Ianjamesmcadam’s Blog

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20 MAY 2011

Posted by Ian McAdam on May 21, 2011

1967 six day war

1978 exuberant China

corrective ideal inevitable (give it two decades)

modern modern modern

meanwhile pop eats itself

burp after a chicken stir fry

catch a train.

freeflow deliberationschemophysical a word from Damien

(a writing experiment)

Trucks that move in the night, massive biomass and earth substance that is like the invisible hand moving in involuntary peristalsis. Curtains twitiching with sharp tipped fingers like pointed pencils and cataract eyes that probe with curiousity and suspicion and dark edges that are like the rings under eyes.  Rings on fingers fidgeted with as the full moon halo deranges minds in a harder tug, wonderment and bedevilment.

Whetstones. Ten pound blades.  Bullets.  Test tubes.  Telescopes. Lasers. Brushes.  Pens. Chisels. Carrots.  Chickens. Ten pound blades. Whetstones.

Mixtures and potions and witchcraft and junctions where remembered conversations grapple away like competing rock-climbers on synthetic walls.  Concrete and brick and bits of granite and wood and plaster…

Don’t know how a rock face leads to a cul de sac. Logic is a zig-zag. It’s also a music progammme. Even at acoustic concerts now, I see macs.

Musical cul de sacs where strangers exchange tears, words, melancholy, uncontainable love, that tender instinct that to be real is the only way to be. To talk your rhythm into the night, listen to a voice you know you’ll never again hear, try make mind photographs but knowing that memory slips, only so much mind-space mostly occupied by dreams and insights and sadness that droops.

Culture is a wave.  Photos are things other people take of me. My photographs are words.

Bomb making factories, state and terrorist, I don’t know much about yin and yang, but if I’s publishing this in China I wouldn’t be so much liked.

Hope and commonality versus adversity.  Dancing to the disarranged birds that always sing away, drowning out the nightingale, don’t know night from day and often fall, with no warning, out of trees.  That’s city living for you. Paradise, ambition, profitable gain.  Morality that marches ten feet in front of you in the individual race. In the western world, I’ve heard, it’s less carbon intensive to live in the city than live in the countryside… depends, of course, on how you live in the countryside, and if you have a car, and if you have distant family…

Sediment collecting and pressuring down the insistence on the natural progression of the comedic line. Changes as good as holidays and perfection like lucky mutations and the texture of semolina.  Recipes pasted to the back of the inside of my head, put there with passion, anger, despair.  The views from mountain tops (or Highggate Hill) which make big possible, make mind maps take form and personality, fingerprints of your consciousness. Loneliness (solitude) – isolation versus companionship (union) and the dodging of direct eye contact. Street associations blended to understanding, spatial insight tenuously solid.

the picture on my wall

used to be when a wall was a only a physical thing

I think I heard facebook mentioned fifteen times today:  exquisitely sun-kissed, jasmine and orange blossoms merging, taking chances as if this is it, no rational reasons required.  All those times people have told me to live in the here and now… is this the first time I’m doing this, am I Jonathon Livingston Seagull? I’ve never been much good with rapid hand eye game playing, but with individuliatic determination and tunnel insight visions creating fragments that sometimes come together in a sentient way, other times jumble and beg the question of sanity, this creative impulse urges me to make what my friend Liza calls the abstract realism.  Then Damien introduced me to the idea of chemophysical insight.  How he says an emotion can’t be a chemical reaction, I’ll have to ask him to describe in a way that I understand…

Mashed potato and heavy cream. Parmesan cheese replacing salt as the best seasoning.  Taste and pleasure, presentation and forthright attitudes where conversation bubbles and fiction don’t exist. Tunnel vision.  I think I often mention tunnels.  I think I often mention individualism. I’m trying to make a point, but I don’t want to be too hard-nosed, too obvious, too bleeding heart, too computer intensive while I burn computer time.

Intensive leading from one paragraph to the next, the hospital lines, the competing interests that jostle for premiun attention only dirt poor excuse for mash in hospitals and bacteria in your wounds. Antibiotic anti trust, ongoing battle, lazy people  lying on lilos, or more obviously comfortable dirty couches using communication devices. Wars and fights take many lines.  Comfortable beds cost money.  Hospital beds cost more.  There are always bad people, even working in hospitals.  Profit motives leading research.  Exclusion.

Multitudinous anonymous existence thronging on the street…  Massive weights moving on the sea, confusing the whales, coal fires spewing away feeding the line that just gets longer and longer… cheap is good you know.  I know I like cheap.  I can’t afford much more than cheap.  Organic free trade lifestyles are very privileged, no matter how good they make consumers feel…

…giving way at the ticket barriers… unless I’m pushing through.


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