CosmiKnot

  And so you have passed your driving test whereas yesterday you were a learner driver today you are a driver. A wiseman with a clipboard asks you to read the number plate. He recites the words: I'm happy to tell you you've passed. The carcass of the prey lies flayed on the tarmac. Steam rising from its innards. The world around the shopping centre begins to come to life. I am a driver you think raising a hand to touch the blood smeared on each cheek. Clunk click every trip only a fool breaks the two second rule. Yesterday you were a novice driving with a scarlet letter and now you are a driver in charge of your own destiny turning the key in the ignition reversing off the driveway into the stream of life. Fuck you wanker Have some of that It's all second nature now The guilt gilded trauma the dashboard certainty it's all there waiting for you  to slip into neutral.  

   Oh let us go to Greenwich you and I And see the origin of time The place where seconds were first discovered   Bubbling up like hic-ups in grey mud covered Up on that there hill  overlooking Olde Father Thames And later hours were found Once they had a powerful  Embroidered large handkerchief To wipe the sweat from the brows  of nearby weary tradesmen whose job was to surface the roads; To help the passage of time  flow more seamlessly.   Oh let’s go to Greenwich you and me Where the river tide flows out Towards the sea And the baby in its buggy Grows whiskers on her cheeks Whilst the museum assistant Makes sure no one speaks As he takes stock in the corner Who left him in charge Of the gold leaf flotilla And the funeral barge?    

  Oh Lordie troubles so hard, on the way to the hospital we listen to young Moby I mean he was younger when he had recorded the album in his New York apartment With what we might now consider to be primitive electronic sampling equipment And an anachronistic but quintessentially of its time electronic piano Perhaps, I speculate, it was this very primitivism that helped him to entangle with his terrain via the refrain, a milieu of the soul. He was  plundering  updating the field recordings of African American gospel folk songs My father loved Lead Belly and would sing me his version of Cocaine Blues along with the Dust Pneumonia to lull me to sleep My Father’s versions of these songs are my favourites and yet they do not appear anywhere on Youtube Lead Belly’s are the closest thing I can find I believe that the timing and social context of when you first encounter a song determine your qualitative processing of its value. On our way to see you on the respiratory ward we are listening to

  Into the valley by The Skids   Driving past the village pond Perhaps we would have brought you here Though that chapter has ended The one that began with me crouched  In front of the B&W portable tv In your and mum’s bedroom Taping Into the Valley of the Dolls by Generation X Onto my very own radio-cassette The one with a five-pin din for recording LPs The end of an era  Was it on vinyl? Ready steady go - you’re not ready to go you tell us You would like a nice cold beer You want to look at a smiling face I can’t make any more analogies anymore To explain the hard-plastic oxygen mask  Clamped to your face Twisting it out of shape Nippy the friendly CO2 level monitor Bleeping and warning us as you struggle  To be understood through the membrane. The priest with his yellowing well  Thumbed liturgical guidebook Thrown in out of his depth A sage fisherman’s sweater clinging to his paunch Falling with us down the log plume I see your face as we are sucked under Contortedly trying to t

  It’s been a bit of a week From clear plastic straws up each nostril To full deep-sea helmet through which you strain to speak Together we face the nearing impossible   Father am I forgiven Your mask has made me deaf You look like David Niven Diving to your death   Life is a matter of imagining The meaning in its moment Stretched across the wide screen Like the arrows of the bowmen   Suspended for eternity Above the cosmic ocean Your dreadful looks could murder With love and devotion   And now round the ring you stagger Absorbing each and every blow Before you I see a dagger When you gotta go you gotta go   So suspend the disbeliever The tank has nothing left You look like David Niven  diving to his death   The projector beam it flickers The consultant can’t save you with his bell It’s nearly time to still your beating ticker Inside the blue curtained family cell   To the hospital we’d driven Through the forest of unrest Now you look like David Niven Plunging to certain death   I boug

  00:00 Actual Occasion (Mikey Georgeson Installation) 11:11 The Non-bifurcatedman (Mikey Georgeson Installation) 24:03 Cookie – Eye in the Sky (secret track) 32:46 Data Streams (David Devant and his Spirit Wife) 36:38 The Deadends (Mikey Georgeson Installation) 44:05 Aesthetic Fact (Mikey Georgeson Installation) 46:22 Full Fathom Five (Mikey Georgeson Installation) 57:07 This Train (David Devant and his Spirit Wife)       Actual occasion: Emergence This piece of bass driven music was created as the central refrain for a silent disco installation using survival blankets and the rope goggles of entanglement to create a realm for collective felt understanding. The words “kindness is a virus” are taken from a suggestion by Richard Dawkins that, kindness serves no evolutionary purpose and is therefore a viral mode of relating. The installation asks the audience to speculate about an aesthetic cosmos with feeling at its core rather than the generalised conceptual model in which experience i

Hawk what light through yonder a broken window awakens? It is the east and Deptford is the Sun you are startled awake once again by the sound of the rowster the Dauster lovingly known as Ginger as he bellows the theme tune to the stirring movie of cosmic Love and War where all is fair. This film is not so popular nowadays but one day will hold the entire world in its transactional matinee group in for a penny in for a pound tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock it is time to see Star Wars.  Groaning you pull on your Gola tracksuit bottoms and bustle on your way to the front door of the flat and descend the narrow shabbily carpeted stairs passing piles of post on the shelf and jostle the latch of the ill-fitting fake Georgian door. You find your way out on to the real world of Deptford. A realm so real it’s smells of fish from other lands and even the damp early morning air feels exotic. Deptford the Manhattan of baby London where everything is emergent and anything is possible if you