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The tyranny of the clock

  • 13 April 2016



Dragging something from the brain down through the body and into existence is an act of magic. The birth of a baby, birth of an average poem, or birth of an ugly skyscraper. Mum, artist, architect. All equal proof that humans are magic.



I leave behind a sort of residue, imprint or ghost of myself in each day I pass through. A version of me that's forever caught and trapped in every yesterday like a locked room. And as the years pass, each room and ghost ripens and blooms in the midnight light of my mind, sparkling until they're both distilled and purified from the original stress and troubles that firstly created them. Then they shine as pure colour. Summer changing to autumn.



It's funny how Netflix has branded, emblazoned and cuddled itself into the cotton-wool ball 'family life' and the 9-5. It nurses and swabs the psychic ailments of the full-time job through 'binge tv series watching'. Even the expression 'binge tv' is welcomed warmly by the most conservative people I know. What happened to old fashioned binge drinking while watching the moon?


The dog doesn't question how it wags its tail

As opposed to an 'AHA! moment', an 'AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA! moment' is where you divinely and purely discover the truth over-and-over again so rapidly, the truth becomes combustible, propelling you through a loophole in the universe. The condensed speed of so much truth reels you with 'truth overload' and philosophical whiplash — the by-product of this revealing itself as what we know as 'laughter'.


The tyranny of the clock

Googled 'the tyranny of work' while at work this morn. And uncovered this great essay from the '40s by a Canadian anarchist, 'The Tyranny of the Clock'.

Then after reading it, thinking my jadedness of the nine-to-five was vindicated, I crossed the road at lunchtime where this tow-truck was waiting its turn at the lights. The trucker had 'Born on the Bayou' by Credence blasting through open windows. Thought he had an amazing sound system. Then realised he had a drum-kit set up on his dash and was going for it with his sticks in time to the tune. He made his day job look easy — and all of a sudden I felt like a small little angry man. He made my week.


Guardian angel

I often send texts to myself. Little ideas and mysteries. Curiosities and musings. Secret thoughts. One day someone responded to my little brain