Don't let them lie to you

Currently working on a film script, or maybe a novel, perhaps a musical or just a piece of abstract animation using coloured shapes, the working title is: "Why I believe in the alien lizard people conspiracy theory (or why you might as well believe any old tosh because it doesn't really matter anyway)."

Brexit, Imperialism, the British Empire, Colonial history, the class system, privilege and education, upholding the law, human rights, asylum seekers, how they'll tackle global warming, Scottish Independence, the future of the NHS, Covid-19 strategy, Universal Credit, fair taxation, the power and influence of Corporations, the East v the West, UFOs, what they are doing, what they are not doing, what they say they'll do, what they actually did. Don't believe a word of it. Don't let them lie to you.

For totalitarian governments breaking the law is just a sign of their strength and they revel in such behavior as if it was some kind of primitive fertility display. It's a cancerous way of thinking and within their secretive little groups of power brokers they will promote contempt for the law and human rights as a way of progressing towards their goals. These goals do not match those of "ordinary" people nor are they in line with published manifesto or party doctrine.

Within your head

For those like me who struggle with complex biological concepts, physiological explanations and great philosophical theories about the human machine and life's ongoing experience, I find this rather dated but charming and informative drawing helps my understanding. Pictures are generally worth a large number of words. Having said that this type of illustration has featured in many ways in films and comics from time to time, confusing and entertaining human beings in equal measure. This is what we should be teaching in schools  and colleges (said nobody ever). It, like flat earth theory, just might be true, hidden in plain sight.

Kamikaze

The track above is an honest and un-doctored (live recorded) version of the song Happy Like.

But...

Porco Rosso. Is a different thing altogether. Flight is however included as a theme and a concept. There may be an unexpected crash also. Strangely we all survive and our lives move on. Flying is of course risky up to a point, you could be turned into a pig or hit some clear air turbulence. In the end there will be a party on the beach, deckchairs and wine and who knows, we might all be happy ever after in some existentially correct way?

Dune

 

People are getting understandably excited about the new Dune movie (available only in theatres). It's a big story, big sand worms and big production values. Everybody will be talking about this except for those who can wait or who don't get it or don't like that sort of thing. I suspect this film may be part 1 with part 2 to follow. Strange little soundtrack links to Pink Floyd (as part of a previous failed adaption), I wonder if it will carry on into the actual film? I wonder maybe a little too much. 

Brave New Worlds

"They are just going nowhere. We are just going nowhere. There is no hurry, no need to be anywhere now. Just stand in the misty blue and the low glow of a faint sun in a faint sky. Enjoy that strange sense of space. Imagine the trees and the vegetation that were once there, like in old films and picture books. Now that's a pretty thought. Imagine they could come back or that you could drink the water or breathe without a mask and just keep walking. These are good thoughts if a little troubling. Counselors can help if it all becomes over acute for you. They check for signs. Inner peace is always there within you."

"There once was a time, that's a fairy story told to the few children we produce, when all sorts of things happened outside, even battles and sports and construction projects, wildlife and animals too. Nobody stays out too long in this anyway, there are risks, someplace around a 7 if you're over your allotted 15 minutes. We usually start the 'count down' or 'count back inside' I suppose at minute 9, just to be safe. Just to stay safe." 

"I heard that "stay safe" is the most popular phrase and greeting in the known world. It's on all the relay messages along with a thumbs up and a smiley face. It's on the Coca-Cola containers and the meal trays. We're good to go. We'll come back out next month for a few minutes recreation, assuming that there are no major changes or any major climatic events. We'll be well warned. There's a nightly bulletin and regular updates. The atmosphere monitors are very precise and active at all times. I means we can stay safe. Strong, stable and safe." 

"I guess we're all happy with that.You know that when you find yourself in the right place you can truly be all that you want to be. The people are friendly too and so calm and relaxed. Just enjoying sharing screens together and those kindly inspirational messages they pass across between sectors is all so rewarding. We like those cute and calming phrases they use and the pleasant music playing in the background. We've a lot to thank the large corporations, Mr Putin and the Trump family for, we are very well protected now. They've been so good to us".

Hejira - Live

Sometimes you just need a quick rerun of Hejira to move the day along and settle the mind. Live version but without Jaco Pastorius on bass. No Ibanez GB whatever number either, just a Strat. Still pretty good.

This is what I'd call a punctuation post, one that's been created and typed out but really there's no actual content or critique other than me saying I quite like the video or picture I've added. It's cheap and cheerful (rather than cheap and nasty) but I cant deny it's really just filler. Well perhaps this small paragraph isn't actual filler because now that I think about it I'm writing something at least original, I'm also being honest about the process of posting on line. Some days there's a lot you want to say or at least you have a clear idea and other days there's zilch so you just self aggrandize or promote with some random content so as to fill that empty space and satisfy an imagined KPI regards the frequency of your posting. I don't lie awake at night worrying about any of this, it's just a sort of gentle pressure valve that releases gentle pressure. I like the feeling of putting "something out there" regardless of the actual quality, that's pretty shallow and obvious I admit. Make a splash, cause a ripple, perhaps something will happen. Maybe I should have used "Take a pebble" by ELP rather than Joni Mitchell but there's really no comparison.Tomorrow is yet another day, there's a pattern to all this.

Almost Satisfactory

Never easy to capture a cat either in real life or via a camera. Satisfactory cat pics are rare, here are two. So if you're now lulled into things by my cute cat photos, good. Here's reality as it stands:

I suppose we are living in an unsatisfactory world and definitely in an unsatisfactory country (the rogue and lawless state known as the UK). We are headed down the tubes, BJ and Co at the reigns and clueless in a way only stupid, selfish, privileged people can be. It seems to me now that the time for complaining or ranting is over, it's way too late for that. We just hold on tight and observe the train wreck that is happening (whilst not gloating at the eventual mess). Only a proper disaster will wake up and shake up the systems and jaded electorate that voted these liars and criminals in and allowed this to happen. The best thing now is to plan for a better future beyond the next couple of years. Gird your loins, grit your teeth and try not to panic as the speed of the slide increases and the impacts thump us about the head and bank balance. I just hope we can get through without a full on blood bath. Just remember the Tories and the Brexit boys and girls will do their utmost to blame everybody else come the day and the media will yet again shield the guilty and blame the poor.

Cherries v Walnuts

All it takes sometimes is a reckless click* made on a Twitter post and the once solid fabric of your simple universe is torn and mulched down into cold custard and rendered unrecognizable and untrustworthy. I blame the people who set out the parking lot in the Aldi in Perth, just by the A9 roundabout (I think there may be an M&S and a Tiso branch nearby too). Some wag posted tree pictures on Twitter and I foolishly took the bait and was drawn into the dark world of the Perthshire tree spotters  and experts (this may not be a real movement of any kind). Reality then ground to a halt for a few minutes and there were more questions than answers.

To be precise, these seem to be people out there who know a few things about walnut trees, like how they are planted to keep flies away from cattle and how if you split their leaves they smell like Mr Sheen. Yes, tree knowledge goes deep, it's a complex place to visit in the garden or in virtual ways. Not much mention of the nuts themselves despite the fact that they adorn Walnut Whips and other sweets and cakes and things. So I'm now developing a wild opinion that what I thought was a quite fruitful cherry tree in our garden may in fact be a walnut tree furiously bearing walnuts. It might also explain the lack of flies in the garden (and cattle) and the strange, floating odour of cleaning products. I've got evidence now, so which is which?

May all your cherries turn out to be walnuts, and vice versa. Where's William Rushton when you need him?

Turns out it's a Spindle tree from China or thereabouts complete with poison berries (so putrid and evil that they could stun a buffalo) rather any than useful nuts.

*Never let the truth get in the way of a mediocre story.

Fruits of no labour

An unsung modern hymn with neither tune nor verses: "When you didn't clear the ground, you didn't turn the soil, you didn't plant the seeds or saplings, you didn't feed and nurture, you didn't prune and protect, you didn't stand back and admire the growth and shape. All you did was come along and pick the fruit. Unfortunately the fruits on this tree are pears and they are like some giant mutation of lead shot. You're all going to Hell or at the very least somewhere pretty unpleasant. Amen."

For some reason I can imagine Coldplay doing a reasonable version of this and getting away with it. In concert the fans would be enthusiastically singing along to "you didn't feed and nurture". They hold up their glowing phones, waving their arms in the air as Chris Martin holds his mic out into the audience to signal that it's time for them to join in which they do with gusto.  It's all happening right now in a Covid free parallel universe near to you.

Northside of the Masonic Lodge

This is nothing to do with Freemasons. It's on the cemetery side of the grand dilapidated lodge, the once proud meeting place of the great, the good, the mediocre and the troublemakers. Let's face it, in more recent times,  getting into the Masons was always about your face fitting more than your actual character, that and sopping up as much cheap beer as your face could take. So perhaps this is something to do with the Masons, maybe I've something to get off my chest. Maybe not, nothing worth saying other than that my own prejudice and dislike of them is based on my own family history and that skews my view. This is after all Central Scotland, an area well known for wonky and spiteful opinions, mindless cults and stupid followers and of course bigotry with a capital B (except that's not how I formatted it). 

I'm not sorry for you and your big grinning gravestone. Perhaps you were a good family, perhaps you were complete bastards. The stone tells us nothing other than you're gone and that for the safety of the family souls you carved a piece of Bible text on your front panel. Nobody's buying this stuff anymore and guess what, your pious text makes no difference. As useful as a Trump bumper sticker. (Obviously I regret saying these dumb things about something I know nothing about but I'll just leave them away).

A frame without a name, sad really but then we all come and go alone. Some marks and chips in the stone don't make much difference, time wipes everything clean. For the best perhaps.

This grave looks like it was designed for some Triffid or an early attempt to visually describe the central nervous system of an alien visitor caught, beaten and killed up by Masonic vigilantes who blamed it for the poor crops, turning the water to wormwood and befouling the local tabernacle with green slime and strange unmusical sounds.

Not in the same boat

Short and unreliable quiz for your tea break. 

So what's playing on the fishing boat's radio today? You can make tiny guesses or rather large guesses. I'm not sure what the difference is apart from size and I'm unsure as to how you measure actual guess size. 

So I'll go first and suggest that it's a Radio 4 program just randomly playing, possibly "Woman's Hour" or as a second guess (of indeterminate size) I'll say Radio Forth (as the boast is fishing in the Forth) and to be more precise I'll plump for Forth 2 with the catchy strapline "the greatest hits". Third guess (unsporting I know) is that it's VHF Channel 16 in case there's any trouble out there.

Next question: Is "and" a better and more useful word than "but"? Asking for a friend.

Next question. What is the fishing boat fishing for and (no but) just saying "fish" is not an acceptable answer. Is it a) Mackerel using baited lines? b) Lobster using kreels or c) Crab using kreels.

Next, next question: Is the boat facing east or west or is it steadily rotating clockwise?

Final question: Estimate the crew size i.e. not heights and weights but actual numbers.

Thank you.

Whatever you think, remember ... there is no answer.

Detectorist

In the distance a lone detectorist scours a newly cropped field hoping for treasure. I'm in a nearby lay-by taking five. Perhaps he knows something no one else does or likes to think that. So I was briefly reminded of the TV show, dry humour, back stories and escape, oh and the nice theme song. Out in the Fife countryside the other day on an appealingly warm and calm morning it almost seemed to be the perfect low key pastime. Like buying sets of slow moving lottery tickets and quietly waiting for some lazy, lost buried jackpot to be uncovered from the soft brown soil. You keep half of the treasure's value, the rest goes to charity and the historical item, once cleaned and catalogued, sits in some glass case in a dull museum. A small slip of card mentions you as the finder and the one who made the donation - all in a tiny font.

Of you go back out into fields, keep searching but never find anything else of significant value, then you die weather beaten and happy with a few quid in the bank. Your detection equipment hangs dusty and unused in the garden shed, all is forgotten. A few years later one of your grandchildren finds it, switches it on and is puzzled by the flickering LED display and the lack of functionality. As it has no screen or visible apps installed they throw it into the house clearance skip sitting on the driveway. The museum is currently closed because of a COVID-29 outbreak.

To all the lonely lone wolves

Sometimes I just get a little misty.

"It's not easy being me any more than it's easy being you." 

So you are hearing pearls of wisdom directly from the gentle heart of the leader of the pack. The old wolf's wisdom, the great white elder, transferred by thought transfer and wobbly eye contact. Transfigured and in the slow glow of the power from the eternal life in all animal spirits that stalk the earth and battle to keep it safe and wholesome.

 

The wild is something to savor and difficult for the dulled and detuned human mind to grasp. Like a fine wine on the top shelf or even a not so fine £6.50 plonk with an appealing label, both can be effective but why pay a greater price? What the wolf says or even suggests, goes (and sometimes what the wolf says stays and sometimes the wolf doesn't really say anything; that would be the unreliable, flakey but interesting thought transfer concept thing mentioned earlier). Oh, and please don't mention the moon. The pale orb of nightly pain.

So you'd all do well not to ignore wolfy wisdom however it may be communicated. They are like the ancient forest spirits that live within the trees and branches, except they are animals and not made of wood or squiggly, smoky, spirit kind of ectoplasm stuff, just wolf meat, bones and fur. The one in the photo above is living it up, having the best life in South Queensferry right now with his best friend a tennis ball, albeit always behind bars. 

Given the chance though he'd go straight for that soft, fleshy, narrow throat of yours. I'd wear a thick scarf if I was you.

Plums etc.

 

*Plums: Plums are in season, we are living in the season of the plum. All of us here, brothers and sisters, unite. Nobody talks about this. The fresh fruit is tasty and the rapid acceleration possible in your metabolism if you eat enough of them can be very useful. Mentioning plums early in any conversation is always seen as a good starter topic and will win over rivals. In these troubled times, they may be very good for you. Unite or face the consequences of your body works slowing down way too soon.

Pears: Pears grown in Scotland are not generally fit for human consumption. In the middle of the Middle Ages locally grown pears were used as a form of currency or as house building materials due to their inherent density and resistance to various plagues and also because of feeble Scottish engineering knowledge. Much of the housing on Edinburgh's famous Royal Mile is constructed using horizontally sliced pears as foundation materials, laid out across an oatmeal base and cured with pickled herring tails and heads (minus the eyes). Some buildings constructed over 600 years ago still stand but nobody actually wants to live in them. For some reason English based banks and building societies tend to be unwilling to lend against any building or property using pears as part of the original construction materials. Buyer beware.

Rhubarb: Safer but less photogenic.

*Other fruits, vegetables and edibles of all sorts are readily available here and there.

The Open Road

I may go out tomorrow if I can borrow a set of wheels.

When we did nothing

It should have been something more than it turned out to be. That's the problem with reflection if there's not enough to reflect upon. Regretting not so much what happened but what didn't happen. Those things that were talked about but never progressed, those places never visited, those conversations we failed to have. The wrong directions now clearly visible looking back on life's cruelly real and undeniable mapping systems. 

Everything back then was strained and strange. How did cars and appliances ever work even in the 1970s, how could we speak to each other, why did we think that our food was nice, was working really miserable, where did money come from, what was the real news, were our clothes ever clean, where did you get information, why did you fall in love? 

The past is horrible even though horrible things only rarely happened. Yet people write books and stories and make fortunes trawling up their early lives and experiences, their version of the universe, ensuring their history comes out on top. They have their victims lined up. How they got a job with the BBC, signed on the dotted line, went to art college, traveled to Nepal, fought in a war, met somebody famous, wrote a song, had casual sex, discovered themselves, woke up alone. Their halcyon years of well remembered trivia and fibs. Nostalgia matters to the nostalgic, but it was never quite like that, never as it's portrayed, never the same as it was seen through your eyes and with your own feelings, there before you like some collapsed wooden Jenga puzzle. The past is mostly uncomfortable for ordinary people because they didn't really do much with their lives, just towed the line. Got by. 

People might say I cheated, that I was a cheat, a traitor, I kept myself to myself, I didn't speak or speak out, if they actually noticed. Everything is true and everything is a lie, in this belief I'm  relaxed as I approach the later stages of life, not looking back but looking forward to interesting things still to come ... like an new anorak. Most likely blue.

In the next few days, 1st September, my dad's 100th birthday happens. I'll visit his grave but I don't know what I'll do when I get there. Probably just stand and feel awkward, look blank, try to think the correct thoughts but know that my memories of him are pale and not properly constructed. I've not worked hard enough at remembering, I was too busy passing time in the here and now and in the fuzzy travelogue narrative of daily life, the information and detail I need to call up just isn't there. I didn't collect or curate it. I didn't think it mattered. I didn't think. Perhaps I'll just do what writer's do, make things up and embellish. Perhaps that'll compensate for actually doing next to nothing all this time.

La Suite Apocalyptique

 

The Umbrella Academy is strange, surreal, almost compulsive watch. A TV show that engages (me) with each new episode but then you somehow struggle to remember details of what went before (normal at my age). The previous episodes lie there like dried out muddy puddles as the action moves forward in a repetitive cycle that is the basis of the comic book story arc and shows some inventive genius. It's odd because for once I actually like all the characters complete with their obvious flaws, contradictions and the occasional editorial jump that renders the story line nonsense or at least a little less believable with each episode ... but it's a comic. Sense, sensibility and logic are not required. I'm not worried about them, I've not invested anything in this pulp TV, I'm being entertained by Netflix. I understand that they can never die, never be saved, simply because they never existed...and Season 2 is over and done with. Not sure I've the stamina for a Season 3 should it ever materialize.

New Radiators

Actual picture but not the actual picture.

Seventeen years of gunk, corrosion, chemicals, road film, Scottish weather, high operating temperatures and environmental trashing* means the two radiators on my car need replaced. They're on their last little sad radiator legs. They're leaking. Something I noticed when a) I noticed a warm fluid leak dripping down by the front wheel that certainly wasn't coming from me or my trousers and b) the temp gauge, always steady at 80 degrees whatever the weather, decided to move by all of a millimetre to a little more than 80 degrees. OCD me quickly sweated and panicked at the sight. Fortunately these events clashed with an MOT and service booking so there was an opportunity to get everything sorted in one sweet if sightly expensive move.

*May also just have been yet another random mutant algorithm. Or a perhaps a big mutant algorithm did it and ran away.

Actual.

Squirrelproof Bins

 

Out for a healthy walk: Sometimes that irrational fear just creeps up on you. Out there, beyond the boundary of senses, no easy navigation possible, like dark waters, too deep for your feet to touch the bottom. Then, that cold breath on your shoulder slowly turning warm. What ravenous beast is this? What's out there, unnamed, rattling on the bars of it's damp dungeon, whispering spells and words to ingratiate itself with golden lies and promises as you lean into the dark spaces? Out there in the blind woods, where eyesight is unreliable, where sounds are tortured and unclear, where signs remain distorted and warped. Mostly just brisk cyclists and clumsy joggers passing by.

You shift your weight, foot to foot, uneasy, troubled. The sweat begins to stick to you. You're aware of your own smell, your nerve's show their clean edges. Sparking with invisible electricity and ferrule dirt. You're looking but not seeing anything, there are no connections to be made. There is no sense to this. A funny looking old dog that's off the lead is almost approaching but meandering across the path with no clear purpose, the owner cannot be seen.

Spittle and fury, limbs writhing and items flying in all directions, whimpering or howling tries to match the sounds of crows and seagulls attacking stray pigeons over on the foreshore. Or peace, tranquility, only the smooth hum of Chinese plastic wheels rings out across the bumpy unrepaired tramac and puddles as they breeze along, fruit shoots and bottles successfully deployed. Mums in leggings and hoodies shoving buggies, headed for the nursery.

You're in Scotland and it's still August. Will this month ever end? Please adjust your face mask and remain 2m clear of fellow humans, avoid eye contact, look serious and take care because our current litter bin designs don't seem to be very squirrel proof. Thank you. 

Here's a drone view of some early Earl Gray tea plants we're cultivating as a hedge against future shortages.

Not one of those people

If I ever were asked to sum up the UK's current state I'd probably use an illustration something like this one. That only makes me a realist, not bitter and twisted in any way and certainly not a traitor, though you can stuff your jingoistic Rule Britannia type anthems wherever they might be the least comfortable for you.

So, having established that I am not one of those people who moans and drones on and on about how things are getting worse and how the UK is an international laughing stocks, a denier of it's own putrid history and currently run by a bunch of crooks and jumped up village idiots. I actually think things, whilst far from perfect are tolerable, up to a point. Many things are wrong and are going wrong but there are quite a few good things happening in science, industry, culture, language and human relations ... I'm sure. They tend to be overlooked by a squalid media scrum over nonsense news, celebrity trivia and editorial guidelines that "promote" the jumped up village idiot's idiotic behaviour and utterances. Otherwise things are just fine if you're keen on measuring that sort of thing. 

I say that but then again I may have just coughed up a rather nasty mutant algorithm. I did walk past a school, used public transport and shopped in a shop today. That might explain everything. 42.

Here's a highly sophisticated animation showing the ritualistic dance moves of either a Russian Spy or a Young Conservative. Make your own mind up about it:

Putin, Putin, Putin.

Dance, Dance, Dance.

Like a Young Conservative.