A place to park those random thoughts, stolen images, hidden conversations and incoherent babble from beyond the wall of sleep. Odd bits of music and so-called worldly wisdom may creep in from time to time. Don't expect too much and you won't feel let down.
Always more trippy in someone else's garden.
Having uploaded this I quickly realized that images contained within the detail, all naturally floral and vegetable, had morphed into something a little more phallic as a result of some unexplained "process". In the name of art I've decided to run with it, or at least post it here for want of anything better to do with it.
I first read this sign as Muriel Spark Way (like Yuri Gagarin Way) then realized it was Muriel Spark Walk though I read that as Muriel Spark's Walk. I then wondered if she walked in some peculiar or distinctive manner. Perhaps with a slight limp or with flamboyant or perhaps very graceful movements, like a fashion model would. Maybe with the purposeful gait of a doughty head mistress or an angry policewoman, or like a party lady tottering in high heels or like a cowgirl, moving to her inner music's beats on some line dance night.
Probably none of these apply but I presume she did walk amongst the mere mortals of Bruntsfield, quite normally, once upon a time, somewhat detached, observing and noting, laughing to herself and grinning at her fellow humans with their strange habits, loves and behaviours; there across the uneven grounds of Bruntsfield Links.
Not much had changed since except everything, her beautiful world with all it's fine aspirations is a fading shell, hollowed out, as if a stray and nasty tongue had sucked a Malteser to a soggy husk; people, lovers, dogs, coffee, inner city relaxation, chatter and rough picnics. Still there but mostly unobserved because daily life doesn't matter so much, there's too much of it about, constantly recorded and replayed on social media. What remains to be said that is actually new and fresh?
I do these things, note them, experience them, remember them; sometimes. More frequently and I don't know why, I just forget.
There maybe two bees in this photo or one bee and a smudge, not sure. I've discovered that trying to count the amount of bees in a garden at any one time is difficult. They simply refuse to stay still long enough to allow you to focus in on them. There's probably a scientific method that allows an accurate figure to be arrived at using a complex statistical formula, a grid, two finely sliced lemons, a pot of jam and a special camera borrowed from NASA.
Speaking of insects: Why, when said in a certain way, does the word "mosquito" also sound a lot like "whisky toad"?
We come and go, we are all alone except we are not. As above: a rocky promontory where tourists and day trippers sit and noisily scoff fish and chips while enjoying the view. The smells hang in the air in the still of the slow summer evening but I've had my tea. Locals generally avoid this area for their own personal reasons, all of which remain a set of closely guarded secrets that outsiders can never know or understand. That also includes me.
Meanwhile an old Saab (there are only old Saabs now, a fact that annoys me) is still stuck at the top of a short set of steps that it can never hope to negotiate. It sits and stares forlornly down the close, towards the High Street and all it's bright, shining, imagined pleasures and distractions. There is also fresh festival bunting as now it is THAT time of year.
If you are sensing any sense of despair in these words then your sense of your sense of despair could be described as reasonably accurate but still sadly misplaced.
