Postscript.

Tunes in my head: Another Door by Mike Gordon
Books of a page: As above.
Atmosphere: Alone and gone.

So, I guess it's been good writing here, and if you're one of those reading this, I hope you've enjoyed it.

But...all things must come to an end some day. Good or bad.

And so this place is closing up. I don't feel any inspiration to write here anymore, I can't see the point in it, so I might as well leave it instead of continuing the same old substandard stuff that I've been throwing out there in the past few weeks. I can't stand seeing my reputation as a good writer die.

It's a massive blow to my self confidence to actually see this happen.

It's sad. I really feel I'm slipping.

Well, if you're reading this, you know how to get in touch with me. Any suggestions for how I can revitalise my writing would be greatly appreciated.

Thankyou for reading.

Goodbye.

- Liam McCann
21st February 2010.

Three hundredth post.

Tunes in my head: Querencia by Medeski, Martin and Wood
Books of a page: Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Atmosphere: Destroyed.

I'm decaying, so quickly.

I feel like all of my mental faculties, all of my physical faculties, are being slowly drained from me. I feel like I can't even make use of my fine motor skills, or of my intelligence anymore.

Help.

To wander neath the sleep.

Tunes in my head: Julius by Phish
Books of a page: Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote
Atmosphere: Grumpy

Sleep is a powerful thing, really.

It can tear us apart, revitalise us, destroy us.

It can embolden us to do things that aren't expected, that aren't typical.

Stairway stare Dan dare who's there?

Tunes in my head: Astronomy Domine by Pink Floyd
Books of a page: Sleep When I'm Dead by Crystal Zevon
Atmosphere: Pissed off. 

The only unforgivable thing is the betrayal. The betrayal I felt when I was fifteen, in the English countryside, underneath limpid sound. The harsh stab of the knife digging it's way through my repulsive flesh.

I know that life can't be simple again.

Tunes in my head: Rocky Top by Phish
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Headache

Why do we choose to take our frustrations out on others?

Does it really achieve anything?

And the bird leapt from his shoulder, unto the boulder.

Tunes in my head: Fly Famous Mockingbird by Phish
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Introspective.

If we went to heaven, the indifferent place that it is, how will we be preserved?

Will it be as we were born (i.e. innocent and naked), as we died (i.e. jaded and mostly clothed), or when we were at our best?

Just a little thought, I suppose one could say.

Ask me why, and I'll spit in your eye.

Tunes in my head: Still Ill by The Smiths
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Jealous. Insanely jealous.

Under the iron bridge, we kissed. And I ended up with sore lips. 

We live as we dream. Alone.

I don't enjoy being alone, and I don't want to be alone.

But at the same time, I wish to maintain my dreams, I suppose. I guess when people ask me "oh for fuck's sakes just ask her out already, she obviously loves you to bits", I'm scared of breaking the picture I have in my head.

Sure, could there be better? Yeah.

But it involves taking a risk, which I...I don't know. I want to do it but I'm seemingly unable to do it for whatever stupid fucking reason.

It's really sad and depressing and lonely.

So what can I do here? I know that yeah, in essence, I could jump into the darkness. But at the same time, what's the point of doing that when I practically know that I'll just get impaled there anyway.

Up on the cloud line.

Tunes in my head: The Night Watch by King Crimson
Books of a page: Why You Should Read Kafka Before You Waste Your Life by James Hawes
Atmosphere: Alert

There's a certain bravado that accompanies going up on stage in front of five hundred, two thousand, seventy thousand people, and just playing whatever comes through the conduits of your soul, in going up and improvising in front of them.

It takes skill, too, of course. But mainly absolute guts. Who says the audience will be there with you, neccesarily? It's by no means definite. Sometimes they can listen to the uplifting, "type II" jamming and be completely turned off. Sometimes they can hear total improv and just be entranced by it.

Take for example, King Crimson's Trio. During a late night gig, at three in the morning, the band had just ripped through particularly energetic and heavy versions of their Starless and Bible Black material, concluding that section with a dissonant, atonal improv. From the chaos and carnage of this assault came a sole flute line, and from there the composers took up interweaving melodic lines. Soon there was a three pronged melodic piece, the bass guitar, flute and violin interlocking and playing around each other's gaps. It was so profound that the band's drummer, Bill Bruford, did not play a single note, realising that adding percussion to this gorgeous improv would merely destroy its integrity.

The audience had to be completely in on it, as well. If someone had yelled in the middle of the piece, the integrity would be ruined, the beauty of this completely improvised moment would be destroyed totally. Instead, the audience sat in silence, perhaps not realising that this was a moment of invention.

And the result is heard on Starless and Bible Black. Pieces of absolute beauty, something sublime, gorgeous.

On the other end of the scale comes what is affectionately titled "The Went Gin". At The Great Went in 1997, Phish launched into a version of the song Bathtub Gin that seemed at first ordinary.

Within ten minutes they had launched from a mid tempo vamp to a high paced improvisational flurry that transcended composed music. They had never done anything this potent, this uplifting before - and never would again. The final six minutes were quite possibly the six best minutes of music ever, period. A double time melodic vamp which repeated in absolute nirvana.

Sure, improv is at best risky, but when it goes off, it's heavenly. It just defies all definition, all words.

The red one, the green one, the silver and blue.

Tunes in my head: Cascade by Siouxsie and the Banshees
Books of a page: Yeats Collection
Atmosphere: Sweaty

We move in an endless, full, perfect circle. 

Everything's going to be alright.

Tunes in my head: Three Little Birds by Bob Marley
Books of a page: W.B. Yeats - Collected Poems
Atmosphere: Sleepy

I remember California, where people would happily tell the foreigner "well, how are ya, I'm from the area and I'll show you the Golden Gate Bridge and Arnie's office if you really want me to."

The scary thing is this is the exact same motivation that drives us to mercilessly slit our bretheren's throats on a mud-sodden battlefield.

How can we put our own stupid nationalistic drive at the forefront of our political aims and let it drive us to kill someone who theoretically be our blood, our brother.

What drives us to kill each other, in the name of God?

We are, as a human race, very similar to ants. We attack better under force, en masse, under the dominion of some leader, whether they're a queen bee, a hick who chokes on pretzel, someone who gets elected to the office by a watery tart throwing scimitars, or the very same spiritual being from above.

In brief, humans are truly pathetic creatures. We happily allow ourselves to be brainwashed into killing, into raping, into committing something that could only truly be considered an atrocity.

And how exactly do we justify that?