Jack Stone's Scribbles

  We must protect the poets. We must save the artists and the writers and the buskers. Our streets and our cities bustle and pumps. Bodies drag frowns and swift moving legs through corridors of concrete. Quick they move. Fast/ Go-go-go/ No stop. No time to admire the view.   Music smooths the edges and softens the blows and gentles the cracking of the capitalist whip. Like a finger in the sands of my mind, a simple thought is written. A wonderful soul-changing idea. A fragile story. A delicate flutter in the heart. A floating petle hints at something joyous. The breeze of distraction wipes out its form. Like workman’s boots over pearl white pebbles of a gently combed zen garden. – SNAP OUT OF IT. BACK TO WORK! And it’s gone. The budding poet’s flame is extinguished. 

Life is full of small disasters. It is easy to become overwhelmed by the guilt and embarrassment of your office party behaviour; the things you said, memories of your loud voice, flirting with someone you should not be flirting with, being on drugs in front of your boss, inappropriate dark jokes, controversial opinions, secrets, confessing your childhood traumas to people who don't want to hear it, letting your defences slip so your mental illness ends up on display, mad stupid dancing, crying, falling over. After all the carnage, you might find yourself, as I often do, huddled in the foetus position in turmoil over the memories that clank around your brain like a washing machine full of bricks. But there is still one little emotional safety boat. – Laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of your life. It’s all meaningless. There is no real purpose to it yet you’re lucky to have it. Even in the bleakest of moments, you might as well make light of it. Enjoy what you can of it. You could be ...

 I saw franc moody in the Applo, Hammersmith. His biggest hit was Dopmaine. It felt so profound as we were all there getting flooded by the stuff the lyrics were about. It was our fuel. It felt like this is what life was all about. And then after, normal life, and I was stratching for that amount of dopamine again. It made me think... What is missing. There is always something missing!! I used to think I was a slave to the system. I thought I was a slave to consumerism. I thought I was a slave to money. A slave to the workplace, bills, to landlords, to the economic machine. Then I realised I was actually a slave to vices, to beer, drugs, music, women, porn, looking at women, desiring women, needing women. Even poetry and art and film and music, I've felt a slave to them all. But now I realise I am just slave to dopamine. Even if I transcend the dopamine, it still drives me. Even if I shed all sense of being and all notions of what I am and who people are and what the world is, t...