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...

...Yours,
SiBot

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...

Yours,
SiBot

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.

Yours,
SiBot

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.


                                                                Yours,
                                                                SiBot


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.

Yours,
SiBot

 
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:
http://www.pbs.org/hollywoodpresents/gingame/id/pushkin_popup.html