Wild Tales

 

The builders are back this week knocking lumps out of the back garden. It'll be fine by spring. Our cats are therefore housebound, they don't mix well with heavy machinery and mud. I'm trying to keep them calm by playing Tales from Topographic Oceans at a reasonably low volume. Music soothes the savage beastie etc. I've not heard this in a while and I last saw Yes live on the 10th December 1973. That's a long time ago, long before they all fell out. They were touring this album. Sigh. It's not effective on managing cat behaviour either.

The longer this blog goes on the more it becomes some sort of disorganized historical record of life's snippets, those being mostly  inconsequential and trivial things remembered but not in any great detail. Perhaps they'll be from yesterday or from 1969. One seems as close as the other. I'm an analogue man.

Nothing to do with Jackson Pollock

These are not copies or originals, not even close. Some might call them tributes. Cheap tributes, easily done in a digital world. They are both meaningless and important and for the purposes of nothing in particular a tribute is:

1. A gift, payment, declaration, or other acknowledgment of gratitude, respect, or admiration.
2. Evidence attesting to some praiseworthy quality or characteristic.
3. A payment in money or other valuables made by one ruler or nation to another in acknowledgment of submission or as the price of protection or security.

Edinburgh Daily Covid Vaccine Update

 

Edinburgh, the city with a masochistic appetite for self destruction under the guise of development. The development and flagellation never ends either so the pain is continuously sweet for the planners and iPad holders. Every second street is a construction battlefield of tram works or gas and water repairs. Next comes the fibre optic broadband cable, thereafter who knows? Never getting it right first or second time, the continuous spiral runs amok in the perpetual motion of men, materials and machinery. A generation of kids wouldn't recognise central Edinburgh without the temporary lights, barriers or Heras fencing. We're all just fed up with it.

So yesterday found me in the "convenient" location of Ocean Terminal to get my flu and Covid vaccine. I'm not complaining about that either, the staff were first class and very helpful, so despite the peculiar location and a longish journey from my gaff, all went well. Thank you NHS.

Ocean Terminal is however a sorry sight (and site) these days. A battle scarred mall, under siege by ever present tram-works. A great hall of shopping that once gleamed and buzzed, it's been hollowed out by cultural change and closures to the point that it's more a Leith community hub than a shopping or entertainment attraction. Maybe there's nothing wrong with that but it was a shock to see it, having not been there for about ten years. Me and all the other oldies wondering around, killing time before our needle's appointment were in the majority. Bussed in custom. A grey mass of disinterest and slight confusion.

It needs investment but it wont get it and it will collapse in on itself. The once shiny new flats and surrounding properties also have that washed out look that marks the early stages of city district's structural decay. We're focusing on the wrong things I think. A lot of mistakes have been made and there's a pile of new ones on the way.

I did have a lovely little lunch in a Turkish Cafe halfway down Leith Walk though, on the sunny side of course. Mustn't grumble.

Norman Rockwell: The Connoisseur

This is great art in numerous ways but it was only constructed as a magazine cover, Rockwell's regular line of work. He was seen as an illustrator and not an artist. 

As for the expression on the connoisseur's hidden face? I think he's really enjoying the piece. The "Jackson Pollockesque" art work was done by Rockwell himself as you probably knew. Maybe that's why it's being enjoyed by the figure. Of course opinions vary widely on this, which is fair enough. 

It is a painting within a painting. It also reminds me how little time I actually spend looking, despite all those inner voices of whispered advice that I encounter. Concentrate on concentration.

Royal Family Theme Park

 

Now that the royal family and the deep state seem to have mastered the concept of queue management it only seems right that they should move into the realm of theme park ownership. In theme parks the queue (also for some how to avoid or usurp it) is king (an unfortunate title I know). Think of the potential; great queues made up of baffled members of the general public waiting for hours to view nothing in particular for a few brief seconds, what a business opportunity and potential revenue stream ... and we now know it works. You'll also get a union jack souvenir wrist band.

Shuffle towards the promise of thrilling rides but without any thrill, just a vague sense of pointlessness and the smell of polished wood. Those dullards will happily form an orderly line for any crap or potential piece of titillation and it's such a British thing to take part in. They'll pay for it too, all that's needed is some vague or suggested royal bit of patronage, perhaps some cheap slabs of memorabilia on display and you're away. 

Possible sites are; somewhere not too close to Windsor (but still on the M4 corridor) or maybe in Norfolk or the West Country. Forget Scotland, the North(?) or Wales, they're too remote and filled with ignorant, beer swilling cretins mostly. No, we'll keep it in England where it can flourish thanks to generous Russian slush money and lumps of untraceable charity funding. A royal commission will explore the options and ultimately run it under some royal charter or other so we can screw over the staff and patrons easily. 

The word "royal" has almost magical properties in the UK as far as the common people and tourist types are concerned and should be used whenever possible, it tends to shut up and out any criticism or negative observation. It also ensures a massive buy in from TV and the press in general. Proof that they'll swallow any nonsense and serial gas-lighting and gladly pass their approval and vacuous comments onto the public. It's a sure fire winner and thanks to some obscure Act of Parliament pretty much tax free for our royal masters.

Fun for all the family at Windsor Land where mundane reality quickly transforms into an expensive and warped fairy tale of family feuds, greed, privilege and non stop posturing. You won't want to miss it.

 

Cat of the Day

Monday the 19th. Nothing much happening today, a few shops closed, people milling about, occasional buses grumbling by. The weather is decent enough so I can't complain. Might do a spot of gardening. I wonder if there's anything worth watching on TV?

News Maggots

The problem with news is there is a lot of it and that it has to be edited. This is understandable of course, we can only absorb so many facts and diverse situations and as there is so much news out there somebody needs to manage it. It's no different from writing history, which is actually the same thing as news. It's also liable to be distorted, exaggerated or hidden. Anyway I'm full up of news now, full to the brim. I have no spare capacity for new news or indeed new history at the moment. I'd therefore be grateful if people would just stop doing possibly newsworthy things for a while and also if media editors could prune any emerging news down into small truthful and relevant chunks that the average person might digest easily. 

In a leap of pure imagination I have coined the term "news maggots". I'm unclear who the news maggots are or who they work for but I think they probably do exist. They also may think that they are doing a decent job; if supporting failing royalist regimes, dangerous business practices and toxic governments is a decent job. In conclusion not everybody in the news or the media is a news maggot, that would be ridiculous but clearly there are some in there. I suppose there are also media maggots, entertainment maggots, war maggots and industry and economic maggots too. It just goes on. Oh, I just remembered that news maggots have little brothers: badly informed opinion maggots.

How artificial intelligence sees the UK media's finest.

Anstruther Daily Photo

 

A sunny morning, the world is stirring but this spot seems far away from the stresses and strains and lies and platitudes circling in other places. They lurk, watching and waiting for more carrion to chew up or spit out.  Here there is empty space. Hold it steady. The tide is moving out at the back-sea-sands in Anstruther Wester. The sand dries itself as no one watches. Seaweed clogs up the beach and strangles the rock. A still but not unpleasant breeze is blowing. Nobody is about, nobody else on the beach. No window faces or chatter. I'm walking in slow circles. Thoughts take flight and settle wherever.

Grave Concerns

 

Artist's  impression only.

Today would have been my mum's 100th birthday had she lived, so I took it on myself to go on a reflective gravestone cleaning mission down in the East Neuk of Fife. There lie most of my forebears, many of the two families being buried not very far apart in the same cemetery. I parked in the nearby car park and shuffled into the cemetery carrying an orange B&Q bucket, some water and cleaning materials. I'm self aware enough to know I must've looked a bit odd, like some professional grave stone cleaner or perhaps a weird ghoul who likes things spik and span. I'm neither, I just have dose of seasonally acquired central Scotland guilt that needs exorcising every now and then. I did my bit and left feeling I'd done a nice thing. I'm not so bad a person perhaps. 

I then pondered using the remaining cleaning materials on grimy and neglected road signs on the way home. I quickly realised that this was a bad idea. I know people do that kind of thing; sign vigilantes. Also people go out and  correct grammatical errors on signs and company hoardings. While I share the urge to do these things from time to time, I've still some self control left. My grave concerns are not quite grave enough and my hi-vis jacket was in the other car.

Simulated Bumble

In surveys (YouGov etc.) some people reportedly have expressed the wish to be reincarnated as a worker bee (though not to me personally) or some other industrious insect. They think the busy and seemingly worthwhile life of a bee might suit them following on from their brief spell in human form leading dull lives in retail and web design. I don't think it's so simple. Bees generally get a raw deal in this world so be careful what you wish for, unless you're a bee bot. In theory a bee bot can live forever so reincarnation isn't relevant. Also don't assume that a cat life might be a good alternative, there's a lot of stress and anxiety in their world and some dirty, unsocial lifestyle activity. Before choosing why not try things out via an expensive and lurid simulation?

Rule of Thumb

 

Ever have the feeling that you're being silently observed? Looking around expecting to catch somebody and stare back at them but there's nothing to see, only you and you feel like you're being seen. These watchers seem to come and go. A strong sense of them and a shudder of panic and then it's over. Some stranger in the distance, walking away from you now , or so you imagine. It can't be police or security either, they haven't the time or the interest. You're not a criminal anyway.  Well maybe in your thoughts and you know your own boundaries there.

 

You're guilty of nothing. Nothing apart from a sense of a ripple in your Karma that's unpleasant. Perhaps you're not as real as you thought, more a mixture of wraith or fleshy spirit. What are you anyway? It could be you morph, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly as you live your life. In and out of phase you go, along with reality. Who is at the controls anyway?

Queens lie dead in cathedrals. Meanwhile a courtier places a peculiar hat and garland on an ugly beast who's behaviour may be unpredictable. One of the courtier's hands has already been bitten off. Crowds gather to stare but they don't know what they are looking at and they'll remember little of it tomorrow. There will be a new pauper's banquet laid out for them, more visual than physical however so the good people remain hungry but satisfied that for a brief moment they were given some attention. Banner headlines shout in telling whispers as they search for themselves in banks of images, it's the rule of thumb.

Toadstool Town

 

Almost overnight Toadstool Town appeared in the garden. A new development. I should also say with any consultation or planning permission. We love our rules and red tape here so swift action was required. I noted that the builders or occupants appeared to have fled and, like any good, greedy landowner had the site quickly cleared. I know this action is of course futile, they'll be back soon enough, but for a fleeting moment I felt like some parasite king wielding newly given powers though unable to understand the consequences of his actions. All completely normal in the world we live in.

Pimp My Alloys

 Any time you like, hopefully for a reasonable price.

Pittenweem Daily Photo

 

At large in Pittenweem in order to avoid the crowds and to fill the vacuum left by the ridiculous stopping of football fixtures and so on. We're not all sombre and incapacitated with grief and self delusion as it turns out. Here we have a fish and chips lunch served on a fish shaped plate. A nice touch. One of the highlights of a sunny day wandering around by the waterfront in an empty headed fashion.

And along comes the sea, unruly and disrespectful as ever towards the land and the curious people huddled together on it.

A Plague of Media Sycophants

In the pub last as we started on our first round and raised our glasses I jokingly said, "God save the King". I accidentally sounded like some serf from the middle ages holding up a flagon of dirty ale and downing it in one. On days like these it seems like we've hardly moved on, we know our place. Ridiculous royal families, archbishops submitting pointless prayers, fussy courtiers, stuffed up royal protocol and the swarm of odious media sycophants. It'll be a long, dreary September.

Every family has it's grief and tragedy and it's right to celebrate the long life of a loved one but ... I'm already tired of it. Also, nobody is going to find it easy to sing "God save the King" ever, it just sounds even more wrong than it ever sounded. It's a shit tune and a shit set of words. It never did sound right to me in any shape or form, now it's just some crazy thing we can't escape.

Too Tired

 

Some things are broken up. 

Some things are broken down.

 Some things are broken in the middle.

Everything is fragile it seems.

Otto Dix Said

I bet the artist Otto Dix once said, "War is a natural event." I'd also add: like rain or a sandstorm, extinction, a meteor strike, drought or migration. War will always be happening somewhere in some measure. Also not helped when people are forever disagreeable and just can't leave things be.

Screenshot 2022

Screenshot 20220831 along with approximate location.

This isn't art.

Sylvanian Family Car Crash

 

Like most days it started out well enough for the family. Not too much juice or cereal spilled at breakfast time. All teeth cleaned without any drama or overworked performance. Clothes on in some sort of organised fashion along with the correct shoes for today's outdoor activities. All youngsters accounted for on the back seat. Then calamity struck early on in the journey. A serious collision with a badly parked couch and an abandoned coffee mug left the Sylvania's red SUV somewhat wrecked but the occupants relatively unharmed. Being made of tough plastic is a great advantage in an RTA, unless the vehicle is on fire of course.

In other news: I always accept all of the cookies. I'm hard wired to do so. It's a Fife thing I guess. Home baked Sylvanian Family cookies are particularly welcome.

South Queensferry Daily Photo

 

Nearby to SQ we have the Dundas Estate, where sky, land and water meet. This also happens in other places from time to time, you may also have noticed it. Anyway it made for a very pleasant walk as the swans hissed peacefully into our ears and the ducklings scattered across the surface of the water. It never rains when you're strolling beneath the greenest  and widest of trees. It doesn't even pour. It just hangs in some kind of inexplicable suspension of vapour, space and time. Science doesn't know everything and it hasn't explored all of the possibilities either. I'll leave it there.