Swimming in York.

Today I will be mostly watching the York webcam
http://www.farsondigitalwatercams.com/live-webcams/north/Ouse/York/

It’s one still picture every four seconds is strangely mesmeric. Oh there’s a white van, oh there it’s gone, that sort of thing. What you see today is largely water and a red semicircle which is not the sun rising in a strange place, it’s the top half of a No Parking sign that’s about eight feet above the pavement that’s normally full of tables and chairs and beer drinkers. That’s one hell of a lot of water and for the second time this year. It makes me wonder if all the 3D CGI films aren’t missing a trick. One still every four seconds somehow captures my attention more than super fast high definition. It gives me time to dwell over each image, look around it to see what’s changed. It’s like being informed more by less information, which seems a contradiction. Anyway York is up to its neck so lets hope we have a change in the weather.

For Suzy & Julie.

Spent a lovely evening with two intelligent and honest women kicking therapy around like a game of football. First thing to note is honesty without intelligence and intelligence without honesty suck. Another is that when choosing a therapeutic road it’s worth comparing one’s early experiences with that of its originator. Rogers for example suits those who were unloved as a child, Pearls suits those who spent their early years playing cowboys and Indians on a climbing frame, Freud, those who, though favoured parentally, are as a result disassociated from their fellow siblings and contemporaries, and Jung if you’re prone to fainting and your mother was a loony. The dangers of each ones implicit assumptions are obvious. In a group of Rogerians intent on exposing one’s deeply unloved condition it’s not acceptable to say, “but I was”, it just shows denial and a need for further therapy. Freudians will assume you are merely a specimen and Pearlsians will be perplexed by your inability to don war paint and distaste of muddy puddles. And then there’s the rag-tag of social services. Here again the implicit assumptions of funders, that not being middleclass and the receiver of a comfortably large salary makes one a failure as a human being, and as ‘a successful human being’ they must guard against over providing a sense of worth to those innately unworthy. As a result those providing these services are on the one hand strung up by their testicles, or uterus though testicles is easier to imagine, whilst on the other carrying the combined weight of their clients.

Captain’s Log Supplemental.

I am now operating a laundry, as a web-shopping courier returns driver, Sainsbury’s home delivery service and newspaper boy, all whilst running a restaurant. Where’s Lieutenant Sooloo when you need him or that Sergeant Engine guy who looks after the Lithium crystals? But don’t think I’m over-stretched; I’m dealing with it all like Colonel Hathi. “Oh the aim of our patrol is a question very droll…Come on junior, keep it up two three four.” This is not hysteria I’m just calming down prior to making a supermarket list. And anyway how do I know what we haven’t got; it’s not there. I have enough trouble finding it when it is. It’s like after a break in and the policeman asks, “So what have the thieves taken Mr Mouse?” I DON’T KNOW IT’S NOT THERE! Making a shopping list consists of writing down what I can remember which is basically what I bought the last time so we have three jars of marmalade and no washing up liquid. And as it’s raining you can add proprietor of a rescue home for bored cats to the list. Mercifully we currently have no children at present. Yes they’re old enough to help but gnawing through the vacuum cleaner cable with the vacuum cleaner is not in the long run time saving. Neither is cooking beans etc and converting the lower third into a vitreous enamelled coating to the bottom of the pan. I know they mean well but when your brain is three foot lower than it should be mistakes do happen. Must step onto the transporter and go to planet Sainsbury’s. And don’t give me all those funny looks when I appear in my Storm Trooper outfit, OK I’m doing my best! I return with a prized purchase, two packets each reduced from £7.45 to £3.43, a saving in total of £8 and four pea. Mothermouse informs me that Fairy non-biological washing powder is shit but at least that’s not going to go on the list again till well into the new year. End of Supplemental.

End of Week 1.

I am now making two coffees whilst washing up, closing windows, turning the central heating on and feeding the cats. I am multitasking. It’s nearly midday and I’m not dressed yet but I am multitasking man. I’m still not into pre-planning the minutia of my day, still just doing what’s next but they’re overlapping in a time efficient way. I conclude it’s all down to complexity. If for example I was working on world peace or conversely world domination it would require focus. I couldn’t entertain the distraction of making a sandwich or heaven forbid digging up coal. So it is that society is stratified. We pay the brain not the hands. Maybe that’s because we have two hands and one brain. But even that’s an underestimate, there are far more people with less brain than there are with only one hand, or a broken metatarsal in our case. Sebastian Coe for example could beat the majority of paraplegics whilst having the bare minimum of grey matter. But the money always goes to the brain users even though they would freeze to death without an ample supply of coal. Bring up three kids, do a million things a day and you get nothing: Sit in a boardroom enjoying yourself waiting for your next coffee and bagel and for some unknown reason you get a yearly bonus prize of a digit plus many noughts. Produce a baby you get nothing, produce a widget and you sit on a toilet seat of compressed bank notes. This isn’t a level playing field; it’s like trying to play a game of football on the side of a mountain! This isn’t a retread of Marxism, my only experience of Marxists being they tend to inadvertently spit at you from over enthusiasm; it’s more humanistic economics. We all have a variety of skills and they’re all needed, well mostly, and we love being appreciated for what we can contribute, so aligning contribution with the economics of appreciation as amply demonstrated by X Factor and we might all have a jolly good time. The louder the studio audience applauds the more likely I am to attempt ‘Hit me Baby One More Time.’ No, that’s not a good example.

Ms Mothermouse Regrets.

Mothermouse has broken a metatarsal, not from a night out with Joey Barton but from standing in the garden. This over exuberant standing thus required us to visit A&E equipped with Kindle, magazine, banana and plum. Though the wait for a pot was fairly short an extra sandwich became necessary. The pain from this fracture, I am assured, is nothing short of childbirth. We arrive home with Mothermouse on crutches. Now with one leg incapacitated, the other needed for support and both arms involved in crutch propulsion she is as incapacitated as a three-month-old baby and about as fractious. “Can you make me a coffee?” I oblige, but my first attempt is not sweet enough, my second is too cold, my third too hot. I realise I’m dealing with a new incarnate of Goldilocks. She tells me how difficult it is to have to ask for things. Well it’s not as bloody difficult as running up and down stairs seventeen times to get a cup of coffee just right. Two hours in and I need a lie down. I muse that I myself, in a similar condition, would be happily whistling Yankee Doodle Dandy whilst doing back flips. It’s then I realise I’m not good at caring. I must have been beaten as a child at the first signs of self-pity. If I had a toothache I had to put my foot in boiling water to take my mind off it. OK it was cheaper than buying Paracetamol but it’s made verbalising, “Oh poor you, it must be rotten” as problematic as tattooing a likeness of Mohammed on my forehead. I feel like Meatloaf, “I will do anything for love, but I won’t do that.” Mothermouse disagrees with these priorities. Through having to supply all Mothermouse’s necessities I begin to enter the female mind. The cats don’t have water, the birds need feeding, the curtains have a bit of lining showing, the tomato sauce needs clearing away, a shoe is in the wrong place and tomorrow’s tea needs getting out of the freezer. It’s all very frightening, a never ending knitting wool ball of considerations. I mean as a male I only have one, “What am I going to do next?” If I notice the cats are becoming wizen the next thing to do is supply water. It’s simple, linear and catches most things before they demise, and things that make no difference just don’t appear on the radar. Yes it’s likely someone like me caused the Black Death but my formidably powers of deduction might have also found the cure; it’s horses for roundabouts as they say.

What’s the Time Mr…

“Jeez this is weird.” A man sits by two screens, one GPS and flight data, and the other a pilot camera view. “About five minutes to go.” He’d simulated it tens of time but this was for real. A small man, Mr… paced the room; it was out of his hands now.

The first plane hit and later the second both off centre and near as dam it the right empty floors. Everything kicked off. They could hear the relays from the fire and police departments from several small speakers; they were all responding to plan. Blocks were cordoned off, people were getting out, and firemen were going up to stem the fire. The mood was quite relaxed, all they had to do was wait till it was Jackie’s turn and that could be hours. Then suddenly, “What the fuck, it’s coming down!” Just as planned but way too early the South tower was collapsing.

“Jeez you mother fucking SOB you…” The little man glared at Jackie.

“That’s not me, I haven’t even armed the thing yet. It can’t be!”

“Well it is. What the hell’s gone wrong?””

“I can’t believe it! The fire might blow some thermite but not the whole sequence; it wouldn’t do that. All the fuses are the other side of the building. No something’s triggered the whole sequence.”

Sometime later the North tower went down and the men were none the wiser.

Even to this day no one knows what stray radio signal brought the towers down; it could have been anybody, a kid playing with a remote controlled car. Turn it left and boom, a plan turns to tragedy.

Heading for a Fall.

The same four sat round another table in a northern suburb of Philadelphia to interview a fifth man. Normally cocky this man was nervous.

“So the IRS figure you owe a million and a half, maybe two and at least two of your jobs are under investigation, fraud.” The man, Jackie Jackson, was in no place to argue and anyway these guys were obviously not the IRS. “Demolition must be lucrative.” He shrugged. One of the four read a list of the buildings he had ‘pulled.’ He looked at Jackie, “Impressive.” Jackie thanked him.

“So could you pull say the twin towers?” Jackie’s eyes widened, “well yes or no?”

“Yes sure they’re steel ain’t they.”

“Mr Jackson,” the main guy fixed on Jackie, “this job could wave that IRS bill and your likely prosecutions and pay two million bucks on top. You interested?” Jackie calculated.

“So you must be government, CIA or something, and this is no ordinary job right? Yep I’m interested.”

“Can you prep the buildings with no one noticing? I should tell you lots of the floors are empty now. And your guys, are they good Americans?”

“You got plans?” One of the four spread some large sheets on the table for Jackie to peruse. “Lots of room, that’s good, but there’ll be dust and banging, and it’ll take a lot of time. But why do you want to pull them?”

“All we want from you is can you do it and can you do it on the button when we want?”

Jackie agreed, “and they’ll be empty right?”

“The buildings will be empty and so will the surrounding blocks. We will arrange that. And what might remain as evidence they were pulled?”

“Oh it’s an insurance scam, sure I’ve done, well you probably know about them right. OK well the steel will show Thermite shears, it needs to be cleared up asap. I know a scrap guy does that sort of thing, but he ain’t cheap, but he’s a good American.” Jackie added with a smile. “The Thermite burns like crazy so there’s nothing left of that, and the rest is one great pile of rubble.”

“That’s all we want to know at this stage. And Mr Jackson if any of this gets out you will be prosecuted for tax evasion, insurance fraud and, well you get the picture. And tell your guys that too. We’re not people you can mess with.”

“So when do you want them pulled?” “We’ll tell you that later.”

A Flight of Fancy.

Mel had been briefed, the meeting was ready, and showing a new trick was the best part for any magician.

“So the trick is we fly two scheduled airliners with passengers into two tall buildings,” he paused, “with no loss of life right. Tall order.” The four faces round the table showed no emotion.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. OK, Boston say has fifteen flights an hour, near a hundred thousand passengers a day and this, before it all happens, is just an ordinary day. Right. OK the art of magic is to make things happen while people’s attention is on something else. In this case everybody’s just getting to where they want to go and dealing with passengers, planes and stuff. So a scheduled flight, say TM105 rolls up to Gate 32 empty. It has a passenger list and crew all there on the computers all booked in by phone. No one asks if they’re really there, they just assume people don’t pay for tickets to Miami or where ever and not turn up. So all these not-there people gather at Gate 32 and even the people at Gate 31 don’t think anything of 32 being empty, they walk past empty gates all the time. The pilot of TM105 walks up the tunnel to the boarding desk with an envelope full of tickets and passes them through the reader, they’re now all onboard. If necessary someone checks in some suitcases to make it look real. The baggage handlers stow the baggage, the in-flight meals are delivered and the plane fuelled while the pilot keeps the tower informed. TM105 rolls out and takes off for Miami. So far only two, maybe three people know what’s going on.” The four nod and smile.

“Some time latter TM105 goes off air and reappears as an empty flight to Portland to pick up passengers with your drone plane in the vicinity ready to take its place. OK so far so good, no one will remember anything funny and all that’s left as evidence is computer records and they’re all fine. But what about the lives of these passengers, they have to be real somehow? Have you ever wanted to disappear? I mean screw the wife and kids, I want out, new start, yes? So place an ad, discreet, and interview people, offer 100k and a new identity. You can do that right?” they nod.

“You see relatives of the deceased couldn’t keep up an act but the deceased can and even make a desperate last minute phone call and then that’s it, silence. Who’s really going to check where the mobile call was made from, it’s obvious, from the plane. After it all goes down the ‘deceased’ can’t admit to being part of the biggest scam in history and the relatives will be emotional even if they hate the son of a bitch and collect the insurance money. Any questions?” The four round the table look at each other and begin to applaud. “Then once the buildings are empty they collapse, no one gets hurt and the enemies of the US can get what’s coming to them.” The main man of the four stands up, “And that gentlemen is the plan.”

Tourette’s and Turrets.

9pm a program to form a band from Tourette’s sufferers, 11pm Game of Thrones. The Tourettes were lovely and manageable individually but as one of them said, “get us together and we kick each other off.” True. Addressing six of them together looked like trying to talk to a bunch of football supporters in the throws of watching an invisible match. But they were endlessly surprising and popping with energy. Game of Thrones was remorselessly remorseful and predictable, good and bad and conflict writ large in tooth and claw, drama well suited to one’s 3D high definition home entertainment system. The cast: Drodak- rough, old, honourable, hard consonants stitched together with insignificant vowels. Lantarna- ageing but beautiful and slender wife of Drodak. Slarn- evil white haired, thin-faced prince in impatient waiting. Un-named minion- survivor of the Izon Karkaraks but beheaded for returning safely; killed off so early he barely made the cast list. Bra- sullen, bare-chested swarth, slanty eyebrowed leader of the Swarths from Swarthlandia. Seeani- young, demure, nice tits, tragically betrothed to Bra in exchange for his army by her evil brother, Slarn. The list goes on. Once one’s read the list of character names it’s unnecessary to bother with the seventeen, thousand page novels that the Game of Thrones is based on. It can be summed up in the NLP saying, “If you always do what you’ve always done you’ll always get what you always got.” So bring on the Tourettes. Fak!!! Fat shit!! Nob jockey!! Hit ‘im! Squeak.

A Meeting of Women.

Half an hour before my appointment at Hoopers, Woodseats premier ladies hairdressing salon, I get a phone call from Mothermouse, already seated in said establishment, for a ham and mustard sandwich. I arrive with plate and quartered sandwich to much cooing admiration and marriage proposals. I bask in the attention and kick myself for not realising much earlier in life that delivering a ham and mustard sandwich to a ladies hairdresser would offer such bounty. This is rudely cut short by an ex member of staff arriving with her new baby. A sandwich cannot compete with a baby and I’m left looking at myself in the large ageing mirror whilst everyone plays pass the parcel with the bundle of joy. I attempt to be not bitter and smile weakly at the offspring. I enjoy my monthly visits to this haven of femininity as an Inuit might holiday in the Maldives. Zephyrs of warm air placate my normally arduous life with its constant need of heat and meat and feats of mending. It’s life but not as I know it Cap’n. Conversation is on a level of sun cream and bikinis and the planning of good times with only the odd reference to the pain of child berth and its subsequent repercussions. It’s as if condensing boilers had never been invented, or if they have and go wrong there’s always a handy Inuit to mend it. So here I am, a reindeer in Calcutta, shedding my winter coat like there’s no tomorrow. OK Fred’s terse short-back-and-sides may be half the price but you don’t get a foreign holiday thrown in.

A Meeting of Men.

So I get an invitation to ‘A Meeting of Men’, to ‘become a warrior of the 5th world in power and beauty’, £395, fully catered, an ‘investment in myself and the planets future.’ Quite cheap then. It’s to be lead by Johannes Star Light Carrier Schroeder who I’ve met and observed several times, a nice guy but rather anal. I too easily imagine him in an Austrian house where all things are scrupo clean and arranged parallel or perpendicular to appropriate room boundaries. Being an ex covered-in-mud-and-bruises moto-cross racer and free jazz player this 5th World doesn’t appeal. Where Johannes appears to want to be prepared for our impending social chaos with power and beauty I’ve spent my life welcoming it in. I’ve just watched a doc on the jazz greats where each one searched on the shoulders of their forbears for a greater chaotic connection with some source of being that one player perfectly described as, “This is.” Ornette Coleman for example made a giant chaotic leap into no time, no fixed key or chord structure. To some it’s cacophony but to me it carries the source of some exquisite precarious exploration and energy, quite the opposite of power and beauty. These terms sound nice but I can’t relate to them. Those I admire as holy or wise human beings don’t strive for power and creative artists don’t fundamentally strive for beauty. Both are concerned with something far more exquisite. I find those who strive for power and beauty more prosaic, more fearful of the adventure of chaos. To me all this defines the difference between risk and containment. I played in a Coleman-esc trio a while back and found myself ‘in’ the complete sound, connected with the whole rather than playing my individual part in it. It wasn’t power or beauty; it was connection. So thanks Johannes but you lost me at ‘A Meeting of Men’, I’d far rather go to gay pride where I can be fabulous.


And then along comes Steven Tyler to save me from my mouldy thoughts and who I would gladly pay £395, fully catered, for ‘A Meeting of Men.’ This is his 90-minute interview talking to Opra Winfry. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QwTTf6B6C8w
He is the best selling US rock star of all time with Aerosmith, a performing monkey, a survivor of eight spells in re-hab, and at 63 still has the open chaotic curiosity of a child. He radiates amazing sexual energy and for me a lightening rod to the divine. I guess it seems plebeian to revere a rock idol as a spiritual guide over someone like Johannes who is dedicated to that role. One on the panel of American Idol with a mouth big enough to take a leg of lamb and the other a quietly spoke Austrian, one who wants to teach and the other who has no intention to. It reminds me of a Rumi saying, “Yesterday I was clever and wanted to change the world. Today I am wise so I’m changing myself.” One would think that is a move towards introspection but I believe it’s not that simple. Every moment’s introspection must be preceded by a thousand moments of outro-spection. But it seems totally topsy-turvy to think that too much introspection makes one want to change the world and outro-spection suggests one change oneself. I mean what has doing back flips on stage whilst pitch perfect screaming got to do with wisdom and spirituality? Well every moment of introspection engenders feelings of cleverness that take a thousand moments of harsh reality to eradicate. Too many and you feel fit to teach others in order to change the world. I’m sure Johannes knows what he knows; I just don’t want to be a part of the world he wants to change.