When you're not losing your mind

If you're not losing your mind you must be finding your mind. There is no comfortable middle ground. Things are way too dynamic for that. I find these ideas useful if contradictory.

There has been persistent rain for a few days. Persistent rain is a bit like rain that you are having a long running argument with and you just can't get the better of the rain with it's slightly superior level of damp discourse. You remain wet whilst out in it as you force yourself into stubbornly carrying on with trivial outdoor tasks as the rain persists. This is the fragile basis of your entire argument. The rain silently continues as is it's true nature. This is not an argument you can win but you will feel at times the elation of temporarily holding the upper hand simply by taking part. Research has shown this to be a short lived and hollow experience. Ultimately you'll fail and surrender to the rain's higher purpose and find yourself returning indoors for a cuppa tea. At this point you can take comfort in observing how well that "new grass" is doing from behind the window glass but deep inside you know you're a loser.

Next time we'll talk about arguing with failing light or perhaps the dark itself.

Everything is stolen, everything is discarded

Random unwritten, unspoken thoughts, written:

People generally don't know left from right, exit from entrance, near from far, 1m from 2m, slow from fast, safe from risky, fun from serious, stiff from flabby, cheap from expensive, clean from dirty, noisy from quiet, truth from lies.

When you "ting" the bell on your bicycle they ignore you. Everybody apologizes except the psychos, they don't see the need. Dogs can't comprehend moving bicycles these days. Hills tend to tilt in the wrong direction. The east wind is cruel unless you're headed west.

You move around in space like some lumpen asteroid hurling across a segregated supermarket looking for the eggs. Where are the bloody eggs and why are all these people taking so much time to do simple things? I don't even know what I'm doing here. Where are the other old people wearing face masks?

So we sail on, here in our ship of fools. Sea-cocks are wide open but we have a decent, fully compliant bucket donated by the government as part of an interest free equipment loan. When they say interest free it's not free, it's just that they are not actually interested. So we'll doggedly get on with bailing ourselves out and try keeping the damage to the minimum as we struggle to float and remain upright. No fuss please but we didn't think we were voting for this.

Aside from the headline stories that we're all either fed up with or entrenched in some rock solid opinion over there are some long running issues that I just don't understand. No matter what I read or hear I'm still confused as to right/wrong good/bad or whatever. I'm not sure where the failure lies or where the crystal clear facts are. I may be suffering from some generational blindness or a chronic lack of care and concentration.

Churchill's dead and in a box, so's his statue. Who's next?

Artwork not Artwork

Trapped in some green place, an unknown location in a shimmering and mirrored universe where nothing is quite what it could've been but if it was to be fully investigated and turned on it's head it might be different anyway. Some things are said to be priceless but in some ways that's the same as them being for free really.

"I was only suffering from graphic designer's vertigo, a momentary lapse and a mild case of inner colour blurring," said the plaintive. "I'll be fine in the morning but you'll be just the same as ever."

Fiddlers of Orchy

There is an old Scottish legend you may be aware of that tells the story of the "Fiddlers of Orchy" saying that they were some of the finest music fiddlers ever to found in the Orcs of Orchy district of OrcShire. This lonely highland glen spawned the finest spawn of spawny music fiddlers who fiddled (and occasionaly spawned) spawnily in those remote glens and upon those wasted and battered hillsides come rain, shine or stomach upset. 

A musical and cultural wonderland from beyond the pale mists of time itself populated by golden throated and fingered beings the like of which were seldom seen south of the Green Wellie. Some say that on a clear midsummer evening, just as the sun falls behind the great Mount of Ben Orchy you can still hear their fiddleness tones floating on the easy breeze like some dandelion dust and see their ghostly thin images dancing like shadows amongst the bracken and midges by the lochside and all across the moorland. 

In the far distance a lone figure is kicking an empty can of Tennent's lager along a puddled up gravel path, he lazily flicks a cigarette butt into the stream running nearby, turns and starts to walk in the other direction. He's whistling to himself and suddenly aware that his favourite shoes just might be leaking. It's quite possible some of this is true, humans can do all sorts of things, as far as I'm aware.

Building bridges in the wrong places

Dead celebrities are not coming back any more than dead slave traders. Dead kings and politicians, dead rock stars and footballers, they held the limelight briefly. Perhaps they are the lucky ones, the lived enough of a life to be famous, maybe rich, even leaving their mark. They did bad things and good things. Their stories are clear and exact in some places, dim and not easily understood in others. But they are gone and any trace they left diminishes every day - or maybe not. Fortunes may be a stake. If they shaped our world, if their deeds, policies, actions and their omissions are still echoing today then that has to be dealt with. Their history should be exposed, taught and explained as necessary and not covered up. 

This country has a sick, greedy, cruel colonial past that still has the power to influence and control. Landowners, country estates, great swathes of privilege and snobbery, snouts in the trough, as red faced as those awful maps of the "Empire" in it's heyday. The great churches and institutions, too big to fail some say. The children's children, the "royal" families, the old money v the new money and then those with no money. Guttersnipes in rat trap flats and terraces. We owe you nothing but you owe us an explanation, an education and compensation.

You may say it's all none of anybody's business anymore. Here's a black hole to shout into:

The Hissing of the Summer Cats

Cat diaries: Welcome to the worlds of "Stripes", ferrule and unpredictable and currently living in a garage and "Shadow" living at home but eating and relaxing elsewhere as far as is possible. Shadow is currently mentoring Stripes in learning social skills, manipulating humans and throwing interesting shapes. Their cunning plan has been evolving over the last few weeks resulting in noticeable improvements to their standard of living and well being. Good job cats.

Post Everything

"Yankee go home" there's a slogan I haven't heard in a long time (and in Latin).

"I may have inadvertently joined a cult. I have previous form in this area. Sometimes I doubt myself, then I remember how it actually was."

We're being mindful, focusing, there's regular "exercise", there are still, soft voices. We're encouraged to be steady, stay home, stay safe, don't rock the boat. Consistency in behaviour. Where you are is safe, it's a life boat floating peacefully on shark infested waters. Other people might just be dangerous. Everyone is a suspect. Stay alert, stay vigilant. Never forget ... but find peace where you can.

There's the constant threat, the dark narrative, the unknown, unseen enemy. Real believers believe it's really real, others say it's a construct, a trap and a snare, a strategy from somewhere dark. Other others don't care, they ignore the warnings, they do as they please and flaunt their actions and their disrespect. There are a lot of others. It's a time to bring things down if you can. We balance these with the plight of victims. There are so many victims.

On the sidelines are experts. They seem to argue in clumps of understanding, as experts might. The facts are fluid. They are advisors, they are seekers, they may have their own agendas. There are opportunities sprouting up in the apparent chaos. There is a name to be made, there's money too. They have graphs and models. Their advice is important and to be heeded, but not by themselves. Hit the spotlight and a position goes with it. Well meant heroes helping and spinning. Their words are destined to be misunderstood or twisted by those in power.

It's all a familiar sci-fi scenario, we've seem the film a thousand times. Mad scientists, greedy power brokers, angry mobs, innocent people caught in the crossfire. Now it's real life. Where do you stand? What's the point of standing anyway?

Hope

Hope: We are crawling towards the ancient way of being known as recovery, things may get worse along the way but they will get better. A route of mixed fortunes. I'm choosing to believe this despite the numerous signs to the contrary. All things must pass. Classic themes in literature and life.

Hope: Kindness and creativity. Even in bad times these things stubbornly refuse to go away or die, in fact they often flourish. There is new music, art and writing being birthed and carrying on right now, you just need to be on the look out for it. You can even create your own jigsaw puzzles these days.

Cats as Jigsaws

Via a threaded journey from Orkney Library to the Forth Bridges and some stone balls we came upon JigsawPlanet. Something found that was never being looked for. A strange little (?) site where you can create your own jigsaws and play and mull over those created by others. A fairly normal activity these days and another brief and futile bid at internet immortality. Naturally cats are a popular subject and so we've added more cats to the extensive cat catalogue. That's it really, probably the most significant part of yesterday other than the regular world shattering events happening in an even bigger, never ending jigsaw puzzle.

The wall of the Future

Staring into that bright but fuzzily blank wall that is the future isn't much fun these days. Trips to plan, meals to organize, events,  places to go to and see, meeting up; all things that are still somehow out of reach as our entitlement and privilege moves further away by the day. Looking back on recent history is an equally bland blur of those daily media circus shows and clunky lies of ministerial briefings, political own goals, stupidity and now violence. 

This is quicksand for the mind if your not careful. A dizzy slide into a deep and muddy puddle. There is of course hope. Hope in the shape of small things, slowly getting bigger, more rugged and nimble; maybe even writing up those stories or recording a tune perhaps? Clean out a cupboard even? Rinse the grill pan!

The Potato Sack Statement

Marilyn Monroe wearing a potato sack.

Decoy Art

The weather has broken. There's only a watery sun. It's June but we're not in Oklahoma so no bustin' out. This is a Scottish lockdown. We're staying home. Peering out of the windows. Seeing what can be predicted from those broody, moody clouds that are passing slowly, headed for some random destination out across the North Sea. Slippery. Every so often the optimistic sun peeps out and I scurry to the garden to rearrange some plants that hopefully will grow to create a "display". Not that we're in any kind of competition or race, it's just for those fat little furry bees, ladybirds and the butterflies, creatures that we all have a soft spot for so long as they don't sting. 

We hope that they might survive and so inherit the planet once our shambolic reign is over and we are reduced to dust. They are survivors, but only up to a point. You see clever and industrious as the insects are they are clearly unable to open the seed packets and turn on the water taps so as to create the conditions they actually need to survive. Evolution is a bit of a broken system if you ask me.

"Your use of quasi religious images and feeble plagiarism does you no favours and will win you no friends or fans."  - Well Wishers who know things about art and the artistic establishment.

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My Superstar

A short song* in the key of Courier.

What's boring in the backseat baby? I don't know x 3

I don't know x 3

What's dull about the moonlight baby? I don't know x 3

I don't know x 3

What's wrong if I'm right sometimes? I don't know x 3

I don't know x 3

You're sitting in the backseat and I'm driving this car.

If I move in and join you now we won't get too far.

So I'll indulge your fantasy, my superstar. 

My superstar.

* I was singing this to myself the other day, now I can't remember it. Doh!

You Understood

To be read in the narrative vocal style of Aidan Moffat: 

"I used to be a reasonable person unless I was being unreasonable, you were OK with that, you kind of understood. You knew I found things, well, difficult. My peculiar sleeping habits. The rodents. That was about all we could ever discuss, and the daily menu. I was tongue tied and you seemed to be able to say the things I couldn't quite. I thought that you had all the answers, all the eloquence." 

"Taking a stand or making a stand. The free and fluid thoughts that somehow I was missing out on. I'm not a planner. I never was but you, you were there sitting, eyes bright, thoughts coming thick and fast. I couldn't keep up because you were always seeing things that ... I  just couldn't. i thought it might break me but your strength buoyed me up. So now I'm relaxed, I'm in my safe space, comfortable with what's going on. Assembling garden furniture and irrigating the far corners where the soil is mostly dust."

Black Out Tuesday

More Cold War

Sometimes it's hard to know quite what to make of things these days. As Trump cowers down in his DC bunker tweeting more trash talk I'm at a loose end so I'm posting this, a CWS version of one of my favourite paintings, that being "Christina's World" by Andrew Wyeth. Here's the original:

Mundane Golden Hour

Image by LB.

One of my daughters made this, titled as  "Mundane golden hour". I'm unclear as to the inspiration, maybe that's not too important. Here it is anyway in a golden and green screen shot. Good title.

In the Font of Courier

Ordinary thoughts, mused enlightenments and confused travel recollections take on new forms and meaning when expressed in the font of Courier. One day this internet landscape that we now explore, ponder and abuse will be gone. There will be activists and those eager to preserve the delicate history of it all but, one day the developers will come. It will be ruined and laid waste to in some Biblical kind of way. Will any remnants survive? Not many, just the fonts, the brave new, slightly altered but still recognisable fonts. As for meaning? We no longer seek such a meaningless thing. The struggle continues.

In the Font of Arial

Knowing not why I felt a strange compulsion to delve a little deeper into that mysterious world that had now opened up before me. I found myself in a place called "Lockdown Recovery - Phase 1", a special place reserved only for the actual geographical inhabitants of a land called Scotland. We were to be the first to fly free in a dangerous but necessary experiment or so they said. I confess that I was a little nervous, stepping out, raw and unused into this big space with free flowing fellow travelers, all regimented and safely apart, all fixed and focused on getting somewhere because, quite suddenly we were allowed to. 

I didn't feel safe. Too hot, too hostile, strangely quiet and then there were the "other people". I was afraid. For the first time in a while I was in the flow of the traffic of greater humanity, and it showed.  Advice can be taken or ignored it seems. No masks, chatting with open mouths, too close, not observing, possibly using non-household toilets and crockery, sidling up to others in queues, travelling as far as they liked to their second "holiday home" and justifying this because it was a warm weekend and the electricity meter needed reading. Hmm. I may never cycle to Dalmeny ever again.

Worlds apart: Phase 1 night-vision goggles used in broad daylight reveal the difference and it's almost like night and day.

Andalusian Fantasy

Here's oor hoose stretched and reflected in the shiny arse of a car. It has a rather interesting  and exotic Andalusian quality about it that fair makes me fancy taking the ferry to Tangier or the bus to Cowdenbeath. Most things are, at their edges, more of an illusion than a real thing. Something that's both profound and meaningless.