Jason Phillips's Blog, page 3

Pesticide

via Album Review: “Pesticide”

Porkypine Part 1

Porky looked at his reflection in the Babbling Brook. Poor old Porky.

He blinked a sad tear which joined the rain in the river ripples. Why oh why didn’t he look like the rest of them? Where are my spikes? he

wondered. He felt so cold, where was HIS coat?

He wandered back to The Leaky Shed.

“Hey Porky,” said Louie

“Hey Lou, do you mind if  I cuddle you I’m so cold?”

“Sure thing Porky” and he snuggled Porky in his tiny arms, rolled up into a ball and fell asleep straight away.

Rhys came into The Leaky Shed with his little red wellies along with Grandad, who they all called Dado. Dado was wearing slippers with his toes

poking out of a big hole.

“What’s that, Dado?” asked Rhys

“That’s a garden fork,” said Dado, “for digging up long gangly worms for Nana to cook for your Uncles when they visit.”

“No not that, poo brain! Thaaaat!” said Rhys pointing.

There on the floor next to the fork was a spiky ball with the tail of a pig.

“Um….” said Dado, “that, young man, is…” he was struggling but didn’t want to appear stupid. “That is The Queen Conker.”

“Woooooahh!” screamed Rhys, “So I can be The Champion! and  beat all the poo brains!”

“Yes, it’s very rare.”

“But why has it got a tail, Dado?”

“To signify that it is indeed the rarest of all conkers, The Queen Conker!”

“WOWWWWWW” exclaimed Rhys, picked up the Queen Conker and plonked it into the Rusty Bucket. “How do i open it Dado?”

“She only opens when she’s ready, unless…” he moved his hairy mouth closer to rhys’s red cold ear, and whispered so the Queen wouldn’t hear,

“unless….. we pickle her.”

 

 

part two next tuesday.

empty

Write a short story every week. It’s not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row. —Ray Bradbury

 

Just type any old thing that comes into your head. —Ray Bradbury

 

word association. METAPHOR>>>>>

intwernet cafe screaming at me./ misuderstood. embarrassed. diffetnt thing from different fields.  feed h ead. unanswered questions. wrong questions. wrong direction. ill mother. life. birth. death. the point. weigh it up. who ? who weighs it? some one unreal.

The UnReal. A world i create. Being GOD. why so big? the look from a stranger. is it smaller…. than the creation of a new world?

where can my mind go if i let it. how can i cage it. shrink down- the picture frame. to 1″

1″………………… whats in there today? pick it up. let the picture form… like developing a picture. in its solution. coming to life. it slowly comes… there it is. slowly filling the corners of the tiny frame…

what is it you see? this week? i see

NOTHING. it’s blank

 

 

tubes

A peak at how depressing my new book is going to be:

(very rough 1st draft)

so we are just muli-developed tubes;

i was shoed into the ladies by a fat man in a red cardigan, the men’s were closed, hopefully they were’ fumigating the place, never had i seen a toilet quite as disgusting,; and in one of the most state of the art libraries of the world; they couldnt stop people from spreading shit up the walls, pissing in the sink or making glory holes.

so i locked my self in the cubicle and it came; the heavens opened and i swear i heard angels sing as a Brown moby dick splashed happily into its natural habitat;

the clouds kept clearing; instant happiness; this was at least half the problem of my misery of late, that and lack of human connection,; i appeared to be amongst some unsavoury fucks who i hadnt made much effort with at the squat and kept myself locked in my room, trying to sleep between the shouting, and pissing in a bottle and holding my shit in so i didnt have to go out there

id slip out in the days and do plenty of walking and thinking and writing and still taking in the city; but i was still wondering what the fuck i was doing here:

so i took the shit,; and things felt better; i hadnt done much the last few days; kind of been half contemplating going home; then got the crazy idea to go see the northern lights for my birthjday which is an idea i been toying with; but Tara poopooed the northern lights idea; and going home depressed me; but for some reason i had now recreatred the misery i had felt at home right here in Marseille: i could see it more clearly coz itr wasnt wrapped up with all the other everyday things of life; two things;

no money and two, lack of connection and 3 actually while were thinking of it,; lack of creation:

so could i fulfill these gaping voids and find some purpose and rip a smile across this fat wonky face of mine,

i went to the modern art museum and thought you know what ill spunk half of my final 10 euros and see if im inspired; i got to the desk; 10 euros please; i looked at the lady; i think she could tell by my face the genuine look of poverty;: she leaned in; demain  dix hueres cest entree gratuit she whispered; i smiled and she winked and i walked back out of the museum; this tiny connection and little gift had brought a huge smile to my face and i realised i was lacking the connection of humans; whom i usually despised;, i wazs begiing to realise you cant live without them, you turn into a crank and a bore and depresssed fucker; Terry was right; company went a long way:

i headed down to the fort; i phoned steve from the Spott on the way to see if i could salvage the party and get something going instead of being depressed in the scout hut with no bands;: i felt sick and lonely and without friends: this feeling i fathomed out had stemmed from the choice to give up drink which put up this new distance between everyone i knew and me; i was no longer the happy go Lucky wreck head everyone knew and loved; i was this middle aged bore that no fucker really had anything in common, with; the only people i seemed to genuinely to click with these days were elderly people; old and lonely fuckers; just like i felt; they didnt talk shite and act the goat they just got weird and interesting in their loneliness:

so yeh no connection and no drink was making me some middle aged freak, now you couple this with no money; thus cutting off all my options for movement and running,; and here i was sitting still in a big strange city; living on the fringes of society with the drop outs and the insane and unwanted: and i didn;t even fit in with those;:

why was i here; i seriously didn’t know the answer to that; but i weren’t creating other than wrting this depressing shit; i werent connecting or makng many friends due to my lack of fun making like in my drinking days when i was always surrounded by everyone and people sleeping over at mine in my bed everywhere; just chaos; it had gone: and there was no income, i hadnt worked in months and the funds were non existenet; and on top of all this shit an ex-friend had fucked me 5 years ago and i was up in court and had to return home to compile my defense; i was trying to get my flat mate to sort it; i text her last night saying is now a good time as id asked her previously to give me half hour to go thru some documents on computer.

yes she replied;:

i phoned and she was off her face on mdma with her ex boyfriend in her dressing gown gurning on her bedroom floor: ok this is not a good time:

no no its fine im on it hoestly;: no mate i need you to be on it; ill phone you in the week ; ok email me what to do and ill do it when i get five;:

ok ciao; i went to bed and slept a great night sleep at the squat; there was no screamin tonight,; and i woke up only twice during the night and must have had at least eight hours:

i atill woke up early tho; every day i woke up early: all my life; i loved the twilight to get my thoughts together and that time alone before the noise;: i laid in bed til gone 11 and finished up the excellent bukowski book, the crazy cunt; the honest bastard,; like speaking to norris nuvo;, hilarious book from some one who blatantly and inspiringly didnt give a flying fuck: then i finished up the keroac book; two stories; satori in paris which was gushing drunken self flagillating nonesnse and got right on my tits, i wasnt a fan of that modern classic ‘on the road’ that everyone seemed to love; it didnt do it for me ,; there was no story just him gushing and describing and pontification; get to the action for fuck sake:; that was the problem here again; there was none; jut him in paris telling us of some conversations he’d had and how good his french is and how much he drinks: whatever jack no one gives a fuck; he also seemed contrived in the way he carved up his sentences; at first glance he seemed quite nonchalant and carefree ala bukowski but an overall vibe eminated from the work as you realised he really did care what you thought of him; he really did; and this was the point at where the two writers are polaxed into different stratosphères for me. saying that, the second story of jacks was  story of a Young negro boy point of view; it was written in his drawl and followed the adventures of his brother taking him across america to come live with him; i really loved it and realised as soon as jack removed himself out of the equation i could get on with it;: was this what bukowski was doing by fictionlising what was so obviously auto biographical???,  henry chinaski his alter ego,; might have gave him the freedom to not worry what anyone thought and let his true identity come through; and this may be the key; so i thought should i take on a character; a new name and let legend and stories warp to make the story better while changing the names of everyone involved and suddenly im not hell bent on trying to carve out this image;, im merely telling a story of a guy who is losely based upon myself and some of the things that have happened to me;;;;

 

it made sense, Tristan Laffont; Tristan always felt like my dead twins name and Laffont was the first name i seen looking around at the Library i’m sat in;

the second option would be my dead children, the ones i killed in the womb; jack and Sophie; could Sophie work as a surname suddenly this makes me feel free ;

vivian velveteen, a character i invented in a previous blog,; i love the name velveteen

ok three option,; jason wil die in the next novel and here is a work of fiction based on fact;

i can keep ranting but i dont know much where this is leading anymore; but yeh that was that shit i took,; it cleared the mind instantly; and as we are all tubes; every animal is some kind of shit tube right.

we eat for energy;: and the bits we dont need we wshit out rigghjt; thats the basics of life right; so when we filling up and stuffing ourselves til we are bulging and popping eyes and distended shit pipes, can this be natural; and i notice it takes it toll on the mind before any where else; it makes you lethargic, tired; depressed; cranky and suicidal;

so i took a shit; i spoke to a wrinkly woman at the art gallery; theres two steps to sanity; now i got to create; i guess im doign that shit here; this is creating laying down whats Inside to the outside;

so i need to increase these three as^pects; i read someshere recently what gets measured gets managed; so as the boring sober nerd i have become i will now start to measure these three vital ingrédients to happiness:

 

im gunna simply measure these and see where i am at; and see if i can increasze them and how; so thats me in Marseille mid mid life crisis facing the very shit that is making mer a miserabme sad sack:

the only time i feel good is on the run; literally too tied up in running to face the truths; by deciding to stay still in Marseille, all the shit of home, the patterns have come back and shown me where im going wrong;: i see it clearly and now i have to work on it;: so lets begin you grumpy fat boring 39 year old fuck

 

 

a revised version of this and other depressing notes from marseille will make up my next book. bet you cant wait!

the green comma #1

 

i pulled up the covers right up to my nose. there, the crack of light around the door, it brought with it sounds. muffled tv. a theme tune i knew well of a tv show i had never seen. the orange street light shone it’s muffled gloom into my bedroom and the rain gently licked the window. then the footsteps. she was passing again. every night she clicked past in her stilletoes, and i listened. who was she? where was she going.? the steps faded into nothing and thoughts of death began to invade my mind.

i dont know who had told me, but somehow i had just recently learned that we all die. i was so young, too young really to contemplate this. My tiny mind was scared, totally awake and full of bright fright, at this new concept. that we all have to go. i was trying to work out who should go first. what would be the best. i cried. i didnt want anyone to die. but i finally decided it would be best if i went first. i was having a hard time accepting this. and probably would for ever more. but this was new and absolutely devastating.

i wiped away the tears and the snot. a weird shape to my mouth, almost smile shaped, but exuding whispering moans and the corners of unformed words. i imagined us all dead. all my family, everyone i knew, buried with the worms.

i closed my eyes. the green comma formed. floating, moving, only just staying there, usually when i was tired and not trying to focus on it. just letting it float, without desire. it began to spin. here we go. but this time it was  different. it was spinning the wrong way. my lips quivered and the whole room grew cold. were they dead downstairs? now? the tv chattering away its ghostly blue shine onto the corpses of my family?

i slipped out of the covers and headed to the cracks of light. as i opened the bedroom door it creaked and echoed down the hallway. the carpet seemed to have disappeared and the stairs were in a state of disrepair. leaves were on the bare floor boards and the walls were dirty. i could see into the bathroom at the other end of the corridor, the mirror was cracked and bore graffiti of a large nosed character perring of a wall, with a speech bubble saying “Chad Says Death Begins.”

this was my house, i was sure of that, but it looked deserted. maybe it was my house years from now, after we were all gone. i was shaking, stood in the bedroom doorway. i could still hear the tv downstairs. “Maaam” i called out. there was no answer. i pushed open my big brothers bedroom door to my right.

it creaked open . there was my brothers bed. i really couldn’t tell if he was asleep in the messy covers. but i thought probably not, he was downstairs watching tele, he was always allowed to watch that, they always had this night life without me, i was always sent away to think about death while they gathered downstairs. it always sounded like so much fun, and sometimes i would sit on the stairs in the dark and listen to them enjoying themselves, or listen to the programs, and sometimes id walk in and cry and ask why i wasn’t allowed in to this club.

but it felt now like the house was empty . deserted. like a life time or two had passed since i had been sent up to bed. i looked across my brothers bed and stood in the corner was the donkey. it was a large stuffed teddy. it was erect and almost life like, almost but not quite, in that zone, you know.  i was there now, lost in the uncanny valley. the large glassy eyes of the donkey flicked up towards me . i rubbed my open hand down the lumpy blue wallpaper.  the donkey blinked.  my heart began to thump, as the donkey headed for me from around the bed. i pushed the door open with all my might and ran back down the hall spinning around the banister as the donkey galloped toward me. i looked down the stairs . the front door was open and the living room door too. i could hear that theme tune again. what was it?

i hesitated and then felt the hooves bury deep into my back, cracking my spine, and pushing my belly forward. toppling me off the top step and somersaulting me down the stairs. banging my head on the way down. smashing my bones on the bare stairs. screaming in pain about to smash my head on the bottom step and i awoke.

orange glow. through the darkness, the rain tapping it’s spiny fingers on my window. and the same footsteps, this time coming back the other way. this time faster. hurried. scared. half jumping and running every few steps. i blinked and breathed in the empty room.

SNUBBED

IS IT me? Am i a total cock?

for some reason every single thing i’ve tried to organise for the last month or two – with friends, family, band, new connections, anyone! – has fallen apart. all plans gone south… mainly people cancelling on me LAST EFFING MiNuTE.

a series of cancellations . like TWENTY in a row. either people cant be arsed, or i am really fucking unbearable. and i’m beginning to believe its the latter (don’t normally like the use of ‘former and latter’ as when i read this i always have to go back and see which order they were in to see what the writer is referring to. have been using it a lot lately, note: MUST STOP!)

is it because i’m so laid back and people feel ah well, its only him.. fuck him. ill just cancel coz you know he wont mind. fuck him. is that it?

Is it January and people just want to stay in and not do anything, hide from the sub zero horizontal rain?

what is going on?

Some excuses have been serious, and therefore, i assume genuine, like A&E. Others have just been cancelling last minute, or even AFTER the appointed time, without a single explanation… just ‘Yeh, can’t make it, will have to reschedule’

I’ve lost my shit on a few of these people, usually resulting in them then making the effort to come and see me and respect the plans. Does simply defining boundaries, saying NO i wont be fucked around help you gain respect? Or am i a raging maniac that needs to chill out and let people change their plans whenever they like?

All i know is i’m the one common thing in all this Snubbery, so it must be me, some signal i’m giving off. Any ideas?

HAD ENOUGH!

uggada uggada uggada

some voices literally send me round the fucking twist. it’s all part of my ongoing saga against sound.

everyone loves the spanish accent, for example. except me. it sounds like a machine gun. or someone prodding the fuck out of my cerebrum with a shitty stick.

some languages are in the habit of not breathing. how do they continue to keep up the sounds so full on for so long? there’s a guy sat opposite me now… he’s been rattling off his speech for 9 minutes at his mates poor deflated head,  without a single gap. i don’t know what language it is. but i am wondering where he’s breathing out of. maybe in his school they taught navel breathing.

to top it off, my great mate, the road sweeping machine is outside. sucking up fuck all. as usual. literally nothing is going up into it. maybe the occasional fag butt. that’s it. yet it’s 4000 decibels with huge clouds of black smoke bellowing out of the back, and people in the street diving out the way every time the monstrosity swings around to capture a a stray chewing gum. Its fucking ridiculous. I long for the days when there was a guy you could chat to. he had a sweeping brush. and scooped things into a little container. or the future, maybe these huge fat bumble bees will be electric and therefore fucKing silent!

i live in town. the twats wake me up at least twice a night. but hey! there’s not a fag butt in sight when i go out in the morning. yay.

pointless, relentless, irritating sounds. they drive me fucking mental.

sat here in this cafe and…. here comes bumble bee again, on his 15th pass. Mate! THERES FUCK ALL ON THE FLOOR!!!!!  GO HOME!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK AM I GIVING £140 COUNCIL TAX A MONTH FOR YOU TO DRIVE AROUND TOWN LIKE A FUCKING FAT FUCKING TIT IN A MECHANIC BEE KEEPING ME UP ALL NIGHT! FUCK OFF HOME!!!! ILL PICK UP THE GUM IN TWO SECONDS AND THEN MAYBE EVERYONE CAN GET SOME FUCKIN KIP!

i could list more and more of these sounds. but i have to stop. and im sat here in this cafe going nuts. but yeh, usually i bring headphones. but i forgot them today.

i am rapidly becoming one of those grumpy old men. but sound man, i love sound! why do so many people make so many horrible sounds?

(hang on, im in clusterfuck, you say!!!? well i have to make that racket in order to drown out all you irritating bastards!!)

aparantly there is a treatment for my disorder.

is the fact the fucking SWEEPING MACHINE keeps me up at night the very reason i hate the sounds i encounter each day (including the fuckin sweeping machine itself!)?

Quantity not Quality

There was a song i made. it wasn’t very good. i made another. and then another. 15 years passed. i was sure i could still do better than the last one. so i tried again. i looked back. there were thousands of failed attempts. thousands of rough drafts. thousands of hours of work. of sketches. of ideas. some more formed than others, none really finished. i keep on. and hopefully one day, through sheer quantity, i will reach Quality.

Do Massive Amounts of Shit Work.

that’s become my creative mantra

i’ll get back to you in a few decades and let you know if it’s worked out.

Aversion Therapy Experiment

Roll another! i shouted.

He was already sweating. I rolled one for him. I could still roll even though i hadn’t rolled in 5 years.

Suck harder come on man. Then i remembered he also had the pre-rolled chemically cigs. get your real fags out i said.

He was puffin rollies and fags together. He was turning pale.

He laid back in his seat and put the fag in the ash try. Come on man! i said. He puffed out a bit of air and his mouth puffed up and he looked at me like a puppy.

Dont care i said. Smoke.

He reluctantly picked up the smoldering fag from the ashtray and put it to his lips. He didnt suck. He just put it by his lips and looked at me.

Suck it you pussy come on! He took a little drag. Beads of sweat formed on his greying face.

I laughed. You wanna give up? Then get sick of it man come on. I took another out and offered it to him. Man, he said i’m not sure i can.

I said come on, in order for this to work you have to be truly sick of it.

I am bro. he said feebly.

I said this one more then we’ll know for sure. Take a huge drag. Kill this one. Last one. suck it to death.

He lit it up and sucked. SUUUCK i shouted in his face beaming a smile. Not sure why i was getting so much pleasure out of this.

He sucked as hard as he could. he flicked the fag into the ashtray along with the other 30 stubbs, slid the chair back and lunged his head between his legs.

he was arched over, head nearly touching the floor. smoke rising out from below him. And he groaned. Arrrrg he said.

One more, come on, i demanded.

Fuck off bro.

He eventually slowly rose up into sitting position. Yellow. He was fuckin yellow. And new wrinkles had formed on his face. Was i saving him or killing him? Or just turning him into grandpa Simpson?

His phone beeped. He picked it up. Helloooo he just about managed. I could hear the thunderous voice of his misses blaring down the phone, not quite making out the words, but the hi pitched squawk was blaring into the kitchen. He held the phone away from his ear at arms length. And he plunged his head back down. Arrrrrrrrrrrgh he repeated. Louder this time. Must of been the frequency of her voice mixed with the intense nicotine overdose. He managed to get the phone near him and mumble a few words back to her.

Got to go bro, she’s out the back. he just about managed.

Ok man, he slowly rose to standing position. Grabbing the edge of the table and looking into the distance with his dead eyes. his eyes reminded me of the puss enscrusted eye that was staring at me from a fish i was served in a manky greek restaurant once.

he pulled his coat off the back of the chair. put it under his arm and groaned again.

He stumbled two steps forward and stopped.

I got him to the door and said see you soon bro, let me know how its going !

i closed the door. and could hear him making his way down the stairs like a deformed 200 lb slug. I sniggered to myself like muttley off wacky races.

I phoned him the next day. He had been in bed ill, and not had a single fag since Dr Flapsandwich’s ‘treatment’. I had cured the bastard!

I phoned the day after that to check in. He was smoking again.

 

 

Filed under: life, talking bollocks

Forced Restrictions

currently reading ‘Here, There And Everywhere‘, a book about the Beatles recording sessions by one of the engineers Geoff Emerick. I’ve read quite a lot of Beatles lit. but this one has to take the biscuit. A non-egoic peak from the control room at what was happening without the desperation to cement himself as (another) fifth Beatle or a crucial cog in the insane success story.

I’m only at the beginning but one thing is standing out to me: the immense restrictions that surrounded their creative work. I can load up my computer in my shitty bedroom today and have 100 channels +, and select any instrument with any effect in the world within seconds. I can spend all day rerecording and editing and  perfecting.

For the world of music en large, this means mainly perfect music. Perfectly edited without any real things left for us to grab hold of. Crisp and clean, no mistakes, no character, just a computerised perfect turd flushed into a universe of auto tuned, sanitized bollocks.

The removal of the spirit! this is what we’re talking about here. A music industry full of bland forgetful shite, posh people paying more money to gleam up their bland ideas, and radio stations paid to pummel the shit into our lugs until we turn it off and watch 46 episodes of something with some CHARACTERS in it instead.

 

so how do we bring the character back to the music?

 

Ive placed one restriction on this post. Ive just searched Holland & Barret closing times. It closes in 25 minutes. That means i have to write this post and edit it and publish it and get to the shop with in that time. Pretty tight! I want to go there and purchase their OPPO ice cream and go home and whack the heating on and sit in my pants and pretend it’s summer scoffing said ice cream. Probably watch Vikings rigged up to my fat system. Ive had some bad new this week, and this sounds like a happy escape. So I better write this shit and get going!! 24 minutes and counting….. it might mean its not perfect. But as they say , Perfect is the Enemy of Done!

 

Here’s some of the restrictions the most successful band of all time were working under in the early days:

 

precious studio time

In Abbey Rd, there were three 3 hour sessions per day. And they expected you to cut a record in one of those sessions. That’s 3 hours to nail a hit record, or tara!

2. Needle time

all the tunes of the day were released on 45. Or 7″ record and all came in under 3 mins for the radio to play it. That means there’s no time for breakdowns and build ups and guff. Every single second had to smack you in the head. Every beat counts when you only got a few.

3.  two channel recording desk

Literally Music on one channel (played in live) and Vocals on another. Get the balance right. Master it. And it was in the charts rocking the entire globe within a week. Holy shit. I spent two years tweaking some of my songs. TWO YEARS!

4. Effects and editing.

There were no effects. They didn’t exists. If you wanted echo you’d need to play somewhere with echo. If you wanted anything you would need to make it happen in the room. nothing post recording other than: PAN. VOLUME . thats about it. Record it. Capture the magic. get it right. move on.

5. Separation / bleed

There were only a few mics capturing the band. drums were separated by a thin cardboard stand with a mic dangling from the ceiling. Every mic was picking up part of the other band members racket. Unlike today’s anal separation of every sound and every frequency and treating of each one. This was a few mics, everyone going for it. Capture the spirit and keep it in there!

6. Lack of time to write / record

The Beatles were so in demand they didn’t have days, months or years to contemplate songs and editing and tweaking. They popped in to Abbey Rd mid tour and laid down an entire album in one day. End of.  They’d pen songs in hotel rooms, they’d record them in one three hour session and America would buy millions of copies the following week. We think today is the age of instantly reaching millions of fans. But the boring shit we make is taking months before we upload it, and with very little spirit left in it the world responds with a collective huff of indifference.

7. Instruments!

There was drum kit, bass, guitars and vox. Nowt else. And they wrote and wrote some tunes that turned the world upside down.

8. Knowledge

The Beatles weren’t up on theory. They just played and played and worked out what they liked. And copied, immitated, and eventually made their own stuff! Limited knowledge produced some of the biggest hits ever made.

 

With these restrictions and the stiff old men in the studio keeping them, they wrote and recorded songs that created a revolution. Literally sending the world into a frenzy, changing youth culture for ever more.  A revolution from stiff rules and schedules and limitations.

So fuck tweaking that shit loop for another 5 months. Export it, release it, Move on.

Set up the Creative Ritual, plan your limitations. Get it out the door. NOW.

 

4 minutes to peg it through town for a tub of icecream for my fat arse! laters X

 

Filed under: beat the music industry, creation, talking bollocks [image error] [image error] [image error] [image error] [image error] [image error]