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Space and time are confusing things, existing completely outside our sphere of existence, whilst simultaneously defining everything we do.

Or at least that’s the conventional school of thought regarding the issue. I, on the other hand, prefer to march to the beat of a different drum, and as such have attempted to crack the mysteries of time and space – all within a two day period.

You can thank me for it later.

The first step on any quest is often the most difficult, and it was after great consideration that I chose the first step of my personal voyage to be in Botanic Gardens. Although it was not so much a ‘step’ and more of a ‘fall’, and a fall with potentially fatal consequences.

Foolishly, I had been balancing on a fence in the park, in a misguided attempt to convey what ‘fun’ was to one of my companions. After a heated ‘debate’ in Common Grounds Café, where I had been cast in the role of destroyer of culture, and living representative for everything that is wrong with the 21st century, we had gone to the park where I planned to end this ‘Magical Misery Tour’ by behaving in a totally rad, Ferris Beuller-type manner. Or at least what I thought to be a totally rad, Ferris Beuller-type manner.

Unfortunately, whilst I was doing this, I hadn’t noticed the soles of my sneakers getting wet and proceeded to climb atop a particularly spiky and dangerous fence. Balancing and pirouetting, I began taunting my companion. Then, fate finally intervening, I slipped and lost my balance. I was literally inches away from having a large metal spike go through my chest (or – worse, perhaps – my groin). Luckily, my mutant powers saved me and I was able to avoid disaster. I pushed myself back, and landed on the grass, unscathed.

But the experience left its mark on me. That moment where I was balancing and, indeed, falling, caused me to contemplate the intricate relationships between all things we perceive in the modern world – the space between things, if you will. It was an exciting moment, to be sure, and I appreciated the fact that my almost certain demise would be precipitated by an object I had never previously considered, something so unimportant to me that I had previously denied it’s existence, considering it unworthy of even one miniscule brain-wheeze. And then it nearly had its revenge on me, by driving itself through my chest (or groin). Truly, the relationships between space, time and objects – inanimate or otherwise – would have to be considered further.

But before I could do that, I had to heed the call of the night, imploring me to cast away such heavy philosophical notions, and embrace the call of the wild. (ie. I received a text message asking me to go out.) After such highbrow postulating, I was only too happy to travel across town to meet an acquaintance in the Duke of York. Space and time being what they are though, I was a little late by the time I arrived. However, my companion didn’t seem to mind, and we sat soaking up the atmosphere of this most esteemed of Belfast watering holes.

The Duke of York is an unusual bar, seemingly having been designed by a person with absolutely no idea of what shape a bar should be. A narrow bottleneck exists in the exact place people would naturally congregate, whilst the seating area is cramped and uncomfortable. Both of these factors combine to render it almost impossible to be served at the bar when there is more than about 5 people there (this is a slight exaggeration). Despite these factors, however, it still has a great atmosphere, and generally attracts a good crowd.

On this particular evening, both I and my companion opt to sit outside, her sipping Magners, I opting for white wine (Chardonnay, if you’re curious). The air is cool, but pleasant, and conversation and laughter filter through the air. The fading glow from the sunlight, coupled with the ever-present hum and shine of the electric lights outside capture my thoughts, and take me off in different directions. This could be anywhere I want it to be, but for now I’m content for it to be exactly where I am, and be with who I am with. We discuss drunken episodes, and compare notes. I am found to be the more irresponsible whilst under the influence of alcohol – whiskey in particular – and then we travel to the other side of town.

Our destination this time was Mr Joe Lindsay’s rather superb carry-out disco, Palookaville. After initially launching in Ruby’s Diner, it has now settled in Brown’s Café on James Street South. The premise of the evening is simple: bring thy own booze, and get yr groove on, as Joe and Kenny Matheson man the wheels of steel.

By the time we arrive, there’s not too many people there yet, but even still, the atmosphere seems right. Palookaville has the feel of a proper ‘club’, or a gang; something you’ve got to be part of, but something that still feels secret. Wine is poured, and conversation continues to flow.

As for the music, I have no idea. But they somehow brought out the sleeping groove-behemoth out of its torpor, and I found myself doing the Harlem Shuffle (or possibly the Voodoo Krispie, or the Diesel Jerk, I can’t recall). This is particularly note-worthy as I NEVER DANCE. So a proverbial tip of the cap to the people involved.

There’s something about the way Palookaville works that just seems to suck me in. I’m not going to say it’s the perfect night out (only one toilet!) but it’s pretty darn close. I begin to fill up with a hitherto unknown confidence, and begin to properly interact with the humans again. Establishing physical and emotional contact, I am transported out of the constraints of this world and taken to another, leaving behind the shackles of space and time. Indeed, the events of the next few hours are difficult to pin-point.

However, there are a few facts:

1. At some point I fell over onto my skull, with a small amount of blood being shed.

2. I was apparently told to “get a room”.

3. Food was consumed. It looked like chips, but it was allegedly chicken.

I woke up in a confused state and said my farewells to my companion. As the light streamed through the windows, I once again began to ponder the mysteries of time and space. I had, indeed, had a good evening. But I also have precious little memory of it. I also have various aches and pains, with no idea of how they were sustained (with the exception of the skull smashing). The only explanation I can come up with is that I somehow broke the boundaries of time and space in order to have an amazing night.

But the Universe was not done with me yet, not by a long shot. An accomplice recommended that we take a trip to the Black Market, to perhaps pick up some machine guns or something. However, these are not the kind of goods one would expect to purchase in this kind of market (well, certainly not from the stalls that I visited, anyway…). Instead one would find different kinds of food, comics, records, clothes, trinkets, crafts, equipment, books, scrap and junk, and all manner of forbidden lore. All the kind of things I’m interested in.

I immediately spent my last few pounds on a vinyl copy of the Minutemen’s Ballot Result album (DOUBLE LIVE!!!) and a refreshing beer. It was around this time that I began to realise that I was possibly still affected by the alcohol, and as such my judgement might have been impaired. Staring at the double live album I clutched in my hands, I decided that this was a ‘good’ thing, and that all my actions were now taking place in some kind of twilight zone, outside the clutches of time and space.

The atmosphere in the Festival Marquee was utterly contagious, with my accomplice being lured into a cardboard fort, which was apparently ‘smoking friendly’, which is a nice courtesy in this day and age. I bravely attempted to play a solar powered slide guitar, using naught but a Zippo lighter, whilst a crowd of people looked on.

After a short while, Heliopause, who had set themselves up in a corner of the market and were selling copies of their new single, began to play, treating us to a set of beautifully delicate sounds and whispers, which hummed by on the warm summer breeze. The perfect balance of Richard Davis’ acoustic guitar and voice, Chris McCorry’s expertly treated electric guitar, and Niall Harden’s rhythmically complex, but evocative drumming, merged perfectly with the guest vocals of Cutaways’ Grace McMacken. Indeed, this hushed and intimate music attracted a sizeable crowd, all of whom were perched on every note, every word, creating an eerie pocket of calm at the heart of this bustling market.

Few bands can handle this kind of balance, but Heliopause make it look effortless, every sound in exactly the right place, but still managing to draw us in further and further, until we are wrapped completely in blankets of beautiful noise. Their own self effacing charm perfectly compliments the atmosphere, and by the time they finish, everyone is walking around with smiles on their faces, a general feeling of, “Wouldn’t it be great if something like this happened every day?” permeating through the market.

Indeed, the longer one spends in the slight carnival atmosphere of the market, the immersive nature of it’s existence takes hold, and visions of some kind of bohemian existence, outside the constraints of ‘normal’ society, becomes apparent. At one point, a man walks around with a pair of scissors, offering to give people a haircut, and it seems like the most normal thing in the world. Well, not ‘normal’, exactly. In fact, it’s around this time where the veneer slips slightly, and one can see that there is a lot of indulgence going on, but it’s all perfectly acceptable After all, we are artists; it’s our job to be indulgent.

With the sun baking on our skulls, we continue to drink beer, and time slips and slides out of our perception, hours feeling like seconds, seconds feeling like hours, until we have no idea where we are or what time it is. Such is the effect of displacement. And a pleasurable feeling it is, too! For a long time, I never wore a watch, enjoying being freed from the shackles of time. Of course, it meant I was late an awful lot, but it seemed like an easy price to pay. This day has a similar feeling, and we are happy to swept along on the ebb and flow of time and space. So much so, that we are drawn towards the cinema to see the new Star Trek film, in a slightly bemused (i.e. drunk) state.

There’s been a lot of talk about how Star Trek has now been made ‘cool’ to like, no longer the exclusive territory of the nebbish and isolated, but somehow socially acceptable. I have always been open about my love of Star Trek, but I’ve always maintained that I still am tethered to reality. Yes, I have forced every girlfriend I’ve ever had to sit through Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (or at least attempted to), but I was doing it for their own good – it’s a great movie. Indeed, I always considered myself to be socially aware enough to realise the impact of what Star Trek could do to the non-believers. Hence my deliberate usage of Star Trek: The Motion Picture as a sympathy prompter; I know how boring many see this film to be, so I have no qualms about putting this film on, knowing it will cause my girlfriend to try and ‘distract’ me in order to get us to stop watching the film. It’s a kind of social experiment, I guess.

So, the new one, Star Trek 90210, or whatever the hell they’ve called it, is, as Mr Spock would have it, highly illogical. Full of colour and lights and lasers and explosions and black holes and people shouting and kissing and fighting…it was like being shouted in the face by an angry passerby for an hour and a half. And let me make it clear, this is no fanboy-type rebuttal (“Hmmm…the colour and rank insignia on the uniforms is incorrect, therefore this is a terrible film.”), rather it was a load of brain-dead nonsense that expects you to open wide whilst they keep on shovelling it into you for as long as you are prepared to take it. I didn’t like it.

After watching the black hole atrocity that is Star Trek, I staggered to the Garrick, to sip wine and once again ponder the mysteries of time and space. Time had certainly passed since I’d started thinking about this stuff, but not strictly in a linear way. It had seemed to jump and lurch, with some simple things taking forever, and some complicated things going on forever, whilst I was buffeted by the changes. Space had also played a key role in the proceedings, both in terms of distance and location. I felt as if I’d walked all over town (which, in fact, I sort of had), and the locations I’d visited had been key to my enjoyment of things. Joe Lindsay’s Palookaville – if it hadn’t have been where it was, would it have been as fun? Perhaps, but I loved the fact that it was somewhere new, somewhere strangely inappropriate and appropriate at the same time. The Black Market – everyone was creating their own space, and they were overlapping and interacting, creating a sensation of almost leaping out of reality. Star Trek – hell, they went over the whole damn galaxy in that one.

But what conclusion can one come to? What lessons have been learned? Well, none really.

Whadda ya want? Revelations? Read Stephen Hawking or something. I ain’t no guru, man. All I know is that the fourth album should always – always – be double live. Nothing else will do.

Amen.

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