Mattress in the rain

Not the actual mattresses, this one's in London, photo by CS.

Actually two mattresses, in the rain, out in the cold, dumped. Rolled up for disposal, tensioned and spring loaded with string and bungee cord, like some unexploded pent up thing. Ready to go off at any second and prang the dumb handler. Moving a cold dead mattress in the cold dead rain must be a bit like moving a cold dead body in the rain, I'm imagining this, I've no actual experience. On your own you just have to drag the mattress across wet cobbles, like some Robert Louis Stevenson villain bringing out the dead. I feel guilt seeping into the backside of my head and a nagging pain the small of my back. They are now by the gutter, next to a shiny blue wheelie bin, in the dark, their fate is sealed. No more platforms for sweet dreams or drunken slumbers, it's over.

Everything bound for the dump or landfill must offer up a little resistance, suddenly becoming heavier, harder to grip, more awkward, a universal law I guess as I reflect on the final lap. Like trying to strap a tired toddler into a buggy, there's bound to be a struggle however one sided. They rest in peace and I leave, slightly anxious that the email from the local authority promising a timely uplift from 6am tomorrow might somehow be not acted upon. The roads are flooded, a tree is down and my £15 fee doesn't quite seem like enough compensation for the efforts of the bin-men team. Will they, like the Pony Express get through and if they do will they actually uplift two double mattresses folded and in high tension, ready to pop at the smallest disturbance? What if some one loses an eye during the loading or a passer by trips over them in the dark?

Next day: They are gone. It's as if they never were. Now they swim with the fishes, except they're in landfill and being pummeled by a big yellow digger.

P.S. We tried to give them away to charity but charity said no thanks.

Brief period of exploration

People say that the effect of sunlight fallen upon a spot can be magical, it can lighten the mind, lift a load or troublesome burden, ease pain. It might even get you out of doors for a bit. Sunlight may be explainable via physics and the like but it is and should remain magical. If the sun were a god, as people once believed, it deserved to be worshiped. In any event it certainly deserves to be worshiped more than the prophets and chancers mentioned in the great and holy books, scrolls or scriptures. Marvelous works of fiction and manipulation they may be, translated by the elite and twisted on a regular basis so as to double human misunderstanding and misery and perpetuate a series of remarkable lies. 

So it's the sun every time for me, I tip my badly drawn hat to it and whilst I wont be offering any human sacrifices to Mr Sun or any other kind of servile offering, (once a god in the universe always a god in the universe), I do like to see it every day, even in gloomy Scotland and I'm pleased that as far as I know any thoughts and plans the sun may have are not written in any book.

Tryptich has Greek roots

The bridge is out

No ice on this bridge.

"The bridge is out!" they cry, great chunks of ice falling from the sky on tiny vehicles. Baffled engineers check their thermal imagery devices in their thermal underwear. It's Baltic out there. Commonly in Scotland every roadworthy detour or diversion involves going in the wrong direction for about 40 miles, I've become accustomed to that now, long lines of traffic, the blankest of stares and no lane discipline. The mornings just fly in as the traffic cones crawl by. The more things that happen the less I believe. So the bridge problems must be somebody's fault, that's how we do things in Scotland, find a scapegoat and slit it's throat and gloat. The BBC and the Glasgow Herald smell the blood, the Lib Dems Tweet their best watery pish. Hollyrood you're rumbled. We've wasted even more money it seems. We could'nae run a raffle but we can burn down Art Schools. Hang your heads, fall guys. Motorists are quick to point the finger in a pointless fashion.

Here in Scotland the weather is our master. Unpredictable weather in winter, sleet to snow to ice shall be our shame and downfall. We didn't see it coming, like that first ice bomb. Now every tall building or high structure is a suspect in the great ice bomb plot. The silent threat from above, the urban avalanche, the motorway icebergs, stealthy like flying U-Boats. Look up before you leap out. It's slippy oot there and they'll smash your windscreen. Whether you believe it or not it is happening, mostly in the common head-space to be honest. Me? I blame Westminster naturally. 

Moonlight

February sky. The moon, our one and only, rises or sets or moves across the sky quite close to the Forth Railway Bridge. A well known and photographed engineering icon that also doubles as a means by which trains can cross a body of (quite rough today) local water.

Ditto

Here come the spiders...

Zombie Spiders

If you dislike zombies and/or spiders then you made a mistake clicking onto this piece of dead bait. We found these in the bottom of a cupboard when moving house. Zombie Spiders from Mars (to give them their full title), trapped in a vase and time and ...err ... nicely zombiefied (not a proper word). Please note that the vase has now been recycled and the spiders have returned to Mars.

Black and white time piece

Yesterday's post should have been published (?) the day before yesterday but I was busy yesterday and I've been busy today. Sorry for the mix-down. Fortunately time has actually stopped still, this stylish cafe clock is proof, as a result I can catch up a little. I watched it while I ate lunch today and it didn't move at all and it's clearly not even indicating lunch time which was the actual time. I owe this clock a big favour and it owes me some time. I doubt if we'll ever settle this.

An exact replic of the above mentioned clock but with added wah-wah pedal and fuzz tone.

Emergency Post

Too busy with other things so I'm using my default settings and lack of imagination to post some piece of emergency shit so as to fulfill my erroneous, nonexistent and equally fictitious performance indicator requirements that only moderately satisfy me, never mind you. 

Wolf City

From an original by the very gifted Jakob Rozalski.

Tonight we will feast like peasants, cold amongst the snow, bare trees, moonlight breaking, faces set against the winter winds, seeking the warmth of our friendships and loyal fortitude. Stoic in the face of the seasonal adversity. We are the pack. We are werewolves (and reasonable to boot). Most likely it'll be a stir fry; chicken, vegetables etc. some rice, there's also a least one bottle of wine I'm led to believe. Apple pie and cream. We may be werewolves, living on the margins but we are far from predictable in our tastes and behaviours. Our desires however are a different thing. Happy Palindrome Day 02/02/2020.

Keep your weird stuff to yourself

Art is such a useless and yet provocative word, everybody thinks they either know it or own it. When they see it they recognize it but if they can't see it they don't recognize it. Art, like history is really just one thing after another and somewhere along the way values have been added. This is neither right nor wrong, it's simply how it's perceived and once there's some general agreement a jolly lucrative bandwagon can be jumped on. So please (unless you've made your name) just keep your weird stuff to yourself. Thank you.

Telly

Turns out that the machine has a heart after all.

God! (arguably not his/her fault). Friday night telly, live fuckin' Brexit? As if something is actually going to happen. At least Stewart Copeland is on BBC4 or just stream the most soporific piece you can find.

Fiery

The new wood burning stove is now fully commissioned and battle ready. Fiery and hot when cranked up and relatively few nasty emissions released. 

Points

I point to whatever my chosen rant of the day is, the one I might be thinking of today or perhaps something else altogether.

Black cats sitting in dark pockets of shadow, caught only by my peripheral vision which I then learn is actually being manipulated by my imagination and that there's nothing there. Nothing from this dimension anyway. I fool myself but I'm not fooling myself. I'm a puppet moved across a chess board by my senses and their misinterpretation of my interpretations. I react in automatic mode. I suppose you could say it makes life more of an adventure, more unsettling and edgy, but this must be a common experience and is therefore of no significance and I just needed to point that out. 

Here is the sun

Brighter news: Some clever clogs has taken the most detailed photo of the sun ever, either that or a close up of a Crunchie. A special telescope in Hawaii did the job. If it is the sun (it is) each cell is about the size of Texas according to reports. I didn't write the next bit, obviously...

“The bright features [in the image] … are the foothills of magnetic fields that extend all the way up into the corona and beyond,” said Rimmele. “With the additional instruments that will come online in the next six months, we will be able to measure the magnetic fields from the surface all the way up to 1.5 solar radii.”

The observations could help resolve longstanding mysteries of the sun, including the counter intuitive feature that the corona – the sun’s atmosphere – is heated to millions of degrees when its surface is only 6,000C. Understanding the physics of solar flares and coronal mass ejections could also significantly improve the ability to predict space weather, which can render GPS systems unreliable, take down power grids and knock out communication channels.

Goodnight Europe

Goodnight your Pope, no I mean Goodnight Europe, I'd really like to think that at some future point common sense might prevail in this country and we'll be properly back in the EU again. Having said whilst we're off licking our own UK bottoms over the next few years the EU may well morph into something altogether different. I wonder how the BBC and the scummy, sneering  press will cover it's progress?

Not quite

Thanks to Bands FC for this: A photograph, taken in a Houston nightclub, showing Post Malone choking Justin Bieber, has all the qualities of a masterpiece by Caravaggio.
The Asphyxiation of Saint Justin.

I'd add that it may follow some of the Baroque compositional requirements (no mean feat in live action and real time) but my rendering is a complete failure compared to the sublime workmanship of Caravaggio.

Blinds and indoor clouds

Thoughts on testing out a new and virgin log burner, before the actual event: Clouds of WD-40 passing by. Rocket fuel and a new level of cleanliness in a confined space. Just don't breathe too deeply. It's not very good for you so protective clothing is recommended. You may have visions, experience light headedness, you may even dream dreams. It will be a Biblical style of event in the manner of the prophet Ezekiel. You will be under the influence for at least four hours but will emerge a saner, quieter man and life will make sense in ways you did not consider previously. 

Reality is a very fragile thing. If it exists at all. I like to imagine that it does and that we somehow share that as a common bond or language but you can never tell.

Subvert the past

"I couldn't help but notice that all my time travelling was having a detrimental effect on my complexion."

I'm working on my PhD in Time Travel and the resultant issues, so far it's not going very well: Before I actually build my time machine I've a few issues that I'm struggling to iron out. I've noticed that out of the blue I'm a time travel skeptic. It's not going to work. No matter what direction in time you happen to travel in, it's not going to agree with your physiology. Any journey that takes you forwards or backwards beyond your actual age limits isn't going to go well. You can't travel in time and not age. Go forwards 100 years and you're a bag of dust and maggots. Go back 100 years and you're a microscopic stain. It's simply not going to work. You age traveling on a bus, a boat and space ship, it doesn't matter. In your body there is a clock that's running down, not up, nor can it remain at a steady state, suspended  out of time, so standing still and staying the same as time passes over and around you isn't survivable. Forget it. Oh, and the earth is flat (ish) in places.

Mystic Pizza

Exhibit A.

The art world swoons at your latest creation, part graphic, part recipe, part abusive message. The ideal mixed media concoction. The card describing the piece has gone missing as has the price tag. Gaze into it whilst enjoying a glass of fine wine, ruby red, in a crystal glass fresh from a Waitrose carton.Your shoes may be pinching your toes a little, you've an itchy nose and stale breath, typical. In the room there are conversations but you are not part of any of them. That doesn't bother you. You arrived without a coat. People pass by, they have important things to discuss and then, once done they can freely enjoy all the voluminous goodbyes that follow as they leave for their well proportioned, minimalist homes and sanctuaries. Once there they take part in regular ceremonies most people would consider odd. 

You enjoyed the moment, for that was all it was and all it will ever be, another fleeting moment. Sixty (60) interminable seconds followed by countless more, all passing like sleek atoms spinning across your sightless gaze. A white rainbow. 

The staff attending are getting £8.50 an hour and it's 2020, they work hard to maintain a smile, they are well trained. They consider the experience to be first and foremost educational, some type of informal social research. They plan and plot graphs that might best describe it because they can't explain it using mere words. Don't ask them what they think of you (as if you would). One day they will rule over you.