The traditions I inherited are not important. They are simply traditions, and like most traditions are a mixture. Some contain a little Wisdom; there are bits of insight; bits of real esoteric knowledge. And an awful lot of mystification as well as some fables. Each individual must assess them for themselves - if they are useful, fine. If not - fine. If you are interested, the traditions are: some of the rituals in 'Story' by Robert McKee, certain techniques of creativity (e.g. Esoteric Chant; Insight Roles) and certain esoteric 'knowledge' connected with the Arp, Wolman and Debord, mythos and the Septenary system of Perec - the sigils, some chants, words, and septenary correspondences.
It is Tuesday today, I have done a little writing, but not as much as I should as I am recovering from a four day binge .... exhuasted. I have been to the baker's shop and secured two scones a caramel slice and a French cake, and I'll eat them all with tea at about 5 o’clock .... it's the last turd on the hangover, things'll turn up after a feed like that.
When not with each other, my pal Donald and I pace through the town looking for interesting editions of Penguins, and today I found a most unusual copy of DEMIAN by Herman Hesse, which I had to stuff up my jumper because I'd spent all my money on cakes. I ran off.
Torrents have been around for ages now, and are almost ancient history. Do you remember the music file sharing site Napster?
A torrent is a tiny file you download and that will direct your computer to other computers. A popular one is Torrentz.eu. Like Project Free TV, and many other legal or barely legal sites, Torrentz doesn't host the torrent files, it just directs you to the sites that host the torrents, and this means it is able to give a lot of results.
Once the torrent file is downloaded, you need to add it to a downloader, such as a program called uTorrent. uTorrent is small but very powerful and when your torrent file is added to it, it will start finding other computers that are sharing the TV show or movie. This way a 1 hour HD episode of a show or film can be downloaded in under half an hour.
Is it the case that the moguls of the Twentieth Century are watching this process carry on, and wondering what massive and overwhelming operation they can conceive of to crush it? Not to defend the torrent users, but they cannot.
Thus it is probably up to us a collective entity of producers, artists, distributors and users to come together with new models.
It’s happening already. New models are being tried and are working at the grassroots level, meaning they will work too when they evolve further up the chain.
Writers sometimes give away e-books for free and generate audiences for their paid works, or public appearances.
The band Death Grips had their third album downloaded an amazing 30 million times — because they released it for free. It worked for them — what would work for you?
Some may search this, while others may re-earth this thing called consternation in the net-book of mental pages where there are displayed two stages of rage like stage one : I am introduced to sway as a young fry one day then stage two I'm getting it the hell out of me YEA I put that shit on hold : "I must welcome you to this website and bring to you an announcement of intergalactic importance .... ladies and gentleman I'm the Voice of ConBy explosive specialist Panatenda Stacks the treacherous millenial expedition chief administrator of Perpetual Freedom, and I will f**uck you executives consecutively, I will test your chests out like trampolines YEA I will make the sky roll back like I'll make it all fold four fold and f**uck the dumb shit out of you, so you may not need to get smashed in a car crash quick or beaten with a half-eaten deadbeat chicken drumstick cause Peter Burnett summoned me to photocopy your entity and carol your dying ditty where hope draws up, you will not outlast him in specious buildings, and nor can you obscure a part of yourself in illiquid earnings, hear ye hear ye obliquities of hateful ways, and Peter's maniples are fired away so hereof let your study be as clear as shit, and ken that I wrote this ruled by Mr Hit. He is my dealer . . . . of course!!"
Aberdeen Journal, 31st August 2037:
The suburb of Gilcomston, which last week fell to the Gibleteers (one time of Holburn), is to be destroyed this evening at 6PM. The last team of arbiters, which left the area at noon on the 30th, complained bitterly at the state to which the citizens of "unoccupied” Aberdeen have been reduced.
"It stands to reason," said Chief Moderator Frunkie Meldrum, "that when one section of a populace lay claim to such a large proportion of the pies, the rest will begin to bray for blood."
The brief spell David Balfour spends on Erraid is one of the most evocative in all of Stevenson, I think so. The chapter titled ‘The Islet’ is a Treasure Island in miniature; it is the ghastly pain of Jekyll and Hyde; it’s even its own travelogue. David Balfour, soaking, and becoming more wet and exhausted by the minute, living off mussels, some of which go down well, some of which make him vomit - he never knows which, and the isolation - all are stunning drama.
‘The Islet’ begins with these words: ‘With my stepping ashore I began the most unhappy part of my adventures’; and ends with these words, some of the best in the book: ‘I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe they both get paid in the end; but the fools first.’
Only the first BBC version of Kidnapped makes an attempt to portray the Erraid set piece on film. The 1960 film replaces it with a mean Scots persona created by Duncan Macrae. In RLS’ Kidnapped, this character which appears in the chapter ‘Through the Isle of Mull’ is the impudent Gaelic cheat that attempts to guide Davie.
The story is that the original planners, when they willed the giant motorway under the town, wished to dig a tunnel for the cars so that none of the domestic harmony created by the several thousand adjacent hovels on the ground would have to be touched.
Here we are at Charing Cross in Glasgow and so much for that, because they tore them down. Two birds and one stone, old hovels gone away and new motorway placed in an analytic line from North to South.
The swathe of town they cut was over 100 metres wide, and at the point where I stand (and memorise this composition) the motorway is eight lanes deep and runs about thirty metres below ground level. The noise of all these engines thrashing at once is what attracted the planners to build this . . . yes, that and the fact that it may never stop.
In the public-house to die
Is my resolution;
Let wine to my lips be nigh
At life's dissolution:
That will make the angels cry,
With glad elocution,
"Grant this toper, God on high,
Grace and absolution!"
The Range of the Awful Hand is a range of hills in the Southern Uplands of Scotland, so called due to their resemblance to the fingers of a hand...
It's also the name of a band from Edinburgh, two members of which were formerly in Gilded Lil (check this Gilded Lil playlist if in any doubt as to the genius of that bunch.)
Download recent stuff from The Range of the Awful Hand here.
I have always been drawn to this description of the Black Plague in Scotland from Andrew of Wyntoun. Wyntoun was a Scottish poet, a canon and prior of Loch Leven on St Serf's Inch and later, a canon of St. Andrews.
Andrew Wyntoun is most famous for his Orygynale Cronykil of Scotland, which contains an early mention of Robin Hood. A striking feature in this description of the plague is the reiteration of the fact that every historian and chronicler repeats about the Black Death, that when it raged, a third of the population died from it. Actually, chroniclers in other countries have stated that anywhere between fifty and ninety percent of the population died.
Though the plague definitely hit Scotland in 1349, it seems to have been less damaging here than elsewhere, perhaps due to the harshness of the winter. Although this changed in 1350, the plague does also seem to have had an effect on English and Scottish relations.
I think I am most drawn in this to the cute word 'barnys' - 'bairns' to you and me. The Book of Pluscarden (Liber Pluscardensis) also talks of a third of the population being wiped out, so the figure must be fair.
In Scotland, the fyrst Pestilens
Begouth, off sa gret wyolens,
That it was sayd, off lywandf men
The thyrd part it destroyid then
Efftyr that in till Scotland
A yhere or more it was wedand
Before that tyme was never sene
A pestilens in our land sda kene:
Bathe men and barnys and women
It sparred noucht for to kille them.
The Tesco lager was an almost translucent, yellow colour, with a good amount of carbonation and short-lived, white head. The immediate aroma was of floral hops with some grassy tones, followed by a little graininess, and some faint malt in the background. Shortly after that I was flinging CDs across the room at Tadg, who was trying to play the trombone.
Passengers on one of Peter Burnett's delightful Skip Canyon Flys were stunned last week when Peter suddenly aimed the Cessner he was piloting straight for the pines.
Abruptly turning his light aircraft into a nose dive, and staring into the timber, Peter smiled his leathered face for the very last time.
Passengers were held securely in their berths as the aeroplane tumbled towards the hillside, where Peter aimed to sandwich it between the porch of his ex-wife's Sierra County retreat, and her nearby chicken run.
The passengers screamed loudly, and the final process of their deaths took a total 24 seconds. In the wreckage of the house, the eerie ruins of Peter's plane were later found to contain traces of tears and urine, and on Peter's face itself, a lot of human spit.
There is an undefinable air of nostalgia in the wild landscape now. Sierra County comprises not only beautiful scenery but tragic memories. Click here if you wish to travel further and partake of the journey, as a qualified and emotionally stable team of experts take you through the ruins.
My favourite passage from Robert Louis Stevenson's writing is a day in the life of one who believes himself castaway on Erraid.
A sea-bred boy would not have stayed a day on Earraid; which is only what they call a tidal islet, and except in the bottom of the neaps, can be entered and left twice in every twenty-four hours, either dry-shod, or at the most by wading. Even I, who had the tide going out and in before me in the bay, and even watched for the ebbs, the better to get my shellfish—even I (I say) if I had sat down to think, instead of raging at my fate, must have soon guessed the secret, and got free. It was no wonder the fishers had not understood me. The wonder was rather that they had ever guessed my pitiful illusion, and taken the trouble to come back. I had starved with cold and hunger on that island for close upon one hundred hours. But for the fishers, I might have left my bones there, in pure folly. And even as it was, I had paid for it pretty dear, not only in past sufferings, but in my present case; being clothed like a beggar-man, scarce able to walk, and in great pain of my sore throat.