snippets: 3L, a mind dump

Old Man: "And men feel it worse than women; we feel it harder stronger, deeper, longer and it cuts us for the rest of our days. Even when the scar has healed so well it shows not even to he who bears it. But women tend their sorrow, feed it and turn autumn into an eternal spring. Each memory, each failed romance a testament to their skill with Life. Men may till the soil, but women reap its benefits ... and share them with us."

Y’know.. Discover nothing. The cold that cuts asunder. You walk and explode into a thousand thousand different buildings and more. Nothing ever knows. Nothing ever touches you as it should. Nothing; and worse: no – one. Time to call it a day? I don’t think so: I am the life that never was; the life that never dies. I explode and implode with you inside me; I explode again and still you stay inside. Still we never part, as never we must. Still, and never to know peace. Whee! And then then the rollercoaster takes you on a ride that never stops until you know and then it never and so it never. Tape crush. Your testament becomes your tomb Shackled by the chains of conscience Why spend silver on food when copper will do? When the peace without has stopped your heart and busy mind, it fills you. And becomes you. And you it. And more. You know the thoughts and feelings and nature of everything and as you share with each other, you become each other. You know the tiny rivulets that break away, effervescent, from their Mother Stream, happy tributaries. You know the grandiose woods, trees in silent communion, with roots that stretch from soil to sky and take you with them: stretching bone and sinew effortlessly. You know the vacuum as a melancholy wind, indisposed and curmudgeonly, occasionally wry. You know flame as a chattering crowd, incessant in its search for new experience: “Have I burned you yet? Tasted your flesh?” You feel the joy and glory of life and creation and you celebrate it with your heart and an unmade smile, too broad to fashion, that beams within you. The feeling swells and you realise it is your own, now no-one is holding your hands but they are there, watching, encouraging, and keeping you from harm. But you need more, you cannot contain this feeling, you were not made for it: you are not big enough. So you raise your arms to echo the smile you feel inside. And you hold yourself aloft like a tree to join the earth and sky. And you feel yourself aloft, flying in the blue/grey/black sky (it matters not), safe, never to fall. Sky song: a song that raises your heart to the heavens. “I can’t let that happen: I’ll need to create conflict.” A groundswell and still we surface.

When you start to have the same conversations with different people, it's time to move on. It's a long story and one I'm not inclined to repeat.

My packet, lit by the glowering moon is half-open; I'll take the rest into tomorrow. It's still time. Discovery takes us by surprise. I reach to touch the hard, cold grass and yearn; long for the moments...

Born to this world, I am of it, not a colour on a map, a flag on my chest to make me a target for your prejudice. Let me be that instead if you can agree with me on nothing. If we cannot enjoy the simple exploration of a pot of tea, a moment: eyes raised to the heavens or cast upon the ground. If we cannot share the gift of air that sentient (chaos) gives us, then so be it. But it is for you to make the move in that other direction, for though we may share the fear of living, my way to face frustration is to try to live alongside it: often despairing, criticising, cursing.

[I do not wish for parity/equality]; that is a false premise. I just wish to see a unity in how we stand face to face, an agreement of understanding. We cannot but be different, though we know of those, that which would view us the same, and (we) choose to ignore their blinkered(ness): ants, fleas, maggots all. Because what counts to us is in our heads and through our heads, our hearts.

You'd hate me if I were perfect, wouldn't you?

Objects - arms and legs and.

It improves/helps reinvention.

Because there is order in chaos.

(Anyway) you smile too much: I hope you do, anyway.

A sign: Freedom is yours: Use it!

I'll run into the fantasies you tell me are my own.

There's comfort in just drinking. Turn you on the lathe of my imagination. Locks and keys.

Isn't that what parenthood is: faith and hope. Faith in yourself, faith in fate - the unknown that you don't believe in but you know exists because you know you can't know everything, faith that despite the fucked-up system that puts the past and future before the present, the nanny state before the intelligent, well-meaning, trying their damndest with something that can't be taught parent that it'll turn out right. They'll make it through. Unscathed. And as people. Just decent people.

And hope that maybe they'll be something more. They'll be healthy, happy, safe, a success, a real person.

I dunno. I'm an outsider. I've never made the big decisions. Commitment phobia? Hope not. I'd like to think I'm too good at seeing into the nature of things and people. Most people are pretty easy. And you don't meet them, cause you don't notice them. Or choose to.

Think of a post by Hermes. How we can dispense advice we can't follow. And we all know it's a degree of distance, sometimes. Distance gives perspective. It doesn't matter if you get something wrong. To err is human and all that. H, wouldn't think you would think that, but some might. I think it's more about how you handle the aftermath; how you get out. Can you leave the other(s) with their dignity (or whatever's at stake) intact? Without being sanctimoniuos, patronising, condescending, dumb; and, if you're lucky, a bit of your own?

Or not, as you should have gathered by now.

Church bells ringing on a Sunday morning, over the trees and across the dew-slicked grass and into my room soothe me sonourously from my slumber; a reverse lullaby.

"Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger." In present mood my reply to that might be: "Tuberculosis".

Your forgiveness I already have: a parcel labelled "emergency rations", it has no weight.

These people will have moved on; taking my life here with them. So I must travel futher to find a new one. (The tourist)

cut with caustic words and coruscating smile - Diana

I scoop and he is gone - his shell disintegrates into a thousand thousand mites that fly at me, attacking, seeking new dead among the living. (Save the locket, which remains, a picture of us as twins.)

To talk to others, in equal communion. It is only when you opened me so easily (that)I understood how much I respected you not just as a person, but as you.

A quick flick-look and she is gone: fodder for the men. The stuff of legends is powerful motivation indeed and he knows it will bolster and boost his forces.

Champagne sparkle, champagne words. I avoided you because I thought you were who you are - (used).

Dear blog people. I noticed the “flag” tag some while ago and did the follow up research on it, once I’d determined its purpose. The postulation that to not promote a multiple-flagged blog was of concern to me. Despite your promises that this was not censorship, presumably because you were allowing those who had written the blogs to continue to write, I considered my concerns unassuaged. Nor did your promise that you you would continue to remove those blogs that were patently and obviously “beyond the pale” in terms of their radical, or plainly hate-filled message, which seemed to have been added as a way of showing how reasonable you were being in your actions. It has occurred to me, albeit through the mind of another, that this process is open to abuse all too easily. For example: someone whose politics is right of centre has read something they consider offensive. It happens to be from a left of centre minded person. The former has some friends set up blogs and they jointly conspire to have the other blog “censored”. Some people for a “lark” pick on a blog and it gets “censored”. “Not censored!”, you say, “We have controls in place.” I asked you about your controls (let us for now ignore that perhaps the time allowed to make my query might have led to it being somewhat abstruse) and you referred me to the faq that I had read and that was sufficiently unsatisfactory that I felt I had to enquire further. For example: how many “flags” does it take before your committee reviews the blog in question? Who comprises said committee? What qualifications do they have and can I join? Why not? Is there an appeal process? Were I “flagged to obscurity”, would I have a right of appeal, or even know it had been done? Is there a “We love this blog!” flag? Is there any form of punishment for malicious flagging? How does the non-promotion take place and what restrictions are placed on the blogger, links to it and so forth? “My God!” you (perhaps) say “What a fuss over something we did that will affect very few, and with the best of intentions!” I happen to believe in freedom of speech. Perhaps I heard of Disraeli at an impressionable age, who knows? And I happen to disagree with you that it is not censorship. I’m currently in Russia. Once upon a time were I here I could write a letter to my family (some of us still like that method of communication) but what they would receive, if anything at all, might well be very different. My serendipitous membership of that year’s pogrom might ensue, were I a native, or perhaps not even were I sufficiently heinous. While I accept that this is on a completely different scale in terms of the level of severity of response, it is no different in that the behaviour is to allow ideas and thoughts to not be seen by others. In short, it is censorship. I’ll digress slightly, in the hope of making a point and distasteful that it is to discuss politics, especially about a situation involving another's country. Like the majority of the British public (if opinion polls are to be trusted), I saw no reason for Iraq to be invaded notwithstanding the putative presence of WMDs nor, indeed, the far better reason that the regime there was not one that could be said to be “good” by modern-day, western standards (and who’s to say those standards are “right”?). Ignoring the individual factors present in Iraq as described by several British diplomats to the current Prime Minister (as much as I know of them), the fact that the regime was supported previously by the West when it suited their “needs”, and the reported facts about non-cooperation with UN nuclear weapons inspectors, ultimately the invasion was a reversion to the days of the kings of old, when “might was right”. And what right did anyone have to invade another sovereign country? Who are we (The West) to say our view is right? The point being that you, blogger.com, are in a position of power and will be deciding what is and isn’t right. But based on whose opinion and what reasoning? Like it or not, you’re imposing your opinion on others or imposing others’ opinions on others! And that can be manipulated. While it’s not the same as making a pre-emptive strike, because you’re reacting to something that has been written, you are pandering to peoples’ prejudices, which patently are pre-formed and which thus do equate to a decision to impose one person’s view on another. To the detriment of the person who cannot answer their unseen accuser. And do you really think that you’re going to achieve much by your actions? How many blogs are there? Even the promoted ones? There must be tens of thousands now, so one person alone couldn’t hope to find one. And don’t we come back to the old argument of “Does TV make you bad?” (Yes, if you’re on Jerry Springer!). Without the propensity to argue or the ability to turn off, which is what most people would do were they so inclined and had a difference of opinion? No. Isn’t that what comments are for? And anonymous ones at that? I’m happy to engage in a debate with someone: I’ll learn something or they will (I hope) and then life will go on, as it does, regardless. If, for example, someone’s stupid enough to think that by the accident of birth, because someone’s been born in a country other than the antagonist’s this makes them …well, anything other than a national of that country (probably) then maybe they’re someone you’ll have difficulty debating with, but so what? It’s the question of WMDs again. You have to wait until someone throws the first punch (or you damn well know it’s coming and it’s a haymaker) before you can act. There’s a blog I’ve read that mentions that Floridians can now carry guns. If you don’t have the “They started it.” rule, you just get people with twitchy trigger fingers looking to obviate the false promise of their demise (or dead Brazilians, if you’re in London). Why can’t people do that (turn off or never return) with something that they see (and have been involved in looking for: blog links still need to be followed, don’t they?)? Or don’t you trust us to act rationally? Turning to the matter of antisocial behaviour, doesn’t that which is markedly and universally condemned and not accepted, simply not exist underground if there is sufficient call for it? Which is not to support it, but to suggest that some things might better be nullified by being in the public gaze. In England over the past few years there’s been a furore about a Muslim cleric called Abu Hamza. He apparently exhorts people to rise up against the West. Let him. Most Muslims ignore him, I believe. Of the few who do not, the question “Why do they not?” is most pertinent. After all, capitalism isn’t the perfect system, is it? But is that an excuse? We can consider the actions of the G7/8 in protecting their own interests at the expense of others as Bob Geldof made clear to those who weren’t previously aware before the summit near Edinburgh this year as part of the answer to this. Or we can just say “there’s no smoke without fire”. As for those who listen to him? I would think many can be reasoned with and might then not support him as they otherwise had (a hypothetical) and some. Some people you can’t reason with, regardless. But you’re removing them as they come to your attention, anyway! The point being that ideas die very quickly in a vacuum, but the space they inhabit is not electronic, but biological. This begs the question: how is it that these are made known? By the same method? Ok, but then we come back to the questions I had at the beginning of this over-long “rant”. And why can’t we, the blogging community which you have created, have some involvement in the extirpation of its ‘detritus’? Apathy will reign, I’m sure and then you can do your job anyway, but some people might want to have a say. Do you at least offer the courtesy to someone of saying they’ve been blacklisted and offer an appeal? Let’s face it, most blogs are reasonably personal and of little interest to any but a choice few so the personal community of that blog will remain unaffected. I wonder: what can you consider “offensive”? One of the most popular British films of all time started (so I believe) with the word “Fuck” being said 9 times (4 Weddings and a Funeral). Some would want to censor that. If someone’s stupid enough to spend their time filling electronic pages with invective, well…at least it keeps them off the streets and they’re not going brain-dead in front of the telly! Do you really want a society reminiscent of that in the “Steptford Wives” – i.e. no dissension? It is those things, those people at the radical fringes of society who drive it forward. The most-quoted and obvious example of someone having a view contrary to that held by the establishment is Galileo. I’m sure you know the argument, so I’ll say no more on that point. Not all things at the extremes do become normatised, and things do become modified as they become inculcated into the the mainstream of society; that being part of society’s function: to make that acceptable to the few acceptable (and accessible) to the many, but would you seek to “not promote” that which had the approval of the majority ? Then there’s the argument that creation is a complex chain of chance – maybe one idea in a person’s blog will spark off another and, and so on. I accept that this analysis is, in itself, simplistic as are all things that consider only a few of those factors that may/may not be relevant to a given situation, but this is not intended as an academic consideration of the subject of censorship. But while I could go on, if you haven’t got the idea by now…! So this time, could you please ATFQ and (maybe) justify yourselves to us (we concerned bloggers)? Thank you. p.s. as next to no-one reads my blog and they all think I’m barmy anyway, I personally have no concerns that anyone will even read it, but I would like to not be “not promoted”! p.p.s. a better initial answer would have obviated this….! p.p.p.s. Thanks for the anti-spam thingy you put in place (appreciated).

Peripatetic. It’s not an easy word to say.

Pure power: the core screams to escape itself.
You cannot speak but use the truth. And so the words fall and nestle on the ground in shapes untold as sight steals imagination.
I said something great today: What it was, I do not know, but it was an imagined future past and conditional. What is a mind to conceive such a thing?
Mordant - how I liked this word.
Run the race of youth impetuous.
Duty-bound to let you call my bluff. For what it is not I do not know, save I know a little of what is.
To set up moving dominoes to fall.

Fire discovered man and decided to play. Its fascination knew no bounds and so it gave it away.
How can you curse those who taught you the inane joy of laughter, the painful hiccough of the giggle, tickled from beneath your skin?
Myopia microscopic.
You want to play. It’s how you get to know life, but once you’ve learned you can only look back and know what it is you’ve missed.
To buy one’s freedom, what would prison gain? You force me out of hiding. Defeat digs deep.
((((((She hurt me too much: she was my friend.)))))
Smart. Clever is something altogether different.
Question: the power of the secretary.
Deny me my dreams for your avarice

Things that happen on a train journey

In no particular order.

Derren Brown.

Lists.

The posthumous marriage.

Omigosh! There's a foot growing from the floor.

God doesn't like competition.

Married women should be flirted with - they need it!

Reasons to emigrate #1: Abi Titmus.

Snap, chomping your way thru...(the air?)

Themes and tenuous connections.

Made of sun
I'm currently listening to a track with that name.
Isn't it great?!


******************

I reckon I've paid enough taxes to bring that day closer (death)

She's dirty in the brush, water, soap, if you don't do it, I will kind of way

Teenage Angst.

Favourites change over time, but these lyrics have a place in my head that I sometimes go out of my way to pass by; window-shopping

“But traditions I can trace,
Against the child in your face”

Continue:

· If you’ve seen “Donnie Darko” then you’ve heard the full song.

· To encapsulate the effects of nurture and conditioning in such a small phrase. A hint is all that’s needed.

· Human interaction understood at the non-verbal level.

· The product of an imagination, sliced.

· Fate and Free Will deconstructed.

· Identity recognition and systemic reaction. Human prejudice. Whose identities?

· A degree of wisdom we cannot fault yet cannot accept. Wisdom and whence it comes from?

· This was the closest they would come to writing a love song, the group said. Yet divorce beckoned. Wood and trees.

· What is “inside”?

· Why do we think?

· How equal is this relationship? Is it one?

· Born equally? Maybe. But the race starts from second 1.

· Can you filter and distil all you feel at any moment. All of it? Yes, there’s an argument in there.

· How much do you need to know? Is it always the same?

· This can fit any mood, any situation. Changes in the light do not change the sentiment, just the information you receive. How many levels of a person are there?.

· Repetition. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. How many boundaries are there? How many can you cross, effortlessly; there being no boundaries?

· What is right? And wrong?

· An argument: “…things were different then. At that time thinking like that was radical, now it’s the accepted norm.” Hmmm. Maybe. I wish for a degree of omniscience.

· I think of everybody. Everybody who…and that’s often not anybody.

· What’s the story? What happens next? What makes a decision? What makes a decision? – a different question.

· Mystics and dreams.

· Where

Go back to ‘continue’. How would you continue and develop that train of thought?

Mind Dump T

Rumination on an unwanted return

Airports. Funny how they can be the first and last impression of a place you visit. These sterile, pre-fabricated, build ‘em quick, knock ‘em down creations made for our convenience.

Endings are so different from beginnings. The uncertainty less, but so the heightened senses laden with thoughts of practicality, mundanity: what food shopping shall I do?

At check-in (much quicker than entry) I’m given a ticket for the business lounge. Wahoo! I’m finally rewarded for lugging this laptop half-way round the bloody world! I refrain from asking exactly what it is (apart from the obvious), they might want it back.

When I get there it’s not so great. Old fogeys and no atmosphere. I presume the drinks et al are free after watching someone help himself, but as I’m skint I don’t want to risk having to break into money I could spend elsewhere.

Looking at my ticket (a first), I notice it say “business class” on it. No wonder it was so bloody expensive! Next time I’ll read what’s in front of me rather than just click and hope. So then I take some peanuts to console me. I am kinda cheap, after all.

Schipol. At last I get to see it.

The contrast is startling. Commerce thrust on you from every side. I find myself longing for Russia’s hidden, dirty industry. Cack-handed and rip-off maybe, but not quite so bloated with its own self-importance.

The sugar-rich sweets that machines, strategically placed, invite you to partake of. Forget your teeth, heart, liver and kidneys; forget your health. We’ll take care of that for you. Just as we’re taking care of you now. However it’s done, the end result is the same: you pay, we gain.

Slicker, not sleeker, Christmas trees already on show, the shiny sell-me-something shops catch the eye: because there’s nothing else. Patisserie, bakery, pizzeria, books, cds, cosmetics. All the essentials for…who? The forgetful traveller or the spoilt child?

I find myself in the Land of Books: “How to be an even better manager” (resign); “The 8th Habit, Stephen R Covey (Wassup, Steve? You made your fortune on 7 and now you need an 8th? An 8th of what, or is that the problem? You been blowing that cash in all the wrong places? Maybe you just want to buy yourself an archangelhood/ship, whatever?); “Sodoku for dummies” (hold on! I thought that was the point! Not for dummies! Oh well!).

I turn around to see people eating while standing around small tables. Compliant. Good boys, aren’t they? So you want to look sheepish and stupid just so someone can make the best use of their space? You shop at Gap, too?

It is nice to see news that has more than 5 minutes of foreign current affairs, that doesn’t reek of bias (though I always approach the beast – news – with distrust), and that has less than 10 minutes of people in uniforms “explaining” something. A drugs bust, forgery ring bust, or terrorist bust all seeming to be quite popular. I know news is no news but there’s such a stark contrast that I (almost) want to hug the director general of the BBC.

Thursday evening at an airport is incongruous. It has no place in my frame of reference. And I’m going nowhere. I’ve stalled and …I ask myself if I’d like to be a newsreader; selected for my pleasant to all, dull, bland exterior.

But then it’s good to see a range of colourful people again, even if they all do wear black. And they move, a little, quicker than their Russian counterparts.

On the planes all the suits and me, unshaven, unkempt, t-shirt with biro marks on it (look I’m a dirty wanted-to-be writer, ok?). I delight in the opportunity to have my beat-up leather jacket with the Spiderman badge hung up among the Paul Smith and Marks and Spencer range.

Manchester.

Arrive (eventually) at my room for the night. A backpack, laptop and two knackered suitcases mean I’ve got to climb some stairs, right? Yup. 3 flights. The place looks like it was built in the 1960s and hasn’t been decorated since. Not in the conventional sense, anyway.

***

They’re probably my age; but they look it. Give in to the ghosts of history.

If I’d ‘ve been fit I might’ve caught ‘em, rage gives you that extra spur.

Temptation – a returning theme.

I have more years cast on my skin, more waist (line) under my belt.

In many ways this place has everything, but it has nothing for me.

You have to be aware of sedition.

Life goes on. People dance.

I scream at the day.

I feel there’s something inside that stops me knowing myself, feeling who I am.

The eternal crossroads.

I know I’ll never quell this restless spirit, but I’m no itinerant, a nomad born to roam. I don’t feel lost; that’s like waiting to be found and I can’t understand that idea: waiting to be found. The waiting part is hard enough, but I can make a case for it: it’s the “if everyone’s moving, the chances of a random occurrence are less” argument. But ‘found’? No. My mind just fades out….And when I recover, I switch to other things. For some reason sometimes I look at people and think about what their future might hold. What they’ll look like, in terms of attire and deportment rather than facially, cause that seems fixed. How these two things will reflect the changes in their external circumstances, in their self-images, in themselves. It’s the movement I like more than anything; always the movement. In some ways that’s more than a stereotypical feature than dress, when considered in broad terms. But in all probability the two are fused into 1 no matter how I think I separate them. And with each individual I come across I speculate what it is about them that’s caught my eye. The obvious? They’re in my field of vision? Or the way they set off the air, the walls, the people, all their surroundings. The way they make it vibrate a little differently from the other people. And when their journey takes them where it will
***
Why does the quite cute air hostess think I’m Dutch?

I have awoken.

That smooth elegant grace of a lady: timeless, ageless, revered.

Opportunity favours the young. Because we make it so.

Walking freely, slowly,

It confers no advantage upon us.

Peace. It’s funny how its pursuit produces endless reams of the opposite.

Coalesce. Settle. Conversation in a station.

He’s too concerned with looking good to be any good.

Perspire in the fight to live to fight to die another day. Would the struggle ever cease?

I wondered of our leaving. How it would be. To sneak away, still forgotten. Wrapped in the mist, a moment unnoticed. It is to the trees and isolation I feel pulled. For there though Winter’s hand is held heavy I may find solace/shelter from the buffeting wind. I may find a bud of life and remember what it is to live. My breath. Hot. It clings to me, unwilling to go out into the cold unprotected.

I have so much to look forward to.

I’m staying sober. What the heck! Smoked almonds. Plane shot down and among the burning wreckage, impossibly, is found….Start. The realisation of the ineluctable stops me in my tracks. I hear a taunting voice. “Over so soon, Jonny?” It makes me hate my name, my small, weak self.

Yunnan. That’s another one off the list: maybe I’ll start at “A” and work my way up.

Despite myself, I have another restful night.

“Pain is a wonderful thing and something we do not properly appreciate. And I say that in all seriousness, with not a hint of irony.”

“You do your hair like business.”

Your arse got my attention.

Plastic surgery’s cheating: the way to do it is tour de force

And then it struck me: I should go see a professional; see what they can offer!

Aberrant Angel (???)

A mismatch of half-read books adorned his hallway, the dead embers of his past shared lives when he would work to give nothing for something in return.
Faceless Devil, faithless.

The five graphoanalysts.

Bright n breezy, nice n sleazy, cheap and cheesy – moved on?

Still haven’t seen the film, but I’ve seen him in the flesh: Napoleon Dynamite.

Rolling twist.

Allow yourself/seek teaching from the lowest common denominator

Do you want to be a designer baby? Did you want to be (a) designed one?

Read the papers (at the end of the day).

He surrounded himself with uncertainty. Alt: (In the shape of/as a contrast to)

When you look, what do you see? When you listen, what do you hear?

Cuddlesome v cuddly.

Foreigner: “Tell me. How do you enjoy life? Define it. Why do I ask? Because I don’t live in you (in your mainstream consciousness).

Prams and connoisseurs .

Do something outgoing! It’ll make you outgoing!!

You’re slightly obsessive and ordered. And at least quite smart.

It can’t be a house!

Drag it on, (and) drag it out (+v.v)

A house from a book. Ruined in your imagination/thought (mind?), ruined in your vision.

It was entitled: “Self-sufficiency for Modern Times in a Modern World for That About-Town Experience”.

Brown eyes, grey eyes, blue eyes, green eyes: what makes suburbia?

A short, bearded man pointed me the way.

Piss (it’s?) like lemonade: wait the requisite time.

Law and Order, law and order, there’s gotta be a way, the way.

Inland is like going backwards.

Interest wanes as economies falter/fall. That way lie(s) the cloud(s).

Signal failure.

An occasional reader, a bad transvestite, a letter of polite invective. A pen.

Broken, pieces of you no more.

A lover of antiquity; those new toys don’t capture your heart.

Saladesque – fudge is surprisingly heavy.

Going back (to) nowhere.

Power station. The dogma effect. The contrast. Stippled sea. Greta Garbo to India (Bollywood). Exchange of ideas.

A scar in the sky.

You only understand it if it happens in your timeframe.

Spiders’ weave.

And it struck me: work. I never understood it (that). I did it, but I never understood it.

Is it true, or just on the face of it, that humanity lack(s) the homogeneity of other species?

Imposing. 2nd pass.

Flaxen?

Timing: perfect.

Food should be shared.

How do you mark the coming of an age and its passing?

A fellow of no interesting dispositions/dimensions.

Laugh to be with the one you’re with.

Which of man’s interactions has proved world positive?

Absolutely absolutely.

Depth and quality of (mainly found) information.

Rules of the favour game.

Mobile phones – your future.

Repellant. Instinct (edit: ah?!)

(Dis)illusion(ment). What’s in between?

Salve your conscience; let me spend it for you.
Barbeque for 1.

I’m assuming there’s someone in the seat next to me.

Michael Buerk – were we ever anything less?

Cutting a path … thru your own (path/personal drama).

Catchy pop-frites. Lite, heavy on the sauce.

Domestication. How does it work?

Tribalism.

And what you think you give isn’t what (I think) I receive.

Think you’ve got Pandora on a leash?

Squishing (culture?) into a box.

The idiocy of Laws.

Disposability decision.

Power (to/from) no (to/from) power.

How hard do you work?

Just to stay alive.

The sickle question.

Fallopian shoes.

Warning! May contain traces of a previous life.

Colour match – forms of capture (writing down)

(remains) childhood (remains)

Girl grown old (mouldy), shedding skins, adding rings like a tree.

The home truth: hard and soft collide.

School to this (!?) – that’s a shame.

Sub-texts in …fascinating.

e.g. the Winchester of the North.

An exchange of gifts, numbers; a little piece of me/you on paper. ((Cf exchange of mobile #s via keying/Bluetooth)).

Words – craft, build, hammer, create, mould, grow … - go beyond

Height of ambition – to stay alive? (?)

You make that decision.

No double letters – keying.

Are you a junior analyst or a creative artiste?

Where you succeed a thousand thousand others fail, never even come close.

When you first meet someone…what do you see/think?

The stones breed the men.

elk

suffuse – mix in and out

drilling, burrowing,

“I’m a mess, there’s no denyin’ “ he cackled, the smile breaking his face into pieces, the lines of the(maker{s}) (jigsaw) showing.

Humans, having an untoward belief in their own importance seek the existence of a “higher being’” with whom they will become ‘friends’.

Is Llandudno the end of the world? The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

Cosmic toys: a dab of paint here, a splash of red there.

Bogmire

1,2,3 imaginary steps. Where do they take you?

My life’s a journey: if you stop you die. There’s just some time before the vultures/hyenas get to you.

“ A man without enemies has never faced the truth in anything. “

Love, misplaced

People like what they know: they like being right.

Deekin and Deekinisms – ah! Happy, happy moments!

Beyond (leads to) God = Life + Devil = Death.

What now? To whither?

Because no-one, especially a nobody (someone who’s no-one) is worth more than several no-ones. Do the math.

Speak not: my illusion’s for the keeping.

A woman who does her nails is showing (her/a) weakness – time to die.

Copycat syndrome.

Unlock a phone – technology theft/information leak. Its importance.

Attack you into the arms of another.

Break the combination (to my understanding).

I know what it’s like to age 60 years in a second: to break, snap, brittle despite appearances.

I laugh at the conversations I have with myself.

2 old women – why old women? Why old? – dressed as characters from ‘The Incredibles’; a place where imagination takes a back seat.

Letter to the editor.

She’s another knee-walker.

Repeating some dumb-arse phrase from the last heap of crap Hollywood film they’ve filled their tiny minds with.

Showing doesn’t work for me; it distracts me. I need to hide. Not others, they can work it. And, Oh boy!* do they! (???)

Again, see how your surroundings affect you: the chrome and electric blue angular offices, the redbrick columns [?]; considerations of taste and style and effort spent on another’s purchased view of aesthetics.

He goes red; she goes red. A clashing semiotic symphony that signals empathy. And disharmony.

fountain of youth - a lifetime's use - how?

My instincts say ‘no’. You know most of what they’re saying.

Muse.

An extremely dull ramble, of the ilk you would never

Again, life interrupts the world I would have, that creation that is mine and so mine to share. The little haven, inviolate, where I would give free passage to those I deem worthy of the same. Although I would hope some might stay. Of their own accord they may rest, build, create their own world or worlds, even. Not permanent, just a place to stay a while. Should they subsume my own it will matter not. Mine was the creator. They just carry on my work, though they think it is their own. Perhaps it is and it is I who have the order of things wrong, but I know them and they do not know me. Does that tell me something? Or do I lie to myself, too readily, too easily? As is the way with what you do not know, having taken it for granted for so long that it ceases to exist, save in a shadow world.

Noise can be such a delicate thing, a soft, sonorous flutter of wings, a soothing sigh of early morning relief, a susurrus of a day greeting leaf. But it is a fine precision tool. It must be used in the right way, in the right context or its clashing, strident tones will deafen and make your instincts wince with unhappy complaint. People, men, never take sound into consideration. Despite their acuity, their gift.
I look for ways back into that spirit (if you will) world and they seem to all lead some way there. Some way is still there, but perhaps not the where I think I look for. “You never step into the same stream twice.” No.

Men can hear 5 tones but produce only 3. Why can we not produce all we want, all there is? Women have the full range of production, but not of listening, I think. A design flaw, or a cosmic joke? An easter egg that you don’t have to go looking for.

Psychology. Of passing interest, until you realise what fools they are. So they examine and observe and calculate and come up with the answers that are there in front of them, in front of us. New Age, scientific, astrology.

After all, it’s there for anyone to see if they’ve a mind to look. The idiots can coin their phrases, create their jargon and the specific space that only “they” and those so anointed can really understand, really utilise, but so what? That’s their ‘tribe’ vs the accountants (hated bean-counters), the tecchies (when will you be as good as we want you to be?), the…, the…. The best people are the elders of a village. Pretty much anywhere. Male and female; both have different things to add. They’ve seen life, a microcosm of humanity in their village, their world. Just because the numbers are greater outside doesn’t mean it’s different. Human to human interaction will be, is, very limited, notwithstanding any supposed sophistication of the externalities of society. An apparent non-sequitur: “She (hello, you!) can sing like Sheryl Crow.” Train of thought: never really heard much of SC, didn’t think much of what I did hear.
Divergence of thought: a) Should listen to more, assuming that that initial statement equals approbation equals familiarity equals considered thought. Sub-divergence: i) I might be wrong about what I’d thought. Try and see. ii) Opinion. We base so much of our identity on our opinions and often they do not encompass wrong and right within themselves. Perhaps a view of that: wrong and right, but an opinion may be a feeling. It can be wrong and still have a small degree of validity if it encroaches upon a(n agreed) moral standard that has a fixed position of rightness on the right/wrong axis, at least insofar as these times go. This leads to much bigger divergences and arguments elsewhere and I am no doctor of philosophy. So I just settle for an opinion does not necessarily fall within the strictures of the rights and obligations argument that some make. This prompts a memory within me of another thing that I’ll not consider here, save the second allowed it constitutes a full consideration of the same. Quick, because it is not in words. Reconverge to divergence b) Corollary. Presupposition. You must have a good ear and thus musical talent to be able to do that. Divergence: how much is nature/nurture? Reconverge and continue, added to.
Did that come about through some (putative, stereotypical, initial to be challenged imposition) facet of a middle-class background? What constitutes such a background in whatever environment? Side thought: do we carry environments round with us as part of our schemata? Final thought: isn’t it interesting how humanity seeks to impose differing forms of hierarchy on/in our social structures? Order in Chaos: a race’s society reflecting nature (elements of chaos theory). So to go from the single to the combined and then to go back down again. A mental ladder in the exploration of this dungeon (D and D influence).

Reason for apparent non-sequitur. Retro-analysis. The brain functions and then the mind provides reasoning thereafter. Cook it up, boil it down; it’s not so different. The same, even.

And the end conclusion: a wise man/woman and your eyes and ears are all you need if you want to know people.

Though later I think of anthro and auto morphism and the concept of perfect knowledge. I concede a point and fail my own test.

I reflect on the criss-crossing of the mental paths we tread and how interesting (in part) that can be, then leave the thoughts to mature in my unconscious mind and move on to other things. I flit back for a second because of a memory of someone’s words, and savour the contrasting flavours.

Switch state to a parallel thought train.

I wonder if I should rip the skin from my face. It would be easier. And people wouldn’t stare, because they’d be scared to. And my eyeless sockets would see all; looking inside as they do now: visioning. It’s not for them, it’s not for you. It’s an experiment for me. Just an experiment. But one I’d rather forget thinking about, knowing I know I’d always wish never to undertake it, think about it even. That’s a step too far for me. Recognition makes me glad and sad. Boundaries are …ultimately to be respected and understood. And pushed and perhaps shown disdain, but you will only often do that if you have some idea of what lies (what you want to lie) beyond. If you see the reflection and it is terror, I think but a handful would walk beyond, cognisant of the outcome.

I move away from the unprofitable. I move to the oppressive streets of red and grey which are built too well. In terms of their looks. They have not height, nor stature to impose upon me, but their all-too familiarity reflects the half-death that I endured back into me. There should be so much here. Now, especially. But the pastime has changed and it is I who struggle, shoulder the fiction of freedom. For freedom is only a concept, never an actuality. Never to be. Just an aspiration for an idle mind. A phrase “Die, and be done with it” is too easy, too quick to enter, too lazy and just completely wrong. Completely wrong. I find the digging in my ribs a little too strong now – how do you kill memory other than to overload it or wait for a hurried, pressured moment to enforce its truculent will upon your own?

Are words important? Do they have any value? Do they? I think of a pre-millenium paper. The people asked for their “favourite word”, if such existed. One came oh-so close among the “serendipity’s” and “chicken korma’s” when he explained what the word was. The word itself I cannot recollect, but I remember it was his wife’s name and I remember the man explaining how it was that this meant everything to him. Experiences, memories, Life and Death and . 1 word. And it meant so much: Everything.

I think of something else I’ve read recently and which repeated things said before: to say so much with so little.

Indeed.

Mind Dump V

Parallel thoughts at the Hermitage.

Follow, follow each other along (“electronic”) avenues.

A pixie, a dragon; mythical creatures that did not exist before I met them.

It’s a question of who wins when (the) war begins. At first.

Do Russian women hold hands to put men off – my hand is taken? Is the walk with mother a beauty parade or a form of chastisement? Or…?

The Worthies.

Russianisation. Words – Schinken (ham smoked).

He thinks of all the hardbodies (yes, nicked from BEE) down the gym. The ones on the mats, crunching sets of 50s. If only they knew how sexy, how downright horny that belly was, they wouldn’t diet and train and work so hard to get rid of it. They’d celebrate it. But they didn’t. Why not, all they had to do was follow mens’ eyes. Or maybe they did. That was the problem. Men! Sometimes he was ashamed to be one. Just that: being one, a man, dragged him down.

I’ll paint the sky with my thoughts, my tears.

I know you; I know your face.
Jigsaws complete themselves.

Valour is the better whole of discretion, but not of me.

She’s taking a look out of her peripheral vision. Is he still looking? Does he like? There’s no need for direct eye contact. That would…complicate matters.

I wonder quite what she’s thinking now. I see that slight flicker of the lips, a minute pursing…and I just sit there: appreciative.

You have a little of the artist in you, my dear, and for sharing it, I thank you.

Dear guests – KFC. Language insights: cibya

He face, like so many others a template.

If I think about it: only 1 thought. It’s only a thought. Not a waste. Not much, anyway.

The poet’s wife. 1 word.

The eyes of the nobles, all eyes on them.

Conflict: to tear down such an investment.

The words are simple, cold but not too blunt, efficient.

If I stare too long at those pudgy fingers barely, imperceptibly, they could spell my doom.
Ambivalence to excess.

Art and war. Art and war: savage civilisation.

A library should never contain an unread book (?)

You’re the kind of person who will tell the truth like a lie.

Jesteresque – a word you put there.

He’s learning his trade, his way in the world.

Artists are good with anatomy – is it the medium of tapestry that twists the sinews, stops the muscles falling naturally into place? Or the fear of the artist? Expression denied.

The breeze strikes me and draws my attention to a small courtyard; a column of space. A view into the machine that maintains the idyll.

Once given, all is gone.

I say it teasingly, but meaningfully.

I wonder who winds the clocks up; and when?

Man-made vs natural creations and how the two abut.

I like this being lost: 130/300 – where is the order?

I dislike electronic communication in many ways. The sanitised end result vs the incoherent muddling to get there.

Amazing. A maze. (?)

Russians don’t get engaged. 6 months and set a quick date. So impetuous, so like them – fatalistic, but smiling as they look to make their homes among the rocks and rubble of.

No eternity rings, but same anniversaries. I wonder what the story in history will add.

I wonder what the guided tour will give me – and take away.

The duality of all: all prices are an opportunity cost.

Why do people pose for portraits?

Why do people look to make so much (many things) in the world? Where do they/we really exist?

“It’s good to go on the attack and blindside someone; hoodwink ‘em good and proper.”

Russian fascination with strength – Rome, Venice, America. No invention there.

Russia was not made for conquest: it harbours envy too easily.
The mechanics of the unconscious – how it throws up a seed and then the conscious mind filters and adds (…term? Chemistry).

A body point – acceptance, or enquiry?

A stringless harp.

“I know I could never defeat you; it is why I must fight”

Lost beyond lost – in another world.

I hold my breath to stop life escaping, I take it slow to conserve my all.

Scenes of battle, tales of glory – one word, one ring to rule them all. But for the clever peasant, the smiling assassin, sowing a seed of destruction here, there. Weakness in the foundations: one day you shall fall.

Make your casket with my flesh and bone.

I wonder what the guardians think. They must be used to seeing the same people again and again and again until finally, they escape.

“Do I deceive you? I suspect not. You are too smart and I too simple. It is why I do what I do.”

Who ever really has a power base other than manipulation of self-interest and how do they get/maintain it?

“Make a lovely table mat” grey beard, glasses.

Double-headed eagle; heraldry.

The faces – the types of faces that made and make history. Is one yours? Is yours one?

How faces change, or is it just photography?

There are no landmarks, these heavy chandeliers are ornate and unique. I cannot place them.

I gave my word, though you knew it not, in sorrow, in silence.

Taps that don’t dispense water – very Russian. Relative toilet flushing power is weak vs US/CAN.

Why do people always think I work here?

Standing near loos – people and women watching vs women feeling the material of clothes and commenting on dis/likes and what they will/not take.

Group interviews and reactions.

I knew they weren’t looking for me; I just didn’t know if they knew it or not.

He pulls the door. F-off! Interrupt someone mid-dump.
Hermitage representative: cleaning woman.

Corralled.

Pulchritude – attitude towards.

The admission’s a surprise because I hear it outside rather than inside where I’ve known it so long. I’ve admitted it.

The zooming in and the top part of the screen.

Music and silent movies make a new medium acceptable.

Shakespeare was celebrated by the masses; now he’s hated by them.

Little steps for ladies’ dainty feet.

How some revere antiquity – global groupthink.

So much repetition everywhere.

They charge for taking films and pictures, but not notes – the fools!

The fool – a collection.

“It is important! We must preserve it!” It is. Sometimes I think “We must preserve it how?” and sometimes “It is”.

I consider sometimes how much I’ve known, I’ve seen: a fleeting glimpse like the flash of light that reflects off a car’s windscreen on a summer’s day.

There are spies all around me.

How to share your personal experience with another? Waves – break, drown, bury. I

That handle. Did you have big, strong hands? That I would touch and admire, so unlike my own. So fierce, yet delicate of touch.

T-shirt “No kangaroos in Austria” – like it, one of those things that brings an instant grin.

We must protect the past and safeguard the future. And that is your role. You are but sticky tape.

If you take photos of all this gold, will the glare not render the attempt useless?

Conflagration.

Design. Why does design change? What level of information and power to choose is required/used to promote this? Wellbeing?

Why would anyone want their head on the body of a dog/lion?

It chimes. I point at the clock “You are wrong”.
Every few seconds there’s a red dot. Pause. Flash. Can light ever erode stone? We shall see.

I’ve decided: I might like some art, but I don’t really know why. Apart from landscapes – those I know. Nature is more evocative than art.

How perfect the measurements?

Tourism.

Smouldering. She doesn’t smile, but I know she’s laughing at me. And I reciprocate as I pay attention: my stomach tightens, my ….

What is so appealing about the naked smooth human form; and wings?

Do our equals amuse us?

What grace there is in humility – celebrated but disavowed.

I want to open the window, breathe free air, not the scented stale output of viscera-red lungs.

The old men and young women; part of the “Russian Seduction”? A quick contribution to the economy you will soon leave? The walks, the walking.

The middle ground is lost to me.

They’re a couple, not a pair. They’re a pair, but different suits. That doesn’t take me far. I discard it.

It’s nice to walk the same hallways twice, once from the other direction, A consolation.

I love women in tight clothing.

Titles are dull “Mountainous landscape with figures” – are you an artist? You gotta give it a good title.

“I quite like Templeton Row: it’s where I built my first house. I’d had rooms before, but that was the first house. Ramshackle dilapidated, but good solid stonework. Somewhere to store my excess baggage.”

There are some very good magicians out there. Very good indeed.

Head of a barbarian.

Pipes – incongruous.

Look down and up.

Rings. Things you wear. How you choose to adorn yourself.

I like her perfume. It’s not scent.

Workman. moving statues. Tattoo upon his arm.
Postage stamps. (in relief?)

Of all the ways you could choose to assert your authority over me you choose this?

How few stories you would have!

I am now in a different building.

I’ll give them my eye for a second, but that’s it.

What makes the first move – impatience?
Though I barely hear the snarl and he’s upon me.

I want to keep AT on me. Not for the power, but the comfort: it knows me.

Collision.

Slippers for high heels.

“I know I underestimated you, but now I know you underestimate me too. And (and) that keeps things interesting.”

The power of the artist(e) to stand outside the borders of contract and be right. Perhaps.

The dutiful boyfriend. Quite handsome in his way (a bit short, a bit too full of himself and bored with it).

I love listening to others’ conversations…oops, and creating from their words things they never (would) have.

How can you actually draw a self-portrait?

Mind dump U

Satisfy. Now that’s a word you need to taste.

Never replying, always smiling. The look that leads her up away from him, from you, to. A repetition.

It’s a harsh world without humour.

I see the (tension rev.) between couples: he’s the ‘slightly edgy, but acceptable’ type; she’s the one who’ll win. (Or they’re another divorce statistic in the making). They can see with.

Me they can’t.

All I see are hints and rumours. Restless spirit, ghost on earth. Let my subconscious breathe.

I’ll run into the fantasies you tell me are my own. A sign: “Freedom is yours; use it.”

Today this day is done. This is done. Where more?

I do not think an orgasm will make me happy, just feel good.

Where shall consummation take place?

My soul, a twisted column of polished, etched dark.
My soul, twisted, to let out the light it captures.

Dare (Alan Sugar). And now to cast myself on the mercy of others.

Feed the hole in our hearts.

A pointless doodle, a meaningless pattern, over and over and over and over.

Sometimes I sit here, protected from all that I could be, would be and feel each second of fear come and go. Come and go, seamlessly joined but separate, distinct enough for me to see it, feel it, know it, live it. But not live.

I’ll use the obligations I say you would impose on me if I did not already concede the weight of their unspoken (state/being/words/…other) as that glass screen we both want: it to protect us from each other, from what we want, from recognising the value in what we so carelessly discard.

The sleep twins prick at (my eyes) me.

Laid a trap with honeyed words and the reason of desire; longing to no longer be lost.

“I am a busy man; I take my pleasure (on) occasionally when I have spent all my other time productively.”
“ Ah sir! You are an old romantic! But I am a new! You have much to do in business and so you consider women a trifle, a diversion on demand, a part of your schedule.
“I, on the other hand, consider them my primary occupation.”
“You consider women to be your business, sir?! What profit is to be made in that?”
“Indeed” said M, eyes flashing for but a second “more profit than one can measure with any number of accountants and tax men, sir!”

Think of the moments. The moments within the years. Pinpricks upon your skin, minute, transient, piercing. So little among so much. But that is what you remember. It is the what was.

I’ll choose my demons: the drink that kills me though it makes me happy not.

Bath.

You see the years between the two (of them) and their desire to squeeze them out from between the two (of them). They speak in synchronous tongues but languages the other does not know, nor ever will. The music adds and eerie colour, a little warmth you feel inside.

I walk among my people. [ The truth shall set you free.

He blames her, like all those who cling to their belief that they are superman, sans pareil. “It’s her fault!” Never acknowledging their own failings, too ----- to accept their role, their calumny. He looks in the mirror: “Good pecs. Great abs!” He’s still got it. He could easily find another.

There’s comfort in just drinking.

George Best: Arch twat. Not only ruined one liver, one life, but two. Two lives: a privilege afforded to perhaps too few, but too many arseholes.

The mouth is the ultimate phallus

It changes from comments to questions that I don’t want answered at this time (deja vue?)

So many ways to discover life, but it all feels like history – a lesson in the slightly unreal.

The good people: the forgotten, even as we look to, look for our own, we look inside.

The shopping experience with a woman – ha! Had one, had ‘em all.

“I am a little someone of everyone.”

It hits my pride; oblique, off-centre, vector wrong and rests cosily deep within. A direct hit.

A poster. A model. I look and she looks back. So I look. And we bat it back and forth. You can do that with attraction: stare and stare and stare, breaking it down, chipping away at it. The first look comes right back at you, the second just as fast, but eventually the cracks show. Eventually you break them down. Usually. Of course she’s not here to defend herself, to fight back. As if she could. Against me.

Chunky. She’s unhappy with herself, but confident. Over-confident? Not for what she is, no.

Broomstick hair
Some will never change, I see you then: now. Know one, know them all; or as good as. “This is my stop”.

Number 2 reciprocates, followers follow.

Sleep’s patented eye-shadow.

I forget about the freedom of speech thing: I’m talking to a bureaucrat. If he could be anything else we’d be on the same side of the glass.

She has an uninviting face: too little skin over too much bone.

I’ve lived in your worlds, some seemingly better than my own.

Skirt’s quite nice. Tight. Makes it look like she’s got a bum; an arse.

Talking sh…op. Why do people repeat others’ words verbatim? Like eating stale bread. Twice. Do you?

I don’t know why, but tonight I want to thank God.

Display the same weaknesses in many ways (?)

Sometimes, something fills me to the brim: Bacchanal.

Path ...

You have the stage. And now you may speak.

At last it is your turn.

And your words, refined, rehearsed for a moment look as bright and lustrous as you always dreamed they would.

But a second glance reveals the truth: twisted, rotten, useless.

All you had waited for, hoped for, now rests elsewhere; lost to the wind of ambition. You must make your stand defenceless, or walk away, forever defeated.

The hollow memories that frame your life decide this for you: the chill breeze of fear sets them in motion. Dull, flat notes clanging, banging against each other, and their mournful, ghostly tones are too much to bear: frightening, macabre, unnatural.

But still each step is deliberated, quick to take confidence, slow to give support. Persuasive, irrefutable; right. You want to believe it because you cannot deny it. It is. And that is…all there is.

You feel the weight of expectation. Whose? Yours? Theirs? Both. And more?

The mocking strengthens your resolve, but sets your heart against you. You cannot win, you CANnot, you…take another step.

Place one foot in front of the other, do what you have learned to do without concentration, effort, thought: follow nature’s course.

Breathe deep and don’t look down, don’t look around. Ignore the soaking palm, the shuddering limb, the winnowing bones. Ignore it all and stand to face them. Face them all.

You reach the stage, and grasp the lectern envigoured, you turn and –

Catechism II - Search

Someone said something recently about wanting the someone who'll tick all the boxes, "The One", when it comes to what do people really look for in a ... mate.
Basically, this is someone who fits the ideal: mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and physically.

The ideal we know doesn't exist, or shouldn't; isn't that the purpose of an ideal?

So we hanker for the ideal. But we settle for what works. After all, we're not ideal ourselves, are we?

But there are still boxes to be ticked: tight buns, nice smile (maybe that's enough?); smart, funny, good dress sense (getting picky now, are we?); a good husband/wife, someone who'll be there for you when..., someone you can give yourself to completely, uninhibitedly (but isn't all of that to be 'expected', anyway?).
I have two slightly alternative ways of looking at the box-ticking thing and will usually respond when asked about it:

(she's got to be...)

"Irresistible. Cause if I can resist, I will."

or

"I'm just looking for an open door, one that'll make me peek inside. And I'll see darkness. Can't see the walls...hmmm. Ceiling? Nope. Floor? Nope. I'll step inside and fall....".

And so we look towards the setting sun, romance in our hearts.
**************************************************************
When I possessed the Wisdom of Youth, I came up with another version: reality. A simple premise. Everyone likes a pleasant, fun, good situation and anyone in that situation who is pleasant, etc is well,...good. No?

Which, as y'all know, don't tell you Jack.

Cause it's not real. Real is the stuff you ignore cause it irritates you or is just plain commonplace, so you don't even notice it.

And now and again, it's the good stuff - all the good stuff. Yummy!

Me? I like to look for the real first: you can always create the unreal later; after all, that's how it comes about anyway, isn't it?

Having a bad time with someone, even (perhaps) inducing a small degree of mental pressure in them and yourself helps you see someone in their true colours and shows you in yours. (That was the theory, anyway - I'd forgotten it until recently). So I like arguments, or "debates" with people: "Why do you think that? Is that right? How so?" and people need challenging, anyway. I do like debates anyway, but part of me still thinks that getting them in early is a good way to see what someone's got in their arsenal: what they can take. And give.
Cause if you can't give....
If I want a doormat; I'll buy one.
Argue. It's good for you.
********************************************
But. Strangely enough. No-one else agrees with that! (Dammit! Was all that hard work in vain?)
Which means a change in direction. I'll still think about the irresistible and the open door: they possess a grain of truth in them.
But I'm getting older, (it says here) and so I will have a choice to make. Do I either follow that elusive dream that promendades upon the horizon or dive right into the barrell marked 'mistakes'? It's not like I don't make them often enough anyway.
I'd like to think I have a while yet to make a decision but I can see it'll happen one day. At the over 50's club, I think. Any later than that and people just think you've outlived someone or you're waiting for your grandchildren to visit.
And when they ask that question, I'll reply: "I'm just waiting for the right mistake.", and smile.

Spaghetti is not in your mother’s vocabulary.

I’ve noticed that things that I would otherwise eschew in my once-life are now of interest to me.

Russian news consists primarily of Putin, people in uniforms (they love their uniforms here!), and things that I cannot relate to, inasmuch as I can work out what’s going on from the piccys and the odd word.

Although I can’t say I’ve heard them say ‘odd’ on the telly.

In contrast, anything English (even Scottish, Welsh and Irish) now possesses some inherent interest to me.

Simply because it fits a frame of reference I have and thus it has meaning.

An interesting phenomenon.

The colours I see

Community.

That word fascinates me.

What and who comprise it...interest me. Perhaps fascinate me. It is to the whole that I return to contemplate, not the parts though they are often the prompt. Even if they are a prompt to a different location than the one that they enjoy.

I like the feel of the word. I liken it to a cardigan. Something to wrap around you. And you. And you. And...everybody within. It is your shared space.

It is strange how it changes. It is strange how it does not. That should be so simple and really it should be clear: it does not change. But it does. As others find it.

And whenever there are people who want to move around a bit, get more comfortable, just take a look and see and maybe...the cardigan shapes itself to fit. But it is still a cardigan. Colour it as you wish.

Community. It's like the letters are written in dark green. It's like the word itself is the shared space that everyone occupies. It's like your secret.

It's like rolling hills with children playing. It's like the town you want to live in. It's like home.

Jonny No Stars

This is dull so I wouldn't bother if I were you. I just felt like writing it.

But the choice is yours, as I have chosen to seek damnation for once and for all.

The phrase " Jonny No Stars", much as I love it, is not my invention.

I was at 6th form college, being my usual self; sport and nothing took precedence over lessons and here I was, allowed to run free (never a good idea). I was being pressured by my mother to 'get a job' and I knew some people who worked at McDonald's; then still quite new to my town. So I got myself a job.
I got the lovely uniform, the (then) paper cap and the green badge. No stars.
After 2 weeks of obnoxious people and my face unnaturally tanned from its permanent state of red, I left.
After another 2 weeks pennniless, I went back. No-one noticed.
After another 2 weeks I left. Properly this time.

I was subjected to a speech by one of the assistant managers, a 23 year old who now is probably very successful (in McDonald's) about my "lack of respect for authority". A recurring theme? Perhaps. But at that time, inept though I had been, I had, as far as I was aware, not shown any of the characteristics that would lead to his conclusion.

Was I unpopular, the geek, the one in black, all alone? No. Such things did not exist in my world. In fact, I was probably just...me. And I could have attained a modicum of popularity, had it ever occurred to me and been worthwhile, I think. Not dumb, not too crap at sport, not spotty and so on, I was the middle man that got missed out.

I have known many people actually. And always there was ... still is, though much less so now than before, ...distance. I would sit with my schoolmates, my teammates but I was never with them. Not fully. Often only a few per cent, but it sufficed for the task and they were often not so questioning as to think to look beyond 'suffice'.

I was too young for school. I think in a few years, maybe, I might realise its benefits, but for now...

At work. One of the places I worked that I hated. If it didn't start off that way, it became so eventually. I receive an email. New slang and its definitions.

e.g. " Aeroplane blonde. Blonde on top, but she's got a black box and a landing strip.", from memory.

The other one was JNS. This was something like: "The muppet who works at McDonald's and has no stars on his badge." You will know the implications, so...

I laughed. Not only because it was so funny, but because it had been, no was, me.

Years later, I was finally christened, and by my own choice.


Part Two.

Jonny doesn't really do much. He would rot in my mind, but as I don't have one.... One day I come up with one idea out of the many that just come to me. Often when I ought to be working, doing what I was paid for.

Think! How many McDonalds' are there around the world? Loads! Don't they all work pretty much the same way? Yes. Standardised working practice must be the norm. Well then...have you guessed. What a great way to work your way round the world! Once you've got the skill set (apologies for the business-speak, btw) all you need is a modicum of language skills (and aren't these going to be in English often, anyway, knowing McD's?) and you're away! Not for me, of course, I was no longer a tall, gangly, gormless teenager (I was no longer a teenager, the rest still applies, please!!!) but for others.

Not much of an idea, but it got me thinking. Or rather feeling. The urge to travel. Properly, as someone living in a country, not just visiting. Wanderlust. Another word, I love. So evocative. So true. And so deeply-rooted within me. So I resolved to 'get off my fat arse' and do something about it. When a my studies had finished.

And after it being suggested that I might want to 'consider leaving' work, no questions asked (contentious? moi? no. worse. by that time.) and given that it almost coincided with my stalled, going nowhere plans I acquiesced provided the system was played so that I could get my acl repaired.

Still doesn't explain JNS fully. That's easy. I like my anonymity and image (though not mine) often gets in the way of the message. And, most importantly, it was a piss-take; I was jonny-no-stars in many ways. So I enjoy it. Celebrate who I am.

mind x dump

A bra can be a girl's best friend. I guess maybe those 2 had had a falling out.

...yes.

The lines just weren't right. The curves apologetic.

Red scalp.

Russian barmen suck - chaotic harmony in Alexi/Fyodr. Jerome and Swiss/Finns.

Me and my smiling eyes.

Your eyes are the window to your soul
my eyes are the window to your soul.

I am death. I am a construct: I love life.

Normatising role of women in Russia vs rest of world.

Not serious, live life in a dream.

A drink orgasm.

Russians like 70's music and dance like it (tic)

5 minute style

I look good once a year. This year was the 5/1. I know. I never went out.

I'm too busy drinking it in to tell you what I think of it.

the men on the roof, never seen before.

I'll die a little bit each time I hurt you, no matter how small, trivial, inconsequential to you. I cannot give myself to you else I live the day of the mayfly >...(??)

For a second, the perfect romance, then conscience.

burning sabre, weep for the world?

I like symbolism; but I'm never in time.

giggle juice

russian omlette times 2 = hair time ten

brain physiology vs its teammate, disirous memory

the obviousness of circumstance aside.

give me an expat pass

I coulda told you that; but you weren't born.

If you remember, you haven't forgotten.

That's the interesting one: the one who has gone.

Understand the moment, its' moods, its needs, what it takes to make it pure.

You are either a man or a woman, and I know both.

comments made yesterday in preparation for the today that never comes.

Drunk? It's called control.

I'll reciprocate in part.

battle lines drawn in the blood of ages, toiled in the fields of ...

a 3rd defence; your challenge

stealing your moments, fly on the wall.

coffee turned into cognac.

openining gambit.

i've just made chocolate fall.

it wasn't planned, but I suppose it was written somewhere.

gingerly reach out. Tentative. The water starts to ripple with life.

Silver flash. Fish beneath the water.

stand outside of time and watch from afar. see you on your ways around. you my charges, though not.

he said, she said.

americans versus english

comp tape v c.d.

excoriating passion.

do i say what i say to provoke you?

extent of musical knowledge burgeoning

simply as a constructed being with a large number of potentials.

then look: rape my soul.

mind dump Y

Russian advertising doesn't sell to the common man, yet it sells to everyman.

That phrase, no meaning, but endless possibilities.

Question and the answer. Their answers.

A snapshot deceives.

Draw in words. Dreams, bears in t-shirts. The strongest ties are those you create yourself, and only for yourself.

Visiting others' homes.

Attraction sometimes gets in the way of the important stuff. I like to read between the lines, if I can. Where are the lines on my computer?

Stolen (My preferred dagger is the smile.

Second comes the faraway gaze.

Third is the concern, or maybe that follows agreement and understanding.

and down into the earth we go.)

Reading in a language makes it so much easier to remember it.

The mother of a child prodigy.

The line of a woman's arm. Sister support.

If pride comes before a fall, how do I reach humility?

The show, working in the background, part of a pack. Vying for the space you already occupy.

I like names. I like the way people choose to call themselves what they do.

Dog. Parade. Father's Pride.

The way you choose to give yourself support, comfort, a time marker you cannot throw away.

Specialism.

Feed the machine, as you steal from the machine, as you steal from yourself. Impetuous thief.

Strangers in a strange place.

A place where the concepts fall between blame and no-blame.

What uniforms and symbols must we have?

How important is the date to us. How it signals what will be. We do not know what will be.

No need to guard your words as no-one understands you...who will you speak to?

17 yr old-watching and listening, involved and distant. What a great opportunity to filter out the intended message and interpret separately.

You know. After a while. Even a great tit gets boring.

Walk in time. Walk in time.

The package.

Everything has an = and opposite reaction: I die, you die.

Parts of you that score new harmonies on the composition of my psyche.

1 point.

What part perception of age plays in your considerations.

Define decadence. Vortex. House exit and goodbye.

delightful painted pose of acrylic; the lazy way to a weak man's poor imagination.

At some other time they'd annoy the living shit out of me, but I want the distraction. And they're it. For now.

Spoilt ennui their graceless smile.

sleep the day away, weep the day away, reap from decisions made.

back to back and head to face.

Train paths crossing.

Quietude.

Sometimes I like to study others' retro-analysis. Why did you do that? Really?

Skyline. Now there's a word.

Denying chance by the second.

I start to stand and the heavy, akward lump brings awareness. Glory? Maybe. But not now, baby, not now.

You shed your thoughts incessantly: a vapour trail of you left behind; slowly dispersing.

Don't stop - cram as much as I can in and hope I can retain some. It's a desire borne of funk - mayber (I'll slow down a bit?).

I've got a plan that's 9/10. The other 1 is me. I'm working on that.

Tatu - all the things she said in the mother tongue: "pochemu, pochemu" seems all the more apt. There's feeling there.

Repetition. Hate scratched records always returning to the same place. Never moving on, no progression, no resolution. I love variety, I don't want another version of the last: why should you be?

Lottery: sometimes again chance and choice.

I can analyse and intuit, if you want, but I'll prefer to just say it and leave the rest to you.

Instinct would pull me away fomr you, not turn around, but cast asided; fling me from orbit.

....cracked?

I fall into myself again.

His bored whine irritates me " Butterbrode. Tozhliam.", efforts at salesmanship as paltry as the fare he so uninterestedly carries.

I conduct a bit of aisle-gazing, watching people, movements, dead-faced answers. I use the shadows cast on windows as mirrors to bounce my gaze to seats unseen - a silent watcher of your furrowed concentration.

You gotta love a woman in uniform: even with a face like that!

I'll be the mother-hen, a prop to dry your tears upon before you sally forth once more, refreshed, renewed, resplendent.

Counterpoint: weight against weight.

I become you. You become whatever, whoever I want you to .

This train looks and sounds English, it's a conveyance, not a carriage. The other was different, not European. It bounced you up and down, it had no easy rhythm.

Z mind dump

This is further stuff that I’ve never got off the ground…most of the stupid comments in brackets are me giving it an alternative "perspective".

If you feel like taking, could you let me know what you take and what you do with it please? Thank you. But I can still use it as well!!! (just in case)

AND I APOLOGISE for the apparent degree of misogyny herein. I am actually a big woman fan (er...does that mean, err...ahem!)


Here goes..........!

I cast my soul upon the page with hope not faith that it will float, avoiding all the pitfalls that I have laid in place for it.

I lay a trap for you with kindness; the familiarity (of pain) brings me comfort.

Park your cloud here.

Sunday Ache.

Candyfloss rain. (Hmm. seem to have had a thing for two-word jobbys at one time...!)

Warped fairy godmother/genie forcing ( ( know who that could be).

You followed another’s star; I created a galaxy. (Oh well...!)

“…I think it fine-tuned my brain. That and the general dissatisfaction that comes with living/life.”

Ages of women and changes in communication.

Human evolution – a societal construct; not a biological one.

You can’t build a house from the middle - (maybe?)

When MTV becomes your reality (who???)

I know you’re only a child because you cannot see yourself as such, only an adult.

…I accept it’s only mine for a very short time (and then the library will want it back)

You call me names cause you want it easy. You won’t see yourself in me.

You’re not tough: you’re neutered!

Turn my hurt inside out.

Every expression of belief is an exercise in propaganda

Love power more than life itself…

The only things you give your b/g/f are sex and heartburn.

…People who start half-way up the ladder of perception

Start to lose my baby skin

How well you play Scheherazade!

…constraints you put upon yourselves,… belief in your own fallibility

Building Society Trek

“You see. The problem with the best plans is that you have to simplify them for the masses.”

He wore a scepticism borne of indolence and …

We were different, She and I,
We’d walk the Earth and Touch the Sky,
But never in the same way we did,
All manner of things alone together. (I admit poetry is beyond me)

Politics is bullshit without the honesty.

“You see, my dear” said the Count, “there’s this presupposition that every pretty girl you meet is an absolute riot.”
“And isn’t she?” asked Elizabeth.
“That, my dear, is a loaded question.”

Me, I become me. Dis…integrate. Disconnect to fill the void.

The political spectrum spanned the spectrum from Republicanism to Democratism once Socialism had been decided it was too expensive. (sic). (Maybe I was pissed when I wrote that?)

“’Night Pumpkin!”
“HEY!!!”
“-Oh! Sorry! Isn’t it midnight, yet?!”

The decisions you make build walls to hem you in. (hmmm – if you need something twee)

“I’ll work from without…”
“…or work from within. You’ll regret the trade when I take your skin.” (Too MOV).

I’ll patronise you in ways you never knew. (???)

Buy your complaisance

“You can never tell just by looking.”
“I can always tell.”

Lil’ brick shells. Slices of civilisation. Never linger long. Chop and paste, come across a railway line. Very alive. Aspiring (from) out of nowhere. Empty houses, empty homes.

You’re not holding me back, maybe slowing me down.

Each one a tripped-out spaghetti junction.

Skills die under the Rule of Law.


Skin protector, face destructor.

History’s footprint.

“It speaks to my heart as music should”.

Build up firecracker moments.

Just more words eroded, meaning erased shells, patterns on a page.

She was someone who is history.

Become stronger: embrace my fears.

I’ll keep her in picture; a little light relief
Safe in distance, I’ll enjoy the dream.

Reminiscence is for the dead and the desperate.

If I stop caring, I stop living.

You think you were a rebel in youth,
But with never a hair out of place,
And acceptance of the lot on your plate.

…the level of debate sinks so low from up on high

Alone is a place where everyone goes (if Life goes to plan).

Swim to the middle of the ocean – (then) reach out and touch the sides.

Greatness is not something we learn, only stumble upon

“Affluence is to be avoided at all times”.

“Is she cool and classy, smart and sassy,
One of the sweetest girls you’d ever know?
Or does she hide another face;
Mean, cheap and venal: trash ‘to go’?”
Lose yourself in a mirrorgate first love,
Find yourself in another(someone??) with the same blood

The albedo effect. Positive feedback.

Plot idea: an unconnected chain of letters going round the world, over time, apparently unconnected.

…and then there were the German lesbians.

The purpose of information is as a prompt to interrogation: not to answer it.

People like cuties cause they remind them of their dreams, whereas the plain remind them of reality.

The problem with giving people free choice is in the choices they make.

“Life is full of surprises.”
“-No, disappointments.”
“What’s the difference?”

Idea: man outside of evolution save for reverse neural Darwinism – limbic system grows.

What if Russia had become capitalist and America communist?

Did a friend tell me this? “If you want to pull a woman, lie to her. If you want to get rid of her, tell her the truth.” (?(must stop with the advice !))

“Little One. It’s a term of endearment. I use it when I think of you with kindliness in my heart and contemplation. “

“He’s in love!!!”
“Well the sooner he learns not to do such a stupid thing, the better!”

“What did you say?”
“I told them they never knew me. What would it take to shake them from the deceit of their beliefs? More or Less? More and less we wax and wane like concentration too hard to keep.”

“Come My Love. Do you mind if we leave words behind us; just study silence for every nuance of its subtlety?” ("Could we/can we" might be better).Actually, I quite like that one. So I’ll end this bit here.



I could tell you thoughts long-forgotten that lay with me and wrote my dreams.

There is no razor's edge, only the ague that haunts my waking hours, dogs my steps. A silent partner in the crime of my days, watching and noting, to expound in court: : And on this day, at this hour, J- did stop and look up and breathed out his langour, dispersing it among the particles of air, those selfsame particles that were working hard to carry even their own weight thru the air that day, let alone the extra burden he placed upon them.

No, in a word made 4. I need to see the red flags, focus on the red flags.

I understand the beast, I've been the beast. zzzzzzz

The battering ram of sense too strong to ignore.

How do you trick the watching enemy?

A blog is a good life record: you should print it and keep it for when you want to forget who you now are.

Victory and Defeat taste just as sweet: I wonder what the difference is between them?

Teeth soaked in cream cheese.


opens a path to impossible questions,

but step aside and look inside.


A future possibility made real

Runt of the litter, born into the lion's den, weeks too late.

A woman's trick, to laugh and look at you askance, to comment to a nearby friend so innocently.

I had to be stupid enough to take a peek: to want to play. I couldn't ignore the fuss and quietly, peacefully, just walk away.

I know you: all my nightmares rolled into 1. I exist in neither fluid, gas, nor solid.

Your experiences as a child don't count for much: those of you as an 'adult'count for less.

It is for me to call you comrade.

Underestimate the strength of a woman, born to bear man.

Those squealing pigs from whom I rapidly distance myself, racing on to Olympus'Heights.

I do not need the rest: I have nothing to sleep for.

Why do you forget all you struggled to learn so easily, ready with no notice to fall back to staring at the letterbox, poking it with a disdainful finger?

Well, almost, but probably not.

-----------------------------------
. Somethings that poke my amygdala, the pre-first brain, hit me in a spot where language doesn’t exist. Think of a sunrise/sunset, the beating of another’s heart through their chest and down, deep into you. Feel the reaction, the changes you know and recognise as resonating at a pitch somewhere beyond today’s reality. Know beyond self, () yourself.

“Ay, there’s the rub”, as someone once said.

I already know the title of stages beyond “Wordsmith”. I do not eschew words, I just know their place. And I know places beyond words. I know the moment. To live in it and be sense-overwhelmed, but not disorientated. I know to live it and leave it as it is, because that is as it should be.

There’s poetry in motion, poesy in prose, … but beauty in stillness.

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

The harder you bite, the louder I laugh. I know all about you: there's nothing new.
Jealous, so quick, so easy?

Hard Path: diet of truth.

Your imagination, your thoughts are weak and tinny, the timbre too sharp, lacking balance and rhythm.

I'll steal your joy to conceal my pain/hurt. I'm living your dreams, but a lot better than you would.

My weakness is my strength.

You can fit a maudlin crow inside a triumphant one just so: it fits like a martrushka inside its mother.


I now see lines emerging: strands of similarity.

I will watch your instincts tear you apart. Might I help in picking up the pieces? I might. Who knows? That imagined tomorrow might one day be out of reach.

never possess, indeed never have: class.

I've studied everything, but only to prove that I already knew it.

It was always there: I kept the dragon leashed, the serpent coiled.

Having beaten you I understand you, know you, inside out. When was this?, you ask. Ah! I reply.

Isn't it great how circumstance will sometimes do the work for you (well, me, anyway)?

Televisions talk in tongues unlearned.

This war, this battleground. Scars pitted on me, in me, against the resistance of the curious stare(s). I have to fight just to stay alive, but alive for what? So I can be around for the next instalment, the next chapter? And the\next, and the next and the...n..., you know it goes on without you. It needs you, but only because you are there. Were you not, it would find other fuel, another fool, or perhaps just march (continue?) mindlessly round and round on an endless/neverending loop.

Somewhere deep inside resides the guilt: I should not enjoy this, I do not deserve this.

I'll cry my words onto the page for you.

Damn! How is it that I have been ensnared in this wild goose chase: discover yourself?! Damn it! Damn and damn it! Damn and.... Fall in line, keep looking for escape, an unguarded corridor, an unlocked door, quick to hide and backtrack. Back to the end of the queue.

(snap) Locked on words: Were you to unravel the words they would fill the world with a tapestry meal so rich.

Sometimes still you see the good in them. The question that begs a split second's pause: a jumping, seizing-up jerk in their movement before they proceed afresh, lubricated by their beliefs of no truth, no need for knowledge.

Every day I bleed a little more and every day I replenish my blood with yours, falsely passing it off as my own to the waiting throng who feed voraciously upon it. How soon will I become you?

It's not false modesty nor fishing for praise, it is my belief. I just wish to state it once, for the record.

I'd probably hate your parents, but by God, they raised you well.

You think your subtlety lies in a direct all-out assault. And sometimes it does. It is a brave general who will reveal his hand: 'here is my cavalry, here my men. And here is where I will ambush you." and still expect to win. But that is you.

The self-fulfilling prophecy: you cannot conceive defeat. But it will come. Through your victories it will come.

I'm a Saggitarian, we are the fire you don't notice, but that burns the deepest.

Fire and ice in your eyes, steel in your tone.

The sting of woman is in the way she bends, to gently accommodate you. Taking you with ease.

Don't read the words: step back and watch the glitter show as ideas collide and sparks fly.

Who wants someone who doesn't know what they're doing and isn't interested in learning.

The worst injury is the broken heart.

Do you know men only as playthings, extensions of your flirting, your lust, your desire to fill the void of understanding?

I feel my tears well...deep, deep, from the netherworld below, inside me.

I'll use you as my register, to set a tone.

compete (m) vs support (f) - hall of mirrors.

manipulate elements of perception (with m-n); a child's game.

For the record not impossible someone realises down but otherwise not not down but at least be 1 (???????????????)

Pope: Rape of the lock.

party etiquette.

bleed you dry; a husk.

take you at face value and play with meaning.

play the game of mirror images

I was born akward

we've all been there and we're going back tonight.

I'm too good at pros and cons for both sides.

I suffer from hip envy.

Ask for honesty but prefer a lie - (steinbeck)

Jewels in the last days of decadence - a throwback to an age of calculated innocence

not so random

Never mind.

No-one's perfect.

Only nothing is perfect.