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Posted by Ian McAdam on February 8, 2013

The gentrification of King’s Cross continues. I particularly love the lighthouse building, and look forward to when it’s all shiny and new looking again.

Kings Cross Environment

Kings Cross LighthouseThe Evening Standard reports that the Co-operative has been signed up as a tenant for the  Lighthouse Building by property developer UK Real Estate.  So there is some prospect now of the development happening and the developer apparently wants to protect the external heritage – ie the lighthouse bit will stay

The big question though is just how construction will take place on a highly inaccessible site – it’s surrounded on all sides by hectic roads in the deadly Kings Cross Gyratory.

Thanks to Lisa for sending in the link.

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Posted by Ian McAdam on February 7, 2013


Scrap of paper theology,

religion of an army saint,

a martyr,

the kind of man’s man

fit and fast,

frustrated by

 politic lethargy,

knots of democracy,

merits of theocracy,

pace of meritocracy

two faces profile

urgency of life,


lust for satisfaction


hero worship


dust that parches the back of the throat

codes and coda

and secrets entrusted under pain of

humiliation in incarceration



with demon urgency


no god would want


poppies are ironic

oh, no.

the bread

and butter

demands it.

Cigarettes are dead giveaways.

But nicotine is a distraction.

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untitled one (2008)

Posted by Ian McAdam on February 6, 2013



with me fading

each moment


nobody knows

yet how

silicon images


digitally perfected

(apart from the energy

in that moment

that I believe is eternal)

will be lodged

maybe displayed (displaced)

somewhere, databased

or mantlepieced, bottom drawered.

but fading, already lost.

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Posted by Ian McAdam on February 4, 2013






visual overload complex

where are you today?

High as an fuckin kite

sonic tune ballistic

carefully considered

floral insight

fish brighter

than man made neon

could ever emulate

a lucid dreamer

watching outdoor advertising

in cultural loops


long-sided on the tracks

screech banshee

the artistry rattles

the carriage

of nodding heads

screens images

saturation marketed

in perfume wafts

seaside daydreamers

sand patterns

foam spume

dream-walkers eye-sighted

shared perceptions

turquoise copper stained


fascinations LCD’d out

trite contrition ambition


on the platform humidity

almost nobly

updrafts reverberating like storm winds-

 the carriage pushes through

as a wheel songbird wishes



dipping toes

as the fish get even brighter still

at noon


things are moving.

they are moving orderly.

There is comfort about.

intelligence will dive down

and find

I know it will

it could be

it could be mantra ray spoke.

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Watch this space.

Posted by Ian McAdam on March 23, 2012

Something magical is happeningImage

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Stretched 5am on Waterloo Bridge

Posted by Ian McAdam on July 28, 2011

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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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May 2011

Posted by Ian McAdam on May 18, 2011


(a look at  conversations that think about themselves) (for Ana)

(while listening to BBC News or BBC Radio Two– they’ll tow you along — so any plagiarism is the fault of the sound-waves in my living room)


mass of all my memories,

you’ve captured me,

the deepest place

I know of

(give me a metal



that looks

like a Subway Branch,

unique and

off the shelf,

weighted with

heavy atoms

how ever expensive

they might be)

you’ve sublimed

the rear of my

brother’s car

over the Limpopo

in his boots

with his mindframe

strong and fluent

in humanity

rainbow nation


and the chameleon is the sand…

caught here

in the city

for all

eternal time

as herbs sense spring

and grow faster still

sunlight’s better than halogen



Continental drift

infused with

youth not like china

which if old

is very expensive

youth is rare



matter about the

crime or the moon-line from the sexy guy who talked on genuflects


Muscular Liberalism

took a holiday

in the sun

as the streets filled with


cast offs with


and probs

and why

can’t you

think about


the individual

with the media


and homogenised teeth

narrated an auto-queue

and slipped in an ad lib:

I don’t think there”s

any man

who can think


 all of us.

And if it was so original…

would everyman

think about


as more zoom shots drew in

Like “I’ve never thought about that before”… hmm.




and fields

and acre yeilds

with moisture count

and butterflies

and the


varies with spec   (take out your binoculars)


the hops

and the insects

that live in

the hops,

and the human


of all life

to kill

and the fast march forward


grow fast

to a place which

don’t change size

dig deeper


an iron



space in time

you’ve given me

but that end of the morning beer,

the choices at the bar

all in a row

unable to say

what you want.


the value

of A ruby

And the struggle

to get to

the DJ

and say how brilliant

that April moonrise



sunshine and showers

but not in the south east

best ever moon…

music you take my life away and i get so you’re all i can think about

Rocket man

eats a rare metals bar

and says

not so precious

only heavier

as his

stomach drops out

damn, those lee-ways



IT WILL BE  damn that’s on the tail of a helicopter

who has that kinda money

as I brought tobacco late

on a Ruby

I said ruby

already and lose your mind if you can

for a little while

not forever…

you hope not forever


You’ve expanded

my nervous energy

(making the air move)

breaking segments

on a naartjie

like a carnival ballon

when the red hair

of my family makes

me sit back

and wonder

on wot”s common

on who just looks like who…


that make my mind tired,

the way a 36 year old,

looks at the world.

far out oblivion

becoming a


a real thing

what about the

south east

what bout the


what about Scotland?


save the queen

and god save

the conservative

intellect so much money

so much fucking money

and their field is

wide open

to the open

legs of

a mother

Mom, tell me how to be.

What to feel in the


How to while


a whole

360 degrees

there’s only

360 degrees

there’s only

100 percent

I wonder away again

from what I meant to say

and it fucks my mind that what

I might have thought to say

I forgot to


and then it went

away forever

a dull


thudding at my head

like so much


Oblivion to the

post with

the Maypole flowers the street haze

and the way bicycle wheels

make wind

that winds the top



on a new coin.

Making mind pictures

that look nothing like

square pictures

hurts sometimes


in the mud crawl nightmare

faster zoom

quick jolt back

look at this

it can’t be reality.

And I like the reflection your mind gives, like I love the up-glow light on concrete

My reality, that’s what I stop at and look at, the deep in the reality

reality there again

reality again I said

it’s the only reality

i know

it’s the only reality

I’ll let you live in

dictate to me all the time.  That’s all your everyman likes

as the reality

and the perception

sword fight

with pin sharp


on an Avocado Pear

and equality likes

two sides of the same coin




scales on each side

of a self service

Tesco till

gotta balance

the muscular



of the human



I want people

to be people

not things


money  love


a passport

with the


and rust

and newness

Fight against speculation

on what I eat…

That cow looks slow

let’s catch it

12 May 2011

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Work in Progress

Posted by Ian McAdam on August 12, 2010



Butterflies don’t tumble

they beeline…

welcome to:

the philosophical waste track



Gliding over the water, skimming the surface, leaving behind me a long elongated v ripple as my wake.

The dizzying heights, lucidly reeling with that prehistoric fear.

Deep in the primordial cave, a sense of being inside the essence of everything, everything in this one breath clarified (like ghee) and understood… the ancientness of time as stalagtites-and-mites yearn for limestone union.


The fashion for up-lighting, in shades of pink and blue, and all the shades in between, is beginning to wane as in this recession the trend is for mad cheer day-glo neon lighting every dull coloured, but so seen to be at, place.

…but the moonlight

…and the rare hot sun

…and the pure snow white out.


It’s been a sleepless night.  So far, it’s been a guilt ridden journey, as at 4.25 am the hope and angst combine in a heady mix:  the hope that he won’t be found out, that the fantasy will tangle up forever, and the angst that the guilty verdict is obviously inevitable.

Flip side mercy, please make it gentle, he shivers.  Every time the eye contact is too lingering, he shivers.  Cannot maintain this.  Gonna break.


Where the sun dips, hazy behind-the-horizon illuminations shoot silver arrow mirages upwards.

Far up, the baby blue shades to ultramarine.  A gradation which, though it only takes minutes to pass into twilight, takes up hours of his mental thinking.  All these hints and hues of blue, with red watercolours permeating.

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Balloons floating past the pent hut!

Posted by Ian McAdam on February 2, 2010

There were lots of sirens that night!

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