An alarming sound wakes me up, it is the alarm clock. It is early morning at five o'clock and the bed is unusually warm. I dress, all at once quickly for that might wake me up further. I’m shivering slightly whilst I say goodbye to the endearing dreamer.  The lampposts are tall and mighty, I detect traces of seagulls and realize there are a few on the road trotting tiredly from bin to bin. I wait for the bus, being the first bus on the timetable. How early it is! My pale music player is plugged into each ear and it plays the same songs it did 3 years ago when I got it.  My eyes sting, the smoke must have whirled into them, I put it out once I spot the big, red, rattling vehicle that is going take me elsewhere. Alas I’m onboard and I paid the fair of £ 1.80. Old toads and sleeping students embellish the dull interior, I rest my head and the journey is quick, pain free.

Once on Tidy Street I can see the station, it is my goal. The station windows are glowing invitingly but I don’t care. It is now almost 6 o’clock and I will begin to serve in the sales industry, good morning sir/madam.



Oh and also;


black forest gateau



Tracey Emin ( * 2.1 Monoprints * 2.2 Painting * 2.3 Photography * 2.4 Neon * 2.5 Fabric * 2.6 Found objects * 2.7 Installations * 2.8 Films * 2.9 Books * 2.10 Sculpture

In the night on the kitchen floor we would lie outstretched listening to the lonely ticking of a time

I think about her sometimes, when I least expect to do so. Opening the refridgerator; she would hurry there for the cold milk. In the back-door gardens of England; her black tail would be moving like a sneaky snake in the grass, eyes darting from bird to bee, to me.

A toast to perfection, may she live long and with her mischief reign.


Mick Jones told Mr. Doherty a story in the studio once, it was at a time when it was badly needed for Peter was well upset. Here it goes -

(Mick says) - A bear was watching telly on christmas day when he heard a knock on the door. He opened the door and there on the snowy path was a freezing little snail. The bear picked up the snail and threw it as far as he could out into the forrest... The next christmas the bear was watching the TV and he heard a knock on the door, he answered the knock and there was the snail again. The snail said "what was that for?" and joined the bear in the warmth and had a good laugh.

Here's a part of nice song that reminds me of niceness with close ones.

The libertines - 7 Deadly Sins

Hand me my gun
My friend we'll have some fun
We'll shoot down the spies in the trees
And kick up the leaves
In the mornin' breeze
Pay no mind

St James street

Bind them up and
pull them on
tattered and torn they're almost gone
(the uneven road stretches on and on)

round the corner
strangers eyes meet
sparking flight to your feet

lost school boys in pyjamas
tread softly
on pigeons dead carcass

fish n' chip spit
swoops down, another brick it hit
fountains share the fresh air
trousers, however don't give a care

James the saint's hair
is all tangled up
smothering mouths of babies shut

windy currents carry him to sea
not a step more,
ever be

old and green it was not foreseen
St James, the street
he could not beat.

By J.F

I'm So Bored With YoU |.S | .A

Life in Brighton, ahhhh... How can I begin to explain?

Firstly I'd like to share something I read somewhere; " Never get too comfortable..."

For about a month now, I've slept on an alcoholic couple's floor, I cough like a madman since they smoke inside and their hamster (called Paddington) shits and pisses in his cage contributing to the strange stench that fills the place. Anyway I sleep there for free so theres no real problem, and ive got keys to the place. 

Here's what I do most days; Wake up and hit the streets bringing whatever book im reading, to then have a cup of coffee whilst reading and smoking. I do that for about an hour, I then walk down to the seaside to continue my reading, when I've had enough of the book I fuck off to the library to listen to music on the computer. Like now for e.g I'm listning to Boards of Canada - Rue the Whirl, and I get my daily dosage of The Clash.
Later I meet up with my mate Michael, we go for job hunting and rumage in music stores. We eat. Feel sick. And continue to walk about... In the evenings we meet up with other folks for beer and jamming. 

There is a great deal of live music here in Brighton, good shit aswell! I've met a lot of musicians whom play at art gallerys and stuff and most of the gigs tend to be free which is brilliant. 

Now I'm off to see Michael and our friend Tom. Tom has very green hands and enjoys to work as a gardener, he plays the clarinette and smokes a lot of ganja, today is jamming day and I'm gonna have a go at the bass guitarr. 


Stacey Peralta

Dogtown and Z-Boys is a love letter dressed in documentary form. It is a letter addressed to skateboarding, the 1970s, youth, and rebellion. The film is a fast-paced ride through the collective memory of skateboarding and the legend of a group of teenagers from Dogtown, a formerly dilapidated oceanfront community in southern California comprised of South Santa Monica, Venice Beach, and Ocean Park. Known as the Z-Boys because they all began as part of the Zephyr Skateboard Team, the group of eleven males and one female helped construct an attitude and lifestyle that continue to resonate in streets and backyards all over the world.

( Source -  http://muse.jhu.edu/login?uri=/journals/the_moving_image/v004/4.2slappe.html)

I know that yet again ive chosen to write about my  travels, but that will change.
Venice Beach is really something, Ive had my prejudice thoughts about culture and of the ways people walk and talk in America, some of my thoughts remain but Venice made my brain race, my heart thump quicker and I felt like the place was alive in a form (a creative form) I hadnt seen or experienced in any other part of the world before. I made friends, at least I like to think I did, when I was walking about the boardwalk. There was this skate patch/ skate park where some guys surfed about on their boards. I sat down to observe them (hence I was alone) and two of them approached me after a while. They asked if I lived in the neighbourhood because they hadnt seen me before, I told them why I was in Los Angeles etc. One of the guys was called Joey, he was wearing shorts, clumsy skate shoes and a thick wolly hat, oh and shades as well. The other guy, David, wore a regular t-shirt, shorts and a very nice afro-cut-hairstyle. The two were very tanned... and stoned I gradually figured out. I tried out their boards, felt really silly, but I could see the joy at being good at it, especially if you would live in Venice B. all the flat, smooth and sandy surfaces to skate on, the hot sun making you warm to the bone and the friendly bastards making you feel part of their world.

I bought a board, the rastafari one to the left.. the other pics are from Lords of dogtown, the text above is from the first film/documentary about the skaters, havent seen it but you can rent it at the library, I just posted the summary because i find the content interesting. I was inspired to write about this whole matter partially due to the great film "Lords of Dogtown" and partly because I saw one of the lead actors on a surfers beach in Malibu, John Robinson aka Lords of Dogtown's Stacey Peralta.

I've learnt nothing, and have nothing to say, but I fuckin love wanting to, so I'll keep strechting

Understanding Jamaican Patois (An introduction to Afro-Jamaican Grammar) - A guidebook written by L. Emilie Adams

Right... I flew to Jamaica and thought that the vibe over there was good, better than good, great. I ate breadfruit, listentened to rasta tunes and endured the workload that I was there to workout ( filming this program for Swedish TV). I also picked-up some of the language, I reckon it's great fun so why not learn some?

- Wa gwan?                                                                ( whats going on/ wts up?)
- Wa gwan man, me good!                                       ( Wts up, I'm good)

- Yu irie?                                                                      ( You ok, all good?)

- Yu deh pon haad wuk, eeh bwai?                        ( You're really working hard, eh boy?)
- No man

- Tell mi di trut!                                                                 
(Tell me the truth)
- Fi wa? A wa dat good fa?                                             (What for, what good does it do?)

- Forward, wi gaa a tung                                                  ( Come, let's go to town)
- Di time hot´                                                                       (The weather is hot)

-A summatime noh                                                             (It's summertime now)
- Dat man deh bad no ras!                                                  (That man is damn bad!)

- Ku ya! Hoh yu fayva buguyaga to ras!                          ( Look here! You look like a damn tramp!)
- Mek i tan till a maanin, no bada hackle yuself!          (Let it wait till morning, don't worry youself!) 

- Di cucumba dem o fit eenai moon.                            ( The cucumbers will be fullgrown by the full moon.)

Line 120


I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

(T.S Eliot, The love song of J. Alfred Prrufrock)

"The English weather makes me want to paint" - Paul Simonon

An extract from Passion is a fashion, the real story of The Clash by Pat Gilbert, 

         PART ONE 

   Occasionally, he managed to escape his father's shackles and hang out with his schoolfriends. They'd wander about Tavistock Road and Westbourne Grove, checking out blue parties where reggae music and marijuana mingled pungentley. Paul became part of the local weave, intoxicated by its energy and excitement: the late-nights crowds on the pavement, the gangs clustered around their beat-up motors, the tall, elegant houses and weeds taking root in their sooty, peeling facades, the sound of reggae and dub blaring out of their open windows."I'd walk past all these houses with West Indian music playing late at night, and get pulled into parties when I should have been going home. Most of the kids I hung out with were black - I got to the point where I only spoke patois with my mates."



Big J har konstaterat att jag ibland kan vara en sådan..

Myglare, Myglandet. Mygel.

Myglet är måhända inte språkvårdens mest angelägna fråga, men det är desto mer spännande att följa ordet tillbaka i tiden. Roten till mygel och mögel kan nämligen spåras tillbaka till latinet och den klassiska grekiskan, där det betyder "slem, dynga, snor".
Hur har då detta ord, som betecknar allehanda obehagligheter av fuktig karaktär, kommit att betyda fiffel och moraliskt förkastlig verksamhet? Förutom i vår betydelse finns en motsvarighet till mygla också i tyskan i orden mogeln (som betyder 'fuska') och schmuggeln, som givetvis är detsamma som vårt smuggla.

Det är samma process som när vi talar om en människas svinaktiga beteende och egentligen inte alls menar sådant som en gris håller på med. Också här har vi tagit fasta på och renodlat en negativ komponent i ordets ursprungliga betydelse.

( Detta var inte bloggaren själv som skrev utan 
 http://web.telia.com/~u31252427/mygla.htm i brist på en bra definition hittade jag denna)

A rush and a push, this beautiful creature must die, still then the spirit in her children's children's children, It lives on


I went to the american embassy in stockholm today.

Grouchy miserable uncontent, was I in the waiting room, enduring a lady spatting dictaturous comments,
 a widescreen showing the same-lame clips of people of mixed races saying
 American, Im american, proud american america.. 
the security guard was standing so very widespreaded with his boots it was like he was taunting me to kick him not so gently in the groin.
The enterence door was to be held open, the icy coldness that crept inside the waiting room was like powdery bittersweet american frosting that clung to your ankles and cheeks! I tried to sleep, to allow my dreams to take me else where, mumin dalen for e.g, (the mumintrolls sleep during the frosty winter)..

When i left I was souring high among clouds! Free I felt.. blessed be thou Mrs Spat, prussimoluska, haggard wank.. you made my 5 hours visit behind bars so terrible that when I could leave, (i was really happy to leave), !Mumin! himself lent me a cloud that i could fly on to the buss station..

     Alas i was granted a visa to take part in some filming in the whereabouts of the USa!

The world is his pyramid ---


Born from the sea, Dylan Thomas from Swansea


Crazy thing shot up the wall did'nt it..

Susan Cadogan - nice and easy (brilliant!)

A Model Of Human Occupation ---- not too familiar with it and it sounds rather like a pile of paperwork.. ahh feck it

Ever experienced fractions of a certain form of happy?
Here comes a real module of a worthwhile Occupation;

Exhilaration is the Breeze
That lifts us from the Ground
And leaves us in another place
Whose statement is not found --

Returns us not, but after time
We soberly descend
A little newer for the term
Upon Enchanted Ground --

E. Dickinson

ft. the picture below

I did'nt take much effort to accomplish this mess. With tunes of A. Tensta in my head, I, in my backyard began picking dry leaflets of a dead stalk. I stuck em on with ol' Carlssons to then attack the canvas with whatever supressed emotion i had instored.

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