RonaldTheFruitBat

Mundane mornings

2011-12-11T08:39:00.004Z

It's Sunday again, my traditional day of browsing and commenting on the profiles of a social pen-pal site I use. I call this process, "blitzing", as like lightning, I strike at random, here, there, and everywhere, usually attempting to make pithy, humourous comments, with a view to getting a favourable response, otherwise known as, "boosting my ego".

Today though, I'm not so full of what is known in the trade as - at least if you're French - J'oie de vivre. The old bonhomie is rather lacking; and in it's place is a less friendly (though falling short of abusive) pedantry. In short nit-picking.

The subject of this post is this gem of "wisdom" proudly sported at the head of a profile: "“There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.” Well... here's the brief transcript...

Me: I would be most interested to know how we go about this "living as if everything was a miracle". Logically, we have to know "commonplace things" if we are to recognise miracles? So surely, not everything can be seen as a miracle? If everything is a miracle, then miracles become commonplace, and therefore everyday, and ordinary.

Other person: Every day a lot of flowers appear , you can pass and not notice the flower on your window or you can sstop and enjoy the miracle of a beauty.

Me: That doesn't explain anything to me. I've been seeing flowers all of my life. For something to be a miracle, by definition, it has, at the very least, to be EXTRAordinary.

The recipient at this point disappeared. Whether she fled from the disturbing logic, or went to put the spuds on the boil for the family lunch, I don't know. But the question for me is, "Am I being a complete arse here?". After all, this is a social epal site, so is such discussion out of place? Or is constructive debate part and parcel of being "social"? More importantly, am I missing something, is there something about living I fail to "get"? Oh well...

I guess this time around, I wont be told the "trick", of perceiving the whole of the Universe as a miracle. I guess I'll just have to make do, and like most of us, accept the dull, the depressing, and the mundane, in order to recognise the moments of contentment, the instances of happiness, the rare moments of joy, and the most infrequent of all, the "ecstasies".

I'm off to "pick" on someone else...

Dear Diary (first published circa 2007)

2011-11-10T07:00:00.003Z

Saturday.

A bit cloudy. Might rain.

Sunday.

Milk delivery late. Mom phoned. Might go for walk later.

Monday.

Milk late again. I'm going to complain. Not a lot worth writing about.

Got a creative writing course tonight. Hope it's okay.

Tuesday.

With little prompting the bedroom curtains glided apart. Squinting into the bright morning light I was struck by the marked absence of an inter-galactic invading force. The sky, a pristine blue, was significantly uncluttered by a hovering menace. Closer inspection of the horizon revealed a lack of tell-tale dark and eerily-lit smudges heralding the approach of a twisting ferment of dark tumbling clouds. There was to be no near-apocalyptic storm this morning.

Sitting quietly on the telephone line, a lone sparrow twitched and flapped its wings, as if shaking-free the accumulations of yesterday's dust and grit. Its smallness and insignificance emphasised its non-display of cold menace. No Hitchcockian show of feathered malevolence today.

And along the tranquil street, each entry, alleyway and parked car, devoid of life, shouted loudly the non-presence of a crazed stalker, obsessed and devoted to the documenting of my life, manifest in a shrine of pictures and words.

Then, in my peripheral vision, I caught a movement. Striding purposefully up the street, a lady. Encased in a full-length, shapeless, gabardine coat, and sombre, ex-GI combat boots, she strode impassively, looking neither left nor right. Her isolation and aloofness spoke meaningfully of its antithesis: a pouting, full-breasted siren beckoning me; provocative, with hips thrusting outwards to give emphasis to the idea of her soft-haired mound...

Breakfst beckons.

Ah well, not much doing again today.

Birthdays? Smurfdays!

2011-11-09T07:00:00.001Z

I don't understand Birthday celebrations. Throughout history, billions upon billions of people have also had them. So what possesses us think our own is so distinctive?

It was too long ago for me to remember, but it's a safe bet my mother screamed, or at least uttered a stifled moan, as with one final push, she painfully ejected me from between her bloodied thighs into the early morning air of post-war Britain. The year was 1949 on the 27th day of March. For the rest of the country, rationing and re-building were the order of the day, but for me, as with every newborn child, I was unconcerned, I would guess, by anything other than my immediate problems.

The first priority of any newborn child is to protest loudly at such an undignified introduction. And who can blame it? Anyone familiar with the aftermath of a particularly violent and bloody brawl in a vat of jellied eels will understand this - to be smeared in this vile, slimy, gunk, and be naked to boot, is... well... I ask you! And then of course, there's the process of acclimatisation; getting to grips with this strange, new, and potentially dangerous environment you will come to know as The World.

Birth is a violent and rude introduction to this planet. What it isn't is a seismic shock reverberating around the Universe, foretold by angels, and feted by allegedly wise geezers bearing gifts. We come into it as we go out: insignificant and usually gasping for breath. If you're lucky enough to survive the first day, each and every day thereafter is special. These are the ones that concern me. As I write, today is the most important day of my life.

Growing up...

2011-11-08T07:00:00.001Z

You know you're "grown up" when...

... you realise just how ordinary other people are, despite their 'labels'. Now the politicians, doctors, lawyers, teachers, directors, writers, managers, etc. cannot chastise, humiliate, or cow me. Only I can do that to myself.

You ever heard of that saying from the Bible, "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things? What a load of bollocks! For the remainder of my life it's my sole mission to regain what I had when I was a child. Apart from measles, mumps and chicken-pox, that is...

Foul Monday

2011-11-07T07:00:00.004Z

I sometimes feel possessed. Maybe I'm schizoid? I'm aware of at least two selves residing inside this 62 year old, sometimes svelte, sometimes decrepit (It depends on who "I" am at the time) shell. At the moment, it's the latter. I'm a curmudgeonly, cantankerous old cunt.

Today, I'll be mostly fantasising about flamethrowers. My flamethrower. I've decided to indulge my extreme irritation by striking out, as least in my my mind, at the world. I'm cultivating reveries of slaughter.

As an aperitif, prior to my first dose of caffeine, I'll be engaged with mental burning of fellow passengers on the cross-city line - carnage on the quarter to eight! Well... they're so invasive... a chap needs a little room in the morning, especially on Mondays.

That's how it is. I'm changeable. And tomorrow... who knows? Maybe I'll blog about the autumnal and wintry changes taking place in my back garden. We're so privileged in witnessing the sad, but beautiful, decomposition of life. Or instead, I might take time to tell you of my dog, gentle Ruby. I could cry with joy just thinking of her. But until then...

I'd like to give one or two work colleagues a squirt. Just a couple of quick bursts... in their faces... It's what I want.

I still feel irritable though. It's not like having sex, which culminates in glorious release. Indulging one's ill-feelings, even in fantasy, is ultimately futile. I know that. Yet I still want to squirt the fuckers.

Don Swift. Keeping it real.

Shopping - for males (first posted 28/09/2006)

2011-11-06T07:00:00.001Z

The speediest way for a man to become virtually unconscious, is not, as you may have thought, to take opiates, consume large amounts of alcohol, or even listen to a David Cameron speech. Even watching the most tedious of reality shows, Big Brother, surprisingly, doesn't cut the mustard either; not when it comes to inducing bodily paralysis. This mantle belongs to that expedition much loved by the ladies - the "shopping trip".

Any male committed to the preservation of his relationship will find himself compelled periodically to accompany his partner on shopping safari. The usual excuses, headaches, general nausea, or early signs of testicular cancer are best shelved at this time. This particular stinging leaf has to be grasped. Although, for what it's worth, in an attempt to ameliorate the situation, it is allowed to express one's firm intention to "not enjoy it". Not that this has any impact, as the response is a blinking stare, and the faintest of smiles. Women can be so cruel.

Because these forays into the high streets and malls are so infrequent, men tend to forget the essential purgatoriness of the "shoe, skirt, handbag and hosiery" environment. So into the bright, heavily scented emporiums they go, humming and happy in their ignorance; until that is, a nanosecond after crossing the threshold, the sickening memory returns - knowledge of "the male mind's essential incompatibility with female goods".

Colourful fabrics, delicate finery, and leather, fashioned into bags and pointy footwear, are to a large extent non-computable for the masculine brain. When confronted by them, it instinctively looks to "lock on" to a thing of substance, something meaningful; but having nowhere else to go it looks within itself; in doing so, it effectively shuts down all but the essential bodily functions. This is experienced by the victim as a sudden breakneck plunge into a deep trance-like state. Accompanied by a yawn, the beleaguered male staggers, seeking support for his quickly sagging frame.

It's not all gloom though. Once in the sitting position the victim can recover. If he has a mind to look past the lady-fare, and focus instead on mental images of shiny, metallic gadgets, or great sporting events of bygone years, he can at least regain muscle tone and a measure of consciousness. He's identified as, the seated guy with the stupified grin.

Alas, this period of recovery is invariably short-lived, as the poor wretch has to move again in response to the call, "come have a look at this and tell me what you think?". Hauling his drained body into a standing position, again he runs the gauntlet of non-computables.

"It looks fine" is the stock reply.

"You're just saying that so you can get out of here"

"No, it's nice. I really like it". This said, despite not seeing anything, apart from a shadowy, materially something, identical to every item in this and every other shop. The only priority is getting out of there. Lying is a small price to pay.

A desperate glance over your shoulder finds your former seat occupied by another convalescing, semi-offline chap; panicking, you look towards the small space at the edge of the window display - damn, it's occupied too!

And so, on it goes; the relentless cycle of shut-down and savage re-awakening. Who'd be a man?

Next time you're in Monsoon, Dorothy Perkins, or similar, notice how many seats, platforms and steps are occupied by males bearing a marked resemblance to extras from a George A.Romero horror film.

Thespianism [they can't arrest you for it!] (first published 05/10/2006)

2011-11-05T14:36:00.003Z

I could have been an actor. A proper one... you know... an "aktaw"... not one of those "wannabees", those deluded talentless persons who frequent the TV reality shows. I'm talking "boney fidey" aspiration here.

So? What's all this about I hear you ask. An actor... Donald? Surely not.

Yeah, okay you're right. It's not strictly true. It's more a muse, a fantasy. But I have good reason for this reverie, apart that is, from desperation to post.

Last week, during my creative writing class I was asked to read aloud a poem I'd written for an assignment. A daunting task for sure, as nowadays I do little public speaking of any description, so I was more than a little nervous; but still I managed... and two readings at that. And guess what? To my surprise, someone complimented me on my reading. Blimey... thought I.

It's always nice to be given positive feedback, so I naturally I was delighted. And on reflection (a thing I do a lot of) it struck me, it must have been the deliberation I showed when reciting. At some point over the years, I must have picked up advice on how best to project myself publicly. This amounted to resisting the natural urge to self-consciously rush through proceedings, to dash, in order to get the reading over with quickly. Instead, I took my time, paying careful attention to punctuation, and where needed, the appropriate tone of voice; for instance, when the line was a question, I read it as a question. Simple, eh? So, my good friends (said in loud, 'hammy' tones) by any yardstick, it has to be said... I performed.

Okay, so let's not get excited, I know this doesn't qualify me for RADA or even an Equity card, but there's more. There's a precedent.

When I was a young boy, around 11 years old, I took part in a school play. It was based on a 1950's popular TV soap opera , entitled, "The Grove Family", and I played Bob, the father (sounds a bit religious, don't you think? Bob the father, Bob the son.. see?). Anyway, my only memory is of hair 'greyed' with talcum powder and a matching stuck on moustache. And as to my performance, and more importantly, how I felt about performing, I'm afraid I have no recollection. But fast-forward to my mid-thirties, and I'm attending college auditions for a role in Tom Stoppard's, "Albert's Bridge". And what's more, I'm eager. So it's obvious, innit? I'm compelled to assume my earlier acting experience didn't leave any negative, invisible, wounds. On the contrary, I was following some subconscious imperative. And of course, I got the part - the lead role of Albert, no less!

It was suggested at the time, by unkind persons - otherwise known as, "those who only managed the lesser parts" - my success was due to the director's fondness for me (a female of course). It's a damn lie I tell you, a lie! Okay, she liked me, it was obvious, but getting the part, I can assure you, was due to my efforts in the dramatic arts. I remember distinctly - as with my poetry reading - paying great attention to pace and appropriate voice modulation. I did the business man, and performed. I have no doubt, with my deep (or deepish) voice booming, it was the most sponditious of auditions.

So what am I saying? Well, I've often joked about "being a contender", someone of significance rather than a non-entity, so perhaps this is a pointer. Maybe I could have been an actor. After all, over a period of 40 years or so, there's a connection, a performing strand.

In reply to those who would accuse me of spinning tenuous arguments, let me tell you, if billions of people, with little, or no reason, can believe in the existence of a divine power who intervenes here on earth (and often by request) then I'm sure I can squeeze a little meaning out of these three instances in my life! I insist therefore, you luvvies indulge me in my moment of illogical, irrationalism.

The art of thespianism, I tell you, could have been mine!

Imaginings

2011-09-12T15:53:00.003+01:00

I took Thursday and Friday off last week and was due back at work today, but late on yesterday, I decided I needed more time, so via text message I let the boss know my intentions. Time for what though, isn't quite clear, for even as I write, I'm thinking it hasn't turned out as fruitful as expected, so maybe I'd have been better off going to the office?

Prior to, I envisaged a scenario of each day infinitely long, infinitely productive, infinitely fascinating, and profoundly satisfying. Ha! You'd think at my age I'd know better? Not so, Pedro! I guess it's the triumph of optimism over reality, or, to coin it poetically, "mugging by imagination".

I'm not alone though, I'm sure. Although I like to think I'm an atypical person, I know this isn't true. Isn't the most common cry of all in the form of, "Well.... it was okay but...", or, "He was a little disappointing..."? People, places, scenarios, all imagined or hoped for, as pristine, polished, or nigh on perfect, prior that is, to the acid-test of reality. You know, I can think of only one place, along with one person, that exceeded my imaginings. But that's a story for another time.

To finish, going off at a tangent, applying a hand-brake turn to a sharp left, and taking the scenic "around the edges of the Universe" route, it occurred to me that... it occurred to me... it.... sorry, I'm mistaken, that's it folks. The End.

* The photo is of the clutter, the "stuff", amassing on the left-side of the sofa.

Housework & I

2011-09-10T21:50:00.003+01:00

It's 8.50pm as I start writing this first sentence. That's late for me. I don't think I've ever attempted a post at this time. I'm "difficult". Okay, I know most of you know this about me, but I mean I'm difficult too when it comes to writing, insisting on the muse, the buzz of caffeine, or some kind of "inspiration" to fuel me. This insistence rules out this hour, as typically I tend to wind down, become sleepy, or maybe take a beer or two; coffee too is most certainly out of the question. So what's different tonight? I don't really know. I can guess, and say it's my third consecutive day off work and I've finally shed all the knots of tension that the working days create, so now I'm finally relaxed; but I've had time off before, and for longer periods too, and still I've not written at this hour. It's a mystery.

So what have I to say? Nothing much, just a repeat, or an edited version of what I've already written on Facebook. You know, it's occurred to me, instead of commenting on social networks, or putting out status statements, I might do best to save them up as they occur, and then work them into blog posts. Maybe that's the answer. Perhaps I've been guilty of writing myself out! Who knows? Anyway, here's my statement..

It's great being on my own. Especially as the sofa, normally a simple seating device for two persons, has now been transformed. The right side, where I sit to eat, compute, and watch tv, is clear but the other half is now acquiring stuff! There's my ipad, various handsets, a spectacle case, an off-the-shelf pair of reading glasses, sunglasses, an unused webcam, the post from the past three days, used and semi-used tissues (no, not in that way!) and, tonight's acquisition, a half-finished bag of grapes. The cat, who likes to get close, is not here as yet, but I'm sure she'll be settled in soon, amongst these bits and bobs, this veritable gallimaufry of 'stuff'. I'll keep you posted, maybe.

I've about a week left before the situation changes. Then, the other person, the other 'force' returns, so considerations have to be made. I've no doubt I'll remedy the situation, and tidy up, prior to her arrival, as I've done so in the past in similar circumstances. I'll probably give the vacuum a quick work-out too... yes, I know, you're surprised, but I do have the know-how, the experience. I shall leave the washing machine alone though. That's just too technical for me. I might work in the IT industry, but come on... do me a favour...

[as I'm writing the cat's arrived and is sitting on my mouse lead making it awkward for me to edit as I go... fucking animal!]

I'm wondering how it would be if I were alone permanently. Would I amass, for want of a better word, debris? Would the "paraphernalia" spread beyond the confines of the sofa, and spill out over the floor, into other rooms? I doubt it. I've lived alone before, though it was in the dim and distant past, and lasted no more than a few months. But even so, I was surprisingly tidy. I think now though, I'd play a game, a kind of brinkmanship, deliberately leaving dirty dishes and the remnants of foodstuffs, to the point where they're on the verge of cultivating new forms of life. I'd do this simply as a reaction to having been nagged for so many years, sniped at, having been a victim of attempted manipulation. I can't help it, I'm just not good, generally speaking, at "dancing to someone else's tune"

[I'll fucking kill that cat if it doesn't move its arse]

I'm clean, and I'm tidy, but I do like to do things at my leisure, in MY time.

Continuing the theme, though they go far beyond me, I urge you to read this, from the Script of Withnail & I. Go see the film too, if you haven't already.

Withnail:
Have you got soup? Why didn't I get any soup?
I:
Coffee
Withnail:
Why don't you use a cup like any other human being?
I:
Why don't you wash up occasionally like any other human being?
Withnail:
How dare you!? How dare you!? How dare you call me inhumane!?
I:
I didn't call you inhumane, you merely imagined it. Calm down.
Withnail:
Right you fucker - I'm going to do the washing up!

[He strides towards the kitchen. I jumps over the arm of the settee and
stops him.]

I:
No no you can't. It's impossible I swear it. I've looked into it.
Listen to me listen to me. There are things in there, there's a
tea-bag growing. You haven't slept in sixty hours you're in no state
to tackle it. Wait till the morning we'll go in together.
Withnail:
This is the morning. Stand aside!
I:
You don't understand. I think there may be something alive.
Withnail:
What do you mean? a rat?
I:
It's possible, it's possible.
Withnail [brandishing his comb]:
Then the fucker will rue the day!

[He rushes up the the sink.]

Withnail:
Oh Christ Almighty. Synous nicotine based. Keep back, keep back. The
entire sink's gone rotten. I don't know what's in here.

[He picks up the kettle from the stove then throws it suddenly into the
sink.]

I:
I told you. you've been bitten!
Withnail:
Burnt, burnt, the fucking kettle's on fire.
I:
There's something floating up.
Withnail [with a fork in his hand]:
Fork it!
I:
No no no, I don't want to touch it.
Withnail:
You must you must. The poop will boil through the glaze. We'll never
be able to use the dinner service again.

[He rumages about in a drawer.]

Withnail:
Here, get it with the pliers!
I:
No, no, no, no, no, no. Give me the gloves.
Withnail:
That's right, put on the gloves. Don't attempt anything without the
gloves.

Arsebook & the Antichrist

2011-09-09T13:27:00.004+01:00

Facebook. What can I say? I have an account. Mostly, it's de-activated. But on occasion, like now, I muster courage enough to place myself inside. It's essentially, a cyber goldfish bowl.

It doesn't change. Always feels the same. I feel under intense scrutiny, and if that's not bad enough, I'm beset with requests, alerts, and worst of all, "People you may know". What can I say, except, NO I DON'T! And even if I did, it's hardly likely I'd want to include them. So fuck off, you intrusive twat! I'll take charge of my own acquaintances if you don't mind; and besides, it's my aim to reduce the number of people on my list, not pile them up in a show of, "look how popular I am!". I have around 22 persons on my list, the majority of them family, but in terms of online communication, I'm engaged with a small, very small, subset of them. And that's how I like it. Just like reality!

Flying off on a tangent, and apropos of nothing, I know a guy who doesn't give a shit. In fact, he doesn't give two shits. It's a fact. How do I know this? Well, he tells us so - that's all those who know him. And frequently too. Every day in fact, constantly. Week in, week out. Hey, you know something? I just had insight - this guy does give a shit!

Last night I watched a film, Antichrist. It was "recommended" by a friend. I had to go lie down afterwards in a lightened room and watch Disney films.

But then again...

2011-09-08T08:55:00.001+01:00

Having said all that in my previous post, here I am having the 'odd day off' (well two to be precise). I couldn't wait. The thought of so much free (and alone) time was too tempting. In my mind's eye having each day spread before me, in which to do as I please, was equivalent to anticipating the company of a wild and willing woman. So here I am. And you know something? There's no chemistry between myself and this day. Sigh.

By popular demand...

2011-09-04T12:12:00.001+01:00

I was tempted to post yet another pic of myself sitting at my computer, but I thought, enough is enough. Just how much of my fine features can the public stand? So I spared you…

Have you noticed how the seasons are shifting? It would seem so. Here, autumn began in mid August, with golden leaves strewn all over the central reservation of the local dual-carriageway. It's turned chilly too, as evidenced first thing in the morning, with condensation on the car window. At this rate we'll be having Spring at Christmas and winter in high-summer. Maybe the earth is turning over slowly, till eventually we'll be in the Southern Hemisphere. I wonder if that will affect a change in our spoken English too? Oh well, no worries, mate!

I've got 12 days holidays left. Those are work days, so effectively, I could have one vacation 16 days long (12 days plus two weekends) or, two 8 day holidays(6 days plus a weekend). I realise I could have several odd days off here and there, in the run up to Christmas, but that's not me. I guess I'm a, "let's experience life in big chunks" kind of man. Give me big chunks every time, something to grab hold of, you know what I mean? Hands up all those who agree!

The big question is, where to go? For a while now I've toyed with the idea of a local visit, somewhere in the UK, and in particular, the Yorkshire Dales or the Moors. I quite fancy the idea of renting a cottage in splendid isolation (the isolation that comes with free wi-fi internet of course). But then, I've the opportunity of staying at my mate's house in Brussels (that's the Brussels of Belgium fame, of strong beer, and senseless nights of over-indulgence - if you're a Brit!). I'm not sure though. He has a family, and as lovely as they are, I fear I'll have a nervous breakdown after a week of playing punch-bag and climbing frame for the kids.

I could do a "biggie", a journey to the far-east for instance, maybe taking in a series of exotic places on a fortnight cruise, but for the moment, I'm all cruised-out. I've done three big-ship cruises in two years, and now I've decided, as plush and luxuriant as they are, it's all too regimented. I'm in need of something less planned. Of course, there is the cliched, "Back-packing in Thailand", but then I'd prefer that with a companion, and at such short-notice, there are non-available. So what to do? Methinks I'll leave it percolating on the back-burner of my mind for a while.

Final word. I was saddened to hear the other week, the word "goloptious" meaning, "delightful", has been eliminated from the Concise Oxford English Dictionary, due to lack of use. I'm urging you all - yes, every damn one of you - to keep it alive. I'll expect to see it thriving soon.

My posts are like buses...

2011-08-28T17:27:00.003+01:00

... you don't get them for ages, then they come all at once!

This is me a few days ago, au-naturale (no pony-tail), complete with cheap, non-stylish, reading glasses. Please excuse the world-weary look, but sometimes Life does that to one, does it not?

Not much else to say, but I'll be back... oh yes, I'll be back, and soon.

Return of the wossname...

2011-08-28T15:47:00.005+01:00

Yes, it is I, returned from the void, from beyond the fringe, from beyond the event-horizon, or whatever you want to call it. Note the hair? Messy, yes, much longer than it was, but cunningly hidden by means of a small pony-tail. Kinda cute, and you know what? I don't feel a bit like a woman... well, in one sense I feel very much like a woman (groan), but we won't go into that. Anyway, it's good to be back, in every sense as I'm drinking again, both coffee and alcohol, since I discovered they played no part in the migraines. For those I'm taking cider-vinegar tablets, a veritable panacea it seems, curing everything from foot-odour to world wars... or have I got that wrong? Well, so far I haven't had a migraine in two months. G'day all!

Demonic Ronald

2011-05-10T20:36:00.003+01:00

Okay, who messed up this room?

Back, and with a... erm... little noise...

2011-05-04T15:27:00.008+01:00

I'm back. Feeling a bit sheepish. By my standards anyhow. Well, there's a point at which writer's block seems ridiculous, don't you think? I mean, for how long can one hold ones hand to ones brow and utter, "oh cruel muse, wherefore art thou... why hast thou forsaken me?". Come on, for God's sake, I'm a hairy-arsed fellow from the Industrial Midlands of England, could anything be more inappropriate? No, I thought not; so, I've concluded it's a position which can be held for limited periods only, before one gets the feeling one is being, may I say, a little pompous? Nay, more like pompous, posturing, and prick-like.You agree? After all, I'm not a writer. In fact, I'm not anything much at all (though I'll concede being called a dabbler) So, what if my written efforts fall short of perfection? What if I'm completely misunderstood? What if I bore the tits off the few who bother to come my way? One takes ones chances. So here I am, on this sparkling, fresh May day, ostensibly beavering away at my desk on the office, but in truth, doing what I do best: nothing in particular, staring into space, and occasionally striking the keyboard of my computer. The fruit it bears is this post. It's a start.

So what's new with me? Well, I can't compete with this ever-changing world, with it's earthquakes, Royal weddings, and assassinations; but on a minor narcissistic note (such a surprise for a personal blogger) I do have what may be considered "breaking news" [roll of drums followed by a fanfare] Are you ready for this? Can you feel the tension? Wait for it... okay, you asked for it... here it comes... wooo hooo... don't know about you but I'm excited... chuckle... ahem... big news coming this way folks...

... my hair, dare I say it, is now officially deemed, long!

How do I know this? Well, a colleague asked the other day,

"Are you growing your hair Don?".

This is absolute and incontrovertible proof of its non-shortness. I replied in the affirmative, to which he said,

"Why?"

Like erm, duh...

"Because I can?".

How to meditate successfully and clear writer's block in one easy lesson.

2011-03-20T18:23:00.002Z

To still the mind, or so it's said,
It's best to sit oneself cross-legged,
And duly count on inspiration,
One... then two, on exhalation.

Proceed until you get to ten
And then? Why, simply start again.
Continue till mind's ceaseless chatter
Is no issue, is no matter.

But having tried this tested path
I have to say, is this a laugh?
I barely get to four all told
Before the thoughts stream, manifold.

In contrast when I sit to write
I'm blocked, an hour, sometimes a night.
To lay my eyes on screen or paper,
It seems converts my mind to vapour.

And in this reverie I stay
Until the muse moseys my way
And says, "let's set this poor wretch free"
Allowing inspiration. Woop-de-dee!

The answer then is written here,
To write - we squat cross-legged, it's clear?
And quell our minds? Well, as we've seen,
We sit and stare at a blank screen.

In praise of Idleness (first published circa 2005)

2011-02-08T05:00:00.001Z

I have long held that sleeping and lying abed are the principal foundations for the good life. And contrary to being a waste of life, as is often asserted, idle time is precious indeed. Without it, we are unable to reflect on what we are and what we do; instead, we slavishly follow prescriptions devised by those most likely to profit from their execution. We become, as a result, automatons, blindly pursuing someone else's agenda. From the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution when men began, for the first time, to work by the clock, an insidious philosophy was impregnated into their souls; a belief so deeply ingrained, many believe it to be a self-evident fact of the Universe. The three central tenets of this doctrine being: time is precious; time is money; work is good for the soul. Thus was created The Work Ethic.

Since time immemorial artists have known the necessity of idling time. Without this freedom to meditate and dream, creativity perishes, leaving in its wake a formulaic existence, a mechanical procedure devoid of novelty. But this too applies to all of us, for though we desire compassion and empathy from our fellow men, these things are best learned through meditation, introspection, and importantly, rest; but if this soil in which they grow is not present, can we expect anything other than what we have? Never has there been a time more crucial than now for raising awareness of idling time's theft. Let's regain what we once had and take to our beds and sofas. To sleep, perchance to dream...

In the interim perid, you get this...

2011-02-07T12:22:00.001Z

When sitting at my computer to perform my daily ritual tasks of emailing, post writing, and blog surfing, I sit in silence. And though high-speed Internet allows me to stream music and video, I choose not to. Sometimes this fact misleads people into thinking I am not a music lover; but they are wrong. The reason for doing so is simple.

For me, music is primarily for listening to, and not a background "commentary", a stream to dip into when I shift focus away from the particular task in hand. It's a totality, a complete work. Indeed, I've yet to hear a piece of music or a song that's been deliberately punctuated with pauses long enough to accommodate conversations, tea-making, or the taking of a crap; which for me, hints at the composers or Artistes intentions and expectations - they want their music to be taken seriously! So if I decide to listen, I make special time for it, and do not take kindly to interruptions. Music-while-I-work is out.

Interrupt me at your peril if I'm listening to Ella.

National, write a post with a lisp, day

2011-01-29T16:33:00.012Z

It'th been awhile thince I pothted of my caffeine-abthtinence, the 21tht Augutht 2010, to be precithe, tho I thought it about time I gave a quickie update.

Thince Augutht I've given up alcohol too which, along with thothe other viceth and pleathureth that theemingly have given me up, it leaveth bithcuitth (without chocolate of courthe) ath one of my few remaining indulgenceth. Tho...

You'd be excuthed for thinking I've become a twitching wreck, thporting the haunted look of a man bereft of thenthual delightth, but think again. I'm actually all the better for it (thee photo above - really jutht an excuthe to thhow off my new jacket).

Ath promithed by the "thcientithtth", laying off caffeine hath made me calmer, leth prone, ath they thay, "to exaggerating my emotional rethpontheth", but the betht outcome hath to be from thlinging the booze into touch.

Counter-intuitively (how many people claim drink helpth them thleep?), teetotalithm hath enabled me to thleep all night through, inthtead of the uthual 3 to 4 tholid hourth followed by an abrupt awakening and fitful thleep thereafter. Strangely though, I dream a lot more than I uthed to (or ith it that I remember them thethe dayth?). Ith there'th a Jungian in the houthe?

It'th an improvement, though I'm far from claiming to be a different perthon. I like to think I'm the thame perthon but with thome of the rough edgeth removed.

Hmm... what elthe can I give up? Swearing perhapth? Nah, fuck that for a game of tholdiers!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Coming soon: National, writing a post while one's testicles are slowly but progressively squeezed tighter and tighter in a vice, day

Excerpt...

Along with my dislike of nice as a... eeeurrgh... description of myself, I'm equally... aaahhh... perturbed to hear the phrase applied, "he's as good as... OH MY FUCKING GOD.. gold!". Take my word, men described thus are... jesus christ.. put upon sad victims of the belief (inculcated during childhood) that women... NO, NO, NO, NO... are not only the fairer, gentler sex, but... eeeeeeeek! are by sole virtue of their gender, to be... NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!... pedestalised (my word) too. Of course... nyeeeeeeeegh!... the truth... aaarrrggghhh!... is, they're not fairer or gentler, so to be set upon a plinth... PLEASE GOD, I SWEAR, I'LL BE GOOD... oooooooaaaaahhh!... they ought to at least merit the position, but of course... OH NO... the damage... SHIIIIIIIIIIIT... is done, and the hapless wretches are preyed upon... (to be continued)

Light banter

2011-01-12T14:25:00.005Z

Annus Horribilis. Sounds awful, doesn't it? Like some festering blight of the back-passage? Well it's not. For the benefit of those not clued-up on Latin, it means, "Horrible Year"; a phrase intended to be the title of my magnum opus (for last year anyway), a summation of the 12 or so months recently passed. A horrid time. A time of unspeakable, barely bloggable events. A living horror. Apart, of course, from the four holidays: three cruises and sojourn into the Emerald Isle. But still, a veritable nightmare. Though in fairness, those moments of joy, of pure escapism - when watching films and reading books for instance - should be excluded, along with the jollity and hilarity of the office-banter, and those brief, but meditative moments spent on the daily train journey into work (oh how I love travelling). But apart from these, it's been hell, it really has... I mean... well... sorry, but I just can't talk about it.

Fiat Lux. Or, as they say around these parts, "Let there be light". I say this apropos of nothing, other than to operate on the age-old writer's maxim, "when you've nothing to say, bung in a few foreign phrases for effect!". So, wihout further ado, I shall carpe diem and move forth... and talking of light, I've navigated this winter so far without the usual woe-is-me I'm depressed grumblings; though, in my defence, I beleive I'm a victim of that pernicious affliction, Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD); which is why I've purchased a SAD light. I wont bore you with the technical details (mainly because I don't know them) but I'll guess and say, it provides a light of the requisite brightness, akin to that of bright daylight, thus increasing serotonin levels in the nervous system. Result: a measure of well-being. So it's not unusual to see me tapping away at me laptop in the glare of this white light, at something around regulo 7(180C), and basting myself with thoughts of... well never you mind.. seems to work. And besides, it could be worse, I could live in Finland, land of the sunless days, polar bears, wolverines, and kangaroos... no, that can't be right... aren't polar bears from the Antarctic?

We've had an unusual amount of snow recently. I've always thought, "there's nothing like a bit of snow to make you think!". And it's true. It snowed, and would you believe... I actually thought! No sooner had it laid itself in pristine crystalline form only to begin thawing, when an idea came into my mind, it said... nay... it shouted, "Entropy!" Referring to that Universal movement of all things from order to disorder. This snow, thought I, represents the whole of the cosmos in microcosm, the inexorable move towards chaos (for an alternative metaphor, think of the annual Office Party, how it begins as opposed to its end). S'true. Though there might be an exception. Looking at mother confirms the hypothesis. In extreme old-age she's been entropolized real good: from a glowing, poised youth, she's now shrivelled, stooped and enfeebled, but...despite this fact, it's important to her to ensure the rubbish is put out in time for the bin-men. The idea itself, though seeded an age ago, remains intact. It's impervious to the degradation of her body and Universal laws, and I'm sure, even on her death-bed she'll hoarsely whisper, "have you put the bag out?". I like this idea. I like to think for a brief period at least, we're able to cock a snook at the Universe, to waggle our willies at it, metaphorically speaking, and cry, "FUCK YOU ENTROPY!"

Bwanas knockers*

* Buenas noches (Spanish) meaning, good night.

Lexiconic manipulations

2010-12-17T14:14:00.003Z

Recently, developments at home have meant I've little time to relax and get to grips with putting "pen to paper", to furnish you kind patrons of my blog with those cerebral eruptions I'm wont to call, "my thoughts", "my writing". However, be that as it may, notwithstanding, henceforth, nonetheless, and a backward somersault with pike... in gratitude for your patronage (and as it's the season of goodwill) I thought it best to present upon you the latest offering from the part of my brain that produces daft thoughts, namely the sillybellum.

As an occasional "chatterer" on the various platforms offered by the Internet: MSN, Yahoo, and Gtalk, etc., I've noticed certain words are repeated again, and again to the point of irritation. Most culpable in my experience is the adjective, "cool", meaning fine, great, or wow. This, thought I, would be a likely candidate for refurbishment, or at least, a little, tarting-up.

At first I thought I'd simply substitute it with a synonym, but from deep within the convoluted highways, byways, nooks and crannies of my mind, came the idea of re-spelling. This, I think, has the benefit of giving it greater visual appeal, though I'll let you decide. So...

Ladies, gentleman, and those that fit between or maybe beyond... I give you, in quasi-celtic form... KEOUGHL!

What do you think? Is it indeed, keoughl? Or do you think instead, it's the outpouring of a feoughl?

Whatever.

A merry YEOUGHLTIDE to all!

My kind of town (circa 2005)

2010-12-02T05:30:00.002Z

I love the city. I love the buzz it gives me. Once a week I have to breathe it in. It’s my fix, an antidote to calm and serenity. I love the quiet life too, but in excess, it resembles death. They say life is change, so that’s what I do, I have a change, to remind myself of life at it’s most vibrant. I treat life as a dance if I can; an interplay between quiet introspection and head on participation. A two beat rhythm between living and reflection: live, reflect, live, reflect; dah dum, dah dum.

As it happens I have no natural rhythm. I tend to miss the first beat. I pick up the second and sustain it far too long. In terms of Iife I reflect, and reflect, and reflect again, forgetting to live. I’m a one legged dancer on the floor of life. But I get the first beat eventually: then it’s off to the city. I don’t care to bungee jump, hang glide, or do drugs, so it’s enough to take part; mix in and move with the flow. It suits me, and it works.

As cities go, Birmingham is unimpressive. It has little of architectural interest; spoiled by the aesthetic atrocities of the sixties which dominate. It has history though. Set in the midlands of England this was once the industrial capital of the world. Now it’s coming to terms with the post-industrial era; the era of high technology and services.

I was there this weekend. My senses heightened by caffeine, I strolled down the main semi-pedestrianised thoroughfare, enjoying the spring sunshine, stopping only to take photographs. Being a Sunday the crowds were light, and the clement weather lent it a festive air. Amongst the midday shoppers I was pleased to see a familiar face. Sitting crossed-legged and hunched over his instrument was the world’s worst busker. Giving very little to performance he justly gained very little in monetary return. Although possessing an unchallenging repertoire of three chord hits from the sixties, his virtuosity never progressed, due to his difficulty with F - oh how I love his riffs! His music would be an appropriate soundtrack for my one legged dance of life. I may record him for my funeral service, though I hope the pallbearers don’t walk to his rhythm. It was good to see him. He made me smile.

This lack of virtuosity befits Britain’s second city, which is, appropriately, second class. The council fools no one with its pretentious claims for being “of world stature". It has tried and failed. Motor sports and half-marathons have been and gone. Vast sums of money spent on developing the central area make no difference. There is no glamour. London, New York or Paris it aint. And that’s how we like it. We Brummies have an inferiority complex after decades of being the butt of others jokes. They laugh at our strange accent, and condemn our town for being dirty. And it’s true. The grime of yesteryear still clings. We accept it. If we want charisma, enchantment and good food. we’ll go elsewhere. Isn’t that what the continent’s for?

So why do I persist in going? That’s easy to answer. I have an old chunky-knit zip up cardigan which has seen better days. Haute couture it aint but it’s snug, and it makes me feel good, just like Birmingham, my town.

My genetic heritage

2010-12-01T05:30:00.009Z

Earlier this year I replaced mother's ailing television with an old, but little-used set of my own - A 14" Sony Trinitron, of the cathode-ray variety, out-dated now, but a classic in it's day. Still, it was robust and perfectly functional when delivered; but after only a few months use, it lost it's colour, though leaving a perfectly sharp, monochrome image.

Despite it's age I was surprised to see it fail. It had little use over the past 18 years, but I gave mom the benefit of the doubt and put the colour-loss down to inevitable wear and tear, and not the result of damage inflicted by a frenzied, crazy 91 year old old woman, struggling to cope with the not too user-friendly handset. After only a weeks use, I received a series of phone calls...

"The sound has gone!"

"It's too loud!"

"It's too soft!"

"I can't remove the number from the corner of the screen!"

"There's writing all over the screen, it won't go away!".

And finally,, "The colour keeps disappearing!".

With each successive phone call, and with uncharacteristic patience and serenity on my part, I replied, "Okay mother, don't worry, I'll see to it at the weekend!".

Fast forward to last weekend. I'm at mothers. Mom has been intermittently reading and dozing and I'm sitting at my computer, writing, or at least, thinking about writing. Mom stirs. Sits up, leans towards the nearby coffee-table, and of a sudden, with its characteristic clunk-like sound, the Sony fires up. "At least", I'm thinking, "mom knows where the on-off button is".

"Look!", she exclaims. "It's in colour!". Then adds with a knowing angry sneer, "But it won't last!".

This is the point where, given my experience of mother, you'd expect me to remain mute, to feign total absorption with my computer, but alas...

"I can always get you a new one. The small ones aren't so expensive!".

"NOOOOO! I'm not bothered. There's nothing on. It's all rubbish!".

"Well if it's rubbish and you're not bothered, why all the fuss? What difference does it make whether it's in colour or black and white?"

A pause. A blank look.

And then, with a hint of triumph after a struggle, as if she'd calculated the answer to a particularly difficult mental-arithmetic question, she said, "what if anyone looks in through the window and sees it in black and white?".

All I could do was stare. Unblinking.

Cheers! First today! (circa 2006)

2010-11-30T05:30:00.007Z

The snow, sparse and light, dances in the wind, bouncing off the window pane, settling on housetops and hedges, dusting white the grass and benches; everything, save the warm trodden paths and roadways. Their contrast lends the scene a picturesque air.

It occurs to me, the winter has a habit of mocking us. Around this time each year the winds ease and sunshine warms the air. Our step lightens and relieved we smile, making small talk, believing spring has arrived. But it doesn't last. After finishing business elsewhere, winter resumes, and without ado, quickly and mercilessly casts a chill cloak of sleet, ice and snow across the land. And overnight, the relaxed ambulations of yesterdays cheery pedestrians, transform into edgy, hurried scampering, as hunched and hooded, they seek their destinations. There's no time to stroll, and little time to talk. And all the while, winter laughs.

Inside, my attention is taken by the serenity of the room. The homes of the aged, I muse, are characterised by near silence; emphasised by low, unobtrusive sounds: the tick of the pendulum clock; the soft hiss of the gas fire, and the erratic whistle of the wind in the chimney space behind. And in between and around them, if you pay careful attention, the past can be discerned. Chipwood cabinets adorned with souvenirs: mementos of outings from a different age; and framed photographs of young and old, the dead and the living, whisper to me, reminding me of how things were, how they are, and how they will be.

As times gone by show themselves in the quiet, contemplative realms of the aged, perhaps, I thought, the noise of youth serves to quell its murmurings; a past that seeks to remind us of life's cycle of birth, death and regeneration. I can remember when I was young; a time when the acquisitions of the old, much like those in my mother's home, would fill me with unease; a distinct, but unrecognisable disquiet. But perhaps this is as it should be. Both ages have their time. Youth, with its excess of vigour pays homage to the present, with the future an indeterminate and infinite highway, stretching to the horizon and beyond; whilst the old honour a past inextricably bound up with the present. And their future is at arms length. The end is perceived. The road is finite.

On the nightime, as I lay next to my mother's bed, I listened to her replaying instances of her life in self-talk and dreams (impossible for me to discern which). And throughout the day, on those occasions she spoke, she talked fondly of incidents and people long gone; of a half-brother, Sonny, whom she loved, who through illness, died young; and of a father incomparably kind. Frail and breathless, but not broken, she smiled and chuckled as she spoke, a glint in her eye.

If we are lucky enough to endure into old age, then hopefully we can pull its various strands together, to form a meaningful and worthwhile whole. This is what my mother has done. Despite having outlived her first and second born children; surviving the anguish and anxiety of the blitz, when the German Luftwaffe strove to flatten her home town; and more recently, watching her husband, my father, sink slowly towards death via a morphine-induced netherworld of non-recognition and bewilderment - in spite of all this, she honours her life with its telling, in humour and good cheer.

It wasn't so long ago I showed concern about reaching the end of my life. I regarded old-age as a cruel trick inflicted upon us by an uncaring Universe; a side-effect of a blind evolution. Again, I made the mistake of looking outward for answers; stretching and straining my mind in a futile effort to elicit meaning via a meta-explanation; an all-encompassing theory to satisfy and comfort me. Now I know better. The meaning of life is in its detail. For each one of us it can be found within the particular moments, the details of our lives...

Most weekends, my mother, Janet, and I, dine out at a local carvery. When the eating has finished and we are about to begin our respective drinks (my mother’s choice is lager), we always laugh as her tiny age-shrunken face, set beneath a black woollen hat, beams, as she raises her glass and toasts, “Cheers! First today!”

Cheers mom! And thanks… for everything!

Sad fantasy (circa 2005)

2010-11-29T05:30:00.003Z

I stroke and slide my fingers along its length... it weeps.

Stooping forward, my lips part, almosting touch it's head... I softly envelope it with my warm breath. No restraint, it comes... softly at first...

The microphone transports my voice through the PA system, prompting the throng to chant my name as I manipulate the strings of my Fender Stratocaster. It hangs low across my thighs as I caress it with peerless virtuosity. It wails and whines and I croon to the crowd.

I love my rock and roll fantasy. A modern meditation. For a while it soothes me, in the same way as sitting meditation. It's om with oomph!

Now the summer is a faded memory and again I face the long wait to Christmas. My mood is changing. Last year was particularly bleak. Across the festive break and beyond, the sky was dark and low, hemming me in. Spiritually, I was diminished, to the point my doctor prescribed anti-depressants. I perservered, for less than a week (I'm known for my commitment and tenacity) before throwing them, 'my little friends', into the bin. Fuck them, I thought. They're only dealing with the symptoms. I preferred to take my chances and go for the ride.

The situation improved...

And so it comes around again. The passing of summer, and the onset of the long, long winter herald the onset of my 'blues'. But SAD (the alleged seasonal affective disorder), is not the whole story.

Autumn sees the end of the caravan Holiday Park season. At the back end of October, utilities are switched off and the caravan interiors littered with bowls of salt, strategically placed to absorb excess moisture. The television and hi-fi are wrapped in bubble-wrap and blankets, protecting them from winter's extremes; mattresses and removable cushions are precariously arranged, stood on end, or propped against convenient furniture, to allow maixum airing. The once warm and inviting interior takes on a cold, inhospitable air. And the steady dribble of occupants away from the park, leaves the site with few signs of life, as it takes on a sad and melancholy air. But Saddest of all is its personal significance - gone are the occasional weekends when Janet visits the caravan, leaving myself, and the animals, home, alone.

Solitude is my life's blood. I need the occasional fix to shake free from togetherness's cosy but constricting bonds. I need to experience, for awhile, myself. Lest I forget.

Roll on Spring.

Till then, to help me through, I'll look to my Ipod. Let's see, Bowie I think. The Jean Genie. The crowd are going wild...

Interesting . . .

2010-11-27T12:48:00.008Z

It's a new twist on an old idea (remember the monkeys on typewriters?)... if, on the comment section of Blogger you were to spend an infinite amount of time refreshing the page, retrieving a new Word Verification on each pass, eventually you'd come up with all the alphabetic characters needed to form the Complete Works Of William Shakespeare, though not necessarily in comprehensible order. Makes you think though, doesn't it..

Epiphany (written circa 2005)

2010-11-27T05:30:00.003Z

The story of my life is not remarkable. It’s not rich in tales of high drama, overcoming insurmountable obstacles, or displays of academic and artistic brilliance. In this respect, I’m ordinary. Like everyone else I’ve fantasized of achieving great distinction, of public acclaim and its attendant benefits. But In reality it can never be. The public gaze would be too much for me to bear. The characteristics I’ve inherited mark out the boundaries of what, for me, is possible; to realise these fantasies I would have to be someone else, which of course is impossible; to wish I were someone else is a self-betrayal. It seems clear cut - we have to accept ourselves. I’m happy being ordinary.

In setting the scene for my post I would love to recount a tale of blissful youth, a text-book joyride throughout early adulthood culminating in a fulfilled maturity. But that would be fiction. Neither can I claim the role of victim, wronged by others yet stoically fighting against all the odds to find contentment. Tales like these abound. And yet they gain their strength via the perpetration of ill deeds and selfish acts. So somewhere there are villains; don’t they have stories too?

I’ll own up. Due to my poor performance as a husband, father, and provider, I can claim the role of knave, or general ne’er-do-well. A minor villain. As a feckless youth, leaving school devoid of qualifications, direction, and common sense, I launched myself into the world of work with all the enthusiasm you would expect from a socially inept, self-absorbed, and callow youth. From 16 through to 30 I had a string of non-memorable jobs, long periods of unemployment, a wedding, and four children. Drink bingeing sessions were the order of the day. This went hand in hand with nights away and ill-afforded money spent, culminating with a year out, living with another woman. I was around thirty years old when I found myself back at home with my family, tail between my legs, facing the biggest crisis of my life.

It’s an understatement to say I was in poor shape. Confidence all but destroyed, and self-esteem at an all time low, I felt helpless - a sad, self-pitying wretch, at the end of his tether, unable to stand the pain of self-loathing. I sought help. Not professional, simply advice; assistance to help relieve the suffering. I became steeped in self-help books, psychology, psychotherapy, and all kinds of faddish treatments purporting to heal wounded souls. Each night would find me sitting,surrounded by these books. I would alternate between avidly looking for the solution to my particular ills, and intense introspection. It became a nightly ritual, a meditation. It bore fruit.

The change was instant. What I once thought of as metaphor became reality - I saw the light. It came without warning, as if a switch flicked, initiating a flood of brightness. I was awash, internally and externally. The room became clearer, more intensely vivid than it had ever been before. More importantly, this was accompanied by the absolute conviction that I knew The Truth. The Secret. I chuckled to myself as my morbid preoccupations melted away, replaced by a deep joy. A cliché I know, but this is how it was. I make no apologies.

How long this lasted, I have no idea, it could have been 5 or even 50 minutes. As for the profound knowledge I held, this had gone as quickly as it came. But it did have a lasting effect. The profundity of the experience lay in its unequivocal demonstration of the transience of everyday knowledge. How we feel about ourselves isn’t fixed. There is no reality in self-loathing. It was all I needed to know.

Had I been of a religious disposition, there’s no doubt I would have interpreted this ‘intervention’ as the work of God. Or had there been a 'voice', or unambiguous sign, this story might have taken a different turn; unfortunately, as spectacular as it was, there was no logic inherent in the experience compelling me to draw such a conclusion. Being of a rational sceptical nature, I was simply amazed at the wondrous mechanism we call “mind”. God, it may not have been, but it was good.

We can never know for sure if moments in our lives were pivotal. It may be the case that we were heading in that direction anyway, and we use out of the ordinary moments as markers, or dramatic devices for telling our stories. I don’t know. But I have to believe my epiphany, was the decisive moment in my adult life. Almost at a stroke, I stopped smoking, reduced drinking, got into shape, and more importantly, I took responsibility for my life. Life, for my family and I, got immeasurably better.

The telling of this story is not intended to suggest I have in some way been chosen, or that I own powers far above the ordinary. On the contrary, it can happen to anyone. I was fortunate. I had unwittingly created conditions forcing me into focused meditation. The results are not uncommon, except in many cases it is intended - monks and mystics have been doing it for at least two thousands years. Neither can I claim to be a good person. The episode served to move me forward from a position of helplessness, to a level where I had control, and therefore hope. I still have a long way to go and I would love another boost in the form of a “religious experience”, but that’s being greedy. I’ll have to settle for perspiration rather than “inspiration”, whether divine or otherwise. I cannot forget that many others, lost and helpless, are never so fortunate. I often wonder where I would have been today had it not been for this helping hand. It’s taught me not to judge too harshly.

There, but for the grace of something, go I.

Listomania (another recycled post and one which surprises me by it's anger. Must have been tongue in cheek, surely)

2010-11-26T05:30:00.002Z

There’s nothing so dull and uninspiring as the simple assertion of what you like or dislike. Without accompanying reasons, to catalogue without qualification your favourite puddings, films, songs, or even, just ‘things’ (cue for a Julie Andrews song)… is to be a boring twat. It's uninterestingly autobiographical. People avoid you. And if ever you wonder why you spend most of your time alone at your computer, with never a peep from the outside cyberworld, it’s probably because you’ve made it your life’s work to cram as much meaningless crap into the ‘my favourites’ sections of your Myspace or Blog profile. Well it’s all shite. No one is interested. You know what it says about you? - you’re a list-maker! Others make music, write novels, climb mountains, invent things, engage in politics, fucking, and dangerous sports, or kill harmless furry animals… but what do you do… duh!… you make fucking lists! It's inclined to give the impression you're at the bottom of the brain chain. Remember, if you ever feel inclined to let the world know why you like or dislike something… give an accompanying reason! Then you stand an outside chance of being interesting.

Time Flies

2010-11-25T05:30:00.000Z

You heard the expression "time flies"? I was wondering, are they anything like vinegar flies? You know those times when we’re not at our best, and work doesn’t fulfill us? For me, it's usually a Friday afternoon; and although I know it’s best not to, I can’t help but look at the time, and oh my fucking god… it’s dragging! Each minute seems like an hour! Well, I figure time drags thus due to those flies attaching themselves to the minutes, and as a consequence, slowing them down. Maybe some Time-fly spray would not go amiss. You reckon?

Blogging decisions...

2010-11-24T05:30:00.004Z

For a change, today I was spoilt for choice regarding posting. I've been intending to comment on Steven D. Levitt's controversial paper regarding the link between legalised abortion and a decrease in the crime rate; or, and on a more topical note, writing a short piece on dispelling myths about global warming, which I figured is important. But, after mulling it over, I decided to shelve both of these and talk instead about toast!

There are thee kinds of people in this world: those who don't like toast; those who like it lightly done; and the "let's do it till it's about to burn" sort. I won't say too much about the first, the anti-toast brigade, 'cept to say, like my father and his father before him, I've learned never to trust a person who has no interest in having it browned, even if only lightly. As for the effete, "oh, I like it barely crisp" woosies; well... ya gotta be suspicious of them too; which leaves the, "if you've got to do something, then do it to extreme" party, of which, it goes without saying, I belong.

We recently had a Toaster installed in our office kitchen. This is a welcome addition and compensates in part for the recent removal of the staff brothel, with its attendant Jacuzzi and massage salon. Yes, times are hard everywhere.

I write this post after finishing 2 rounds of crisp, near done-to-death bread, soaked in butter and finished with dollops of shredless marmalade. Mmmmmm.... mmmmm! Yummy!

Don swift reporting from the UK, somewhere in the midlands. Keeping it real!

A New York Story

2010-11-23T05:30:00.002Z

July in New York can be hot. And this day was no exception.

My friend Dave and I were making our way on foot, from Manhattan, to Grimaldi's, Brooklyn, the celebrated Pizza Parlour. At a guess, I would say the temperatures were in the upper nineties as we walked in downtown Manhattan; and though we were dressed appropriately (I wore light linen trousers and an even lighter cheesecloth shirt, and Dave was in shorts and tee-shirt) our discomfort showed in our red, sweaty faces, as we puzzled - how to get to the pedestrian walkway? We could see the bridge (it's difficult to miss) but we didn't have the vantage point to discern roads and pathways leading to it.

We guessed, if we walked back in towards the built-up area we would catch sight of the road leading to the bridge, and logically, this should be parallel to the 'footbridge'. So off we went, up a slight incline; the towering concrete of the city looming over of us.

A little way ahead, a man, short and slightly built, carried a bottle of water. He strode, unhurried up the incline. Dave called out, "Excuse me, sir. Do you know how we can get onto the bridge?". He stopped and turned. Steady eyes appraised us, and he replied with the question, "You're from England aren't you?".

Although the water he carried testified somewhat to his awareness of the heat, he otherwise appeared unperturbed. Underneath the intense mid-afternoon sun, he was relaxed and amicable, as he spoke of the UK with knowledge and affection. A charming fellow for sure, taking time out on the most sultry of summer days, to talk to strangers from Europe.

We passed the time listening to him demonstrate a remarkable knowledge of association football, and England in general; and as he adjusted his standing position his jacket fell open. I caught a glimpse of what looked like a polished wooden gun-handle; and as a Brit, unused to such things, I almost did a double-take. I couldn't resist asking, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Sure" came the reply".

"Is that a gun you're carrying there?".

Relaxed, as if it was the most natural question in the world, he answered, "Yep. I'm a cop, and this is where I work". With a slight movement of his head he indicated the building we were adjacent to.

We said our goodbyes and watched as he walked, or rather, flowed across the pavement with spectral serenity, into the doorway, and out of sight.

Probably the coolest bloke I've ever met.

Dave and I paused, momentarily computing the encounter; then, with what seemed like a shrug, we stepped in unison, away from the precinct, to find the walkway.

Good Wishes

2010-11-22T05:30:00.000Z

I'm ~~fucking blocked again~~ strangely transcendent today, not feeling the need to indulge in the trivial pursuit of blogging. However, ~~I hope all of you smug productive bastards out there get zero comments~~ I wish all you fellow bloggers out there a happy and fruitful blogging week.

It's joke. Chuckle

Well, would you believe it?

2010-11-21T12:47:00.004Z

I can remember a time when I would avidly follow my local football team, but it's been a while now, nigh on thirty years since I followed them with a passion. Over the years, with the changes in the game, and especially with the importing of foreign players, the concept of 'local team' has lost all meaning for me; aided and abetted by the newer generation 'supporters' who invest their allegiance in the most "successful" clubs at the expense of their local teams.

When I was a lad, supporting your local team was passed on through the generations, and you were "with" your club through thick and thin. And although I fell short of kicking the cat when they lost, I suffered a mild, but fortunately, transient depression; which for me is the mark of a supporter - suffering. In this respect, It's not dissimilar to marriage - for better, for worse; through sickness and health... etc.

Nowadays, although I'm aware of a residual attachment to their fortunes (I always check to see how they're doing) I have better things to do than go watch them, despite their potential for heaping upon me much emotional pain (they're not doing so well of late) and all of the kudos that gives in terms of being a 'true follower'.

It didn't take long to 'shake off' my allegiance. All it required was some modest thinking about the 'reality' of 'supportership'. It didn't stand scrutiny. I realised, In essence, it has all the hallmarks of religious belief, especially in its satisfying the will to belong. But once I gained sight of a more enduring 'self' underneath all of the the inherited cultural clap-trap, including this quasi-religion, I dropped it. Now I realise I'm the final arbiter when it comes to bringing meaning into my life. That what is used to bring that meaning about is not important. It can be done via religion, football, trainspotting, masturbation, strangling animals, or countless other activities.

I have to believe I'm in control of what's important to me. It's scary, but infinitely less so than surrendering to the dubious creed of thinking ultimate meaning resides in something greater than myself.

The Unbearable Bollocks of Being (first published circa 2007)

2010-11-21T11:26:00.005Z

Wouldn't it be nice if for once, those interminable studies concerning the effects of alcohol consumption concluded that, best of all for the promotion of long life and well-being is the consumption of, west-country murky green rot-gut scrumpy, complete with dubious floaty bits, and possessing a kick like a mule on steroids? How nice would that be? But no, whenever the results are presented, wine, always comes out favourably relative to the rest.

And did you know, it's claimed that plants prefer classical music to all other genres? It's true. According to research, it's the only music to have a significant effect on the subjects, inasmuch as, it's alleged they're inclined to lean in towards the source of the sound. Whoop-de-doo! Conclusive? Hardly. When I'm listening to the radio I often move towards the source, but only to change stations or switch it off if what I'm hearing is not to my liking. And I used to attend classical concerts and not once did I notice myself or other members of the audience stooping forward towards the orchestra. Au contraire, more in evidence was the occurrence of a tilt left or right towards the aisle in readiness for the bar-rush during the interval.

Do you think because science and research is populated in the main by the middle-classes or middle-class aspirants they have the unconscious agenda of validating and elevating their own lifestyle?

Hmmm...

The Imp

2010-11-16T13:01:00.008Z

Deep inside the self an idea lies,
Submerged it goes unseen, yet holds sway
In subtle and insidious ways
Throughout our lives.

It softly whispers ruinous chatter
of lack of worth, and worse
It tells how undeserving we are of love,
Yet on these wily words we shape our lives.

And then, a time arrives when someone
Shows a path, not known till then,
Of Trust and Care, and takes us where
We’ve never trod before.

But in the face of such elation, this idea cannot survive.
And so it strives to wreck the joining, wresting from us
Our control, instead inflicting accusation,
Spreading discontent until, it takes its toll -

And in its victory-roll that evil elf
Has shown again our worthless self.

Aegean Jive

2010-11-16T08:00:00.001Z

Flitting from one oceanic idyll to another can be tiresome, in the ho-hum sense. Fact. Tell me, how many days does it take before one gets tired of waking up to a canopy of clear skies and searing sun, floating on a bed of calm warm sea, ranging in colour from deep blue to turquoise? I'd say about seven.

The food was good, even great on occasion; and the people, once understood, passable, and at times, pleasant. But the great moments were those of relative solitude when, ensconced in a quieter part of the deck and accompanied by the sound of the engine thrumming as it powered its way through oncoming waves, I was gently cajoled into pleasant, semi-oblivion. The hull rose, fell, and swayed from starboard to port and then back again; a rhythmic dance; a rock and roll lullaby.

It was good, as Nirvhanas go, though I've known better. Perfection, like all else, is relative (a fact known to poets and those of an artistic bent, though forever hidden from the pedant). I can tell you, at other times, and other places, I've known my soul soar, swoop, and in orgasmic ecstasy, burst into a million pieces... I kid you not, ecstasi* every bleedin' where! But, I digress...

On this voyage I learned something of myself: I can, though not without effort, co-exist "peaceably" within a group and in confined quarters. I think though, I'll give the, "opportunity of a lifetime: a fortnight's self-catering for six in a miniature submarine", a miss.

* Neologism, of a sort.

I love the word "duck", it has such poetic potential

2010-11-15T17:56:00.004Z

Man-flu. Again. It's the second time in not too many weeks, which is a surprise. Historically, my given ailment, that is, my inherited affliction, is migraine. But due to the inspired hypothesis that caffeine (in inordinate quantities) is a main-player in its manifestation, de-toxing myself has removed the cursed aural displays and sickening "heads", or so it seems. So does this call for an "Hurrah!"? Yes, but alas, only muted, for thus far, I've not had chance to enjoy a sustained period of unbridled good health. The newly-wrought void has been filled by low-level snot, sneezing and chestiness, which have been much in evidence of late, preventing me from resuming my much-trumpeted running come back; it culminated yesterday in a full-blown nasal and throat attack, a cause for manly concern. I awoke this morning convinced I was teetering, at the very least, on the verge of the most savage influenza if not pneumonia! But now, nine hours later, showered and fed, I'm virtually sneeze, wheeze, and mucus free. I feel somewhat sheepish, fraudulent even, for taking the day off.

But time off allows time for reflection; or if not fully-blown deliberation, then at least a time to rustle up words and phrases to be sculpted into quasi-post form. In other words, blind them with bullshit! So, here's my thought for the day: we always have a choice, always. You may think the world is a shitty place, that your life is crummy, unfair, but you can choose to think otherwise. I'll refrain from arguing this, instead I'll give you a visual display, a demonstration of our brains wonderful facility to see the same thing in more than one way. Ladieeees and Genl'men, I'm proud to present... wait for it... the RABBIT/DUCK ILLUSION! (see illustration above)

Once you get to see it both ways, switching back and forth is simply a matter of choice. A simple example granted, but significant, think not you?

Smart-ass

2010-11-06T15:28:00.002Z

Talking to a friend, I was extolling the virtues and beauty of my latest gadget - the HTC HD Desire smartphone, a more than worthy competitor to the Apple Iphone, sporting High Definition video, an 8 megapixel camera, super-fast processor, and the much feted Android operating system. She replied, "My phone is purple. How cool is that?".

Blinks.

Night fever

2010-11-04T19:37:00.009Z

Don't you just hate those nights when, after sleeping deeply for four or five hours, you awaken suddenly, beset by that old existential angst? When that daytime conscious cohesion, holding together all those strands that together constitute your self, is caught unawares, leaving you prey to the horror of self-dissolution? Tsk! Tell me about it! Ooh, it's a bugger! And it's particularly horrific when it manifests itself as a thought inchoate, a primal ill-formed phantom, avoiding recognition yet strangely palpable, lurking in the periphery of your mind; watching. With stomach tightening and breath shortening, your pulse quickens and pounds loudly in your ears, making it a devil of a job to get back to sleep; so there's nothing else for it but to get out of bed and brew a nice strong cup of tea. That usually does the trick!

A poem

2010-10-26T20:37:00.003+01:00

No prizes for guessing the title...

Such a shame.
but I say it's not love that's blind,
but those who look to find
someone who never can be born,
nor who ever trod this way, but they
still persist in seeking,
as if in hope one day
this polished gem will show his face
and say -
"I'm here, I'm flawless, without peer,
I've come to banish doubt;
and as for fear - never again!"
Oh dear.
Such a shame.

Such a shame.
if now and then I should shout
and you dispute my worth, and say,
"get out! Don't ever cross my path,
for wrath I cannot bear".
but cuss and chide we often find
are born of love; so if you swear
I do not doubt you care, in fact,
if you should never shout
I would know within you were
without, that which matters most -
your love for me.
Such a shame.

And in the interim period... a re-cycled post of old...

2010-10-25T12:23:00.001+01:00

I was told an amusing tale of mistaken identity this morning. Some person in my company, not known for washing his car regularly was the victim of a prank perpetrated by one of his colleagues; a not very imaginative ruse and rather juvenile (which is probably why I like it) amounting to a simple line drawing of male genitalia, set in the grime on the car's body. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.

The victim, blissfully unaware of this recent addition of 'artwork', drove home, parked up, and still didn't notice the grime-etched phallus. It was not till some time later that his mother approached him and announced, 'Someone's drawn an alien on your car'!

First thing that struck me was, 'poor woman, I wonder how long it's been since she saw a naked male!'. Though it also occurred, perhaps there's some truth in this woman's much ridiculed report of many years ago, when, nine months' prior to her son's birth, she claimed to be abducted by aliens and subjected to a vaginal probe...

My preferred hypothesis is simply that the artist was incompetent and had no idea of proportion, making the head of the penis enormously large, thus accounting for the mistaken identity on the part of the woman. Still, you can't help but smile, and think not so much of 'ET phone home', as 'ET rammed home'!

No apologies to those of you who groaned at this last remark. Have a nice day.

Do I know you?

2010-10-06T10:26:00.002+01:00

I'm back, after a month's absence. I did think of marking the occasion by presenting myself with a show-biz type introduction, a bit of that old razzmatazz: a drum-roll; a fanfare of trumpets; fireworks; and a bevy of high-kicking, leggy, sequin-studded, dancing girls; or maybe the more modest, ta-da, it's me again folks! But instead, and true to my real nature, I've chosen to enter discreetly through the back door. Not too much fuss. Not too much bother. Besides, I have no illusions about my importance in the scheme of things.

It's a funny business, blogging. The personal sort at least. It's frequently said that it's narcissism, pure and simple. I thought so too when I began writing online many years ago, though in those days, although realising it was meant in the pejorative sense, I still made it cause for celebration. New to the game, using the Net as a mask, and fully pumped with caffeine, I fostered a pugnacious, I'm a blogger, and yes it is narcissistic, so fucking what? sort of attitude. But it was feigned, totally affected. When your target audience is invisible, unable to look you in the eye, you can be anyone, or anything you choose. But this was not me, nor is it now, not at all.

It would be a rare event to get to know someone fully, simply from online writing. We put our best foot forward when presenting ourselves to the world. We strive to charm, to impress, to attract, but in doing so, we deceive, albeit unwittingly. It's impossible to do otherwise. And even when - as I've occasionally done - we allow a glimpse of our less than noble side, it never fully reveals who we are. That can never be.

No one is whoever you first thought they were.

So here I am. Don't think you know me, because you don't. Just take it on trust, I'm okay.

No darling, your bum doesn't look big in that dress!

2010-09-06T18:47:00.001+01:00

I'm well into my third week of caffeine-abstinence, and I have to say, it's going well. My main objective was to effect a metamorf... metermorph change for the better in my temperament, and I'm convinced, although it's early days as yet, there's definite progress as I notice I'm a little easier-going than hitherto. Not that my internal state is so different from before (and I'm of the belief, we all have similar internal states, emotionally) I'm still sensitive to many things, but the intensity is wound down a couple of turns. I confess, I was so bad at one point I'd want to fuck the offender up the arse, verbally snap at any perceived slight; but now, I kinda roll with the emotion, and I can see the practical side to this on a relational level, but... expressing oneself honestly shouldn't always be frowned upon, should it? Is self-censorship always good? It's funny though, isn't it, it's like we say, "don't tell me how it is, sugar-coat it, or better still, lie!". But... [creaking sounds of extreme cogitation] if that's how it is, even if the intentions are good, doesn't it mean we never really get to know ourselves, if we're spared the honest opinions of how others feel regarding us? Though, [more creaking] maybe most people want that, maybe they'd rather not know. It's a funny old world.

Fucking hell Gosh! And all I wanted to do was give a quick update on my abstinence progress!

Safaris I know (that's a pun)

2010-09-06T15:46:00.008+01:00

Autumn is here. How do I know? Because of the sudden appearance of golden leaves on the streets and gardens? Nope. Because morning temperatures are suddenly cooler, bringing a chill into the air and condensation onto the windows? Nope. Because it's September? Nope. I know because I'm alone.

My ex-partner/room-mate/friend/the bint who lives in the same house (call her what you will) is once again, and at the same time of year, off to exotic climes. This time she's paying a return visit to Kenya, to witness and weep at the awe-inspiring spectacle of wild-buffalo herds marching en-masse to the watering hole; to marvel at the elegance and beauty of doe-eyed giraffes feeding amongst the trees; to tremble with fear and humility at the power displayed by the hunting lion; and of course, to enjoy the après-safari (safaris equivalent to golf's nineteenth hole). Put those dusty digital cameras down, unburden yourselves of those weighty picnic bags gals, and get it down your neck! Ahem... I digress...

So... I'm alone. Almost. The aforementioned other occupant of of the house has kindly left me with her son. It's a long story and not one for public dissemination, so suffice it to say, he's here under sufferance...

Well, the weekend went well, with my first run cum walk, brief, lasting twenty minutes only, but that was according to plan. I'm experienced enough to know overdoing such strenuous exercise ends easily in grief, if only via the lowering of one's immune system, resulting in the catching of whatever is available. Still, I felt great. As my heart-beat reached training-rate, I began to sweat, and my heart pounded in my ears, and for brief moments it felt like the old days. I was empowered.. nay, t'was better than that, I was pumped! This carried through to the following day, which found me so restless, I had to do something, and what better than horse-riding? Yes... once again, after so many years, I found myself mounted! Action man or what?

Back to earth with a kerthwump! Today, the curse struck again - that old devil migraine... that was my planned second run up the Swanee! So here I am, alone and discontent. The Internet doesn't do it for me anymore. I've developed an itch that needs to be scratched, and scratch it I will.

I've another holiday planned, my last of the year. The autumn will improve, I'm sure...

Poo and the Pope

2010-09-04T11:39:00.014+01:00

This morning, before going to mothers, I made a special journey into the city. I visited The Running Shop to buy running shoes plus a few related items, i.e. socks, tracksters, and a couple of "tops" (not that you'd have expected groceries, given its name).

As a shopper I'm a no nonsense kind of bloke. Nine o'clock sharp saw me outside the shop, eagerly waiting for the doors to open; come nine-twenty, I was cheerfully striding down the road, swinging my carrier bag full of the aforementioned goodies. A typical "shop" by me, I guess, as I'm not one for retail-therapy in the social-cum-sexual-event sense. Whip in, whip out. No fuss. That's me.

Tonight's the night. At least that's the plan. I'm nervous though. It's been ten years since I last ran in anger and during that time, I've developed an occasional twinge in my right-knee. Let's hope it's insignificant.

The natural course for me to run would be around the local park, but that's soon to be visited by the Pope. I'm led to believe they've already begun to build fences and place restrictions on the adjoining roads, so I may have to look for an alternative route. All done without consulting the residents I may add, and at enormous cost to the tax and rate-payers. Someone tell me please, do I live in a secular society or not?

I used to walk my much beloved dog, Ruby, around that very park. That rolling grassland,a playground and toilet for my little girl, is for me, a special and consecrated ground. Chances are, the Pope, who I don't particularly care about, and certainly don't revere, will give blessings on a spot once shat upon by her. Life's full of these little ironies.

Breaking news...

2010-09-01T14:09:00.003+01:00

Don't get too excited as it's only a provisional notion, but... I'm seriously considering taking my running shoes off their retirement peg! Not literally so, as they owe me nothing, having carried me without complaint for longer than they should have. But now they're looking the worse for wear and will have to be replaced. And if my decision is positive, I'll be at the "Running Shop" first thing Saturday morning, getting fitted for a new pair. Is this a wise move after ten years of retierment? We shall see.

What do I know?

2010-08-31T18:05:00.004+01:00

I'm aware I can be a pain in the arse when, as they say, I "go off on one". That is, when I get on my high-horse and spout what may appear to be (to the lesser attuned ear) certitudes, in a confident, all-knowing manner. But that's not what's happening.

I know little, or at least, I'm not sure about much. I'm usually playing devil's advocate, just to stir things a little, though I guess that threatens the less fluid self-images amongst us.

I can only be me. This is how I am. After all, I have to say something, don't I? Or would you wish that I hid from view all but the most trivial of my thoughts? Or that I said little, or perhaps, nothing at all?

I can feel threatened too. I'm not above all this. I have my moments when the humour is gone, and what's been said is more than I can bear... but it passes.

One thing I do know for sure: ultimately, I can laugh, and laugh, and then laugh again, at myself.

Silence is golden

2010-08-31T16:16:00.006+01:00

Online, via chat, forums, or social networks, I've had little to say about music, to the extent on more than a few occasions I've been pointedly asked if I liked it at all. A strange question you might think, given it's omnipresence in all of our lives, so much so, I'm sure, most of us take its importance as read. Though I'm a little concerned for some, who I've heard express their love for music in the most extreme terms [and usually, histrionic manner]: "I would just DIE without my music!". A little excessive I think, though I get their point; but I have to remark that pre-twentieth century, the majority of people on this planet had access to little if any music, most certainly on an individual and private basis, and yet, somehow, despite this tragic omission from their lives, they somehow coped. Ahem... anyway...

I've said little about music because I learned a long time ago how personal it is. I found no matter how great an impact a particular piece of music or song made on me, I invariably failed when I tried to impress others of it's greatness: "yeah, that's okay", they'd say, "but listen to this... how fucking great is that?". But alas, in turn, in a similar manner, I'd fail to enthuse. Eventually, it sunk in: maybe it's not so much that music has inherent qualities for us all to agree on and share in, perhaps it's primarily about us as individuals, our particular psychology, our personal history. To put it succinctly (and to demonstrate once again, I know longish words): taste is largely idiosyncratic.

This is why, on social network profiles, I smile and at the same time get irritated, when I see long, long lists of a persons musical preferences (the same is done with books and movies). Does anyone truly believe that you can tell ANYTHING about a person by knowing the music he or she likes? Liking similar tracks, books, or movies is coincidence, and has as much significance as having a liking for bananas or a favourite colour. In my experience, you like someone despite their tastes. Personality I'm sure, is not culture-dependent.

Not that I'm leaving this post without paying a little lip-service to my "musical history", and "history" it is, as the musical content was impossible to evaluate. I'm talking of a Beatles concert I attended, circa 1965 (yes, I'm that old). Courtesy of two girl "friends", who queued all night for tickets, I was able to go witness this historic event. I heard little, apart from a few snatches of the verse in "Nowhere Man" (the tour was in part, promoting their new album, Rubber Soul), but it was nevertheless, an experience. And before you ask the question, no, I didn't scream!

So... music and I? I believe myself to have have wide eclectic tastes, having no preferences genre-wise. Indeed, when it comes to live music, I'm happy to watch a virtuoso performance on the spoons. But then, very often, live music is something else, and is arguably less about the music and more to do with tribalism, quasi-religion, or at the very least, fulfilling the need to "belong". But that's another argument...

For those of you who know anything about musical notation, you'll know all music is punctuated by pauses of varying lengths, and in it's own way, a pause is a peculiar kind of note; so It's fair to say, silence is an integral part of music. I'm sure if you were to take out these gaps, what would be left would be noise, plain and simple. Which brings me to my point: come on folks, let's hear it for that much misunderstood and much-maligned phenomenon, silence.

I'd just DIE without silence.

Silent Music.

Aaarrrggghhh!

2010-08-21T17:09:00.004+01:00

And a great lassitude descended upon me. My eyes drooped and I slumped, powerless to resist the bidding of the Sandman. Mesmeric passes of his hands sent magic dust flying into my eyes, and he whispered a lullaby, a gentle cajoling into deep sleep...

Of course, this was self-inflicted, and no doubt a common response to the sudden, brutal decision, to cease the imbibition of all drinks laden with caffeine. Yep, that's it folks, I'm off the coffee, tea also

It's day three since that decision but day two of abstinence "proper". I've had the headache, no big deal, fully expected, and easily taken care of by means of paracetamol. The problem lies in my body's predilection to shut down, or attempt to. Not that this is a new experience, but historically, it occurs towards mid-day, or just after lunch... but never at days-beginning!

I'm missing the "buzz", that short-lived but seductive feeling of "power", of hyper-alertness. Now I feel as if a once bright light has been dimmed. But I've read some "Science" on caffeine and of its effects on the human body, and the findings concur with my experience, especially in the realms of mood and quality of sleep. It has to be done.

Put's on resolute face [jutting jaw and narrowed eyes] and bravely marches forth into a future without the "black stuff". Softly whistles John Lennons's, Cold Turkey.

I'll keep you posted.

The Banes (of my Life)

2010-08-17T13:51:00.013+01:00

Migraine. The aural sort. I've suffered with this unpleasant and debilitating intrusion since I was fourteen years old. It first occurred when sitting in a Technical Drawing class, the words and diagrams on the chalk-board (oh how quaint) became obscured in part, as a zig-zag light-show expanded across half of my visual field. It passed, but an hour later I was beset by a savage, sick, headache. It's a total affliction, and not as many seem to think, a headache. It requires darkness, quiet, and rest.

This morning, I suffered my third attack in 24 hours. I was due to visit the dental hygienist too. Oh joy. There's a tendency for one's body to want to sleep when afflicted so, and this was the case as I lay back in the hygienist's chair. As she scraped, polished, and probed (I'm sure I detected a low, sadistic cackling) I was twice awakened by her as my slackening and closing jaws threatened to clamp onto her instruments of torture!

Self-absorption. Typical of, though not exclusive to, introverts. From moment to moment I'm toying with, pushing, pulling, turning up, over, and around, thoughts. I'm rarely "totally out there" (except on special occasions, for instance, when having sex, or juggling). This inwardness accounts for accusations of being "spaced", "a dreamer", or simply, "not paying attention". I have a suspicion my inability, or at least, poor performance at multi-tasking, is due to this constant inner-focus. Not that I want to move too far along the spectrum to the point of being "out there" fully, but the ability to raise my head and shoulders above the parapet of my inner-sanctum, would be progress.

Misunderstandings. These abound in my life. This is related in part, to my self-absorption. Even when conversing, or writing, I have difficulty in getting all of my thoughts out, either verbally or on paper. In my haste to get the words spoken or written, I'll often leave ideas, crucial to the understanding of what I'm saying, in my head. This can have amusing results, but all too often, it creates conflict. Thus I need to exercise what I lack most, patience.

Impatience. In my estimation, a vice, and my worst. I want everything now, if not yesterday. I've tried to ameliorate this desire,but I've concluded it's essentially innate and almost, but not quite, beyond cure.

Impulsiveness. Linked to impatience. Self-restraint is not my forte. I've had a measure of success, but at those times when I'm not at my best, the wisdom of stepping back, allowing time to think, goes out of the window. I jump. My inwardness and impatience prevent me from digesting information fully, and I get the "wrong end of the stick"; in fact, I can miss the stick altogether, and grasp something totally different, something conceived in my imagination only. If I'm in a "delicate" conversation, problems may ensue.

Lay psychological analysis. I can't help this one. It's "what I do". It's fun, but can be fraught with danger. I quote from Wikipedia; To criticise does not necessarily imply to find fault, but the word is often taken to mean the simple expression of prejudice or disapproval. It's a risky business engaging in such a discipline, but like I say, it's what I do. Other's go white-water rafting, or bungee-jumping. Oh the adrenalin rush...

When I began writing this post, I expected to fill it with a veritable gallimaufry of trivial annoyances and pet-hates. But it seems, all of my issues in life are primarily internal. Is that good or bad? Hmmm....

Artful dodgings

2010-08-15T19:07:00.001+01:00

It wasn’t many years ago, during what I call the hey-day of blogging, web journals were by and large, personal. At least that was my perception. I can remember a time when, at the inception of the ‘next blog button’ in Blogger, its use would more than likely give you a personal site, a site making general observations about life, love, the family, and all related mundanities. Less frequent were the Art, craft, and special interest blogs which seem to proliferate these days. Not that this is a bad thing (and I confess to being fascinated by those persons I consider “proper” artists) but it makes me wonder, what is this thing we call ‘Art’. Even I’m not immune to aspire to create in this way, indeed, my Ipad sports two, as yet, unused, Art applications - Brushes, and Sketchbook Pro. And I was interested enough to pay for them, though the fascination isn’t random. I do have what may be called, a history in this domain.

A while ago now, when just a child, in my class I was considered to be one of the more “talented” draughtsman and painters, if not the best. This accolade lasted throughout my school years until such time I left at age sixteen. It culminated in the award of a free scholarship for the local college of Art, Birmingham. Not that I ever attended. Dad saw to that. His prejudice ensured I would never end up like those “long-haired layabouts (aka Art students) hanging out at the fountain square!”.

Ironic words in retrospect, considering this was the mid-sixties, just prior to the apogee of the “hippy years”; and, as it transpired, my sympathies lay with these, the great “unwashed” (as referred to by the less tolerant). My allegiance to this “scruffy bunch” was badged by means of thick, wavy hair, cascading over my shoulders (oh how I miss those days when, even washed in carbolic soap, it shone as if conditioned by the finest most expensive lotions and oils) Not that I spent too much time displaying my luxuriant locks around Birmingham’s premier water-feature. Not at all. My preference was for the upstairs room at Bogarts, a public house at the top end of New Street - the choice of hippies, quasi and authentic alike. But still, arguably it amounted to a, “Hey there daddy, look, see my finger?”

I can’t though, in all fairness, blame father. Like many of his generation he did his best, ensuring I was fed, clothed and well shod. He wouldn’t have known of progressive concepts such as encouragement or support, and as for personal expression, he’d have viewed the idea with disdain, thinking, and I can imagine him saying, “what a load of crap!”. Life was clear-cut. It was his and mothers job to ensure the statutory requirement of school attendance was met; it was not their brief to take an interest, or get involved in, the work itself. Neither did they ensure I did my homework, so you can guess as to my extra-curricular effort! No, for them it was simple and uncomplicated: school was designed to pass time till I was able to leave and go out into the big world, to earn shoe leather. That last year of school, at age 16, was the last time I remember putting HB grade pencil to paper, or brush to paint pot.

In retrospect, I’m not convinced, had father been of another mind, it would have turned out differently. I don’t ever remember feeling particularly skilled at drawing and painting. Techniques were never broached, not during my time at school anyway. It was about natural(and I use the word cautiously) “talent’. When it came to drawing, all I did was emulate as best I could what I saw, though I was aware, comparatively speaking, my efforts were often more realistic than those of my classmates; but I didn’t feel it was due to the possession of any skill, more a lack of something on their part. I was praised, but it never felt deserved. How could it? To do what came naturally didn’t require obstacles to be overcome, or the application of effort. I just did what I did. Though it’s possible, if this innate ability had been mentored and nurtured, I’d be capable of producing the kind of work I now admire. It’s a big If.

In my maturity, I often reflect on those times. Is my current interest in Art solely down to the praise heaped upon me all those years ago? Am I looking to engage in something I can be good at, and which I feel will gain me approval? Or maybe I feel the approval comes from the cool appellation of, Don Swift, Artist! Or is it, as many would claim, innate? Is the manipulation of paint, clay, and other materials, a vehicle for self-expression? Or perhaps an end in itself, the very act of painting, or sculpting, a meditation in manipuilation? I don’t know. Not yet.

The whole notion of Art and Artist is puzzling, for me at least. What is it? In its most popular usage, to describe a sphere of activity, it becomes more elusive. What constitutes Art or being an Artist? Is it, for example, simply the engaging in painting that makes you an Artist? But what if you copy faithfully a work considered to be Art, does that make you an Artist too? Or are you, no matter how competent, simply a craftsman? Of course, as I write all of this, the question comes plainly into view: does it matter? I have to say, yes, inasmuch as many talk with authority (rightly or wrongly) on this very subject.

My provisional idea, and I’d appreciate any constructive criticism, is: if the work involved employs skilled and repetitive techniques only, even if the finished result is of the highest quality, then it's considered a craft. But, if the work has implicit within it, something novel, something challenging, something which stirs the imagination, then it can be considered Art. Maybe.

I'm toying with the idea that a necessary, but not sufficient condition for being an Artist is to have attitude: to challenge, to confront, to be contrary; the opposite of the formulaic, which craft always is. Again, maybe.

You’ll have to excuse me now, I’m off to get to grips with my digital painting applications. Don’t expect any displays too soon though.

Words that trouble me #1 - nice

2010-08-14T17:31:00.013+01:00

I find this word so general in it's applicability, as to have virtually no meaning, especially when used in the realm of human relationships. Take for instance, the assertion, "oh he's a nice bloke!" - what precisely, does that mean?

If ever this word is used to describe me (a rare occasion) I feel, if not offended, then uncomfortable. And though I appreciate it's often applied when the user is too lazy (or perhaps unable) to be more specific in their description, I suspect its frequently used to state implicitly: this person is safe; this person is no threat; this person doesn't compromise my security; this person won't upstage me. He or she is, quite simply, nice.

Being a nice person puts you in big demand, but for all the wrong reasons. It's concluded, in terms of your sociability, you're about as effective as a slap with a limp biscuit.

And nice is sought after; people even marry nice, in order to preserve their ascendancy. Well, it's their prerogative, but personally, I prefer to aspire towards equality, which is often, if not always, painful, and requires effort; but then, if you're really respecting of the rights of others, and aware of your natural tendencies to trample on them, albeit subtly, you'll have no issue with this, indeed, you'll welcome it!

Go on, test yourself! In future, when you find yourself ascribing this word to someone, try to be honest with yourself, what precisely are you saying? And if you're the recipient of such an ascription, consider what I've said, do you like being considered nice? Is nice, in view of what I've said, what you want to be?

Cerebrally right

2010-08-13T10:25:00.001+01:00

I received an email today, bearing the sentiment - Happy Left-handers Day! I had no idea. Did you?

Blinking here. Nonplussed.

Slap a doody ding dong

2010-08-08T17:44:00.018+01:00

It's all too easy to take life and ourselves too seriously. For this reason I recommend engaging, at least occasionally, in the age-old regime of silliness.*

Daftness, as a discipline is broad. There are, and never have been, hard and fast rules as to what constitutes, "acting the pratt"; but as a general rule of thumb, it steers clear of the clever, being nothing if not: an antidote against the dangers of intellectualism; a cure for pomposity; a salve to steer us clear of arrogance; and a needle to prick the bubble of vanity.

Phlappat, phlippet, badoing!

In this all too serious world, silliness acts as a safety-valve to release health-damaging tension. I use it to counteract my tendencies to slip into pretentiousness, often seen on this very blog.

Throot!

A typical 'silly' I use throughout the day is to substitute, "furry muff", for the phrase, "fair enough". And recently I've taken to thinking of my lunchtime fare as, "sand wedges", or, "sang widges" (Children know, understand, and revel in this kind of "silly"). So...

Remember, for the sake of your physical health and your sanity, don't take life too seriously; come on, you know it makes sense, don't laugh.... I'm serious!

Gershplunkenheit!

* Not to be confused with stupidity. This is stupidity.

Long dark night of the soul

2010-08-06T13:05:00.008+01:00

Continuing on the subject of drink, there's an interesting effect of over-indulgence, though I'm not talking about the morning after, but the evening ahead.

In my youth I called this effect , "the horrors", though that's an overstatement, as in truth, it's less severe. The following day, as bedtime approaches, it begins, experienced as a non-specific dread. It affects sleep too. Periodically, I'll awaken and find myself beset by these amorphous phantasms; and all attempts to fend them off via the power of rational thought are futile.

You have to admire and envy those who drink Horlicks only!

A whine about wine

2010-08-05T13:58:00.002+01:00

Yesterday evening was one of those occasions becoming evermore rare, deemed to be a good time to partake of a little more than a glass or bottle of alcoholic beverage (these days, occasional indulgences). The first glass (of Chardonnay I think) left me feeling pleasantly relaxed, rather mellow. I felt at peace with both myself and the world. But... therein lies the Danger. Why, you may ask? Well, there is, in my humble estimation, a strange logic cum illogic regarding alcohol: from the premise one drink makes you feel good, it is concluded two will double the pleasure, three triple it, and four... well, you get the idea. It doesn't though, as you know.

At some point, probably at the fifth glass, the unwanted realisation of this sad truth pressed upon my consciousness. The logic didn't hold. If it had, at this point I ought to have been hovering in the upper-stratosphere, approaching the gates of Nirvana, if not already there. Alas, the glow had since worn off, leaving only slight depression and guilt feelings for once again succumbing to this false-logic.

Maybe as a young man I should have persevered with marijuana?

Never again!

Ponderings on parochialism

2010-08-03T11:48:00.002+01:00

Life is still able to surprise me, as I found this morning during my commute to work. On this occasion I didn't have the company of my usual "train buddy", John, who was probably delayed; instead I found myself surrounded by a "gaggle" of middle-aged women; a lively bunch, laughing, chattering, and causing good-natured mayhem.

From their conversation, I gleaned they were on a day trip to London, an exciting excursion into the "Big Smoke". They spoke excitedly of Camden Market, Museums, the Thames, and the "dangers" (retail-wise) of Oxford Street. They were well-prepared too, displaying bag after bag of provisions: wet-wipes, tissues, tourist guide books, food, and surprisingly, washing powder. They offered me a muffin; I declined, "thanks all the same", said I, "but it's too early in the day!". Oh how they laughed, almost.

My destination approached, and as I excused myself from the group, I bid them a good visit. At that moment, approaching the exit, I was overwhelmed by the desire to stay on the train, with a view to tagging along with this jolly group. Feelings long-buried, engulfed me: the forgotten thrill of my youthful, "illicit" days off, when, with my friend, I'd forego the office, and instead, spend the day wasting time sipping beer in a pub (I was living with my parents, and at days end, I'd arrive home, feigning tiredness after a hard day's toil).

Needless to say, I didn't act upon this desire, but I have feelings of regret. A chance missed. And why? Because for most of us, Life insidiously creates around us, a hard veneer of routine, of responsibility, of shoulds, oughts, and musts. We become provincial in every sense, safe, secure, but sadly, limited.

For the first time since my youth, I have no compelling obligation to anyone. Nothing binds me. Not a person, nor place. I'm free to do, as I wish. Then why don't I? Next time, just you see... next time...

Nr Glengarrif, County Cork, Ireland

2010-08-02T20:29:00.004+01:00

More pics here

Animations

2010-08-01T14:33:00.007+01:00

I don’t think Science has all the answers. There are some things I’m sure, scientific methodology will never explain; indeed, it’s based on the erroneous dualism of inanimate and animate objects. But all perceptive persons know the Universe is alive, whether at molecular or planetary level. Take the days of the week for instance, they have personalities. Yes, you may scoff, but it's true; take the other week for example, a Thursday.

I knew from the off it was “different”. As I entered the station car park, I noticed there were few spaces occupied. The train too was pleasantly spacious, allowing the spreading of one's legs, and imbuing one with the substantial feeling of “impending weekend”. And if you should think, "so what? What's the big deal, it's just one of those days!", let me tell you, the office gave off a similar air. My colleagues too were of a lightened disposition, usually seen on Fridays and Christmas Eve only. How much more evidence do you require?

Well, I can telll you, I was livid. I’m not a stick-in-the-mud, and I like a practical joke as much as the next man, but this was a jape too far. For the working man or woman, some things are inviolable, never to be tampered with, and the “feel” of the day is one of those. I was damn convinced it was Friday. It looked and felt as much. So imagine my despair when after a brief conversation with a colleague, I realised I'd been fooled. Why was Thursday doing this to me? Why was “the day” taking the piss so? Had I in some way offended it? Maybe I’d inadvertently walked upon the cracks in the pavement? Walked under a ladder? Or perhaps, whistled on a Tuesday? I guess I'll never know.

Talking of objects hitherto thought of as inanimate, did you know mirrors are alive too? This is true. And some of them are truly beastly. I’m thinking in particular of the mirrors in department stores... oh how horrid they make me look. Thank goodness for the “toilet mirror” at my place of work - she’s my buddy (mirrors have gender too, you know) and is so kind to me... gives a more realistic portrayal... takes years off me.

I refuse to talk about the weather, that schizoid, malevolent, demon....

Starboard view

2010-07-02T07:24:00.002+01:00

Aegean Sunrise

2010-07-01T21:16:00.006+01:00

CLOSED

2010-06-21T10:18:00.001+01:00

Sailing off into the sunset. Business will be resumed in 8 days time.

A warming tale...

2010-06-12T15:30:00.001+01:00

I'm discumknockulated for sure, and I have good reason.

It's not the sunniest, brightest, or hottest of summer days today, but still, despite the clouds, the sun is holding it's own and temperatures are more than short-sleeve-worthy; so it was with some surprise as I entered mom's living room, to feel a slight resistance as a wall of hot air embraced me!

"Mother!", says I, "why on earth do you have the gas-fire on?".

"I get cold!", she says, predictably.

"Don't you think it would be better if you wore a cardigan?"

"What?", she snapped, "a cardigan.. AT THIS TIME OF YEAR?".

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so at this point in the writing, I wish I had access to a wide-eyed, unblinking, emoticon.

Sheesh!

Scrofulus...

2010-05-31T16:32:00.005+01:00

In space, no one can hear you scream! There, I've said it now. I've been wanting to say that for a while, though why such things spring to mind I have no idea [for the record, the quote is from the the original poster advertising the Ridley Scott film, Alien]

Is it only me, or do others blurt out things apropos of nothing? I frequently find myself voicing odd words or quoting, sometimes singing, well-known song lyrics and short phrases. Always, they're unrelated to what I'm doing or thinking at the time.

I think this is indicative of my often, fragmented internal life.

Jitterbug, we'll do the jitterbug... you see? I've done it again... a snippet from Wham's 1984 hit, "Wake me up before you go-go".

Some enchanted evening... aaarrrggghhh!

Outward bound

2010-05-21T12:54:00.004+01:00

I'm going away again, and soon. On June 21st I fly off to Turkey to board a Gulet (a traditional sailing ship) and spend a week doing nothing in particular, except eat, drink, swim, and relax. I'm going alone; however, I will be joined by 10 other holidaymakers, all of whom are in the same boat (no pun intended) as solo travellers. I have no idea as to their age or gender, but frankly I don't care.

Business as usual...

2010-05-20T15:50:00.008+01:00

It's official. I heard the news today from my boss, via SMS text (yes, I'm that important): starting the beginning of June, I'm back on full-time work! Now I have to re-adjust to working a full five days as opposed to four. To be honest, I don't relish the prospect, though the pain will be marginally softened by extra money. Having more time to myself has been, all things considered and despite my vexed personal life, more than welcome. I'm a spiritual guy at heart, so please don't be misled by my recent admission to retail-therapy. Believe me, money is not that important. I shall miss my mid-week micro-sabbatical. Sigh.

Buying oblivion!

2010-05-19T18:56:00.011+01:00

In one day, I purchased a new pocket-camera and an Apple Ipad. In retrospect I'm wondering why. I own a perfectly functional (meeting all of my photographic needs) Panasonic with 10x zoom, so why purchase a Samsung, similar in most respects, apart from extra magnification at 15X? And the Apple ipad? If you're not familiar with this device, imagine, it's larger than a cellphone but smaller than a netbook computer. It may have a greater data-input capability than the phone, but that only has value if used out and about and frequently, for

blogging, lengthy emails, and the like.

I'm the victim of that common but futile attempt to fill a void in one's life by purchasing "stuff". Some folks eat, some become manic, and others, like myself, buy gadgets. We're all trying to do the same thing though, that is, take our mind off what's bothering us.

I hope to resolve my life-crisis soon... before it bankrupts me!

Lacking finesse

2010-05-18T18:45:00.010+01:00

I couldn't go to work today, allthough, "couldn't", may be too strong a word. If I'd steeled myself, I'd have made it; but do I want to spend two and a half hours travelling, along with 8 hours sitting, when my bowels are operating on a hair-trigger, my head is thumping, and my bones, muscles, sinews, and my cells too, are aching?

It's not all bad though, for is it not true, every cloud has a silver-lining? Apart that is, from those without, like cheap curtains... but I digress. Something good happened.

I had a "moment". An instance of inspiration which, on reflection could have gone wrong, but which nevertheless, I chose to act upon.

My action? I gave the lap top a single, and as an Irishman might say, tump!. It resolved my "trapped cd" problem... or, as I might say, t'werked.

Stick it in, at your peril...

2010-05-17T19:27:00.012+01:00

Revelation: I can be stupid. Yes, it's true, there's no use in protesting (do I hear strains of, "no way... tell me it's not true!") I'm confessing to an dumbness that ranks amongst the best of the blunderers.

In this life, it's an asset to have the commonsense not to go poking your hands, fingers, head, or anything else, into a slot, hole, or any opening in which you're not sure of: a) it's appropriateness or, b) of what lies inside. Today, my blunder is of the former sort - why on earth I blithely stuck it in, I don't know, but I regret it now, and I have to pay the price.

Hands up all of you who are aware of slot-loading cd drives, as opposed to the drawer kind? And hands up all of you who are aware of smaller, 80mm cds, as opposed to the standard 120mm? Well, let me tell you, nay, warn you... don't go poking your little disc into the slot kind... you'll be disappointed. It will go in, but that's all. No whirring, no humming, no playing, no nuttin! It's as if it "doesn't touch the sides"! So, how can you expect an appropriate response? But it gets worse - the damn thing, though it slides in all too smoothly and easily, it cometh out not!

Good news, my My 12" Apple Powerbook continues to work, but future cd-ripping to itunes is threatened. To resolve the problem, I've an appointment with the "tecchies" at the local Apple Store, "Genius Bar".

I'll feel like the small boy in the doctor's surgery, you know the one, he's there to have the glass marble removed, the one deeply embedded in his nostril.

Blush.

Hot Stuff

2010-05-16T17:51:00.011+01:00

Today, Sunday, I spent a few hours in the City Centre. Time was, "back in the day", this was a regular haunt. Then, many of my blog posts were conceived during the time spent sitting in my favourite coffee shop, The Coffee Republic, and the period relaxing on the sofas provided in Waterstones Bookstore. An age ago it seems.

I failed to get inspired. However, I did perspire; though not due to the weather, although it was warm; instead, the perspiration was due to the exceptionally large hot-dog complete with fried onions and smattering of West Indian Hot Pepper Sauce.

I've little else to say. Most of my thoughts are dull, personal, and way too abstract to be of interest here. It's a confidence issue. I need to wrest myself out of my head and get back into the real world. Not for the sake of the blog, but for the sake of my sanity. Still, baby steps, eh?

Next week, I'm going to mix Pepper sauces. Is there no end to my derring-do?

Jugs...

2010-05-13T14:35:00.005+01:00

I consider myself to be a writer, but label myself so, simply because I like to write, not because I'm published or particularly able in any way. In my estimation it's the most competent thing I do.

My pleasure is to lay words on the page, to construct sentences, and to arrange them in paragraphs. Where possible I like to convey meaning too, but this is not always my primary goal as I find I can't write if I'm not having at least a little fun; so be prepared to find liberties taken with words, as they may be "distorted", or even newly invented (neologisms) as with the title of a long ago aborted blog of mine - "Wazzmococcic".

The word "wazzmococcic" is contrived from the word "wazzo", first heard in the BBC comedy Bottom , the reference being, "wazzo jugs"; "jugs" meaning breasts, and "wazzo", meaning, "impressive". The latter part, "coccic", is derived from "cocci" - a word approximating, I think, "of great proportion" - found in one of (I forget which) Henry Miller's trilogy of books, Sexus, Nexus, and Plexus. Anyway, it will suffice to say, "Wazzmococcic" is synonymous with, "of splendid grandeur". Onward we go...

Losing myself

2010-05-13T11:59:00.004+01:00

I love to travel. Not an uncommon admission, I grant you, as few fail to get excited about visiting climes new. And I share in this buzz too, but in this instance, I'm referring to the act of travelling itself. When the packing is done, the taxi is loaded, and I'm off on my way to the airport, I'm transformed. Mundane concerns melt away and I feel... well... I just feel. Self-identity seems absent, or at least, greatly diminished. Maybe, just maybe...[wait for it... an original thought coming up, at least original to me]... too well-honed a sense of who we are is an obstacle to self-fulfillment?

I've found leaving my self behind is the most liberating feeling. All the self-labelling that personal identity consists of, is gone. All the rules I impose on myself take a back step. I'm not such an such a person with such and such beliefs, I'm more fluid, more understanding, more tolerant perhaps. A better person?

Maybe there's an object lesson here in how best to be, or at least, how to aspire to be. The problem is though, the return journey. I have an inkling now of why I get depressed on arriving home. These days I want the outward bound journey to last forever.

From the eastern sky it came....

2009-12-30T11:37:00.003Z

It's always my intention to say something profound, something interesting, or humorous... but sadly I don't have profound, interesting, or humorous thoughts.... but still, why let such minor deficiencies prevent productivity ? The show, as they say, must go on!

This year has, on reflection, been cack/cac/kack/shite/shitty (delete to suit). Not that I'm going to dwell on the setbacks, the losses, or other negative aspects... instead, I shall endeavour to look for the positive.

[ thinks... ]

[ thinks some more... ]

Things reached such a pitch, I was forced to look inside myself. I gained insight. The future looks rosier.

Happy New Year!

PS. It snowed last night. Not the crisp, powdery sort, that when trodden on, compacts in a most delicious and satisfying way... no.... this is less substantial, bordering on the watery - slush disguised as snow! I suspect it's a cheap foreign import (probably from Shanghai) unlike the "made in Britain" variety I knew as a child. Sigh.

Wallowing in the dirt

2009-12-16T13:31:00.004Z

I'm turned 60 years of age. I'm surprised. It kinda rushed in on me. Last thing I remember was sitting in the dirt, digging with a stick; mom was in the kitchen, busy doing mom-like things, but keeping a watchful eye. It was a glorious sunny day too, with not a breath of air, as Cabbage White butterflies flitted fervently, and bees waggle-danced and extracted pollen from the wild flowers (dad was never a gardener). Funny isn't it, how our childhood days are remembered like this... golden... idyllic...

Then... of a sudden, in the blink of an eye, here I am... a sixty year old. What happened? Where did the intervening years go?

Maturity. There's a word for you. I try not laugh as I apply it to myself. I'm not even sure I know what it means, though I do know there's a general social expectation: it's a pity my hair isn't grey, or better still, snow white? And to keep in character, maybe a little bad posture wouldn't go amiss, just a slight stoop? That would be a good start; t'would complement well the image of pottering in the garden, or expertly doing those little jobs around the house that granddads do so well. And we all know... this is done to kill time. If not for this pottering and hammer wielding, I'd be in suspended animation, coming alive only when the grandkids visit. Maturity is a time where satisfaction comes from selflessness only...

I must be doing something wrong.