Tough as

I'm not really sure what I'm referring to here. Not some kind of cooked meat, boiled cabbage or any serious aspect of life and toughness (yeah, life can be tough but...). I guess I saw my old boots loafing where I'd abandoned them and thought; just for a split second, maybe more, there were two actual thoughts I think. Though No.1. Those boots have seen some action along the way and then Thought No.2. They are sitting there like they don't really care, don't give a flying etc. etc. There was also a third more roguish thought that thought " I'll take a photo of my boots as that's something I never actually do". So that's my boots and my thoughts and today is Saturday the 7th of December.

Cold enough for soup

Cold enough for soup in an Alton Towers souvenir mug (and other expressions of complete nonsense):

See also: Mild enough for pickled herring.

Re-imagine the world

Probably not important but still nice to see old album covers re-imagined in a Blue-Note style. More things need this treatment.

Great Lives No. 22

Before he was famous he wasn't an artist at all. You can only be famous as an artist once you are famous. A vicious or maybe viscose circle. His father was also an artist but his work belonged in a different genre and he was tragically killed in a mysterious encounter with a railway train by which time he was a proud grandparent. A swift and sad end for a commercial artist but he had also made a small fortune from illustrations and book sales, so the family recovered. 

So junior continued his career in the beam of a comfortable spotlight. There was a kind of technical ecstasy and bewilderment when the soon to be fully famous artist revealed that he used eggs for his paintings, eggs  to make up the paint. This goes back to some other century but the eggs remained fresh if controversial. The yolk must be separated from the white before the pigment is added, a tricky start to the working day. He had the grace and habit of living in the countryside and leading what was described in a documentary as an idyllic life. It was an ongoing and privileged upbringing with food and sunshine and funny tricks and japes. Oh how they laughed. This did not go unnoticed. 

Once the eggs were ready to be used in anger it became more about bothering local farmers, hiding in barns and peeking through the weathered timbers of rustic doors. Often the wind would arrive from Ireland, far across the sea and disturb the curtains at a critical moment. All this went on for a while, there were marriages and families and artistic subjects were befriended in a kind of creepy way but they all went along with it because of a kind of strange fear. Some were unwell, unkempt or wrinkled but made good subject matter as this was still the dark ages before television. It was a business really and those boats and parties wouldn't pay for themselves and the farmers didn't mind as they were steady types, quaint and quiet and they accepted eccentric behaviour because it was common in most parts of the then USA. So lives and situations were captured in about twenty times the time it would have taken if a camera had simply been used but this is the sort of creative tactic that the critics love, that and the laborious repeated egg use and not taking easy shortcuts.

Then one day a lady called Helga arrived and nobody knew about her, not even the famous wife of the famous artist. She was exotic and sombre.  Over a period of time she was painted by him 267 times and in secret, it was all happening but in the margins in an attic room. The paintings were hidden in the loft but were eventually released like caged birds and everybody was shocked but they still paid $6m dollars for a good look and then resold them to people in Japan in a cynical sales move. Newspapers even caught on and so did the famous critics. Helga was made famous by egg paint just as Kodak was going out of business. If I had described this sequence of events more accurately it might be seen as quite ironic but that hardly matters now. Through all the rough and tumble they remained friends an even his wife forgave him after she saw the colour of the money coming in. About now they bought an island.

After a while he befriended some townspeople and painted them while they were asleep or eating dinner or leaning out of windows. He would sneak in at all hours and sneak out at all other hours and often cause a disturbance that everybody said was humorous. Because he was a famous artist the police or the social workers were never called and the tittle tattle was welcomed by the locals. It made the town seem interesting. Sometimes he'd work and lose track of time because despite being strong in the interpretation of light and colours he failed to notice that daylight was fading or that his subjects were bored and tired. This is dangerous and obsessive behaviour in anybody's book in my opinion, but was never called out as it should have been.

It seems that being good at painting allows you to be an acceptable social deviant and the local weirdo and that people will make allowances because you have a talent. People are often kind and surprising in that way even if somebody isn't all that likeable or their manner is disturbing. We all just put up with stuff now and again to over indulge spikes of genius. Anyway there are lot of his paintings left and most of them hang in fine museums and purpose built whiter than white galleries. Some are prints now, displayed in fine homes or on coasters and have become geeky talking points in the background of scenes in Simpson's episodes. That is a true measure of fame and acceptance and it's all fine because society has been enriched (according to academics) and we now see ourselves as we really are.

When he died at a ripe old age many people were understandably sad so they buried him by the famouus farm. Once the cold stone was carved with as few words as possible life just carried on and the paintings remained popular and most folks agreed that it had all be worthwhile if at times a little unconventional and unsettling. This is one of the primary jobs of artists; to unsettle people as you record the dullness of their grey and futile lives, their deterioration into old age and juxtapose all that with the corresponding beauty of their natural surroundings. Time has at last passed and a retrospective view is possible and of course you can't please all of the people all of the time and you can't easily get a dairy cow to stand still for a portrait but you can always try. Dead black crows hanging in a feather black barn are easier meat.

Time capsule

To all archaeologists of the future: Please note that this wonderful tiled/ceramic Romanesque rendition of a friendly and playful dolphin may be found in the wreckage of our house if you carefully dig up the bathroom floor following whatever cataclysmic disaster finally wipes most of us from the face of the earth. The current leadership team in charge of the planet seem determined to achieve this sooner or later (sooner most likely) either by war, climate crisis or general stupidity and I'd hate for this treasure to be lost forever. As yet unborn and unsullied generations of scholars and mosaic fetishists will thank you and maybe even thank me. And as for the original artist? Hmm, perhaps it's best left as an anonymous piece I think. Here's another version of the mighty and (by the time it's found) long extinct example of the once proud sea mammal, seen below in fashionable monochrome.

Objectified

Some objects are hidden in this image because I distorted it. It was a photograph once. No human, animal or plant was knowingly hurt in the process. In some ways it's a space odyssey but in others it's not even close. There once was a working title but I chose to forget about it.

Download bin

I found this image in the lower basement storage area of my download folder. It remains nameless. It's into this folder I download things. Virtual spider webs and dust abound. Often I forget about these items, you see the download folder is like some weird spaceport where things just land. Unexpectedly and without warning with strange names and serial numbers. Anonymously forgettable. Possibly without the correct clearance or paperwork, refugees from the wider web, arty websites, cheap photo distortion software, twitter and the like. It's never a safe place or space and there have been some horrors. Arty projects that are not even projects, just digital scribbles and doodles. I pretend to myself that I take care and spend valuable time but I'm always looking out for a shortcut. Perhaps this is one example of absent minded twaddle unearthed like some ancient artifact and valued ... reluctantly. I'm no judge of taste, decency and the correct use of the keyboard shortcuts.

Three photos on the 1st.

Cafe: There were serious problems, namely that an alien spacecraft attacked our establishment. At first we thought that they were simply after a couple of tasty Eggs Benedict breakfasts but things deteriorated rapidly. We think the release of the spores may have caused the most damage to the facilities rendering the full use of our toilets difficult or at least harmful to life. In a nutshell we have been compromised and have been forced to remove all Vegan options from the specials menu. Send help.

As a young man I took a morbid and unhealthy interest in oil painting. I didn't bother with canvas or sketches. I just covered everything I came upon with lashings of oil paint, trees, skies, grass etc. It was costly and messy but ultimately very fulfilling, like a robustly made cheeseburger. Sadly only a few examples of my work (from that halcyon period) have survived. They were banned by both the John Major and Tony Blair governments and my career faltered. Only this piece remains.

Some people watch the river flow by. It has therapeutic, poetic quality, moving slowly drawing down the colours, risky things to meddle with. Some say that the ship was lost with all hands, some say fingers and toes, some others dabble in substance abuse.

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.