All things flow

about time. And Scotland shuts down because of wind, and I sit in a internet cafe and feel the world again.


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Transglobal Underground – Air Giant

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The Greenville Massif: “Everything (ft Kat Boelskov)”

The Absurd Life

All things float, or nothing does. I feel a strangeness in me. A return not to previous bad feelings, but something different. Its the sense of oldness. That all has been done, that all is ever so predictable. That every action from others is how I would expect it. But this is no-one’s issue. The issue is in me. Help Yourself. It can’t be forced. See the last 2 years have been years of nonstop lust for life. A lust that is nearly sexual in nature, the desire to fuck the world in a wonderful way, but no sense of domination, just flow. I’ve called it zen, being, and when i was at its heights, i literally had no idea what it would be like not to feel that good all the time. I look at what has caused the downfall. And its all me again. Because i haven’t stepped into the traps of life-drugs, haven’t grown obsessed by a love, or allowed chemicals or achievements to overpower me. I have taken alot on, and feel the starin of that pressure at times. But thats not it either, I have always loved pressure. So the reasons are still murky to me. And I know with all thats in me that the tripping balls on life feelings will come. The feeling that no matter how predictable the world is, there is joy in every small moment. Sitting on a bus and the sun peeks out. The taste of a tomato and mayonnaise toast sandwich. A kiss. The feeling of muscles screaming in the gym, or the wheezy crunch sound of rugby tackling someone. The sound of perfect techno, or mixing two tracks together to make something new. The moment when you stand in front of a crowd of people and explain your visions and dreams. Talking to my sisters about teen life and my brother about his most recent crazy sexual escapade. Being a pillar for mum. Being a pillar for others. Thats what i live for. And want to feel flow again. I hurt people over and over my entire life. A penance needs to be repaid. Irish guilt secularised within me. I see a world in turmoil and see the possible paths that lead from here. See the fact that the world will be so different in a handful of years and so excited I am alive today. Because this is the moment we all decide where the world goes; chaos or a new world. When a drunken man tells me he is proud of me, and I hug a friend who needs one, I feel two sides of a feeling; embarrassment and pride. Because pride in self is always best as an action, pride in your doing something. For someone. Being given words always feel undeserved. Its the action of someone who was sad a minute ago, smiling now. That is all thats needed. I can fly, can be an animal again, flowing and being of the world, connecting with people and being a living examplar for how stress and unhappiness can be bent to your will. But I dont know if i need to remember the old zen ways, or rediscover them. Because the collection of actions that led to the original zen of being is not something i can recreate. Such was the newness of the expereinces that August. But it must come from wihtin me. Because in the end that has to be fine before i can help anyone else. In the mythology I have creatd for the new world, I return to the well, fall down it to the very bottom. And then I can look up again, at the starry night sky, and feel the flow of all. And rise out of the well again. To go to another myth, as Camus says:

The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory’s eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

Listen Up

Black Keys – Lonely Boy


Occupy Well-Being

From Jules:

 looking at Occupy, I realized the two movements have now come together: both the revolutionary anarchism of 1968, and the human potential movement of the 1970s. Occupy is now the revolutionary arm of the politics of well-being. The protestors take classes in meditation, in well-being economics, in ’emotion work’ and performance theatre. The personal is tied to the political.

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Joy Zipper – 2 Dreams I had

Tuesday Poem


1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats         5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….         10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go         35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare         45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60
  And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress         65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,         90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,         100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,         115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …         120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.         125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


For when heart is pain and wonder.

Sunday Fun

Simpler then cricket 😉

Potatoes are Awesome

I know an irishman and his potatoes is a cliche, but this article on potatoes is fantastic both in writing style & content. Potatoes were the beginning of industrial agriculture, pesticides, fuelled imperial expansion & the industrial revolution & in Ireland showed the dangers of over reliance on a single food. Key quote.

Many researchers believe that the potato’s arrival in northern Europe spelled an end to famine there. (Corn, another American crop, played a similar but smaller role in southern Europe.) More than that, as the historian William H. McNeill has argued, the potato led to empire: “By feeding rapidly growing populations, [it] permitted a handful of European nations to assert dominion over most of the world between 1750 and 1950.” The potato, in other words, fueled the rise of the West.

Equally important, the European and North American adoption of the potato set the template for modern agriculture—the so-called agro-industrial complex. Not only did the Columbian Exchange carry the potato across the Atlantic, it also brought the world’s first intensive fertilizer: Peruvian guano. And when potatoes fell to the attack of another import, the Colorado potato beetle, panicked farmers turned to the first artificial pesticide: a form of arsenic. Competition to produce ever-more-potent arsenic blends launched the modern pesticide industry. In the 1940s and 1950s, improved crops, high-intensity fertilizers and chemical pesticides created the Green Revolution, the explosion of agricultural productivity that transformed farms from Illinois to Indonesia—and set off a political argument about the food supply that grows more intense by the day.

Read it all.

What comes after Capitalism?

Article in the Guardian on the clashes in Times Square:

This is a photograph of a turning point in history, not because the Occupy movement will necessarily succeed (whatever success might be) but because it has revealed the profoundly new possibilities of debate in a world that so recently seemed to agree about economic fundamentals. Occupy Wall Street and the global movement it is inspiring may yet prove to be an effective call for change, or a flash in the pan. That is not the point. Nor does it even matter if the protest is right or wrong. What matters is that unfettered capitalism, a force for economic dynamism that seemed unassailable, beyond reproach or reform, a monster we learned to be grateful for, suddenly finds its ugliness widely commented on, exposed among the lights of Times Square. The emperor of economics has no clothes.

I of course agree with this, but despair at the idea elsewhere in the article that communism might be an answer. It is not. A new system, building on the failed systems of capitalism and communism is what has the potential to emerge. And my feeling it centres on the separation of labour and capital completely. I can’t say more right now, but I have hints of it.





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Braids -Lemonade

Rugby World Cup Predictions

So, these are my predictions for the rest of the RWC:


Ireland – Wales = Ireland Win

England – France = England win

Australia – South Africa = South Africa win


Ireland – England = Ireland Win

New Zealand – South Africa = South Africa win


Ireland – South Africa – South Africa win

The Myth of the American Underdog

It has always fascinated me how American films and popular culture often attempt to cast the American in the role of underdog, despite America being the most powerful country the world has ever known. This ties in with the general ideal of the American Dream, that anyone can overcome any obstacle if they work hard enough to fulfill their dreams. Sometimes though this takes a surreal bent, particular in American Sports Movies. The US team always has to be cast in the underdog role, this most absurdly occurring in the Mighty Ducks Two, where the little ol’ USA takes on the mighty Iceland. As an irishman whose sports teams never like to be favorites, I can relate, especially with a crucial RWC game against Wales coming up…

Notice the slicked back hair of the Iceland coach below for added evil…



Listen Up

Junior Boys – In the Morning

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