Three photos on the 30th.

Cafe detail: Toilet rolls are stored in a hexagonal container for ease of issue and because, being rolls they are round. 

Three trees robbed of their green foliage in the grounds of Kinross House Estate. Remote controlled gates allow remote controlled access subject to other activities.

A container ship heads west up towards Grangemouth docks on the calm and milky River Forth. Diesel engines shudder and throb across the valley and over the water.

Mercury Dropping

Front Elevation.

Rear Elevation.

Shouting out at gigs

A Quantum Thing

The day before the day before the last day of November is today. I'm not alone in thinking time passes too quickly but I just can't tell you who else does. I guess it's an age related quantum thing. You can add quantum to any sentence in order to add weight and depth, oh and gravitas. Nobody actually understands what quantum is, not even physicists or members of Mensa, not even the Dux of the school or the fuckin' dipshit Prime Minister, the Archbishop of Canterbury or Stephen Fry. I've forlornly studied it at the University of YouTube, all earthly wisdom is deposited there (unless it fails to monetize itself adequately and gets deleted). Quantum is a mystery and will remain one until I finally fix my calculations and explain things properly. That's something I do not intend to do in this post, after all it's already the day before the day before the last day of November and thankfully time's running out.

The trouble with music

Music is hard work, all those notes, all those combinations of tones and times and rhythms. There's always something new to learn and something else to forget. A lot of it is just fragmented ideas right now, nothing that joins up easily, like jigsaw pieces scattered across a table top, there's a picture in there but it refuses to emerge. Perhaps there's a blockage. A stubborn child running across room spaces in the back of your mind and between your ears. Why won't it just sit still and eat lunch or read a book? Why do I refer to you when I mean me? Detachment, displacement, denial, delusion, deafness, dental problems, diet?*

In this world all bones are fractured, all muscles are torn, all skin is broken but the sounds can still sound sweet.

*Or none of the above.

The Darker Ages

Recent deaths provoke temporary despair: I suppose that good people probably die at about the same rate as bad people but then I'm not sure as to the actual ratio of good to bad in the world and of course that kind of binary way of measuring is stupid. Maybe it's just about people in power and actual influencers, power brokers and decision makers. How many of them are...well more good than bad and vice versa? Recently good people seem to be either dying or disappearing more quickly than the others. Modern life is on a seesaw, we could easily tip over, things fall apart, the centre cannot hold etc. The new dark(er) ages could just open up at any moment, crazy people are in high office. Well too large a proportion of crazy people, you can never quite stop them getting in there and a lifetime of experience tells me that crazy people tend to gravitate to the places you'd least want them to be in. It's not just because "good" people do he-haw, it's because the crazies often have more guts and drive and self-delusion and that makes quite a difference. Then there's the rampant cognitive dissonance that prevents neutral people who've been fooled into a belief from piping up and taking the trouble to change their position. We're screwed.

Casa Sperimentale

"The ruins of Casa Sperimentale, an experimental concrete tree house built by Giuseppe Perugini and Uga de Plaisant in Italy. Entirely modular, it was designed to be built and expanded upon at will. The house fell into disrepair after the architects’ deaths."

I'm not wholly sure why but the phrase "the house fell into disrepair after the architects' death" is one I really like, it's rather like the prologue to some sinister movie and a concept (ongoing disrepair after significant death) that has a certain dark appeal. It's almost as if the book/film writes itself. Hmm..."the house fell into" that's a leading and intriguing statement. Can the the new Vincent Price please step forward? "The fall of the House of Perugini" beckons.

Edinburgh

Hello Blogger (or Twitter) my old friend, I've come to talk with you again, because a vision softly creeping, left it's seeds (?) while I was was sleeping, and the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains, within the sound of ... Edinburgh going down the toilet.

Busy

Abstract interior #1.

Busy: Busy means different things to different people, some people are not really busy but think they are busy because they can't imagine not being busy. Some people are busy but think that's just normal. Some people confuse being busy with importance so they say they're busy. Some people are doing nothing but think they're busy if they have to empty the bin or iron a shirt. Some people think being busy means you have a Netflix series set up to view and you must do it today. Some people think they're busy if they're surrounded by other people who are obviously busy (or pretending to be). Some people think they're busy because something unexpected happened and so their schedule changed for the worse.

I really don't know what busy is but I suppose if a bus driver is driving a bus or a pilot is flying plane then they're busy doing that very thing but nobody really thinks that those are really busy professions. Me? I'm busy being confused about busy but sympathetic towards all the apparently busy people out there of whom I might be one but I'm too busy/lazy to check. (A raspberry seed stuck in your tooth certainly makes you busy trying to get it out).

Award winning but...

The top ten coffees that may not contain ten actual entries.

Firstly I'm no expert or connoisseur of fine coffees, I just know what I like, so here's my current top scoring hot beverage experiences:

1. Straight in at No.1 Aberdeen Museum and Art Gallery cafe, nice and hot and full of flavour (as pictured).
2. Stephens the baker, creamy, smooth and the correct temperature. Consistent.
3. MacDonald's, decent and regular in taste and flavour.
4. Fire Station Dunfermline. Pricey but good.
5. No number 5. (Actually this should be "Down the Hatch" at SQ Marina but who cares?).
6. The Wee Bakery South Queensferry. Nice flat white but be prepared to wait.
7. Costa Drive Thru, OK.
8. Costa machine (Coop/Scotmid) OK but confusing to operate. Not really recommended.
9. Morrisons (to go). Hmm.
10. Peggy Scotts (A90 north towards Aberdeen) pretty shit really.

That's it, surprised that I made it to 10.

Rainy Friday

Magically transported by the power of magic to another land, another time, another space altogether. The fearless shrew gathering cat explores some strange forest that only exists in her own imagination and in stock footage stored in great and mysterious servers that can be accessed all across that internet thing. More rubbish to follow.

92% blue

Some days everything is 92% blue.

Sometimes, in your own head it just all goes quiet, well my head knows quiet times. The hurly burly moves on, upwardly mobile enough to trouble some other soul with it's smoke, mirrors and dredged up paranoia. It knows the road home well enough so the patch of blue sky can be enjoyed at least temporarily. Some other issue will emerge in due course. The trick is to enjoy, even exploit that blue sky on arrival and squeeze the most err... sky out of it. One way to do this to employ cheerful reflection, positive memories, telling yourself happy stories that may not be wholly factual but are at least happy. You could write these down in the hope of forming up a book or a decent article even, blue sky permitting. I have done this from time to time but tend to use a steam based font for the recording and so they end up as bathroom condensation dripping on the mirror. Typing for real is actually a bit of a chore and can dilute the mood and experience, keep it real and abstract if that's not too complicated. 

Once in a blue moon/sky the thoughts will morph into a breezy wee song, usually with a puerile repeated lyric straight from the playground. This attempts to fly while precariously tethered to some twelve bar blues progression. It's important that the words fall far from the usual blues patterns and idioms and remain oblique and stupidly repetitive.  Added Scottish slang words may help dilute the cultural misappropriation, the more obscure the better. The shelf life for this piece of genius is short but, like some gorgeous butterfly it only really exists to brighten up the day and by definition make the blue sky bluer and brighter. Remnants can be found on abandoned post-its in the bin. Pick them up and look at them a day later and they make no sense, lunatic ramblings and phrases, things that Lennon's beloved auntie would have chucked out straight away. They've been robbed of their  living context so perhaps the bin is best.

A cake, a coffee and a thousand yard stare. A thousand yards isn't even a mile. Looking out the window or across the garden I can see many miles, not just a fraction. What's special about a thousand yards? Maybe if you're looking down the sight of a rifle, that's a proper threat. No the cake, coffee and stare (distant not really relevant) also assists the blue sky therapy. Often partaken in a car, parked up and enjoyed via the glass in the windscreen and not facing directly into the sun. This just causes stress, blinking and isn't relaxing. Watching the world(s) go by from a comfy, stationary cockpit. I like that. Cafes are OK with company, on your own your weird unless you brandish a laptop and have the bearing of an author or an academic. I'm more of a paramedic, first aid for the soul and I can't easily read or write in a pub of coffee shop. I also slurp the coffee too quickly so my time at the table is short and focused on the hot drink.

Walking briskly is good for mental health, jogging or cycling a probably even better. Walking briskly to try to catch a bus that only runs at half hour intervals is not so great for mental health. Bus don't really run to timetables now, customer satisfaction is the thing, not timing. A bus driver told me this the other day, suddenly management have given him an excuse to drive the bus as he chooses. In their wisdom they have separated punctuality from customer "satisfaction", it's a killer move. Of course the railways and airlines have been getting away with this for years, we the public are easy meat and that brisk walk between randomly arriving buses will clear out any bad thoughts or negative experiences. Also if you'd a free bus pass any complaint is feeble, like blank ammunition, you can't score a hit, you didn't pay for it (and don't even mention the taxes you've faithfully paid for the last 45 years).

A colourful stir fry. Meat, fish, prawns, vegetables, oiling, chopping, pouring sauce, sizzling noises, stirring, adjusting the heat, dishing up. Red wine. Red is the new blue. Blue is the new sky, the sky is of course about 92% blue, most days, give or take.

For some there is an alternative way, another kind of space to occupy, one that's not binary, dull or sunny. Due to alternate choices, circumstance and the accidents of genetics they live in the informed and aware world. Here there is a full spectrum, here there is education and sophistication. Ideas and feelings are as fine wines. They have their own language, precise words and expressions that I struggle to translate. I see the speech balloons emerge from their mouths but I falter as I try to read them and their nuances and depths of meaning either sink to the bottom or fly far over my head. Too many letters in their alphabets, too many notes in their music, too many colours in their palette. They hold to firm views and high opinions, I hold to random objects flying by.

...random objects flying by, pierce the cloud that hides the sky.

A Message

Respectful Message: Hopefully clearly visible at a bus stop somewhere near to you. All that needs to happen is for you to look up from your phone or even (for older people) your newspaper and then just consider what is being said here. Thank you.

Days away

Goat: Enjoys food and head butting.

Lunch time colouring in activity, fairly successful and not any of my own work.

The view from the White Cafe.

Alternative view

Wispy blue skies, telephone wires, rooftops, chimneys and the Forth Railway Bridge.

VU

Velvet Underground: Contrived and ill equipped for playing music, hyped by Warhol and exotically dirty etc. All maybe true but they certainly sounded as if they'd just arrived from another planet in a junkyard flying saucer that had crash landed in a New York dive. Some members are dead, some are alive (I think). I've lost track of the living in today's world of zombie and hologram music.

Most of the time they sounded pretty terrible, I say that on reflection and from a safe distance, perhaps I thought it at the time but didn't dare admit it. I doubt that I could sit down and listen to the 17 minutes of "Sister Ray" easily now, the tones produced tend to be rather harsh. Maybe a few of the quieter songs would work, those sombre, fragile, dark blue songs, smothered by Nico's growl, that escaped the feedback and dysfunction. Of course the harshness and the actual weird noises they generated made them essential listening for any angry teenager 50 years ago. It was dressed up angry art, the best kind, punk before punk. They were never going to appear as a surprise guest on BBC's Billy Cotton Band Show any Saturday evening.

Definitely music to piss off your parents and that was really what counted, it doesn't age well either but it was all good (clean?) fun at the time, back when there was proper danger and pretend revolution. These pictures are as distorted as their sound.

Swans swimming

I saw seven swans swimming today but only photographed three. I whistled the well known carol segment briefly and then returned to my regular duties and the swans returned to there own. I was busy tracking a bus on my phone, that's  something you can do now. Taxis and delivery drivers are the same; sending out unconscious signals of their timings and whereabouts so that they can be more "productive". It pleases their masters, they like the bleeping noise. Not all location robotics progress is good or humanitarian in it's use, unless of course I'm waiting for a package to be delivered. Tracking swans is more difficult. 

£5.57

Another small but at the time optimistic investment goes pear shaped. The fallen coins have spoken. Gambling is a social sickness and you'll never win big or even recoup your original stake. Just go out and buy a decent piece of cheese for yourself instead, or reinvest in the necessary ingredients for a pot of homemade soup.

Mrs Coulter, evil but interesting

Evil is of course relative and controversial, just like truth and beauty and the best flavour of Pot Noodle. Evil probably would smack a monkey in most interpretations, that and meddle with and distort the lives of others for questionable ends. Evil is as evil does. So I'm rooting for Mrs Coulter of course, but I'm aware of the fate that lies before her so my interest may eventually wane.

So the BBC met HBO and decided to do a version of His Dark Materials. I presume HBO said "Let's make it real!" and the BBC said "Great, we'll do a good job on it, have you seen how we made Dr Who and how sleek and professional our production values are?" HBO said "Hmm, well, we'd better make the cast strong so they can at least carry the can..." BBC said, "Yeah, whatever, we'll put some of our best people on it and a few (cheaper to hire) passengers, just trust us and our wacky judgement. It all needs to stand up to scrutiny. We'll also bombard the public with stupidly long spoiler type trailers." HBO said "It's your neck and your network." BBC said "We've experience in this, the UK public are easily led and they'll believe just about anything we put out, trust us (except for viewers in Scotland who have their own programs as well as a number of delusional problems about their actual self worth)." HBO ..."OK we'll leave it there then."

Delete this at your peril

The Entombment (1957) by Paul Delvaux.

I was imagining deleting all this blog, easy meat, with the swift click of a trembling mouse finger. Done. It could be gone. There is that nuclear option. Down the pan goes 15 or 16 years worth of rambles, rants, changes in direction, photos, warped opinions, repetition and general nonsense. Blogging, a way to fill and mark time with loose thoughts. Some strange sense of actual achievement, making a mark, trying not to drown in a cyber sea, having your say when nobody really listens anyway, streams of consciousness, fun maybe. Words and blurb.

So I momentarily entertained the thought. Delete this pile of err.. data and then walk away. Do something more useful, more purposeful, less hit and miss ... so many misses. Burning all your diaries and going to a place where you can be just vacant. I did that once, in an actual bonfire and endured the long numbness that followed, it was me but no me.

Perhaps a break is required, some time away. It's strange how life has to be marked, events, records, statues and time lines. How we make sense of a life, all linear and rear facing. The future is just a black hole with bright puffs of hope pinging off and on,  out there in the distance, blinking, beyond reach and any proper understanding. It's all been said before and by better humans than me and they seldom left key words out of their well constructed sentences.