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Posted 21 February 2003, 9.09 pm by Shaggy

I hear the drip of the drops
and I wonder all the time
Whether or not they mean anything

I feel sex awakening me
I feel the sun against my back
and I wonder all the time,
Whether or not this means something

Everything is a symbol, I think
Everything is something to be taken
The way you act,
Who you fuck
Where you fuck
It all has some meaning, some greater scheme

If you do not believe me,
Try doing something against your perception of normal
And see what return
There shall be

See what will come back and how hard
See who's opinion changes or is destroyed

If you doubt that everything is a sign for something else,
Then how can you explain these words?

Strip It Down

Posted 21 February 2003, 4.57 am by Villager

What an incredible volume of shit we all wade through each day. From childhood we sacrifice armies of brain cells trying to make sense of the confusion in which we exist. Trying to bring order to chaos. Trying to decipher the immense labyrinthine environment which constantly changes and expands around us. Not only do we have this task placed upon our shoulders, we must do it within the superstructure of society which those around us and before us saw fit to put in place. The young mind is both stimulated by this environment and stifled by its expectations and inflexibility. We struggle to breath in the air which we know and are taught, yet the air we know not, which deep down we long for, is now poisoned beyond salvation. We are irrevocably the products of our education and the proverbial child within can do nothing more than try to separate the superficial from the tangible in a long and bitter battle to identify one's true self, rather than the strange figure that stares back in the mirror.

Trouble is, if you spend long enough floating between superstructure and acknowledging (and then, crucially, embracing) your own feelings and emotions, gradually they both dissolve away, leaving little more than a forlorn residue of apathy. Persisting with life's quirks and amusements, in an immature, inane belief that deliverance from boredom and emotional lethargy will be taken away just as effortlessly as it was imposed, will eventually produce a sour mental incontinence, perhaps manifested in alcohol, violence, or in a desire for danger or solitude. Those of us who were tampered with more than most are sewn into a mould which hardens with time and abuse, a process which is harder to stop than to worsen. The mind cannot withstand flux and insecurity for a great length of time without suffering significant damage, something which is far harder and time consuming to undo. Those stitches which scar us cannot easily be removed, they are even harder to recover from. The scars will always tell a story.

What, then, if anything, can be done to curtail the bleeding of the mind? How do we claw back the knowledge and confidence we vaguely remember possessing as children? In truth I am not convinced it can be done. I have come a long way since I first realised that the world with which I was presented didn't fit with what was inside, but I'm not sure that I'm any closer to finding out what does. It would be easy to blame this corruption on materialism and false worth. A child can be easily tempted to become lost in the pretend delights of what you can touch and be surprised by, and this imperceptible devil even manages to keep some of them for life. But what comes of those who earn the ability to see the world for what it really is? What is truth without importance?

Strip it down and all you have left is a naked, lonely animal, sensitive to pain and with an extensive spectrum of desires and impulses. The seeming simplicity of these traits is twisted and malformed by the toxic effect of environment. Understanding a person without a world is as impossible as it is pointless. Much as it might seem ideal, we cannot exist in a state of indulgence and ignorance; it would be imperfect and impractical. Human nature would not allow it. We must, then, wrestle with the fetid impositions for identity and some kind of tolerable order. The key to having everything you want is to want as little as possible. If we can identify what honestly stimulates and soothes the naked, lonely animal in each of us, then we are able to build and shape the complex and demanding world around us to better reflect the more basic, innate needs we possess. I am neither old enough nor wise enough to know where the quest, for what is ultimately satisfaction, contentedness and freedom from the different kinds of torment, will end. After all, that's what we really mean when we blurt out that we want to be happy, isn't it?

1980s Commercials

Posted 19 February 2003, 7.15 pm by Craig

Visit Site.

Writings and such of Quinn

Posted 19 February 2003, 12.21 am by Unforgiven

Writings/Speeches by Daniel Quinn, Sine I know a few grinders at least have read his work, and a good thing for someone interested in his work, but doesn't want to invest the time into a book. Whether or not you agree with him, it's interesting.


Posted 18 February 2003, 8.13 pm by Arguile

I've never felt like I feel now
I don't think anything can compare
Everything is beyond belief
I suppose it's not fair
That I'm to feel this way

How many others have had what I had?
Did they realize it too late like me,
Or did they cherish it until it fled
You're part of all that I will be
And nothing we do will change that

I can't tell you what you mean
I can't show you how I feel
Like the sands of time, you've slipped away
Beyond my grasp, beyond my reach
But still I flee through the hourglass
Stretching for a single grain
That resembles all that I once had
And all that I've ever wanted

Every song I sing brings a tear
Every word I write brings me pain
So much self-inflicted torment
Showering me like masochistic rain
Reminding me of what I once had

But still I grasp to thin straws
No matter how I need to be free
I know that I cannot let this be gone
Because it would take a piece of me
And leave a void where it once sat

I can't tell you what you mean
I can't show you how I feel
Like the sands of time, you've slipped away
Beyond my grasp, beyond my reach
Like Alice down the rabbit hole
I blindly leap for something unseen
Knowing that it could lead me home
Or someplace I could relate

Download the Internet

Posted 18 February 2003, 7.03 pm by Craig

Visit Site.

A Virtual Paradise

Posted 18 February 2003, 6.12 am by firebrand

If one is of the bookish persuasion that is.

Just in case you haven't found it yet:

classics. online. free.

Prequel To BushStar Wars 2003

Posted 17 February 2003, 11.57 pm by eggmachine


War is looming. The Empire of Blair and Bush are projecting the overthrow of Saddam Hussein, who is not only the most evil man on the planet, but is obstructing them from taking enough oil to fuel their empire for a while longer. Iraq’s client government-in-exile are discussing how to apportion the spoils. Britain is preparing to demonstrate again against this pain-bringing war. The world is demonstrating again against this pain-bringing war.

Got up 6.30.
The papers (which usually all-but-ignore demonstrations) have printed a map of London with the routes shown as sweeping arrows, a programme like you’d have for Glastonbury of the after-demo rally in Hyde Park, with speakers including Tariq Ali, Tony Benn, Mo Mowlam, Ken congestioncharge Livingstone, Bianca Jagger (whose husband ‘allegedl’y’ thru a tv set thru the window of a hotel near Hyde Park), Charles Kennedy, Jesse Jackson headlining and music from Ms. Dynamite-ee-hee and Damon Albarn, once part of Tony Blair’s Cool Britannia of Blur, Oasis, Damien Hirst all go to hip parties in our new-grooving capital.
I’ve ate my sandwiches in the night so I make some more out of Gromit’s kitchen.
Taxi with Gromit to pick up Fli for 7.45 meet at Memorial Gardens next to the new expensive flats that look like a fourpack of square liqueur flasks.
Fli is amazingly up and prepared with money and a bottle of white lightning. I don’t agree with the stuff, but it is a must for a protest of such ridiculously UndemocraticTerroristsDontAppreciateBlair’sConviction-al dimensions as 2million people walking through London.
Taxi driver’s brother is going. He’ll be watching the telly footage. Of course he agrees entirely this war is a nasty sadist fantasy.
People are milling round the grass triangle. We tell the poet Brinley Price we’ll save him a seat on the coach. We are Coach 19, Wynn Travel with green and blue floppy parallelograms on the side like the harmoniums from The Sirens of Titan (Kurt Vonnegut). Our coach fills up with all manner of people who all agree that Blair is making a murderously stupid mistake in going to bed I mean war with George Bush. Someone gets on the coach and asks Is Jane Austen on this coach? and gets off again. We suspect Bart Simpson sent him.

Darth Blair paces sinisterly around his chambers, nibbling at a ciabatta. His human-rights wife is being exposed by the media again, and even the police’s underestimates of the protesters’ numbers would send the anti-war movement hyperventilating with optimism. Darth Blair can’t sleep nights. Anxiety shows on the faces of his lieutenants, Jack Straw and Dave Blunkett. Darth Blair is taking valium.
Already he has lost a minister of transport and a minister of schools to senseless blunders.
Is his whole government to be next?

We reach London around 12.30. We’re late, but join the march on the north route from Gower Street.
Soon, Gromit, Fli and myself lose our banner amidst

All the people
So many people
And they all go hand in hand
Hand iin hand to
Say- - -

We don’t want your racist war
Stop the killing stop the hate
(x 57)

and you only pass a couple of replicated police every 20 minutes and its obvious that this isn’t a usual-suspects demo, it isn’t even a leftwing demo, it’s a demo of anyone who is intelligent and honest enough to come to London to pronounce their prime minister a warmongering fool.
Fli is recording on the dictaphone, Gromit is doing visuals, there’s banners and people waving out of windows and playing All You Need Is Love out of windows, and a samba band and Bradford punks and a troop of space hopper peace cadets

Space hoppers
Not Star Wars

And 12 foot high puppets of Uncle Sam and a Quentin Blakey man, and teachers and people waving placards saying Stop Insulting Poodles, and people with banners showing Tony as Bush’s poodle, and children on megaphones, and people up and down as far as you can see, it takes us 6 hours to ‘march’ 3 miles and so we all chant

-War -
-What is it good for?
-Absolutetely nuttin…
-Say it again-
(x 46)

We miss all the speeches, but have a funpacked day of being in the right place, rather than being a devious politico who spends all our taxes on focus groups, but doesn’t realise the biggest demonstration in British history means he isn’t paying any attention to our views.
He’d rather be swapping wives with Bush.

Bush and Blair sitting in a tree

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This is in response to the poem 'Business Girls' by John Betjeman. It's ink washes. I was attempting to depict the grime and toil of the subject matter by using a widely recognised symbol of business life - the train.

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Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness


80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!


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