Lost Aeroplanes

I think that it was the Lockheed Electra that I really liked. It just looked like proper aeroplane. It was up there with the Ford Tri-Motor and the Fokker Tri-Motor in terms of design (minus an engine) and some other odd engineering quirks I liked. There's a timelessness there I wish had been just suspended so they might fly and work on today but with updated equipment. Imagine those classics regularly flying about instead of looking like curious engineering markers that are as lost in history as hot rivets, radio valves and full cream milk (forget the cancers and infections for the time being). Planes had deadly and short lives as a rule, you fall out of the sky once and that's pretty much it, hence the ghosts and the turmoil. Aviation of course enjoyed constant development... engines, streamlining, reliability, security and safety, that's all important.  A world where development stops at some key point might be pretty interesting and artistically attractive but a bit dangerous but we might also get proper golden eggs and creamy milk back. Then there was the Joni Mitchell song, all sadness and blue skies and steel guitars:

 "747s over geometric farms, I tell Amelia, it was just a false alarm. A ghost of aviation, she was swallowed by the sky or by the sea..." 

I listened to that a thousand times, cricking my neck up to see the imagined jet trails leaving their sad, passing autographs on the bright blue paper thin universe of broken flight plans. Turns out Amelia Earhart was swallowed by the beach, that's if the bones are telling a true story. Experts have subjected them to rigorous testing says a headline today. Another lost aeroplane that didn't make it. Another historical footnote. Being famous for aviation achievements but being even more famous for being lost is a strange legacy to leave. Then there's all the other others, the non-celebrities, pilots, crew and passengers who just fell to earth and vanished into nowhere. Somebody somewhere is still searching for someone. We like a good mystery. 

These are not the problems

Fixed.

Business is tough. Life is tough. Well not really, all my problems are first world and to a large extent self inflicted or self imposed and some of them are not even problems i.e. keeping myself amused to death, frittering and meandering . Frittering doesn't involve any golden, deep fried foodstuffs. It's more about behaving like some poorly disciplined butterfly zig-zagging across their garden universe picking things up and then putting them down. Finding faults, fixing faults, then deciding that the fault was better than the fix and then not being sure. Earlier in the week all was good, there was a mountain of snow, roads were blocked, stout 4x4s were confounded and shovels and sweat were the order of the day. 

Then came the thaw and the farmer's tractor and the great cloud of noodling descended like a Russian nerve-agent, numbing brains and slowing down movements. Aerobic challenges are a bother in the cold weather so I fell back on or into guitar twiddling, testing the dexterity of fingers like pork sausages and hot soldering irons melting trial and error electronics. That's a frustrating afternoon for anybody, slow and messy, leading to one reasonable success and one static state stuck in the equilibrium of getting nowhere in particular, apart from becoming heavier with solder. Hmm, tomorrow I might try baking or rearranging the bird feeders.

Not fixed.

Fife Oyster

Yesterday it was 80% milky coffee (and that's still a current theme in refreshments), today it's the fateful return of the much misunderstood Fifeshire Oyster; a local delicacy. Excuse the blurry image, I'm suffering from blurry eyes today and the early onset of early onset Easter Egg withdrawal. A kind of seasonal condition unrecognized by the medical profession. So now that the snow has gone it's as if a gloomy burden has lifted. Phew! Well that feeling lasted all of five minutes before the familiar leaden weight of existential angst returned with it's good buddy languid procrastination. 

To reverse this unfortunate behavioural  trend a fresh dietary boost was required to kick start the ailing system. This is best achieved by using the random shopping method known as "dipping into the whatever's scattered about in the Tesco reduced/end of use buy date corner of the universe". Today, in a glorious coincidence it was none other than a selection of unpurchased and unloved pies and pasties that lay in wait like sad orphans after a rainy picnic. As a result the daily menu with all it's plodding conformity was scratched and today's speciality turned out to be the oyster piece pictured above. 

Sadly it didn't work. Metabolism and mind remain disconnected, despite the fact that they claim otherwise.

Milky Coffee

Now that the Scotland wide shortage of milk and break has ended, possibly before it ever begun I'm using up the surplus. This is despite my disciplined non-participation in any panic buying hysteria whatsoever. I'll leave that to the townies. You can't panic buy when you cant get anywhere to shop. Anyway milky coffee hits the soothing spot sweetly. That illusive spot needs hitting following on from a couple of days shoveling snow (well not continuous tough shoveling, just spells or feeble shoveling) in the hope of snow clearing the blocked up road out of here. I've a few aches and pains but also an unusually  smug feeling of achievement at having tried to something rather than sit and do nothing. Of course the problem was solved properly when the farmer arrived with his heavy machinery. Now to deal with the muddy brown flood water from the field drains.

My first reading is not always accurate

I do misread things quite often, I go too fast, I make assumptions. I fill in the gaps, those that my speed has created (or is it my lack of care?). Lazily I skip words and passages. I often do this with hilarious or catastrophic results, none of which I can recall at the moment. I have a sort of vague memory or recollection that something like that may have happened a few times but I can't be precise. So today is eBay day. I have carefully choreographed my life as a seller so that auctions end on a Monday or a Sunday or maybe a Tuesday, if I'm forgetful over creating listings and sales dates. It was part of my early strategy, perhaps less so now. 

Lack of attention brings chaos to your life and unintended comedy and frustration. Perhaps I need to be more consistent, like knowing the correct time to tweet to maximize your audience, the best times to visit supermarkets for a) bargains and b) less queues at tills, the golden moments in which to speak your mind safely or remain silent and stunted. They are out there, for some as clear as burning beacons  but for others indistinct and hard to read and if you read them too quickly you might well... 

The snow is slowly slipping from our media consciousness, except around here. New news happens a lot. There's still snow blocking our favoured exits, entrances and the pathways ahead. Like a great white metaphor discouraging eBay selling because the trip to the Post Office as well as the timing of that trip are going to be tough to get right and legions of faithful buyers may be disappointed and so go on to generate negative feedback I might well read too quickly.

Day 4 "in the Arctic"

Midwinter in the Spring of the dark soul: Under the snow lies the road that leads to what we imagine to be civilisation. Unfortunately the snow is over 6' deep and stubborn. The road is not useful right now and civilisation may be a cruel and unforgiving space. Our memories grow dim. We're so far from the beaten track that we are already beaten and there is no immediate hope of escape. Having said that there is a curious kind of freedom in this type of enforced but not truly total incarceration. Supplies are holding up, there's been a minor outbreak of community spirit and best of all there's a kind of "no obligations" situation here and there...at least till Sunday. It's as if time has stopped, it's there running in the background but for us marooned in this cols and glowing wilderness times and timing don't really matter. Eat when hungry, sleep when tired, have a shower when you start to scratch and shovel your quota of snow from a) to b) and then back again. Then some more snow falls and bang...you now understand the 19th Century Yukon way of life and the survival mindset a little better.

Having a bad day?

Day three of shitty conditions: The weather is everywhere and has become an annoying distraction that's getting in the way of doing anything remotely reasonable. For one thing people seem to have given up driving and are now walking long distances across snowy terrain and then eventually talking to other people (about the weather it has to be said) in clipped and complaining tones. Once this ritual is over they ransack the local shop and go home to their couches to eat pots of weedy olives, creme freche and macaroon cookies that are just a few months beyond their sell by date. It's not really how I imagined the last days to be. We just peacefully settle for what we can find, no looting or hanging baddies from lamp posts here, third rate snacks and left on the shelf cheeses will do fine.

Society is slowly unraveling. You can hear it, packet tearing  by ring pull crack to the accompaniment of a Jordan Peterson commentary as we pop cans of Pringles and suck on cheesy straws. Theresa May speaks but it's little more than oral wallpaper, the BBC present the stewed news to a dumb audience, meanwhile the hip guys on social media are zipping around in 4x4s rescuing badly weathered victims like white knights as the traffic policing  establishment look on bemused. There's a new order out there emerging from the snow drifts, they're the people that don't respect the old order, so you better get out of their way.  So if you're having a bad day it's because you're using the wrong approach. Try operating in the underground.

Road to nowhere

Somewhere in the lower white areas is road, unfortunately you can't see it. It's currently sitting under about six feet of snow that's drifted there from the nearby fields. Steadily and almost casually it has blocked the road and now any chance of driving in or out of here has gone, even in a 4 x 4. I did ponder over attacking it all with a snow shovel but that's hardly realistic so we await the arrival of either a rapid thaw or a large snow eating machine.

The last broadcast

Being a practicing Buddhist I'm reluctant to let anything die other than my self esteem or the occasional cow  (to supplement my diet of course). I was therefore challenged by the sight of the first wasp of 2018 (or the last one of 2017), an unwell and tired out example, so sadly it had to die. I must stress that I'm not a wasp Nazi. In truth it was always on the way out, like some exhausted Arctic explorer plodding through snowfields, there was no way this wasp could survive and go on to lead a productive or meaningful life. Well that was my take on it. It was causing a mild panic possibly leading to hysteria, in any totalitarian state that is grounds for ... retribution. 

Summing up: it seems to me that the wasp had made a bad decision to enter our kitchen uninvited and shamelessly flaunt itself on the window and so paid the ultimate price. Meanwhile it's still too cold and snowy to do anything apart from moan about the snow and last night's episode of Shetland, bread and milk are running out, morale is low,  this may be the last broadcast, signing off then.

Obligatory photos

Obligatory photos showing the predictable effects of some snow that happened to fall pretty much when the forecasters said it would. Hysteria levels have remained normal thankfully and stocks of bread, milk and green tea are all at a reasonable level. The birds have also been fed and are maintaining a low profile while the blizzards rage on. Cat status: puzzled.

The reality was a soulless shed

I used to imagine a world without petrol stations and phone boxes, that would be how the future would look. Whilst that's all pretty likely (along with driverless cars), a world without shops is looking possible. I saw this in a snooze-paper (they'll be gone soon too), sadly the term "soulless shed" sums up the modern shopping experience. Suddenly soulless is becoming my favorite word, it just about applies to ... well it certainly applies to zombies.

Retail experts said Toys R Us’s problems were down to a lack of investment in its stores and website. “It would be easy to blame Amazon, but the reality is that Toys R Us has been a victim of complacency,” said Natalie Berg, an analyst at NBK Retail . “As a specialist retailer, the Toys R Us experience should have been a magical one with in-store events, dedicated play areas and product demonstrations. The reality was a soulless shed.”

Listening for snow

Sit still. 

Adopt the cross legged "Cowdenbeath" Lotus position wearing only a towel. (Close any open brackets).

In one hand a pint of full fat milk, in the other a warm soldering iron. 

Clench. 

Turn on your ears and open up your soul to the final farewell cries of the winter spirits.

Breathe. There is a softness in this air. 

Today your mantra shall be ...

"shall be, shall be, shall be" 

And so on. Somewhere.

Check your punctuation.

The universe is still in the same place.

Time passes

So it's now 43 since Physical Graffiti came out. Now I am officially old (or a bit older). In other news here Page and Beck appearing to have fun together, who knew?

Weather warning

It looks like once again the end of the world is nigh via a snowy and beastly apocalypse and now would be a good time to take an extended holiday in the People's Papal Republic of Ireland, judging by this map. Otherwise it's case of toughing out the end of days, watching as the stocks slowly diminish and generally gnawing on lumps of wood and sandstone. We may indulge in community singing, witch burning and small scale but harmless cannibalism if we run out of rodents.  Travel has been banned as has getting up in the morning, not to mention the deadly practice of sticking your nose out of the front door. Stay safe and stay cold and don't drink any warming but (now proven to be) deadly alcohol. In a few months our shared dramatic experiences and eventual downfall will be turned into a grimly shot, "atmospheric", monochrome toned box set that will amuse the rest of the world for a few hours on Netflix.

Old Grey Wistful Test

Old, grey and gone, just like most of the participants and audience. So it's been 30 years since the last OGWT and about 40 years since I last watched it. BBC4 dug up the carcass last night in a mixed evening of bad conversation and good performances as they set about framing their version of history. Strangely it was Gary Numan who fared the best with a convincing if bizarre set, something I didn't expect to like but did. The past remains a strange place, best left in a box or a box set and displayed for only reference and not to be pored over and dissected. Most interviews fell flat too, turns out that all drunk musicians want to do is ramble on a bit about their careers and their latest low-key project, never saw that coming.

Twitter resounded with live complaints and praise, who and what was excluded, who and what was included. Where was ... ? Nobody could be happy with everything and the poor editors must've had a tough time shoveling in what they could and cutting what they did. Not enough women, punk, fusion, jazz, new wave, historic moments and genres displayed; all  excluded or overlooked they moaned via smart phones, "feckin' hippies" being the whipping boys. They're all close to correct but it was at best just a magazine style show and subject to BBC culture and journalistic taste and preferences so there's a limit. Sadly the bitter truth is that live music (rock, pop and the rest) struggles to convince on TV. You can't put artists in boxes, play big tunes through tiny speakers and get all the best camera shots in 40 minutes of rounded 21" screen action. Except for Alice Cooper maybe.

Pale Waves

There's nothing quite like a brief encounter with Alexa to remind me that I should try to listen to new music from at least this century, at least once. This thought, one upon which I mused for some time i.e. 1 cup of coffee, led to a spell of research. Actually I'd already started in some unconscious way because I was listening to Stormzy yesterday but that was due to news stories about his Brits performance. I'm not sure where the "off" switch for new a music appetite is, or how it gets switched off but it does seem to happen. The desire to seek out new stuff just goes, you wake up one day and the future and the present have become blank, all that's possible is looking back. Of course there's a danger that you could turn into some desperate to be cool old git and force things on yourself and others to prove some point. So really it has to be genuine and real. It has occurred to me that my first phase of music loving wasn't just about the music, it was a whole package, one I no longer own. Thing is I looked like those guys in the old Prog bands or Neil Young or whatever hairy, deluded versions there were stumbling around and there was a revolution on, in the air at least. 

The Pale Waves look younger than my kids, by a wide margin. Those Pale Waves folks as  it turns out are a kind of light weight Gothy, Jangle Pop lot that I randomly picked via a BBC link. They have three tunes on YouTube and millions of views/viewers. I listened to each one twice. Overall it was a reasonably good experience, they may well go places before retiring to the country to find themselves and raise families etc.  "Television Romance" is a good wee song but me saying that here just sounds patronizing. The thing is will some tune, some lyric, some melody stick and will I return to listen again? Hard to say, they just don't really look like me and that's a bit of a problem.




P.S. I do actually listen to things more up to date than just 1971 vintage. I'm prone to exaggeration. Why there's a raft of good local stuff swanning around and available in Edinburgh and it's out in the ether about now. Norman Lamont's new album for example...all set up with the Heaven Scent Band and launching soon on a laptop or phone very near to you. Pretty fine song writing and music, seems the young still have bit to learn. Get the full highbrow lowdown here. More videos and links to follow IDC.

Time Out

Back to a week of guitar fiddling, some successful (Strat rewire as above), some less so. It's how I occupy spare time and irreducible capacity. I'm taking a time out over this pussy cat Telecaster (shrinking away in shame below). Currently  on it's fourth switch and no progress in actually getting it working despite everything checking out. There are just buzzes followed by white  noise followed by silence. Well I'm checking out. Time out. Fresh air. Walk away and thinking again. Of course it was fine until I started pulling it to bits.

The fitful impositions of trial and error

There's absolutely nothing wrong with trying to be a better person, no matter how sparse or undeveloped your talents may be. Potential is a great thing (as are various other things). Realizing it is a little complicated however and fraught with obstacles, most of them self generated and imaginary. My mantra remains, "be the most reliable person at the funeral" and "avoid tedious dance moves", actually that's two but I had to get an extra one in. In simpler terms they could be summed up as "be at the funeral" and "avoid moves". This is good advice no matter what you think. A reputable counselor would charge you a lot of money for that kind of gentle direction but would recommend that you move away from social media, blog style half-existence and the random sampling of coffee shops as you wither and die. Back slapping is also on the list, particularly when indulged by  Facebook friends as you share a jump scare  /truama /laundry upset or some other kind of spilled milk situation. 

Life, despite what the song says is not a bowl of cherries, it's more complex, more like a yucky warm fruit salad or some kind of layered vegetable stew that requires thought, laboured preparation time and sticking with the recipe. Then you serve it up to cronies and sycophants who'll pretend to enjoy it anyway and when it comes to pushing the red button of action and criticism ... there's always some ego-manic less well educated and more immature than you who'll dive on it at the earliest God-given opportunity.

Imagine if you will the terrors created by large amounts of melted honey-comb making its way into our drainage systems. No I can't either but should the unthinkable happen it'll be more bad PR for the bees and arguably a few badly needed  bonus points for the wasps (who are really just bees too stupid to make honey). Evolution is the only answer, the wasps need to up their game and we need to better digest honeycomb, warm, runny and straight from the microwave. Then there will be no shortages or price hikes.

Posh as feck

This is very tasty, very posh, dark chocolate spread masquerading as hazelnut spread. It's only 26% hazelnut, the rest being chocolate and sugar and stuff. Why are they so coy about the whole chocolate thing?

Meanwhile it was a sunny day in South Queensferry, here's the boatyard complete with boats and the new bridge looking pretty dapper in the rare February daylight.

Ghost Roses

If you think of this normally fun packed, spam attacked page as some kind of tiny on-line art gallery then the placement of odd photographs here makes a sort of sense. Thorny, once rose-red statements in pale tones if you will. I'll be round with the wine selection and a tray of canapes any minute. Be patient and look amused. Correct your posture and don't stare at your shoes. My service may appear unprofessional and uneasy but I'll be doing my best with limited resources that are customarily  stretched to breaking point. There may be a few vague, nuanced and nervous conversations here and there, that's all normal for matrix based art. The secret is to nod and whisper whilst exhibiting positive body language.  Wear interesting spectacles if you can.

The odd louder voice will pipe up with some observation that sounds knowledgeable and profound. Intellectual snakes acting as if waiting for innocent victims whilst a quick mist sits across a still lake, now they are darting and biting. To maintain some balance I'll definitely try to ask some kind of safe question that I hope won't expose my chronic ignorance. Outside on the virtual street imaginary friends will bring their swirling wine glasses as they smoke guiltily and play a game of "catch up since the last similar event". Phones will be studied, tapped and random Tweets will surface and then fall into the laps of their single figure followers. #imagination. Eventually, once the alcohol has taken effect I'll welcome everybody and encourage them all to get real lives and to stop staring at screens. It'll all be done very gently, so don't take any offence (just yet). As for some business sense prevailing I'm at a loss, nobody pays for anything anymore so there's no danger of making money, I'll settle for breaking even in kudos and the extra hit counts from my fickle Russian fan base.