Fatal Chip Shop Strategy

I no longer want

To see things from inside

The same pillow, held.

From now on all is a ‘fatal strategy’.

Even standing in the queue at

The chip shop

Is a breath away from the

World sliding into extinction.

It must be taken to the end,

Retched out to a view

From from outside

The pit, where

There is only absurd

Laughter and one perturbed man

With a scoop full of stuff

That now has no meaning,

As he stares hopelessly

At the salt and pepper shakers.

It must be that simple.

The raw-ness of raw evenings,

And all the things you can’t say,

The utter pointless, swerve of

A future that is as stupid and undecided as you,

And the bombs will come and the children will die

And the images and films will be the same;

But there is never a reason.

It must be that simple.

It must be that simple

The greater good.

I always wonder what would happen if

The people who crowd the streets with

Such moral indignation,

And the obvious lick of the good and the true,

Were given their way,

Would utopia dawn, would a world of

Complete peace be the answer,

The completion of the dialectic?

No, but the point is the action

The pointless, heroic failure

Getting to the truth is not the goal

Knowing it won’t happen, that is the function.

The real reason for the horror is never

Defined and is probably dull and banal.

The conspiracy:

we live for the mystery

And the things they don’t say

Are the things in ourselves we don’t want to know.

So march March on, but know

You are walking away from the Real.

Why I like listening to records. Pt.1 A Comedy.

A normal house party scene: groups of bodies coagulated into corners and narrow hallways, scattered glass bottles and aluminium cans, the shift, the sway and the rumble punctuated by the occasional shouty cretin.  Then there’s me, drink in hand, staring at a familiar unrecognisable contortion on the face of the person I have found myself talking to. After exhausting all the rigorous and deft questions, that are destined to be posed by 2 drunken objects looking for a potential connection in the fug of bodies, it happens without fail when these words are spoken: I listen to records.

‘Yep, the vinyl ones, the big black disk things.’

...

‘No, I’m not a’ wronged up DJ who pops beats in a phat style’ and what is that odd hand gesture you’re doing?’

Once they realise I simply play these ‘things’ just to myself, for no exterior gain, for no promise of bitches or bling, I’m always treated to a raised eyebrow and a tone of voice that manages the synthesis of both suspicion and wonder; a bewildering moment which I think neither of us know how to deal with in an increasingly inebriated social interaction.

There is something incomprehensible about refusing what is seen as the best and as the apex of cultural capital. Society has progressed, eliminated the need for flawed technologies already perfected by our new form of speed; who wouldn’t agree, no one wants to be a Luddite? Yet, there is a certain attraction to refusing to accept what is most readily believed and records still have an ideology of cool; there is always a glut of renegades queuing in East London on Record Store Day to get their hands on a piece of the cool; a retro injection of the intangible past excitement of something with substance between their grubby consumer fingers.

So where do I stand?  Am I a badass maverick or a tragic wanker clinging to a set of slowly dying ideals? I like to think I’m a bit of both.

I’ve had a record player for about 2 years; it was one of the first things I bought after something terrible happened to me, basically I slipped between that crack on the plane of instinct. I tripped and disappeared into that dreadful aperture commonly known as a full-time job, responsibility and a disposable income – I know, I know but I was naive and incredibly stupid and I gave to all those voices that were telling me that’s where I belonged – this is relevant by the way. 

So I tried to fit in and become fully at one with my ‘final destination’ and to create a distraction from that dull ache in the belly, that comes from the unknowing participation in a system of futile accumulation, by starting to buy stuff; fantastic misrecognised, ideologically soaked stuff; I needed it to tell me who I was, in the absence of a soul, I needed stuff.  I entered into the role slightly askance but I pushed on my magic cloak of pretence and hoped no one would notice. My record player is a relic of that time.

Therefore, it came to pass that I defied all can be gained instantaneously through the internet at a quality much greater than the crackle, hiss and skip of a turntable system and this is why: I had a very clear image in my mind of a warmly lit room with a singular desk in the corner upon which was a small lamp. Its glow produced a beacon and a halo to my head, which was visible as a silhouette arched over a laptop (or typewriter), while I was tapping away on a piece of sublime prose or poetry; there was a glass of whisky by my hand, from which I would sporadically take a gulp then shake my head and gaze at the ceiling. In addition, for some elusive reason, there was a layer of cigarette smoke floating through the scene, even though I don’t smoke and would probably be choking, but anyway it was there. The record player sat on a cabinet to one side producing the sweet sound of a 1930’s music hall, leaving me a fibre shaking between its intangibility, and thus completing the scene. 

It’s a vaguely hackneyed picture, which I find obviously aberrant and must question what it was doing in my head – looking back now I can see that it was one of them, a solidified form of my alienated desire, an abstract idea foisted upon a solid object; an ideology, a commodity. Not one I had created, not a glorious convulsion of the absurd, not a collection of parts seeped with personal meanings, but a prewired template taken wholesale from some Unconscious Cultural newsagent.

This is what its evil little voices said: hey, hey, MG, guess what? You’re tired, you lack inspiration and all you can think about is the ever flowing ructions that ooze from that suit strewn abyss [the evil voices are known to be particularly obscure]. Here, look here, some things, ooooohhh yeah; you see this thing here [points to record player#], you need this, you need this because of this [gestures towards an ethereal image of the aforementioned whisky scene floating before my face, shimmering]. Oooooohhhh yeessss, this thing will make you a better writer and a more romantic, deep and profound person with all the time you need, look, look at this image of the future, this is what you will become; yeeesss [pats me on back and takes money from my back pocket – I put my hand out to the image and it immediately turns to sand].

Of course, now that I have stopped rowing on that infernal boat, I realise that all those cacophonous voices were ever saying was simply: ‘We can make the absences you feel, the qualities you lack, into the glorious presence of fulfilment’. A futile wish; they get you when you're down. What they* never mention is that they are the ones that have stolen the enjoyment you don’t have in the first place; it’s basically a blackmail which lasts FOREVER where you must pay in order to get back a bit of what they stole, and what you do get back is now useless. Oh the irony.

So I fell for it and I found myself with this thing in my room, an object consumed, and another failed ideology kicked to death by its diversion past the boot of capital, it faded and disappeared into the banality of the room, a forgotten potential. There it stayed, ensconced within its dust blanket, until something wonderful and unexpected happened. A rediscovery.

TBC...

# Yes, the voices have arms.

 *As a quick side note, I do realise I have displaced that inherent lack, that we all must accept and take on our back in order to enter into the Symbolic realm (society) and therefore not slip into the bliss of psychosis, onto work and capital, but that’s my particular want you may choose your own object, you decide who 'they' are.