phocks

This is a reply I just had to write for some reason on a Facebook group thread I came accross:

I appreciate where both sides are coming from. I just don’t see why there has to be a law - best government is that which governs least, and all that - except that it’s mostly to do with politics, politicians promising good health so they try to make laws that restrict a bar owner’s freedom of choice over whether to allow smoking or not.

By supporting these laws, the people, you and me, are just playing into the hand of the politician, who’s next agenda will most likely be to restrict something that you actually enjoy doing.

I’ve gone on enough, but whatever, here’s my simple view:

Bar A allows smoking: people who smoke or don’t mind smoking go there, have fun and are happy.

Bar B does not allow smoking: people who don’t smoke or don’t mind not smoking for a while go there, have fun and are happy.

Bar C: sees which bar is doing better financially and chooses their policy accordingly.

I would prefer to control my own reality, rather than leave it up to those bumbling politicians, but that’s just me.

Last Wednesday has slipped away into memory, what memory remains at least. Glad of the fact that unlike some who attended, mine seems relatively intact, and free from too many distortions, aside from those inherent. An experience can be lived but once, through coloured glass filters; though its populous imprint on the mind can be readily called upon to grace consciousness time after time.

A pre-party was planned, Corey & Yolande’s palace in the Valley. Only a small gathering was expected, but as it unravelled, more and more bodies slowly sauntered in, filling to capacity. With them came the cigarettes and other stimulants, a cloud hanging like fallout over the preparatory daze of smiling faces, awaiting. Drinks enough and we were off, a bottle or two in hand.

Everyone was there at The Arena, all good company. Seems the somewhat elusive Brian Jonestown Massacre had slipped inside many a mind, making certain they wouldn’t want to miss bearing witness to this spectacle, not for the world. And so the night drew on, the people stumbled, and the Jonestown boys played to ears ablaze.

From a few rows back I stood watching, absorbing, a few times puling the camera out to record some snapshots in time. Also manage to catch some commotion video, nailing honey to the bee.

Evil genuis show, no encore for the sake of one; respecible in light of our apparent tameness as an audience. Tambourine James is following them to New Zealand to learn a few moves. Catch them if you can.

The BJM at The Arena

Usually one of the first songs learned by the budding guitarist, I however only just decided a few days ago that it was about bloody time I actually learnt how to play Stairway to Heaven, now that I’ve started geting into Led Zeppelin a little more.

So Stairway is from their fourth album, which I keep telling Fletch is their best, but he won’t have any of it — although admittedly, I’m yet to hear his favourite, Led Zeppelin III, in order to compare. Hope to acquire it sometime soon.

To learn, I thought I might see if there were any tutorial videos on YouTube. I found one, but the guy seemed to be getting it obviously wrong in a few places. What better time to do my own video than while I’m learning myself? So I found a tab which seems to be passably accurate, and set up my camera.

Only just getting my fingers around the introduction right now. It’s quite a well crafted piece I must say; hats off to Jimmy Page.

Here’s the tab for the first part of the into anyway:

E-------5-7-----7-|-8-----8-2-----2-|-0---------0-----|-----------------|
B-----5-----5-----|---5-------4-----|---1---1-----1---|---1-1-----------|
G---5---------5---|-----5-------2---|-----2---------2-|-0-2-2-----------|
D-7-------6-------|-5-------4-------|-3---------------|-----------------|
A-----------------|-----------------|-----------------|-2-0-0---0--/8-7-|
E-----------------|-----------------|-----------------|-----------------|

And the video:

Enjoy! More to come…

Dubious beginnings, a common trait of all good books, of ones worth remembering, worth recommending, worth reprinting, worth reproducing. We speak of both introductions and of origins. To introduce, our subject is what appears to be a book of photography by Robert Mapplethorpe, large and heavy, hardcover, nicely bound, and coming with one of those jacket-like cases you slide the book into — just in case you didn’t yet realise the book’s obvious value.

How it came to be here, sitting edgeways upon my floor, was that a girl from work asked the question if I had ever heard of the man, the photographer, Robert Mapplethorpe. I answered in the negative. The next day arrived this mass binding of pages and a warning about the material to be found between the two red pages, rather explicit gay bordering-on-porn imagery, the reason it was not to be handed around the office willy-nilly. Too large and bulky to carry, a good strapping to the floor of the Vespa saw it arrive home safe and sound.

I expelled a thought of wonder at who in their right mind would still buy a book of such massive expanse into physical existence. Flipped through the pages a few times, noticing the few celebrity likenesses the most and of course the overt homosexual content, one reason, I imagine, that our lender attracted a certain kinship to this photographer. Kinship, awe, and admiration, reason enough for this lofty purchase. That and a chance to strut it upon coffee tables when friends come to play, an aid to outward expression, or to lend to someone at work who will subsequently analyse its evolutionary origins in existence. Either way.

Tangible, an object, and replicable, an ideal subject. This photo book, still thriving it seems in an ever-changing environment, a fluctuating market, has evolved some very specialised traits that allow it to survive. It is big and well bound, suitable for showing off to friends; it has pretty pictures that when looked at correctly, in the right frame of mind, will challenge the viewer’s way of thinking about the word (we talking about art here); and it is about a quasi-celebrity photographer and so gives the reader some kind of knowledge about the history of society in which they are living. Other traits are common to virtually all books, such that it contains pages, a front and back cover, and is relatively portable. Perfectly fit for reproduction.

Designed? Surely not. This book evolved, dubiously, in minds, in markets, in existence, in this post, from its countless predecessors. It will continue.

Photograph of a photograph of Arnold Schwarzenegger and a man in the tub

The periodic reading during hurried lunch breaks of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius seems to have spurred on previous ideas — ideas that up until now had been lying dormant — to take on something new, a new project, or whatever it was that had built itself up in my head as what would seem like a good idea to spend a good deal of blood, sweat, and tears on for a considerable period of time, in order to reap the perceived extensive existential gain, whatever that may or may not be.

The idea is simple, and It’s been brewing away for probably months, or maybe even years, up there in Neverland: to pick simple, everyday things, things you may not think twice about, and write about them analytically in terms of their evolutionary existence, etc, mainly in order to offer an alternative view on our perceptions of the things around us — something like that anyway. We’ll see how it turns out after things begin to take shape.

So what I’ll do is I’ll pick something, something from the day, or something that occurs to me during the day, and then I’ll write about that, just to make it a little personal. That single object will most likely then get expanded into its basic form, or what it is, like my tambourine over there on the bed is a member of the percussion family of musical instruments — stuff like that, all biological, and trace the history and origins and study its continued existence in the universe. Follow?

This will be it, and I’ll do it every day for a hundred days, or more realistically, as frequently as life allows for however long it takes for me to throw the towel in. That should theoretically fill a book; I’ll publish it, and BAM! thrust skyward towards ongoing influence and memory in high society, to an escape from a weary workaday worldliness, while at the same time helping a few lonely souls along the way reach the fabled “new” perfect bliss and enlightenment.

I have no idea what I’m going on about… or do it? It really depends upon the state of evolution that this sentence you’re reading now has in your mind at this given time, or down the track, or before you even read it, while I’m typing it now.

Self-fulfilling prophecy. Who knows?

“Wow, they looked a lot clearer before I put my glasses on” she said, seeing the sharp block shapes of the simulated pixels, blown up for effect, an emulation of times when that was as good as it gets, jagged lines and vivid imagination. Her brain was filling in the gaps where her eyes, unaided were missing vital data. Such happens all the time when information is scarce; reality is altered to fit.

A need had arisen for yet another Strange Attractors poster. The long, hard push to win favour in the eyes of Ric’s Bar had begun a while ago, and while other bands seemed to have no difficulty in attaining the regular weekend Ric’s spot, emergence somehow for The Attractors would prove more difficult. Complex is the game, when you’re aim is off the board entirely. It could also have something to do with the fact that we can barely fit the band on their tiny stage.

I remembered buying a little novelty book for a friend a few years back, containing a multitude of celebrities drawings, only they were drawn in tiny pixelated form, as though being displayed on an old Atari 2600 or some similar computing device of that day and age. I wondered if I could do the same with the band, and perhaps use the images on the poster.

Experiment number one with James and his tambourine exceeded quite meagre expectations, and after that, without too much effort the whole band was born into 8-bit existence. Just some quick aliased text added and then we had perhaps the smallest Ric’s band poster, staring us down. Could I really hand them a poster only a few centimetres across? Blown up to A3 size, the pixelation effect is enhanced greatly. Shall be interesting to see them up on the walls, out in the wild, with the others, the contrast, the minimalism, to see its influence, its effect, whether it gels, meshes, provokes, or is just mocked by the other kids, too cool for school.

If only I had an A3 colour printer.

The Strange Attractors: Zoran, Lauren, Jason, Josh, James, Hendrik, Fletch

Existence of late has been as that of a nomad, a wanderer, for quite some time now in fact. Back now in the small room above the snack bar in Albion, hauled up for the night, but it has been days and days away, with other places to stay, never too far away. Those places we always seem to stumble across on our travels.

Home still no longer seems as such, except for a certain quick moment just before, a pop in the head, my mind rationalising itself, its place in the world, its (almost) inseparability from myself. Awaiting a friend’s return from a far off land, one found only in the peripheries of my knowledge. Plans to find a new place hang in the air, until then.

Tired, can you tell? The weekend sprawls out, with most events past that point of non-disclosure, especially at this time of night, at this sleepy hour. Goodnight.

When a man gains the high ground, an elevated position upon which to perch, and to cast a firm gaze over what was once his incomprehensible surroundings, he begins to see things in a new light. That is, those things that once surrounded him and dazzled his senses become arranged in a new way when reconstructed and rethought.

This may well be fiction, as may any string of words you should come to hear in all your days. In the end, I sometimes wonder, what’s the difference? A recent venture to the top of the hill did not meet with a genuine imparting of the divine. Not at all in fact. What was I thinking?

In truth, an idea has been kicking around the insides of my skull for quite some time now, and it seems this idea is attempting a prison break manifestation in any shape or form it can persuade my body into creating. I did have a kind of revelation in the shower before. Never start from the beginning, so I’ll be certain not to even try.

Restless wanderer waiting to be free, awaiting release, it seems you must stay, as least for a short while longer. Shapeshifting mist of a beast, settle on a more permanent form, solidify your existence, that you may be released, and your institutional torment ended at last.

So I had this idea that I would like to get into a bit of photography, I mean, for more than just myself and a few shots for friends, just to try it out for a while. I have an Olympus EVOLT E-300 digital SLR and have experience shooting a few bands and weddings, but mostly I just play around trying to capture the light.

Anyway, just get in contact if you’d like to book a shoot for band shots, etc. Just getting some experience to start out with, then I might have to start charging.

Photo shoot for Hot Liquid Sex

A long exposure from the suburbs

So it seems I have unwittingly found myself fronting this psychedelic band called The Strange Attractors for just about a year now, ups and down and all, and still I seem stumped at what to tell people when they ask about it, so it usually comes out just the same old stuff, when what I really want to say is… I’m not sure. It has played a permanent role in the direction of existence however these past few months. What I’m still trying to figure out is if it is an enemy or a friend.

The group is still evolving, like all else, and we’re still to record a proper album. A video emerged on our YouTube channel the other day, something from a recent rehearsal: a cover of Anenome by The Brian Jonestown Massacre. See for yourself.