It is uncompromising in its beauty. The page, the gleaming, soaked in opportunity. It is without a doubt the graveyard of many grand ambitions. Many derelict ideas and abandoned hopes and dreams and washed away like seaweed into the mud there are...glimmers of hope. Glistening under the shining effervescent face of the young man, pen in hand, hammering away at that glorious goddess in the mind. He will create wonders.
There is nothing but possibilty on that white, pearly paper which cries out for attention, a spoiled child who has not yet been taken in hand. It will be molded how we see fit, we shall create wonders.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Sundays mornings are a waste of time. Again.
Once again Sunday morning has come around, like some disgusting cold that rears its head every so often when one least expects it. Sundays always blindside me. The bastards. the sun has vanished only to be replaced by a horrendous blanket of cloud that has descended, quite obnoxiously, on our pleasant little burg. The city is awash with the filthy vermin who only appear every so often when the sun goes away. They wear fleece, and Crocs, and sunglasses without any sense of irony whatever. How I loathe them.
Fortuitous, then, that I am hiding away in my brick bunker, in front of my magical computerbox, crafting wonders with my clacking fingertips. I have work to be doing - how terrible. Three thousand is such an impenetrably large number of words.
Fortuitous, then, that I am hiding away in my brick bunker, in front of my magical computerbox, crafting wonders with my clacking fingertips. I have work to be doing - how terrible. Three thousand is such an impenetrably large number of words.
Jazz is not a waste of time
The city is the greatest achievement of civilisation. Within the walls and boundaries of the city all the great and magnificent art, science, culture, beauty, and wondrous sexual experimentation dissolve into the atmosphere. The city is a living, breathing, organism. It feeds, it supports life, it is a heaving, massive, orgasmic experiment. I love the city. The city at night is without a doubt the greatest of works of art.
Granted I did not grow up in remote Canada, but remote South Wales is certainly a similar experience. The idea of the bustling metropolitan lifestyle appealed to me a great deal. Oddly enough, however, upon moving to the city to the first time I did not fully appreciate it - I felt greatly hoaxed, it was a ruse, they had lied to me, like they so often did. It was horrible. I found the city harsh, mean, arch, and crass. Certainly damp and cold and definitely unwelcoming. It was a whole host of negative emotion and not all that inviting.
This all changed the moment I pressed play on the CD player having recently inserted 'Basie in London'. It all, in one explosion of music, became utterly and entirely clear to me what the city meant. The trumpets and snares and saxophones and pianos and drums all seemed to ebb and flow with the people following their daily lives, people pulsed along with the beat, and the street lights glowed their fluid, nearly tactile glow - sparkles in my sunglasses at six pm as the sun had barely laid its head to rest behind the towering buildings.
The city became alive for me for the very first time - and I realised that all the sleaze and debauchery was not unwholesome or contemptible, but vivacious, eccentric, flamboyant, and above all else, absolutely necessary. Everywhere no longer seemed empty. The cars, the small dramas between two quarreling lovers, the drunks singing, the small bistros steaming their hot steam - it was all overwhelmingly exciting - I finally felt like the bus route was a vein, an artery, the side streets capillaries and the districts were the organs of the city - all served very different purposes, but they worked together as a whole to keep the fantastic organism alive.
"I've always loved the city at night, even before I knew what it was like. I come from a rural suburb of a small town on the west coast of Canada and I spent my adolescence dreaming of cities in the dark." - Kate Pullinger
Granted I did not grow up in remote Canada, but remote South Wales is certainly a similar experience. The idea of the bustling metropolitan lifestyle appealed to me a great deal. Oddly enough, however, upon moving to the city to the first time I did not fully appreciate it - I felt greatly hoaxed, it was a ruse, they had lied to me, like they so often did. It was horrible. I found the city harsh, mean, arch, and crass. Certainly damp and cold and definitely unwelcoming. It was a whole host of negative emotion and not all that inviting.
This all changed the moment I pressed play on the CD player having recently inserted 'Basie in London'. It all, in one explosion of music, became utterly and entirely clear to me what the city meant. The trumpets and snares and saxophones and pianos and drums all seemed to ebb and flow with the people following their daily lives, people pulsed along with the beat, and the street lights glowed their fluid, nearly tactile glow - sparkles in my sunglasses at six pm as the sun had barely laid its head to rest behind the towering buildings.
The city became alive for me for the very first time - and I realised that all the sleaze and debauchery was not unwholesome or contemptible, but vivacious, eccentric, flamboyant, and above all else, absolutely necessary. Everywhere no longer seemed empty. The cars, the small dramas between two quarreling lovers, the drunks singing, the small bistros steaming their hot steam - it was all overwhelmingly exciting - I finally felt like the bus route was a vein, an artery, the side streets capillaries and the districts were the organs of the city - all served very different purposes, but they worked together as a whole to keep the fantastic organism alive.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Blah blah wasting blah
It struck me today - as I placed down one pound and thirty pence in the metal tray of the number 43 bus - just how cruel and deceptive most people are. Myself included, myself especially. I had not wished it, though sunglasses, and a stern expression do not leave much room for doubt, but I was a vaccuous and vain and superficial monstrosity created by something which I have only recently and fully discovered to be complete artifice. For the time being. Being for time; rather. All things considered that is what we do here, on this planet, in this voidal universe. For that is all there is, truly, deeply, on a terrifying level. There is no space between here and there or over and under or London and Tokyo, for that matter because in infinite terms (to which the whole world is subject) this planet and us included takes up no space whatsoever. We do not exist. We are particles existing quantumly and yet here we are - wearing sunglasses and stern expressions. All society is distraction. distraction and redemption.
The problem I face relation to people - is that people are not relateable at all - in any sense. The society we create is vaccuous, linear, self serving, and profoundly and modrbidly redundant. It is a wide scale multi faceted, globalised artifice. It is circus, to keep us from throwing rocks at each other and rationalising things in terms of what we can actually see, design, utilise, or eat.
All the world is a stage. Truer words ne'er spoken. What a marvellous diversion. We are playing in the sandbox of oblivion. It is perplexing. Do children draw lines in the sandbox? Do children war with others. Possibly, but they get to mature, to grown to surpass that and become regular people. We as a species are stiil stuck in the sand hurling rocks.
The problem I face relation to people - is that people are not relateable at all - in any sense. The society we create is vaccuous, linear, self serving, and profoundly and modrbidly redundant. It is a wide scale multi faceted, globalised artifice. It is circus, to keep us from throwing rocks at each other and rationalising things in terms of what we can actually see, design, utilise, or eat.
All the world is a stage. Truer words ne'er spoken. What a marvellous diversion. We are playing in the sandbox of oblivion. It is perplexing. Do children draw lines in the sandbox? Do children war with others. Possibly, but they get to mature, to grown to surpass that and become regular people. We as a species are stiil stuck in the sand hurling rocks.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Breakfast is not a waste of time
Sat at the table; the soft spring air drifting calmly through the open doorway into the sensibly decorated kitchen, warming the face, lifting the music so. The smells of the bread toasting gently, the butter hot on the knife, the tidy eloquent way you spread the Rasberry jam on your crumpet after the silky caramel tea pours from that most quaint of teapots. The sunlight creaks through the small window, then like a tipped honey pot, it pours its golden pleasure over the tabletop, and over your face.
It appears to me that breakfast is the last bastion of civilisation. The tea, the toast, the butter, the jam, the newspaper, the coffee, the orange juice, the selection of cereals and mueslis. Everything is white and beautiful, at the breakfast table - in whatever form that might take place. There is a refreshing delight in breakfasting with that one special person whom you love most precociously- for we are all young at the breakfast table.
It appears to me that breakfast is the last bastion of civilisation. The tea, the toast, the butter, the jam, the newspaper, the coffee, the orange juice, the selection of cereals and mueslis. Everything is white and beautiful, at the breakfast table - in whatever form that might take place. There is a refreshing delight in breakfasting with that one special person whom you love most precociously- for we are all young at the breakfast table.
Sunday, 1 March 2009
Spring is for wasting time and looking fine
Firstly - Happy St. David's Day everyone, it's nice being Welsh for once - it is the first day of spring if you are a meteorologist, and not if you are an astronomer - but who gives a bumbags about you, Patrick Moore? Right.
Given that Winter is now officially over, we can get on with dressing in our fitted blazers and tight jeans, sporting sunglasses and light scarves despite the fact that the British weather rarely breaks out the sun/warmth until around August 23rd, after which it promptly ceases. However it seems to put most people in a good mood, which I suppose is useful, in that it has its uses, it has its effects.
The sun and the blowing trees and light heather and lavender smell again - it effects an embracing, perennial mindset, along with the buttercup, which lasts a good long time; however the mindset is not actually chronic in nature, it is acute, but subjectively eternal. The years seem short but the days are long. The summer is not quite here, but the sunlight glancing off the windows and roofs of the houses and buildings is like the smell of baking bread, wetting the appetite for the culinary orgasm that the hot July sun will bring.
Out come those well-dressed horrors, now - the sandals, the sunglasses, the shirts; Oh! The nipples on sculpted chest. That boy would make a fine bride, were it not for that head of his which lacks any marble. He is beautiful, and I hate him. His man at arms, equally vaccuous, is tenacious and bully, ferocious, and excaptional in bed. I hate him too. They must retire to the beach, where the sun, sand, waves, screams of childish glee, may caress their stomachs and shins, echoing through the gasps of waspish Middle England.
Ah yes, Spring is here.
Given that Winter is now officially over, we can get on with dressing in our fitted blazers and tight jeans, sporting sunglasses and light scarves despite the fact that the British weather rarely breaks out the sun/warmth until around August 23rd, after which it promptly ceases. However it seems to put most people in a good mood, which I suppose is useful, in that it has its uses, it has its effects.
The sun and the blowing trees and light heather and lavender smell again - it effects an embracing, perennial mindset, along with the buttercup, which lasts a good long time; however the mindset is not actually chronic in nature, it is acute, but subjectively eternal. The years seem short but the days are long. The summer is not quite here, but the sunlight glancing off the windows and roofs of the houses and buildings is like the smell of baking bread, wetting the appetite for the culinary orgasm that the hot July sun will bring.
Out come those well-dressed horrors, now - the sandals, the sunglasses, the shirts; Oh! The nipples on sculpted chest. That boy would make a fine bride, were it not for that head of his which lacks any marble. He is beautiful, and I hate him. His man at arms, equally vaccuous, is tenacious and bully, ferocious, and excaptional in bed. I hate him too. They must retire to the beach, where the sun, sand, waves, screams of childish glee, may caress their stomachs and shins, echoing through the gasps of waspish Middle England.
Ah yes, Spring is here.
Guilt is a waste of time
It seems to me that so much of our lives is spent repenting things that we did a long time ago, and things that were probably the right decision at the time.
What we seem to forget is that in time, all wounds heal, all fractures mend, and all debts are repaid.
Time truly is the greatest medicine.
So much of our lives are spent regretting the past, wishing it were different - wishing for something that may or may not have been entirely imagined - a lost phantom, a figment - all memories are; without evidence, physical evidence, memories are nothing more than dust in the breeze. So with that in mind, nothing is worth regretting. Everything is forgotten, and mostly everything is forgiven.
I cannot help but feel truly humbled by the mistakes I have made, or the mistakes wmade by others which affected me. There is truth in everything, and all of us can help each other to forget the mistakes of the past, learn from them, and forge a better, happier future.
What we seem to forget is that in time, all wounds heal, all fractures mend, and all debts are repaid.
Time truly is the greatest medicine.
So much of our lives are spent regretting the past, wishing it were different - wishing for something that may or may not have been entirely imagined - a lost phantom, a figment - all memories are; without evidence, physical evidence, memories are nothing more than dust in the breeze. So with that in mind, nothing is worth regretting. Everything is forgotten, and mostly everything is forgiven.
I cannot help but feel truly humbled by the mistakes I have made, or the mistakes wmade by others which affected me. There is truth in everything, and all of us can help each other to forget the mistakes of the past, learn from them, and forge a better, happier future.
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