Religious Monsoon June and Punk Dust

Tuesday 5th June 2012

In my dream I somehow managed to get the trials bike onto an Arriva bus to Whitby. It’s a blistering sunny day. I’m in shorts, black t-shirt and a pit cap – no helmet. I ride along the road past the amusement arcade, up towards the West Cliff and when I get to the top I’m back in Bridgehill in County Durham screeching downhill over baked hard ruts of earth. A load of kids are making castles, playing with broken prams, a huge tyre tractor. When I get to the bottom of the hill walkers and regular mountain bikers smile at my dedication; a decrepit old fool on an out of date immaculate Onza Hitman bike. I curve to the right along a bridle path next to the Shotley low road. Seconds later my bike somehow has a high seat and I’m leaning back, pulling a seated wheelie towards the new bridge. A voice out of nowhere reprimands me for recklessness. I look but see no-one there. In my mind I’m anticipating some radical rides through underground tunnels, despite a lack of searchlights. But then I wake to the whirr of a computer that’s been on standby all night.

I got an email response this afternoon to a comment that I made on a weekend Facebook post about a fundamentalist religious group going into American schools and indoctrinating youngsters with old testament scripture that justifies genocide. The article from the Guardian made my blood boil. I thanked the person who posted it for drawing my attention to a worrying trend in western fundamentalism that can cause nothing but conflict. I’ve never been a fan of orthodox religion and every time I read about some negative experience brought about by preaching of the good book by bigots with ulterior motives it just makes me want to throw up. I commented on the post with the following:

Religion poisons everything. When are people going to outgrow this shit. Suppose given the justification for eradicating those who oppose their authority, the answer is never. Religion has always been a tool to control the gullible. It stinks.

The response I got was from a very good contemporary poet – whose work I admire – in the form of a poem which made the point that rejection of a spiritual path because fundamentalism gives it a bad press is like ditching music and art because tv talent shows and charlatans in galleries annoy you.

I've no objection to people having the right to believe in a spiritual dimension. I know a number of people who don't think  life beyond the terra firma is an impossibility. And I have no problem with a sacred journey for those who wish to take it. But it's up to an individual to explore all possibilities in their own way without causing harm to others.

What I object to is a rule book of Thou Shalt and Thou Shalt not, the bigotry, the ‘our god is better than your god and anyone who disagrees will be eradicated asap’. I dislike the hypocrisy of those in positions of religious power preaching good then turning a blind eye to their employees raping and abusing the vulnerable. I even quite like the idea of a Christ figure as a wandering philosophical geezer, an ancient spoken-word artist travelling troubadour if you will; if Christ was real and returned to earth would he be in favour of all the money spent on lavishly decorated houses of worship when there's so much poverty in the world?

The bible is a philosophy written in a dead language  in a metaphorical way, translated into another language and extremists take it literally. There are millions of people living in America who believe the world to be no more than seven thousand years old. And on whose authority have they reached this: the authority of brainwashing religious institutions.

I am no authority on any religion – although philosophical questions about the origins of our existence have preoccupied me since my pre-teens – and would never claim to be. But from what I've heard of the old testament, you couldn't find a more nasty, vicious set of instructions and examples on how to live life. Brutal, racist, sexist, homophobic. Who wants to look up to a deity advocating any of that? And to whitewash the second part of the good book with a superhero Christ story doesn't excuse it. If everyone actually followed the Christ path there'd  be no police force, no army, no murder, so why Onward Christian soldiers marching as to war? Crusades? In god's name? Who's god? There's so many alternative religions, they can't all be right.

Ironically, I am pretty hard-lined on the 'true path' and have the opinion that updating and adapting a doctrine to fit a given period in time undermines it's validity in the first place. If it's true and is the word of an almighty creator, then modern 'moderates' have no right to be looking for new ways/interpretations of the holy message as a means of  inviting newcomers into the flock?  What was written should need no updating. But obviously it does – or we'd still be one of the most barbaric nations on the planet. It's very easy to say that, but of course it's not to be taken literally and we can all pick and chose our own bits to suite our own ends. All the 'do unto others as thyself' is so common sense cause-and-effect that it doesn't require anything outside of humanism to be accepted. Preaching to people that they'll burn in hell for eternity if they don't toe the party line is just bully-boy tactics. Brainwashing young people into orthodoxy is sickening to me. It's unhealthy and I think a strong division between church and state is a step in the right direction.

I think man created god in his own image. I think creative people, using the power of the mind, the subconscious, dream imagery, etc - can all come up with a rule book rich in the miraculous, the poetic, the philosophical. And some of my favourite singers and writers are steeped in the romance of religious imagery. I like gothic culture, but I no more believe in vampires than I do Father Christmas. I'm sure there's a lot of inspirational stuff in various spiritual philosophies, but torture and genocide, persecution is something we can all do without. Acknowledging religions as opinions open to interpretation and not universal fact would be a step in the right direction. Publish them, but don't put don't use them to arm people in positions of power.

As a dreamer and fantasist I can appreciate artistic expression gleaned from theological investigation, but the realist in me finds it absolutely impossible to adhere to any religious doctrine hook, line and sinker.

I was really surprised that this was met with approval and the only thing not agreed with was the bit about holy doctrine not being updated to meet modern life.

The rest of the day has been spent editing. Jenni has been working on her own stuff and watching television. It’s about time I went downstairs and spent a couple of hours with her. 8.47 pm.

Wednesday 6th June 2012

Dreamt New Order were playing in a school gym. There was a tennis net up during soundcheck. They didn’t play Love Will Tear Us Apart. I hoped they would. And when the lights came up after the one and only encore some of my fifth form classmates said it was a pile of shit.

   I’ve never been a New Order fan. I like some Joy Division now and again but only in small doses; half an hour tops.

   Yesterday whilst working I listened to The Cure and Sex Pistols. Doubt I’ll see The Cure live in Leeds this year as festivals and me don’t agree. I’m not taking the risk on a hundred and fifty quid trip to stand in a field and get rained on. I’ll wait till they play indoors again – but not a school gym. As for the Sex Pistols, only the 70’s heyday would do for me. And I was way too young at the time. Even the name was forbidden in our house. I didn’t hear Never Mind the Bollocks until I was fourteen. Yesterday a Lego Sex Pistols vid was linked up on Facebook. Really clever animation. Paul Cook drumming in time, Steve Jones with his hankie hat. Sid Vicious with white bass and black Vive le Rock t-shirt. Johnny with his destroy shirt. Full animation. I thought it was brilliant.

   Today I should try to get outside, ride the bike. I still have lots to do and could basically stay indoors editing a decade of manuscripts from now till 2014 – if I had the cash to finance such a self-imposed exile. Plus, I don’t think Jenni would be too happy about it either. I wish I could get out on my trials bike. Really pleased I didn’t splash out on an expensive rig as I don’t really have the time or stamina to ride it regularly.  My left wrist and fingers were starting to tingle with rsi just from being at the computer keyboard yesterday; hauling myself and a bicycle over rocks and dropping off boulders, shunting through shale and locking the brakes on every thirty seconds, my tendons are going to be in an uproar after a couple of sessions if I ride for too long. Even just gripping the bars tight to do standing hill-climbs on a regular mountain bike can set off the pins and needles these days. Forty two years old and my body is ready for the scrapheap. Still, I try to stay fit. Walking, biking, stretching.

   The Jubilee nonsense is over now and I might get responses to work enquiries. Lots to do but I think Jenni wants to use the computer for a while. It’s mid-morning but I didn’t go to bed till two o’clock. “Ha, me’s up before Steve,” she says, and waves. 10.20 am.

LATER: Today I found twelve pieces drafted over the last fortnight worthy of further development. Going to read a few of them tomorrow night. Only problem for Poetry Jam is the BBC filming an episode of George Gently  in Waddington Street so parking and access is limited. Jenni is going over poems for her guest slot. I’m off to do email correspondence and some typesetting of pieces for the gig too. I’ll just have to ride the bike tomorrow or at the weekend. 1.40 pm.

Thursday 7th June 2012

Today is Poetry Jam day. And I’m awake 12 hours before the first punters reach the venue. This is not good. Coz a long day usually means by the end of the gig I’ve got a migraine. And tomorrow I have to be up early for Shake the Dust.

My house is really my place of work. I’ve spent my whole life trying to engineer a situation where I can act on impulse to realise my goals. Some would call it being selfish and I suppose it is, but when you don’t feel as though you fit in with what others are doing you construct a life for yourself and try to be one hundred percent responsible for your actions. Books don’t write themselves. You have to put the hours in. 6.48am.

The mini-link to Consett is packed with passengers at quarter to ten this morning, all eager to be back in the shops after the extended bank holiday and I wonder how many of them actually give a shit about the royal family. Mass acceptance is the height of stupidity to me.

    Go into the bank and there are union jacks all over the place. It’s over, for fuck’s sake, get rid of it. I’m becoming less and less tolerant in public. One of these days someone will twat me just for being me, say the wrong thing in the wrong place and wake up with a crowd around me.

The BBC are filming for an episode of George Gently in Waddington Street this evening so parking isn’t available and access to the Centre may be affected. What the fuck is it about Thursdays? It’s like everything conspires to ensure a poor turn-out for Poetry Jam. Fuck it, a nice little huddle of poets. Hope we get about twenty people. That’s okay for the lounge.

   Want to send a batch of poems out this afternoon. Maybe to Smiths Knoll or The North or The Journal. Must get something in snail-mail very soon.

   I’m buying Jake Campbell’s pamphlet this evening and Ash Dickinson’s collection in August. Really need to have a quiet time to get some stuff done. Next ten days there’s no chance. 1.50pm.

Friday 8th June 2012

Why does sleep deprivation always make me feel dehydrated? My throat’s a bit sore as well. I’ll be running on about five and half hours sleep today unless I manage to grab another hour on the bus to Durham this morning. Woke at 5.20am and haven’t been able to get back to sleep. It’s now 6.35am and my eyes are stinging.

   Last night’s Poetry Jam was brilliant. The café/lounge of Waddy full of people with poets from across the region, jamming poems. We had some great cameos from the likes of Paul Sta, Julie Wilson, Alex Birch, Graeme Bruce Fletcher, Mags Strickland, Juli Watson, Mike Treasure, Terry Krazzywolf Dobson and one guy (whose name escapes me) from Darlington. Our guests were great: Rowan McCabe did a brilliant performance, Jenni Pascoe entertained with a set of new pieces culled from NaPoWriMo 2012 poetry challenge and headliner Jake Campbell treated us to almost twenty minutes of new work and poems from his collection Definitions of Distance. So pleased to see him selling copies afterwards.

    Today is Shake the Dust and a five hour session in Newton Aycliffe, honing new material with year nines. They have just over a week to nail three slam pieces for the regional youth championship at Arc in Stockton on 16th June. Best make a move. Big day ahead. Then it’s Punk Britannia on tv this evening. Excellent. 6.53am.

Free news tells us June is a monsoon month. Hurricane winds and guaranteed flooding for certain unfortunates. I struggle to keep my eyes on the page as the rain bounces off the pavement. The bus clunks and clanks its way through the grey on the way to Durham. I wake minutes from the station, hungry, dizzy and not at all fit to teach anyone anything except how not to prepare for an early start. For example, don’t be going to sleep at half eleven the night before and waking at twenty past five in the morning. I buy a bacon sandwich but the butter or margarine - I never use either – makes the pig meat slide. I throw some bread in the bin and walk through the rain to Greggs for an egg and tomato baguette which will come in handy at lunchtime. On the road from 7.20am, won’t get home till at least 6.00pm. And now on a clapped-out bone-shaker of an Arriva on my way to Newton Aycliffe. It’s raining, the windows are open and I have a cold coming on. Monsoon June. Another wonderful British fucking summer. At ten o’clock I’m meant to look lively and be able to help Kate motivate seven young teenagers to write and perform poetry to competition standard. All I want to do is fall asleep and wake up back home to warm sunshine. 9.10am.

LATER: Good day at school. Great that the Shake the Dust kids came in for the whole day. When I was thirteen there’s no way you’d get me into the building during half-term. I must’ve been a really fucked-up kid. Just so negative about it. Greenfield is like a community centre. Two poems almost finished; one is rehearsed and the other needs a little more work. Feel a bit wrecked now, almost an eleven hour trip.

Started trimming Poetry Jam video stills as pix for facebook but they are really blurry. I’m eating lots tonight. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe not eaten much during the day. Lets see: three Nutragrain bars, 133 calories each. A bacon buttie, egg and tomato baguette at lunchtime, an orange, a currant square, two pork pies, two packets of crisps, a cheese and cucumber sandwich, That’s probably quite a bit. The house is fucking freezing. 10.35pm.

Saturday 9th June 2012

No headspace for poetry.  Everything becomes a race against time. A ‘to-do’ list that leaves you breathless. Migraine-inducing pressure on the brain. A fractured memory finds it hard to retain all that it needs to succeed in this game. But no fear, will get there eventually. Today is another grey one.

Edited journal and listened to some vintage Adam and the Ants, a Joolz Denby spoken word album called Spirit Stories and The Great Annihilator by Swans. 6.23pm.