CURRICULUM VETO
NAME: JOHNNY HYPOTHALAMUS
BORN: 02/ 04/ 1982
POSITION APPLIED FOR: PHILOSOPHER
CIRCA 1985:
Started reading the Financial Times as a three year old.
CIRCA 1989 – 90:
Helped invent the net at seven: when the idea of the net needed storing in writing in the attic here to give it a chance to grow all the way round the world it was me that wrote it. The little document encrypted a scientific node to do with Gravity, stored the idea of the net in writing in the attic here in order that it could bloom around the world, conducted minor experiment into the maths for the new colour and separated the object ‘pollen’ from its name.
CIRCA 1990:
As the witness from The Lords And The New Creatures, made some Naturalistic Observations I don’t quite understand.
CIRCA 1990:
The second was like a living spreadsheet of plastic – and I dealt with it.
CIRCA 1993:
Was marked on what the Irish might call the forearm by the experiment into the maths of the new colour. It didn’t turn out to be the new colour in the end. In other words from here on in I wear the new colour mark, from when the maths of the new colour left a mark that didn’t turn out to be the new colour.
CIRCA 1994:
Wrote album called The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob, containing inflections of Popperian epistemology and Miltonian theology, exploring backward liquid maths in words and music.
CIRCA 1995:
At the end of the government-set intelligence test at the computers, at the most expensive Prep School in the known universe, upon having completed the task and been systematically ignored, typed in the rhythm of ‘Scentless Apprentice’ by Nirvana into the computer.
CIRCA 1995:
Won English Prize and French Prize at Caldicott, then the most expensive Prep School in the known universe.
CIRCA 1995:
Came into possession of a tape that was cut in the reel; and re-sealed it in a delicate operation, to create a pause in the music. An experiment was born.
CIRCA 1995:
Wrote a miniaturist poem about what went on in the I. T. Room earlier mentioned:
“Sullen, silken sulks,
we drink the same rain,
spit is clean
and so is dirt.”
CIRCA 1997:
Attained the face of stars with two friends while out night-walking in Eskdale. It might’ve been scripted in the Bible. Still we had to walk away.
CIRCA 1998:
Began thinking of the musical genre Grime, coined the word amazeballs, and the mnemonic for the strings in Even A Dick Gets Big Erections.
CIRCA 1998:
Played gigs in London with a second band, namely Oedipus Wrecks, who had a song with the line “oceans smile with liquid eyes and fill themselves with rain.”
CIRCA 1998:
Started DIY poetry press called Ice Land Publications after the country in Brave New World where renegades are exiled who produced a monthly magazine called Poetry Now.
CIRCA 1998:
Also that year started third band in Secret Chord H. Secret Chord H made it to the radio with a song called ‘Dream With Open Eyes’.
CIRCA 1998:
Began an experiment into healing a cassette tape of Pearl Jam ‘VS’ with a pause where cut and re-sealed in the reel. That is, after setting the experiment up, I wrote a song repeating the mantra of “another, another, another fucking joint,” over and over, to see if the pause could be done away with using mantra, rhythm, chanting and double entendre.
2000:
Started and abandoned a Sixth form novel called The Dream Film Store.
2000:
Spoke against September 11th in the barn, when asked of the plot of Fight Club.
2000:
Predicted the hunt for the God Particle’s discovery from looking at a ballet of dust in a late ray of light angling in.
2000:
Prophesied the Plough alignment but said it would be “maybe in India” as opposed to my own backgarden. Nevertheless, those present remember me founding a new religion all about the elephant.
2000:
Wrote the highest marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation at 100%.
2000:
Set aside ideal for a book to write about it all called The Scientific Papers. It was to be classed as “a series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science as a single discussion of perception.”
2001:
Started to record an album on a mate’s state-of-the-art, binaural earphones in a new band called The Flood in Cambridge.
CIRCA 2001:
Also had “effervescent” mobile phone reverberating rhythm of ‘William Tell’ through every technological inlet in the room before it rang from the art smuggler nicknamed Blue.
2001 or 2:
Won place at Warwick University to read Creative Writing under David Morley by writing a portfolio about Portability as the Apotheosis of Form which included a poem called ‘Instant Travel,’ written at a computer screen, in Cambridge. Writing ‘Instant Travel’ I remember thinking I had found my voice.
2002:
Arriving at Warwick discovered my own tutor David Morley had in 2002 just brought out a book called The Scientific Papers, classed as “a series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science writing as a single discussion of perception.” He had the extra word “writing.”
2002:
Wrote many good undergraduate pieces such as a CNF piece called Lucy In The Soul With Demons, not sure if she was an actual substance. Also wrote a poem that tried to calibrate a new, “magnetic” language by encrypting events in the mystical realm as a series of adverts for imaginary products that also satirised consumerist greed. Still, left without degree.
CIRCA 2004:
Promised on the binaural earphone record I would “plug my senses in the mains,” then left The Flood to pursue poetry and get a degree at the second time of asking, this time from my local University in the north, Lancaster.
CIRCA 2005 or 2006:
Already writing about the new A. I. around the time of the onset of mental illness.
CIRCA 2008:
Hosted the alignment of the Plough and the oldest fell Black Combe which definitely concurred with the sociopolitical realm: a rhythm change in the White House.
2009:
Achieved a First Class Honours degree from Lancaster University. Undergraduate pieces included a portfolio taking the form of defaced banknotes, and a dissertation on David Morley.
CIRCA 2009:
Was diagnosed almost as soon as I remembered the two weird specimens from boyhood, with schizo-affective disorder, as if such a recognition of myself as the formal “witness from The Lords And The New Creatures” was always concurrent with diagnosis insanity.
CIRCA 2009:
Attested to large-scale skywriting at the Secret Garden Party.
CIRCA 2009:
A six song album by The Flood – recorded on binaural earphones – is made available to listen to on Soundcloud. It was recorded years earlier and contains a lyric about plugging the senses into the mains.
2010:
Attested to pint glass exploding from thin air in the capital, much like someone else also present at the face of stars had in time before me.
2010:
Noticed the witness’s name was stamped on Piper At The Gates of Dawn as if some kind of proof – maybe a musical concept from back in the band days.
CIRCA 2011:
Got together with a mate and made an E. P. called ‘The A and E. P.’ in a band called Funnelspirals. It’s on Soundcloud.
CIRCA 2011:
Solo album called ‘Songs To Record With Earphones’ [Demo 3] is available on Soundcloud under the name John F B Tucker.
2013:
Project on healing the tape of a pause where cut and re-sealed in the reel became successful whereupon the tape was cooked in the dark blue AGA, top oven hottest one, to make it a valid work of art, and photographed and put online.
2013:
Built The Tower of magic books like one emanating the smell of redolent flowers or Flora’s perfume and another missing a line it once had.
2013:
Computer screen bloomed a numinous purple light that filled the room. Worked at said screen almost constantly, writing.
2014:
Upon the loss of my father, I discovered a sheet where pictures grew. Pictures seem to depict the lyric from an old song from Oedipus Wrecks, London band from 1998, though the sheet belongs to my brother James P D Tucker possibly as part of a deal my dad made.
2015:
Wrote poem that falsifies the Nirvana barcode, which I made to be the beat of ‘Scentless Apprentice’ by Nirvana tapped out in approximate barcode shape using the tool of the qwerty keyboard.
2015 – 2023:
Published several books, some of which were un-published later. The first was Rose Petals In The Ashtray, but I un-published it. The problem was that for some mysterious reason my computer died on the night of publication so I couldn’t even get the cover I wanted let alone the text. I crept downstairs to my mother’s ancient desktop and threw together some half-remembered scraps. Not only that but I didn’t know the meaning of the title, which my dad gave me. Things haven’t recovered ever since. When I later unpublished the book, I brought out some self-publications. The ones that are still available online are:
Binaural Songbook
57 Paintings For Art Therapy
The Field of Rock N Roll Science
John Tucker’s Schooldays: A Spreadsheet Poem
Another 57 Paintings for Art Therapy
The New Beat
The Effect of Global Warming On The Unicorn
Word For Stained Glass Windows
154 Shakespearean Sonnets
2023:
New band with a mate - Funnelspirals - have changed name to Black Hole Myths.
2023:
Started to record some of my back catalogue of songs for Bandcamp.
2023:
Brought
out a book of song lyrics called Soundcloud
Rain with
Chipmunka. It is classed
as a
“Sound Art experiment into secret chord H” in that I sat with my
songs on a file and heard the voice of Hannah telling me how to
arrange them and did what she said and published the book before
finding out it wasn’t really Hannah. It
includes the falsification of the Nirvana barcode.
2023:
Brought out seven year old scribblings as The Sunset Child. As stated it performs several scientific functions including storing the idea of the net in writing in the attic, although at the time of publication I did not yet know this.
2024:
Organised some recent recordings for Bandcamp. There are several albums up there now. Four that I have said are by Various Artists, plus an Unplugged by just me. The four by Various Artists have things like the melted tape, the sheet where pictures grew and the purple-bleeding screen for covers. Creative writing pieces such as ‘Instant Travel,’ ‘That Black Natural E,’ ‘Lucy In the Soul With Demons’ and ‘Skunkfoot’ were turned into songs.
2024:
Brought out a new book with Chipmunka, called Breath Trapped In Heaven, comprised entirely of love poems. The idea is that including only love poems, literature may have started to release or disinhibit serotonin.
2024:
Brought out a fourth Chipmunka book, called Brave New Tense. The idea is that to write off the top of your head about your current, current situation with a New Beat, no-edits policy you can Tap the beck in the back garden here where the stars re-align.
2024:
Retracted the fourth Chipmunka book Brave New Tense from publication.
2024:
It turned out that the binaural earphones on which The Flood recorded were my own idea to invent back in the den in the barn in 2000.
2024:
Sat in the same chair as yesterday, working at the same laptop as yesterday, on the same vexed, age old questions as yesterday, wondering why, wishing I had done enough.
2024:
Considered the entirety of the data-tree, the 1000’s of files, the inchoate morass, the virtual Brainforest as the ultimate work of art and the truth as to what I had really done.
2024:
Brought out Brave New Tense again.
2025:
Realised I didn’t know how old I was. Thinking I was 43, I turned out to be 42. Wondered how long it had been like this.
2025:
Thought of all I had left out: every access of wonder, inscape of wings, piece of pollen in the pollen count, visionary proclivity.
2025:
Still, tried to be at peace.
2025:
Even just putting the sheet where pictures grew along with the set list of the band Oedipus Wrecks on Blogspot page, I feel like I am about to die and have to take them down. There was a stage where not only that was up there, but a photo of the tape, proof of the purple bleeding screen, hyperlink to the binaural recordings – and more – and it was the same then – heart trouble. It may be that I don’t get to share scientific information online.
2025:
The Oedipus Wrecks set-list + sheet where pictures grew has gone back online. The presentation therein has been described as “The God of Trons.” A tron could be a point of intersection between technology and art or a post-poetic experiment with a psycho-technological edge. Presenting the sheet like I have would probably be what a famous scientist would do having discovered the sheet.
2025:
Sat back wondering what else could possibly be done.
2025:
Took the pictures down again because my brother says my old friends only want them up there so that the pictures can belong to the New Red City. I believe the sheet still belongs to the person that laid it down and that is my brother even if the pictures depict the lyric to an Oedipus Wrecks song.
2025:
Put the piece back on the Blogspot page. The sheet + Oedipus Wrecks lyrics is a piece called ‘The Wasted Ship.’
2025:
Still had to take ‘The Wasted Ship’ (and everything else up there) down from the blog again.
2025:
Returned to philosophy, with a gift administered by the apothecary: to start with a CV, then turn inward, think.
2025:
Brought out Transition To Philosophy, also Transition To Philosophy Volume Two, also Transition To Philosophy Volume Three under the name Johannes Bergfors.
2025:
Put a new album by The Flood on Soundcloud under John F B Tucker.
2025:
Found out I really did help invent the net at seven; also that I was marked by the maths of the new colour; also that my father may have been sponsored by some philosophers to provide the real, human witness from The Lords And The New You Know Who.
2025:
Brought out collection called Yes You May. It was made with my sister Hannah.
2025:
Brought out collection called Let The Jews Win. It really did precede a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas and in it I got the autobiographical bit right for a change.
2025:
Found out the second specimen from boyhood was a literal monster. (A monster needn’t be very big.)
2026:
Tried to write a book of philosophy as good as Barnes’s goal against Brazil but realised, thanks to my brother, that it was all a bit right-wing and Barnes was left-footed.
2026:
Still remain unpaid for anything in this CV, not even a pound, not even a penny.
2026:
Reading John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty clarified my thinking apropos going Anon. He says a progressive country quickly becomes stale, sterile, stagnant, staid and stationary, full of dead values and dead customs if there is a decrease in Individuality. With a CV like mine, helping invent the net, taking care of The Lords And The New You Know Who, attempting the maths of the new colour, attaining the face of stars, andcetera, I feel it would be a really bad mistake to make me go Anon. Still there are terrible voices who say they won’t even let me die unless I surrender things that have even been published already to Anon.
2026:
Reading back through the Chipmunka series I see I have already done what I wanted to do. I make it the 6 Chipmunka collections are a series like Proust. Soundcloud Rain, The Sunset Child, Breath Trapped In Heaven, Brave New Tense, Yes You May and Let The Jews Win.
2026:
Retracted Let The Jews Win from publication. Retracted also Transition To Philosophy Volumes Two and Three. This means I have 15 books still out there.
2026:
Black Hole Myths album called ‘Eternal Full Moon’ goes up on Bandcamp. This means I have about ten albums or long E. P’s.
2026:
Made a further encounter, attestation of a specimen, in adulthood, seemingly at least.
2026:
Black
Hole Myths album called ‘Astral
Breathing’
goes up on Soundcloud.
“MAGIC
SAYINGS HIDDEN IN THE TREETOPS”
A
moocow is not made of dialectical antagonism.
Someone
else can lose your marbles for you.
Vowels
are our souls.
Meaning
in music is solipsistic,
it
is faces in the fire or Hamlet’s
3 creatures in a cloud-change.
Life
could be a dull throb of loneliness inside your breast as well as a
colourful spew going on outside the cave-walls of the skull.
If
Liberalism is the allowing of all perceptions and it leads to
Hamlet’s harmatia irresolution, pragmatism may be the reactivation
of an attitudinisation in that situation.
Planes
are the shoes of clowns.
It’s
impossible to make a cowboy film in space.
A
drum is a dream bigger than a dream of bounding in huge, magic
circles in space.
The
Big Mac, which contains the four basic, caveman cravings of salt,
fat, sugar and protein, could be the heir to the apple of knowledge.
Love
can go veggie for reasons of Disney.
Light-speed
is my passport.
If
acid is the microchip of a peach, the sun is the peachstone of a
black hole.
It
is not true that the effects of acid and of acid-rain on an imaginary
species = the same, nothing, if there can be no more proof of
something being real than
saying it was Imagined.
The
constellations only seem
to turn
on axis unobserved.
A
trance of stalks walks on stilts like a stance on talks only to the
toilet then back to bed to rest its head under the soft, Pink Panther
blanket.
When
a volume starts to smell of redolent flowers
or Flora’s perfume
it could be the word of a dog.
Death’s
breath is a tear of flame with waxy dreadlocks drooped in shame.
When
we wake words are stone shoes worn by the bottoms of clouds, weighing
them down hopelessly.
It
is possible to harness waves that also passed through the Beats.
Leaves
that played on the surface of the water, these are the leaves they
have in Heaven, these are the leaves of love.
There
are fossils of art as well as fossils of life.
Connection
is Heaven and Heaven connection and there is connection between
Heaven and vision for vision may feel in a state of Heaven and Heaven
only exist in vision.
Semantics
is a road sign not a place.
Meaning
is inherent in something’s exact mode of expression.
Meaning
is not a delusion unlike Time.
Meaning
could be an emotional import given mere exo-skeleton with words.
Every
planet has its own colour and ‘Calliope’ means ‘beautiful
face.’
The
names of pharmaceutical medications should probably not
appear in poems.
Nature
is the true architecture of State.
If
ever there were a light-speed law of neuroplasticity it might
only be that “it is impossible to remember a new yellow line.”
<BEE>
might soon ensue from @ in the international language alphabet.
Cliche
hurts more than truth.
Where
rain falls, falling reigns.
Pictures
can be done without hands.
Life
is not just about naturally occurring fossils of Jim Morrison’s
poetry for the witness but the live Doors for everyone else too.
Realism
ice-skates on the surface of the dust.
Language
can
be smuggled
out of the unconscious.
Enough
is
the hope the heart literally needs in order for it to survive without
which it can stop, meaning
Duff which is H suspended in deafness.
H20
might stand for hypothalamus tattoo.
Chewing
gum is bi.
Voices
only pathologise what by another name might be onjects, quavers,
syllabubbles, sonic machinations at the periphery of sound, an
instrument of wonder.
Clouds
seen through hospital glass only mean that all things must pass.
There
is no such thing as mind cancer.
That
women like Primark is hardly a timeless idea transmitted across Time.
Ecstasy
is a teddy bear back in the garden of Eden.
Autumn
is Optimus Prime already
in Keats.
Freedom
not poetry is the bike riding itself.
After
garage and house comes library.
The
poet extirpates every trace of recognition from the mind, unlooses
the mind of form, method acts every adjective in ‘Howl’ to attain
visual radio.
If
your dad is an international art smuggler nicknamed Blue it can
become a new sense through which you can read of future events.
It
is not inconceivable that when we die we can re-access history at any
point, be a real, live Red Indian, or a bird of prey soaring over a
mnt.
Birds
are for flying not for
special
perception.
The
effect of global warming on the unicorn succeeded Piper At The Gates
of Dawn.
The
summer rain falls with as many hands as there are names for new rock
bands.
The
alphabet could be Nelly the Elephant’s suicide note.
Sometimes
on E it makes you feel like your mouth is full of cold, stunning,
Heavenly, crystal water and when you speak it spills.
If
form is an easel, content is a palette.
The
main difference between the sticks and the city is that in the sticks
you acknowledge the stranger you pass when out there walking.
Creation
is a dark machine.
It’s
impossible to curse the sun.
Acid
is a spirit-level for the spirit.
Without
flaws there can be no opinions, as without imperfection there can be
no taste.
Galloping
water is a cool thing to say.
Things
live inside onions of themselves.
Freedom
flies where flags fall.
Heaven
is a pile of statistics no-one will ever see.
Water’s
boiling point is when it starts to involuntarily breakdance to the
music.
Walnut
halves look like miniature, shrunken brains.
If
Facebook is evil one reason is that it makes you say things you don’t
mean and freezes them forever.
Your
right to write of who is in the shower ends where another’s naked
body begins.
We
are hiding from The
Waste Land
in The
Waste Land.
I
prefer The
New Family Tao
to the non-fungible token.
The
sound of typing can be used as percussion in non-metred Sound Art.
When
Baxter the dog walks on the laptop funny things come out like the
names of glitch electronica numbers.
The
powers that be could be clouds that
wear
DM boots on their red brick road, and ripped genes adorned with peace
and anarchy signs, on their protest march.
A
‘tron’ could be a point of intersection between technology and
art or a post-poetic experiment with a psycho-technological edge.
Objects
can vanish on the periphery of madness when emotions are high.
Reality
is not a computer program designed by aliens in the 1980’s and nor
were caves alien cinemas in the long distant past.
Waiting
in darkness can be nourishing for the soul, reveal a Technicolour
shoal.
With
drugs you have to realise: wise up or die.
The
world of Stuff and Things is not amenable to the world of
Transcendental Metaphysics.
Time
does not pass but evaporate.
Life
is naturally the opposite of Lord of The Flies because the mystic
character is the one that actually does see things while everyone
else thinks he’s deluded.
Even
a game of cards can be a rehearsal for death.
The
exact same words can seem absolutely insane when written down and
confer absolute genius when not written down.
Dream-meets
in the silver forest, ESP and telepathy are more possible with the
net around.
When
it comes to the sheet where pictures grew, they could be “people,”
as we are people too, people who are levelled by the sheet, whose
Equality is enshrined.
If
you have to read Homer in order to be a philosopher everyone should
have that opportunity if they choose and
that is my philosophy.
Credits
at the end of innocence still
fall
like numberless lists of fallen autumn leaves.
To
be the first to coin the word “co-imagination” seems almost
silly.
Crocodiles
have had Sat Nav for 1000’s of years before our Age.
A
bird is a bird is a bird is a bird.
Just
because it has been called naive to perceive of the left as a
beautiful, compassionate emotion to explore doesn’t mean it isn’t
sometimes good to go down that path.
Just
because it was my brother not me that fired bullets to the top of the
telegraph pole doesn’t mean all statements that pertain to
axiomatic truth are his intellectual property.
A
thesis as thin as the Rizla it is in can lead all the way to the
loony bin.
Water
has no more memory than it has smell.
It
is better to hide from the wind than it is to perform open heart
surgery.
When
I say apples “occupy” a bowl on the table, I don’t mean they
are a bunch of Nazis.
It
would be unwise to use the same shapes as a previous writer like, for
example, Jim Morrison, if your creative writing teacher says it would
be unwise to.
If
“Philosophy
is a
sterile
subject”
(as
my friend Dr. Calculator Ptom contends) poetry
is probably
by
default more alive.
If
Flora was in nets, I’d be Barnes in the game.
Nirvana
did the sheet where pictures, pictures depicting my own song lyric
grew, so that’s why people like it when I say it still belongs to
my
brother
(who
laid it down).
The
healing and fusing of the cassette with a pause in the song where cut
and resealed in the flimsy reel in a delicate operation could be down
to faith more than doubt.
Two
photos on the blog, one for the ear,
one for the eye,
might still seem unfair.
When
you get invaded by madness and hear so many voices there can seem
nothing going on in your own head but straw.
If
you did help invent the net you shouldn’t have to pay for
publication.
Words
appear to
come out weird
sometimes.
Glastonbury
should be free and life
like
that all the time.
Some
voices take a few moments to decode after their initial shocking
impact.
If
I said I went to the Louvres travelling by drug-hoover, it might just
seem like piss.
The
bar-crawl
of the Doorsian poet through modes of perception trying to find
something that underlies their
variability leads
to water.
Maybe
living
here at the foot of the oldest rock I was never supposed to find out
about the future that ain’t what it used to be.
Cutlass
maths is what I call the ruthless revisionist cut of William Carlos
Williams.
We
live in an Age of sending without form.
Drains
can sing with Irish folk songs, about dreams that never die.
There
are dreams that never die.
Love
is a dream that never dies.
Even
the meme has split in two, and that was the new “uncuttable” once
upon a time.
There
is breath in a death.
It
is not necessarily a disease to not be able to cry at funerals.
The
traffic lights of tears can be all dark green at times.
The
impassable gulf between first and third persons has been decreed
metaphysics.
The
automated conveyor belt of poesis influences the voice to be a
confluence of forces through voices even when I try and drive a
straight line towards anywhere that may be light.
We
are all in one bed in Amsterdam.
The
light is a prism.
Through
the Hume people come and go, Smart-talking of Ted Hughes’s Crow.
Life
is fast, London brutal, travelling scary.
Her
wetness is so.
Angels
can be as frightening as demons.
The
witness was already an Irishman before Jim Morrison was born.
Voices
could be the colours of the vowels and make you increase your
threshold for Negative Capability.
Writing
a letter Dear Music could be instructive in mental health in the
future.
H
does not = 0 – 0 because I have a heart.
You
shouldn’t put Paradise Lost to music unless it is going to be
amazing so it is an aesthetic not moral question.
Isness is the centre of Everything.
Isness is the quiddity and suchness of existence.
The
thing is not ideas about the thing but the thing itself.
Postmodernism
is not an extended metaphor for the effects of cannabis on the brain.
The
island of penguins might have been observed on the other side of the
universe.
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