CosmiKnot

And so a petition is underway to prevent cashless scrap metal trading . Not quite so moralistic as the campaign to get us all reading but from the same genus none the less. Its past of Zizek's chocolate laxative culture. The hole in my bucket. The wireless keyboard for my ipod touch second generation. I mean a few hours ago I wanted to begin writing this but began to ponder the delights of being able to type it into my ipod touch that has scene a new burst of life this Christmas. After much searching and ebay trawling I have come to the conclusion that there is no wireless keyboard compatibility with the ipod 2g. So now I am writing this on my wife’s laptop, which I really ought to have done in the first place. So scrap metal amendment act is akin to the finger in the dyke except the finger in the dyke is committed as a last resort and there is an awareness of this in the inserter’s brain. No the petitioners for the scrap metal bill amendment are taking the moral high ground. I ...

I am very grateful to one Bill Ectric for pointing me in the direction of his article on Strindberg . It is utterly enthralling. I recommend you read it post haste. Bill was kind enough to ask me about my work for an interview on his blog . Fans of David Devant may be interested in his latest post on the recently rediscovered film The M agician . I used to think I had aspirations to being some kind of polymath until I checked out the links at the side of Bill's page. Now I see I'm more of a dabbler. Toe in the ocean and all that. But as I used to say a little knowledge goes a long way. Reading about Strindberg was a revelation because it sounds like he freed himself from the expectations for literature to remain one side of fictional divide. When I wrote The latch last month I felt I had crossed a threshold and had leapt onto a horse far too wild for my wriding abilities. I think I just about managed to hold on though. Bill Lectric's novel, Tamper , seems simply irresisti...

Once upon a time there was a race of sea monkey tadpole people who lived in the deepest depths of an ocean. Of course they did not know it was an ocean as they lived in it. And they didn’t think it was deep or dark for that matter either. One day a young sea monkey like tadpole boy called Pimico was out collecting different shells from the sea bed (gathering beautiful shells was a favourite pass time of the tadpole seamonkey people) when he came across a wall of rock that he had never seen before. It was covered in lots of plants and shells that he had never seen before. He was amazed and filled with delight as he began to make his way up the rock collecting such a wild array of delicate discarded mollusc homes as he went. I will have the best shell collection in the whole of seamonkey tadpole world he mused in a non-verbal blur. His lack of understanding of literate forms of communication did not stop the joy rising through his body with each new delightful specimen that he acquire...

This then is the second part of my Adam Ant adventure. I am no expert on the subject and feel the shadow of an early Ant's bass player fall on the page. Mr Andrew Warren, for tis he, never struck me as someone who stood for much nonsense. I feel privileged to know this punk legend. The three minute warning announces to the people of Tunbridge Wells that the band are about to take to the stage. So having recovered from my fit of snake brandishing induced hysterics I return to my seat at the front by the nosebleed inducing PA. First thrill is remembering that Adam Ant always has two drummers. Already my ticket is feeling great value for money. The band, as is traditional, make a forward foray onto the stage to clear the room of all doubters. Then the way is ready for the king/prince (no not leader that’s a very bad man). Adam takes to the stage in finely crafted Nelson style pirate’s hat adorned with peacock feathers. Chief. I was never a fan as a boy yet watching now it is immedia...

Hello this happened to me January of this year. This version (I've tried it several times) is probably still far too long and a tad rambling but to this day it still feels like an episode of The Prisoner. Mikey Georgeson I think I am at liberty to talk about this now that the felon and driver of the bandit vehicle is safely behind bars having pleaded guilty. Though I am not sure what he pleaded guilty to. The whole thing still feels like a piece of meta-fiction and having spent the last few years delving into the realms of my unconscious creativity this is hardly surprising. Several friends have indeed commented that such a colourful piece of happenstance could only happen to me. I don’t remember the impact itself (normal I am told) but I do remember stopping in a box junction once I heard a siren and saw the familiar flickering blue light in the darkness down the road.  I always used to feel somehow useful as I pulled over to let the emergency services pass. This time, however, w...

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Looking back over the sea of fog I can now report that my Mr. Solo odyssey was an attempt to live life as cheese dream. To go hither and thither wherest it may lead me. Lately I've been in search of a good sleep. I think this began when the ultimate cheese dream manifested after a Mr. Solo rehearsal. Now I can see how this may have been to do with my karmic directors being at odds with the flow of the universe. This resulted in a transit van carrying two tons of gold hitting me head on. I thank G(g)od (the universe) that I was alone but still feel that terrifying fear of being buried alive that I felt at the time from time to time. It's wearing off a little and I find I can once more see the magical side of sitting at a set of traffic lights in a neck brace trying not to rubber neck the doubloons on the road.  And so it was that I took a train journey to Royal Tunbridge Wells in search of a certain fermented dairy product style somnambulistic experience. It was a time to rea...

There is a soul shaped hole in the art world. We work around it as if it were a large dining table with jagged corners. We could all sit down around its expansive perimeter but prefer instead to manoeuvre about it using our rapier like wits to dismiss its presence. An artist could incorporate the table in their work but they would have to somehow knowingly create an alter ego who was outside of the modes of knowing analysis. Mentioning William Blake is like declaring an appreciation of antique tables that existed in more innocent times but such things are frankly no longer realistic for those who eat on the hoof. I have tried to avoid the table but it makes me sick. The art world loves its finger food.