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.
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.
A note on poetry
They say that the eyes are the window to the soul. It remains who 'they' are or whether 'they' are simply unidentifiable and therefore infallible. Either way, I think poetry is a more telling portrayal of one's demise and delerium.
Evol Intent - Flipside:
I've killed myself I've been born again,
With razor fangs for these bitter men.
I'm filled with rancor for my fate,
I've clothed my soul in these rags of hate.
As I fall down on these bloody knees,
Perception shattered, now I see.
Intoxicated in hindsight, I'm going to get you on the flipside.
Yes folks, it's one of those days. Where the sun comes up, the rain comes down and you don't even notice because you're too caught up in your own happymess.
Evol Intent - Flipside:
I've killed myself I've been born again,
With razor fangs for these bitter men.
I'm filled with rancor for my fate,
I've clothed my soul in these rags of hate.
As I fall down on these bloody knees,
Perception shattered, now I see.
Intoxicated in hindsight, I'm going to get you on the flipside.
Yes folks, it's one of those days. Where the sun comes up, the rain comes down and you don't even notice because you're too caught up in your own happymess.
Running after Roland
When was the last time you fed the ducks without the company of a little person? By that I don't mean a vertically-challenged-but-just-as-equal humanoid, rather a person who has yet to grow up to be a real, life-sized, person and is still in the stages of innocence and bed-wetting. Maybe a better question would be when did you last watch the sun rise? Strange questions I know, but not altogether bizarre. So much of what we do nowadays is about where it will get us, goal orientated for those of you who understand management-speak. But what about if you're the goalie, holding it up for the rest of the team because you're not quite as fit as the rest and to be perfectly honest you just can't be arsed? Goalie's get a rough ride in life.
Work-life balance. What! How dare they? It's like telling a goldfish that it should have a productivity to existence ratio! To which any sensible goldfish wouldn't reply. It basically comes down to getting you, the beautiful, sensitive, intelligent being, to work harder. Cracking the whip, you might say.
I was listening to Radio 4 recently and heard a program about people who'd bought their own islands. The idea was generally the same: escape the rat race, set up island, enjoy parties with the local women clad in hula hula skirts and peeling one's grapes. It didn't work out this way, believe it or not and most of the breakaways sounded more like Man Friday than, "Man, it's Friday!" They were also a bit narked at all the hard work that went into building one's dream home on an stone in the middle of the turbulent Atlantic ocean.
There are alternatives. One can, of course, join a commune, become a monk, start a farm or work at a university. However, these lifestyle choices are often short ventures because they are so far removed from normal life and so extreme. If our neighbours were more open to different ways of living and we were not economically shackled from birth there would be more scope for the evolution of modern society and the development of the soul. We can but dream.
So take a minute out to admire the beauty of nature, then get back to work you lazy sod!
Evolution's Crack
“Oooga booga boom boom”, said the young boy.
“Zogg zogg”, replied the wise old man.
Imagine being transported back to an era, way back in the depths of time before the advent of computers, before the invention of the combustion engine, before the miracle of Sunday roasts, before Sundays even. You are living in a cave. People around you are shifty and hairy, rather resembling the rabble that emerges from the pub after closing time. These people are your tribe, your family and yet your main form of communication is through mono-sylabillic grunts and body language. What would you do? How would you cope?
It is a well known theory that much of our behaviour stems from the instincts and survival patterns of primitive man. I’ve tested this by staring into a naked flame for longer than is necessary, and scaring myself senseless by adjusting the flame. You see, back in the good old days when a trusty spear was a man’s best friend and the biggest problem posed from the neighbours was a fatal attack from the Sabre family, we as humans were fairly well adapted to meet the daily demands of life on earth. We were active and healthy, or rather those that stayed alive for long were, and we were intelligent enough to make tools to enable us to catch something for lunch and survive through the night.
Now, however, we are a bit of an evolutionary joke, though creationists won’t see the funny side of this. They’re routing for a joker god who hides dinosaur bones so there’s no point trying to trump him. The fact of the matter is that not only the strong survive. There is no rhyme or reason to our genetic path. We have no heroes who have developed powers for the sake of bored people to watch jumping forwards and backwards in time in a quest to save the cheerleader. There is no bearded old man up there in the clouds who is watching us and thinking quietly to himself, that yes, they’re very naughty but it’ll work out alright in the end. Basically, somewhere on the road trip we got lost as a species and instead of heading back to where we lost our bearings, we camped out, had a picnic and never left! For those of you who do think that evolution runs the show, I’ve got a question for you: just how well are we adapted to our environments? It is clear to see that our nations are getting fatter. It is also apparent that the power to weight ratio of a gorilla is slightly higher than that of your average human. I would also like to point out the practical impossibility of lifting a massively overweight caveman out of his bed using a barney-rubble styled crane so that he could be taken to the local witch-doctor for treatment. With this in regard, I think it’s safe to say that humans have not evolved physically but devolved. Mentally it’s a different story, we hope.
Worldwide communication, graphical user interfaces, plumbing, calculus, cacti, creation stories, these are some of the wonderful things that we can do using our minds. We are now able to converse with people across the seven seas on a regular basis and have the mental capability of forming relationships with people on such a widely ranging spectrum that no one really knows what will happen if you add suchandsuch to your facebook account. The point I’m making is that we have this ability to do amazing things with our minds, some of which we haven’t even figured out yet.
If we look at the purpose of our species we enter a dark and perilous realm of philosophy that is not usually entered unless accompanied by a mind altering substance. But if we look at the purpose of an amoeba we see that it lives and replicates and dies, not necessarily due to any divine plan but because it can. Yes, the evolution of the species may depend on efficiency and energetically favourable transactions but in the long run none of us is going to be around long enough to know who finishes in first place. It can and it does, simple.
“Zogg zogg”, replied the wise old man.
Imagine being transported back to an era, way back in the depths of time before the advent of computers, before the invention of the combustion engine, before the miracle of Sunday roasts, before Sundays even. You are living in a cave. People around you are shifty and hairy, rather resembling the rabble that emerges from the pub after closing time. These people are your tribe, your family and yet your main form of communication is through mono-sylabillic grunts and body language. What would you do? How would you cope?
It is a well known theory that much of our behaviour stems from the instincts and survival patterns of primitive man. I’ve tested this by staring into a naked flame for longer than is necessary, and scaring myself senseless by adjusting the flame. You see, back in the good old days when a trusty spear was a man’s best friend and the biggest problem posed from the neighbours was a fatal attack from the Sabre family, we as humans were fairly well adapted to meet the daily demands of life on earth. We were active and healthy, or rather those that stayed alive for long were, and we were intelligent enough to make tools to enable us to catch something for lunch and survive through the night.
Now, however, we are a bit of an evolutionary joke, though creationists won’t see the funny side of this. They’re routing for a joker god who hides dinosaur bones so there’s no point trying to trump him. The fact of the matter is that not only the strong survive. There is no rhyme or reason to our genetic path. We have no heroes who have developed powers for the sake of bored people to watch jumping forwards and backwards in time in a quest to save the cheerleader. There is no bearded old man up there in the clouds who is watching us and thinking quietly to himself, that yes, they’re very naughty but it’ll work out alright in the end. Basically, somewhere on the road trip we got lost as a species and instead of heading back to where we lost our bearings, we camped out, had a picnic and never left! For those of you who do think that evolution runs the show, I’ve got a question for you: just how well are we adapted to our environments? It is clear to see that our nations are getting fatter. It is also apparent that the power to weight ratio of a gorilla is slightly higher than that of your average human. I would also like to point out the practical impossibility of lifting a massively overweight caveman out of his bed using a barney-rubble styled crane so that he could be taken to the local witch-doctor for treatment. With this in regard, I think it’s safe to say that humans have not evolved physically but devolved. Mentally it’s a different story, we hope.
Worldwide communication, graphical user interfaces, plumbing, calculus, cacti, creation stories, these are some of the wonderful things that we can do using our minds. We are now able to converse with people across the seven seas on a regular basis and have the mental capability of forming relationships with people on such a widely ranging spectrum that no one really knows what will happen if you add suchandsuch to your facebook account. The point I’m making is that we have this ability to do amazing things with our minds, some of which we haven’t even figured out yet.
If we look at the purpose of our species we enter a dark and perilous realm of philosophy that is not usually entered unless accompanied by a mind altering substance. But if we look at the purpose of an amoeba we see that it lives and replicates and dies, not necessarily due to any divine plan but because it can. Yes, the evolution of the species may depend on efficiency and energetically favourable transactions but in the long run none of us is going to be around long enough to know who finishes in first place. It can and it does, simple.
The Celestial Court
Now that the elementary first blog is out of the way I would like us to take a step back (make sure you look behind you first) and look at what is going on here. I find this helps in all walks of life and although we don't always find answers, we're always better off after a bit of a think and a nice sit down.
So, what's this blogging business all about? Typically I find blogs to be self-important rants on just about anything, kind of like talking to an irate grandparent who is emphatically aware that this planet we live on is "not like the good old days" and just wants to grumble. That's alright by me, as long as I am not chained up and forced to listen to non-sensical drivvle which would probably make a man want to wear his pants on his head and put two pencils up his nostrils claiming insanity and an overdue holiday. In a way it's good for people to vent whatever they need to, be it lunacy, rage or the gaping abyss of emptiness that comes of growing up in a culturally defunct, sub-urban background. These are personal blogs of the lowest order, beneath the lowest common denominator, these are just bundles of debris that are shot out into space and there should be an international agreement for blogging like there is for space junk. Eventually it might just come back and bite you, with jagged pointy teeth in a soft and wobbly place. Technical blogs have a focus, there is a point and a line joins up the dots to make a picture. Pictures, I think you will agree are nice. But a young person with a sharp biro is a dangerous thing.
I think another problem with blogging is the position of authority that a person feels when sat comfortably in front of a keyboard. We have a need to find purpose in our lives and part of that is finding our place in society. Now this is nothing new. Galileo told people that the Earth wasn't the centre of the solar system and some people didn't like this clever fellow so told him to shut up or get locked up. He didn't know his place in relation to il Popo and was forthwith never allowed to leave his house. Before that a bearded fellow named Moses climbed a big old mountain called Sinai and, obviously pretty tired from his troubles and a bit dehydrated from rambling in the desert, had a little chat with God, then came down with a list of commands, a handful of plagues and led 'God's chosen few' out of the desert culminating in the dilemna that is modern day Israel. You see? This is what happens when people get big ideas, big ideas that won't fit in their boots.
So this week's theme is knowing your place. Knowing that you are not the work of a benevolent higher being that has toiled for millenia just to hear what you have to say about their mistakes and misgivings, which has to be a good thing. Scientists might tell you that you are made from wind blown particles made in the cores of celestial bodies, star dust. I think it's also pretty funny that we are an infinetesimally small blip on an otherwise non-eventful universal radar. There are laws and errors of margin that the cosmos does not allow and depite a tight grip on everything else we seem to have slipped through the net, able to do and say as we like. We are a little bit like cosmic jesters!
My point is simply that we should smile and not take ourselves too seriously, or each other for that matter. Why don't you take somebody a nice cup of tea instead?
So, what's this blogging business all about? Typically I find blogs to be self-important rants on just about anything, kind of like talking to an irate grandparent who is emphatically aware that this planet we live on is "not like the good old days" and just wants to grumble. That's alright by me, as long as I am not chained up and forced to listen to non-sensical drivvle which would probably make a man want to wear his pants on his head and put two pencils up his nostrils claiming insanity and an overdue holiday. In a way it's good for people to vent whatever they need to, be it lunacy, rage or the gaping abyss of emptiness that comes of growing up in a culturally defunct, sub-urban background. These are personal blogs of the lowest order, beneath the lowest common denominator, these are just bundles of debris that are shot out into space and there should be an international agreement for blogging like there is for space junk. Eventually it might just come back and bite you, with jagged pointy teeth in a soft and wobbly place. Technical blogs have a focus, there is a point and a line joins up the dots to make a picture. Pictures, I think you will agree are nice. But a young person with a sharp biro is a dangerous thing.
I think another problem with blogging is the position of authority that a person feels when sat comfortably in front of a keyboard. We have a need to find purpose in our lives and part of that is finding our place in society. Now this is nothing new. Galileo told people that the Earth wasn't the centre of the solar system and some people didn't like this clever fellow so told him to shut up or get locked up. He didn't know his place in relation to il Popo and was forthwith never allowed to leave his house. Before that a bearded fellow named Moses climbed a big old mountain called Sinai and, obviously pretty tired from his troubles and a bit dehydrated from rambling in the desert, had a little chat with God, then came down with a list of commands, a handful of plagues and led 'God's chosen few' out of the desert culminating in the dilemna that is modern day Israel. You see? This is what happens when people get big ideas, big ideas that won't fit in their boots.
So this week's theme is knowing your place. Knowing that you are not the work of a benevolent higher being that has toiled for millenia just to hear what you have to say about their mistakes and misgivings, which has to be a good thing. Scientists might tell you that you are made from wind blown particles made in the cores of celestial bodies, star dust. I think it's also pretty funny that we are an infinetesimally small blip on an otherwise non-eventful universal radar. There are laws and errors of margin that the cosmos does not allow and depite a tight grip on everything else we seem to have slipped through the net, able to do and say as we like. We are a little bit like cosmic jesters!
My point is simply that we should smile and not take ourselves too seriously, or each other for that matter. Why don't you take somebody a nice cup of tea instead?
3... 2... 1... Blast Off!
In the beginning there was no coffee or tea or biscuits or nuthin. And then this bearded weirdy spoke in the darkness: “Let there be beverages!” And right away there was lots n lots of stuff. Scattering the darkness and showing the infinite space and volume of his magnificent beard, He supped on the heavenly nectar and let out a right belter. “That’s good!” said God.
And indeed it was good. Creating and stuff are up there in the 'unequivocally objective top bestest things in the whole wide world list' along with sunshine and juicy mangoes. So this here's a little something I'll be knocking up to help people unlock their creative, timewasting talents, help them through the otherwise life sucking, soul destroying, character building days and stuff.
Ok so I chose a naff template, thoroughly unkool title and have bashed out a hasty concoction of raw, unwashed, effluent elocution BUT, and like a high school biology teacher it is a big BUT, there will be a font of fascinating fun, fiction and a frivolous scattering of FACT as only seen before in popular tabloids, to come. So watch this space, the space between your ears or the bit between us and where God hid the answer sheets. Otherwise, what's the point?
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