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.
As usual there are a number of daily Matrix glitches taking place here in SQ. Sometimes things just shimmer and shudder and disappear and then reappear. Of course you have to be paying very close attention otherwise you'll miss these moments. It's all in the eye and the mind of the beholder. You need to be careful not to confuse the real and the unreal. If you can catch the eye of the pavement dogs and check on the visible codes. This doesn't work on humans.
Blue is the opposite of orange. Red is the opposite of green. Yellow is the opposite of purple. If you can't quite see or think of colour this way then hopefully this might help you enjoy ... colours. The design and construction of the above colour wheel device was carried out by my better half. It was deliberately photographed in black and white(ish) because that's the sort of thing we do around here.
* A lengthy footnote describes how our new ruler was wearing what was said to be a "cruel suit", one that had associations. She wore it for a specific purpose, to send a message. When the speaker stands in her cruel suit the people are braced, ready for a push, an insult or a slap, perhaps some more discrete punishment. There will be pain. Will she declare that concentration camps are to be set up? That everyone must be single minded in this? That there are "others" who can never fit in? That those with different ideas are not to be trusted? That she knows what's good for us and what's best for us? Is truth important?
Another view was that she was advised the wear the suit. She was unaware of it's connections or history. She just accepted the decision of a director who "knew about these things". It didn't dawn on her that she was being played. That she was just as much of a puppet as everyone else in the room. She is a nobody, an empty vessel, a nodding donkey lacking the wit and imagination to see the real situation, to see the grinning shadows stalking in the twilight, there behind the bright proscenium archway. Her imagined glory is just a pack of lies that they maintain, an image made to be broken once it's useless to them.
As it's the 1st of October I decided to try to search out my old friend and imaginary travelling companion Tom Bombadil. Tom is still reasonably upset about being excluded from the LoTR FILM due to time constraints and "not really adding much to the overall narrative". You can understand why he's gone to ground. "At least you're a Lego figure in the game," somebody said. I don't think that the honour of that counted as much compensation for him. Anyway a few years have passed so I thought he must be close to getting over it by now, surely he's moved on.
He is also a bit forgetful and easily distracted so perhaps he's OK with things. Of course you should never underestimate the emotional depth of those who are immortal or outside of time or whatever. Their pain can be something that defines them significantly. Turns out he's still not ready to surface. Still pretty pissed off. My trekking shoes from ALDI will have to wait a bit longer for their first sizable outing and explorative challenge.
I wonder if he'll make some kind of appearance in Amazon's Rings of Power. That might help soothe the hurt. Maybe even just a "walk on". Then again he may not be so happy with this particular adaptation.
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Aldi Broxburn - Base Camp Diary: I'm on a trek thanks to my new trekkers, they're for trekking. Rain, wind snow, sleet, shopping bargains, I won't be beaten by the elephants. The poor weather didn't stop me, I'm in the brand new aisles of the local Aldi. A spacious tin cathedral for the cost conscious shopper, sparking clean and open to the general public and the great unwashed. It's the traditional treasure hunting experience and I'm fueled by a Greggs roll in sausage, a latte and a grim sense of purpose. In the end I left with coffee and biscuits and some yogurts. The trekking shoes were something of an after thought but now I have them I'm headed for the hills, weather permitting.
The great grey tendrils of fungi brain reach across the garden. The signal traffic can be quite intense. The instructions, garbled electricity to dull human ears ring crystal clear in the darkness of the damp soil. "Toadstool Town must be rebuilt at all costs." And so it was. It is futile to resist the gentle commands of the fungal consciousness, it's complex network silently running the world of Terra Firma as we idly pass by above, oblivious and unaware of it's power and intent. As the destroyer of Toadstool Town One I have to confess to a deep sense of guilt. I'll not be making that mistake again. I'll sleep better tonight knowing that TTT remains intact. I'm not sure what they are planning for the next stage of the project. I'll keep you posted.
Black Watch Memorial: Once I did belong to them as a junior, more than fifty years ago. That's a long time by any reckoning. The memorial is a lot older.
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.
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.
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.
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.
