MOQA

A precious moment of religious reflection, captured for eternity. The eyes are the mirror of the soul.

Another day at the Museum of Questionable Art.

The artwork restorer; a firm but delicate hand, time well spent learning a truly masterful craft. Here are some recent, finely honed and rendered examples. A highly skilled, sensitive operation results in a wonderful and rewarding level of output. Returning lost, damaged, historic pieces back to their original standard so the world might once again enjoy these once damaged works. I for one am emotionally touched and lifted by any piece of sensitive and enhancing restoration. My faith in human nature and those innate skills some of our more gifted fellows can develop and display is now complete.*

Heaven will be filled with such saintly figures, I have no doubt.

*I apologize for the excessive sarcasm exhibited here. Something came over me.

In between the rains

Just get yourself in there, in the zone, right there in between the rain showers. Get out. In between the showers of rain, where the rain cannot hurt you, cannot catch you, cannot touch you. You are now in the in between. Neither one place or the other. Not wet, not quite dry but that's because you've broken sweat. That's because you've been cutting the grass. There in the garden, with a Flymo. Between the rain(s). The brown bin is full up too.

Fife: Daily Photo

A caravan burns in the car park of Lochore Meadows Country Park a few days ago. No one is quite sure who might have been using it or to whom it belongs. Thankfully nobody appears to have been hurt in the fire itself. There are numerous local theories as to the uses that the caravan might have been put to but probably not much is factual. For some reason an abandoned (?) and burning caravan parked in a busy leisure area has a certain poignancy to it, it's both wrong and disturbing. 

This is not how should things should be but it is how things often are. I could stretch the metaphor onto other areas but I guess nobody really cares, I'll just say that there are a few unexplained skip, tyre pile and caravan fires happening up and down the country right now. You can smell the fumes in the air, see the smoke over hedges and fences and observe the dull glow in the evening sky.

Garden Birds

Pigeons in conversation.

 Garden birds: These birds live in the garden, or at least appear to, there are no actual records available to check and verify this. They do spend a lot of leisure time here. Flitting about, collecting nesting materials. That sort of thing. We can't actually claim ownership, they're on the wild side. No swallows or amazons however, those skittish wall nesters and aerial acrobats seem to dislike EH30, too many noisy motorcycles and chatty, lost tourist types possibly, even with Covid-19 rampant; or just a lack of tasty airborne insects maybe.

Some days it's mostly pigeons; mum, dad and the two awkward kids perched on tree tops and chimney pots. "Boaby" the friendly blackbird (formerly known as Blackie) and the more discrete and private Mrs Boaby. An uncountable number of noisy and excitable hedge bound sparrows who flick moss down from the roof in a disrespectful fashion. Some wrens that are so tiny they seem out of place and out of scale as if they've escaped from another dimension where sizes and volumes are quite different. 

We don't feed the birds however, we allow them to do their own catering and gathering. This way we avoid attracting rats, something of a problem here, in the past anyway, for us and the birds. They now appear to have retreated or else they are in some kind of ratty lockdown for whatever reason. We're happy with this and so are the birds. Don't tell the crows or magpies; mega party poopers that they are.

Boaby, taking time to take the world in.

Good Omens

Commemorative Artwork: Trump Rally, BOK Centre, Tulsa, Oklahoma, USA, 20th June 2020. 6200 people attended, venue capacity 19000. "Make America Great -  some time in the near future without Trump and his kind". 

Hound Point

Hound point last night at 2200. No hounds, no point, no ships at anchor (other than the duty tugs off duty), nice and quiet, still as a June evening's likely to get here at postcode EH30.

Coffee now available

Photo Credit: LB.

Hurrah! Civilization as we knew it is not yet completely over with, there is hope. I've seen it with my own eyes. You can now buy decent brewed up coffee, it's out there, the risk is low, do not be afraid, just be careful, choose wisely, time of day, location and non locals are all to be considered. Use your up to £45 contactless option. If it's OK then strike quickly and enjoy, taking care to exit via the exit only, no funny stuff. The baking and the pastries are still a bit shit however but we're not living in France (yet) so suck it up.

Crazy right now

A world famous landmark seen through the prism of some kind of crazy prism.

I can no longer be bothered with the religious requirement that we all feel compelled to exercise these days and most days; the venting of the spleen. Something that I can imagine a Tudor surgeon recommending that Henry VIII or Elizabeth 1 might need to do on a semi-regular basis. Let the poison, the bile, the putrid puss drain away from the wound, along with a healthy dollop of blood and all will be well, your Highness. 

"Shout, shout let it all out", they sing. Or maybe don't bother, just go "tut" under your breath and be on your way. You see your (our, my) opinions don't matter much. The pressure we create in #s and "traffic" is really unimportant particularly when directed at sociopaths and psychopaths who just ignore or absorb it. They are bulletproof to the feelings and sentiments expressed by real people. This is because to them, we clearly do not exist in any real sense. We are numbers, blurred images on screens or through car windows, huddled figures on tourist beaches, raw statistic queuing up for a Big Mac or the opening of a Primark branch. 

We are the masses. We queue and B&Q for concrete, toilet rolls, trains and sometimes even to vote. Generally we do as we are told. We are mostly a little afraid, we've been well trained. We wait, quietly. A few breakaway factions riot now and then, pull over a statue or defend other statues, these clods are easy meat. They'll be tired after a couple of hours, they'll need a Red Bull and a nap. A small amount of property damage is easily fixed and the insurance premiums will just rise and allow us a healthy dividend next year. Let them eat cake and let off some steam, Cummings PLC, SERCO and G4S will manage the situation. Apple and Google may be less supportive but then again you didn't actually talk to them, so they say. On balance, as far as you are concerned all is well and the lies, the misdirection and the corruption (a spade = a spade here) carries on. 

When times are tough roll out the Queen with some soporific message using only basic English pulled into clipped and preened sentences, fly a few flags, revert to Morecambe and Wise, big up the BBC's stirring back catalogue, stick some shit, distracting story on the Mail's front page and those with no homes to go to please be good fellows and quietly dig yourselves holes. Next please.

Sarcasm doesn't work I know and I've inadvertently vented my spleen once again.

Twice a day

Unreliable Histories: This clocked stopped the day after Robert Louis Stevenson had left his temporary lodgings at this local hostelry upon whose exterior wall it is a-fixed. He'd spent some time there living quietly and putting the finishing touches to his novel "Kidnapped" in 1886, so some say. The time piece was never restarted or repaired. The novel was successfully published.

Other famous novels and works of fiction completed at or near to this spirited location include: "Hills Like White Elephants" by Earnest Hemingway, "The Looking Glass" by Anton Chekhov, "The Martian Chronicles" by Ray Bradbury, "Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier and "Interview with a Vampire" By Anne Rice. 

I imagine that the perpetually stopped clock acted both as a guide and a reminder to them during their stays. A slow burning inspiration and motivation for their mysterious writing processes. A guide to the tyranny that time provides in all our lives, the race against the doom it predicts, by it's very existence being one we cannot ever win and of course as a reminder that breakfast is close by as is supper, twice a day, twelve hours apart.

Geese Bathers

"Geese bathing happily in a Spanish street prior to their slaughter in the morning". 

This disturbing, unique and edible piece is available in oatmeal (as a base) with blueberry peanut butter, cream cheese spread (Philly), ochre tinted digestive biscuit, tarragon, basil and orange bhuna dressing. Drizzle of walnut oil is an optional extra. The use by date for this one of a kind artistic treat is 30/06/2020. Keep refrigerated. Will be lovingly packed and safely transported in a "pizza" style carton. Limited run exclusivity representing a wry commentary on the global food industry and the welfare of geese in general.

Non-edible versions are also available in silk screen, sycamore, cymbals and sickles. Prices on application. Thank you.

Home Improvement

Skoosh!

I was reading somewhere that Vlad (the Impaler) Putin now has a "Disinfection Tunnel" at his building's entrance that all his visitors must pass through. I presume this is to deal with viruses and germs and not thoughts of counter revolution or computer bugs. I'm thinking that this device has to be the next step in home improvement and neighborhood one-upmanship. 

Popping by for a coffee and a chat? Delivering and installing some white goods? Simply step through the highly affordable Everest/B&Q/Amstrad/Wickes tunnel first and you'll be good to go. Latte or flat white? Gin and tonic and Pringles? Fears of Covid 19 infection? Not a problem. As installed in Moscow (The Kremlin), Washington DC, Trump Tower NYC and the Mar-a-Lago Resort and Country Club.

So fuck off with your bolted on conservatories, your pigs in shit hot tubs, decking, patios and your extensive collection of PVC windows and doors. Get up to speed and keep in good health with a handy and affordable disinfection tunnel. Terms and conditions apply.

Translation: Available for immediate delivery, easy terms. Full and safe Russian Mafia design service and finance package, variable APR 125% (variable upwards).

Money

Photo Credit: CS.

I feel and fear for honest people who watch TV news and buy a daily newspaper and in the mess and mass of their stories try to form up a reasonable and accurate set of opinions and views on the current situation in this country. Arguably it's always been a difficult thing to do and to some extent you always needed to either ignore or shield yourself from certain aspects of news and current affairs just to stay sane. These days it just seems impossible to actually hold a consistent line on anything. There is little in the way of clarity and trustworthy reporting and "real" worthwhile events are regularly overlooked. Stories and opinions are now commodities, bought, sold and ignored. No more than packets of washing tablets, jars of coffee or shrink warps of shrinking chocolate bars. 

Media is driven by money, either shoveled into it to influence and direct or shoveled out of it to sponsor drivel, trivia, pointless sports competitions or cannibalistic media events ordinary people don't even care about. There's always a special offer, just to ensure you take your eye off the ball for long enough. The big lie in all this is the ongoing, rolling illusion that is perpetuated by media; namely that we need it "as it is", it's a force for good, it's an honest broker, it's truly reflecting public opinion, all for some undefined common good. No it isn't and it doesn't. It's simply about money.

Of course once you step out of that playground fight the next logical move is into the wormhole that is social media. Hmm.

Don't lose that number

A pleasant dream: It’s choir but in a strange location, maybe a sail loft in a shipyard, industrial workers, the hard type. You know. Staring up at the wooden beams, curved and stained and built when they knew how to build things. There they are, the good people of Fife. From Cowdenbeath, Lochgelly, Kelty, Rosyth and thereabouts, easily dismissed you might think. I recognise the labourers faces, weathered, hard, soft, some dead, some alive maybe, younger than they should be, perhaps younger than they ever were. I’m looking around at those faces, nodding in recognition. There’s no back biting, no feuds, no religious differences or football teams, smokers and non-smokers, short and tall, male and female. We are a diverse and fractured tribe, this Fife choir of choice misfits. Perhaps we’ve died and this is some retrospective, non-compliant heaven nobody dared to believe in.

High on this imagined hill, the sail loft starts to fill with sound. Like a heavy aircraft taking off, or a ship being launched, pulling against the chains, reluctant, but we’re putting in the effort, we’re applying ourselves. We’re throwing down those expressions and inhibitions and years of dissent and negativity. The singing will be strong and positive. We rebel against our type. You thought wrong. You judged us blindly. Tough? Uncouth? Stupid? If you see only that then just leave, we’re past that now, we have a singing voice that just might break the stereotype you find so easy to believe. But to know that you’d have to stop and listen and that’s not easy for you. Your inside voice tells you that on repeat. Misplaced other voices just don’t count and you fell under the spell, telling yourself stories. Those people in the choir don’t hear your own inner narrative. There will be no disputes or riots today, no slap across the puss, we’re free from disagreeing.

So we sing, “Rikki don’t lose that number”. No choirmaster, no song sheets, it’s all just pouring out like from a machine. Stronger by the second. I’ve never heard a choir sing this song. Incongruous, an imperfect fit but just right. I’m so new to choirs and people. How did this ever happen? We do two verses, two choruses, no flaws, word perfect. Everything is rising, the room, the loft, this is a huge space now filled with our sound. It’s wonderful, warm and uplifting. The middle eight is coming, I feel an inner tension. It’s not tough to sing, we’re in the groove anyway, we have the momentum and everybody is feeling really good. In my head I can hear the words coming up, I can see the words … that middle eight.

Now I’m awake. It’s three thirty. The cats want fed.

The men who protect statues

You're only as immune as your immune system

DIY can be hard to handle.

The older you get the more you realize that no one is immune to immunity so we have a strategy to build up the human immune system and systems management systems found in us all. Reboot yourself now and then, try a factory reset. Very necessary in these days of virus and rampant dick-headed leaders and politicians. We use* the three Ds. Diet, Diplomacy and Dozing.

Diet: Eat things that are good and that you enjoy. Don't deny yourself treats but eat and drink and be happy.

Diplomacy: Live a sensible life, be out there but don't be far out. Respect your fellow humans and travelers. Don't be a shouty, moany arse, don't be a Tory, live and let live and do a bit of exercise now and then. Take what you need not all that you might want.

Doze. Get a good night's sleep, don't overdo things, be measured, have a nap if you need a nap. Take a day off now and then wearing loose and comfortable clothing.

Amen.

*For clarity and truth, we don't actually use three Ds or anything like that, we're not weird. This is just made up stuff, fiction if you will, with a tiny sprinkling of reality now and then.

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: