One happy banana

This little fellow is really happy because today he was not eaten at the prescribed time. He was given a respite of a quite a few hours because I finished work early and so did not eat him at about 1200 as I had planned. His date with my mouth, stomach and intestines was therefore moved forward to around 1600 when he was finally eaten along with a Tunnock's Caramel Wafer and a cup of coffee containing milk that frankly was slightly on the turn but I stubbornly made it OK to drink as I couldn't be arsed cooking up another. I grimaced a little whist sipping it though but I survived (which is more than can be said for the banana) and I was distracted  by a cat. P.S. For the squeamish amongst you at least one banana was harmed quite seriously in the writing of this blog piece. 

Trees:from last evening.

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre

After long years of searching the lost treasure has finally arrived, in the post, from the USA. I could have used Europe or even the UK but this new imaginary trade agreement means that if you thoughtlessly click on anything on the internet and fail to think through what you're doing then surely stuff will arrive at your home before you can cancel the order or even recall making it. 

By the way when I say "lost" I mean not found easily by somebody like me and when I say "long years" I mean a few moments and when I say "finally arrived" I mean it turned up in three days thanks to the superb US Postal System. This kind of prompt service is so unexpected and peculiar that I wrote it in a song (no it was a blog) but then again #unexpected and #peculiar  are the hashtags that fit best with most of my routine thinking processes. But is it really treasure? Yes it is, of a kind, because it's a rare type of motor car medicine designed to stop the noise of virtual chalk screaming against an unreal blackboard.

Is that...?

Famous historically doubtful uses of the word "fuck" No.99. If you failed to view Game of Thrones this week then this will mean nothing to you. If you did then know exactly what happened next though you will not know the actual outcome or the consequences. That'll all be revealed eventually as it's basically and adult fantasy piece that runs on and on and (famously) contains dragons and ...

Ena was real

When I was a child I was pretty sure that Ena Sharples of Coronation Street was real and not a fictional character. That set me thinking about other folks we encounter as children who may be other than real and indeed other characters, fictional or otherwise(?) who have come to be regarded as real and that can happen at any age. It's the thin edge of a large and unreal wedge. Come to think of it my old granny thought Ena and the rest of the cast were real (or at least she kept up that pretense from the start of the show till she died in 1980 or thereabouts). Perhaps my subconscious was too alert as a nipper but my sense of real life more blunted ... so Martha Longhurst, Minnie Caldwell and that lovable scoundrel Len Fairclough were just ordinary, everyday working folks who participated in an early version of reality TV. The only one who wasn't real of course was Elsie Tanner as she was the fictional mother in law of that fictional Tony Blair fellow.

Credit Card Plectrums

Attention all you dwindling numbers of washed out guitar gods and would be princes or princesses of the silver fret board. OK, so you've no money and no worthwhile plastic, no pay as you go or pay as you play or proximity swiping possibilities. If this is your fate and even more sorry state then simply take those plastic fantastics and mince them away into chip and pin plectrums that are easy to use, easy to lose and a bit on the thin side but useful for some nice jangle pop or lazy Sunday strumming. Cash used to be king and Jonny Cash used to be hurt but these bad boys will soothe your cotton picking blues with their recycled shape shifting and vulnerable edgy easy bend qualities. End of message.

Elsewhere

I can neither confirm nor deny that I may require some long lasting, short staying, high quality sleep over the next few days or so. My outputs may be low, my input may be less, my senses may be dulled and I might fail to pickup on any reasonable requests. None of this means I'm dead or lazy or in a long and long lasing sulk. I'm just elsewhere.

Coast

A lot has been said about how rubbish a summer we've had here and that's true but there have been some days when you just catch a glimpse of how good it might all be, then the mist descends and it's back to normal. I'm here behind the lens  and badly in need of an ice cream, it never did arrive.

A washed up, washed out telegraph pole (section). Somebody's broadband is down somewhere.

From a certain angle this log could easily be mistaken for a crocodile, the angle I used here is not that one however.

Over there is Fife Ness and St Andrews, over here is Barry Buddon coast and some sandy beaches.

Incomplete strike

In some kind of a dream an airstrike was ordered, perhaps from the east, maybe the west. Whatever direction it hit us but not with bombs or bullets but with some mind altering agent that (surprisingly) altered our minds as we slept. We just snored and snuffled it in through the night, me, you, everybody. When we came around the world seemed the same and mostly was the same but the way we perceived it was subtly different. Some things were OK, almost normal but others, well... I kept seeing this model starship but it was so detailed that it was filled with earlier model, failed starships. I felt that I had to build it but first I had to make peace, peace with people that I couldn't quite recall, nor them me. I tried to explain about the starship and about what I might have done but mostly they ignored me or offered new versions of pizza dough recipes or just handed me money. None of the money was real and I wasn't really so keen on pizza anymore. I may have been vegan or at least headed that way. But maybe pizza would be OK under certain circumstances. Then the car crashes started to happen but all the trains ran on time, they just stopped at all the wrong stations. Even animals were affected, they could talk now but they made little sense. Perhaps they understood each other and ignored us. I watched TV programmes from the unpolluted parts of the world. How clean and warp free they were and the adverts were honest in as much they promised very little from the products and so we were all free to be ourselves and buy but without guilt. I saw the folly in this and returned to the starship questions and the building dilemmas. They were real and so was the airstrike. Now it was all history but leaving the planet and starting anew made sense to the minority of the population, the rest were greedy and preoccupied, just like the prisons and prisoners. All I need now is a good booster and a plan for the logistics division and a sharp knife. Am I building a model model or a real model or a real starship? Can't figure it out.

Jeanne Moreau

One half of the Viva Maria team and the stellar line up passed on today. That was French screen icon Jeanne Moreau of course, Bridget remains with us, stubborn and old. Her role in that funny, sad, sexy, surreal and daft movie was memorable and taught me ... something, well it did open my eyes a bit more to a range of odd possibilities and it made me laugh and squirm and stare way back in 1970 or thereabouts when it popped up late one night on BBC2. Back in the days when any subtitled film was both a challenge and somehow highly sophisticated, those regular  night time movies on World Cinema set in glorious black and white were a treat and a guilty pleasure. Jeanne featured in a few of the best offerings as the slow seasons passed and the medium moved from monochrome to colour and life caught up. RIP.

Ulster Fry

Back home after a week or so in Ireland, north and south but mostly west. The final breakfast of the trip was an Ulster Fry, the legendary breakfast that sets you up not just for the day but the weekend and possibly the coming week. A pleasant trip and of course the tricky wee blue car was a whole lot of fun. Now snoozing in the garage.

Laundromat

What do you think of that? 

I'm sleeping down at the laundromat, 

If you should pass by, 

Be sure to drop right in. 

Well I don't have no clothes to clean, 

To put inside the machine, 

It was the craziest place, 

I have ever been.

Lyrics (and tune) by Rory Gallagher (who else?).

Laundromat by Killarney.

A hotel's soft underbelly

Hotel innards when nobody else is around, those quiet spaces just around the corner from where people are being busy seen from various angles. Nothing unusual here but it's probably all kicking off somewhere else. There's a wedding in the new complex, sandwiches are being handed out with bubbly and disdain. Welcome to Fred and Jenny's big Thursday afternoon wedding, it may last till the weekend if they can keep their heads. 

There's wet floors around and there's swimming lessons in the steamy pool, the gym has a few die-hards dying, where there may be some worked up sweat or injuries later. Butterflies broken on the cruel healing machines that promise new bodies, not for the likes of me. No sneaking and peeing on the showers and even bald people wear bathing caps. The towels are just that little bit too small and regularly dropped on the changing room floor. Socks still refuse to fit feet.

Over in the bar there are meals and jumping children, survivors from funerals and training days, people pretending to do business, golfers badly dressed as golfers checking each other's sporting goods, guests counting down the hours, staff hover and clear up other people's mess and phones silently charge. Food floats by on silver trays, every choice looking better then your own until your platter arrives, hot and saucy and coloured with sauces and unplanned vegetables. Kick back afterwards and sup slow beer.

In the open foyer a coach load of confused travellers has arrived and then spews out luggage and more brightly coloured anorak shaped people, set free from the confines of the bus, now they can roam new corridors like buffalo herds. Everybody has way too much luggage and each fresh move is a struggle and the lift remains well hidden and best avoided. Taxi drivers stand guard outside, ready to pounce with offers and advice and thank the weather gods for the advancing rain clouds. Too wet to walk. Nobody wants to get wet on holiday and so we stay dry, back in the busy wee bar.

Gap of Dunloe

You can walk or cycle or drive or take a pony and trap. That's how you cross the Gap of Dunloe, Kerry. The Irish horsemen are full of mischief and stories, wild and unlikely tales, things to please the tourist and stoke up the memory. Fistfuls of banknotes change hand as they grin and take the fare, bargaining with each other and deciding who will go in whatever buggy. Horses are everywhere, some loose, some standing, some resting. Then you're off, cantering and walking, stopping as the horse needs a drink from a stream and of course more banter from your driver. The clattering of the hooves as you turn each corner and climb each gradient. The roads are covered in dung, wild iris grows by the stoney side, holly and myrtle too and the warmth of the mysterious Gulf Stream never seems far away. Somewhere across the greenery hides Ireland's highest mountain, beyond the crags and boulder fields but nobody seems too interested in that today, the road is more important here.

Below and above

We were in a cave, underground, deep, walls dripping, dark, damp, structures forming over thousands of years, no sense of day or time or weather, just constant chilly cold and solid air. Strange passages led to gloomy ends. Then we returned to wide open spaces, beaches and skies big as the universe, people and activity and the warm wind from across the Atlantic. Far away hills looking down on us, heads in the clouds. As the surf crashed I thought of those below, the cold and the dead, the gone and forgotten. We play above, they are lost to us, merged with the stones. You see whatever you may think or believe or wish for, the dead go nowhere.

Web Design

I saw this overloaded and unkempt spider's web and thought a bit about insect control and facilities management (or FM for short). Then I realised that these things were of little significance and that somewhere a bemused spider was probably fairly happy and well fed albeit his/her front room and general living space is a bit untidy and less functional than it should be. Beware of making snap judgements. 

"When all the passwords are lost and forgotten and the electronic memory fades and flickers how will we ever find our way home across that tangled and now hostile web country?"

Power Saving Mode

AI will make the world like one big long acid trip inside your head. I say this because it's clear that the Google bots that shovel effects and tones across photos accidentally (so it seems), see things differently. Their need to emphasise and push the colours can be disturbing at times and unsettling but somebody has programmed them into seeing this as normal, i.e. how those dumb humans on the other side of the screen view the world, plus a layer of hot chocolate sauce on top. They're OK about changing our perceptions. Maybe life with those robot judges, designers, goggle doctors and (ultimately) rulers wont be so bad, it'll be bright at least. That is of course unless it's all some ruse to entice us in and once in out go the lights and away go all the bright shiny things. It makes no sense to have everything up to eleven if it's not productive and so we'll revert to the eternal grey and gloom of power saving mode (unless you pay). Much more sensible.

Land of eternal youth

Any land that claims to be the land of eternal youth must be worth a visit (unless it's full of grumpy and petulant adolescents), anyway they may have exaggerated the magic a bit but there is some. I've drunk a lot of coffee and eaten a lot of sugary kinds of cake and established by various means of research that the Irish are actually all reasonably happy with their lot. Despite the demise of the Celtic Tiger and the return of U2 (they played Dublin last night) things are looking good generally. True there are a few vacant lots, buskers with bad teeth and desolate housing estates but (they seem to think) they're economy is on the up and that those of us stuck over on the barren Brexit shores of the Irish Sea are a bunch of feckin' eedjits. Fair enough.

Holy Spirit

blinded by your symmetry

such a friendly fool was me

what to believe and what to see

where to draw the border

minutes later seconds flat

walking with a dog named cat

is this where it's really at?

is life just some long foreplay?

holy spirit holy spirit holy spirit

I practiced in my father's chair

blowing smoke rings in the air

for all I know they're still up there

spinning in some vortex

it ranges over all the earth

breathing hot and giving birth

then they tell you what you're worth

but you're only getting older

holy spirit holy spirit holy spirit

sometimes at night I stay awake

wondering if I've got what it takes

to point the finger at the fakes

but then I just roll over

I let it all roll over

we let it all roll over.

Always more weird art on the internet

We've all had a day like this.

I don't recall a day like this one however...

Yes, I too have grey socks but no I don't have a house for a head at the moment.

Artwork by Jolene Lai, a person who creates uncanny and disturbing worlds, these are amongst the least disturbing. Hardly a day/hour/minute/second passes without a new clutch of art appearing in my various feeds, there's no actual filter except for the delete key or a quick swipe to move things away. I just wonder how anybody ever makes a living at this anymore, there's too much of it about and a fickle mass dish eyed audience, worn down by click bate and repetition that hardly pauses to look at or understand anything. 

Aberdeen daily photo

"Then there was that time when we got a load of stuff delivered and the driver just dumped it and we never really did get around to using much of it anyway so now it's err...a bit of a problem."