Bored Bard

Pol. How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter: yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a Fishmonger: he is farre gone, farre gone: and truly in my youth, I suffred much extreamity for loue: very neere this. Ile speake to him againe. What do you read my Lord?

Ham. Words, words, words. — Hamlet (c. 1600), Act 2, Scene 2

Bore is More

Why boredom is anything but boring — Implicated in everything from traumatic brain injury to learning ability, boredom has become extremely interesting to scientists”, Maggie Koerth-Baker, Nature, 12i2016.


Elsewhere other-engageable…

Beard Tales — a review of Alan Moore’s The Devotee of Ennui (2013)

Bong of Bongs

Dopelord, Polish stoner-doom band (photo by Marcin Pawłowski)



“Navigator” by Dopelord from Children of the Haze (2017)

Leaf burns to ashes — Hail the Holy Smoke!
Deepspace traveller, folding time with bong;
Green smoke inhaler — space defeated bends.
Skilled time deflector, holding bong in hand
Holding bong in hand…

Slowly he’s dying,
Slowly he’s turning,
Into stones and into ashes:
Slowly gets high.

Galaxy raider flights the mothership;
Mind decompressor on eternal trip;
Green smoke inhaler — space defeated bends.
Skilled time deflector, holding bong in hand
Holding bong in hand…


Elsewhere Other-Accessible…

Dopelord at Bandcamp

Post-Performative Post-Scriptum

The title of this incendiary intervention is a paronomasia on Song of Songs, the Biblical book traditionally ascribed to King Solomon and known in Hebrew as שִׁיר הַשִּׁירִים Šīr hašŠīrīm and in Polish as Pieśń nad Pieśniami. Please note that the Overlord of the Über-Feral abhors and abominates the taking of all and any drugs. Except the purest and most potent: water, language, mathematics and music dot dot dot

Perplexing Purple

We have three sets of cones (or colour sensors) in our retinas, each of which is sensitive to a different part of the colour spectrum; the brain then constructs the rest of the spectrum by extrapolating from the relative strength of these three. In the case of purple, which occurs when the red and blue sensors but not the green ones are triggered, the brain creates a colour to fill the gap. If your brain were more objective, rather than showing you purple, it would display a patch of flickering grey with the words “system error” on it. — Rory Sutherland in Alchemy: The Surprising Power of Ideas That Don’t Make Sense (2019), section 6.2

Reading the Roons

In terms of core issues around maximal engagement with keyly committed core components of the counter-cultural community, one of the saddest, sorriest and sighfullest sights among them is that of the talented lad from the wrong side of the tracks who betrays his class by turning himself into a Guardian-reader, in terms of core cultural assumptions and behaviour.

Northampton’s Alan Moore has done it.

London’s Stewart Home has done it.

Huddersfield’s John Coulthart has done it.

How do I know?

[Readers’ Advisory: If you are easily disturbed, distressed and/or disgusted, please stop reading NOW.]

I know because

[I mean it. Stop reading or you may well regret it.]

I know because each of these talented lads from the wrong side of the tracks now bears the Mark of the Beast, metaphorically speaking.

[Last chance.]

Each of them has, on multiple occasions and without the minimalest micro-metric of shame or irony, deployed the key Guardianista phrase “in terms of”.

• For proof of Alan Moore’s deplorable delinquency, please see here.
• For proof of Stewart Home’s dep-del, please see here.
• For proof of John Coulthart’s dep-del, please see in the same place as you possibly saw or are-about-to-see Stewart Home’s, i.e. here.

So. After seeing and lamenting those horrific examples of class-betrayal, I thought I was hermeneutically hardened and would never again experience sadness, sorrow or sighfullness at the sight of a talented lad etc.

I was wrong.

As I learned when I read this interview in The Mail on Sunday:

There was a lot of negativity in terms of my mum getting frustrated with us as kids, messing around all the time, smashing things in the house and my nan lived in the same road, a few houses down. […] In terms of therapy, I have spoken to a few different people. I have never done a period of time where I have done two years with someone and it has been ongoing. […] Everything I am asking of those players in terms of hard work, honesty, trust, commitment…if I was just to turn round and say “I have had an offer, I’m off”, I honestly couldn’t do that to the players and the staff. — Wayne Rooney reveals his secret two-day drinking binges etc

Oh, Wayne, Wayne, Wayne. How could you do it? But I think we can easily guess where he was infected: it was during his therapy-sessions.


Elsewhere other-accessible

Ex-Term-In-Ate! — interrogating issues around why “in terms of” is so teratographically toxic…
All posts interrogating issues around “in terms of”…
All posts interrogating issues around the Guardian-reading community and its affiliates…

Vacancy Vanquished

We never sighted the slightest suggestion of life all the way to Vancouver, twelve days of chilly boredom, though there was a certain impressiveness in the very dreariness and desolation. There was a hint of the curious horror that emptiness always evokes, whether it is a space of starless night or a bleak and barren waste of land. The one exception is the Sahara Desert where, for some reason that I cannot name, the suggestion is not in the least of vacancy and barrenness, but rather of some subtle and secret spring of life. — The Confessions of Aleister Crowley: An Autohagiography (1929), ch. 57


Previously Pre-Posted…

Leech Unleashed
Crowley on Crystals