We are without culture.

The fifties had the Beat generation. The sixties, prog rock and free love. The seventies, glam rock and mad hair. The eighties, new wave and techno couture. But besides some vague, short-lived Brit Pop concept in the nineties, our decade-by-decade overt cultural categorisation has gone. We have no idealised conformity to cling to. The nineties and noughties are zombie decades, consumed by a general feeling of ambling aimlessness. No pushing forward of new concepts - at least, nothing with feeling. This, I guess, is the peril of being one of the internet generation - with the eighties, technology was sufficiently new to be a novelty. Now, it dominates every corner of our lives, and we’re used to it, this soulless entity that permeates everything we do. And if the thing we associate with is soulless, then it naturally follows that we begin to lose our souls too.

The music that I’m listening to at the moment tries to rectify that, but only by certain turns. I’ve been getting more and more into “dirty” jazz, not the sort of thing you’d find on “Smooth Rhythms Volume One” but real, New Orleans-type jazz. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, the early years, that sort of stuff. As far as new stuff goes, I’m trying to find stuff that actually has a sense of umph, and artists like Son of Dave are helping me get there. It doesn’t matter how many men you have, it’s the hook and the SOUL that counts.

One of the best concerts I’ve ever been to was in a Bostonian church. Gospel. Beautiful. Passion.

We need, as a generation, some cultural hook to hang on, otherwise we’ll just be left floundering in this giant ocean called Earth, without a clue of what to do or where to go. We need ambition.

You can take me, shake me, you won’t break me….

Odd party last night. Remarkably civilised. Spent most of my time walking around in a drunken stupor, asking various bemused strangers which of the seven dwarves they would screw if they had to. Most said Sleepy. Not sure what to make of that, apart from that they obviously assumed that the dwarves didn’t actually want it. They’re not androgynous creatures. Then again, they are fictional, so….

OK, not sure where I was going with that one. Quiet, though. By around ten, there were only about thirty people in the room, tops. I felt cynical. Haven’t felt cynical in a while. There was something new, a sort of embittered, angry joy there that reeked of nostalgia. I felt like tearing something apart. The fact that I didn’t is testament to my foresight, I guess. I’d be feeling bad about it now.

Spent today buying pens and doing work. Read a ton of philosophy handouts, slide presentations and chapters, until my eyes bled with the sheer ton of mindfuckery I was enduring. Unbelievably fascinating subject, but it doesn’t half mess with your head. Anything it does features enlightenment in one way or another, even if it is just making you realise what’s wrong. I had Marxist sympathies before today. Now I just think it’s a load of overly-optimistic bullshit that can only result - and has only ever resulted - in oppressive, totalitarian dictatorship. Political philosophy, I’ll admit, is a little disillusioning.

Is that a word?

Moving on, there’s French coursework to do, tons of things to read (no, really, I’ve got a pile of booklets and essays to read), and all the general stuff that I should have spaced out over this holiday, but didn’t. This week went too fast. I’ve done a lot, I think. Or maybe I haven’t. I certainly haven’t really seen anyone. No-one that I’d usually see. Odd, that. My break from routine, my ‘time off’, means I become less social.

I need to get back into the swing of writing. Of course, I write this, but this doesn’t really count. These are just musings, thoughts, little escaping things that would be gone forever if I didn’t note them down. A time to contemplate. I’m talking about fiction: I have all these ideas, all this potential to write anything, everything, and I’m not. I think I’m getting anxiety from this other book. Let it be finished, please, so I can just get on with my own productivity.

Going to watch The Fall with Joe tonight. It’s an awesome film; I’ve seen it twice already, and it hasn’t got old yet. The director, Tarsem Singh, knew what he was doing. It’s a shame, as well - it only got a limited release. It’s one of those films that make you change your perspective when it comes to cinema.

Gotta go. Catch ya later.

Illness.

Yet again, I’m ill, my throat seizing up and turning against me and my nose figuring that it can have a holiday. I feel rotten, and that’s the reason why I’m not doing any work today. I had stuff planned, but I think if I focus on any work today I’ll break out in pustules, or something equally rotten.

I want to get back into music - listening to it, that is - as it’s something I broke away from a while back. I go on the internet nowadays, and mp3s scream out at me to download them for nothing - legally, too - but I just pass over them apathetically. How can I discover new music if I don’t care about it? After all, the last artist I pursued (the incredible and obsessed-about Son of Dave) has now become one of my favourite musicians in the last couple of years or so in the space of a couple of months. What about the others?

This would be a longer post, but I really don’t have anything to talk about. I could ramble about how I’m still reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, or how I went into Stockport to buy Strepsils today, or how I’m going out to see Che: Part Two tonight, but due to my icky state I’m really not in a position to inject any sort of enthusiasm into any of it.

Get well soon, me.