Reanimating the Dead

The past is big business. Your roots are valuable. Your images are priceless but maybe you can get them for free. Your memories are commodities you can trade. If you don't like the look of things use our complimentary editor. Add sound clips. Once you reach a certain age nobody remembers the details anyway, unless there was some sort of trauma. Improve your looks? Perhaps our easy to use editor can deal with that. It's all very professional. History exists to be rewritten. People like things that are a bit "creepy", some might say edgy. It's very peaceful in our digital archive. There's no conflict here. Have a good day.

"I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you." HAL 2001.

Fit for Purpose

Twenty Four Great Pulteney Street, Bath (Second Floor Flat): My home and postal address many years ago in the serene city of Bath. Over the years I've spent a lot of time there between college and work. I've a soft spot for the wide streets, Georgian buildings and the overall ambiance and style of the place. Bath is OK (or at least it was the last time I was there). Strangely Bath is also the home of "Wings Over Scotland", the unruly and controversial website that continually picks fights with the Scottish Government/Parliament, calls them to account and shouts abuse. 

Of course WOS is a provocative read and not exactly  balanced or accurate at times, but then neither is life or politics so ... so what. It arguably has a bigger readership than anything else within the Scottish media, the civilized side being bunch of turncoats mostly. Truth is that the SNP and the Scottish Parliament badly needs a kick up the arse now, maybe the high energy and pointed writings of Wings is the tool to use as Holyrood remains stuck in a mire of their own making; fat, happy (?), complacent and icily detached. Every one in ever party ... well almost. And of course Westminster is about to administer a slow dose of economic strangulation and the long screwdriver of interference. Time to protect your MSP pensions folks, your days are numbered.

Whatever happens in the Sturgeon v Salmond wars there are no winners; Scotland just looks foolish again, incompetent and weak. Infighting isn't a good image. Westminster is exactly the same but is well protected by a sympathetic media that tolerates the bad behaviour of certain types, all bought and sold. Scotland remains as bouncy as a burst football, easily kicked over the hedge and ignored or brought out as a colourful and comic distraction when it suits. Our comparatively decent record on dealing with Covid is squandered by these distractions. Strangely there was a flurry of people actually joining the SNP last night, according to Twitter anyway. Sympathy for Saint Nicola I guess or just some faithful bots?

But right now the SNP have certainly lost my confidence; last year's insulting exams catastrophe, the waste of energy and puff on Brexit, the current AS muddle and the putrid investigation, the lack of political ownership and most worryingly the morphing of the party into a tight and inflexible, inbred community cult where disagreement isn't tolerated. It's all rubbish really and I'm marooned with no one to vote for. 😕 None are fit for purpose. Where do we go from here?

Politicians are after all just people, sometimes brilliant, greedy and needy, often stupid and always fallible. Perhaps we need a benign AI government designed and built by Tesla's engineers. Charge it up and see how it goes. Let the logic of the machines rule, drive things forward or at least steer us blindly in some general direction consistent with what might be "best for us" according to the algorithms. Ach, who cares? We're now soaring above Scottish politics, it's just that we're doing it at the grass roots level.

Names, no frames

Any designer worth his/her salt would be appalled by this curious fontage, not to mention the invention and use of the word fontage for which I now claim full credit and worldwide rights etc. I don't much care for the trivial matters of kerning and formatting either. Our fortunes are therefore assured (going nowhere).

Below: a newly deconstructed kitchen probe lands accurately on the earth, right planet but in the wrong room.

Citroen Design

 

Publicity shot: I've never owned a Citroen but if I did it would be a 70s DS. I say this purely based on the composition of this artful advertisement. That's reason enough. Modern car ads are complete rubbish in comparison. 

Reasonably Priced

Been a while since I've been to the "big" Tesco due to the required travel restrictions and the fact that I've no real reason to go there. Geography and pandemics work together to thwart my random wanderings and irregular shopping. My spies have informed me however that Spartacus the Tesco cat now has a proper bed set up in the foyer, in the screen wash display area. It does look rather comfortable and I'm glad to see he's taking a well earned rest. I am also quite interested in the hopefully reasonably priced kindling on display towards the rear of the photo. Might have to wait a while to get access to that.

Usual Low Key

 

Shimmering, familiar but almost unrecognizable, a step away from reality, in world where a mystical light plays upon random objects. Today is the 28th February and also the day of the low key publication of the outrageous machine heads artwork (without unwanted capitalization). Also available on eBay here.

A machine of perpetual grievance

 

Some short seemingly non-existent paragraphs from a short non-existent novel based around a Guardian feature I didn't read.

Machines: Not fully aware robots, AI, androids or kitchen blenders are all around, but any lack of obvious sentience that doesn't mean that the dishwasher hasn't negotiated some form of strange alliance with the freezer, those hive minds are expanding all the time, cutting deals and performing in surprising ways. Always close the fridge door gently, as if someone inside was a key worker and a light sleeper. Switch on and off with care.

So there I was, some time ago, sitting in the pale autumn sun having a coffee and a puff outside Temple Meads railway station in Bristol. It's probably my favourite station because of the smell of fresh cooked pasties and the whole Great Western thing or experience. I was puzzling over the arrangements for my long trip home and what citizenship of Bristol might mean should it ever happen to me. You see I was at that time a person of perpetual grievance. There was always something getting or about to get my goat. It's not healthy state of mind. Mechanical, trigger sprung like and always ready to resent. 

I thought that I might have some genetic disorder. A proper propensity to be aggrieved by life in general, by not living in Bath or Bristol, by the death of steam trains, the lack of common order in life and coffee served in inappropriate crockery designed by people who had clearly only ever drunk from a teat. There was nowhere to turn so I turned away. At that point the sun emerged from cloud cover and warmly kissed my cheek.

There was a screech of brakes, I looked up. A cat had nearly been run over by a taxi. The taxi had come to a halt in the middle of the road having clipped a bollard and a cyclist. The driver was now out of his vehicle, bemused and looking for the cat. The cyclist had fallen from his bike. The cat had however run off at great speed like some black flash, behind the bus stop, along the top of a stone wall and now away across a car park. The fright released a disproportionate amount of energy to which cat could only succumb and fly like a furry missile to safety. I saw the whole thing as a study on and an explanation of classical physics. There were no visible injuries but there was potential.

All that is in the past now, it took place five minutes ago and the traffic and the people have all moved on  with barely a ripple. I look across at the grim facade of the station. The comings and goings. I would have liked to be travelling on a train but I'm just killing time before the airport bus. Better to sit here in a watery sun, dream of stone and metal than wander the overpriced and soulless alloy and plastic corridors of crowded check-ins and departure lounges where safety cutlery and steaming microwaved excellence prevails. The avoidance of full blown grievance situations and their troubles is a highly sought after skill in this particular century.

It was about then that I awoke. There, safely strapped into my seat onboard some silvery spacecraft which was, according to the information screen, heading directly into the sun.

The wall of tone and volume

Welcome to the wall of tone. Turn it up or down or over. Blow up the volume. Try to find the sweet spot. Tweak. Crank it up. A flick of a digit and you're there. Digital to analogue, electric to acoustic. Quiet to loud. But as they said of Jeff Beck, it's all in the fingers. Always.

Can't be bothered?

Punch Drunk: The real problem with the Covid crazy train is that for many people (those actually untouched by the virus's real and tragic infection), the journey to wellness is a slow one. One where endurance, fortitude and basically parking your feelings and own opinions kind of need to take first place. You're in a tunnel and there's no light to walk towards, just the possibility that the crazy train is headed for you at an unknown speed. Shouting out abuse doesn't help either* (these are the things we can all do without). As for road-maps, I thought we all had smart phones for navigation these days.

*You should not use any information contained in this website to initiate the use of philosophical supplements, super vitamins, soft drugs and social media products or home made medicines, and other badly described products prior to consulting first with a physician or a progressive rock music provider of some sort. Impossible Songs disclaims any liability based on information provided in this website mainly because it's all just made up in the shower and then processed via accidental selection methods (a bit like the way the SNP currently do things).

All things might pass

"Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your Guitar God. I will strengthen your truss rod. Yes, I will help you stay in tune, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand volume control. I may however have erased your details." From the Bible for Mad People: The Book of Pointless Incantations, Chapter 66 Verse 6.

Yes, it's guitar serial number check time again, brought on by a slight de-cluttering of the mind and the physical storage spaces, not quite a death clean. Delving into the depths, digging deep, some reorganizing coupled with a little painful research. The interweb and eBay don't yield much and the old forums have collapsed in some bizarre way, possibly replaced by Facebook groups or something darker or now completely underground. Perhaps there's just an old shoe box full of notebooks on a shelf in a dusty cupboard dreaming of being a searchable database some day.

So I'm excluded from the greater body of knowledge, excommunicated. It's mostly down to the record keeping failures and glorious demise of the various guitar box-shifters and makers of the 70s and 80s that plied their trade between Japan/Korea and these septic isles. 

The Samick factory controls and produces 80% of the produce but their serial number systems are either non-existent or incomprehensible, there's no halfway measure here and the trail goes cold. Valuations are therefore not much more than a wet finger in the air, but at least the air is fresh and never mind where the finger might have been. It's no way to make an honest living.

Mad about the blog

 

By way of further explanation: The words, "Can only have been revisited and doctored by a madman", are inscribed in pencil in the top left-hand corner of the painting. This statement is only visible when viewed sympathetically through the eyes of Edvard Munch, not an easy viewpoint to simulate for the beginner. In future please try to keep most of your anxiety to yourself if possible. I'll try to do the same albeit I have this blog as an occasional outlet.

When life gives you salt and vinegar crisps...

 

...you make a salt and vinegar crisp sandwich. Don't forget to choose a nice fresh loaf and include plenty of butter, mayo or brown sauce according to your taste. (This is important life advice that you as an individual are clearly free to ignore, adopt or adapt.)

Time well spent

David Attenborough suggests that we should all go out (as conditions allow) into the woods or countryside and just sit still and watch that world for a bit. Stay relaxed and focused and after 10 minutes or so you will start to see all sorts of wildlife and natural events that will surprise and delight you. I've tried it, he's right. It was mostly noisy passing birds and common cloud shapes I saw, some slugs and simple things like leaves dropping etc. Choosing a good location does help with the overall quality of this exercise, maybe try the Serengeti or Yellowstone next time . 

Certain kinds of wildlife, as observed in the back garden recently.

Screenshot 44

By way of explanation: Just a few lines here about Screenshot 44. That's 44 not 43 or 45. Neither of them compared well with the big 44, so in the final analysis I chose 44 as the one to use. Obviously it's from an old map of South Queensferry when our house's site was but a green field. Possibly full of turnips. I've already forgotten the date of the map but it's around 100 years old or so, I guess.

You made be interested to know that as I don't name my screen shot files they are allocated numbers automatically by my laptop (I take screenshots with my phone but that's different so let's not confuse things). I don't take so many and as the file numbering resets back to 1 after 100 my total screenshots at the moment are about 150ish, but this, for the avoidance of any doubt is No.44 in the folder though it's also the 144th shot. 144 is also 12 x 12 but that's a discussion for another day.

I'm here to tell you ...

Some things about St Michael's sacred line and the seven sites:

"An impressive and mysterious straight line, which runs from Ireland to Israel, uniting seven monasteries and sanctuaries related to the Archangel Michael." 

Is it mere coincidence? Was it intentional? The seven shrines stand at great distances from each other, but are perfectly aligned (?).

The "Sacred Line of St. Michael the Archangel" symbolizes, according to tradition, the sword blow that the Archangel inflicted upon the devil to send him to hell after the battle in the heavens between faithful angels and rebellious angels who, led by Lucifer, they had turned against God.

Be that as it may, it is surprising the arrangement of all these sanctuaries along a straight line. Is it a warning from the Archangel that, in keeping with the laws of God, the faithful always walk in righteousness ? The Sacred Line, moreover, is perfectly aligned with the sunset on the day of the summer solstice in the Northern Hemisphere.

The only problem with this theory/fairy-tale is that the "straight" line isn't straight. It's wobbly here and there. Look at the bend it takes between Greece and Israel. I'm not seeing a miracle, possibly a series of odd coincidences in choosing building sites over the centuries.

The northernmost end of the line is on Skellig Michael (Ireland) where, apart from the various Viking and Christian events that took place there, Luke Skywalker is known to have had a retirement home, for a short time anyway. 

The second site (St Michael's Mount in Cornwall) isn't shown on the map as for some reason it skips it and heads straight to Mont-Saint-Michel in France.

The other locations are: Sacra di San Michele (Turin, Italy), Sanctuary of Monte Sant’Angelo (Mount Gargano, Italy), Symi Monastery Greece and Stella Maris Monastery (Haifa, Israel).

So now you know.

It Tolls for Thee

 

You can't beat a good bit of death, although a good bit of life is preferable. David Hockney once said that "the cause of death is birth", well that's about all you might need to know but for greater depth, details and insights on the topic this book is pretty useful. It's a bit of a reference, revelation, guidance and advice book and it's also an easy and at times moving read describing what works and doesn't work so well when a death occurs (and it could be yours) and we must respond and act. So any morbid curiosity you may have about the unseen world of undertakers and funeral protocols is quite natural, understandable and rewarded here. Read on guilt free, equip and prepare yourself for the great unknown and the awkwardly familiar.

Written by Shetland based broadcaster, musician and writer (obviously) Tom Morton, it's an excellent and thought provoking book. There are many insider experiences, tribute examples, practical tips and information sources given that could prove invaluable in times of grief, mourning or for your own future farewell's planning. It also covers Covid related departure issues, being newly published it's therefore up to date and highly relevant. 

Interestingly I've gone over a year without reading a book, a situation I blamed on lock-down cabin fever and my 2020 acquired inability to concentrate or focus. A year of not reading an entire book has never occurred before in my adult life but I read this one in a couple of days ... Hallelujah, I'm cured, or could it be the Covid vaccine is working?

Funeral for a fridge

The funeral for the fridge has yet to take place but it's passing has been a slow, sad, downhill process. At times we suspected there might be a recovery. Cold air wafted across the shelves, the fan whirred and optimistic ice formed. Drinks and spreads remained comfortably chilly, albeit some assistance in the form of icy freezer blocks was regularly required. As it happened it gave up the ghost on Saturday, slowly warming up, in line with the great thaw taking place outside in the wider world. Water, like a clear life blood, ran from the foot of the door. Nothing smells more death like than a broken down fridge. 

Gingerly things were removed and examined, some sent to the other freezer, some to the tiny drinks fridge, some to the front door vestibule (known to be the coldest spot in the house) and some consigned to the bin (with difficulty). A few luckier items were eaten as it happened, by being turned into "emergency" soup. These items mostly took the form of some kind of broccoli. Now it's midweek and the soup has been consumed. It's all over. We mourn and we must move on.

The assorted saucy sachets seen in the photograph above are refugees from the sunken fridge, why they were ever put in there nobody knows. Now they are homeless. Spare a thought for them.

The tyre that became a drum

 Now a happy story of transition:

And so the long journey from being a used motor car tyre to becoming a nicely sounding Taiko drum is complete. All the hard work, filming, planning and execution carried out by Mrs A G in an afternoon.

Green unpleasant land

 

Last week we broke the blender. Some over enthusiastic smoothie processing caused catastrophic failure of a small but frangible internal part. Once again my cursed but blessed friend Mr eBay came to the rescue as I discovered the part was available for our exact (somewhat vintage) model. £7.50 and two days later it arrived in the familiar Chinese packaging though not direct from China. Thank you UK box-shifters. 

After the customary fiddling and swearing the new part was installed and to my surprise it all worked once again. The end result being this green porridge-like smoothie made from kale, mango, kiwi, banana and orange juice. This unplanned recipe was of course the result of an unplanned catastrophic freezer failure; one unlikely to be repaired via Mr eBay's good grace and supply chain either. We just need to stop having catastrophic failures, simple as that.

Crumbs, tyres and a golden age.

These are not the biscuits I expected to see when I opened the pack. Every one cracked and broken. A proper first world problem that can't be blamed on European relations, pandemics, the weather or the oppression suffered by our beloved and baffled country. It can't be blamed on the political left's loss of meaningful traction and their shifting policy positions or the unhealthy and one side economic measures and targets we might use to rate our successes and failures. Neither is it anything do with the cultural bankruptcy that produces hour upon our of meaningless streams of TV and digital entertainment focused on the pointless activities and relationships of talentless people I just can't seem to care about. The corrupt press and media moguls have nothing to do with these biscuits either despite their heavy handed influence on all levels of society. I think that these poor biscuits simply suffered some mishap in the warehouse or en route to the store where I bought them. It's as simple as that. They were perfect when they left the factory.

Here's a tyre that will soon be a drum.

And here's the Discovery, snowed in at Dundee with the V&A behind, looking for all the world as if she was back in Antarctica a hundred of more years ago. A time warp back to some golden age of exploration and tragedy.