midnight motorway noises

Here, there's outside and up west.

The earth rolls, folds and unfurls as inside thunder rumbles low until it happens that hand clap dramatic and just round the next bend. The boy's in up past his knees and I'm giggling like the good old days. The air is silent soft smelling of seaweed and she. Ardnamurchan is the most westerly point in mainland Britain and out here I might be standing on an outstretched index finger resting where the world curves.

Here, there's friendly faces and flashed at steps.

Holiday snaps clap once and again as they sit, chin and knees, persevering with lunch. Please pay for photographs of performers. Big Al Catraz, the tiny escapologist and the burlesque opera reading the glossies all sit tense, sit tight. They two are waiting. Each joking for the other. They wait and wait until when the wind whips up and they're off again to whoops, whistles and ready applause. It's her birthday and her yellow tights make Edinburgh's old grey bricks smirk in spite of themselves.

Here, there's inside, Southside.

The new place in the new city. Empty shelves keep asking if there'll ever be more. Be patient, please! Promise. Promise. And an empty studio which is forcing me to write.

Here and there's me, all over the place. Dust settling, just.

This seems to be the topic of the day, I didn't really see what all the fuss was about until I read the article in AdBusters and it made me seethe a little. I had actually been thinking about counterculture and, more precisely, about what our generation's is. This rambling is edited from an email to LMF.

I found myself wondering about the people I know and feeling optimistically certain that these people would have been involved in, if not at the centre of any countercultural activity that was happening fifty years ago. So, I pondered, why not now? If even we can't find anything to dig our nails into before we slip skull-shatteringly down the rock face then what is to be done? I think it's fine to talk about theatre or art and trying to make a difference in your own small way but really, what's our movement? Definitely not the hipsters.

Any decent counterculture needs a unifying force to radicalise mass movements - from flowers in your hair to force and brutality stemming indignance and unrest. With these hipsters that unifier is their fashion - the aesthetics of their "movement". So what counteracts this failed counter culture? What mass unifying force do we have? And if we can't find one, who can?

Whoever described "hipsterdom" as counterculture anyway? Since when has it ever been classed with the great counterculture movements? What about this generation's goths, technogeeks and anti-folk nerds? Or the climate-change warriors, the immigrant millions or the anti-war masses? What happened to them? Surely they would do more for counterculture than the hipsters in the article? Surely, then, it is just the media - and AdBusters - who are reinforcing this lie: that a fashion trend among wealthy city socialites somehow has something to do with politics or rebellion.

Is hipsterdom "the first 'counterculture' to be born under the advertising industry's microscope" as the article suggests? Or, if we take it as it is - a rapidly spreading fashion trend among vapid club kids for dressing expensively tatty - surely, it's just another trend initiated and proliferated by advertisers and media?

The hipsters are a nonentity. The sooner we all accept that the better. It's nothing more than eighties Madonna-wannabes, Cobain-cool grunge chic and global hypercolour t-shirts. It's a fad not a movement, it's just that we are so desperate for protest and for our unifying force that we've pinned ideals to a trend that doesn't exist.

But what is it?!

A video documentary about Mimes who aren't mimes... And don't you forget it.

This is my debut in a tractor - narrated by Roy, judged (somewhat optimistically perhaps) by Rowan.


And this is demolition in Glasgow.

Forty shades of grey - plumped, fluffed then rolled like craps across the blue-eye sky.

Softly stepping in amongst them wide-eyed, always surprised and sure to get lost in the layers, I remember home.

My gaze goes up high and through them: meandering and wondering, pondering my wanderings.

Cumulus curves. Clouds cuddle like no other.

So, during twelve balmy sun-soaked cocktails, I told the truth. NO! One truth untold lies and vanquishes rodents...really. All of the men swooned over all of the men. Gay! Also while I was quite serene, I tricked many of my former liaisons into covering these streets with rodents. Scrappy beasts, they were scampering about and people ran fast - terrified that one might introduce itself awkwardly and uninvited impose unnecessary amounts of napkins upon the filth-loving hermaphrodites.

These are jumping crumbs.



And these are marching mimes.

And I'm sure there will be more to come!