundering tongue.

RECIPE 2

Back from magical Italy, and am delighted to report that my apprehensions were pretty much unjustified. Massimiliano and his extremely efficient team at Siddharta made sure everything went smoothly both on and off the stage - and I'd like to say thanks to him and Fulvia, to Rodolfo at OEC, and to the beautiful sexy audience there for making it such a pleasing experience.

RECIPE

I have just been informed about some of the details for this weekend's concert at the festival in Prato, and to me it looks like the deadly No Trend Syndrome: far too many bands shoehorned onto a short evening bill with unrealistically tight scheduling - and already we've had a request to do a cut-down set. Blink and you'll miss it.