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 |   The loneliness of the long distance ranter--all visitors are welcomed and forewarned. |
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Back in 2007 I blogged. I blogged a lot. I closed all 3 and went cold turkey for a few years, but, a bit like cigarettes, the craving never really goes away, so I am back. Still an addict. Still a... ... ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** A HUGE thank you to Nada  for the fabulous awardicon  I'm docked at "Blog Harbor from The Talent Pond"  , a safe port for bloggers to connect. |
| Talk Tuesday! We're at the halfway point of November! What have you learned from any of your fellow bloggers in the group this month? I have learned that my fellow 30 dayers are a heck of a lot more likeable than me: they are thoughtful and articulate, passionate, kind and creative--I am not saying I am not those things, but I admit to some amusement in how bombastic I sometimes come across (my narrative voice is much more oak-soaked and gentle in timbre when I type it, than the Brian Blessed boom-hardy voice I hear when I read back...I'll have to work on that--perhaps reduce my font?). I am also amusing myself with two little rules I have made up for this whole challenge: Acme Writing Co. Ltd. 30 Day Challenge Club Rule Book 1. Write my entry before visiting other blogs. Like most human beings, I want to belong. I considered that I may be influenced by this deep-seated drive if I looked at other writers' thoughts, and, even if that was unintentional, the fun of something like this is the diversity of approach and opinion. My opinions can change as often as my socks, so I like the freedom to blog first, think later1 2. If I can't say anything nice, say nowt. I prepared myself for disagreement with others, but how delightful to find a group of people who can disagree with each other so politely and with good manners. Some bloggers have a real gift for diplomacy. Maybe it will rub off on me. So 15 days of knowing someone really doesn't give a body a chance to know folk at all, but here's what I like: SB Musing  I do gurgle slightly at the though of visiting her blog. Great tunes, tilted insights (I think I cricked my neck through tilting it too often to the side whilst pondering the delightful angles she comes at things from). Just a genuinely interesting person and poet, who can write Free Verse like it's easy  . And what a cheerleader? What an all-round ambassador for positivity? If she didn't already have enough around her neck to drown an Olympic swimmer, I'd give her a medal.WakeUpAndLive️~🚬🚭2024  I am biased. Her writing is so different to mine. It is thoughtful, thought-provoking, and I leave all of her writing feeling like I have been somewhere. It was her influence that encouraged me to blog again, and to be brave enough to take on this challenge. I owe her a massive debt of thanks, and am privileged beyond belief to hold regular community communications with her). I visited her blog when I was re-testing the WDC waters after being MIA for so long (5years writers block). I found a beautiful soul, passionate poet, and observant humanitarian. Her blog on writing (heart-on-sleeve, poet-bares-all, examination of craft and her thirst to learn, evolve, risk, and work) blew me away. It spoke to me, the way that all those songs in my teens, by bands who knew what I was going through as I shouted at the world or cried into my duvet, did. (  could have put that better. Shoddy sentence construction. Forgive me--so much to write, so little time)Kit of House Lannister  was someone I had seen knocking about the place and who wrote rather interesting newsletters (I particularly enjoy the Spiritual NL contributions). What an insight her blog has been. She comes across as a fiercely strong woman, not least because she bares her scars and (perceived) vulnerabilities as a work-in-progress, and what a work ethos! That kid is a warrior--a champion of love, life, and personal integrity. A real honour to stop by her port and thoughts.Brother Nature Canadian he may be, but he has more stories than a Georgia swamp boy (and that is a compliment. I have added him to my favourites so that I can go rummage around his port when this is all over and maybe--just maybe--I can find an eighth day in the week to do all the things I want and need to do). His narrative voice is like honey in my ear. His command of tone and pace, unsurpassed--I get the distinct impression that I couldn't read his blog in any other way than he intended me to (good writing).the Wordy Jay Someone once said that a true artist serves as a reflection back to the viewer--that all that we as a society and culture throw away, they rummage through our trash for, hold precious and re-present it back to us, showing us the beauty and worth of a thing we took for granted or held as worthless. I am agog at this blogger's ( King of Commentary) ability to find shining gems in sooooooo many blogs. I love reading my fellow challengers' blog entries, but Jay usually gets in there first with a poignant observation that I didn't quite see, or says things I thought, but so much betterer. They make me look illiterate (and, yes, more than the evidence of my own typong skills, I mean emotionally, too)Seffi has the most finger-alluding username to type (I was at if for minutes). Visiting her blog is like visiting a friend (you know which one: the one that is slightly taller than you, slightly slimmer than you, slightly better at everything than you, but is also slightly more awesome in complete loveliness as a friend than you probably think you deserve to have, but you are clever and grateful enough to be glad to have them in your life, because they inspire you to be a slightly better version of yourself, and just having them there makes your soul a little bigger in all the right ways, and, if they were ever in the slightest bit of trouble, you know you would hold their coat, or take a martini in the face, or defend them against traffic wardens, because they are good people--Yes, they are the blogging version of that friend). They also do a rather cute dragon impersonation that looks nothing like Geoffrey of Monmouth would ever have imagined.BlueMoon they have the most interesting username of all. Are they a trixladecaphobic (sp?) sponge bob fan, or a good baker (hence the appropriate dozen)? Questions like that fuel my ponderings on their responses to the prompts. I adore the cute curly bracketed asides, which remind me of those intimate moments with theatre audiences that break the 4th wall. I love the fact they recognise that remaining a child a heart is no bad thing.Dragon is hiding  SMILIES   Ace. Sheer brilliance. I love smilies, and they use them as the perfect end line punctuation to enhance meaning. As a preferred author, they are already yellow, but I reckon those little yellow fellas add a sprinkle of sunshine. I enjoy myself, listening to what they have to say, just as much as the way they say it. Not shy at expressing their opinion, they do so in a conversational way that opens discussion and discourse. Apondia  everyone wants to take tea with you (and some have their eye in your teapot). Your blog is very welcoming. I can really imagine you sipping tea and pouring over fellow bloggers' entries. A great deal of thoughtfulness seems to go into the construction of your own entries: every word counts and has depth of meaning. How are the English Sparrows in the barn? Have they moved on?Prosperous Snow celebrating  Another newsletter favourite, and now a discovered blog to visit outside this challenge. If anyone on this site embodies living poetry, it is you. You see the world through eyes that cannot look at the ordinary without seeing the extraordinary in things. I bet if you were a candy, you'd be Blackpool Rock: the word 'poet' goes all the way through you.Cadie Laine  Your blog says that it is your voice, and it truly is. Reading is not the right word for how I engage with your blog entries: I don't read them--I hear them. It is like you are sitting right next to me. Things seem to come from a personal place and nothing is forced: if you have something to say, you say it. If you have nothing to say right now, you acknowledge both that and the fact you might come back to it. One of my favourite entries of yours is "The Matrix and Writing" , because you are right: our choices can define us.SandraLynn Team Florent! You tickle me. It has to be the way you say things, the way you phrase and put things across. First, I should have said that like Jay, your responses to other bloggers are a treat in themselves: so engaged, so considered, and so encouraging. But back to you tickling me. As a comedy writer, I sometimes have to unpick the joke--analyse it to death so the mechanics are bared, which does rather drum the funny from things. I hope I don't drum the fabulousness from your writing, but I thought a quick example of how my mind works in relation to your words might be interesting (for one of us, at least). Here is just one example:original: Huh. In this day and age, this boggles the mind. Censorship still exists? Big brother is watching? Huh.= starting off with a grunt was informal, sucked me right into your internal monologue. In this day and age = like an ole timer starting to reminisce with "Time was...", I settled down with your pontification pipe In this day and age, this boggles the mind. = I love a beautifully placed comma, and switching the subordinate clause to the front of the sentence gave the whole thing an 'ease into where we are going...' feel. The fact you go onto use a marvellous word like 'boggles' made my day. Censorship still exists? = drawing me in even more with your incredulity and rhetorical question. Big brother is watching. = This was the tickle. You are lampooning censorship, for sure, but it was at this point that my eyes darted to the side of the iPad I was reading your entry from: I have a strategically placed piece of anti-spy blutac over the camera. Hey, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you... If I have painted a picture of you that you and/or others do not recognise, forgive me: I've only known most of you for 15 chuffing days! And, by the way, thank you for that. I can't express properly what a pleasure it is. Thank you for being so welcoming and downright lovely  P.s. I know she is not officially engaged in this wonderful daftness, but a shout has to go out to one of my all time favourite people and blogger extraordinaire: Nada I salute you  Footnotes |
I would have loved to have kept this up for all 30 days, but off-line life called. Knowing that a 6 hour round trip to Hereford and back lay ahead of me, I logged on quickly, hoping a quick-witted response would follow. I saw a demand for thoughtfulness and tact (not my strong points). I took the day to mull over things, when not concentrating on the long haul, and I don't regret that. Heck, this 30 day challenge has got me a lot more committed than my previous long absence  Ooh, and I ended up in full rant mode, so please consider this a warning about reading on: I don't expect you to agree with what I have to say, but if any of this content does upset / offend you, please exercise your right to leave the entry, and know this: I haven't written this in order to offend you--it's just the way I feel. If you do feel hurt because of any of this, then I am sorry; that wasn't my intention. The Sunday News! This week, it's been reported that Russia is considering blocking access to the employment-oriented social networking site LinkedIn because the site is in violation of a rule requiring data on Russian citizens to be stored on servers inside the country. What do you think about that, and what role do you think governments should play regarding what websites their citizens should be allowed to visit? This is too much for me to comment on. I do not know enough about Russian culture, social constructs and politics. I am predisposed to be wary; Western media sources (traditional and social) horrify me with examples of a very bad track record against gay rights--something which I cannot understand and will not tolerate (that's right, you heard me: I will not tolerate intolerance); there appears to be a lot of mind-blowing revelations of corruption and nepotism within Russia's military and political manoeuvring; ongoing oppression of civil and human rights, warmongering and propaganda--but I am aware that this works both ways, and I don't entirely trust my sources, because they rely heavily on my backing their chivvying for political and monetary power, and all the whims, caprices and warmongering of the West. I personally am delighted to know a whole heap of Ukrainians, whose families went through hell and back thanks to Russia. All I know are the Russians I have met number one person, and we were from different planets. She gave me quite an insight into Russians and jobs, from her perspective. I will call her 'M'. A famous all-male heritage ensemble (5 male singers and their female liaison, M) arrived to tour the UK. Their tour took them to Hereford and Liverpool cathedrals, amongst other, prominent performance spaces of high standing. It was quite the coup to get them to perform at our little old church. Fees had been agreed, contracts signed, and tickets had been on sale for weeks to cover the significant outlay and still try to make a little money for our church's organ restoration fund. For all that the ensemble were pretty way up there, they were down to earth enough to agree to being put up as the guests of parishioners, rather than in a swanky hotel. I got asked to house M over night: performance, a little light supper, bead and breakfast, then drop back off at the church so they could meet their coach and get on with the tour. A 12 hour max stint. We must have been shy of volunteers: our Parish Priest has visited me, so knows that the dining table is in the shed, because the motorcycle is in the dining room. He knows, too, that I have a rather macabre and gothic sense of style (e.g., skull chain chandeliers and sconces in the front room, with an unused fireplace full of bones and gargoyles). He also knows I am a rather big fan of individual expression and freedom of lifestyle choice. In hindsight, perhaps M was a lesson  The concert was amazing. The place was packed. Everyone enjoyed a fantastic night of goosebump-raising performance. The heritage ensemble were Putins darlings: traditional Russian folk and classic orthodox music spanning centuries. They were, naturally, incredibly Russian. At the end of the concert, I strode over to M, beaming with appreciation and welcome. I was met with a huff and a puff and a rather large suitcase. Fair enough thought I, It must have been a long day for them.. "What time do you want us back, Father?" I asked, hoping for as early as was decently possible after breakfast. "Between 11 and noon, please." Ah. OK. I escorted my tired, brooding Russian to the car, loaded her and the monstrously heavy suitcase in it and took her home. I tried to break the ice. Many times. I mentioned favourite parts of the night, enquired about some of the history behind the songs, and even bought a CD. There was barely a grunt of engagement. I though perhaps her English was limited (my Russian is non-existent, after all). I gave her a tour. Apologised for the many incomplete DIY projects (I don't know why), and gave her the Japanese Room (the nicest) for the night. I am not a bad host, if I do say so myself. The whole house had undergone a 48hour deep clean, and her room was delightful: freshly made, double, wrought iron, posted bed, full of duck down pillows and cushions, bath and hand towels, complimentary toiletries, bedside biscuits and iced bottled water and wi-fi password printed next to the TV and a stack of diverse literature. I had been tasked with providing supper. Not one to stint when it comes to food, all sorts of delectable delicacies were prepared for her. She wanted none. She only wanted to know when she could return to the coach. This ascertained, she wanted to sleep and be woken at 8:30am for a shower. Ok. Baby Acme and I settled downstairs like naughty school kids. We ate all the lovely vegetarian bits and bobs, quite at a loss as to what to do with the dead supper items. I put them in the fridge--they could fatten up the Priest. I looked worryingly at breakfast: prime bacon, laying on the bottom shelf, quite forlorn in its slaughtered nakedness. We went to bed. In the morning 'M' agreed to breakfast. Both I and the bacon sighed with relief. She showered as I cooked and then came downstairs to eat in her bedclothes. Then she opened up. Oh boy, did she open up. She had seen a teenager smoking when they played Liverpool. It was disgusting the way that the authorities didn't stamp out that kind of thing--adult strangers had walked past without admonishing the young lad. Where were the parents? Why wasn't he studying? In Russia there was no room for idle youth. You studied. You took part in state-run, wholesome, community's activities. Thank God that Putin funded heritage clubs, where good Russian children could be employed in activities which benefited the country and the culture. "You like Putin, then?" "Only ignorant, uneducated people speak of things they know nothing about." I smiled. "I would hate to put you in that position." She ignored me. "It is not enough. It is something much better than we had before him, but it is not Soviet. We need soviet Russia." "More bacon?" "No. I will dress. We will go." "Of course." Once safely dropped off, our Priest sidled over to me, out of hearing. "And how did you get on with your guest?" he asked. "You would have been proud of me, Fr--I was diplomatic. I kept my gob shut." The corner of his mouth twitched with a flicker of a smile. "I bet that took some doing. Well done." The ensemble were busying themselves with transferring their suitcases to the coach, so the Priest continued. "I am glad you were a gracious host. I worried you might have suffered from her anger. I never met such an angry--" he struggled for the right words, " -- capitalist!" What I didn't know was the concert had been far more of a success than M had imagined. The Church Wardens had even put an extra, undisclosed, sum of money in with the full, previously agreed amount. That didn't stop M wanting more. She sought out the Priest, dead set on squeezing more money out of the Parish than the contract had agreed to. Her English had been perfect and her conversation skills adept. She threatened all sorts of legal actions and bad press against the church if he didn't hand over all the takings to the ensemble. No wonder she was quiet on the way to my house that evening. Motivation Monday! Prince Charles (the oldest child of England's Queen Elizabeth II), born on this day in 1948, once said "I learned the way a monkey learns...by watching its parents." What is something you've learned from either of your parents, using only the power of observation? Charlie boy is a dick. Living proof, if ever was needed, that Darwinism and evolution out-does any f**king perceived rights of entitlement that f**king family thinks it has. Again, I am happily surrounded by tolerant royalists at church. They understand I am a lost cause, and have learned not to poke the beast with daft trite like "they do so much for tourism!" F&@k off. Hand their vast estates over to local councils, farmers and not-for-profit heritage centres, and between them you'll still have a tourist industry, a richer agricultural one, and a move toward true equality, where unqualified rich twits don't rely on hereditarily ruling a people who can rule themselves just fine, thank you very much. It is complete and utter bollocks to assert that the UK doesn't have a class, nor a two tier, system, whilst those lazy, scrounging, chinless wonders are tolerated. Even the choir mistress was amazed I bothered to learn the alto to the National Anthem. I roll my eyes all the way through it, and don't know the words beyond the first verse, which sticks in my throat. It wasn't my national anthem when I grew up in Scotland: O Flower of Scotland was the preferred rally cry to republican national pride. Choir mistress had never heard of it. The chaps in the back row and I gave an impromptu performance. A soprano may have been sick in her mouth over our performance (she certainly looked like she was gargling with a wasp over the passionate rendition of the lyrics). My parents loved the royals. My dad was awarded by Prince Phillip for his part in raising Henry VIII's pride of the fleet, Mary Rose. I certainly didn't ape their grovelling, subservient observations of 'knowing one's place'. I did love the sea though, and all she hid of history. I shucked oysters easily, thanks to watching the deft action of my dad with his diver's knife. I set fires on the beach, gutted fishes for grilling, boiled up live, coast caught crabs (before the meatless years), just as I had watched my mother do. Hers was the best smile to greet me every day, from waking up, or returning from school or playing out, and tucking me in bed, before I got too old for that, and instead she would poke her head around my door to wish me goodnight and remind me I was loved. Every morning I wake BA with a smile. When I get home, he's waiting for me, instead of the other way around, but I come in with a smile. Every night, he goes to bed (too old to be tucked in), I poke my head around the door, smile, wish him good night, and remind him he is loved. |
| Creation Saturday! Did you have a favorite stuffed animal (or toy) when you were younger? Give it an interesting origin story- tell us what it did in its life before he/she met you and became your pal. My grandmother (the other one, not Nana Lena), made things. She was a big mover and shaker in the Durham Women's Institute, prize winner of chutneys, quality quilter and knitting demon. Every year we would receive a homemade gift. My favourites were the alternations between bespoke Christmas jumpers and knitted dressing drowns...or is that dressing gowns  One year she went rogue. She created a pajama holder: a candyfloss-headed, blue (potentially flammable) man-made fabric-torsoed with big zippered back, monster. Imagine, if you will, a flaccid, filetted, Cookie Monster, with a big, pink head. I called him ''Fluffy", because he was. What else could I call him? I only had one real teddy! called Henry Bear. He was useless at protecting me from flying monkey demons in the night, and the Sharks that stalked the warps and wefts of the beige carpet sea in my bedroom. I loved the film Jaws. I saw it at a very young age (probably around 5years old) as it was released as a PG (parental guidance). My dad was a 1st Class Diver. We were born and raised by the sea, our second home, and affectionately called 'Water Babies', leaning to swim before we could walk. Damn right I had sharks on the brain; they fascinated and horrified in equal measure. To avoid them doing a "Quint" on me during the night, coming out of the beige carpet, and chewing me out of the bed, I came up with a cunning plan: I stuffed Fluffy as full and human-shaped as I could with pajamas, bed sheets, and any old clothes I could find. Each night I would cleverly swap bed positions with Fluffy and Henry Bear, secure in the knowledge that this would totally confuse any carpet Great Whites, and I would survive the night. It worked. I am living proof that teddy bait is the perfect childhood distraction tactic against nightmares. |
| Fun Fact Friday! On this day in 1952, the first video recorder was demonstrated by John Mullin and Wayne Johnson in Beverly Hills, California. How would you explain YouTube to these gentlemen Is an explanation necessary? Explanations come in many guises. I don't think you beat doing. Like the chaps themselves demonstrated their advance-for-the-time technology, they showed: the industries that followed by using the technology probably took video recording to places the inventors never imagined. It is the same with the rise of the Internet. Much better to pop the chaps in front of YouTube, give them an account and leave them to it. |
| The Wildcard Round! Yeah yeah, I know- same thing every month- not even two weeks in and I've fallen behind. Anyway, this week's prize, because I feel like I've gotta switch up the conversation a little in any way I can, will be a Dialogue MB and will be selected via Virtual Dice from all eligible entries soon. Soon-ish. Anyway... Pick a quote from one of your favorite movies and tell us how you relate to it. I love movies. Any given day--heck, any given hour--this response would likely change, but you have caught me in the here and now, and, in the here and now I am drawn to those fabulously flawed characters who are so 3-D flesh, blood, bone, snot and sinew that we know them. Is there something in the writer, the actor, or the director's experiences that screams authenticity, honest, bravery and brutality, or is it our own lens of life and experience that makes us prick up our ears? Either way, I went with this quote from the 1945 British classic, Brief Encounter: Laura Jesson: "It's awfully easy to lie when you know that you're trusted implicitly. So very easy, and so very degrading." I doubt I could do a better review than the one you will find in IMDB, but hopefully you will have seen the film already. If not, do so. You'll have watched a film that will leave its shadow of emotion and memory tattooed on your soul. Laura is an ordinary housewife and mother. She has a good home and is married to a man she loves and respects, but, for all intents and purposes, she cheats on him when she falls in love with another married man. Neither of the married people were looking for an affair. Neither were they looking for love. They didn't want to hurt anyone--not their partners, not each other--but each came away wounded, hurt and broken people. I love the way that the film relies heavily on Laura's internal monologues to reveal the impact the affair has on so many aspects of her life: it is what makes the film such an intimate experience for every watcher; we understand what it is to cheat with our hearts and in our minds. The tortured loneliness of Laura's inner turmoil is emphasised by our movie window into her brain--we are listening in, but we can't join in, can't comfort, can't advise, or offer sympathy. Her outward appearance toward nosy neighbour, Dolly, is just that: a polite veneer. Inside she's screaming. How many times have we done that? The quote above stays with me because lying stays degrading, but lying never stays easy. No spoilers, but those we love us know us. Laura's husband, Fred, is seldom seen in the movie, but the end of the film is all his. People are fragile things. Be careful what you put them through. [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
| War Chest Wednesday! From a previous challenger... What is your "philosophy of life"...the idea that guides the way you live? And why have you chosen it? My philosophy of life is rather simple and short. I borrowed it from looking after historic buildings: leave the place better than when you found it. It is other people's experiences of the life we lead, and the impact our life has on theirs, that carries weight, purpose and meaning. A little kindness goes a long way. |
| Talk Tuesday! Well, the presidential election is today in the United States...one of the most polarizing and controversial elections in recent history. As an American citizen, how concerned are you about the outcome of this election? And for our global friends, what does this mean for you and your nation? Before I start, I have to say I have steered clear of commentary on this topic for one BIG reason: I feel uncomfortable commenting on another nation's democratic process. Only the urge of the prompt of "what does this mean for you and your nation?" has coerced me to comment. So this response is from a worried, pro-European, British socialist. Make of it what you will. I live every day with the fact that people I know (and, yes, even like), gave voice and power to what I genuinely fear will be looked back at on in hindsight as the rise of racism, bigotry, and fascism in my country by voting to Brexit--a move so daft, to me, that all of the Brexit-backing people I personally know who shared their polling choice with me have turned around since and said things along the lines of, "I didn't think we'd actually win: I just wanted to stick it to the system. The system's broke." And all of these confessors have gone on to express concern that the people (government) now in charge of engineering a safe passage through these waters may find themselves incompetent and impotent to do so successfully, for the benefit of Britain. If we can leave European Union so 'easily', how do our trade partner nations view us? What actual amount (in GBP Sterling), and where from, is the money Brexit promised our NHS? Where are the billions in savings that Brexiters said we would make by not putting into the pot that helps a sister nation out? What will happen to those top 10% areas of deprivation, currently reliant on the European funding distribution rules which make our greedy, self-interested, national and local government offices spend match funding in the communities that need it most? Will the class system experience a resurgence, as the poor get poorer and the rich get richer? I worry. I emboldened "I", because it matters. When we start thinking of 'I' and 'me' instead of 'our' and 'we', it is only a short mental leap to 'us' and 'them'...and perhaps shocking words like fascism are not that far away, either: after all, history shows that the us and them route can lead to holocaust and genocide. Whist I wouldn't dream of telling anyone how to vote, I will ask you this: what do you think will happen if your candidate actually wins? If your worst case scenario doesn't look like a script for one of those terribly frightening dystopian futures movies Battle Royale/Hunger Games/Purge, etc., than maybe you made the best choice you could, and not for your future, but the future of your children, neighbourhood, county, country and global neighbours. Please learn from the UK (from those who didn't vote and who wished they had, or those that did and wished they hadn't) that your vote matters. Whichever way you vote, please exercise your right to do so. And if you get bored of waiting for results to come in, you may recall me mentioning a rather interesting British documentary maker called Adam Curtis. Here's one newspaper review that should forewarn your whether or not 3hours of viewing is what you need to stay awake: https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2016/oct/15/hypernormalisation-adam-cur... |
| Singer Joni Mitchell, born on this day back in 1943, once said "Chase away the demons, and they will take the angels with them." What do you think about this? Is it necessary to have demons, if only to keep the angels around? This prompt has plagued me all day. I don't like it. I have been trying to come to terms about not liking it. It has that tortured cry of the artist about it; that only through the the artist's all-too painful realisation of the world, can beauty be truly appreciated. But what of the little fella? The Mr. Cellophane's? The medics, the accountants, the tax collectors, and, dare I day it the politicians? Rather than Joni Mitchell, I keep returning to Shakespeare. His histories were such fabulous depictions of the honesty of the human condition. (My apologies if you don't like Shakespeare: I didn't, until I found the right plays). I read Henry IV part II at about the same time as I saw Arthur Miller's The Crucible and became increasingly interested in human beings, how they worked, and how their workings were fundamentally flawed. Henry IV was a usurper. His son, young Henry (soon to be the rather famous Henry V), had to be secure in his ascent to kingship. As a prince he was a wastrel. Shakespeare's imaginings of him, painted his bawdy past to serve as a marketing spin on how extremely kingly his kingliness was because of it, not despite of it. The monologues in this play are awesome, and this is the one that springs to mind: "Like dull metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes ... I'll so offend, to make offence a skill, Redeeming time, when men think least I will." We love a sinner. We love it when folks are shits, but then say, "heck, I see the error of my ways. I am sorry. I have been a tit, and look at me now: I really learned not to be a shit, so when I don't act like a shit, it means more than folks who never act like shits, still not acting like shits." Or, one of my favourite song lyrics by the Tindersticks is about a cheating chap going straight and doing right by his wife: "No more affairs: how are you going to find out now?" How can a wife 'find out' that a husband has remained faithful? (Well, short of a lie detector test...) And does it mean more that a formerly unfaithful man has become more faithful by his new-found fidelity, than a faithful man remaining true to his vows? [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] To be a tortured artist, if the art is meaningful, seems to add more credulity and authentic weight behind the art, than if an artist had been a jolly sausage and come up with something profound, but that's what jesters do. A jester will laugh and lampoon and make a point just as well as a miserable, grumpy artist. I guess that's why I like satire. Heck, I don't even think Hamlet was that serious. Can an artist just be an artist, with self-torture as an option? Or can we not take artistry seriously unless there is something slightly unhinged about their greatness? I think back to my comedy heroes: Hancock, Spike Milligan, Peter Sellars, etc, etc., so fucked up in real life, and so funny. Can you imagine, for example, if I showed you my wounds...would you even believe they could be worn by such a chirpy, perky and googly-eyed wonder? Take me seriously. Ahh, gotchya... |
| Today, you are in for a bit of a reprieve, as, quite out of character, I am in a controversial mood. If you want to know my typical mindset, please view an Adam Curtis documentary. This is my news story for today, courtesy of the BBC: England's Oddest Phrases explained. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-37550178 They are odd, but not the oddest. I didn't realise how odd some of the phrases I have grown up with are. So let me add to the oddity of them all by adding my own and explaining them to the best of my ability. He's got a face like Morty's dog! Usually said behind a grumpy person's back (Blackpool origin). Stanley Mortensen was a famous footballer (soccer), especially renowned for his FA Cup Final record from 1953 and his very ugly dog: He had a bull dog. It looked like it was chewing a wasp. A load of codswallop Usually said when someone is talking shite. Variants include, "what a load of old codswallop!" Wallop is a slang term for booze. Boozers didn't care for temperance, and Mr Henry Codd, in 18 hundred and blob, invented soda bottles that could keep their fizz, by putting a little marble ball in the top. Boozers didn't care for soda instead of wallop. Henry could keep it. As I was thinking of all my sayings, I realised I don't really know the reason behind some of them, and maybe they are a bit rude or derogatory... So here's a few I don't know the origin of, but if you do, please illuminate me! Denton: where the flies comes from Denton is a town near Manchester. Whenever anyone mentions it, it is rare for someone overhearing this,not to chip in with "where the flies come from". When I ask why, nobody knows.. You look like one of Lewis's Derogatory, when one is day dreaming and doesn't look connected to their surroundings, but, ask as I do, no one can tell me who Lewis is/was, and what/who belonged to him. Do you have any strange sayings/phrases, and, more importantly, do you know their origins. |
| Creation Saturday! You're in charge of building the ideal robot- the robot science fiction has been telling us for decades is eventually gonna exist. What is it going to look like, how is it going to function, and what role will it play in your day-to-day existence...complementary, or otherwise? I knew what I wanted to write about as soon as I saw the prompt. Thing is, I have been searching the web for ages to try and find proof of my horror of robots. When I was a kid in Scotland (I'd be around 10, I guess), the class read a collection of short sci-fi stories and one scared and scarred me: Odiputs. A little girl didn't like her robot. It wasn't the latest model. It was stupid--creepy and stupid. She named it Odiputs, because that was 'Stupido' backwards. She treated it badly (she was not a very likeable character). It killed her. I swear to goodness, I had not seen that coming. For some reason, getting killed in books was what happened to enemy spies, great aunts in attics, or bit-part characters in detective novels and gothic horror classics (with the exception of the monsters, and monsters were OK to kill). Sci-fi showed us the future. This future contained murderous artificial intelligence, and that was not the future for me: I wanted Star Trek, where the only people dying were those done-in by un-friendly fire, plant-wide disasters, or an accident with a dilithium-crystal-warp-core-overload type thing. Imagine my fascination and horror as I grew up in a movie world where Bishop went nuts over Alien, rogue-bots in see-through macs shed tears in the rain, and policemen wanted to Terminate you...no. Not for me. If I was in charge of building the ideal robot, I would quit. I wouldn't do it. No siree. Not my bag, man. Here's a jolly tune about sex-bots, instead  [Embed For Use By Upgraded+] |
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