Israeli/Palestinian? Rich/poor? Possession is 10/10ths of the problem..

Hell, said Jean-Paul Satre in his play 'Huis Clos', is other people.

Currently on this planet we occupy, we are systematically turning paradise into hell. Why? Because we are possessed, it seems, with this idea of property, of ownership. The root of all of our fears is the fear of loss. We fear to lose face, to lose control, to lose what we think we somehow own. The reality is we own nothing. And in that reality lies our freedom. But we have become so utterly possessed with the concept of owning our little piece of something - be it physical property or simply an idea - that we have become isolated from our being and our own brothers and sisters - from each other.

And this idea of ownership and control is so utterly endemic in the very structure of our society, that we believe its truth to be as concrete as existence itself. And the whole of our capitalist/consumerist system is predicated on this idea. We exchange tokens we call money, for objects or concepts which, protected by 'laws', become our 'property'.

Take this idea one step further, and you can see clearly how the determination to control and own ideas is at the root of all religious and political dogma: 'I'm right, you're wrong.' And we can see this borne out the world over in the terrible conflicts that continue to rage, over property, over ideas, over the sense that one group of us is different, better, more chosen, than another.

I was re-reading Ursula Le Guin's beautiful novel 'The Dispossessed' over New Year, and it reminded me how isolated I can become, not wishing to share the time of day or even acknowledge other people. The possession of our minds is the root of all misanthropy. Most of us walk along the street in some kind of mind-created bubble, believing ourselves separate from our fellow beings. But we're not, are we? Truly, we all share the same space and breathe the same air. Le Guin's incredible vision of a world without laws, without property, without money or ownership, brought this all back to me.

On the train from Stansted airport back into London last week, I watched the most incredible sunset. The vista from the train across the stark landscape of frozen lakes, gnarled oaks and still-lithe silver birches, suffused with the most sublime pinks, oranges, reds and blues raying through scrawled black clouds was breathtaking. Experiencing this sunset brought me a joy that I have never had while standing in an art gallery perusing these little objects that attempt in some way to capture this glory. I do not wish to denigrate art, but to challenge the idea that we can, in any way, own any of this. And yet, what joy to discover that ownership is unnecessary anyway, when the greatest joys are laid out for us all to share.

I have visited Israel several times over the last 25 years, and witnessed the terrible disintegration of what was once a relatively harmonious society (in terms of Arab and Jew), although it must be said that this fragile balance did depend largely on the fact that the Arabs were, to all intents and purposes, second-class citizens.

Partitioning Gaza and the West Bank was never the answer in my humble opinion; the answer would have been to try to integrate the two communities, especially economically. The failure to do this has only polarised the situation, and until it is rectified, it will only get worse.

To have one people walled off, both physically and economically, from the benefits that others enjoy, can only result in strife. And when you throw the Molotov cocktail of religious extremism into the mix, you've got the situation we see today.

Economic and social integration is the only answer. It means someone has to start sharing. The same goes the world over. It's only when we accept no one has any more right to live on this planet than anyone else, and that we all breathe the same air, and that religious and other equally spurious divides such as skin colour, are insane, will we progress.

Hell may appear to be other people, but we are also each other's salvation. No God, no belief, no religion, no political or economic idea can do it for us, while we still grasp fearfully to the idea of possession. It is only when we let go of this idea, that we can finally become free.

Time to turn things round..

Once upon a time..

..I was a rock band manager, and here's the proof..

Yep, that's me surrounded by the ever-so appreciative of my management skills, the adorable, quixotic, anarcho-syndicalist crusty funk monsters, The Thunderdogs.

That iconic wall behind us is the boundary wall of Christiania, the self-proclaimed anarchist free-state in Copenhagen. This huge ex-naval base was first squatted in 1971 and the community has been there ever since. We stayed there during our Danish tour around 1993/4 (can't quite remember, it's a bit of a blur), in a wooden house built entirely without nails in the shape of a banana.. called, appropriately enough, the bananahuset..

I had one of THE craziest nights of my life in this funny little place..

After our last gig I finally succumbed to this strange British outcast Kenny and his infamous chillum. The rest of the band had already been Kennyed and feeling that it was safe to let my hair down at last, after what had been a pretty hair-raising tour, I lay against the back-stage wall and took a walloping great lungful... and then my head exploded. It felt like my third-eye had been split open with an axe and I descended into dope-hell. I had the entire tour takings in my pocket and this huge wad of money turned into a fiery snake-like thing that I had to get rid of, immediately. I tried to stuff the wad into my best mate and lead singer Tone's hands, but he had no idea what was going on and tried to give it back to me. But by now I was stricken with horror and there was no turning back. Picture the scene if you can, the two of us shoving each other around, banknotes flying as the rest of the backstage party scrambled to grab the money and mostly try and shove it back in my pocket. Within moments this surreal scene became too much for me to bear and with a yelp I ran out into the cold Copenhagen night.

Pinballing off lumbering drunken Vikings, I desperately tried to find my way back to the Banana House through the wild darkness, but somehow I got caught up in a hedge and spent frantic minutes trying to disentangle myself from this gargantuan beast. At last I broke free and sprinted across the wasteland towards our funny wooden home.

I slammed the door behind me and bolted it, convinced there were hellhounds, or worse, on my tail. I dashed upstairs and flung myself on my bed, trying to calm my ragged breathing. The only person still in the house was Nut, our photographer, and sensing my distress, she came and sat by me, soothing my fevered brow and telling me everything was okay. And I did begin to feel all right, until she turned her head.. and revealed the half of her face that had been in shadow until now. She had covered it with these Maori-like black swirls. In my uber-stoned state, I thought she was some kind of soul-stealing demon. I screamed in terror as poor Nut tried to hold me down. At this point I looked up and saw a distant red light through the upstairs window, and suddenly it all dawned on me with horror: I was still inside my mother's womb. The whole of my life up till now had been one long twisted dream, and the horrible reality was that I had yet to be born into this hell-world. The red-light was the only way out, the exit from the womb, my mother's pulsing vulva.. and it was just too much for me!
"Cut me out! Cut me out!" I screamed.
Nut dashed for the phone and amazingly managed to get hold of Tone back at the gig.
"He's gone mad!" she gasped "You've got to get over here now!"
Somehow the boys made it back in record time. I was a gibbering wreck. Tone grabbed me and began to shovel sugar and rescue remedy into my mouth. Incredibly, within moments, I was back. I had just been about to disappear up a flowing river made of Shiva's hair, but the sugar assault had worked its magic. I stared round the room at my shocked friends. They had seriously thought they were going to have to call the men in white coats. I smiled weakly.
"Er, hi guys.. I think I'm okay now.." I grinned, and then I collapsed on the floor.

And that, my friends, is but one extract from that insane tour. Maybe I should write a book about it. It makes Spinal Tap look positively tame...

Laters dudes..

Sentimental... moi?

Excuse me, but I couldn't resist! Jamie just sent me this pic of me and my god-daughter from a few years back... yeah, I know, I'm gonna get slated for it... but... some of you might like it ;-)

I've just spent two weeks in Mallorca, chopping wood, building fires and helping to look after Lola-Mae and Memphy and I think it's been the most rewarding fortnight I've spent for years. Basically, I think I'm just cut out to be a dad!

I've had countless brilliant ideas for posts in the last few weeks, ranging from my take on the US presidential elections - Wham Bam Thank You Obama - to the Joy of Hypochondria, and all I can come up with is this. Is that what you're saying? And I used to be such a reliably cynical correspondent. What IS going on??

Strictly

What's that old twit John Sergeant still doing on Strictly? He can't dance and he looks and sounds like Jo Brand. Get him off.

It's official: Left is Best

I’m left-handed, and proud of it. And you might be amazed to know that the next US president, whether he be Obama or McCain, will be left handed. Indeed, they will be the fourth left-handed president out of the last five. How about that. The chances of this occurring are apparently 0.00009. Which one of ‘em is a rightie? Yeah, you guessed it, only the loathsome Dubya…

Given that roughly one in ten of us are left-handed, we definitely punch (southpaw) above our weight; Leonardo Da Vinci, Aristotle, Einstein, Julius Caesar, Emperor Charlemagne, Napoleon, Marilyn Monroe, John F Kennedy, Jimi Hendrix, even Jesus for Christ sake… all left-handers.

It’s fascinating to note just how many actors are left-handed. At a rough guess, I’d say it’s 50/50. Check it out for yourself next time you watch a movie… Robert De Niro, Ray Liotta, Steve McQueen, Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt – I mean, come on!

But because of the cultural imperative that in the old days you had to choose which hand you wiped your arse with – the poor old left got the bum rap. Now you know why it’s called cack-handed. Sinister (from the Italian for left), gauche (from the French).. thank goodness modern hygiene has finally allowed us to flourish without prejudice.

Considering this yesterday, led me, by a tentative left-handed path that I can’t remember now, to thinking about personality. This was my thought: without other people to reflect back to you the kind of person you are, do you actually have a personality? I know, I’m going to bang on about it again, but who is the ‘you’ that you think you are, when you’re on your own?

I find my ‘personality’ entirely portable and chameleon-like. Sure, over the years I’ve grooved a personality that like an old overcoat I grudgingly slip on when I’m in company. But when I’m on my own… wow, you wouldn’t believe the different people that I am. In fact, I find that I can let the whole personality thing go, and watch it blob and morph around like a balloon without a social circumstance to anchor it. Do you ever sit and watch your personality going through its motions? When you go out, does it go through a check-list? Witty – checkish. Cool – hmm – kind of. Handsome – err, sort of. Suffering? Worried? Angry? What’s my story again? Oh yeah, I’m a 40 something would-be writer/reader/raconteur/iconoclast/decorator/dad/football fan/bon-viveur/traveller/thinker/seeker/visionary/natural philosopher/ bastard/has-been/fuck-up/survivor/guitarist/singer/songwriter/wanker/lover/man. Aren’t I?

Well, I know one thing, I’m left-handed.

Laters.

(PS I lied about Jesus, but hey, you never know.)

..creeps in this petty pace

Yesterday, my uncle died. I'm struggling for something to say that has not been covered a million times, about death, about the experience... that is not clichéd and platitudinous and glib... I can't think of anything. I am mired in suffering and the constant challenge of being; I want a break, forever, from this tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury.. signifying nothing. What is it that cries, and yearns and burns? The ego, the ego, the ego... let go, let go, let go... collapse, surrender, go within... how does one do that, in London, right now? Does one shun all social life, become a hermit? Should I travel to India, seek solace, lose myself? It's the physical thing that gets me most you see. And the anger that comes with it. Why me?

And yet reality keeps breaking through. The sound of water hitting the enamel bathtub in the shower. The cool calm of autumn sunlight on still-green leaves. The whole terrible, still, beyond reckoning, sense of being. It's here and now. Always.. underneath, beyond, behind... vast.. being.

The seductive reality of the surface, that I find myself always drawn to, the rush and chatter of human daily trivia, promises solace, delivers it, temporarily. Temporarily.

Thank god one can express one's self. I feel better now.