Identity Verified Thinker in Arts / Literature / Contemporary
Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
I am an experienced writer who has worked across a variety of mediums including: screenplay, script editing, prose, poetry,and novelization. I am particularly interested in psychogeography and the scope it gives both academics and creative writers to effectively trade elements of their fields.
 

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Mar. 3, 2009 12:35 pm
Information overload. An assault of over-stimulated senses hard-wired to an overactive brain. Money lost, transferred, won and earned at a key stroke. The inability to process the myriad of shiny PR-wrought images that assail tired eyes from arrival to departure from the daily slop and grind of work in the hyper-kinetic cityscape. Londinium la, la, Londinium . The curse of the aspirational...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2009 7:26 pm
The road sharply bissects the memory of knife-carrying thugs on the stairs of the library. The long buried factory where glue-high skinheads were willing to eviscerate for the sake of casual Saturday night amusement. The concrete burying blood treacle and chemical experiment in one arc of supposed progress. Glen Street, Barrhead. The library an omnipresent beacon of shelter in an otherwise...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2009 1:31 pm
The constant kinesis of shifting personalities, jostling for space in the lacunae of his algorhythmic brain. The face in the shaving mirror: otherworldly, unknown, extrinsic. He was back to some kind of recognition: today at least. The hair thick and framing a heavily bearded face, an unemployed magus without portfolio, hooded eyes flickering with hermetic knowledge and the burden of unwanted...  Read More
Feb. 28, 2009 7:43 am
Living and dying in public. Slow capitulation to the repear in a constant newsfeed. Poor, pathetic Jade Goody, PR occultist Clifford a spectre at the feast, the tawdry spectacle of a very public life and death. The black arts of the spin magus in full satanic majesty: base metal to gold: and thence to dust... A future memory frags its way through 12 O'clock gloom, putting to bed the odyssey that...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 10:21 pm
Hurtling under The Clyde, towards the next port of call, taking an odd, almost elliptical route, perceived shithole pubs first, relaxation earned at stop 15, I let thought give way to action, zen suddenness as opposed to grand plan. Fabienne seemed ok with all this machismo, her gentle French/Spanish crossover culture spilling willingly into Chris and I's English/Scots/Irish alliance, friendship...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 5:42 pm
Fingers wrap glasses, Subway capsules scurry, Booze rats on an august Saturday, Grain and grape jostle, Optics entrance, Casks leak the analgesic of choice, Conversation requires translation, Or maybe drink eases Babel-ed voices, Into fevered ears.  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 5:34 pm
The phone call...nervous words exchanged between old drinking buddies, lives entwined by the same relationship debris...an SOS of the human spirit, seeking to disembark from the leaking marital vessel." Sure...no problem, Chris, come up, starting in the middle of the day we can booze our personal politics away...no problem, mate, get the flight up and I'm yer man..." 15 stops on the Glasgow...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 4:44 pm
The nuptial Gordian knot untied, No self-immolation, No fanfare, Just a relieved breath out.  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 4:16 pm
Rituals. Part of Gildea's firmament, his base. Immolation of data, memory-committed streets and houses, locales. The forensic occultism of a open, yet paradoxically blinkered mind. A hermetic investigation into self and others; an attempt at modern alchemy. Facts translated into the motherlode of information; his living, breathing files. A grimoire of lives. Lives dissected, uncovered, spells...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 4:13 pm
Collective amnesia. That was what the zeitgesit seemed to suggest; a necessary dementia. A means of escape from the supposed clutches of today's invisible bogey man; the failing economy. The Comic avoided the tawdry realities of the herd and pursued his vision, part comic-book grotesque, part anomie pus leaking from the acidic reaches of his imaginings. Freddie Nietzsche: a constant pal and his...  Read More
Feb. 26, 2009 8:10 am
Pre-war heights, Apart from some stray Berserker genes, The diet that armour-clads arteries. Beatific Poles in sports gear, Christ in soiled trackies and ill-fitting slip-ons, The mis-matched uniform of the streets. Breakfast: Charing Cross Guest House. Faces scorn the master, Even as Lent emerges, Corpulent faces scoff fry-ups, As the messiah-in-waiting, Tries to map out an...  Read More
Feb. 25, 2009 11:29 am
No cryptic Pythagorean unravelling, No Fermattian mapping out, Not simply biological, Not bottle, glass or stout.  Read More
Feb. 25, 2009 11:28 am
Milky lens, Difficult words, Unheard utterances, A paralysis. Tinnitus passages, The hissing of damaged eardrums, Deafening roars, Demented fitful sleep. Lungs gulp, Muscle loose over frangible bone, Skin dessicated, raw, Memory a distant continent.  Read More
Feb. 25, 2009 11:16 am
Don't turn away from illumination, That light at the end of tunnel, The end which you entered by. Keep to that nourishment, That sensory impairment; Love... The madness of the Age of Self: Glib words rallying in a still-open mind, Cynicism held at bay, stilled. And so I turned and moved towards her, Letting her catch me, catch her, One and one from none. And I...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 11:26 pm
Corrosive cynicism circled my tight skull, as I tried to retain a vestige of decency, not easy when you're drinking your way around an unfamiliar hyper-real zip, zip, zip dreamscape of a city. The rush of the hyper-kinetic citizen, moving in this authoritarian theme park, to the tune of the cash-till ding and the slavery and madness of the working life of this Disneyland-esque misadventure ride,...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 7:56 pm
And so The Comic enters the cosy scene.... Suit rank with the deep scent of his thrusting masculinity, a deep, animal scent, he walks into Hillhead Public Library, a distracted air of the truly dangerous about him, focused on a mythical middle distance. Kim Il Sung eyes. Dead cod on a Beveridge slab on Byres road. Pockets filled with every known concealable blade. 7 of the wee lads. Razors in the...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 7:54 pm
Locked in the porcelain dungeon, straining, no excavating one's bowels, as images threaten to blur reality's thin membrane, Gildea finds his punchline. Yesss a hissing of relief, as silver spinners fly, tugging at his peripheral vision. It had been a night of two very different halfs; one joyous, the other bizarre and mystifying, an Irish playlet of dada-ist absurdity. And here he was, guts...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 1:44 pm
Thomastown Mark was in full fuddled Blarney flow, all anecdotes of the then still-living Iain D MacGeachy AKA John Martyn's prodigous alco-narco intake and lute and harp guitar making. Exhausted as I was ,the talisman of Theremin was uttered, a pathway into the inner sanctum of Thomastown Mark's hippy dingley dell of twilight middle-aged adolescence. The Rev was deep in conference with Everyman...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2009 7:25 am
As the train trundles from the G78 outpost of The Glasgow Empire, it was there , from childhood, travelling in wheezing diesel rolling stock, through trembling adolescence in ultra modern sleek BR lozenges 'til now. The white ranks of prerpared porcelain, awaiting dispatch to suburban bathroom, farmhouse, workplace and pub. Shanks' finest. In its silent, dormant magnificence, a monument to...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2009 5:39 am
Dundee. Truncated form. The Rev circling the bar, keeping his oblique tactics close to his chest. Trying to maintain a Zen-like state of alacrity in a half-canned stupor. 130am. The doorman corners me; reptilian, limp-wristed, finger-clicking and pointing his effeminate claw at the ludicrous cover charge, a sly fiver for entry to this subterranean pleasure dungeon. To his left a land leviathan...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2009 4:42 am
The exiles? "Aye...middle and working class communists were their own worst enemies, by taking tyrants, fetishising them, they eventually alienated themselves from the mainstream...destroyed their once powerful voting base to become a fringe outfit for genteel erudite tea-drinking bufferish...." Skelton tailed off, lost in another tangent. Typical pub exchange; a little sober translation...  Read More
Feb. 19, 2009 1:14 pm
THE HEALING Like sweets from a stranger, Kind words in that tender moment, Between the worlds; Of chaos and peace. NOT ACTUALLY BROKEN The slight odyssey is over, Light leaks into a slightly dulled now , With the realisation that it never left me; The self unbowed, unbloodied, Not actually broken at all  Read More
Feb. 19, 2009 11:44 am
If Saturday's Oran Mor represented dubious Viagra for the soul, then The Ferry and The Fisherman's in particular, was most definitely Tuesday's dose of Bromide; a limp and enervating atmosphere, with some overly hoppy real ale, so down and the hatch and off at Plumpton for us. It was nearing the witching hour and by extension, it looked as if us psychonauts were heading for the princes to frogs,...  Read More
Feb. 19, 2009 11:21 am
First stop on this seeming road away from ruin, was conversely a trip to source some litres of gluggable Italian red for The Rev's gantry(liquid version of a burnt offering?). And then my bete noire, medium-haul bus journey, on the modern equivalent of steerage. Typical toilet, rank with vomit and other unspecified human effluvia; Edinburgh Fringe refugees; day trip shoppers, bag-laden with...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 8:02 pm
"The walk of shame" A phrase that crops up regularly within the cavernous environs of the secular booze chapel now known as Oran Mor ; Merely a circumnavigation around a massive oblong in search of a late-night lust liaison . Human apes in the throes of weekend Westender alcohol-fuelled desire. Not unique, granted, but nevertheless a human pursuit in a fairly apposite setting, conspicuous...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 5:54 pm
Who will be my Columbine? Will hers and I's thoughts collide? Even as our bodies combine, To dance the dance of time. My entropy, Will be the end of me, And as the wine flows, The end of this tango. The pair never met, This Pierrot resigns, The costume fading, Painted masque/drunker stutter, Brando mumble, Dead cod eyes.  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 3:38 pm
He had every rare and, to me, irrelevant copy of every psychotic WWII/Vietnam/Korean/ Camdodian conflict fantasy comic book printed between 1975 and 1982. He was that scrupulous in his enthusiasms. " Your country doesn't need you...because you amount to little more than...a cunt" Was emblazoned on a cut n' paste caustically monochrome defiling of a Roy Lichtenstein 20x20 feet, in a room desribed...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 9:16 am
"Dwarfed by the towering monuments to commerce that conquer the very space they stand on, an almost ley-line-like triangulation of oppression exists to mock the poorest cousin: Dundee, looking up seems the response of the gaping tourist to the alienating environment of Brutalism and neon effulgence: Manhattan. In the shadow of oil-rich Aberdeen to the North; Capital city of Edinburgh to the...  Read More
Feb. 16, 2009 6:34 am
I can't quite breathe...large-bosomed all-American white bread WASP to my right, Statue of Liberty to my left, pleasing noises in wraparound 360 degree technicolour synaesthetic headphones/eyeshades..But first...HOMELAND SECURITY Philadelphia...narco-thoughts spinning wildly like guitar figures from Lloyd-Langton. Passport 'photog not corresponding to current disguise. Fingerprint burned off by...  Read More
Feb. 16, 2009 12:01 am
DOES IT RHYME? The flicker in the eye, the longing. The beard stroke, masking the ID crises. I'm still as tense and wound as 20 years ago. Still falling for the same old hackery, Waiting for The Fall, The Drop, The final, final couplet. (Dundee August 2008) NOSE OUT OF JOINT/MEMORY FRAGMENT #4 It's only a number, I'm just a scrolled option on a VDU. But I still feel Atlas-burdened, As I watch...  Read More
 
 
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