Thursday, 25 November 2010

Villages of Futuristic Recreation

“Never trust what writers say about their own writings. When Zola undertook to defend his Therese Raquin against hostile critics, he explained that his book was a scientific study of the temperaments. His task had been to show, in an example, exactly how the sanguine and the nervous temperaments act on one another- to the detriment of each. But this explanation could satisfy no one. Nor does it explain the unprecedented admixture of colportage, the bloodthirstiness, the cinematic goriness of the action. Which- by no accident- takes place in…” W.B *

...The Villages of Futuristic Recreation

Now, you should hear Grooverider play at Helter Skelter. A legendary rave series which was actually produced by an ex traveling carnival showman in the UK. To quote mark-burden:

"Helter Skelter is owned by David Pratley, son of Teddy Pratley (Showman) they live on a showmans yard near Banbury, Helter Skelter is run from here also. Some rides are still travelling these days that was owned by Teddy.
This is why Helter Skelter is called Helter Skelter (ednote: Helter Skelter is the name of a UK spiral slide ride) and why it has a strong fairground influence from the beginning." - Mark Burden (Read more about the Helter Skelter and the fair ground influence here:

I found this extremely facinating because not only was this a classic rave orginization which featured top 'ardkore acts like Grooverider but it was also owned by a family of Showmen. This seems to seemlessly blend both of my hobbies together which is neat. By the mid-nineties the parties had undergone an expansion which included an outdoor complex, featuring a SONY Playstation zone, free fairground rides, cafe's and other types of recreational facilities. Helter Skelter began referring to each of these events as 'Villages of Futuristic Recreation.'

Social confusion was definitely in the place. Got busy. You were inside the biggest rave on earth.

But during all of this they went to our neighbours’ house, the Margom family. We heard shots and the screams of 15 year old Amy, Al and Si’s sister.

‘Leave her alone!’ screamed one of the brothers, ‘Kill us instead!’ Then we heard more shots.

Through the window we saw a half-dressed commander lying on top of Amy. I will always remember. He was wearing a new leather belt which I recognised to be one from Klef’s [market stall], which- to this day- I find troubling and sickening.

She was covered in blood from the bullet wounds. Another soldier shouted, ‘Hurry up, while she’s still warm.’

When she answered the phone she said I my god Dedwin, my head felt like it flew out of the room back to the feeling of the strange event out on the road on the way back from work. Moments into the darkest and most ludicrous conclusions. Likely my stomach had the faint memory my calendar-driven senses had long overriden. Only conclusions are too fixed for this as it was not a fear permitted by logic but a deeply lonely leap that words with the closest friend could only express with comfort. Mixing necessary relief with frustration inevitably furthers self-isolation. Senses and flashbacks intertwine in an undigestible speedy haze. Breathed in against the radiator and curtain; a perfumed smell sort of sucked into my mouth which gave me an actual sinister headfilled injection. Mind-filings, they were, to the point that it was too full to distinguish characteristics and polarities or even their material source- merely the unnerving speed of their morphing away from me. Not even protected by the curtains along with it being un-protectively cold inside. The live recording and its compressed space was probably not not helping my ears to gauge the real space and time through this horrorful journey. Fearful of calling the police for the doubt that I’d just imagined the whole situation. Thoughts lay around imagining turning the knob underneath the boiler immediately exploding shards of metal into my face and skull and what the house would look like with me dead dangling off the edge of it exposed to the neighbours and world.

*Taken from Walter Benjamin’s Archive. He is actually talking about the arcades in Paris, rather than Helter Skelter; “One knew of places in ancient Greece where the way led down into the underworld. Our waking existence likewise is a land which at certain hidden points, leads down into the underworld- a land full of inconspicuous places where dreams arise.” 

Monday, 1 November 2010


Someone suggested getting a ladder up to the outer layer, and whilst at it secretly copying the number on the lampfpost. Then copying it onto the glass with greasy fingers for us to see inside.
Mate, they’ve started to mark umages leaving the bulding. The arseholes even made me clare my own image. I feel like posing when I want a cifgarette turns a telegraph message onto guesswork. I’m sitting on a red leather seat. The sink is covered in the exact coloured ink. It acts as a sponge. Window desk 220 spends 20 min just trying to scrub off the red stains from his buttock cheek. Whilst in the cubicle he hears his co-worker saying they’re generating enthusiasm. They’ve got in some new people who’ve been introducing enthusiasm into their clients. A lot of it works by injecting things into the client. They feel moments of enthusiasm exchanged by appearance which consists of having intensely shared, short lived reactions to the product. 

Wednesday, 27 October 2010


Only two stops to go and the architecture’s definitely polarising into the gated gulag pallazi and the run down wooded bungalows of the peasantry. The train, now parallel with a street of these pallazzi (some of which containing elaborately faded frescoes of a great misty garden) starts to screech unusually sharply with the coincidence of the semi derelict platform of the name Kresnar. Lots of things are exchanged and I feel a surge leaving the train. Everyone jumps off and we are all running alongside the train, moving along up some carriages and then jumping on again. But a series of badly placed dilapidated signalling posts block the doors until all has left me but the final kitchen carriage, absolutely rammed with chefs all standing around with stained white aprons, tending to the smoking hotplates on all sides.
They shout at me and flap open and close the long thin vent windows above the hot plate, gesturing my entrance through them. I run and stick myself to the outside of the steaming hot casing of this kitchen wagon. At first I subconsciously withdraw my hand from the window’s greasy metal rim, then I remember dilapidation and my reliance on our pickup. At one point they’re all pulling my one arm, almost dislocating it from the inside. As I stick my head inside, I notice that indifferent to my increasingly detached collision with it, a large, inevitable hot plate below singes my hair from there. Eventually I let go, or try to, as the chef refuses to give up my arm.
All this is superfluous (the train and pickup) now I’m in Kresnar. One side of the train track are these pallazzi depicting low firs of ornate gardens, the other is me on the abandoned platform. I walk along the platform’s end and off into an area of pine trees and mossy stones. There are remnants of visitors I imagined youths from the wood and badly tiled bungalows, old firs, tins and printed papers. I enter what I suspect might be the garden of one off large palazzo and maybe the mayor or duke’s.
I am approached by a man, not dissimilar in his north easterly features to those of the chefs du partie. The garden seems to emanate its own mist, surrounding the firs. I assume he is the gardener as he gives me a tour, motioning. I spot an unusual creature feeding on some dark mauve shrubbery, and its resemblance to rat causes a momentary doubt in perspective. ‘KRESNARI’ he gestured and it scurried towards us. 

Sunday, 17 October 2010

on the run writing

congregating out of danger,
then ring on the door bell furiously
of this establishment
i never registered
but as an obstacle between a moments dash

into the shop's backgarden
of private paradise under trampolene,
under disused deep fryer,
behind uninhabitable thorn shrub
with soft side out of view
leading perhaps into an adrenaline hole
through to another similar volume
of useful detritus to bury-
even thought with a flutter of foxhole
or  hedgehogg- cohabiting but probably too small
to cover my heat
from the helicopters.

Kingston, Bank of England (Behind Part One)

yes he was very good. Same man as last time…
not gunna be able to foreply tonight, mind
comes out from behind her carefully, dozenee
bleech and gelled like a suburbs helmet.

I can hear the man say through her mouth from where I was standing;

Let him learn. Let him commission the portrait of our horse, if that’s what the man wants that’s what the man’s getting.

For a split second the place forgot me and my brain went alien cold and bleached of all knowledge - ? - inherited on the escalator going up towards this giant meshy white dome of cells, my eyes scaled down themselves around these layers of inside colours + outside shapes. Objects detached for seconds were unrecognisable as the words rumbling from some tanoy syncing in unreadable white protrusions. Shifting retinal planes retracting+detracting. In other shifting flat textures of my self directed musical fate are adding artificially to the emptying stomach of this whole estranged doming and petrifying drift of my occupied sense of space. Even in this unparalleled paralysis the identified thought approached me up there, to say that I could go back down again, depressed and alone but make a living writing plainly and stupidly about the abstract shapes and senses with fake infancy within the soft safe centre of chosen world architects.
Falling from the dome down the escalator would be a first even for such ahuman structure, and a sinking feeling on top of me that I am too grounded to let me be taken with otherworld hits. Thus having located another conversation over using each others tongues or mother tongues perfectly, dull but satisfyingly for them- another angled wave of dizziness for me. So off they came out my ears down to why the previously white working woman with the regional diamond trainers, high trade mascara, confident gestures and dead closed eyes, softly lectures desperately smiling Indian girl- clutching wholesale scripts. Convince me with your soft smile- make me see your way with your sensitive hands, nice lady. Something about how he didn’t want to be killing those peoples, cemented his mind and brains in my predictions.