The chronsynclastic epiphany of mr Brent Jackson Peacehaven Sussex 09/02/2019 3.05am

The following thoughts got me out of bed.

It seems certain that a sufficiently advanced technology i.e. from the very distant future or very far off in space the two being the same would be able to send a signal or message to the past..matter would of course be far more difficult A message should inevitably become possible via bouncing curving or firing at sufficient velocity through a wormhole or the micro-verse..and again we are talking as many thousands of years of advancements or discoveries you like.
So where is this message from the future?

There hasn’t been one.

We blow it in other words before the technology can be discovered.
Oh dear, So no message from the future is proof we don’t last.

However, if we remove the threat to and of each other and to our eco system then clearly almost immediately we will hear from the future as a grown up human race that’s got over itself are far more likely to survive long enough to gain this capability..

Imagine the acceleration of evolution in technological capabilities enabled by receiving the ability to communicate with our massively advanced far future selves?
At the moment we live in the radio silence of the doomed but it’s in our own hands..sort it out fools I really want to know how my great great etc etc grandchildren are doing.

My head hurts I’m going back to bed.
Peace.

So first I dream Sunday morning Kings-wood Brighton, of a large house which is of course also my head and the rooms are in flux and people I know or have thought about are living in them and I’m looking for a nice big room for my troubled son Ben in there but Freud has the one with all the stuffed animals he likes and Rob Stride the music room..I find a penthouse room for him and it’s ultra futuristic modern with a panoramic view of the city which is a blend of ones i’ve lived in London Copenhagen Paris etc..I tell him it extends into various times and spaces and wake up ALL LIT UP and enlightened and everything is clear and miraculous and beautiful and easy and I wonder why so many put there head in a spiked box (spoiler I soon slip back to the usual grunting grumpy animal cunt) I see the fear and damage as I fizz around the old haunts of St James street and give generously to the doorway spectres remnants on a slow fade..they will break your heart once the spiked box is temporarily removed of course they must.

The sub conscience is a vast ocean drip filled from our long super sponge life experiences naturally and we loll about trying to contain it in a small safe except-able skin container with handy clip on masks..of course we do..
Don’t be mean and reduced and sad reach for the lit up broad minded positive and happy part..think of the children how many more must be terrified and deformed by the scared sad nonsense we’re selling?
Your time is a fluke and privilege now fucking act like it.

I have nothing but profound love and sympathy for every last one of you, the shit you’ve had to fight through and put up with in this so near yet so far compromised wonky Disney paradise..the hollow competition the damaged souls pulling you down the shallow slave pen nonsense the greed etc..but hey we’ll keep on keeping on eh? and we’ll get there we’ll transcend the lowbrow selfish material nonsense and then we’ll RISE and live longer and happier and explore the multi verse.

Here’s a dark cartoon to alleviate your concrete booted trump through this bollix. the young of course don’t have to ponder the doom as it’s hopefully far off but me..with my broken heart and fifty twelve years auld I’d be a balloon headed fuck wit not to ponder on and then mock it. No worries go well and try to be bigger wider and deeper and remember to sympathise and empathise and don’t plasticise or patronise.

Brent Jackson (one of the greatest artists who ever lived)

In discussion with my eldest son about the evolving and dissenting nature of art, citing Captain Beefheart and Van Gogh and Bowie as examples as art as inspirational provocation..then pondering afterwards on the fantastic privilege to have lived a life in art..profit and recognition aside..to be able to connect with others, to be able to put it down on the page or tape or up on the screen, just transcendent and miraculous..

 

Remembering the greatest buzzes of my life seeing Jack Kirbys work for marvel hearing john Lennons howl and mantras seeing Vincents disturbance fizz hearing Life on Mars and Virginia plain..Purple Haze The End..Dali, David lynch Vonnegut, Joyce,Pratchett..on and on the heart breaking beautifully and now broken…but no regrets not one..

 

Forget the nine oclock news and step over to the ravishing creative change inducing side..there’s injustice in the world sure wrongness galore but there’s ten turn ons for every one of them once you adjust your vision and tune out the misery broadcast and the material lowbrows..Do that!
Live to love and make stuff.
Brent.

 

We live in a strange and stupid world, the panel below is from this weeks Uncanny Xmen #6 so a mainstream Disney owned entertainment, hugely popular..and I think it’s fair to say the view expressed is widely held. Think about the convoluted and contradictory nature of this, it certainly makes my head hurt.
The problem is how do we fix this beautiful, miraculous even, planet without bloodshed and disaster?..no hold on, When, when do we begin to fix it?..aren’t most of us willing to jettison most of our comforts and beliefs to achieve that? If not then is’nt the ‘survival at any cost’ philosophy revealed right there as entirely hollow, a lie?
My god it’s primate stupid isn’t it? Just shed your skin and move on, grow, wake, overcome the problems and build the very real and achievable ‘utopia’ that’s within reach and the vast majority want.
The people of Earth need to begin demanding a summit on this now 2019 lets go.
Peace on earth goodwill to all men, no really i’m not an actor I mean it.
Brent.

Too many people
Too many views
Too much Product
Too much to choose
Too few solutions
Too few clues

Too many conflicts
Too many tunes
Too much opinion
too much news
Too few answers
Too few truths

Too many schemers
Too many needy
Too much grasping
Too much greedy
Too few rising
Too few leaving

Too many reasons
Too Many meanings
Too much overload
TOO MUCH INFORMATION
Too few silences.

Brent.19/11/2018

I dunno why
I was driven
to come spit puke shit piss my soul
onto the tiny white fields of snow
pages seeking the movement above and below
microphonic bellow
with no sideline in the straight shit show
the insane circus
there you go
joined up joined in disjointed joinery
carping, carpentry maybe?
A young me Raven coated
crazy feathered
railing against the conformity
before the roar of my furious gleeful crew
ancient youths hell bent heavenly
Lunacy.
and it’s late
because the smog n smugness is thick
on the slaves as they masturbate and negate their fate
consummate consumers expert in gathering
clockwork clogged clots in the vein.
conformed and performed
the ritual of cooperation
again and again
as the money press
mamonumental case
ground on and crushed the rest.
I watched from my hiding place
useless
helpless
dissipating dispossessed
mysteriously designed for disinterest
in the progress of the projectionists
in a suicide belt and bullet proof vest
unwired to implode
under howl wake
I dunno why
I was driven to this bleak edge
watcher
voucher
witness of the witlessness
winter eyed
weeping at the wickedness
numbering the numbness
fearless furious
a figure of fun spurious
serial seriousness
menial meaninglessness
I dunno
I dunno
I dunno
why the gung ho tongue
the blunt blade

came
to
be
clamped there bloodied
in my mouthy teeth
I’d spit it out
and indeed
thought I had
but it wont leave me
it wont
it’s ingrown
and I can’t shake it
it’s an immortal pain
an endless fucking ache
sounds like a horn
for fucks sake
under Howl wake.

The day starts with pouncing practice as the new kitten ‘Scampy’ stalks my waking wiggling feet
under the duvet..nice to have helped the youth develop before you’ve even left the bed..er..
That’s the kind of sentence that can bring the thought police to the door.

The theme here is precious time.
It’s a heart attack theme
a washed up old fart theme
A quick step with the reaper is enough to remind us ‘this is it’
we better get on with it, be funnier, finish stuff, confess, I dunno.

I share my bands masterpiece (The Firedogs philistines better than Blurk)
‘Tick fucking tock innit’ again on Face bonk..no one says much only a thousand and fifty seven views.
Bastards.

Yesterdays unique and fabulous creations all went round the u bend with the other shit.

“How are you coping with things Mr. Jackson?”
asks doctor patronicus In the heart attack check up sketch.
“By drawing cartoons of myself in a blue onesy and claiming I’m one of the greatest artists ever on social media, I answer.
He stares a while in my poker face, still writing..
Eventually we both glance down wondering what he wrote.

I like the easy funny writers, the nearer comics ones..I’ve got nothing to prove by struggling through some convoluted doorstop of doom to impress my imaginary friend. fuck that.

Milligan, Vonnegut, Pratchett, Townsend and Hornby are the kings..funny clever and nearly as lazy as me..I’m a better cartoonist of course.
Just Saying.

Life is fucking sarcastically ironic really, Me and three talented mates pour a lifetimes experience and quite a lot of effort and skill into a musical opus (The firedogs LP philistines better than Oldplay)
and all we get is a five star Mirror review and eleven and a half sales.
I knock off an electro track with Asian female singing and sequencers throbbing semi automatically and before I know it I’m an award winning soundtrack bloke.
So it goes.

I find this scrawled on an envelope by the bed. The writing is a blind child version of my already partially sighted infant script.
“Now I’m slowing and shrinking I’m at odds with the rest of the universe, which is, they say, speeding up and inflating, or fucking showing off as I call it.
I’m super reluctant to live in this grotesque insane circus shit show they call consensual reality
I withhold my consent, preferring to live in Middle ear, or Risk world as they are nearly called.

If my parents had encouraged me properly I could have made Leonardo look like a shady chancer who doodled a bit, still, the pubs were open.
Did I mention I’m one of the greatest artists who ever lived?

“Good afternoon, ‘Cardiac” Says the huge American voiced receptionist.
“Take a seat Mr K” Says a nurse.
Somewhere it’s Kafkaesque
…and me I make the tiny bird prints in little field of snow on my lap.
Bolstered by being the most grateful to be here on the bus of complaining souls in.
They muttered about time
It’s ticking them off.
Outside a building sites ten storey thrum, anticipates many more sick people to come.
Bless.
“What have you done to me here?” the mighty receptionist asks the miniscule support guy in the hi vis support vest.
“Everything’s slid around”
Look there I am scratching in the notebook.
“I just want to go one place for everything”
“Take a seat Mrs. Dickinson”
It’s literature day in the cardiac unit as Mr K leaves suddenly a picture of inexplicable enigmatic anger.
Sometimes you hear poetry.
Others complaints.
“Sorry sir I’ll be right with you”
“That’s ok I have all the time in the world”
“Are you sure?”
Grim chuckles, call yourself support!?
“The human mind is amazing aint it?”
A three kilogram bullshit generator according to Kurt vonnegut…
“Mr K?..MISTER K!?”
From a cosmological viewpoint none of us get out very often.
Honestly the shit I find myself thinking.
I hear my broken heart beat
It’s a medium tempo hip hop
a groove at the centre of us all!
I resist rapping to it, but will travel home trying to remember it.
I see all four chambers.
Like the expectant mother of nowt.
Home on miseries packed number 12
Crammed in with people bored of the sea and the sun sinking into it,
vermillion,
Ignored.
I’m kindle-ing two books alternating chapters because i’m a brilliant maverick who does whatever the fuck he wants..
Just Like you.
I decide to write down the first thing I read from each and no cheating..
From From Yuval Noah Harari’s ’21 lessons for the 21st century’
“Today close to 1.25 million people are killed annually in traffic accidents (twice the
number killed by war, crime and terrorism combined)
and from ‘Good omens’ by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
‘She carries her sword and smiles like a knife’
Teatime in eden.

Well, I don’t know what
Moves you lot
today. 
With your telephone small talk

and selfies
Is everyone but me here
A tourist?
on the aching familiar trail north
Running, (but crawling) late
Some poor selfish bastard
Hurled himself on the rails?
Our grave pilot tells us
The silence for him or her
Is not a minute
Nowhere near
A teenager says
‘what’s the point?’
So no change there
Invent your own I think
but I don’t say it
I can’t be bothered frankly
They’ll probably fucking shank me.
Today it’s Mrs C’s funeral that moves me
and everything that can go wrong
Does
and it’s ‘Is this our stop or the next one?’
Cuz
What y writing asks his ‘cousin’
‘Thoughts’ I deadpan
‘heard of them?’ I nearly add
Burgess and his hill be damned!
‘So what ya thinking’
He insists
‘This n that just sketches’
‘Is it a rap?’
He guesses

This just in
The bloke who looks nothing like a rapper
Went to the toilet then sat somewhere else
as no one got on or off
at Wivelsfield.
Where was I?
The automated tannoy voice
is broken
Makes its announcements Helium voiced
Some grim smiles wan
Haywood and his heath be damned
In Monday cold sunshine
Smile later in the week maybe…
A moby blats
half an conversation begins shouty
about the outlook for someone called ‘wiggy’
after what was said and done
at the party
furtive frowns
abound
I think about the funeral
and tune it out
Balcombe intervenes
Ball comb?
Leave it!
No one on or off again
pointless stop two
Can you believe it?
The button that you thought would open the door
Flushes the loo.
Feel a little sad and sick
push on heroically
Well Gat my wick.
The voice of michael mouse speaks quickly
If you see something that doesn’t seem right
Inform the staff
I see a first class twat
See it say it sort it
good luck with that

There follows an apology for the disruptions
squeaky and insincere
No one laughing
or listening here
a distant voice calls
‘The old rapper disappeared!’
‘Got off at the airport coz he’s posh’
everyday folk shouting everyday tosh
The cartoon rodent voice interrupts
(the only thing here that’s high speed)
Your next stop is east Croydon
That’s it blame me!
My life, a fiasco viewed by a clown
at least London Bridge
Hasn’t fallen down
a relief
I’m looking late for the funeral
It appears
Is that pathos or bathos
well it’s one of them Musketeers
Black friars
says the disembodied Disney voice
no thanks
an arrow outside then says ‘Holborn hill’
another says ‘cash machine’
adjust pants.
It drags on,
on the blue tartan seats of doom
On and on
apparently, somewhere,
Someone’s Farring Don
then Saint Pancreas
A troubling name
Fucking Saints
Fucking train
Fucking time ticks me off
fucking late
We trundle through a dying station with no name
Extinct
Gone
as the shrill rodent says the saints name
and someone say’s
‘What did she say?’
and I realise it’s been Mini all along
and I’m counting down the stations
of the cross country slog
destination nearing snail paced
Clock flying and walking this race
black suit pale face
grinds teeth wills haste
No chance Jacko
no way mate
Sorry Mrs C
we’re both late I guess
Mini speaks but I miss it
trying to think of a rhyme for St Pancreas
and
I look white in the window reflection
and glum
trying to immortalise
my mates mum.
an old girl smiling
catches my eye
says ‘you look very smart
where y headed’
A funeral I sigh
she says
‘Oh no, have you far to go’
I say no the next one is mine’

A Coda.
(Free blood of Albion)

So at the terrific service for the last of the great original matriarchs of our tribe, in the willow whack

test match sunshine of Hertfordshire, , the pastor mentioned that Mrs C had received her gold medal for donating her 50th pint of blood!..Think now you whirling headed children of the digital wasteland that is England ltd.com. Think slow and long on how the NHS, -this fabulous edifice manned by the self sacrificing saints of healing and caring- is fuelled by the free blood given daily by these quiet angel heroes. and ask yourself, you practicality driven materialists of the enterprise profit curse, would they, would Mrs C, have been elevated by charging for it?
How many nameless lives did she save?
Who would look to profit on her like?
Should those who would decide the fate of the free blood of Albion?