"Michael’s got himself a girlfriend, he’s a lucky fellow
Katy’s top was as white as ever, but now it’s gone all yellow
Malcolm’s a bastard and keeps acting like Emperor Nero
Peter is constantly pretending to be a super hero.”
"Some days, Disco Inferno’s ‘Love Stepping Out’ - with its simple repetitive sequencer, half-spoken lyrics that weirdly mix an expression of romantic longing with violent imagery, and sampled crowd noises that seem to come from an amusement park - is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. But after all this time, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it with anyone else in the room, and I’ve never written about it or discussed it with anyone in any depth. It’s something I listen to and think about and am moved by, but there’s no record anywhere of my enjoyment of it, and it’s not something I’ve really talked about. I know almost nothing of the conversations around it. And there’s something nice about this feeling, too, to commune with this sound with very little context. Music that could, from another perspective, seem dead because it’s not being shared turns into something intimate that sparkles with a very specific kind of life. Sometimes I listen to ‘Love Stepping Out’, and it feels like I have the only copy of it in the world, and it ceases to exist whenever I put it back on the shelf" - Mark Richardson: Resonant Frequencey #71
“Though creative writing courses such as the pioneering one at the University of East Anglia have taken off in Britain, their presence is nothing like as pervasive as that of institutions such as the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the States. ‘Writing is more developed as a craft in America,’ says John Freeman, ‘and American writers are constantly engaged with the question of being American. There is no similarly defining issue over here.’ It is notable that most of the writers on the New Yorker list came though a creative writing programme – and many now teach on one.”—The Telegraph: Are these Britain’s best 20 novelists under 40?
As a rule, I hate ‘best of’ lists, especially when they’re based on nothing but an age difference. The recent New Yorker list of 20 American fiction writers under 40 resulted in, I’m glad to say, some great satirical side-swipes. Yet, maybe because it’s closer to home, I do find the Telegraph’s list interesting, though no more convincing than the US version, especially as the long introduction is almost apologetic for having come up with the top 20 in the first place. The most refreshing part, however, is how many of these names I haven’t heard of and would now like to discover.
Walls: Burnt Sienna - And what I meant to say when I mentioned how much I love a soundtrack of glitchy electronica is how I also love a soundtrack of warm, fuzzy, dust-covered electronica too. This is gorgeous, like a cross between early Seefeel and Boards of Canada, with a hint of blissed-out My Bloody Valentine.
Yes, I’ve now seen it all. There is a tumblr dedicated solely to the magnificent film work of the British directing partnership Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, a number of their movies being among my all-time favourites. I do wish they’d called it fuckyeahthearchers.tumblr.com, though.
worriedaboutsatan: Heart Monitor - Yes, it’s 9 minutes 37 seconds long, but it’s also utterly gorgeous. If there was any sort of afterlife, I think the accompanying soundtrack would be emotional, glitching, electronic music like this.
“Uncomfortable morning truth: I’m not a bird. I feel my bones, every one of them, nasty needles. I can fly but I must write my own wings first. Shall I touch the tender spot above my April blooming heart for help?”—Finnegan Flawnt: Rites of Spring in > kill author, Issue 7
“Isn’t pretty enough, they say. Don’t wanna think about what goes on where people don’t look. Isn’t pretty enough to care for. Everybody likes pretty things. Pretty words in pretty sentence structures with a pretty format properly molded into one more criteria for pretty-minded people prettying up their pretty worlds to impress someone else in a way that makes them feel so c-u-u-u-t-e!”—Recording the Recorder by Jake David » Writers’ Bloc