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March 2006
Friday, March 31st, 2006

“I’m known not only for my ability to see deep inside of a single person, but also my skills at seeing far in advance of many people. For instance, I know where you’re going to be sometime within the next five years. Do you want to know? Do you want to know where you’re going to be? I will be there, too. Sometime within the next five years, we are going to be at a rave. An awesome rave. Maybe the best rave we’ve ever been to.

I don’t even feel like I need to explain any further. Just look around right now, look at all this. We are right now living at a quarter to ravetime.”
Cex, last night

“We’re all in it together.”
Harry Tuttle, heating engineer, Terry Gilliam’s Brazil

I had my flying dream again. I mean, I don’t fly in my flying dreams. I sort of bounce. I think I mentioned this.

All my life, people had flying dreams. They sounded ace! I never had no flying dream.

The first time I had my flying dream I was in the garage next door to the semi-detached house I was living in at the time, wrapped up in a duvet with my then-ex girlfriend. The previous night I’d taken ecstasy, and had arrived home to find her outside my house. We had been split up, and on bad terms, for a while.

(Luke thinks ecstasy is a bit rubbish because it is like Huxley’s soma, and he is right, of course. Ecstasy is false love for those that weren’t convinced by Jesus. I didn’t know any of that then though. Thinking about it, I didn’t really know anything at all.)

I don’t remember much about how we split up, let alone what we talked about that night.

But.

I remember my first flying dream clear as day.

It was five years ago.

When I woke up, sunlight tore through the cracks in the corners of the slide up metal door. I was covered sweat and dust and garage detritus, and she lay there expectantly, warm and breathing and full of thoughts and notions and knowledge that I’d never have any part of. I didn’t recognise her at first. I pulled on a gritty T-Shirt and went to work. Later on I lied to my friends about who I’d been with.

We didn’t get back together.

But as we slept together on the concrete floor of my old garage that morning, somehow she gave me a dream. In it the sky was blue like infinity, and I ran, from something bad, faster, and faster, and when I could run no faster, I let the ball of my right foot hit the ground, I let my left hang, and with precision calf, I did pump, and was airborne. I skipped, into the sky. Up I swept, wind in my hair, going, RAH! Then I peaked and began to fall, with great speed, back t’ward earth. Panicking, I flapped my feet like flippers, and waved my arms, and found in doing so, I decreased the slide, the fall increment, as t’were. When I hit the floor again, I was ready, and, barely touching the ground, with a perfect left ball and calf, I powered back skyward, this time peaking yet higher, and returning earthward with further power, further grace, BLAM!ing back off again. Eventually I was bouncing off buildings, over bridges. It was the best moment of my life! And It happened in my head.

Perhaps.

I have had a few since. Three? Four? I don’t usually remember my dreams. Just the nightmares. Last night I was bouncing again, but not too high. That first time, that was the highest I bounced. Ever since it has been ultimately disappointing. I somehow fuck it it up at the end. I forget how to wiggle my feet in such away to get maximum momentum.

I was bouncing, super-skipping, along a windy Welsh-seeming road last night. It was pretty dusty, so it must have been Summer. The Sun was setting, and I was fleeing some horror or other with a dark haired girl, to whom I felt a sort of fearful attraction. Like, I kind of wanted to do her. But I wasn’t sure if I fancied her. Or if she was evil. Or if in fact she was beautiful and not at all evil, but I’d somehow been made to think that.

So, we were escaping away, (as often we are) and I suddenly remembered I could skip really high. “FORSOOTH!” I said, in a really boomy voice, and went, runrunrunrun, bombed down the path, and launched skyward. I got about fifty feet high. It was pretty cool. I’d remembered I could sort of fly! But the woman I was with couldn’t, and as I tried to power-skip back to her, a black cloud gathered on the horizon, and bore down on us with some great vengance, and a furious anger. I reached her, landing with a comic book THOOM!, cracking the scorched earth. I could feel the black on my face, and tried to get us away, but I couldn’t carry her AND run really fast, not fast enough to power-skip into the sky and away.

I got really frustrated, and I shouted, “JUST FUCKING SKIP!”

She smiled at me and said, “we can’t all fucking skip, you retard.”

The black got us, but we did have sex later on, so it can’t have been all bad.

Hey, here’s a good one for you. White House advisor John Yoo on record stating that there is no law preventing the President from ordering the torture of a child of a suspect in custody – including by crushing that child’s testicles. Are you desensetised yet? Shit! Now that’s gangsta!

— Friday, March 31st, 2006

Thursday, March 30th, 2006

I stopped reading The Guardian after I started meeting people who wrote for it. I found them to be, more often than not, upper middle class friends of friends with very little knowledge of their subjects, no sense of sociologicall context, history, and, worse of all, a terrifying trust of PR people and officials in general.

Then on Saturday I thought about starting again, as The Independent on Saturday isn’t very good, and I did always like The Guide, even if the guy who writes about the music in it is either mad, or diligently evil.

I think I was considering this on Friday night/Saturday morning. But then I came across this on their website – a shockingly un-reseached, snide, and dangerous little slab of “columnism” regarding Charlie Sheen’s recent comments regarding the 911 Commission whitewash, from their Saturday edition.

I was quite outraged, and nearly wrote them an angry letter, before remembering that the best course of action in the circumstance was not buy The Guardian. And anyway, men with infinitely higher capacities for reason were already at it, clattering with steamy outrage into typewriters and keyboards the world over. One of them wrote this:

With regard to the piece of “journalism” by Marina Hyde carried in your paper on Saturday March 25 th (A Right Charlie). I am incredulous that you let such a slip-shod poor piece of attack-dog gonzo journalism past your proof readers.

Not only was it tosh bordering on libel against Charlie Sheen, it was astoundingly badly researched, and written.

Has Ms Hyde ever actually gone beyond the spoon-fed “narrative” held forth by the erstwhile business buddies of Mr Bush that made up the 911 Commission? I very much doubt it. Has she even read that same narrative (the 911 Commission Report), giving her grist for her nonsense? If she had read it, and she should, as it seems to be the unspoken architect of her scepticism, for this is where the most of the “civilised” main-stream media have taken their cues, she would have remarked herself upon how unfinished and bizarre most of its “explanations” really are.

Far from Mr. Sheen being “insane”, it is the authors and believers of this half-baked and incomplete tome who are a sandwich short of a picnic. Any sane person who has read it, and I have, is immediately struck by the massive contradictions and glaring omissions from this critical analysis. Ever stop to think why that may be?

But no, Ms Hyde limits her bile to easy targets: The Famous and Slightly Mad. In her dissection of Mr. Sheens mental state and capacity, she touches upon a subject she clearly knows absolutely nothing whatsoever about. And in that she exposes not only her ignorance, but also your newspapers inability to get beyond the “nut-job conspiracy theorists” explanation of the discrepancies.

Had she looked even just under the surface of her absurd claims, she would see a whole host of not “insane” people lining up ready to rebut her, and the official line on 911, with FACT; not theory, but FACT.

Addressing her particular hatchet-job piece; lets look at the evidence:

1. Paul Craig Roberts – Under Secretary of the Treasury under Ronald Reagan:“This administration is run by criminal psychopaths” His words, not mine. – He’s clearly not insane or a member of the bonkers celebrity world.

2. Morgan Reynolds – Former chief economist for the Department of Labour during President George W. Bush’s first term : comments that the official story about the collapse of the WTC is “bogus” and that it is “more likely that a controlled demolition destroyed the Twin Towers and adjacent Building No. 7”. – Again, a much respected member of the GOP, and not insane.

3. Kevin Ryan – Underwriters Laboratories (UL), the company that certified the steel used in the construction of the World Trade Centre: called on Frank Gayle, director of the government team that has spent two years studying how the trade centre was built and why it fell, to “do what you can to quickly eliminate the confusion regarding the ability of jet fuel fires to soften or melt structural steel.” – He’s not insane, either.

4. Gwen Rigell of Booker Elementary school, the school George Bush was at when he “saw first plane hit WTC” when asked if Bush had watched this on a TV in their school (he was THERE when the first plane hit, not watching TV as Ms Hyde believes): “Absolutely not. There was no TV in the corridor or anywhere near that classroom”(not to mention that the footage he allegedly saw didn’t even exist at the time). She said that he knew from his people that the first plane had hit, and was told by Andy Card during his time in the classroom about the second plane. After he left the classroom, he was whisked into another classroom (their green room if you will) where they had a TV. However, this was the first opportunity he had to see any footage. – She’s clearly not insane, either. She’s a school teacher!

5. Andreas Von Bulow – Former German Defence Minister – A long time sceptic of the official lies, he said: “Well, it’s all admitted” (the discrepancies in the official line being exposed and confirmed by many a more credible person than Ms Hyde). “So for me, since the official version- it’s not credible at all, it’s totally incredible. The second solution for me is a covert operation. And this is a way to influence, to brainwash the American people into long, long, ongoing conflict with the Muslim world” – He’s not insane. He was a member of a much respected German administration.

I could go on and on. The list IS growing every day. Full of not insane, normal people who just want the truth, or at least some balanced discussion of the truth. This story will not go away. It is the greatest single act of murder perpetrated on American Soil. When more of the truth comes out, whatever it may be, and it will, “journalists” like Ms Hyde, and papers, such as yourselves, will all look very silly indeed.

Why are you ignoring facts? In whose interests is this collective inability to provide balanced news? Hmm. Let me think…

You get the point here? Whilst it is, of course, possible to dismiss all of these experts in their fields with blithe claims of insanity, surely it is just as easy to give them some real column inches to discuss their theories, or are you as scared as the rest of the “press” of openly contradicting the official lies, and thus shattering the paradigm of millions of people and perhaps getting an MI6 tail in the process?

Are we all that scared?

Ms Hyde is just another in a long line of bad journalists who make their dollar by insulting and denigrating other people, partly because they don’t actually understand what they are talking about, and partly, I suspect, because she herself is probably in need of a good story. Clearly no research was done, bar perhaps looking in the latest issue of Heat Magazine, but then, she’s a columnist, what should we expect?

I’ll tell you what we, as a nation, should expect from our newspapers (the non-Murdoch ones, at least): We demand that the “news” outlets of this world stop being too scared to even LOOK AT the ideas and suggestions put forward by a growing number of experts, and at least suggest that we should not, blindly, believe everything we are told by anybody in authority. I mean, come on. Are your memories that short? We have been lied to by successive governments and political parties for years, why is it so hard to believe that it’s happening again

No one is saying, categorically, that these stories are true, far from it; but plenty of people are saying, categorically, that the official stories are clearly not true.

Come on Grauniad, sort it out. Lets have some real, balanced, probing, exciting journalism. Christ, if all papers were like you lot of sorry apologies for news outlets, there would have been no Watergate story; no expose of the sleaze purveyed by successive govts. of all colours (bad example, I know, as you yourselves were heavily implicated in spinning the Hamilton affair) and no expose of the lies purveyed by this govt. in particular in pursuit of war.

But then, that would be taking things a little far, wouldn’t it? Your corporate paymasters wouldn’t like that kind of attention, would they?

So, we just tell the nation to ignore any “insane” people out there who just want to know why things are being lied about and covered up: drink beer; go back to sleep; believe what your press tells you…

I had stopped buying your tattered rag a couple of months ago for exactly the reasons set out above; that you no longer carry objective news. However, I was going to dip my foot back in the water to see if it had changed. I had thought that your collective consciences might have got the better of you and you may have decided to become a real newspaper again. Alas, it appears not. My wishes were clearly naïve.

How insane of me.

Yours truly,

Jake Eyre

— Thursday, March 30th, 2006

Tuesday, March 28th, 2006

GET OFF MY WEBSITE!

I have spent £170 on bandwith this week.

Lame! I quit fags and everything! No ice cream! I wish I had a million dollars!

Hot dog.

(I never got that by the way)

From the terrorful depths of my MySpace messagebox:

i saw v for vendetta today

best movie i saw in an extremely long time i never read the comic and i am somewhat glad i wouldve been critisizing the movie more than actually watching it

i left the theater as a different person

and idk wtf im tellin u this for lol

but damn it was a good movie

And

Akira Don!

I saw it, V, I am teching myself to shoot my fathers gun, in preperation for the revoltion, fuck it don, its on.

word

And from the email, in response to that drunk gig email:

heh heh. if i could i would come in the most definite of all matters.but…

1: i live in the USA.
2:i have absolutly NO pounds
and 3:im 12. (go figure)

though i still am a good fan. (and i still am a girl) but since i have ADHD, i have just one akwardly random thing left to say….

HOORAY FOR LARGE AMOUNTS OF PHYSICAL PAIN!!!

now excuse me for i have many adventures to endure in.

Which is the best email I have ever seen.

But it did strike me, just then, that I never once considered that I might be writing to a twelve year old girl. Or a fifty year old boy. Or a giraffe. I haven’t considered who I am writing to at all, really, and I just did, and am quite freaked out.

OBNOSIS.

Scientology word. Means “observation of the obvious.” It is the title of a record I shall release this year.

I shall forget that for now.

I did a tune last night in Brix City with Dego Maradonna and Nimblor from that Why Lout? creu. Shit was bananas, yo! Then Narstie stomped into the building, and destroyed it like Godzilla did that police station, BLAOW! I was fucking AWED, son! BLOWN AWAY, bebbeh! Narstie is the Brixton Biggie and then some! Are you mad? Serious!

— Tuesday, March 28th, 2006

Sunday, March 26th, 2006

Those bastard farmers stole an hour off of me! How dare they!

The human body is an amazing thing. A few weeks ago mine was a complete mess, and didn’t know whether it was coming, or gone. After merely a fortnight of scrambled eggs and a vaguely regimented bedtime pattern, it now wakes up like clockwork at 8am, no matter how drunk it had gotten last night (it was very drunk last night as well, cursed whisky. It always thinks it is perfectly fine and righteous and in a perfect state to conduct meaningful conversation, despite years of evidence suggesting the contrary. It is a fool, run by a fool, for foolish reasons).

Anyway, Today I awoke at 8, in a little pain, but it was in fact 9. Farming swine! This has fucked me right up. Now it says on my machine that it is nearly seven so I have to run down to Brixton, when really it should be nearly six, plenty of time to eat pasta and faff about with socks and the like.

Still. Masked And Anonymous, Dob Bylan’s much maligned American allegory, is ace. It’s got John Goodman and Jeff Bridges in it. It’s funny. It’s true. It kind of works like an album. I think it might have been written like an album. You will like it, I am sure. Bear in mind its happening in America, now. Then it will make sense.

— Sunday, March 26th, 2006

Saturday, March 25th, 2006

Well, I have had a truly fine weekend thusfar, contributing my vocals to a very exciting project of which I can’t really say anything other than… Snakes! And. Planes!

That is really all I can say, I am afraid. But it is very exciting.

Anyway, the world seems to have gone quite mad. Alex Jones, hated for being brash by some of my stuffier English friends, has been on CNN two nights in a row telling it straight about 911, which I really wasn’t expecting to see this decade. And all it took for the floodgates to open was Charlie Sheen opening his mouth. Don’t expect him to get much more acting work (before you snides sniff, he’s currently starring in the State’s biggest sitcom), but similarly, don’t expect him to be the last.

On CNN, you’ll notice a poll, asking “Do you agree with Charlie Sheen that the U.S. government covered up the real events of the 9/11 attacks?” Currently 83% – 31313 votes – say yes.

The times they are a very weird.

Last night I dreamed I was brainwashed into cutting my hair by a TV show. I spent about an hour hacking at it with blunt scissors, staring at the television. By the end my scalp was bleeding, and I had a sort of a David Bowie in The Man Who Fell To Earth thing. I was distraught, suddenly, I felt crushingly pedestrian, and cursed myself for being shallow, as blood dribbled down my face.

Then I woke up, in my dream, and dreamed I explained my dream to somebody, with no eyes, who was the most beautiful person I could think of. Light poured out of where her eyes might have been.

Then we were in a field, overlooking a great plain, and a forest, and above us the sky boiled and split into two. Half black churned and spat with static, and the other curled and arched and shaped itself into a sort of a 3-D space craft, that looked like one of those gummy-rings, as rendered in a technical drawing by a late eighties computer, the bright, unrealistic colours of the palette in Photoshop. It hung in the air, and arched away in an instant. I was told it would return, with “50,000”, and below us wolves and other, unidentifiable, great hairy beats fled the forest, and teemed across the plains, howling.

I knew the “50,000” meant death, of some kind. It was funny, because i knew that 50,000 wasn’t a great many, relatively. But I was terrified.

I don’t recall what happened after that, but I didn’t like it, because I was curled up and shivering and wet when I woke up, and I wasn’t at all sure that I had.

— Saturday, March 25th, 2006

Friday, March 24th, 2006

Fox News announced yesterday that the USA is “already probably at war with Iran”.

“What if I told you it is too late, that we’re already probably at war with Iran and most of us don’t even know it?” barked Fox “News” anchor Neil Cavuto. “Welcome everybody, I’m Neil Cavuto, and this is Your World.”

Argh! “This is your world!” Cheek! How dare they dictate our reality to us!

Thing is though, that’s what they do. You’ll remember it was Fox that called the 2000 election for Bush, wrongly, then everyone else followed suit. So there you go. At war we are.

All I can say is

Snakes on a plane!

I copped the new Ghostface album yesterday. It is even better than the last one. There’s a song on there about being able to breathe underwater, and chilling with mermaids and shit. I love Ghostface so much! There’s even a Wu joint on there, featuring new verses from everyone bar the RZA, who comes with the introduction (although it’s a reused thing from Fast Cars, which is kind of lame). They’re running over an old Doom beat, from one of those Special Herbs joints. It’s pretty classic shit. Ghost has amazing hip-hop production on this record. Pete Rock brings the biggest beat since Kick In The Door, or some shit. Doom is all over it. Lewis Parker comes correct. Even the obligatory R ‘n’ B single (Back Like That featuring Ne-Yo) is dope. Saying that, I was a huge fan of the much maligned Bulletproof Wallets lead-off, Never Be The Same Again with Carl Thomas. I loved that joint. So what do I know.

The Wu-Tang messageboard is hilarious as ever. Comparing the released album to the demos that were kicking about the net a while back, one kid, talking about Nine Milli Bros, the Wu joint, laments, “I think who ever mixed it did it on purpose to make the other verses sound better cause Decks verse was the sickes and now it doesnt sound good cause its off beat. I think I might commit suicide over this.”

I pissed myself when I read that. Love!

There’s a brilliant article about the record by Sasha Frere Jones over at the New Yorker, which contains the following:

“Last fall, in the middle of a riveting show at B.B. King’s, Ghostface asked a member of the stage crew to turn on a blue light. The d.j. put on “My Ebony Princess,” a 1977 single by Jimmy Briscoe & the Little Beavers, and Ghostface began to sing along: “Your eyes are dark as the night.” He stopped, listened to the record for a few seconds, and began talking about how his parents had conceived him while listening to this kind of soul music. Then he told the d.j. to stop the music. “For those that don’t have no soul, y’all wouldn’t really understand or know where the fuck I’m coming from when I play shit like that,” he said. “See—I was born in 1970, yo. You know what, I’m a seventies man, a Taurus and shit, and I love, like, shit like that. I’d rather write to shit like that than hip-hop any day.”

Yo, here’s some more hot British terrorism for your ass. Love me.

— Friday, March 24th, 2006