Bricks and Coffee

In my spare time (which I seem to have plenty of) I collect psychedelic bricks. In less troubled times I'd be meeting up with fellow enthusiasts on Sunday mornings and comparing notes, brick styles, scoffing coffees and the like, it's not happening at the moment though.

Slow day, mainly working on my brick collection, out there in the weather, concentrating on getting them together in one distinct area. Previously they were scattered around the garden in no clear order. Some idiot did that in the past, that's when most things happen. Now now I've got them in piles, six per level and in an interlocking pattern. It's been a satisfying if tiring time for me. Those who know about these things know that some measure of interlocking is important when dealing in bricks, just look at any house or reasonably well constructed Lego example. 

Yes, there's a lot to bricks and a lot to admire and say about them, hence the vital nature of the regular Bricks & Coffee circuit where like minded brick aficionados can exchange tips and techniques. I wonder if, when things start to improve, that all aficionados should regularly meet up at Nandos? Maybe they don't have to be brick experts, just a certain type of person. That's for another time though. I'll certainly not be  taking part in their blethers until the hysteria that will arrive with the new age of unfettered virus free normality dies back to a civilized whimper.

A regular brick-fest.

Every motorway a garden

An old inscription in the crypt of the monastery of Santa Lucia de Ponderosa in Galatia reads as follows (translated and adapted):

"The stones shall be upturned, rolled flat upon their faces, great bridges will crack and their bullwarks breakdown, the houses of the rich and mighty shall tremble and the greedy and good will suffer as plagues and ruin overrun the villages. The woodlands shall swell up in green and quash the dragon's fire, the smoke will rise to tell the tale. 

The iron people will see their forges and waterways crumble and their mineral mines shall collapse. The weeds grow wiry and strong across their ruins. Bread will buy gold, water will buy oils, spells will fail to test the conundrum. Wild flowers shall return to their paved over spaces and there will be a terrible silence as nature regains control and the earth mother's  judgement passes across the land. 

All this, after the great wars and the shortening of distances, after the destruction of the dark and quickness of tales passed. Ever the hungry seek the miracle, ever the miracle is between their ears". 

Brother Salonica, 1496.

Bike Ride

Hurst Point under a bridge.

Hurst Point headed for another.

Like young and light headed characters from some Enid Blyton tale we rode our bikes across the Forth Bridge today. Silver streaks in the morning mist, sun glinting on our polished helmets and sleek machines. There and back again, nice and early before the crowds and the social distancing police were about. What fun. Under the bridge there was a ship sailing east towards the rising sun, the Hurst Point, passing by on a milky sea. In a previous life I was aboard this ship numerous times, in all weathers getting up to ... actual business. Those days are gone and I don't really miss them but it was nice to see this old lady (?) sailing by and looking to be in decent health.

Yesterday's Breakfast

French toast and tomato with a light drizzle of brown sauce.

Already more than 24 hours old, a fading memory (sigh); another day passed leaving only the slightest hint of a trace of a whisper of a tiny part of a sliver of a piece of a snippet of a moment of a fraction of a shade of a subtle little bit of yesterday's breakfast. Coffee and orange juice (with bits) not included.

Comment is free on Blogger:

Another photo I didn't take

A drug induced vision of a small corner of Edinburgh that isn't quite a corner and isn't quite Edinburgh. I've had a drink in the pub at least once in my life time, perhaps. In the old days tourists used to hang out here, now it's just foggy with a zombie mist. Tomorrow it'll be boarded up.

I confess to not being the person who took this photo. There, in a few words I have destroyed any credibility this blog post might have had but I am telling the sad truth. I pinched it from somewhere on the web. I was trying to play it safe, I could have jumped onto a No 43 bus and rode, in relative isolation into the great granite and sandstone heart of Edinburgh simply by using the free bus pass granted to me by the Scottish Government (all because I've managed to avoid accidental death and missed out on any fatal over indulgence in numerous areas of life for over 60 earth years) and then sauntered up to Grey Friars. 

That was not for me though, I chose another path, another paragraph even. So I stayed home and avoided the risk of the heaving herds of mountain goats and confused residents padding around the streets (as I imagine), all at a loss with what to do with their time now farmer's markets, slave markets and insider trading have ceased. Bereft of the hope of future festivals and fascist tattoos the city is but the hollowed out shell of some kind of hollowed out shell for the time being. The magic money tree has been chopped down, or at least pruned back until Christmas (which may be postponed until 2021).

As for the surgical mask on poor, historically maligned Bobby, it's just a social comment,  a "thing" these days, a common and amusing addition to statues all across the world as we mourn the loss of something we don't quite understand. So the statues are united at least, apart from in Forfar because it turns out Bon Scott has chosen, as a proper rock-god statue, to remain fashionably anonymous and aloof, plus they've no actual masks left. 

Neon Beard

A portrait of the artist as a shriveled up prune of a person but with a useful atomic beard that lights up at night to enable easy bedtime reading whilst warding off burglars and the like.

Over the winter I aged terribly, I never was much good at aging but now it's all come home to roost, like a rooster. A drooping rooster with an atomic booster, what a strap line. I have a fearsome beard now. Everywhere I go I release spontaneous electric forces that flash and buzz all around me. People run from my visibly sparky mutant state, quite understandably. Electronic devices short out in my presence and in my jacket pockets, car electrical systems die and occasionally planes fall out of the sky. I'm not too happy about that part, all rather awkward and disastrous. I just hope the authorities don't track me down. Luckily for me at this time they're busy quelling civil unrest such as single person picnics, flagrant dog exercising, over zealous walking and cheeky cyclists operating in pairs and swiveling in a precarious fashion near to innocent social workers taking their lunch break on the Yorkshire Dales. 

The truth is that over winter I transmogrified into a wizard with only one small z. I wanted to be a two z wizzard but the spell checker (which checks all your magic spells not your spelling, the Illuminati have lied to you about it's actual use all along) prevented this from happening. In due course I will wreak a terrible revenge on humanity but that's another story and I'll wait until things get back to normal so there's a convenient gap in the media to cover it all very sensibly and in a balanced BBC kind of fashion. 

By that time newspapers as we knew them will have died, replaced with scary graphic novels and advertisment heavy click-bait apps that tell you nothing other than what's going cheap at Wish.com. As a result of that we'll all be a lot cheerier but uninformed as we're freed from the deluge of corporate junk and propaganda they generate and spout. In this unfamiliar new chrome and tumbleweed landscape my fictional story can finally be told. Happy Days!

Let's talk about Oreos

"Distraction, distraction, distraction". As Tony Blair once didn't quite say, as far I know. Here's a pretty good snippet from an article about why the Labour Party are in their current state of disrepair and why we now have a woefully inadequate Tory Government.

Having got that out of the way it's time for further distraction and the ongoing use of a smaller font size. Never a popular choice with the older readers but why should I care when I'm already one of them and in a permanent state of bemusement anyway? I'm peering into the dark most days.

So on to the main part of today's business; showing some love and appreciation for the twin "pillow pack" version of the chocolate covered Oreo. Arguably the greatest chocolate biscuit of our day, not too big, not too clumsy but just right as Goldilocks might have said. They arrived from out of the blue a couple of years ago, often on special offer in supermarkets and they have, in my opinion moved the humble (and let's face it over rated) naked trailer trash Oreo and the Oreo brand, which is pretty over exposed with a range of crossover products, decidedly up market. 

Actual naked Oreos are OK but not a patch on their funky chocolate cousins. They are available in both white and regular coverings. Yum. These are the current kings of the biscuit piles and aisles with no contemporary competition. So forget your ancient Kit-Kats (even chunky), shrinking Clubs and thin Breakaways, these are the best and the ones to buy or shoplift depending on your own anarchist tendencies. They are a very special snack and will, with care, stand a little dunking if you like that sort of thing (I don't). Rumour also has it that a regular dose of Choc Oreos can help reduce Covid 19 symptoms as well as kill the actual virus*, all provided that you belong to the elite blood group that is Type O+. 

*Disclaimer: none of this is actually true but they do make you feel good.

Your own personal respite

Following in the illustrious footsteps of the equally illustrious David Hockney I'm releasing an exclusive set of pieces of my own art to act as a "respite from the news". They are above and below: Firth of Forth Rainbow Distortions 1, 2 and 3. That's it. Enjoy your brief respite.

I am not at the moment holed up in a farmhouse in Normandy with only my assistants and dogs for company, in fact there are few similarities between us. I'm a simple retiree with latent charlatan tendencies and he's a respected artist, part of that stellar establishment firmament mere mortals can only gaze at from a safe distance or partake of via BBC4 or iPlayer (always available). Of course we are both elderly (?) gents who still possess at sparkle in our eyes and a deft touch when it comes to manipulating computer graphics and related playthings occasionally. We've little else in common really. He probably enjoys fine wines on a regular basis, I enjoy bottom shelf wine on a regular basis but it's all OK. I've been to Normandy, nothing against it, it's fine as is the rest of France but I could take it or leave it right now.

So what made me happy today and gave me personal respite?  (Which was in fact yesterday):

Ali and I having another early morning walk around the town.
Cat did a poo in the garden after about 6 weeks of litter tray exploits.
Bought Dettol and toilet roll at the shop.
Enjoyed a cinnamon and apple hot cross bun for elevenses.
The sun shone through from time to time.
Had my hands sanitized in a supermarket queue. It felt like some strange baptism but I enjoyed the temporary feeling of belonging.
Reduced my mental list of odd jobs only see it increase again.
Writing this list and realising there's a lot more I could add.

The Great Escape

Various well chosen bricks form the stylish anti-cat wall. Just enjoy the textures.

Trying to cat-proof a garden isn't easy. I thought I'd cracked it using a combination of old pallets, bricks and pieces of timber. Of course cats always know better than mere humans and my impregnable wall turned out to be less than capable of confusing a cat. I did manage to apprehend the errant cat and hopefully I've blocked any future exits. We'll see. He used to be called Clint but in a true Hollywood and utterly predictable style we're renaming him Steve McQueen.

Introducing Steve McQueen, the artist formerly known as Clint.

It's going to be alright

Yesterday's fractional rainbow, seen over the River Forth, round about tea time.

Legend has it that Noah invented the rainbow after the ark collided with a party of unicorns on spring break near the summit of Mount Everest. The rainbow was a supernatural sign of that always difficult to thrash out covenant agreed between men, angels and mythical beasts that never again would the world be destroyed by factional arguments, Twitter posts and excessive bouts of mindless shopping. And so it was and men and women walked the earth, generally living in peace apart from a number of unspeakable acts being committed by maniacs that we must never speak of and various plagues that came and went. 

All that has led us to the present day where we live our tiny lives (almost) alone and dream at night of social interaction, sitting in cafes and walking the streets without feeling guilty as if you were some sort of sex pest or something. The fleeting pleasures of these lost subconscious moments are all that's left to us. Our ancient past calls to us across the void as in the lyrics of some 60s acid-rock song and we respond like sleeping nymphs waking up in the land of flowing Ambrosia but ultimately finding ourselves eating furry strawberries from a dustbin.

This is progress and will one day be seen as the start of some bizarre dystopian or anti-utopian age that will be short lived but act as the inspiration for memes and comic skits for years to come, or so I hope. Fortunes will be made and lost and swimming pools will overflow with Champagne as we learn hard lessons and then actually overthrow our religious and ideological oppressors.  In other words I'm looking forward to this being over and done with.

Drone footage placement

From drone footage of the actual garden installation after the bulk of the work had been completed.

Lockdown lowdown: Things have gotten so bad I've been painting garden furniture and then standing back to attempt a balanced but still realistic critical appraisal of the work and how in has now placed itself in the forefront of contemporary Scottish Outside Urban Art. This is just my humble opinion of course but it has lifted my mood so I feel justified. I do like to shake up the world of art now and again. My recent "Buckets of imaginary fire" period being a good example.

I was considering giving this piece and the new genre it sits within proper French names so as to up the gravitas but frankly I didn't know how to do that because not only is my French limited so is my artistic vocabulary. I'm pretty stunted as a human being despite being average height. I was crushed early in life when I realised I could not make a proper or respectable living from the one major skill I had honed to perfection: being ambidextrous.

Tomorrow I'm doing another outside  action piece entitled "Tribute to Jackson Pollock at a domestic car washing event". It may involve improvised dance moves as I intend to stretch some physical boundaries with the shampoo bottle. You would be welcome to attend but I fear social distancing might involve actual distancing measures and a compromised experience. Thank you. Donations are welcome via PayPal.

Digital Disclaimer.

Somewhere, sometime, out there along life's rich and golden path I just swerved by the milestone that measures up and registers 4000 blog posts. Of course I wasn't aware of this. All that verbal nonsense and bodged photography has passed by at speed like some forlorn, blinking and incoherent motorway warning sign. I simply wasn't paying attention and neither was anybody else - but that hardly matters. 

Perhaps there was no actual milestone, just some feeble little counter clicking over quietly in a dark corner, far outside of my peripheral vision and grasp. Obviously in awareness of these things: measures and managing, I remain a careless and untrustworthy driver. Passengers and others take note: enter and travel at your own foolish risk, don't expect direction or a sensible commentary. I am clearly headed for the searing judgement of a populist inspired hell (and stopping and feasting via all it's attractions on the way) in some kind of out of control and primitive handcart. At least I'm enjoying the ride*.

*Another regular, less masked than usual Grateful Dead reference. Funny how these feelings come and go.

Please use other box

Every time I read this notice I read "Please use the other box". I can't quite understand why the person who made the sign missed out the THE. And how long before the slowing emerging water stain obliterates the message? That sounds rather profound, maybe even prophetic. 

Other than that it's a kind of "clocks have changed, not all are feeling 100%, conflicted about going out, sunny but chilly, getting fed up with all this, can't really trust much in the news these days" kind of a day. However all things must pass, I remain confident in this.

Excessive Screen Time Sickness

My brave, new syndrome is really just an old chestnut of ongoing and disturbing human behaviour, "square eyes" as your father may have called them when you were secretly oggling Jenny Hanley on ITV's Magpie during children's hour. Now it's morphed into the serial distortion of my home page's Duck Duck Go screen in the customary triple pack of cheap graphics. DDG is a fairly reliable and advertisement free browsing enterprise I'd recommend to one and all unless you're keen to die on the hill that is Google. In the end the fear of Corona Virus may well consume us all but we can still thwart the nasty biological and targeted algorithms as we go down in a plume of blue electrical smoke. Even in the deepening crisis, freedom from unwanted and strangely targeted ads is now our only clear goal. This is of course the obvious result of a little too much screen time and too little actual creative thought whilst safe at home.

100 Steps to Wellness

Here they are. Try to use them everyday, let using them speed up your metabolism, break sweat, lubricate joints and so keep yourself well in these troubled times.

Cats on Acid

Self explanatory really, the clue is in the title. Things cat's get up to when you're not around...and cat's don't give a fuck.

Strudel Challenge

I already know that this isn't going to work out well, or at the very least be "correct". Strudel made with a mash up of ingredients which in effect might disqualify it from being described as strudel by anybody who knows about these things. This is the uncooked "strudel" about to be fired up at gas mark mystery in the often unpredictable oven.

After one beer and half a bottle of wine this is how it emerged from the oven. I was reasonably pleased with the outcome albeit the cooking seemed a tad uneven. For some reason I expected it to swell up like some mutant football and possibly explode. That didn't happen.

Serving Suggestion: Cleaned up and in a dish. Turns out it was OK served hot with cream and custard, the pastry was a bit chewy in places, pears and fruit are a little bland but I'd give it a 6/10. As it 's quite large we only ate about a third before watching an episode of Sex Education lazily on the couch. I just ate a microwaved piece for breakfast this morning. It may be with us for a while in some form or other.

Goggles View

London, March 24th 2020. Viewed through night vision Corona Goggles the British Army takes to the deserted streets ready for some proper Zombie action. 

Ladies and gentlemen, it's even worse than it appears, after four or maybe five days of reasonable amounts of sunshine there's rain forecast for today, sometime. Just as I was about to mix up the cement and do a spot of world class cementing atop a fairly safe ladder following up a mental list* of house repairs I've cobbled together from unreliable research based on a dream I once had. Nothing too risky in these troubled times just stuffing cement into holes to keep out unwelcome water, evil spirits and even more unwelcome viruses.

P.S. The rain song (in the form of a secret and esoteric anti-rain tribal chant from Columbia) worked and the rain stayed away, the sun even appeared for our al fresco lunchtime soup.

*That vague but irritating list of jobs that are not critical but that you tend to encounter (always at a bad time) by chance when stopping and staring or brushing your teeth, on the loo, sitting on the couch and spotting something amiss, stepping on a loose slab, a creaky floorboard, a noisy hinge or a dodgy switch, a rotating cold water tap. They are out there, like the truth, waiting to be ignored or avoided.

3 x Zuzana Čaputová

3 x Zuzana Čaputová   - President of Slovakia. Here she's seen out and about sporting a rather stylish face mask and outfit combo. Now simply point to Slovakia on any handy coffee table map or atlas that might be close by...

P.S I'm not saying that Slovakia isn't a significant country or that there's anything negative or strange about it, I just lack any kind of mental picture/clarity as to where it might be in the wider areas of Europe. Doh! (Victim of patchy Scottish Education system diluted and ruined by our colonial overlords down South).

How we feel

When you're in an audience of one.

"Well, I'm up in T.O. keepin' jive alive

And out on the corner, it's half past five

But the subways are empty

And so are the cafes

Except for the Farmer's Market

And I still can hear him say

You're all just pissin' in the wind

You don't know it but you are

And there ain't nothin' like a friend

Who can tell you, you're just pissin' in the wind".

For no particular reason but repeated here: part of the lyric of "Ambulance Blues" from Neil Young's 1974 album, On the Beach.

I recall being disappointed by this record at the time of it's release, not enough clever, catchy songs or angry guitar work. Too subdued and almost painfully wistful and political, but I always liked this lyrical segment though I wasn't sure why. Farmers Markets were not a thing in Scotland, we just had the Co-op, pissin' into the wind however was fairly common.

At that time I was clearly unable to understand or appreciate that my heroes might, now and then go and produce something more nuanced or jarring just for the hell of it. I didn't realise that the career trajectory of musicians couldn't be forever rising upwards in terms of pleasing me and appealing to my "judgement". Now I know that there's a longer game going on, it's called life. There's no real need to hurry and it's better to say what you have to say in your own way than trying to please an audience or worse trying to pander to the critical acclaim of the media. Having said that you might also want to earn a living, only a few can make that call. As for pissin' in the wind? No change.

I used to look at this cover and think "those dumb boots just don't look right there". They could hardly look right on the left of the frame.