New Website - New Blog

I am moving my website and blog to a new Wordpress template. There will be many things missing or wrong with my web space for quite some time, but then it will emerge from this chrysalis into a great big insect of wonder.

In the meantime follow this chain of thought...



must therefore lead to



See you all soon.

Don Quixote vs the Dictatorship of Po Mo Cyn

For too long there has been a dictatorship that has towered over the modern, Western lifestyle. A force that is offers the easy way forward without offering any solution. It says that it has all been done before, nothing is new, all solutions lead to the same conclusion, that time is circular and all your hopes for better are mired in the inevitable outcome.

This is the terrible weighted voice of that horrendous dictatorship of Po Mo Cyn. His message has seeped into all forms of creativity and creative response, his thoughts have pervaded every media channel. It is the very essence of negative apathy. Post Modern Cynicism is everywhere and insidious but it must come to an end.

The irony is that under the control of Po Mo Cyn there can never be a revolution, all force is met with an equal and opposite nullifying effect. For every good deed and bright spark there are a thousand snarking retorts waiting, a thousand skulking comments in the forums, a thousand jibes and jokes made for their own sake. It is time for this to end, and the only way to overthrow such apathy and cynicism is to ignore it and keep going.


Britain’s Got F%&! All - if it hasn’t got integrity.

By way of example Britain’s Got Talent pushes new boundaries in self serving, controlled media, designed and delivered for maximum acceptance and manipulation, yet it continues to make a fortune and top the ratings. Despite all the scorn I can pore upon it I too find myself drawn into the ‘entertainment’ of it. I despise that part of myself that chuckles at the antics of Ant and Dec, or feels good when some poor fool is given an inkling of a chance because even as I laugh along with it I am aware it is fundamentally fixed, corrupt and managed – but I still do nothing. Po Mo Cyn is at work here, not in the corruption I watch and willingly consume but in my indifference to it.


The Invisible Revolution

To drive Po Mo Cyn to a bunker ridden starvation there needs to be a revolution in thinking and the time for that must surely be now. We must begin by look for him and recognising that this frame of mind is everywhere. Then we must consistently resist, overthrow and revolt.

I was walking through the town and passed a sign outside a pub that read "What is the meaning of life? QUIZ NIGHT!" and I felt it to be a profound statement.

Was that the answer, just a quiz night? A series of repeating, random and meaningless questions? Or was a pair of disparate phrases simply thrown together?

After pondering this on my walk I had a great upsight and I realised two things. The first was that only my mind was responsible for the association, it did not necessarily exist for anyone else. The second was that such an attitude was not necessarily a good thing. I realised it was not good enough to make some pithy remark and walk on, I had to change my state of mind in order to create change. Far too often my mind will speak without considering the inherent negativity or destructive sourness. This is the work of Po Mo Cyn!

My boy sang 'Old McDonald Had a Farm' and my immediate reaction was to add 'and on that farm he had e-Coli'. Here again this is the work of Po Mo Cyn!

All of these thoughts remind me of Don Quixote; not just the literary work but my personal relationship with the work. Every time I come back to that story I feel it is my tale being recounted.

     Comte De Guiche: Sir, have you read Don Quixote?
     Cyrano De Bergerac: I've practically lived it!

All that we consume seems oppressive and fills me with indignation. I ponder, how do we make a better world when cynicism, apathy and pastiche bring profit and originality and creativity none at all. Where fraud, deceit and malice are mingled with truth and sincerity.

Don Quixote's battles are the same as ours in this age. Where Don Quixote had his nemesis in the Great Enchanter we must battle Po Mo Cyn; whose thoughts are cold, whose soul is shrivelled, whose eyes are machines and where he walks the earth is blighted.

In order to fight this monstrous giant of infamous repute we must become knight-errants of the media age. We must go about actively to praise the creative and joyful, to find and uphold the new and courageous.

Listen to this boy, he is battling Po Mo Cyn and this is his battle cry.



This is the same as Don Quixote's call to arms.

     "Hear me now
     Oh, thou bleak and unbearable world
     Thou art base and debauched as can be.
     And the knight with his banners all bravely unfurled
     Now hurls down his gauntlet to thee."

These ideas lift me up. It is time to hurl down a gauntlet to apathetic thinking, to the quick response that diminishes rather than uplifts. This is the time to reject the quick fix of instant gratification and pre-chewed entertainment.

Bring down Po Mo Cyn where ever his presence is seen.
It is never too late.
It has not all been done.
There is positivity in the world.
There is a solution that can be achieved.
"You can do it. Thumbs up everybody, Rock and Roll!"

Coffee Homeground

I recently quit sugar, down from three sugars to nothing. All of a sudden my favourite beverage became hollow and bitter. Of course, being bitter was not the suprise part, coffee is bitter, but I realised how much the sugar and milk were integral to the experience.

At what point, I wondered, would it stop tasting like 'the bitter tears of sadness and regret' and start tasting like 'a damn fine cup of joe' once more? I thought maybe a week, two weeks? It will be much longer than that and in the meantime I have to relearn what coffee is and how to appreciate it for its true taste.

To that end I bought a stove top coffee brewing pot and a milk frother. So far this works but there is a learning curve to the whole thing and a pathway that seemingly goes on forever into coffee brewing perfection. Obviously I can't afford a top of the range machine but the stovetop pot does a pretty fine job.

Here is what I have learned from the home brew experience, although far more in site could be drawn fom www.coffeegeek.com I have been through my own trial and error process.

If the pot says it's a 3 cup size then it means three tiny espresso shots, this equates to one shot of espresso volume as used in a cafe. I bought the six cup and it fills up a normal mug with a double-shot of coffee, which may be too strong for many but I kind of like it. It would also work for a strong brew that is used for two mugs, topped up with boiling water. This method would also avoid the 'kick in the face' coffee hit but I would rather replace with hot milk as the dilution can be tasted.

The lower chamber is filled to just below the steam vent.

The coffee grounds are placed in the container and tamped down. First I thought I could adjust the strength by adjusting the amount I placed in but it does not work that way. It needs to be full. This full amount plus the degree to which it is tramped down effects how the brew and flavour is extracted from the grounds. The denser the grounds are tamped, the more pressure builds through during percolation and the stronger the taste. The more level the grounds are tamped the more evenly the flavours are extracted. When you open the pot back up afterwards to clean you can see the degree to which it has worked; an even distribution of filter holes is best, any sign of caving or large holes will show where the water has rushed through the weakest part of the coffee grounds in order to escape. The sites I have gone to for information recommend 30lb of pressure and to practice on a kitchen scale to get the right amount of force.

Using hot water to fill the reservoir first does speed up the process but also makes the pot very hot and difficult to hold.

Do not tighten using the handle as it could break under a lot of use and isn't designed for that kind of torsion.

Brew until just after the bubbles start coming through, essentially the water has now been drawn through the coffee under pressure and it is ready.

The milk frother is essential to the experience but could use a lot of milk in order to get the volume. Though I only use enough for one milky coffee any less would make it difficult to do anything more than make big fat bubbles. As long as the plunger can submerge in the milk and be agitated, it can generate a kind of meringue like microfoam replacement. Frothing the milk looks rediculous and sounds silly but needs to be vigorous. The froth will disappear eventually so get it straight into the drink.

Pour out the coffee, then add the milk. Use a spoon to hold back the large foam then allow more foam to enter the cup. Finally spoon on the thick foam from the surface of what's left. This process of foaming does increase volume, so it seems like some is wasted at the end but eventually this amount returns to a normal consistancy. In theory the jug of milk can be frothed, used, left, frothed, used, etc.

Stir and then the coffee is ready to drink. One of the major factors that is essential to this experience is the type of coffee bean used. Locally, fresh ground selections will always be better than superstore packaged brands. Our local store, Guntons does small selection bags for around a quid but I am trying Lavazzo decaffeinated.

Then there are all the other factors that I haven't begun to touch. The heat of the milk, the pressure of the brewing, the fineness of the grind, the freshness of the bean after roasting. What I find fascinating is that each aspect can be detected, they are subtle changes but every part of the process has an effect on the final taste. This is what compels me to return to the next cup with a fresh excitement.

Eye

Eye eye sailor, the eyes have it, eye Claudius, eye candy, eye am Spartacus, eyes down, eyes right, eyes left, eye for an eye, eye who have nothing, eye believe in miracles, the hills have eyes, the king and eye, my husband and eye, eye pod, eye pad, eye tunes, h-eye-d-hi, eye don't like you either, eye don't wanna talk about it, got my eye on you, eye for the ladies, eye for the engine...

I have been having trouble with my eyes recently. A bit like suddenly switching on Beatles mode or flipping the Pink Floyd setting. My vision gets more blurry and weird, like looking through a kaleidoscope, before returning to normal a couple of hours later.

At first worrying, but now that I have seen an optician, my GP and a specialist whom have all confirmed there is nothing really wrong and I can rest a little easier. It's not like it happens all the time, just once a month at the moment. Apparently it is the equivalent of a migraine in your eyeball. No known cause, not dangerous and will go away for it's own reasons.

The specialist did give me some eye drops just before shining bright lights into my eye and it did this to me...




...but I am OK now. Back to normal. On with the show.

Gibsonian meeting is Out Of This World

I have just sat down within a meter of the literary futurist giant, William Gibson, and listened to him speak about the nature of the future and our entanglement with technology. There were some other people present of course, a large audience for one thing, including other luminaries and folk of note on the panel but I confess I had not really heard of them.

Cory Doctorow, Mark Stephenson and Diane Coyle were on the panel of 'Who Owns the Story of the Future', a British Library discussion on the nature of the story we are telling ourselves as we create our view of the future. I had travelled swiftly and decisively to London for the event for one reason only, however, and that was the presence of William Gisbson.



Luckily I had a seat right at the front and as all the panelists arrived and sat down, Mr Gibson was opposite me so I was able to observe his mannerism directly; the plain but weighted cool that surrounded him, the individual items of unique origin like the urban shoulder bag or khaki converse trainers, his stooped and unhurried gait.

As the discussion began and circulated, the other panelists were quick to answer, chiming in with intelligent and witty observations. Mark Stephenson, speaking with well oiled phrases and naturally eloquent monologues in response to the hosts direction. He named dropped the best institutes in science and technology and talked of his optimism in the technology horizon. Diane Coyle speaking directly with facts and insight, managing to make economics interesting. Cory Doctorow's booming, jocular style - having to raise his voice over laughter from a pithy witticism, quick to speak and throw out ideas. In this time each had their say, bantering back and forth, and Gibson had been silent. When the question finally came to him for an answer the room fell quiet. Even the panellists hushed and looked intent, awaiting his reply.

When he spoke it was in a quiet and slow slur, mixing the drawl of the US with the amiability of Canada and filtered through the deliberate measure of his age. He was also incredibly jet lagged and so he admitted that it was all cosmic, perhaps not a true reflection of his real self or his persona but everyone hung on his every word nonetheless. Every time he came to speak the room would fall to intense focus and once he had finished, with a humble shrug or dismissive gesture, the room would remain in deep reflection for a moment longer.

It was clear that he was held in very high regard by all present. In that sense I feel like the rush, the departure from a comfortable routine was worthwhile. Not only for bringing home the treasures of a video, a picture and his signature but for the chance to be there in the room.

Of course, only moments beyond that adventure and I can hardly remember a single thing that was said, all these moments that were vitally important at the time have since washed away. No doubt they will seep into my subconscious and reappear in the coming weeks, in dreams or discussions.

One of his phrases, conjured up improvisationally but also immediately seeming like an age old meme, was "Tweeted in stone." Thus, I must turn to the social networks to try and recreate the message, much as Gibson describes the work of future archaeologists.



He first spoke of how impossible it is to guess the future because of the immense complexity and absurdity. He described how, if in 1981 when he first began writing he had take a pitch to a publisher which described the year of 2011 as it is, then he would have been thrown out. I paraphrase...

"It is the year 2011 and everyone is connected invisibly by tiny computers they carry around and can access a vast store of information whenever they wish, Soviet Russia is no more, terrorists have flown planes into the Twin Towers and destroyed them, causing America to wage war in the Middle East, a virulent disease targeting the human immune system has ravaged the world... by the time I had mentioned two of these plot points the publisher would have said I had bitten off more than I can chew and by the time I reached the end of the list they would have called security - but that would have only been the start of it."

He spoke of the old giants of science fiction as 'The Uncles', and I am sure he invented that phrase on the spot, yet I am also sure that Heinlein, Asimov and their ilk will henceforth be known by that title. Discussing Heinlein's Future History.

"The uncles got it wrong. That was amazing to me to think that they could be wrong. The work was old by the time they reached me... No one saw the internal combustion engine as the possible cause for destruction of our species on the planet. But who knew... 'Who knew' could be the motto for our species."

In discussing the aspects of cynicism, positivity or the difference between dystopia and utopia.

"I was always saddened that my work was considered to be set in a dystopia. At the time there would have been untold numbers of people who would have gladly been transported to that setting because they would have been better off. You can't appreciate how positive a place the present is now unless you had been through the 50's to the 80's where people were living with the possible threat of predictable and horrible annihilation at any moment. This seems like an ideal future in comparison."

When the chair person opened questions to the audience I thought about all the questions could've asked. All would have been as pretentious and meaningless as the ones asked by rest of the room. Everyone was desperately conscious of not babbling, of appearing lucid and cogent and framing their ideas eloquently as the panellist. These questions were interesting, though some did go on too long, but were just starting points for the panel to expand on.

Some plucky fellow avoided the roaming microphone by simply speaking out, his deep voice compelling a question. You could tell the panel were a little nervous of him but answered all the same. The question involved whether we were 'rendering' before creating something with our future. He meant that in a computing reference, to complete any processing of the information before moving on. The panel thought it was a reference to fixing a wall. I imagined the boiling down of fat. It reveals how difficult it is to find a common language in an area where no one can know anything for certain. If anyone could imagine it, it would be this group of people.

At the closing of the event, in speaking of the narrative of the future that we have, Mr Gibson summarised as follows.

"What stories do we have now? Zombie Apocalypse? Geek Rapture? I like to think we would would be somewhere between the two."

Then a round of well earned applause for the panel and the doors were flung wide to allow the audience to leave. Not me. I had one hand on a copy of Neuromancer and a pen secreted in hand. As every else seemed to be too cool to gawp in awe at their literary heroes I simply cut straight up to William Gibson and said "Excuse me, sir. Would you mind signing your book?". I always revert to Bertie Wooster mode in times of awe.

"Well I'm not sure" he said hesitantly glancing at the large crowd that hadn't seemed to catch on to the idea yet, "you might end up starting something." But he signed the book all the same, with a smile to boot.

Ok, Mr Gibson. Good advice. I'm off to start something. After all, that's the way of the future.

Nighty Night by 8in8

I'm listening to Nighty Night by 8in8. Ambitious for most artists but I never doubted this crowd. They have the confidence and following to fart through water and still make it into a pleasing artistic endeavor at the mix. Despite their great individual talents they still managed to make something personal, intriguing and creative. It is strange that you can still hear their individual input.

The full story is better explained elsewhere, the short version being they recorded 6 songs in 6 hours, released the album and performed it live in the space of 24 hours. Fleeting art. The zeitgeist of the post modern rock ethic in action.

You can hear and download the album here:

http://music.amandapalmer.net/album/nighty-night

These things stay with me

I remember the cool, dark catacombs deep beneath the ground. The sound of the chainsaw revving and the held breath, listening for the sound of a thrown grenade echoing off ancient steps.

I remember the bright, summer sky and open fields surrounding the vast Egyptian monuments, lush and verdant. A shotgun in my hand and far away the first sounds of a constant scream that remained in my hearing for long after it's owners disintegration.

I remember the first day at work and the sudden, swift fall of mankind. The endless crawl through the ducts of the underground complex, emerging only briefly to freedom before being forced below at the click of gunfire.

I remember the ancient temples of Na Pali, the search for the damned crystals and the never ending conflict of the alien war machine. Those high cliff dwellings will always provide a place of refuge.

I remember the mansion by the sea and the party guests, oblivious, far beneath my ceiling perch. The interconnecting laberynth. The desperate run from shadow to shadow as the metallic wardens plodded back and forth for their Mechanist masters and Pagans talked of woodsy terrors.

I remember the arrival at City 17 and the long, epic voyage ahead of me, crowbar in hand. Nothing will remove the soft wind of the abandoned canals from my mind, or the darkness of Ravenholm, or the echoing snap of crossbow through empty train yards.

I remember the time of waking at the Enrichment Centre, the promise of cake, the hidden office, the empty chairs. The final struggle with the artificial intelligence and the last sight of daylight before the return to sleep. I will return there soon.