The Big Little Joke

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time

T.S. Eliot

The literature I write is a deliberate walking away from perfection. To really say something is to say nothing. To say something is to play into the hands of a game you didn't invent. To write anything is akin to rhyming poetry or song lyrics. You force yourself into a corner. Box yourself in and you have to fight to get out. Fun but...The way I see it, whether you rhyme or not you are pushed into a corner as soon as you use words to do anything.

Listen to the 1st track on the record put together for the 1977 Voyager's mission to space 'The Sounds of Earth'. It is surreal, real, messy, noisy, senseless, true and will probably be very confusing should aliens figure out how to play it.

Still, it is fascinating and we do love to listen to ourselves.

I like to imagine it is me who found this album 600 light years from earth and that this is all I should ever need to know about it.

There is clearly a big difference between knowing something and living it.

In my writing as in everything I am doing, whether it be Stop Motion, Music, Poetry, Living, Loving, Drinking or Painting, to feel you have discovered something, actually invented it, even if those things have already been discovered, is an invaluable feeling. You can tell a twelve year old what to think or feel but unless they really think it or feel it like those feelings and the knowledge is truly their own, what's the point? No difference with 47 year olds.

Sitting on the plane to Manchester last week a sudden feeling of enlightenment swept over me. I saw without cynicism or judgement or any remnant of sardonic pleasure everyone as having been duped about EVERYTHING. Clothing. Manners. Money. Food. Everything. A permanent state of laughter felt like it should be the right state to be in at this moment. To see the joke and understand. Not to forget. To feel and live it always. I couldn't keep hold of it. Or so I thought. Then I realised that I have spent my whole life living this knowledge. One can simply get tired from laughing hysterically for years on end. And oh boy have I been laughing.

"Disconnect yourself from beauty and become one with it." The Mook Manifesto

The unshakable knowledge that 'there is nothing to be done' still haunts me and only laughter can convince me that flashes of humanity are achievable in a world run by robots.

My latest book 'Bild the Wa' offers risible shadows of an alternative history to Czechia. A history in which there has been no history and therefore no Czechia as such.

To start from scratch with anything, a song, a story, a theory is to open oneself up to the opportunity of actually feeling something afresh, to know something with a capital K-N-O-W as opposed to wearing the dirty, baggy hand-me-downs from siblings of questionable standing.

Bild the Wa is an integral part of a large Alt-Art Society project in progress entitled 'Prague Threshold'. More on this next time....

BILD THE WA – Short extracts (a taster)


Samo ruled with a marker pen and sceptre.

According to the Vojnich Manuscript (which is not a history at all) some Sickos living on what is now and has always never been Threshold territory, mainly in Undergrowth subunctious realms, were exposed for a number of years to questions of governance and meaning from the brain pod sulk bulk, whose empiric nonsense stretched across the territory of present-day. Always present day. In 623, of the moonfold-gamble-hunt, the Sicko tribes revolted against the oppression of the mind. During this time, a very frank artist, Samo, came to the free lands with his cans and markers and joined with the Sickos to defeat the head munchers, confidence crunchers and Zulu dancers. Thus the Sickos adopted Samo as their pin-up model, for shits and giggles. "So it happened that he encouraged the 'self-found' and the end of madey uppy claptrap.

He married twelve Sicko women and four Sicko men and had with them twenty-two sons, fifteen daughters and a happy dog.

All other locals, under his charisma, let go of empty searches and were victorious in their sprouting.

"We do not come into this world when we are born, but come out of it," tagged Samo.

The Vojnich Manuscript painted about Samo before and after he lived in the Threshold but never during. Where would be the point in that?

Later Samo and the Sickos came into conflict with death but got over that quickly and didn't bother themselves too much with that whole rigmarole.

To this day no one really gives a tinker's toss.

Over the next five years Samo and the Sickos undertook artistic projects which would endeavour to include all humans in the vicinity. No one knows exactly how far to the northeast Samo's influence eventually reached, probably beyond the boundaries of today's known universe. After Samo's death, his public portfolio has been respectfully worked over as there never was, nor was there ever meant to be, a real structure with solid organization. Art was created to unite Sickos to defend against Brain-disturbs and fantasy, and to facilitate Sicko plundering expeditions into their neighbour's conscience and mesmerising atomic structures. The Threshold, united in difference and indifference mooches forwards in triumphant nonchalance until once every 333 years Samo is reborn, empty as a ping pong ball to refruit and recruit himself into that barnstorming people's acolyte he was always born to be. As are we all.

The End


Effingham creeped the wall wader bejeweled by her heave. Who she was with he couldn't tell but knew she could never leave.

Mook and Geoerge pooled the crowds in cool roomed outdoorsy shine tunes and drone baked half groans, tubular and rendition end for gabby houses and partnered Mums and dude kids. Baby hugs at ears and quackers near the edge of water by boat jam music backers. A quid here a quid there for old times sake and to provide a mask that the pre-jams aren't blurry and the cats don't jolt so.

George pounded his guitariano with the force of a donkey and Mook rolled joints on his golden tongued diatribes for light, air, harmony and imaginary honkeys.

Plebs at the back equallified to be plebs at the front as the status quo has no row with judicial system on any score lessly than murder or skiffle.

Pixie chimed with her handheld wannabe (wannabe alive wannabe three dimensional) and shrouded her understatement in mystery. Both bopped and cajoled to the Cernabilly echoes bouncing like diverse jivers on that particular Naplavka bowl of rivery Equinox, Juke Box, Bobby Sox and fender bras.

The lyrics wringed against the patio barber wall of the street above and graffitied all over; Mook's words as clustered and myriad fucking.

Bounce-bounce the melon headed glad rags moomed

Bounce-bounce the Hendrix tatty girls rang.

Meep-meep the beetles clanked and bolstered the insect party poopers.

Glory and light continued in acquiesce passed on in eternal revolution pints. Glimmer to glimmer the intoxicating bzuzz of us and I in a pocket sized hadron collider.

As twilight fell upon the riverside revellers, monumental moment to mount mounted the walkway and trickled upwards and inwards to meet the anti-clash of heartfelts.

Pixie now woozy with words and dilution was ready to hostess her ballyhoo beckoning. And right then and right there but measureless in poesy, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder and certain proof of her spook. The band sang these lines as she swaggered to the bridge, "The sail lifted by light alone and roaming the skies un-shy, unshakeably un-shy.

I still see you in the cloud's rays and sol souldiers, you and me in the waves on the breeze."

Party time.

The End


No history but this history and that's no history at all.

Early modern humans had settled in the region by the Lower Paleolithic/Autographic. Several Paleolithic cultures settled here, including Bombuien, Burnerian, Taggarian, and Muralian. The Svatoplatopluk archaeological graffito site near the Quadratar ink mines is dated to between 24,000 and 27,000 years old. The figurine (Cock and Balls of Dolní Věstonice) found here are the oldest known primary-coloured ceramic goolies in the world.

The End

Blog Outro...

A Selfie Selfie

(Wyndham Lewis Michael John Rowland Self Portrait Self Portrait taken in Manchester City Art Gallery)

A beautiful U.K. heatwave holiday but it's good to be back :-)


Hope you enjoyed all that. Follow me on Instagram, like me on Facebook and feel free to say 'Hi' to me on either one of those or even on the contact page of this very website.

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I am committed to making this blog as snappy, fun, experimental and accessible as I can. If any of what I post, paint, paste or print resonates with you, please forward to friends and colleagues with wild abandon!

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