CosmiKnot

I wanted to try and explore what I see as a misunderstanding of emphasis in Marshall Mcluhan’s thought process. in a recent blog Lance Strate writes that Marshall Mcluhan saw how the televisual environment moved us away from a characteristically linear mode of thinking. Earlier he made the point that Mcluhan, being a Catholic, down played the influence of the Guttenberg press on the Reformation. The very Reformation that was, if you chose to see it that way, the first major foothold in the triumph of the left brain in modern times. I suspect that Strate did not engage with Mcluhan’s far more visual book “The Medium is the Massage”. In this book through a less linear and altogether more cut-up style he makes it unequivocally clear that he thinks the move away from the linear mode of thinking is a good thing. Yes the Guttenberg press made it easier to share knowledge but the technology demanded that we start to conceive of it in linear chunks.This book also makes clear that any interfac...

I have in my hand a biro with a round barrel as opposed to the more familiar hexagonal bic shape - designed for ease of grip. The irony being I find the round barrel both easier to grip and more pleasing on the eye. Oh how we laughed. Lots of products would have us believe that we really are useless at holding onto things and developers build their unique selling points around their improved ability to facilitate ease of grip. Even when wet! It's obvious really but the economy is driven by innovation. Innovation cross the nation instant salvation. Or something like that. Is this the same as needs must as the Devil drives? Or necessity is the mother of invention? Really it's we need something to keep all this money making more money so let's invent a process called innovation.      I really must confess to a sense of major existential angst derived from my inherent love of a piece of gadgetry at a bargain price. There is a feeling of futilty that surrounds this. The sense...

Aman sits in bed pondering whether or not he would sound better in the past tense. His head, or rather my head was aching. The riots of the past week had played no small part in sending him into a state of mental paroxysms and withering his gonads. Whilst brushing his teeth he had planned to compose a narrative about the unsayable that somehow said everything was alright. But because it was late he had already forgotten that which he would have ordinarily remembered in the morning. The streets outside were now calm but he could not shake off a sense of guilt for not having taken his firm bristled broom to the clean up operation that had taken place in the daytime. And thus slowly running out of steam or indeed the will to engage he he he he he he he he he he what? He he he he remembered that the man had planned to write about how he was happy to embrace insanity as a political action, whilst silently hoping that this would be what would slowly propel him back to a saner state of love a...

three men try to gather together using social networking technology This goes on for a long time It becomes slightly embarassing And so one of them decides Enough is enough an he Writes to the other two To say I am in bed Do not disturb the trees Do not walk on the glass If at the end of this you bring me the golden feather then you can marry my wife The other two Sent into paroxysms of mental confusion Agree to meet To discuss what this could possibly mean. The no longer bedridden riddler Sits in a cafe opposite. Sipping a campari Hiding behind a copy of Le Nuts He gets up and begins to walk over But sadly (and I have forgotten why) He falls down a sink hole That happened to appear at that precise Moment in Southwark.

Blood and brambles Bloody Shambles Cameron gambles On Hardline angles "its criminality undiluted" Nations youths have been poluted And while economy takes a tumble I'm at home making blackberry crumble Filled with fruits harvested in scrubland Behind Sainsbury's full of thorns and Smelt of decaying vegetation Seemed emblematic of the nation Made my young son feel ill at ease Paths ill defined,shapes in the trees Such physical pursuits to him Seem unnecessary and alien I tell myself it does him good As any self-respecting father would Hands made for grasping a controler Each bramble scratch will make him wholer But now its my hands that are stained With crimson juices - fear I've refrained From doing this when he was younger And somehow bred one more war-monger But thorny pricks upon my skin Convince me I should not give in. Who needs another liberal deserter In face of national inertia? Instead of always asking why? Perhaps we should ...

My sons end of year school production contained a brilliant parody of consumer culture revolving around a warehouse shop called gadget land. The scene ended with salespeople offering shoppers a remote for the remote for the remote... I feel sad today that the very real gadget land round the corner has been the centre for a very real manifestation of the desire for all things shiny and gizmo. Plasma screen news bulletin. I hear certain people of brixton have responded by handing out free iced cup cakes and I can think of no better response. Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Inspite of The Trolley bagsying kerfuffle The keeping up with the Jone's The "I was a playschool assistant before I retired" The "Do you think I am being reasonable?" The "you (the AA man) were quicker than calling an ambulance" The withered academic who never holds your gaze The England 2 India zero mob The coins dropped into a pint glass bar game antics The not on my manor-ness The bring your kids up to be respectful The professional looking hiker sandals I had a blissful time in a crinkled corner of Kent Thanks in no small part to The cycling along the front between the Ds THe smell of aniseed from the weeds The blurring early blackberries The pebble dash with the wind behind you The flag in the breeze atop The cottage castle (Queen mother's favourite) The flash of firm thigh above the knees The hour in the bay Behind a windbreak While the boys have a hack is there nothing I lack? The sight of Grandmas ghost having a p...

So we all know now that the economy is a belief system and is as equally valid as homeopathy. Homeopaths don't tend to give themselves millions of pounds in bonuses at the expense of national misery. Money it seems has become too abstracted. Too rooted in the left brain. Money allows the Exchange of specialised services which is all well and good but it is surely no coincidence that we live in an age of over specialisation. The problem with an homogeneous single currency is that it takes money further away from the identity and ideas of a nation. It's also less fun when traveling. More convenient but less engaging. We are as a result disengaged from money. Hence lots of abstract debts. Can you imagine if fishermen kept all the best fishes for themselves? They would soon rot. So is money rotting? It certainly smells like it. Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

When we first started coming to Triangland it was like a blank canvas. Always so quiet with just our own hang ups to mishape the sense of wonder. I am typing this on an android phone and this seems to shape my perception in the same way that meeting other citizens of Trinagland does. You would not believe how much it feel like Jonathan Swift is writing each day as it comes. This Swiftian move from innocent anticipation to detached cynicism is enhanced by the necessity of concentrating on each separate letter as I type rather the flow of the pen. There was trouble last night. The kind where you have to forgoe the decompression chamber and launch yourself back into the real world. I should say before I go on that Rob and Ro who own our triangle have lived here all their lives and our contact with them has never done anything other than guide us gently into another picture book realm. Ro's shed which is held up with ivy was a recent winner of shed of the year. Perhaps last night was j...

In the advert for a certain three sided chocolAte the idea of triangularisation of everyday objects is intended to suggest a better dreamily perfect world. My family and I are once more staying in such a place on a gently undulating hilltop by the sea. It seems, however,that the designer of this particular paradise stopped at the houses themselves. There are no triangular recycling bins for instance. There are some vaguely triangular trees but they were the work of a different altogether more elusive designer. This triangular village is how England could look in a Aldus Huxley post war idyll. This feeling is added to by the mysterious total absence of phone signal and a phone box painted a disconcertingly minimally more yellow shade of red stationed by the tennis court. This place takes an idea of the same but different way beyond what I have experienced at caravan parks. For a start a caravan park, I assume, has to be flat and this place undulates in typically english proportions. Wh...