Time will crawl

Photo by Bob Mazzer.

Nobody owns time, it's just time. We exist within it. You can't stop it. It's interesting to talk about it, to speculate about it's nature and how, one day we might somehow move through it, as if it was a swimming pool or a field of wheat. All good conversation fodder after a few drinks. We like to think of how people from the future might visit us and tip us off about danger. As if we'd listen to advice from an "expert". 

Nobody owns the weather either, they just pretend that they know a bit about it. The seasons are a rough guide but inconsistent, the weather man or lady offers a hint but it's vague. Satellites see storms but from afar. Easiest is just to look out of the window (in this country look West), you'll see it coming, clearer than a TV screen. If you can't see it coming that means it's foggy or the rain is already here or clouds are a bit lower than usual. Thank you for listening to my TED talk.

Cat upheaval

Moving house: The last major family piece of our abstract and living jigsaw has now moved back in. The cats of course, no longer orphaned and free from temporary care. I did a quick oil and acrylic sketch of them shortly after they arrived to mark the moment. I captured them getting orientated and comfortable within their new surroundings and of course enjoying the warmth of the main bedroom radiator.

Fixin' Banksy

When I think about art my mind goes down a rabbit hole. Usually it looks like Bugs Bunny's home, deep and wide, with carrots stacked in cupboards. I've Luddite DNA with a pinch of Calvinism added for good measure, some things can't be escaped from. People used to say things like "I don't know much but I know what I like" in order to divert from their ordinary ignorance and lack of really caring. It's probably a little more complex than that, firstly what are you allowed to like? What do you allow yourself to like? Do you understand what you like? Does any of it really matter? These are awkward questions and I can't be bothered answering them, truth is most art is pretty boring; framed wallpaper, splattered ideas, ragged collages and the lazy copying of far away genius. A bit like somebody describing last night's dream but using pastels, oil paint or a spray can to do it. "Hell is other people expressing themselves and then talking about it Ad Nauseam." As a wise man once mused to himself but thought better of sharing (so he buried it in some non-ironic blog post). 

I find I like things in spasms, I burst into a fit of understanding and for a brief moment I get it. Then I think about a cheese and pickle sandwich or kittens and so the tableau moves on, art's a distant memory when you have to hoover the rug and fix dinner or just look out of the window. These honeymoon encounters are OK, just not intellectually worthy enough, I'm still not knowing what I like but I know what I wouldn't buy, fleeting moments of clarity are not so rewarding. There are just too many images, my retina are run ragged. The conversation is too long, too historical and weighted, too worn out, I can't concentrate. Perhaps a cull is required, an embargo, burn down the art schools (?). But in a throw away culture all culture will eventually be thrown away, ashes to ashes. Rome will be raised to the ground and we wont know what we've lost but we won't miss it either. Maybe I'm the one who's missing something, cheap and nasty DNA kicks in. Nothing lasts but everything is going to be sustainable.

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.