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Culture Documents
Robert K Hogg
Here’s a good one: During a dream, by which I mean only the other day, I found
I couldn’t switch the light on, which baffled me. There was someone there with
me, I don’t know who. Perhaps he was my surrogate version of the character in
the Waking Life movie. But it was an anxiety dream. I assumed my electric had
been cut off. I still have the bill to pay (Drama? You got it). And even within the
dream, if obscurely, I had the conviction it might be an 'omen' of some kind, or a
warning. One that said, this is a glimpse of your trivial future, and you screwed
up paying your bill. But then I noticed the electronic clock of the video-recorder
– that in real life doesn’t work – shining in the darkness.... Whatever the hell that
means.
But time could represent the way it preoccupies us, weighs on us, like gravity,
tying our thoughts down, to thoughts of death, feeling we're trapped in the mire,
stuck in the here and now – and not in a good, fun, spanky way – that the battle
was lost before it's begun. A symbol of the dangers of future, potential
demoralisation. I'm out of similes now. Nothing like looking on Mr Brightside.
There's a taste in my mouth, and it's no taste at all. At worst, I’ll keep an eye on
the cash so as not to be careless, just in case. That’s reminded me of a quite
recent weird episode with money, but I can barely be arsed describing it, so I
won’t, but might come back to it if I remember.
Last night just before I went to bed, I had the impulse to take down The
journals of Sylvia Plath from the shelf. No biggie (though it’s a large volume!).
When I think of her, the first thing that comes to mind is her attractiveness and
intelligence and the waste of her suicide; but that was up to her. I noticed the
stuck up bint across the street, sorry – mother's – voice sounded oddly Plathlike.
She (Plath, not the mother: though to think on it, there isn't a million miles
between them in their outlook; at least Plath knew she was preoccupied with
thoughts of death, but these people are dissociation par excellence) – came to
remind me of Lynn and her death fixation. I well remember Lynn remarking on
it when she – Plath – was featured in an O.U. prog on female writers. I watched
it a couple of times. One of the Brontes was also featured I think, as well as the
poet, Christina Rossetti. I have a small volume of hers... supporting the wafer
thin Simpson's poster on my bedroom window. (One afternoon it was warping in
the sun and sliding off and it was beginning to freak me out until I realized what
the weird scratching sound was). It crossed my mind to stick the big Plath book
on the windowsill in my no doubt vain quest to educate and inform the mindless
masses in the form of her younger alter-ego's – Walter Ego – the silly little
bitches across the street, who watch everything I do.
At the moment, I also have a cheap novel I picked up, titled The Earth, My
Butt, and Other Big ROUND Things. But I would. That and the Simpson's
poster featuring tens of characters in the series – a kind of eccentric group
portrait, and also the old Roy Carr and Charles Shaar Murray large format
volume on Bowie. I had it years ago, but these get nicked or lost in the morass of
the prime narst ex. Same thing. All pearls before swine of course, but Bowie
features in the next episode of this new history of rock on BBC 2, along with
Pink Floyd, Roxy Music and others, though I fail to see the direct connection
with Floyd. I suppose it must be the Sixties connection. He – Bowie – did do a
cover of Floyd's See Emily Play, on Pin-ups. I was listening to Floyd’s Relics at
the time of Ziggy Stardust in ’72. The first in the series was on Hendrix and it
was interesting to hear how he “blew Clapton off the stage”. Poor Eric,
conceited, humourless, arrogant tyke that he is. I’ve always had that impression.
It must've been a mortifying experience for him, but that's the sporadic nature of
artistic gifts for you. My dad once saw him bawling out some girlfriend in
Turnberry hotel by the lift. sense. Maybe she was crazymakuing gold-digger,
and it was his artistic temperament.