That moment!

No google, social media, or a phone in sight.

That limbo of liminal thought, where you can’t remember what you’re thinking. Where? What? Why? Who cares?

I’m somewhere south of Crete — even that’s too much detail for me on a small Island tourism copy hails as paradise. The beach is caramalised yellow, its grains of sand fine as water sprays and bodies litter the scape absorbing the sun’s death rays.

I’m bored! I am? Yes. Up to a limit. Doing nothing is not how I want to plan my time and after a while doing nothing is like being stuffed in a sauner, with the scent of flesh heating.

This beach island isn’t eden. It’s a quiet assassin. Its coral reefs slice the souls of its temporary inhabitants. I’m cut already.

Chopin’s Raindrop. Prelude No. 15 D-flat minor slowly materialises over the waves. It’s in my head, a slow, sometimes melancholic delicate score.

I’m facing up. a gentle bob, something caresses my side. I’m f**** if I am going to open my eyes.It ticks me again. Oh C’mon. Raindrop’s gone. I turn my head and WTF!

No, no, no, Gonzo is not defined by first person narrative. If so, every blogger would be a faustian Hunter Thompson. It’s a dissatisfaction with mediocrity and convention. Its subject matter in reportage is almost incidental to the state of mind the writer finds herself in — in eviscerating mood.

In the 60s every creative wanting to mess up America’s mom and pop model for clean suburban living did Gonzo, aided by white or brown stuff. Rock legends wrote some of their visceral lyrics high as spy planes. Easy Rider cocoons the world of the mavericks; there’s even a flutter cut scene in super 8 type mosaic about drug inducing experiences.

Thompson was a writer who didn’t need a camera or Hendricks persona. No, Gonzo in journalism is writing about the inevitable, without it being blindingly obvious. A scene critiquing writing, manifests itself as a bored swimmer.

A fetish with technology, coupled with a penchant for the illusion of ‘knowing’…

I’m a filmmaker now!

Oh yeah

Yeah I am inventing a new way of reportage


It’s mobile.

What like Drew’s verite?

Whose Drew?

…has led a merry generation into tech light and the dark cracks of knowledge.

Nobody acknowledges that what they’re doing has a rich past in another generation. Commerce tries to con us that its new. So we invent words like ‘social’ — a media form defined by synchronicity. Knowledge that was the drug of the 60s, 90s and 2000 is passe now. Ignorance is the new cool.

Why learn when you can get rich faking it. But get this, this frenzy of forgetting the past, or being ignorant to our forbearers, isn’t new.

It’s taken me some 20 seconds to surface.. and now looking outside of my window, I welcome the misery of London‘s dreary suffocating weather. I’m cheered. I’m busy again. The books off to the publishers. The industry‘s ’prepping the next year of journalism idol, and a new technology awaits to send us chasing our tails

What’s not to like, escaping a serene island.

Top Writer & Creative Technologist, Int. Award Winner. Cinemajournalist. Cardiff Uni @jomec. PhD (Dublin). Visiting Prof UBC, Ex BBC/C4News. Apple profiled.

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