17 February 2014


This is worth breaking the drought for, I reckon. I let the Herald know the caption was wrong when someone drew my attention to it a few days ago, but their journalistic regard for accuracy doesn't seem to extend to fixing it.


In other news, I've had a concussion since early December. Tapping words into a screen is quite hard going, so I'll stop now. Might try again later, or I'll leave it for another year.

13 June 2013

How creepy is this?

The NSA is following Rose on Twitter!

That is, if it really is the NSA. Still funny though. And creepy. Don't forget the creepy.

03 June 2013

Ye gods

All these struggles of god with god, power against power, the gods feeling those forces they are thought to control crackling at their fingertips; this separation of the power from the god, the god reduced to no more than a sort of word, falling, an effigy dedicated to the most hideous idolatries; this seismic din and physical convulsion in the heavens; this way of riveting sky into heaven, earth onto earth; these mansions and expanses of heaven which are handed on and pass from mind to mind, with each of us, inside our heads, refashioning our gods; this interim occupation of heaven, here by a god and his wrath, there by the same god mutated; this takeover of power, succeeded as though by the perpetual spasmodic pulsation, top to bottom and back again, of other takeovers of power; this respiration of cosmic faculties, similar, on a higher level to the coarse and buried faculties dormant within our own individual natures – and for every faculty there is a corresponding god and a power, and we are heaven on earth, and they have become the earth, the earth drawn into the absolute...
– Antonin Artaud, Heliogabalus: Or, the crowned anarchist

31 May 2013

23 May 2013

Next week

11 May 2013


30 April 2013

Oh well

I have recently thought to myself, 'I should probably update my blog with something other than silly photos and videos.' Then I sit there in front of a blank screen for a while, until I give it up as a bad job and watch Doctor Who instead.

Oh yes, I've been watching a lot of Doctor Who.

I've also been reading about John Heartfield, the photomonteur and famously angry person. Near the end of World War I, after a night out with his fellow Dadas drinking heavily and snorting cocaine, he 'became so unruly that we had to restrain him'. They tied him to a chair and then taunted and provoked him 'with words and blows', so they could enjoy the resulting tirade of rage.

The things you had to do to amuse yourself in war-torn Berlin!

When I recounted that anecdote to Rose, she said 'Ooh! Can we do that to you?'

23 April 2013

Serious Fall discussion

20 April 2013

The resurrection

Aaaaand we're back.

14 April 2012

A waking dream

When the fluidity, the flexibility of thought – fluid flexible thought – calcifies into belief, it dies. That shimmering white figure flitting between the trees falls to the ground and turns solid and leaden grey, to be dragged away to the city and placed in yet another edifice looming over the benighted hordes scurrying on their pointless pursuits below.

That abstract edifice made of elusive illusions, that blank featureless face relieved only by the odd grimacing gargoyle, spattered with the blood of the bodies hurled from the roof, who fall into the crowds of hunched brown and black figures thronging the narrow streets with a faint wet splat.

In a forgotten and neglected district of that city there sits, crammed between a uniform outfitters and a propaganda outlet, a small cafe. It only ever has a couple of people sitting at its cracked formica tables with their wonky legs, never less, never more, no matter the time of day or night you push through the door to take your place at the counter and nurse your drink for hours, your overcoat on the stool beside you, forlorn.

Your phone rings, earning you a sharp recriminatory glare from the man in a scarf in the corner.

'Where are you?'


'Are you coming home soon?'


The Cafe Nowhere, in a forgotten and neglected district of the city, crammed between a uniform outfitters and a propaganda outlet. The Cafe Nowhere. Where the music sounds like the grinding of gears.

Where the music sounds like the grinding of gears.
visitors since 29 March 2004.