Sitting in Ghent's illustrious Saint Baafskathedraal, surrounded by the stone and imagery of centuries past, is a strange experience for me. It is a beautiful building, this is indisputable. Tall imposing marble columns, the bust of legendary heroes from Christian mythology gazing down from on high, the echoes of my footsteps reverberating around the low ceilings of its aging crypts - I could understand the awe and reverence that the people who walk its walls must feel.

Myself? I felt emptiness. Nothing. Outside of its aesthetic beauty and historical significance, I was unmoved.

It wasn't always this way. I think back to my time in Secondary School, when I first became aware that religion was not the be-all and end-all of cosmic truth that it was painted as. I realised that the faithful of my teachers and peers had next to no interest in ascertaining what was really going on behind the scenes, or contemplating the facts of life and human nature - in fact, such ruminations I expressed were at best dismissed with vague platitudes or, at worst, belittled with suggestions that such curiosity was an irrelevance. I reasoned that surely it was mankind's curiosity that had enabled them to grow and develop, the idea of not being content with the little we knew and striving to better ourselves, in knowledge and in deed? If there was no room in such a thing as religion for anything approaching an inquisitive mind, then religion by its very nature was flawed. And surely anything dealing with the concept of Ultimate Truth could not be based upon flaws?

It was as though a veil had been lifted, and suddenly I was faced with what lay beyond. A great unknown void filled with uncertainty, where no easy answers could be found, least of all in something as presumptuous as a holy text. It's not an easy revelation to deal with, having been imbued with a deference to authority at such a young age, the instinct to trust those in authority without question and put my faith in the idea that they knew what was best, that if I jumped through the hoops they imposed for me then everything around me would be fine.

I began trusting those who claimed to know all the answers less. I asked for qualification, and when it wasn't provided I was more ready to dismiss what they were trying to make me believe. I began seeing authority figures not as perfect or all knowing, but as fallible human beings no different than me, with the same self interests who would answer to others before their own ideals. By the time I had started University I had learnt more about the world in the short years since the end of school than my whole life before then. And I had never feel more liberated, or indeed more happy. My only regret is not coming to these conclusions at an earlier age. I have always regretted the person I was before college - sycophantic, unempathetic, always sure I did all the right things and that it was always everyone else at fault and not me. Looking back, I was deserving of a few smacks upside the head, and had the person I am now been around then, he would be more than happy to administer them.

What will become of my mindset in a further five years time? Who knows. I'm sure there's a great deal more to understand and learn - in fact, I know there is. For that is why this cathedral, proud and majestic as it is, filled me with nothing. It and the organisation operating within it are quite content to see the ideals it stood for five hundred years ago remain identical to those it possesses today. One day, such a rigid adherence will be its undoing.

Nice little shop though. I've always liked a nice little shop.

Number 10 petition to abolish Mandelson's draconian internet disconnection proposals

This petition has been set up in response to the Government’s proposal to cut off internet access to those who are caught illegally downloading copyrighted files. We think this has one fundamental flaw, as illegal filesharers will simply hack into other peoples WiFi networks to do their dirty work. This will result in innocent people being disconnected from the internet. What's more, such a punishment should be dealt with in the proper way, in a court of law. This guilty until proven innocent approach violates basic human rights.

Make no mistake - if you are in the UK and use the internet, this concerns you. I don't want that smug git to turn around and say that his law had the support of the British public.

In recent months, there's been a dramatic upswing in the number of creative endeavors I've found myself attached to. A lot of it is due to being in a relationship where I've been given free reign to fully pursue what's interested me, rather than being goaded into developing ideas that I really didn't have the enthusiasm for. Or it could be the waffles. Those sweet, heavenly cream and chocolate lathed pastries that own me in both body and soul NO BAD DC CEASE THIS TANGENT

Ahem.

One of the unforeseen consequences of this is that I've started dreaming again. And not just the undefinable shapes and sounds of before. Full on experiences where I have been conscious of my own corporeal form and I have been able to not only register what is happening around me, but also to respond to such stimuli in both words and action. For the first time in a number of years, it feels like the line between what is real and what is not has been blurred.

The most vivid of these took place several nights ago, and involved waking up in my own bed back in Southampton. Walking into my kitchen I was met by my parents, who told me that a tragic accident had befallen one of my cats, and that they had bought me home to conduct a service. I managed to find my voice and began loudly objecting. Did they not realise I had an important symposium on Turkey to attend that day, one that my exam depended on me attending? How could they have just plucked me out of mainland Europe without even having the good grace to even tell me beforehand? How indeed did they even manage this monumental feat considering it took us the best part of a month to arrange transport in the first place? They merely brushed off my objections and continued talking about which dog collar I should wear, and whether it would be more appropriate to perform a musical tribute on the flute or harmonica. I felt like Steve Mason, thrown into a mad world where everyone was treating the lunacy around them as if it were perfectly normal, with I alone being the sole voice of anything approaching rationality. It was not helped by my surviving cat performing backflips at my feet while all of this was taking place.

Dreams are supposed to be a reflection of subconscious fears and desires, unrestrained by the conventional boundaries of waking thought. There are a number of such things I can take from the above - anxiety over exams, worries about those who are close to me back home, guilt about not having picked up a musical instrument for some months, the very real possibility that my cats are closet circus performers. Or it could be that my mind is a very, very wrong place in every sense of the word and that I need to be restrained and shock therapy administered for the safety of everyone around me. There is compelling evidence for both of these conclusions, believe me.

One thing is for sure though. I'd like to experience these more. Ghaelen used to give me advice on ways to realise one is dreaming and then actively shape the events that result. With such a talent, the possibilities are staggering. I can properly test my theory of any situation being improved by the addition of breasts and ninjas, for one.

via [fortysevenbteg ]



We must do everything we can to prevent this from coming to pass.

A source close to the British Labour Government has just given me reliable information about the most radical copyright proposal I've ever seen.

Secretary of State Peter Mandelson is planning to introduce changes to the Digital Economy Bill now under debate in Parliament. These changes will give the Secretary of State (Mandelson -- or his successor in the next government) the power to make "secondary legislation" (legislation that is passed without debate) to amend the provisions of Copyright, Designs and Patents Act (1988).

What that means is that an unelected official would have the power to do anything without Parliamentary oversight or debate, provided it was done in the name of protecting copyright.

Read this now. Spread it. Tell people. Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, Digg, everywhere. Shout it from the rooftops if you have to. Just GET THIS KNOWN BY EVERYONE IN THE UK.

We cannot stand for this. This is wrong.

... is Christopher Walken dancing to a song filled with Dune references.

The bitter chill of Winter has struck almost overnight, and has bought with it a near epidemic of colds, sore throats and things of a lurgi-type nature. It seems I was one of the first to come down with the nastiness, but a week of bedrest, light reading and Red Bull (my own personal Magic Potion, worthy of Getafix himself) has seen it all but gone. The new scarf I was given for my birthday by my awesome girlfriend will do much to keep me cosy in the coming weeks, and for that she is deserving of my undying gratitude.

Over the last few weeks I've had several excellent opportunities to get mah Culture on, helped in no part by a birthday weekend in Amsterdam. A most vibrant city, one whose visitors are of the most culturally diverse I've ever witnessed in a capital. Most were comprised of tourists, backpackers, families and assorted drifters, all seeking the ever elusive Good Times. I was pleased by how Amsterdam was not only proud of its many places of cultural significance, but made the act of visiting them so easy - 40 euros netted me a free pass to most of its old museums and galleries for three days, along with free transport on any bus and tram for that time as well. Highlights included the Hermitage, the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Gallery and a jaw dropping diamond exhibition. We also boarded a Dutch Clipper ship and narrowly avoided getting into a singsong about the joys of Imperialist Might and rowing under conditions of bondage, made only more disturbing by the singers being no older than ten.

When I wasn't getting my Rembrandt on or being traumatised by the innocent warblings of knee high Guybrush Threepwoods, I enjoyed the peace of a delightful cafe near one of the canals. Much toot was talked, tea consumed and certain inspirational chemicals ingested. In the space of two days, I created an invention that will change the world (a pen with a lighter at the end), created a children's book character (a jazz playing elephant called Duke Wellington), and realised how to bring about World Peace (creating a sequel to Buckaroo Banzai). No wonder David Nutt was sacked, these kinds of revelations could surely topple governments!

For completion's sake, I should probably mention the Red Light District. From what I gather, its seen better days. Many of the windows have been shut down and replaced with upmarket clothes shops in an attempt to make the area less debauched, an initiative not unlike demanding the sea to kindly bugger off and stop soaking one's toes, please. Most of the windows have remained, packed to the rafters with plastic cleavage, clothing with less surface area than a cravat, and blank, resigned eyes where one there was a soul. The intention was no doubt to excite, but it left me feeling uncomfortable and longing to be elsewhere. Plus I saw no signs of wet celery or flying helmets, so I had no chance of winning my bet with Mr Adam.

So, Amsterdam. Interesting? Yes. Worth the hype? I wouldn't say not. Would I go back to see a new exhibition at the Hermitage and bask in the glory of Rembrandt's Night Watch once more? Hell yeah. And this time, maybe my cafe musings will not only provide a solution to the Middle East, but also find a cure for John and Edward.