Perpetual Storms of Jupiter

When the universe decides to do art then you just have to let it get on with it. PSoJ might be a good band or album name...

Downside up

I'm pleased with this photo. A clear rip-off from the Beach Boy's Holland album cover except set in Scotland on a balmy February day and no attached music. The gulls make it for me, desperately swimming along, bold in black and white, on the ceiling as it were. Nothing is what it seems.

Doors

A selection of slightly odd, aged, rusty, misshapen doors from my visit to Pittenweem. The ones with the bottom "barrier" pieces are interesting I suppose as these are sea front buildings, I assume that this is a basic form of flood/high tide protection. Being so close to the waterfront everything is weathered and rusty, any paint or refurbishment work will only last so long before the elements start to eat away again at the surfaces. Don't park a car out there for too long either.

When I was about fifteen I read "The doors of perception" and "Heaven and Hell" by Aldous Huxley*. I didn't really understand much of either's very short content (really just lengthy articles) but I did understand that there was a doorway of sorts within the conscious mind that, for most people remained closed for all of their life. Religions, chants, sparkly bright items and meditation might open those doors, a chink of light might get through but there always was a more direct route. That direct route does however contain numerous risks and hazards but people will go that way anyway, often without any guidance or advice as to how it might be once you cross over. In life experience remains the best but the most costly teacher. Understanding yourself and having a little grounding are good things to have achieved before you turn any strange door handles. I'm going the long way round in saying that I like doors and doorways, highly symbolic, highly significant things that also mark boundaries and provide security, oh and keep out drafts. So I enjoyed this wee set of pictures, there were so many odd doors to see and capture, so many thresholds I'll never cross, work for another day and another time. 

*I also didn't know then that the Doors (a once serious minded little rock band) took their name from the book title.

Pittenweem Daily Photo

A small fishing boat chugs back into harbour.

Upside down harbour reflections on a glorious February day.

A warm but watery sun scrapes across the sky.

Rocks ooze green slime and tired sea weed in the lazy sunshine.

Another (bit of a) day spent working down in the East Neuk. Not too many visitors, just the local fishermen and builders going about their business. All strangely calm and peaceful, a healthy antidote to life's noise and the media irritations broadcast and suffered regularly elsewhere ... no phone signal in other words.

Powerful stuff

I'm not on Facebook all that often for all the obvious reasons however when I visited there today this image caught my eye so I've shamelessly harvested it because, whilst I'd rather it didn't have to exist and I know it cannot possibly cover all relevant situations and occurrences, it's a clever and effective graphic. Make what you will of it. The sad fact regarding this type of work is that it's unlikely to be seen or acted upon by those in power (of whatever kind) who most need to see it and react. Meanwhile we (the conflicted, affected and less powerful) can only shake our heads and perhaps boycott and/or grumble at the injustice, complexity and hypocrisy that we are all bound up in.

Lost signs

Fading away into history, manufacturing and trading concepts that seem hard to imagine today. Probably over 100 years old, hand painted onto the brickwork. The mills have gone, the looms and weaving machines are silent museum pieces. The people have gone too, the skills, the hard work, the illness and exploitation,  gone but replaced with other troubles in modern forms. Factories torn down or turned into highly modified flats and awkward homes ... but these gable ended bricks remain, stubborn on an empty old office building with no current use or purpose other than posting an historical footnote.

The earth dies freezing

Hoof marks from the Great Siberian Sabre Toothed Goat caught up in the remains of a melting ice flow recovered near the coast  where the sea and the land meet down by Pittenweem.

Moving on from Global Warming: The world will end not because of fire, fury and pestilence but because of the constant debate and argument centred around and by who/where in the world the best Spaghetti Bolognese is built or churned up. Turns out it's not even Italian, though Italians can take the credit for the invention. There's a lot of unreliable history and unreliable pasta and there's meat and sauce issues all unresolved. Tagliatelle gets the blame for the distortion of the base pasta, some say spaghetti some say tagliatelle. Then the controversy rages over ground beef or whole beef, cooked to destruction with various herbs and wines but always mushrooms. So battle lines have been drawn, it's everybody's (?) favourite meal but the variations and the developments spark fierce loyalties and strange beliefs. In my view it's just food but if the world must end over some thing ...

It was here, in Putney that the whole thing began, not sure who exactly is responsible.

Caturday

Saturday / Caturday on Twitter. Due to the mild weather these guys actually ventured out into the wild. Well they followed us around in the garden for about twenty minutes, inspecting their occasional domain. That was enough, now they're back in their safer, warmer kingdom. A place they control and feel safe in, no squawking birds, squirrels, other cats and strange noises from the bushes. Just the odd visitor attempting photography and disturbing their feline dreams. Caturday.

Solution to pollution

Topical local news story: A major beach clean up operation is in progress at Limekilns, Fife. A mysterious (?) oil spillage has ruined a large part of the beach area and sea front. Heavy and extensive works are under way to remove contaminated sand and seaweed and to restore the once (reasonably) clean shoreline. Much of the often busy seafront, car parks and walkway areas are cordoned off whilst work is carried out. At the moment there's no unpleasant smell, no dead fish or injured seabirds, just a few puzzled onlookers and workers decked out in PPI and Hi-Viz. Hopefully a hefty fine awaits the culprit.

Roads at night

Last night on the Queensferry Crossing headed horth, hardly any traffic, usual futile looking roadworks, supermoon obscured by clouds, lights and lines.

Mermaids

Accurate drawings of actual mermaid sightings recently made in the North East. Probably something to do with the unseasonably mild weather. (Unseasonably appears to be a viable spell check alternative to unseasonal albeit neither of these words look quite right to me.)

Lost in the clouds

Waited patiently for the lights to change. Heard the news today, oh boy. Did a little work, cut back the garden undergrowth, a little. Then the rain started. Then I got temporarily caught in an electronic loop. Ate some odd snacky things. Ironed Trousers. Failed miserably to check my phone every twelve minutes. This is now the UK and industry standard and all loyal subjects of the Queen and Facebook are required to do this; except me. So I'm disappointed. Failed on eBay by a narrow margin. I understood the chance of precipitation today to be around 23% but that figure was clearly wrong or just made up by somebody. 

Snowdrops

Twas International Snowdrop Day all across the Lothians today. We celebrated by taking a short walk in their homeland. Now I know all sorts of things about snowdrops. The most important thing being that snowdrops, despite their innocent looks are full of a horrible poison. Never eat them either in a salad or in soup, they might look tasty but they are dangerous. Apart from that walking close beside a clump of them is actually quite safe and relaxing if you take proper precautions i.e. don't be tempted to eat any. They are not natural to these islands either so technically are invaders and an alien species. Follow the countryside code at all times and you'll be fine.

Life is sweet

Whisky flavoured chocolate sweets from something called a "pop up" shop. What a time to be alive.

Fitzcarraldo

For some inexplicable reason I seem to be having a bit of a Fitzcarraldo day. Not quite sure what to do with it other than go with the flow. It kind of opened up by chance via a random Twitter post. See how easily I'm led astray? The good thing is that it should pass shortly. The bad thing is that it will pass shortly. It's that kind of madness. No doubt tomorrow will bring something else in it's place, I just hope it's not tinnitus. 

Photographs of food

Here's your 24 hour warning. An alert for a red alert. Some good taste that's described with bad taste. A simple click and an upload and it's done. The dirtiest deed of the century, blogged and digested on Instagram and all the rest. Social medicine, settles the stomach, easy on the eyes, gives bragging rights, stakes and claims, maybe steaks and clamsge. All to get likes and shares and hopefully generate a healthy level of envy. Is envy healthy? Is aspiration wrong? Are all our appetites now feebly exhausted so as to allow us just struggle on by the strength of will and memory. Only hungry people go to food banks. Only people who've been hungry donate to food banks. Half the world is hungry, the other half are taking photographs of their meals. Photographs they'll never look back on but they've been uploaded now and live forever in  vault in California.

I have to put these things out of my mind. I have to find a balance. I can't help where I find myself. Luck and chance have placed me here. The messiah of food, drink and various complications. I'll survive, I know how to follow. That's what we do best. Hear no evil, eat no evil, donate what you can when you can. That's the three wise primates for you. I'm going for white meat now, things that look sustainable, no farting cows or bull's cheeks or wild things pulled dead from some shooting moor. No exotic birds eggs or insects. I'm saying that now but I'm easily tempted. I can resist anything except the things I aspire to. They get me every time. I'm a wounded buffalo really, that's my explanation, my soul was tainted and now I'm trapped in the deja vu of a loop of deja vu about something that might have happened in past.

OK, there will be consequences, but they'll be sweet and in the morning, I'll be a better, more reasonable man. I may have a slightly upset tummy though.

Feb 14th

Theresa and Jeremy's

Breakfasted in Bob & Bert's cafe yesterday (or maybe today depending on how I adjusted the flux-capacitor in the car), poached eggs on toast, a side of bacon and a flat white; all for a reasonable price plus good conversation (mostly about Muriel Spark and birthdays) with my daughter. I do get confused of course (?) when referring to Bob & Bert (who don't seem to actually exist). My many attempts at describing them range from, Ben & Jerry to Bert & Ernie to Slash and Axl to Pinky and Perky and eventually, almost relentlessly to Theresa & Jeremy. If ever there was a cafe or eatery name just waiting to explode onto the unsuspecting British public, that has to be it. You're welcome.

The slippery slope of sleep

To sleep, perchance to dream. Over dosing on cheese that comes with it's own formidable streams of bacteria and mould, as it was designed to be by years of food science. Built to interrupt sleep with lurid visions of past, present and future worlds. None that make sense but all are strangely recognizable and familiar. I move through this peculiar world as if it was my home and it may well be but I simply cannot be sure. It has a life. All references are understood though they jar and disturb, but on a nightly basis I volunteer to enter this wild and unregulated domain where Dali meets Warhol meets Dante and Bosch. Each one battles for supremacy and influence and I awake, slowly, blinking, memories of cheese and bright colours, or monochrome, film noir and blank spaces. 

There's a broken narrative, a series of senseless jump cuts, great panoramas and vistas and a falling away of reason. Things I see that I cannot touch, all trapped on the edge of place I can never return to in the same way, not ever, though it might yet happen one day. My head clears, I have a cup of tea and take account of my surroundings, stable and hazy in the early morning's winter gloom. There will be news of Brexit, celebrity deaths and adventures, sports results, economic changes and predictions, wars, crimes and misery. Something happy or light weight might make it through as a temporary antidote. They'll all be as real and as sensible as my dreams and most as quickly forgotten as another juggernaut of information passes my way on whatever side of darkness I reside. 

This is overload but I have my filter, my touch stone, that manufactured fungus on the cheese that opens up the doorway to those other places. Should all of that dissolve and decay and become lost to me then I may well discover some purer fungus on the jam as I twist and pop the lid and use it for my own little taste experiments. The jam underneath will be fine, no doubt.

Curiosity

Today I enjoyed the privileges of being privileged. By that I mean I was out, talking to neighbours, buying coffee, doing a few hours work, shopping for groceries and driving home. None of these things were done whilst in a state of fear, without any money our without any sense of being an outsider or not belonging. The truth is I don't really know how being an "outsider" really feels, I might have some outlaw type of romantic concept in my mind, some idea of that being a kind of freedom but I don't know diddly squat. I'm nothing more than (as most are) a curious observer, a passer by, a number on a list and most importantly for the modern world - a consumer. A fairly reliable payer-upper and contributor. I'm not on the edge (but I know the routes that might get a person there), I'm just sauntering down life's highway paying the toll money like a good, compliant little chap. Inside I have my rants, my precious little issues that boil away and soak the flannel but in the end I can be relied upon to get back in my box ... maybe I need to feed my curiosity a little more.