Tuesday, 20 November 2012

2013 Miles

"Look, it's Terry Duckworth!" I drunkenly pointed out to a friend while we danced to "Cotton-Eyed Joe" late one night at the Students' Union bar in Aberystwyth. Terry, or Nigel Pivaro, as he is known IN REALITY, did not look too happy with my drink-induced comment as we continued to fuck about and jig along merrily to the extremely loud and crap music. He was, after all, a student, so he was perfectly within his rights to be dancing along to whatever shitty tune they played in there. I was about 19 at the time. It was a strange period in my life. I wasn't quite "all there", unlike now, of course. It's hard to believe that was 8 years ago. It's also hard to believe some of the things that I've done during the course of THIS year, which has been roughly the 2012th since the birth of a bloke known to some as "Christ". Even though I've only played a handful of gigs, 7 to be precise, they have, for one reason or another, all been extremely interesting. I've also read quite a bit, written A LOT, recorded a fair amount, walked many miles, intimately cared for both a man in his 80s and his 2 year old grandson, became an expert maker of tasty pasta sauce, consumed large quantities of chilies, alcohol and (not nearly enough) other drugs, held extremely experimental musical jam sessions at a cerebral palsy centre, and came face to face with the freakish world of national politics. These are just some of the highlights. It's important for me to remind myself that I'm not a total waste of space.

But, it has to be said; Matthew Philip Hale bores me to tears. I want to be Miles Perhower. I am Miles Perhower. I know it's not big, and it's NOT clever, but it's ME: PER HOW ER... (During) the (Interrogation) of (Elizabeth Regina) - everything and nothing is questioned. Totally separate levels of consciousness are smashing into each other. Is it possible to truly exist in multiple realities? I think it is. I could never expect my family to start calling me Miles, but I do expect the rest of you to. I fucking HATE being called Matt, OK? There it is. It's OUT THERE. I despise being called Matt by anyone other than my immediate family and perhaps a very small number of old friends. I am Miles Perhower to everyone else, MPH at the very fucking least. Oddly enough, I've discovered that there's a young black guy, on Facebook (which, admittedly, is an invention that I've never had much time for), who calls himself Miles PerHower, but I must point out that I've been using that name, on and off, for a very long time now, so just remember who's the real Daddy of Perhower. Actually, Miles, if you're reading this, I don't mind the fact that we share a name because many people do. Fuck, it could even be your REAL name, but I doubt it is. Either way, despite my reputation for being an obsessive controller of all things creative in my realm, I can't actually copyright my name, and it's too late for me to obsess on finding the ultimate, totally unique and original tag that still has some sort of personal meaning. Also, I honestly had no idea that "Tails" from Sonic the Hedgehog was called Miles Prower, it was just a funny coincidence. Out of respect for my family I think I'll refrain from officially changing my name by Deed Poll, but if it comes to the crunch then I WILL FUCKING DO IT. Seriously.

Don't underestimate the power of identity, no matter how goofy it is. Fuck it, I'm renaming myself right now! It doesn't need to have any personal meaning, does it? Right. So, what do you think of these: Doctor Peter Cunt? Styles Sternowzer? Willard Treejam? Stan Chainsee? José Mujica? Ross Hadlington? Look, whatever you choose to call me, I'M NOT CALLING IT QUITS. You would have to be a seriously stupid knob to write me off. Despite the fact that I can't sleep peacefully, due to constantly dreaming of being chased by rabid dogs through familiar landscapes from my childhood, and the fact that my skin feels like it's crawling with evil little bugs whenever I try to sit still and relax, I'm actually more determined than ever to reach new creative heights during this era of extreme new lows.

My advice to any aspiring young visionaries out there is to make sure that you find a reasonably original name for yourselves / your platform. If you have an interesting birth-name then just use that. No more shitty band names please, we're past that point now. Let's have a future full of crazy auteurs who can drown out the boring, shallow pillocks. Assume NOTHING, keep EVOLVING and don't be afraid of making interesting ADJUSTMENTS. Don't let the lazy whores put you off. The only sucking up you need to do is the sucking up of an insane variety of influences. Mix that with who you are as a person and you should find yourselves somewhere pretty original - or UGLY original, get it?

Right, so now the record has been set straight I can get back to being the crooked creator of substantial stimulus. At the time of writing I am unbelievably sober. I've had no booze or drugs for 2 weeks and I feel like my head is about to explode. It's near the end November, 2012, and I'm determined to make it to 2013 without blowing loads of funds on the numbing fun stuff. Don't get me wrong, I have NO INTENTION of staying teetotal, in fact, I believe that the government should send crate loads of booze and drugs to people like me, for reasons of national security and artistic evolution, but, as that is highly unlikely, I had better grit my teeth and continue to save plenty of funds in order to take 2013 by the balls. Shit, I'm not even supposed to be WRITING anything at the moment. I convinced myself to save up plenty of word-power for the new year, but something had to give. OK, I think I've got it all out of my system now. Better get back to abstinence, the necessary evil. See you on the other side, including "Blvck Tvilz", who I'm sure is as fiercely protective of his cheesy persona as I am.

MPH

PS - If you need something to ease your mind during the upcoming 'festive' period, without actually rotting it, then I advise you to get hold of "Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!", "Tom Goes to the Mayor" and "Mr. Show with Bob and David". They all work wonders.

PPS - After having a few drops of red, in order to aid the recording of my vocals at the Midwich Youth Club and Hobby Centre, I came to terms with the fact that "Matt" is not SO bad, but only under VERY special circumstances. Watch this space, you crafty little buggers! Perhower is up to something...


Friday, 2 November 2012

The Inevitable Return of Coach Cockroach

It's fair to say that I started losing it towards the end of my last piece. I'd have to be a really miserable cock to leave the world of journalism in such a pathetic manner. There WILL be a FINAL piece, one day, but I'm not ready to quit this game just yet. In fact, I'm feeling surprisingly recharged right now. A recent rush of serious creative insanity has propelled me back into the ugly world of words. It was the buildup that was the problem. "Brain-pummeling" is the most accurate way to explain the almost unbearable buildup to creation, especially when you're out on your own. If you can survive that, you will probably survive anything. It's important to remember that nobody can take away your freedom to create. It is also very important to attempt to physically realise your creations in the most professional way possible. If you can't make it real then you haven't made it at all. Stop focusing on limitations and concentrate on what CAN be done, for fuck's sake. Maybe I am a fool for saying so much unhinged stuff on here, but I'd rather be an irrepressible fool than nothing at all. At least I'm not posting cunting Facebook and Twitter updates, unlike the rest of you bloody morons. Ouch. There I go again. I know, I know, I do need those people, yes, that is true, but I don't have to BE one of them, do I? You should all be fucking grateful that I'm willing to take the time to digest things and poop out such substantial delights. Some stuff requires a lot of digestion, but there are times when the only option is to let rip instantly, regardless of the consequences. Fuck the consequences. This is an expressive ART FORM, not just another twatty micro-statement lost in a sea of cyber-shit. Do you hate me now? I hope you do, you ignorant pillocks. Go back to your smart phones.

Fuck! That was extremely stupid and mean of me. I AM SORRY. Will you forgive me if I promise to commit suicide ASAP? Why is that funny? I shouldn't joke about things like that, should I? A wise old woman once said; "Laughter is the greatest medicine that isn't a medicine," but she then immediately jumped off a cliff and her body exploded over many jagged rocks. It's a bloody foggy concept, isn't it? Maybe the blood and fog will never completely clear, who knows? At least I'm getting moments of slight clarity again now. I am finally stabilising, to a certain extent. Stability is only available to those who can occasionally come to terms with their situation.

There are going to be new Perhower recordings being made in the very near future, and they could even find their way into a professional physical form. There is also a possibility that I might attempt to compile all of these Automatic Updates into a book. You could even be reading that very book right now. That'd be great, but I mustn't get too ahead of myself because time travel is extremely dangerous. Let's just enjoy being back on track and try to forget about what happened in The Disjointed Gantlet. But as this book will be playing out in reverse order there's not much chance of forgetting about something that you haven't even experienced yet...

I'm sitting here alone, typing away in the dark, with only the harsh light of the computer monitor and a sweet smelling candle for illumination. The doorbell just rang. I'd better see who it is. There's not enough light outside to make out who it could be. Cautiously, I open the door. To my surprise, Leonard Maltin is standing there, masquerading as a creepy traveling salesman. He's trying to sell me these strange looking root vegetables that glow in the dark. There's a crate of them next to him on the patio floor. The glow is only faint, but they're certainly glowing. I try to tell him that I'm not really interested, but he won't listen. He picks up two of these pyramid-shaped glowing vegetables, one in each palm, and then extends his arms out in front. I am stunned by this unsettling paranormal image. His eyes have rolled back into his head and his mouth is quivering. I want to shut the door, but for some reason I just can't do it. I can't really move anything. The street is dark and lifeless. The only light source is coming from the pyramids in Maltin's hands; a neon green glow that is horrifically exaggerating his features. Now he's talking in an extremely bizarre, seemingly schizophrenic manner;

"...confiscates the cigarettes and rations them out to his daughter Alicia. The L.A. Dance Project then established a full-time residence at the Boleyn estate. Despite this scandal, Alicia became the Supreme Governor of cigarettes. Towards the end of her reign, independent strings of Puritanism became more prominent, and the confluence of Swiss patriotism and humanism came to be referred to as the Affair of the Sausages. This event, along with its pious customs are a reminder that the response to the kingdom will have eternal consequences. The Sermon on the Mount is now married to Cora; an armed escort to the airport of Schombing. Alicia gets eliminated by a team of brain-police who broke in via the Puritanism Lab..."

I can't escape. I can't even bring myself to slam the front door shut. My body is fixed into position by some sort of magnetism / force-field. I can't close my eyes. All I can do is listen as Maltin continues his neon-green pyramid lit ravings;

"After a nocturnal row with his mistress, Cora is then knocked out by Bayman, daughter of the tournament’s founder, and Alicia's best friend. Bayman is a bronze-skinned Maltin Ninja. She is trained in the darkest arts. Bayman, come to your master! Let yourself be seen!"

At that moment, a fluorescent green limousine screeches past. Maltin doesn't react, but the glow from his pyramids is getting brighter. The limousine slowly reverse parks in front of my house and the back passenger window automatically slides open.

"Go to the window, Miles," Maltin says, sternly.
"I don't want..." but before I can even finish my sentence my legs are walking me over to the limo. I am not in control, but I'm painfully aware of what's going on. Suddenly, I get the feeling like there's a massive locust stuck to my face and my whole body is filling with vibrations. I manage to frantically claw at my nose. I hear something break and I see a blinding light. Shit, I've just fallen asleep at the desk and knocked a half full glass of orange juice over. I throw a t-shirt on the puddle before it drips down onto something electrical. My phone is buzzing on the floor, next to my right foot. It stops. 1 missed call. An unknown number.

Bloody hell, I wrote all that stuff last night and I can hardly remember doing it. I wasn't even intoxicated. Is this still classed as journalism? I can't be 100% sure. I think it's about time for me to get my teeth into some real stories. I need to reconnect. My next live performance with Perhower is in three weeks time. Three weeks to attempt a new regime. Three weeks to conquer madness. I had to bail out of volunteering at the CP centre this week because I've been suffering from a lovely combination of manic depression and physical illness, but I'm determined to go in on Monday to rekindle the music group and also attempt to start an art class. It might not work out, but I'm going to donate loads of old paints, pens, paper and other tools for them to use anyway. I think I'm on the road to recovery, but unfortunately that road seems to be leading to Recluse Town. I might have to stay there for a while, at least until all traces of poison have left my body. There is too much love going to waste. The super-ego has spoken. Don't be afraid of what happens next.

I've just read those last few lines over and over again, but something is preventing me from fully believing in them. I know I can't write my way out of this problem. COME ON, MPH, SNAP OUT OF IT! You WILL make the right decision, even if it's not the most acceptable one. Feed your brain and feed your belly, OK? Get in the shower, sort the house out, set up the drums and get everything ready for next week. Get yourself in shape. Remember how to access that place where you don't feel totally crazy. You can get there anytime you need to. Stop feeling guilty. You are innocent. The fight rages on. Let the stories come to you.