Wednesday, 18 December 2013


A wee ditty I wrote about Ilya Ilyich Oblomov's dream from Oblomov. His life in the sweet homely setting of Oblomovka is but a distant dream; indolence and recalcitrance slowly replace the agency of his youth; any notion of home is a million miles away from the slovenly setting of his adult life.

Catch his light when you're far away
when I wake up; its the end of my day.
You'll see asleep when you're far away
oh dear my daydream you wont make it okay

'Cause its a long way back home
And you're a long, way, from home

A figurine of laconic dismay;
Each day in daylight is fading away
You come and see whats not on display
life stole an angel and sent him astray

Where its a long way from home,
And its a long, way, back home.

Catch his light when you're far away
when I wake up; its the end of my day.

...You may notice a similar chorus to some song or other, adapted unintentionally, for my own creative purposes.


Monday, 16 December 2013


In streets of rain,
tethered to life,
wades an old man
plastic bag in hand;
Clutching at one handle
as one might expect,
of a lazy youth.

But he has to grip tightly
beside himself with life;
Keeps carrying on,
Whilst dying to escape.

Friday, 25 October 2013

João Torto

Tried to touch the sky
Hurtled down into the earth
Found Heaven instead


Wednesday, 16 October 2013

The Ghost

This morning you woke and rose,
The Ghost stayed down in bed
Waited and stared til' you made home
Watched the weather, All the way.

The big bold world opened its arms
And embraced all you affected
Thus The ghost sank through the bed
He made it all cold, with Sleep.

So when you returned with visions,
The ghost reflected in the window
And saw darkness All Around;
Heard it in your words; aspiration,
And slid down through the ground.    

Saturday, 12 October 2013


You were right to steer well clear:
The status quo pervades this place;
The only way is down.

To Rakhmetov’s lair!
Where ideas are King,
Under a stalactite sky.

The bashing of hammers
becomes the flicking of knives
A scratch on the rock, surfaces on the skin,
As a razors line.

You were right to down your tools:
The status quo pervades this place
Where gold bleeds with an iron face.

A mountain pointing the wrong way,
Buried in the earth, and dormant in darkness;
A child in a well;
Where amidst the clouds a great thinker once sat,
Waiting for the night to take his place.

You climbed outside, freed your mind,
With ideas of heaven;
And a bright blue sky.

You were Right!

For he was glad of your leaving;
No longer teased with life,
Finally left at peace, to bleed himself dry.

Friday, 27 September 2013

Some Literary Tidbits

I couldn't help noticing similarities in patterns of thought, from the following literary segments my brain addled together: 
Perhaps they hold that the only wisdom is that of absurdity, and that accordingly, absurdity will grant you no wisdom at all, unless you deem the acceptance of every possibility a life lesson. 
I would like to suggest it is indeed just that, thus it is a shame it might take a lifetime to finally realise it; be it a life of many years, or one 'cut short'. But realisation will still occur at the end, when it is all too late to try to live one's life without all those useless principles.

“The future: A clever, reasonable boy, accustomed to trust his common sense, read in a book for children a description of a shipwreck which occurred just as the passengers were eating their sweets at dessert. He was astonished to learn that everyone, women and children as well, who could give no assistance whatever in saving the ship, left their dessert and rushed on deck with wailing and tears. Why wail, why rush about, why be stupidly agitated? The crew knew their business and would do all that could be done. If you are going to perish, perish you will, no matter how you scream. It seemed to the boy that if he had been on the ship he would just have gone on eating his sweets to the last moment. Justice should be done to this judicious and irreproachable opinion. There remained only a few minutes to live; would it not have been better to enjoy them? The logic is perfect, worthy of Aristotle. And it was found impossible to prove to the boy that he would have left his sweets, even his favourite sweets, under the same circumstances, and rushed and screamed with the rest. Hence a moral - do not decide about the future. Today common sense is uppermost, and sweets are your highest law. But tomorrow you will get rid of normality and sense, you will link on with nonsense and absurdity, and probably you will even get a taste for bitters.

What do you think?”

^Lev Shestov, All Things Are Possible Part II, Aphorism 38.

“That children do not know why they want things – on this all high and mightily learned schoolmasters and tutors agree; but that, like children, adults also stumble through the world and, like children do not know whence they come and whither they go, nor act to some true purpose any more than children do, and like them are ruled by cookies and cakes and birch rods – no one likes to think that, and yet to me it is palpable truth.
   I’m quite willing to admit – because I know what you’re likely to want to say to me here, that those people are happiest who, like children, live for the moment, wander about with their dolls, dressing and undressing them, and keep a sharp eye on the cupboard where Mama has locked up the pastries, and when they finally get what they want, stuff their mouths with them and cry: More! – Those are happy creatures. And those others, too, are happy who give grand names to their paltry passions and present them to the human race as gigantic accomplishments for its welfare and salvation. – Happy are they who can live this way! But those who in all humility realise the sum total, who see how neatly every contented citizen can shape his little garden into a paradise, and how tirelessly even the merest wretch, panting, makes his way beneath his burden, all of them equally determined to see the light of the sun one minute longer – yes, that man keeps still, and he creates his world out of himself, and he is happy as well because he is human. And then, confined as he is, he still always keeps in his heart the sweet sense of freedom, knowing that he can leave this prison whenever he chooses.”

^Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe, The Sufferings of Young Werther  Book One, May 22.


Wednesday, 14 August 2013

I Think God Can Explain

Raskolnikov and the Leap of Faith:

What can God explain to a man so impoverished, dishevelled, and nihilistic that he turns to murder?
Is a man deemed criminally insane not susceptible to severe emotional weakness to the extent that the only comforting explanation, and apparent forgiveness, is indeed that which comes from God?

Indeed if we look at the 'treatment' of suffering addicts in America for example, it very much seems to be a case of God first, material treatment later or not at all: Religion is frequently used by 'therapists' as a means of overcoming addictions arguably brought about by nihilisms, or vice versa; to the extent that religion dominates the addiction treatment 'marketplace'. God, or at least the notion of God transcends the emotional vulnerabilities of the sufferer. It becomes a marketable 'product'.

Does man at his weakest point turn to the most desperate of explanations for his state of crisis, precisely because his mind has wondered far from any rational bounds?

Does intense rationalism not precipitate nihilism, which thus precipitates desperate actions, which then precipitates a man turning to God for the answers to the desperate and entirely confused situation that he no longer has the temperament to rationalise?

In this regard, the character of Raskolnikov, the murderer, in Crime and Punishment first of all illuminates himself as to the reality of the absurd world; his reduction to impoverishment*, crawling into a ball on his tattered sofa, in his squalid low ceilinged claustrophobic Saint Petersburg apartment. (Note the theme of reduction: the room is small, the sofa even smaller, Raskolnikov even smaller than the sofa). A "louse" in the social order.

This realisation of absurdity means he turns to murder, without distinction of worldly consequence. In this sense his 'realisation' and 'enlightenment' lead him to an act which precipitates delirium. But does this not mean the act itself is the act of a deluded man, as I have pointed out, his realisation of absurdity would appear to be a process of enlightenment. Criminal proceedings would however, through the worldly trend of self-satisfactory/socially satisfactory ignorance (as they do indeed in the novel, i.e. 'monomania'), effectively dictate that:                                                       

1) Nihilistic Beliefs/Enlightenment = delusion (and surely criminal insanity?                    
2) Absurdism (i.e. an absurd act, i.e. a random murder) = Delusion (as above).
3) The overall marketable 'product' of justice = An act committed by a criminally insane person.                                                 

But then enlightenment is reversed: After his 'barbarous act' our assailant turns to God to answer his painful woes and sorrows: This pain and discomfort with the world are pre-existant of the murder (this is important to recognise)... but they do also ultimately pre-empt the murder. If the man had somehow turned to God as a response to his initial skepticism of the world this might be deemed an equally delusional response, indeed, to him, an axiomatic, rationally deductible, delusional response. Rational deduction led the man to nihilistic torture. Thus the 'product' of God; of repose for our assailant, is borne out of all that is criminal, deluded, and criminally deluded in him.

And so with the input of Sonia, effectively providing the role of 'therapist', turning to God becomes the 'logical' response to the end of the chain of delusion. God is the comforting protection from nihilistic pain and torment, arising not from the pre-existing emotional struggle, but from the psychological consequence of the act (i.e. the murder), the PASSIONATE expression of total FREEDOM; the REVOLT against this consumptive torment. 

But what about those people who turn neither to Nihilism or to God, where are they on the road?

it continues as does a bicycle,
Being pedalled by someone.

All the the way along,
the wheels slip and slide underneath;
the handlebars always threaten to crash sideways into the pavement;

The panic each time they tilt,
resets and recycles,
all the way along the road.

one day you fall;
and the bicycle skids away.

...They keep on peddling, longer than anyone else, surrendering to nothing; they are not impoverished Raskolnikov's, who get off the bike, and cover themselves in rags by the roadside, and they have not reduced themselves to anything other than their mysterious directional conviction, whilst the Raskolnikov's of this world, at once a religious and nihilistic zealot, cannot comprehend this sense of direction, neither can the cyclists foresee their directionlessness; we are presented with an interpersonal security dilemma:

"In response to this, Raskolnikov slowly sank back on his pillow, threw his arms behind his head and began to look at the ceiling."


Friday, 2 August 2013


A Starving heart gave itself unto the world,
Found nothing in return, but alcohol.
Washed away the clinking bone and bread crust;
Its rhythm slowed to a pitiful pulse.

And so it happened without cause, without meaning,
A man started to lumber under his dysfunction,
Enlightened by the natural environment,
Bent on all fours and began to crawl.

Crawled from the sight of maltreated mothers,
With an axe attached to a piece of string;
Disguised underneath a strangers coat.
Impatient to the end, just like you.

Unable to digest the world;
Just like no one who has ever lived;
A stomach starved of life,
Eaten up by the possibility of everything.


Sunday, 21 July 2013

A Madman

A Genius who laughs,
At the most hilarious and wittiest of complexities;
In the company of strangers,
Is, after all,
A Madman.


Monday, 15 July 2013

Sleep, recline, Sleep, recline, Sleep, recline, Sleep.

2am... The very worst thing about arriving at one’s strongest convictions at this late hour, is that the conscious will to act is still very much tormented by the rather less salient, and rather more ill-conditioned conclusion: “I will do it tomorrow!”
This predictable conflict represents itself precisely by the individual not knowing what hour he will wake in the morning: The alarm is not set, and even if it is, it simply does not mean anything. The mind is at rest, and it will not be motivated toward any other cause than switching off again, the moment it is roused come the morning, or afternoon if we are to be more realistic.
    It is a picture of slumber, of decadence; a gentleman reclining on a sofa. And in this regard, man’s last remaining will, in the enforced absence, or denial, of all others, rather than to fall into a permanent sleep, must surely be to do nothing.
    To somehow routinize this habit of unpredictable sleep, and boring awakening, and apply some sort of convention to it, would surely become man’s greatest intellectual determination.
    Only, I would like not to limit myself to such conventional wisdom, and would rather leave the question unanswered: Why do nothing all day when you can fall asleep, why fall asleep when you can do nothing all day? You see… there would be absolutely no meaning to be derived from such an absurd existence, and yet still schools would be established, at least in the minds of a world reclined, yet somehow not resigned to this fate, by virtue of continuously debating this question with themselves.

But without wishing to get distracted again, the picture you see of a man reclining; that man thinks, and thinks, and in all these continual thoughts, choices, careers, and paths of action are eliminated, either by the workings of circumstance, or through his own ill-will, and lack of feeling.
    A grand idea is thrown in through the window one evening which he catches and clutches to his heart. But his spasmodic reaction upon waking to this world is to toss it back again, at the moment the alarm rings, or at the hour he naturally wakes; it does not mean anything. All he is left with is the feeling of nothing; a heavy, compressed weight on his chest; the imagination that something was once there.
    As the hours pass, and thus the less his slumber is prodded and poked at, the more enthusiastically he treats the idea of rousing himself, and chasing after some obscure and distant ambition. In short, the less the world presents itself to him, the more hopeful he becomes.

But now the hour is late and I have just caught hold of another grand idea. I’m tired enough to know that I won’t, and yet, I will, do it tomorrow


Monday, 8 July 2013

A Haiku

A Haiku to describe a rather minor happening in Reading station today:

Man cried out for change
needed to use the payphone
his call went unheard


Friday, 28 June 2013

A Visit from the Landlord

My response to having watched Mike Leigh's film 'Naked', and also a commentary on the visitations of my own Landlord.

pristine windowsills,
stylized furniture
Takes money,
And all is filth, mould,
condensated ceilings,
Hell, and your ideals of it,
Nothingness; it is this world.
You cannot escape now;
nor will you.
Just ignore. Ignore, Ignore...


Saturday, 22 June 2013

A Rebuttal to the Senses...

Got out of bed this afternoon feeling like death, so attempted to offer a rebuttal to my groggy symptoms (you can hear me snuffling…).

It went as follows:

Recorded all in one and on the first go, this time using my electric guitar (photographed).
No information is available for this Martin Grech song online…either lyrically or musically, so the entire thing was figured out by ear... There go my obscure music tastes again.

I've been down on the wire
All I could stand
I trusted in life
Bit down for them

How their plans will come to nothing
For they do not know the nature

All hands up in line
Everything looks fine
Your wounds heal in time
Different for mine

How the mighty hands will fumble
For they do not know the nature

All eyes look back can see
That thing you broke was me

It seemingly worked as a means of overcoming my afflictions...


Tuesday, 18 June 2013

A Loose End...

The desire, indeed act of presenting anything in a conflated philosophical language must surely require the pleasure of the individual making the otherwise painful effort toward articulating himself.

On this occasion I do not have the patience nor the wilful desire for such a pleasure, which would lead to the conflation of my musings into some analogous form, in turn leading me to not sufficiently express the extent to which I, dear friends, am at a loose end.

I cannot hope to challenge the bleakness which you prescribe upon my worldview. I cannot hope, since I have tried and tried, far more hopeful than any of you could believe, to combat the absurd; to find interaction beyond affectation. And yet each time the promise of the former delivers the cruel and hopeless reality of the latter.

The worst of it arises from those who profess and obsess over the primary presence of interaction, and instead deliver me affectations in a crueller manner, warranted by this deception of their professed ideals.

To profess that one must resolve one’s own absurd crisis is to consign each stricken fellow to a world under the floorboards, never to be seen again; led by one's own convictions, one is merely a stranger to this world.

Through my rebutted attempts at escape, I can similarly decide that it would be folly to want to amend this worldview on the basis of convictions entirely centred on another being, when the sort of change requested emanates from the greatest centre of absurdity that a man could ever witness.

The conclusion? Don't change, and not merely because it isn't possible.

For all this, I am at a loose end, directionless, and merely consigned to the wind:

So at a loose end,
You take it, and lose it.
Life changes, change for anyone
Change for no one;
Flown away.

Greet the end, of all things.
All outside this consciousness,
Everything escapes, confuses itself,
Cognitive release;
The Loose end returns unto itself.

And with nowhere to go
Callousness climbs;
It renders a hopeful boy
Before a hopeless vagrant,
And explains the boy’s surrender.


Tuesday, 4 June 2013

A Musical Endeavour... Hear What You Think.

A bit of music for you Dear Friends. This was recorded straight, in one take (Guitar and vocals together), with whatever you call the mindless 'solo' in the bridge dubbed over the top (with the audio reduced underneath ;) )... to cover up for my guitar playing in that part, which curiously enough, whilst I wasn't making a mildly irritable attempt at playing and singing, was a mess :S

I have, or had, never done any sort of sound editing/mixing up to this point, so it's all a learning curve, but a very pleasant one that keeps me distracted from distractions. I started playing guitar two years ago when I decided it was not enough to merely hear the same songs over and over, without knowing the process behind these fantastic note combinations. Now I am a bit closer to comprehending, and I find it one of the few fruitful outlets I have for my thoughtfulness, an excellent replacement for some vice or other I could have ended up turning to instead. For this I am very glad dear friends, very glad indeed.
Curiously enough I don't have any particular affection for this song or the artist, it's just very nice to play. You may want to turn your volume up; its all gone a little quiet.


I get so distracted
By some peoples reactions
That I don't see my own faults
For what they are
For what they are

At times so self destructive
With no intent or motive
But behind this emotion,
There lies a sensible heart
A sensible heart

See I'm no king
I wear no crown
But desperate times
Seem over now
But still I weaken somehow
It tears me apart
It tears me apart

I hope to learn as time goes by
That I should trust what's deep inside
Burning bright, oh burning bright
My sensible heart
My sensible heart
My sensible heart
My sensible heart

(City and Colour: Dallas Green, 2008)...

Saturday, 1 June 2013

An Introduction, to my, and Your, endeavours.

My dearest friends attempt to convince me that I am supposed to be happy, and yet few enough of them prescribe any principled basis for their own conviction. Owing to this lack of principle is the fact that their basis for attempting to prescribe me this apparent medicine, escapes any sort of reasoned diagnosis in the first place. 'He looks absolutely miserable' one acquaintance is heard to say, laughing at the familiar sight of my sullen features brooding. Not over anything, just brooding. Indeed, if the sight of such sorrow provokes a question concerning what I might be thinking, and the genuine response is 'nothing', then it ought to become clear that I, the individual in question have long since been lost to all benefactors, or was never once benefitted, so that my actual vacancy is defined by the affectations of myself and others, rather than any genuine sense of interaction with the world.

It is at this point I highlight the use of the term ‘affectation’, against the true notion of ‘interaction’. Concerning the former I would offer that it represents a pretence in human behaviour quite different from the reality of the inner-self, in categorical definitional terms, of course, but also as a feature which defines us as humans.

We prefer to think of ourselves as truly socially interactive beings, capable of directly passaging our inner thoughts and processes into unmitigated expression in the external world, when in reality, these thoughts and processes are merely translated to this absurd outside environment. And yet to those of us obsessed, indeed overcome by the consequences our externalised thoughts might have, the only way I myself can attempt to translate this fearful occupancy to you, is to say that upon being asked what I am thinking in the scenario described above, or in more delicate settings, to successfully complete this challenge, I am required to respond in a language I have no comprehension of whatsoever: A book of Pushkin’s Poems is placed in front of me, and as much as I crave the ability to understand them in the native Russian, I simply have no grasp of it at all. The Cyrillic might as well be the brick pattern of the ‘stone wall’, and I would be far smarter not to beat my head against it.

 As such, what you might call the behaviours of an ascetic, I would rather call the calculus of a logistician, or perhaps even a programmed machine of nuts and bolts: Where is the basis of an understanding of a language when no external instruction is given to us whatsoever toward learning it, and when in this case, the only language we have to draw on (i.e. English), is one very far removed from what we see written before us.

Is there any way to make sense of it, beyond what we imagine it might say? Unfortunately not: there can be no verification of this imagination, unless in this case we are indeed irrational enough to believe in our own imagination.

Let us say that a successful translation of the unknown language would act as a passphrase to break down this ‘stone wall’. The result of an irrationally motivated individual’s continuously flawed attempts would surely not be a collapsing wall, but a mind collapsed by madness.

  I seek to inquire: What it is that motivates us as humans to keep trying to tear down this wall?

 If I and an accomplice were presented with the wall, and I, through rational calculus retracted and sat to one side, knowing we could not pass, but my accomplice continually attempted to break it down, who would be the first actor to be greeted by madness? Does calculus sooner entail madness due to its early recognition of hopelessness? And who is to say that irrationality is not perpetual, and as such, not exposed to the madness envisaged (as above) by a rational thinker.

After all, my dearest friends to whom I first referred are convinced of the continued merits of their endeavours concerning one another, and there I sit, tortured not by my exclusive retraction ‘underground’, but by my inability to convince myself that I can contribute to this absurd realm in some meaningful direction. In this way I am jealous of Sisyphus, and I am jealous of all my dear friends who wake up each day without feelings of crippling skepticism greeting their minds. It is a mechanical thing of nuts a bolts; a robot, that is struck, and compelled into retraction, or agency by a ‘thought’, or what might merely be called ‘process’. It takes altogether more human characteristics to compel oneself into action through thought. Irrationality cannot be defined by process, and as such I have yet to deprogram my brain away from its retractable setting.

 Take comfort however, dearest friends, for I am still determined to investigate this absurdity, and I am not so much of an Oblomov that skepticism shall compel me to the bed until the day’s end, though sometimes I come very close.

 I am perhaps still in touch enough to look forward to inquiring in my next piece, what exactly it is that first goes through your head when you wake. Perhaps you could inform me of these thoughts in the meantime.


Extinguished gaiety of years, which sunk in madness,
Presses on me like a hangover restless.
But in my soul, foregoing pine
Becomes through time still stronger, like a wine.
My way is sad. Predicts me toile and woe –
The sea of future in a wrath and row.

But, oh, my friends, I do not want to die;
I want to live for reasoning and trial;
I know, it will come – my satisfaction
Amidst the troubles, grieves and agitation:
Sometimes I’ll sink in harmony again,
Or wet my thought with tears of joy and pain.
And maybe, else, to my nightfall, in darkness  
Will love smile farewell with her former brightness.

 Alexandr Pushkin – Elegy (1830) (Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, 2001)

Alternative Translations: