Categorical

The not so fine art of regular blog posting is basically a long running brain dump (and I know it's mostly complaints, moans and awkward photos). Perhaps not quite for everyone who practices this futile pastime but it is in my case anyway. Here's what an over exposed brain dump actually looks like if it's retrieved from the dump, stretched out and displayed. It probably makes more sense in this bleak but organized image than most of the stuff I put out. So here am I wasting energy on my best attempts at mangling the English language with pithy observations and abstract ideas only to find that it's reduced, reformed and translated into coded nonsense under the digital engine's glossy cover.

Here's a real (?) brain dump.

Psychic Cat TV

Dateline 15th March 2024, about 8ish in the morning. Cats are happily watching TV. There are many special programs etc. As an added warning my own experience is that nearby humans slowly become hypnotized also. There is no known cure or antidote.

Film Noir Daily Photo

 

Another day spent out and about in the oblique world of Film Noir, taking the occasional picture of course. There's a cast of characters here but they don't really mean much to me. Some are badly written, some badly imagined. You can never tell. Everyone has a story. Everybody wants to get somewhere, maybe even out of this town. They all have weaknesses that will become obvious. Cigarettes and coffee. Desire, passion and money. The good old days. Personal clouds hang overhead. It's a spectacle of dank atmosphere. Tight shoes, neckties and rain. Forever rain. 

Hear them whisper their dark and hungry motives out loud in the soundtrack's crackle. All set up to try to do bad things, things that they think will end well for them but they'll soon sleep with those silver fishes. They are as unreal as their monochrome images. Spectres and ghosts breathing, trying to sound sincere as they mouth their fictional lines at the counter in the joint. The audience long to dwell and become lost in this dramatic world, a world before smart phones and distractions.

Real names are for losers and only ever mentioned in the final credits, those blurred up things that nobody bothers to read. The state of the greasy hairdos is no one's business either and the music is as intense as a weighted blanket thrown from a third floor window. It was a cheap and grim production but I'd go again. I'm devoted. Silently we all leave the cinema and embrace the rain.

B Movie Cast, L to R clockwise: Stig O'Tracy Snr. Jackie Whatabout, 

Miles Ducktop, Hannah McBiggins.

C Movie Cast, L to R no-clock: Alex Fingerbob, Dick Steel, 

Tallulah Ivory-Merchant, the Sinister Hidden Man.

Versatile Pasta

This is not ordinary pasta. This pasta is versatile. Apparently it can be eaten either hot or cold. It's hard not to be impressed by almost casual statements like this and the other hidden gems often found in the small print that is so often ignored on pasta packets. Get yourself down to the supermarket and just, for once, pay attention to the details and the specific advice that somebody has worked so hard to create for you. Eventually it all came together as both tasty and versatile once the brightly coloured sauce had brewed itself into a spicy conclusion and been added to the mix. Then we ate it.

Don't Ask Me

"Poor Things".

It seems that everything is broken but that's not new, arguably it always has been. What does anybody actually expect based on thousands of years of human activity and behaviour? There's no evidence to suggest we can resolve conflict and ideological differences. We can master technology but not ourselves. We're mostly unable to work together to find solutions for common problems and when we do we still squabble over the outcomes and the distribution of any powers that develop or profit that might be gained. 

There is no fair, sustainable and/or reasonable way of living and organizing ourselves that's actually being promoted either by religion, education or political process. They all just talk across each other. And while I'm at it your heat pumps, farmer's markets and EVs aren't going to save you. Best thing to do is develop your photo editing skills and rewrite your own story for posterity. Then find new ways to recycle, clean and reuse your own domestic water. You'll thank me later. 😉

Virtual Snacks

A confession from the Citadel of Indifference where they dare to write such things as: 

"A lukewarm steak bake in Kinross

A chicken curry pie in Ellon

A salted caramel Ritter Sport near Brechin

These are the things I may have eaten."

Clearly our thoughts and prayers are with you at this time. That's about all though. Kyrie Eleison.

Logs

A giant builder's bag of logs was delivered today (which is really yesterday now) by two average sized people. It's always a worry that an actual giant will turn up with the delivery and be in a bit of a bad mood for some reason and just create havoc and destruction all over the place before he sees the error of his ways and clumsily but honestly tries to clear up his mess but doesn't really do it very well. Then he spills his tea on an old ladies' dog and accidentally punches a passing bus in the rear radiator etc. etc. We've all been there I'm sure, owning any kind of property comes with a stream of irrational but possible worries. 

So we're back again to holding a reasonable (giant I suppose) stock of "air dried" logs that should tide us over until we need some more. I'm conflicted about the greenness of this way of heating our things but as you might imagine all the log sellers say don't be bothered it's going to be fine and everything is sustainable as long as nobody does anything stupid, like annoying the imaginary giant that I keep imagining. I also enjoy building and then lighting fires ... it's likely that this won't end well.

Forever Psychedelic

 

Happy trails: Some things are old but they never actually get old. This is because I just wont allow it. Time may be an infinite thing but eventually it also becomes whatever you make when using it up because looking backwards time is only finite. Your time is your life, nothing more. Don't dare ask how I've come upon this knowledge.

In other news I am now of the firm opinion that the person who came up with the term "to break the internet"  truly deserves some sort of humiliating rotten vegetable and cold rice pudding based, medieval style of  public punishment. This also applies to a lesser extent to any other users of that meaningless phrase.

No Wizard

 

I've taken up temporary residence in the up to date and trendy world of Harry Potter. Yes, even at my advanced age becoming a wizard was always an option. It hasn't been easy however, what with all those incomprehensible spells to learn, all the infighting and the shocking amounts of food that's wasted daily. Politics and human nature do spoil everything. Too much drama really and no time to carry out any proper scientific research into dark magic, life after death and the like. 

Anyway I've got a nice cat, a quill pen and some sort of uncomfortable hoodie from Temu to wear. It's probably a bit like working as a comedy writer for the BBC might have been, before colour TV was invented, not that I've ever had the privilege of holding such a free and creative type of position or that I can write comedy. 

They tell me a new wizarding adventure is just around the corner, somewhere past the old lady's shrunken head shop and beyond the wobbly tree. At least, due to my collection of well and truly lived in years, I don't have annoying, trumpeting parents to deal with unlike all the spoiled screen fixated and pixelated brats in my various classes. My spirit animal is now a magpie in case you were wondering. Perhaps I'm living in the wrong book?

Walkers?

 Conclusive proof that there is no hope for humanity.

Mingulay Boat Song

OK, so what part of being Scottish is it that really matters? It's a confusing issue, what makes us who we are? All screwed up, conflicted, frustrated and in perpetual disagreement about anything that's vaguely touchy, like our prickly nationality issues and our tattered cultural history. For no good reason I'm currently of the opinion that there are two types of people in our tiny, mongrel version of the world. Those who know of the Mingulay Boat Song and those who don't. I see this as being a mark of a few personal, generational and tribal divisions. There are other marks too I suppose (like who knows where exactly Mingulay is? Does the No. 43 bus go past it?) but so what?

I'm also wondering if it might be, in some way, put to use as an identifier or as a divider. What does it mean to be properly Scottish these days? Legal status, Scottish parents, tartan embarrassment, a sense of being lost in the Scotch mist, self destructive behaviour? It's a mystery to me but could you live an entire life in Scotland and have not ever heard of the Mingulay Boat Song? Hmm. Would you want it played at your funeral or are you a "My Way" kind of person? Perhaps you'd rather that a creative dance piece was performed to sum up and pay tribute to your existence in a novel and stimulating way.

Nationalistic extremists might suggest (?) that those who don't know the Mingulay Boat Song should be considered traitors or at the very least are only sham Scots deserving some awkward but painful fate; say banishment to the Isle of Man, severe financial penalties or being shunned in public. I'm shrinking back from that kind of action. That's taking things too far. I'm certainly uncomfortable with any ethnic based violence, primitive  retribution or being exposed to a perpetual frizzled huff; but if you are Scottish and you don't know this song ... 

This thinking could also be applied to holding up a reasonable (at least in my opinion) appreciation of the wonderful Alex Harvey's back catalogue ... or Chick Murray, or the history of the Broons family or knowing what to do with a "slider". None of this is ever easy, we're in conflict with ourselves and our confused heritage all the time, because despite our common threads and failings we kind of despise our fellow Scot's own Scottish ignorance when encountered in the flesh. I'm thinking of some recent efforts like the "Redcoat Cafe" in Edinburgh Castle.

It's been a long, hard road to some non specific redemption that we can't seem to find (it is non specific after all) but the crippling guilt remains real. The mixed, diseased and tragic blood of our forefathers' many follies is stirred up by it all and so far I can't apologize for it any more than I can get past it. It's a sinking ship that never quite goes under. We're up to the gunwales in salty sea water and fish heads and the waters of the Minch are white. Brave people ruled over by idiots, so we'll always find ourselves fucked over time and time again. It's all too much, but in troubled times just sing a quiet wee song to yourselves, some self soothing, the good lord will find you ... "heel yo ho boys, let her go boys" ...

Butterfly on the Moon

Butterfly on the Moon: Another older song rendered into video form thanks to the tech of Rotor, a few of their clips and a few of ours. This is fun already. If you think that there's no real, modern and intelligent audience for this stuff, you might well be right. You might also be wrong. They say that size matters but it's not everything.

Mystery Box

 

I get what seems like a lot of spam messages from (fake?) supermarkets promising me a mystery box if I'll only ... I ignore them but would still like to get a mystery box. That far away and tantalising one I'm regularly promised. Morrison's Mystery Box, Sainsbury's Mystery Box, all full of ... proper mystery. Mysterious things in boxes are hard to resist. What if it was something valuable or just really dark? 

Who remembers "lucky bags" when they were kids? Those tacky mystery packages from about 60 years ago that all good corner shops sold. Cheap paper bags sealed and feebly filled with maybe a balloon or a wax crayon, rubbish sweets and a sense of disappointment. We kept coming back for more though, one time you just might be really lucky. Nobody ever was. Nobody had experienced a good lucky bag but we still tried and failed to find one. Nobody knew what lucky looked or felt like.

When people tell you after some event, trauma or serious episode in their life that "lessons have been learned", you can be pretty sure that they haven't. We're all hooked into experiencing the mystery. Repeat. We click the bait and believe in ... something.

China Penguin

Original but imaginary art: A fine porcelain penguin that was accidentally broken by a mischievous kitten is successfully repaired using the famous and quite difficult to master Kintsugi technique. This method is often practiced in Japan where fragile things seem to suffer damage from time to time. There is no clear information regarding the other objects pictured here but one looks like a similarly repaired egg also made from porcelain. That's it.

Natural Laser Use

When the bombardment of the on line adverts begin there's no hiding place. These are now crawling across my phone and laptop despite my chronic lack of historical foot fungi and any related infections - but I'm in the target demographic I guess being a 60+ white male; impulsive and obviously stupid. They know me so well and are delving into my click history ... or maybe not really. So who thought that the "natural solution" for fungal foot and toe troubles would be a Chinese built (I assume) laser device that you can safely clamp onto your toe? 

A Nobel prize is heading out in the post for the genius inventor of something we've all thought only possible in wildly crazy Sci-fi scenarios and maybe our worst nightmares. I did not see this historic medical leap forward and self use healthy lifestyle tech coming along in my lifetime. Take all of my money now and I'll quietly sit on the couch, laser doctoring my feet as I watch some AI crafted crime drama on Apple TV. Whatever it was Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C Clarke said or even just inferred about the future was all perfectly correct.

Insomnia

Are you troubled by insomnia? Night terrors, wee small hours starvation, itchy feet, over active imagination, wandering thoughts, anxious musings, a weird and unwholesome dread for what tomorrow might bring, hearing strange noises/voices, zombie nightmares, sleep talking or walking, monsters in the wardrobe, icy cold feeling, captivated by shadows moving across the ceiling, jumpy legs, enemies who might just be friends, over attentive pets, the need to pee, mysterious outside activity, drafting a novel in your head, distant alarms and disturbances, a dry throat or a persistent cough, far away train whistles, badly deconstructed guitar lines, tomorrow's shopping list, fear of the angel of death visiting, night sweats?

Well I'm not (so far), but none of this is true.

12 Years Gone

This started life as a so called bargain kit guitar bought on eBay with "parts missing". I can't actually remember what parts were missing and it hardly matters now. That was about 12 years ago and I had some enthusiasm for the project because I was selling pyro decorated guitars as a sideline. I put the cat design on it and fiddled with it for a while but it was never finished and never playable. I just couldn't get the neck level right, it went through a few necks and it was all a bit of a bodge, so I thought. There's a broken drill bit stuck inside there as well but that's another story. Needless to say it went on to gather dust.

Fast forward: It's now complete (I bought some crappy wooden neck shims from Temu that actually worked) but maybe it still needs a few adjustments. The guitar plays well enough and actually has a decent Tele sound, I didn't expect that. OK it's a bit of a mess but ... twelve years on and still a bodge. I'm lacking in the development of the necessary skills but I keep plodding along with this. Might just use it for slide. 🤔

Slouching Towards Bethlehem etc.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere.

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

...

Incomplete verses by my own editorial action, 

all still by W B Yeats, but you knew that anyway.

These words should get an outing on a regular basis.

Slow Moments

More detail than is actually required.

Enjoy the slow moments. We all need slow moments now and again. Time is made up of many moments, linked and stitched together but forever out of reach. Moving along on the narrowest way, walking beside some unfamiliar landmark, then standing under a tree to avoid the rain and wandering aimlessly to get nowhere. We are scattered across the dust, trapped under those heavy clouds. Always unprepared for the next time. 

Meanwhile cats just stay focused on those odd, floating, tiny particles, while remaining upside down and uncaring.

464 Articles

Now I'm being lectured over the fact (?) that I've read 464 Guardian articles in the past year, a bit more than one a day. In fairness it's a better browse than the rest of the mainstream press I suppose. To be honest I can't really remember much about it all. I was trying to recollect which articles stood out ... couldn't quite think of any. In one orifice and out another it seems. Too many words, bad news, tales, opinions, events, reviews and general bullshit out there. I doubt I'll even remember writing this in a day or two. That's my level of engagement.

It's nice to be one of their top readers globally but I'm not sure that a couple of reads a day is all that an impressive statistic. What's the average strike rate? Things must be tough for all these well intentioned and noble writers out there, and just because I read it doesn't mean that I enjoy it or agree with it. What's the point of holding politicians and businesses  to account when nothing actually happens to them as a result? I do look at the glossy ads by the edges sometimes, perhaps that's not good enough if I don't buy the stuff. I wonder why? I'm just tired of it all really.

Anyway I'm being scolded for being mean they say. I get "incredible value". It's worse than shoplifting. Pay up for the privilege of clicking on our page and stumbling over our hard work. There's an idea. I get the customary commercial point but I don't really care that much. It's all bad Karma's doing; because of me being a victim of the infinitesimal Spotify, Apple, Amazon and YouTube scales of payments. Sadly nothing has any value if you create, only if you distribute. The economic model (is it a model or a blatant conspiracy piece?) is broken. You read that here, for free. I'm a terrible person.