Chaos: all planned out

The local, chilly view.

I had it all planned out, then it snowed and became savagely cold. My only alternative was to retreat right back into the very back of my head and then take stock of things, lo and behold I saw it all so clearly, if a little distorted. "That's just what you get",  some might say.

I typed out ten thousand words. All bright and vivid, hard and poetic, chirpy with meaning and humour, lyrical and as perfectly crafted out as I could make them. They flowed and rolled, they turned corners, looped and danced around. These were sweet moments for me. I lost myself. They swirled and provoked, everywhere all around. They hurt and bound things tight, they contradicted and lied. They went deep. They bent the truth and described the hidden. They were there. It was revelation and I saw the bright light of understanding. I swear I did. Then I picked those words out, highlighted them and deleted them all. Just with the touch of a key and they were all gone. It was a strangely warm, wonderful, godlike feeling. Now they are no more and though I can't forget them I just can't remember any of them. I felt that I had to tell somebody about it. That person must be you.

Annoying Orange

What happens when an orange is left buried and abandoned in the bottom of a busy person's handbag for many a long year. It was at one time, a while ago, virile and at least three inches in juicy diameter. Now it is a shrivelled and dried out and useless relic (an angry inch?) and a husk of a bygone age of  one time citrus perfection. There may well be a lesson here, a universal lesson applicable to all or maybe just a few but who really knows? So squeeze my orange/lemon/pineapple etc. etc.

Square Eclipse

Towel Art

The ancient Japanese art of towel folding and arranging comes to Scotland at long last. Three not so easy pieces by Ali.

Seven for a secret

Tesco: I for one am quite prepared to believe that it's possible to get mixed up between the cows and the horses during a busy day at the abattoir. That's the food chain for you. I also don't understand the apparent outrage at mixing up bovine and equine meats, it happens every day in France and they are far more civilised than we'll ever be. As the vegetarian butcher once said "It all tastes the same to me, I just never swallow any of it".

Tax the poor: Twenty five million pension plans will go up the spout when they double the price of a Lottery ticket to £2 later in the year. Hours or even seconds of pointless amusement strangled for the masses. They'll be turning to religion next. I can't be bothered with the stupid games, quiz panels and rubbish that surrounds a ridiculous raffle with hopeless odds. Having said that the £25 for three numbers has a certain attraction.

Growing old gracefully: The eternal question at these difficult ages, which strategy or role model do you follow?

David Bowie: Geriatric reflections on 80s Berlin. Dressing as a stuffed teddy and looking sour with a Chinese pal. Dull synth dominated songs with mournful lyrics and dense drums. A backing band of anonymous session guys happy to take the money and run. Sense of humour failure (or so it seems).

Mick Jagger: Gangley, wrinkled, cocky blues boy at a fancy dress party in a silly hat. Still shouting rubbish  and strutting like you're 21 but not really meaning any of it. No new ideas for material, just reruns of years ago. Worn out riffs and a baffled and battered Keef fronting the ugliest looking band you ever saw.

I'm settling for the Groucho method - whisky, red meat and obscurity.

Reflection

Tuesday: Traditionally not a day for reflection or anything of that sort but I did briefly wonder as I munched a dry sausage roll why January seems to be such a desolate little month? Why we are plunged into this cold and dreich winter experience, lost without the light and colour of December to help us along? Today it's -3C, cold but still not deeply cold. I'm assembling IKEA storage equipment, removing dead mice, recycling, listening for the tinkle of snow, looking out into the dark place that is the garden and reorganising a cupboard - and that's after a normal day's work.  Perhaps it's the recognition of the overwhelming threat of the weather turning really bad and all of our local bits of civilisation just breaking down. That's it, January anxiety, along with preparing for the Volvo's MOT.

Life of CGI

Far away....

...a bit closer.

Here in the colourful land of the back of beyond, where the pothole is king, the scent of cabbages wafts in the breeze and cats grow confused we always allow the sun to drop down in the sky at least once a day. When this happens and we're aware of it we rush down to the seashore, disturb innocent birds that are minding their own perfect business and take out our mobile phones. Then we run up and down the stone and shingle beach, phones held high in the evening air as we focus, click and search for that elusive and perfect five megapixal shot. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes we just step in dog poo.

The Life of Pi is a good film (and a good Kindle read no doubt), full of allegory, seascapes, tigers, humour, violence and high quality CGI that will burn out your retinas. In fact it's so trippy and far out that when I came out of the cinema I was convinced that it was still 1971. I had to be talked down from a high branch by a very understanding young social worker who bribed me with a sugar donut and the diluted threat of possible physical or sexual violence. Once down I was restrained by pipe cleaner handcuffs and Ovaltine but I escaped and made my way to Brazil in a Beechcraft Bonanza piloted by Sophia Loren who it turned out had cannibalistic tendencies. When I got  there I settled for a quite life on a brood mare ranch spending my time as an honest  plastic surgeon and part time Nazi hunter. I also found God and then promptly lost him in the post. Well that's one version of events, then of course there is the truth - which one makes the better story?

My Favourite Pillbox

My current favourite ex-WW2 concrete artifact is this grand but slightly weather stained (jagged) little pillbox that presently stands guard over the recycling centre at Fyvie in Aberdeenshire.

Toilet doors and windows wide open

Today I stopped off for a coffee and caramel shortbread break at Peggy Scott's whilst headed north on the A90. Nice enough but for some reason they wedge the toilet doors open, both the Ladies and Gents and have all the toilet windows open wide and...it's January. It may be that the odd OAP has a loo stop meltdown in there now and again but quite why they do this beats me. Strange.

Marmite and toast, or on toast to be precise. Strong memories of coming down the morning after, a hangover cure and mouth and digestion reviver, almost magical really...and the longing, rolling after taste. Mmmm.

Polar bears need meat

Do you ever just sit down and think?..."I could just eat a tin of minced beef right now." No neither do I.

Polar Bear Diaries: Saw a bit of this on BBC2. After  half an hour of watching the irritatingly grim host and his camera team moaning about how poorly the bears were doing and how hungry they must be I just thought..."go into the ship's freezer and throw them a few trout or mackerel or whatever you've got in there and walk away." It seems that nature's way and me just don't agree sometimes.

Exasperated Blackberry

Going from an old phone to a new one is fairly traumatic. This time it's from a whatever it was dumb phone to a sparkly and not so smart Blackberry (this is for business not pleasure). I never have been an early adopter of new technology so I'm always catching up and even my slim guitar stunted fingers seem a might too big for the tiny qwerty keys and trackball touch thing that wobbles like jelly on top of smoothie in a glass of Activia. I will persevere however and climb that hill. So what have I learned recently?

The wonders of e-book via the 3D Kindle, all apps, magazines and finger flicking good stuff.
Wav files are miles better than Mp3s.
Microwaves can be made to defrost chickens.
2 in 1 Nescafe is very good for you early in the morning.
I can live, survive and thrive using a Macbook.
In-car temperature controls and trip computers are good things.
Chips in cats will allow cat flaps to operate (?).
Smart TVs are not so smart.
Rewiring a dimmer switch.
My Sky password.
The Blackberry trackball touch.
Smoothie and Activia can successfully live in a shared glass if correctly chilled.
You can buy whisky on-line from on-line retailers.
Cheesy beans are good.
A Porsche doesn't need high octane fuel.

That's about it - but I still feel just a little uneasy and out of step with things...I imagine that's how David Bowie must feel all of the time.

An error occurred

Entering a strange new world.

An error occurred when I was starting to type and I completely forgot what it was I was about to write. Thankfully the Blogger error appears not to be fatal and it may just be possible to slip into some parallel universe (as a cat might) and so avoid the tricky situations posed by life, a diet of Harry Potter films and parking in disabled spaces  - but only for a really short period of time and because I had to pop into the Post Office. Karma will punish me.

David Bowie has finally made a new record and created quite a fuss on the Twittersphere. Fortunately it had all passed over like a fresh January storm before I got home, I will give it a listen in due course.

Driller's Procrastination (DP)

Thirty five year old Black and Decker, still works up to a point despite numerous mishaps and bodged repairs.

Two holes and a pen mark.

Possibly the finest collection of blunt drill bits and chuck keys North of the Pentlands and South of the Ochils.

I'm a DP sufferer and I don't really care who knows about it. It's a whole new form of mental illness and I've diagnosed myself with it albeit in a mild and fairly nonthreatening form. It's all about fiddling in the margins, inventing delays, building obstacles, seeing technical deficiencies and generally messing about when you could just get on and do the drilling. Well today after a long period of self inflicted therapy, some rain and a garlic potato I broke through in way that would have made any average American comedy/reality audience whoop and holler with delight and admiration. Yes it's true I drilled about four easy holes into a simple piece of wood. Now all I have to do is get to the top of the step ladder.

Spirited away to Kelty

Unlikely doppelganger doorknob. 

The highest football pitch in Fife sits at a lofty 600ft above the level of the choppy North Sea and it was there that I spent the afternoon blasted, dazed and confused and entertained by some murky Sunday football, thanks to Kelty Hearts under 19s. As is the custom the final scoreline was less than flattering to us but the toilets, car parking and the confused coffee service were of a high calibre. The Soundtrack to the afternoon was provided by those jolly Scandinavians "First Aid Kit" (The Lion's Roar) and the oh so serious Texans "ZZ Top" (La Futura) with readings via Kindle from Call of the Wild and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. It was special on so many levels,  that kind of super cultured Kelty afternoon that's been missing from the not so sadly departed old nag that was 2012.

Earlier in the day we began with the traditional hangover bustin' Cowboy/Cowgirl breakfast; eggs, chilli egg bread, olive egg bread, flat Fife sausage, bacon, beans and tomatoes - works a treat. I started eating it and I'd no hangover, fifteen minutes later I had a head like a Townhill (Lochside) brick that's been blasted in the oven since Tuesday. Marvellous stuff really.

Funniest thing I've seen on TV in ages: Cuckoo "Grandfather's Cat Episode", oh yeah!

The low road

The sole of a boot found on top of a dry stone dyke. 

An abandoned water pump, buried in rubble, unused for years.

I've been pounding the Fife Coastal Path, well the small part of it that runs close by the front door. There's a lot to see and a lot that's hidden and likely to stay that way. Out on the beach people dig fishing worms, gather up driftwood or logs and timber here and there, quad bikes rumble, some dogs run wild whilst  some walk obediently by their owners, kids play and muddy cyclists and hi-vis runners stay fit.  The light plays tricks and the chilly River Forth widens and narrows and then as night falls turns grey and invisible. Then the January winds kicks in, rain joins the winter party and it's time to head home for hot chocolate and seat by the warm stove.

The loneliness of the long distance rubbish

So what about the applied mechanics of recycling, staying sane and staying greenish all year round? Half way out on the road to find a seasonally uncluttered drop off point I ask myself is it really good practice to take all your recycling material in the boot of your gas guzzling car to the recycling centre? By then you rinsed out the cans and bottles in the precious, maybe even hot soapy water. Folded flat the cardboard and taken all the windows out of envelopes and the cellophane from the ready meal boxes. Of course you've stored these items for a while somewhere within your valuable house space, tripped over them a few times and then finally stuffed them into the car in order to drop them into the appropriate bins at the recycling centre. That is assuming that the council have emptied the bins and that there's room in the bins. There is also a strong possibility that it's windy and pouring rain while you stuff the precious material into the deliberately too small container apertures. Trouble is, once you start you just can't stop.

Almost normal progress

I did prepare quite a lot of this food but I didn't eat as much of it as I thought I would, that's always a strange part of entertaining and general grub husbandry. Now we've a fridge full of tasty leftovers.

Headed back to the steady state of normal, Christmas tree surgically removed from the arse of the house, bright shiny things entrapped in dark boxes, sliver balls rubbed up and rolled into their shoe box beds, lights coiled and crammed into large plastic repositories and hot ashes hosed down and hoovered; the celebrations can be well and truly declared over. The trouble is I'm a bit fuzzy on what we were celebrating, possibly the fact that we can freely celebrate the passing of the shortest day, maybe new calender numbers or just being born into a country that has a fair amount of civilisation and healthy sanitation going on in it most of the time. All that and of course the art of ingenious pie making and stuffing. Most likely the Romans started it and the Picts pinched the idea and it's completely stuck with us now. So much that it's hard to celebrate anything without sticking a slice of pastry and savoury contents into your face at some point. Progress.

In other news we've gone straight in at the deep end and started watching the "Breaking Bad" box set. Already I can feel my life slipping away in a pleasant four-eyed trance. I may need more pie.

Inflammatory and offensive...

...to some but that's just the way things are. Everybody takes offense a little too easily these days and it just may well be that your taste in music / films / food, your political beliefs, your religious and philosophical ponderings and your appetites for this, that and the other are, if placed under close scrutiny just a little bit dodgy. Just remember the tiny speck that you are and that there are at least a billion people in China who don't give a Tinker's Cuss about what you or I think. So let's all have a better perspective for 2013 (The Hebridean Year of the Unlucky Pig and the Inarticulate Blogger) and may God, Communism, Capitalism and the Great Bloated Pumpkin King bless you all.

Psychedelic Pill

Yes I own a copy and to be honest I was confused by it. That awkward first listening when you fear the worst and revisit the sleeve notes for clues. No big grab effect, cosmic hook or be-jewelled ear-worms. Something that's a one play album, no depth or engagement possible and then filed back in oblivion as a musical relic despite the pretty packaging. If I were truly heartless then it'd be stuffed onto Ebay for £5 along with some stellar hope for the best and a fond farewell in a second hand jiffy bag. None of that came to be. I found something else that resides beyond any music or sound scape, that's a properly valuable experience if you can ever get yourself in there. So if all your life you've been looking for some narrative soundtrack to tell your story then maybe this is it. This Psychedelic Pill. This is what it all comes down to - distillation and focus and a drug called music. The different, slightly disappointing thing that marks you out as just another confused passenger mishearing some instructions and reacting badly at an inopportune moment. All quite normal really. So contrary to what you thought it would been the listing allows for none of the big hitting stuff, none of the classics, those pieces that you thought would define your three score and however many, all set up there in an ever changing imaginary list that's just too fluid to settle into any kind of permanent structure. Then, quite by surprise on the day you die it'll solidify like porridge and shrivel up into the three chosen songs that they play on a bad sound system at your funeral and all the while nobody is listening nor really caring what any of it might mean. That's because your long gone now and it's clearly too late. Anyway it's always about somebody more alive and more articulate than I ever was and they're livin' on trying to express a feeling for you, in a way that you never could. Then again it is completely possible that I just made this up and let my apparently arbitrary tastes fit the model so that you'd be more confused and that you'd never really know quite what was on that list o' mine. It's not that I tried to hide it or that I couldn't be bothered. It's more to do with the fact that it just doesn't matter now.

Ultimate sandwich

One more turkey sandwich. This month's Heathen Winterfest has seen us dip into a rich vein of locally sourced produce, bought in damp and rainy farm shop barns and rickety butcher shops. No electronic tills, tags or reward points were used in the making of these communal meals but some animals and root vegetables were seriously damaged. They gave their lives for curry and the twin births of those seasonal cultural icons Jesus and Santa. It's as if we'd suddenly caught onto the old Fife Diet experiment and for a brief moment tried to take the non-global approach to life seriously. I suppose we run the risk of being picketed by irate Tesco shareholders, Zombie economists or active members of the Conservative Party. As if any of them gave an ounce of seasonal stuffing about our paltry consumption levels, intolerance to white sugar or the mud on our mock Wellingtons. So here we are, burning dried logs, living the outlaw life on the fringes of society and playing Scrabble, it's a kind of life I'd always dreamed off experiencing. Ignoring TV schedules, high street sales and shopping, reviews of whatever year it was and idiot news, listening to Psychedelic Pill and chasing strange cats from their squatter beds under Christmas trees, squishing through the chemical run off from some vast fields, fixing doors and being hypnotised by touchy feely colouring in schedules and warm alcohol. Time for another turkey sandwich and getting into things without having to explain.