Apologies for last week's atrocious behaviour. I fully rescind any derogatory statements regarding the book of face apart from the part about alternative creations, selfish megalomaniacs and society's inevitable plunge into idiocy.
Having seen a photo of one of the Thai 'Red Shirt' leaders using facebook to share political ideologies after his government shut down his website, I now believe that the social networking phenomenon can be used for good. How effective this communication is, I have no gauge on and can only speculate on the efficacy of other people's behaviour when I have spent this fine Thursday morning sleeping, eating and waiting to do a poo.
rant in F major
facebook is rubbish.
instead of talking to people and discussing ideas, feelings and stories we now feel obliged to communicate through meaningless abbreviated cliches, OMGROFLLMAO! if i wanted to spend my life drooling monosyllabic crap, pretending that I'm something that I'm not, desperately trying to fit in, I would have joined the marketing industry. look at what social networking could be used for - collaboration, saving time, effective networking etc. and look at what it is primarily used for.
a film about facebook is revolting garbage, the kind that we dump in small african villages through fly-by-night corporate-directed small businesses. why would anyone want to spend their free time paying homage to geeky, selfish megalomaniacs who have cursed our society with the gift of unburdenable idiocy? because it's cool. it's cool and we've got plenty of time and money to splurge on bullshit, rather than creating something ourselves or reading a book or, perhaps even more enlightening, shooting yourself in the face. Why not combine all three and create a situation of having a book inside your face? Damien Hirst eat your heart out and stud it with diamonds.
instead of talking to people and discussing ideas, feelings and stories we now feel obliged to communicate through meaningless abbreviated cliches, OMGROFLLMAO! if i wanted to spend my life drooling monosyllabic crap, pretending that I'm something that I'm not, desperately trying to fit in, I would have joined the marketing industry. look at what social networking could be used for - collaboration, saving time, effective networking etc. and look at what it is primarily used for.
a film about facebook is revolting garbage, the kind that we dump in small african villages through fly-by-night corporate-directed small businesses. why would anyone want to spend their free time paying homage to geeky, selfish megalomaniacs who have cursed our society with the gift of unburdenable idiocy? because it's cool. it's cool and we've got plenty of time and money to splurge on bullshit, rather than creating something ourselves or reading a book or, perhaps even more enlightening, shooting yourself in the face. Why not combine all three and create a situation of having a book inside your face? Damien Hirst eat your heart out and stud it with diamonds.
The Conjurer
Let's just say, if complete and utter chaos was lightning, he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop, in a thunderstorm, wearing wet copper armour and shouting, "All gods are bastards!"
Not my words, just the thoughts of one madman to another.
Not my words, just the thoughts of one madman to another.
Death and Taxes
There lies in this land a leviathan, a brutally blood-thirsty beast as old as the oak trees. And every night it devours its subjects' sacrifices and every morning it screams at its own dismal suffering.
It sends its minions far and wide, searching in squadron formation as they scour the desolate land for scraps and salvage. But herein lies no salvation, for they will never escape their bondage, forever lying at the bottom of the pecking order. The only species beneath them are the dullard people of South Glamorganshire, who busy themselves hording anything that cannot be eaten, muttering all the while to themselves and drinking spirits that would sell their soul to be called moonshine.
I may be mad, I may stand alone, but I will not pay homage to the King of the Seagulls!
It sends its minions far and wide, searching in squadron formation as they scour the desolate land for scraps and salvage. But herein lies no salvation, for they will never escape their bondage, forever lying at the bottom of the pecking order. The only species beneath them are the dullard people of South Glamorganshire, who busy themselves hording anything that cannot be eaten, muttering all the while to themselves and drinking spirits that would sell their soul to be called moonshine.
I may be mad, I may stand alone, but I will not pay homage to the King of the Seagulls!
Intellectual Mercenaries
I am not a hand for hire. To the highest bidder I will pimp my brain. Smiling costs extra.
To anyone who thinks intellectual property is an assortment of rulers, compasses and finely sharpened pencils, you need not apply for my services. For I am a thinker. Thinking is what I do, and what I do best. I do not work. People pay me to do their thinking for them, or in some cases the pretence of thinking. And when I have finished pretending to think, those thoughts can be yours, for a price.
I do not lurk in the shadows, dagger clenched between teeth as I scale your drainpipe, I do not guard your illegitimately gained possessions by shooting the occaional passer by. What I do, as an intellectual mercenary is far more sinister. If you have a 'problem' that needs solving then you know where I am, or not.
To anyone who thinks intellectual property is an assortment of rulers, compasses and finely sharpened pencils, you need not apply for my services. For I am a thinker. Thinking is what I do, and what I do best. I do not work. People pay me to do their thinking for them, or in some cases the pretence of thinking. And when I have finished pretending to think, those thoughts can be yours, for a price.
I do not lurk in the shadows, dagger clenched between teeth as I scale your drainpipe, I do not guard your illegitimately gained possessions by shooting the occaional passer by. What I do, as an intellectual mercenary is far more sinister. If you have a 'problem' that needs solving then you know where I am, or not.
The Mathematician's Arsenal
A shabbily dressed man with a hole in his jacket, having just returned from a morning walk to the shops, sat down in his study. On the walls, star charts and maps studded the darkness of the wooden walls and the musty light trickled through the blinds. He sat alone, with a befuddled expression on his unshaven face. One of the morning newspapers had printed an image of a school teacher presenting a proof of the quadratic formula. Not only was the proof incomplete but it was poorly written, as if the publisher had tried to portray their own artistic expression of the infallible equations. It leered out of the page at him, mocking his capabilities, jeering him into action. And so, on the morning of Saturday the 23rd August 1958, the war began.
The battle ground was set, troops were manoeuvred, supplies were brought forward and an emergency economy was established. The housekeeper was informed not to disturb these urgent matters unless in the case of a fire or lunch. The mathematician would leave the study either in a state of brief content or in a coffin. He wielded the pencil with a flourish, like a fanfare of trumpets; setting to work with all the effortless enthusiasm of one who is blissfully unaware of things to come. Now, there are various tools available to the experienced campaigner and the mathematician soon realised that he would have to think outside the box if he was to emerge victorious. The first battle had been fought and lost, with heavy casualties on both sides but no clear victor. A thin wisp of smoke lingered as he extinguished his first cigarette. The light danced treacherously amongst the darkness. Each theorem that was flung headlong into the fray was foiled, each reorganisation of the troops simply met with further calamity. Lunchtime came and went without a pause. The mathematician sat back with a sigh and let his mind wander, out across the garden, over the rolling hills of the South Downs, through the tall trees filled with life and longing. It was in this moment that his felt quite singular; an unknown in a uniform field; as though he had broken through this plane of unity to find himself transposed into another dimension. He felt his personal pressures evaporate and the divisive struggle of survival to diminish to the point of no return. It was in this frame of mind that he knew best what he had to offer the world.
Returning to his mathematical conundrum he realised that the hour was late. The maths was simple and elegant. He added to both sides, giving generously and in the same fell swoop simplifying the sides with one common denominator. The troops turned their guns into telescopes, balance was preserved and the mathematician left the study with the glimmer of a smile on his chops and a twinkle in his eye.
The battle ground was set, troops were manoeuvred, supplies were brought forward and an emergency economy was established. The housekeeper was informed not to disturb these urgent matters unless in the case of a fire or lunch. The mathematician would leave the study either in a state of brief content or in a coffin. He wielded the pencil with a flourish, like a fanfare of trumpets; setting to work with all the effortless enthusiasm of one who is blissfully unaware of things to come. Now, there are various tools available to the experienced campaigner and the mathematician soon realised that he would have to think outside the box if he was to emerge victorious. The first battle had been fought and lost, with heavy casualties on both sides but no clear victor. A thin wisp of smoke lingered as he extinguished his first cigarette. The light danced treacherously amongst the darkness. Each theorem that was flung headlong into the fray was foiled, each reorganisation of the troops simply met with further calamity. Lunchtime came and went without a pause. The mathematician sat back with a sigh and let his mind wander, out across the garden, over the rolling hills of the South Downs, through the tall trees filled with life and longing. It was in this moment that his felt quite singular; an unknown in a uniform field; as though he had broken through this plane of unity to find himself transposed into another dimension. He felt his personal pressures evaporate and the divisive struggle of survival to diminish to the point of no return. It was in this frame of mind that he knew best what he had to offer the world.
Returning to his mathematical conundrum he realised that the hour was late. The maths was simple and elegant. He added to both sides, giving generously and in the same fell swoop simplifying the sides with one common denominator. The troops turned their guns into telescopes, balance was preserved and the mathematician left the study with the glimmer of a smile on his chops and a twinkle in his eye.
the encephalophalus
once upon a time there lived a discrete and peaceful tribe, who tended their crops and told stories by firelight. They knew of a being far greater than themselves and this is its tale.
when the world was young and cheeky, it came upon the idea of creating a tree so large that it itself could not carry the thing: it was to be so huge and so heavy that it would outweigh the earth and, being as things were much different in those days and seeing as the young planet could get away with bloody murder, the world tree was born. Now to begin with the sprout was like all others; it shivvered in the wind; it looked as frail as a duckling; but after a time the magnificent specimen began to bear fruit. The creatures that lived near the elcephalophalus had amazing ideas that often puzzled the other animals when they first heard them but after a while the beings of the land came to understand that this was a wonderous tree that inspired great thoughts. Little did they know its true spirit, for while the young earth was fashionning the unique seed it put so much thought and effort into its conception that it left a tiny piece of itself within the tree.
And so, as time rolled by whistling carelessly, the world tree grew into a great and mighty thing. It harboured many birds and squirrels, it befriended a myriad of insect species, it sheltered weary travellers and hedgehogs made its roots their home. The world was happy. Furthermore, as with all things it continued to grow according to the world's original plan and became so large that it began to wobble the earth itself. The seasons began to change and those who lived in the upper reaches of the canopy said they saw a strange light growing in the distance. And so the world tree learned its fate. It was no longer to live on earth but was blessed with another destiny. It's hefty trunk began to wither, it's powerful roots to writhe and unfold. One day there was said to be a pop as the world tree finally left behind it the muddy shores of its past and it drifted on up into the stratosphere. There it continues to inspire those who care to look upon the night sky and gives great ideas to those who take the time to grace the encephalophalus with a thought or two.
when the world was young and cheeky, it came upon the idea of creating a tree so large that it itself could not carry the thing: it was to be so huge and so heavy that it would outweigh the earth and, being as things were much different in those days and seeing as the young planet could get away with bloody murder, the world tree was born. Now to begin with the sprout was like all others; it shivvered in the wind; it looked as frail as a duckling; but after a time the magnificent specimen began to bear fruit. The creatures that lived near the elcephalophalus had amazing ideas that often puzzled the other animals when they first heard them but after a while the beings of the land came to understand that this was a wonderous tree that inspired great thoughts. Little did they know its true spirit, for while the young earth was fashionning the unique seed it put so much thought and effort into its conception that it left a tiny piece of itself within the tree.
And so, as time rolled by whistling carelessly, the world tree grew into a great and mighty thing. It harboured many birds and squirrels, it befriended a myriad of insect species, it sheltered weary travellers and hedgehogs made its roots their home. The world was happy. Furthermore, as with all things it continued to grow according to the world's original plan and became so large that it began to wobble the earth itself. The seasons began to change and those who lived in the upper reaches of the canopy said they saw a strange light growing in the distance. And so the world tree learned its fate. It was no longer to live on earth but was blessed with another destiny. It's hefty trunk began to wither, it's powerful roots to writhe and unfold. One day there was said to be a pop as the world tree finally left behind it the muddy shores of its past and it drifted on up into the stratosphere. There it continues to inspire those who care to look upon the night sky and gives great ideas to those who take the time to grace the encephalophalus with a thought or two.
Elephant chutney
The other evening I went for dinner at a friend's house. I arrived early and brought a bottle of wine to set the mood and as usual the kitchen was a hive of activity with people being recruited for bizarre tasks and fanciful endeavors. But what I found most interesting was the synergy between conversation and cuisine.
As we sat down to eat the wine was poured ceremoniously according to the rules of first engagement. A dreamy couple to my left began to serve themselves to rice while my friend sat quietly entertaining his own thoughts. The kids ate delicately and only sampled the conversation. Several people tucked in straight away and ran out of steam towards the end, other people paced themselves with small digestible mouthfuls. We were having an improvised kind of beef curry with dahl and naan bread and curried cauliflower as well as sauted aubergines in a tangy tomato sauce. We talked of culture and people and science and ideas. But all the while a dish sat serenly to itself in the centre of the table. No one dared touch it for it was known to be picante and dangerous but at the same time it stood there for all to see, brazenly staring us down. I longed to know what the food was but didn't want to draw attention to the fact that no one was bold enough to try it. I wondered why it was that no one dared sample the dish and therefore why it was there at all. But it was. Right there in the centre of the table. Untouched for all to see. The dessert was wheeled out and pleasantries were shared before the end of the night and yet the dish defiantly stood unperturbed.
As we sat down to eat the wine was poured ceremoniously according to the rules of first engagement. A dreamy couple to my left began to serve themselves to rice while my friend sat quietly entertaining his own thoughts. The kids ate delicately and only sampled the conversation. Several people tucked in straight away and ran out of steam towards the end, other people paced themselves with small digestible mouthfuls. We were having an improvised kind of beef curry with dahl and naan bread and curried cauliflower as well as sauted aubergines in a tangy tomato sauce. We talked of culture and people and science and ideas. But all the while a dish sat serenly to itself in the centre of the table. No one dared touch it for it was known to be picante and dangerous but at the same time it stood there for all to see, brazenly staring us down. I longed to know what the food was but didn't want to draw attention to the fact that no one was bold enough to try it. I wondered why it was that no one dared sample the dish and therefore why it was there at all. But it was. Right there in the centre of the table. Untouched for all to see. The dessert was wheeled out and pleasantries were shared before the end of the night and yet the dish defiantly stood unperturbed.
Earthly Delights part three
The days passed and I continued to lead a banal and blessed life, blissfully unconcerned with the strange occurrences under my very feet. But at night, persistent roots would sprout as horrible weeds in my humble vegetable patch. Twisted, macabre dreams haunted me during these hours and the withered expressions of the prisoners rippled across an otherwise tranquil pool.
I decided that I had to help; to do something; at least if not to alleviate the suffering of those underground creatures, then to put my own mind at ease. Packing a few candles, some water and some fruit I re-entered the dark portal at the bottom of the garden. Nothing had changed. The passageway smelt dank and fausty, and an otherworldly feeling came over me as I re-emerged into the cave. Once more, the man with the placards carried out his tirade in front of the fire, the shadows danced across the far wall and the creatures watched in fascination.
I walked in front of the wall, obscuring the darkness with my lit candles and this time the creatures paid attention. Although they would not look directly at the light, they felt its presence and shrank back, narrowing their vacant eyes. I offered them water from a flask but they declined the offer, moaning, almost wailing in disagreement. I offered them the fruit that I had brought, some apples and a few juicy plums. Not only would they not take them but the pitiful little creatures would not even acknowledge my humble offering. It seemed that my very presence disturbed them, as a cat amongst the pigeons. I attempted to show my sincerity, I sat down with them and bade them no harm but, try as I might, my proximity was disturbing to them. I sought to free them, desperately wrenching at the chains when all of a sudden I realised a young one, a picture of innocence, was looking straight at me in a quizzical way. This was the only confirmation I had received that I was really there in the shadow cave, for otherwise this could have been a figment of my imagination and what an odd one at that! But this small being saw me. It could see my efforts and in some strange way I knew that it found my behaviour slightly comical. As Mothers watch their children play, in that knowing and somewhat smug way, so did this captive observe me and it really felt quite troubling. What was I doing? Why on Earth was I here in this subterranean cell attempting to liberate these beastly folk? And to what end could I liberate them? Was I to take them back with me to suburban England and have them live out the rest of their lives within the confines of my four walls? Would I release the press on them as hounds on a fox? My entire purpose for being there fell away like a steep precipice at one’s feet. Was there really anything that I could do for them?
One of the candles had gone out and seeing as this was the only stimulus to have evoked some reaction from the prisoners I set about relighting it using some old matches. I felt quite beastly myself, and arrogant, in thinking that I was so superior to these beings that I could simply liberate them with my presence. The child still looked on, his head to one side and eyes moist with compassion. He seemed to be asking the same question that I was: just what could I do to help?
Unfortunately, just as I was contemplating how to help the prisoners, others had already decided for me. As I was awakened from thoughts of despair, I realised that the placard bearer had ceased his dance of deceit only to return on masse with others of his kind. They bade me no courtesy as they set about hitting me with sticks and kicking at me with heavy boots. I tried to gather up my possessions but soon decided to get as far away from here as possible. Frantically writhing down the tunnel, I fled, thinking only of saving my own skin. The enraged creatures followed but as I finally emerged into my garden and slammed the lid down on the portal for the final time I heard from them no more. Shaken and haggard, I left that place and decided never to return as I entered the sanctity of my own home and poured myself a hot bath. I realised that I had left my matches and flask back in the underground lair but did not care. I wanted to put as much space between me and that place as possible. I thought not of the prisoners but of my own wretched experiences in trying to break their bondage and it took many weeks to rid my mind of dark and haunting thoughts.
One bright and sunny day that summer I was cutting the grass as a gentle breeze whispered across the land. My life had returned to normal and I seldom spared a thought for the suffering beneath my feet. A sparrow slid through the air to take a drink from the pond and it was this that drew my attention to the corner of the garden and that fated portal. Was it my eyes deceiving me or was there something strange in the air? A thin plume emerged from the hatch of the tunnel and as I watched the smoke grew into a tall column. The realisation soon dawned on me that I had left a pack of matches with the prisoners, particularly with the bright eyed youth. Had this been the great plan all along, for the prisoners to die by the flame? What had I done? What became the young one, who had caused in me the same mirth and humility that had made me realise my futility in that dark and despairing place? Was there any chance of the prisoners having escaped? I could but hope as the smoke was carried by the wind, as the birds sang and flitted across the skies, as the tadpoles squirmed at the edge of the pond and as I, wind at my face, continued to tend my garden.
I decided that I had to help; to do something; at least if not to alleviate the suffering of those underground creatures, then to put my own mind at ease. Packing a few candles, some water and some fruit I re-entered the dark portal at the bottom of the garden. Nothing had changed. The passageway smelt dank and fausty, and an otherworldly feeling came over me as I re-emerged into the cave. Once more, the man with the placards carried out his tirade in front of the fire, the shadows danced across the far wall and the creatures watched in fascination.
I walked in front of the wall, obscuring the darkness with my lit candles and this time the creatures paid attention. Although they would not look directly at the light, they felt its presence and shrank back, narrowing their vacant eyes. I offered them water from a flask but they declined the offer, moaning, almost wailing in disagreement. I offered them the fruit that I had brought, some apples and a few juicy plums. Not only would they not take them but the pitiful little creatures would not even acknowledge my humble offering. It seemed that my very presence disturbed them, as a cat amongst the pigeons. I attempted to show my sincerity, I sat down with them and bade them no harm but, try as I might, my proximity was disturbing to them. I sought to free them, desperately wrenching at the chains when all of a sudden I realised a young one, a picture of innocence, was looking straight at me in a quizzical way. This was the only confirmation I had received that I was really there in the shadow cave, for otherwise this could have been a figment of my imagination and what an odd one at that! But this small being saw me. It could see my efforts and in some strange way I knew that it found my behaviour slightly comical. As Mothers watch their children play, in that knowing and somewhat smug way, so did this captive observe me and it really felt quite troubling. What was I doing? Why on Earth was I here in this subterranean cell attempting to liberate these beastly folk? And to what end could I liberate them? Was I to take them back with me to suburban England and have them live out the rest of their lives within the confines of my four walls? Would I release the press on them as hounds on a fox? My entire purpose for being there fell away like a steep precipice at one’s feet. Was there really anything that I could do for them?
One of the candles had gone out and seeing as this was the only stimulus to have evoked some reaction from the prisoners I set about relighting it using some old matches. I felt quite beastly myself, and arrogant, in thinking that I was so superior to these beings that I could simply liberate them with my presence. The child still looked on, his head to one side and eyes moist with compassion. He seemed to be asking the same question that I was: just what could I do to help?
Unfortunately, just as I was contemplating how to help the prisoners, others had already decided for me. As I was awakened from thoughts of despair, I realised that the placard bearer had ceased his dance of deceit only to return on masse with others of his kind. They bade me no courtesy as they set about hitting me with sticks and kicking at me with heavy boots. I tried to gather up my possessions but soon decided to get as far away from here as possible. Frantically writhing down the tunnel, I fled, thinking only of saving my own skin. The enraged creatures followed but as I finally emerged into my garden and slammed the lid down on the portal for the final time I heard from them no more. Shaken and haggard, I left that place and decided never to return as I entered the sanctity of my own home and poured myself a hot bath. I realised that I had left my matches and flask back in the underground lair but did not care. I wanted to put as much space between me and that place as possible. I thought not of the prisoners but of my own wretched experiences in trying to break their bondage and it took many weeks to rid my mind of dark and haunting thoughts.
One bright and sunny day that summer I was cutting the grass as a gentle breeze whispered across the land. My life had returned to normal and I seldom spared a thought for the suffering beneath my feet. A sparrow slid through the air to take a drink from the pond and it was this that drew my attention to the corner of the garden and that fated portal. Was it my eyes deceiving me or was there something strange in the air? A thin plume emerged from the hatch of the tunnel and as I watched the smoke grew into a tall column. The realisation soon dawned on me that I had left a pack of matches with the prisoners, particularly with the bright eyed youth. Had this been the great plan all along, for the prisoners to die by the flame? What had I done? What became the young one, who had caused in me the same mirth and humility that had made me realise my futility in that dark and despairing place? Was there any chance of the prisoners having escaped? I could but hope as the smoke was carried by the wind, as the birds sang and flitted across the skies, as the tadpoles squirmed at the edge of the pond and as I, wind at my face, continued to tend my garden.
Earthly Delights part two
As the dust came up my thoughts descended; a funny little hole in the garden or something much more revealing? I peered into the gloom. Underneath the speckled lid there was something cooking, a tunnel no less, supported by twisted, creaky beams. I wriggled my way into the hole and along the passage, petrified of what I might or might not find and gazing into the abyss. Trembling with fear but spurred on by excitement, I thought I saw a twinkling in the distance but it could have been my eyes deceiving me; my tummy was filled with butterflies. After struggling for quite some time the light grew more apparent and finally an opening presented itself onto something far more sinister.
Let me describe to you the wonders of that cave. In the distance tall shadows loomed, whilst what can only be portrayed as creatures looked on and close to me, at the side of the tunnel, was a little fellow holding up placards in front of a roaring fire, which was creating the images on the far wall. How bizarre, I thought, and what the devil is going on here? The odd little man with the signs was so deeply engaged in his activities that I didn't dare disturb him and instead turned to the peculiar show and its audience. They seemed silent and motionless and I soon realised why. Whilst no sign of discomfort showed on their gaunt and withered faces, their limbs were firmly bound by thick chains and heavy locks. Neither did they notice me for they were engaged in watching the spectres on the wall and didn't seem to be able to move at all. They watched with such fascination and fixation that I soon came to think that this puppet show was all they cared about, for try as I might, they were not to be distracted. It was as though all that existed were the shadows on the wall. Turning to the man by the fire I asked him, "Excuse me sir, where am I?", and his look of utter horror gave rise to a sinking feeling. I wasn't supposed to be here, he scolded and that I was a fool and should go back to where I belong. Put off by his rudeness and the ridiculous scenario that I was presented with, I felt like walking away, going back up the tunnel and getting on with the gardening. But the demise of the imprisoned audience drew me back. Were they not even aware of their detainment, their bondage and the fallacy of what they saw? I gently tried to catch their attention but they only responded with grunted sounds and coughs as if to drown out my utterances. As the strange little man by the fire became more agitated, telling me to bugger off and calling me all the names under the sun, I grew disheartened. There seemed to be nothing I could do so I simply left, crawled back up the passage from whence I came, covered up the portal in the garden and got on with my life despite the perplexing situation occurring under my hedgerows. Had I fallen and banged my head? Had I mistakenly eaten some of the red berries on the holly bush? I do not know, but I will remember the look on those prisoner’s faces until the day I die. They appeared hollow.
Let me describe to you the wonders of that cave. In the distance tall shadows loomed, whilst what can only be portrayed as creatures looked on and close to me, at the side of the tunnel, was a little fellow holding up placards in front of a roaring fire, which was creating the images on the far wall. How bizarre, I thought, and what the devil is going on here? The odd little man with the signs was so deeply engaged in his activities that I didn't dare disturb him and instead turned to the peculiar show and its audience. They seemed silent and motionless and I soon realised why. Whilst no sign of discomfort showed on their gaunt and withered faces, their limbs were firmly bound by thick chains and heavy locks. Neither did they notice me for they were engaged in watching the spectres on the wall and didn't seem to be able to move at all. They watched with such fascination and fixation that I soon came to think that this puppet show was all they cared about, for try as I might, they were not to be distracted. It was as though all that existed were the shadows on the wall. Turning to the man by the fire I asked him, "Excuse me sir, where am I?", and his look of utter horror gave rise to a sinking feeling. I wasn't supposed to be here, he scolded and that I was a fool and should go back to where I belong. Put off by his rudeness and the ridiculous scenario that I was presented with, I felt like walking away, going back up the tunnel and getting on with the gardening. But the demise of the imprisoned audience drew me back. Were they not even aware of their detainment, their bondage and the fallacy of what they saw? I gently tried to catch their attention but they only responded with grunted sounds and coughs as if to drown out my utterances. As the strange little man by the fire became more agitated, telling me to bugger off and calling me all the names under the sun, I grew disheartened. There seemed to be nothing I could do so I simply left, crawled back up the passage from whence I came, covered up the portal in the garden and got on with my life despite the perplexing situation occurring under my hedgerows. Had I fallen and banged my head? Had I mistakenly eaten some of the red berries on the holly bush? I do not know, but I will remember the look on those prisoner’s faces until the day I die. They appeared hollow.
Earthly Delights part one
This afternoon I have been pottering around in the garden: sweeping the garden path, setting a bench underneath an archway, churning the hazardously evergrowing compost heap, rigging a six foot scarecrow (to make it realistic - the birds round here are smart), and I stumbled upon a fascinating thing.
By the garden fence are some concrete foundations. They've never been touched and my Mother reckons they're from an old shed and has covered them up with leaf mould. After sweeping the leaves and overflowing compost heap away I found that the concrete is a couple of square meters in area and in the centre is a little square tile made from a different type of stone altogether. It is a matt white with a speckling of green and I have never seen anything ike it. On closer inspection I noticed that it had a carved handle to one side, just a small raised section, enough to get your fingertips under. Now what could this be, I thought. What a strange thing. I know there is a bomb shelter over the back so maybe this was an additional entrance. A considerate old boy must have had it built to protect his family in case the Nazis started bombing green belt areas of London, but I presume that was before the fence was put up and this shed and foundations were established. Alternatively, the little area could have been for a psychotic suburbanite to bury their victims. I thought this was exciting.
So I levered the little speckly tile up. This is a lot easier said than done as I had to scrape away the moist and claylike soil with my fingers and brush away the earth before inserting a pair of sheres into the gap and pulling. There was a dull hollow crunch as the old material gave way and a cloud of dust emerged as the surrounding mud caved in.
By the garden fence are some concrete foundations. They've never been touched and my Mother reckons they're from an old shed and has covered them up with leaf mould. After sweeping the leaves and overflowing compost heap away I found that the concrete is a couple of square meters in area and in the centre is a little square tile made from a different type of stone altogether. It is a matt white with a speckling of green and I have never seen anything ike it. On closer inspection I noticed that it had a carved handle to one side, just a small raised section, enough to get your fingertips under. Now what could this be, I thought. What a strange thing. I know there is a bomb shelter over the back so maybe this was an additional entrance. A considerate old boy must have had it built to protect his family in case the Nazis started bombing green belt areas of London, but I presume that was before the fence was put up and this shed and foundations were established. Alternatively, the little area could have been for a psychotic suburbanite to bury their victims. I thought this was exciting.
So I levered the little speckly tile up. This is a lot easier said than done as I had to scrape away the moist and claylike soil with my fingers and brush away the earth before inserting a pair of sheres into the gap and pulling. There was a dull hollow crunch as the old material gave way and a cloud of dust emerged as the surrounding mud caved in.
from Humble Pie
On a warm spring morn I became afraid,
thought I'd be alone forever.
A knot in my back, I felt courage fade
and began to catch a fever.
Summer, fall and winter passed
without a change in me.
Frost on the ground and chill in the air
kept me stationary.
But out of the blue a songbird sang
and her tune brought a tear to me eye.
Something new, maybe hope, maybe not
and i frowned with a great big sigh.
It lasts, as you know, when a songbird sings
She doesn't let up til the evening.
And the tune was so sweet i couldn't but laugh
and it left my teeth all gleaming.
I took a step to the west, shook my fist at the sky
and cried, "I'll be here for a while".
Then the sun shone down with particular grace
and methinks i saw a smile.
thought I'd be alone forever.
A knot in my back, I felt courage fade
and began to catch a fever.
Summer, fall and winter passed
without a change in me.
Frost on the ground and chill in the air
kept me stationary.
But out of the blue a songbird sang
and her tune brought a tear to me eye.
Something new, maybe hope, maybe not
and i frowned with a great big sigh.
It lasts, as you know, when a songbird sings
She doesn't let up til the evening.
And the tune was so sweet i couldn't but laugh
and it left my teeth all gleaming.
I took a step to the west, shook my fist at the sky
and cried, "I'll be here for a while".
Then the sun shone down with particular grace
and methinks i saw a smile.
Midnight Marauders
Hello and welcome,
The sun has shon its golden beams of joy upon the gentle earth all day long and, finally, night descends. With it come a plethora of night-time species, alert and ready to prowl. I say this not in an unkind way, for some of the inhabitants of this lump of stardust that we call 'earth' are, in fact, merry and benevolent. Some, however, are not. The clock ticks. The still silence draws around the matchstick bungalows like lions around stricken prey and somewhere, deep in the twisted woods where no man has ever set foot, evil manifests its gnarled and grotesque head. I speak of none other than a chilling and dastardly plot by many of the myriad minions on 'earth' to succumb the human race to permanent enslavement! For whilst busy workers go about their day, there is a darker force at hand. Discarded wrappers, empty coffee cups, plastic bags; scattered like bees from a broken hive and none see the greater scheme of things but I. The clock ticks. Denizens of the dark and fausty places frolick in the ill-begotten pleasure of seeing the human species bound to such pitiless activities and revel in the knowledge than soon the world will be theirs. I only know of this dastardly plan through an overheard coversation the other night. Whilst tending to my herb garden by moonlight, as I often like to do on sleepless nights, I heard a surrepticious whispering bearing on the verge of hearing but like so many cats was sucked in by curiosity. Whom should I find behind the red-bricked walls of the garage but two wily foxes engaging in what can only be called a midnight tryst! Had they seen me observe their secret rendevous? Something told me otherwise, as they briefly discussed the orders of the 'high fox' and went about fastidiously diseminating rubbish. Their words left me cold and alone. For they meant none other than an insidious plan to foist upon humans the task of producing and distributing so much litter that this world would become uninhabitable to the 'two feet'. In the meantime the amourous exterior of the vile beasts hid their genocidal plans while they drank coffee behind the garage and scarpered on sight.
What was I to do? I have explained all I know in the hope that it is not too late. A world without foxes would be unthinkable, due to their role in the food chain, but their evil plans are to exterminate us!
Something must be done. We must mind our matter; levee the litter before we peril at our own folly. Then at night, whilst tending the rosemary bush I will hear the ghastly cry of a foiled and fiendish fox, safe in the knowledge that we are still free.
I am not bonkers.
The sun has shon its golden beams of joy upon the gentle earth all day long and, finally, night descends. With it come a plethora of night-time species, alert and ready to prowl. I say this not in an unkind way, for some of the inhabitants of this lump of stardust that we call 'earth' are, in fact, merry and benevolent. Some, however, are not. The clock ticks. The still silence draws around the matchstick bungalows like lions around stricken prey and somewhere, deep in the twisted woods where no man has ever set foot, evil manifests its gnarled and grotesque head. I speak of none other than a chilling and dastardly plot by many of the myriad minions on 'earth' to succumb the human race to permanent enslavement! For whilst busy workers go about their day, there is a darker force at hand. Discarded wrappers, empty coffee cups, plastic bags; scattered like bees from a broken hive and none see the greater scheme of things but I. The clock ticks. Denizens of the dark and fausty places frolick in the ill-begotten pleasure of seeing the human species bound to such pitiless activities and revel in the knowledge than soon the world will be theirs. I only know of this dastardly plan through an overheard coversation the other night. Whilst tending to my herb garden by moonlight, as I often like to do on sleepless nights, I heard a surrepticious whispering bearing on the verge of hearing but like so many cats was sucked in by curiosity. Whom should I find behind the red-bricked walls of the garage but two wily foxes engaging in what can only be called a midnight tryst! Had they seen me observe their secret rendevous? Something told me otherwise, as they briefly discussed the orders of the 'high fox' and went about fastidiously diseminating rubbish. Their words left me cold and alone. For they meant none other than an insidious plan to foist upon humans the task of producing and distributing so much litter that this world would become uninhabitable to the 'two feet'. In the meantime the amourous exterior of the vile beasts hid their genocidal plans while they drank coffee behind the garage and scarpered on sight.
What was I to do? I have explained all I know in the hope that it is not too late. A world without foxes would be unthinkable, due to their role in the food chain, but their evil plans are to exterminate us!
Something must be done. We must mind our matter; levee the litter before we peril at our own folly. Then at night, whilst tending the rosemary bush I will hear the ghastly cry of a foiled and fiendish fox, safe in the knowledge that we are still free.
I am not bonkers.
This morning I turned on the shower and nothing but cats came out.
Small droplets of perfectly formed cat.
The taps ran hot and cold. The window opened onto a relatively normal setting: a drizzly morning in midwinter England. One fact stood out from this otherwise normal morn, that is namely, that my bath tub was full of cats. Dozens of mewing, malicious, mucky coloured moggs had somehow come to be and somehow carried the gentle pungent odour of banana. There was nothing for it. Having quickly closed the bathroom door, I opened the medicine cabinet and doused them in mouthwash, asprin, diuretics and anything at hand. Needless to say, the plan was flawless until the point of opening the drug storage facility. For as soon as the felines became aware of the freely available 'food', they dispatched of everything in their way, myself included, and began ferociously to feast upon the newly available chemicals. This was trouble. I knew it. So did the cats. It was as though these wee beasts had stored up so much michief in their transition from being freely roaming animals to suddenly arriving, by some strange transcendental process during my morning constitutional, that they had decided to wreak havoc upon known civilization by means of narcotics. Not that I collect illicit substances but the ingredients lists of some drugs are only decipherable to an ancient greek philosopher who has just spent the past week trapped down a mine shaft and has a lot of time on his hands.
Now, instead of doing the sensible thing and plugging in the transmogrifier to turn those little monsters into coffee and croissants I did what every man on earth, to his shame, has done once in his life time. I ran. I didn't look back. I denied all knowledge. When my sister entered that room I have no recollection of anything happening but have subsequently been told that leaping from a second storey building and hitting the ground still running is quite an impressive sight. She still winces whenever she sees a moggie.
The taps ran hot and cold. The window opened onto a relatively normal setting: a drizzly morning in midwinter England. One fact stood out from this otherwise normal morn, that is namely, that my bath tub was full of cats. Dozens of mewing, malicious, mucky coloured moggs had somehow come to be and somehow carried the gentle pungent odour of banana. There was nothing for it. Having quickly closed the bathroom door, I opened the medicine cabinet and doused them in mouthwash, asprin, diuretics and anything at hand. Needless to say, the plan was flawless until the point of opening the drug storage facility. For as soon as the felines became aware of the freely available 'food', they dispatched of everything in their way, myself included, and began ferociously to feast upon the newly available chemicals. This was trouble. I knew it. So did the cats. It was as though these wee beasts had stored up so much michief in their transition from being freely roaming animals to suddenly arriving, by some strange transcendental process during my morning constitutional, that they had decided to wreak havoc upon known civilization by means of narcotics. Not that I collect illicit substances but the ingredients lists of some drugs are only decipherable to an ancient greek philosopher who has just spent the past week trapped down a mine shaft and has a lot of time on his hands.
Now, instead of doing the sensible thing and plugging in the transmogrifier to turn those little monsters into coffee and croissants I did what every man on earth, to his shame, has done once in his life time. I ran. I didn't look back. I denied all knowledge. When my sister entered that room I have no recollection of anything happening but have subsequently been told that leaping from a second storey building and hitting the ground still running is quite an impressive sight. She still winces whenever she sees a moggie.
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