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.
Below is a detail from the despairing and frustrated images set out in the collage above. The piece is called "AI cheerfully discussing the futility of life with clouds that are fed up with all the flying". In case anyone is in any doubt, clearly is something wrong with the direction our civilization is headed.
In a sensible world everything can and should exist together comfortably, the users choose the best for them and the markets step back and allow competition and innovation to take place without prejudice. Oh and I prefer real books rather then e-readers (which I know can work fine).
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The natives aren't quite restless enough. Cakes are off the menu but sourdough runs wild and free across supermarket bakery shelves. As ever I'm confused by the pricing, most of which seems unreasonable but as I'm of a certain age that's bound to be the case. Any purchase these days is tinged with a mixture of misunderstanding and a strong sense of exploitation. Who came up with these prices? Most of which appear to be unfair and difficult to understand. Some loaves come in at around £1.70, other tally up to £4.00 a pop. As you'd expect the £4.00 ones do seem a lot bigger and longer lasting - but what is the best choice? Where lies that elusive sweet spot of purchasing? How easily does it turn to toast? Budgets and appetites are being tested.
Man, as I am led to believe, cannot live by bread alone; jam, peanut butter and actual butter are usually required, also some Nutella and the occasional topping of squished sardines with added mayo. It's the price tag that's the problem as well as the uncertainty of what makes good bread good and bad bread bad. Don't use the word "artisan" in front of the word baker either. That's strictly taboo around here.
I suspect that all bread is baked in an earthly form of Hell; hot ovens, sweaty brows and background squeals of pain and the cracking of whips. There is no daylight, just the perpetual glow of the ovens, the searing heat when the doors are opened, the great vats of grey sourdough on conveyor belts, close to being alive and on the verge of self awareness. Hot metal loaf tins and cruel slicing machines that hearken back to the days of the French Revolution or the dungeons of Mordor. Then gone suddenly into the back of a large articulated lorry and shipped out to the markets where the masses chatter and barter for their food, if they're lucky. For me it's the Co-op or Tesco. I'm not really into exploring too far and wide for foodstuffs. It's the thrill of the chase but on a very small scale.
We have not arrived at our promised destination. Our journey has been a fake one. Close your eyes and you'll be there, almost but not quite. The future is here but elsewhere and a miss is as good as a mile. Imagine the touch of the fingertips of the gods as they wheel by on their celestial chariots. The ancient of days and newest of trends. It's trending now. Right now before the next trend comes along. They are so busy on the trend production line. It's just a shame that the plan is managed by a weird algorithm though, it's tough to comprehend. Move over darling. There will be another concocted distraction along in a minute.
We've got Teslas, moon dust encased in some epoxy composite, a lot of films and novels, brave astronauts, radio signals, phones for bets, gaming and photographs, junk on Mars and satellites made from anything but love. Billionaires have solutions for life on other planets but strangely none for Earth's current problems. Turns out we're all expendable but those future generations are precious. There in their crystalline mystery and DNA coding language, deeply frozen boxes of seeds, soldiers, ants and worker bees. The future awaits them but not us. Somebody should write a book about it.
Below are a couple of photos of Earnest Hemingway and his cats, presumably at his home in Key West. The cats famously had six toes on each paw. Having met their descendants a few years ago in that same house I know this to be true.
A small group of Wes Anderson fans attend the screening of a Wes Anderson film in their local cinema. Afterwards they retire to a local bar to discuss their evening and other matters. The bar is quite rowdy but in a fairly friendly way and three of the drivers avoid imbibing any alcohol. Their heads are quite clear. They sit at a large table in a quiet corner below a TV set that appears to be faulty.
One is privately amused that his wooden ice cream scoop shattered in the cinema as he tried to use it and the lady behind the counter provided a tea spoon as an alternative. Once the show had finished he returned the used spoon to the lady having finally overcome a silly desire to steal the spoon.
After a single round of drinks and a pleasant chat they head home, each taking their own personal vehicle. The weather is warm but cloudy, there's slight threat of rain that comes to nothing. And then, Lo there was a light! A certain kind of heightened cinematic light, all aglow with colours and shapes and we could explain none of it.
The next morning we dined on baguettes and bacon and did not speak at all of the previous night's events.
What can best be described as a decorative, non-functioning mouse somehow made it's way into the laundry pile and then into the washing machine. Currently it's hanging by the tail on the drying line. I suspect that the kittens have been up to no good and that they using stuffed and inanimate rodents for hunting practice. It's never too soon to learn etc.
This weeks small slab of buried wisdom: The word formlessness isn't one I often encounter. It's a useful word though. Formlessness is something worth aspiring to, at least as a temporary position. After all everything changes. Evolution takes place. We all know that, stay a step ahead, maybe that's a good approach. I can only assume.
Above: a brief reminder of our recent day away to darkest Kirkcaldy where after a fairly dull 90 minutes and a 1 - 1 score, DAFC won on penalties, a rare experience for the fans. The usual unruly Pars support was highly vocal despite getting soaked to the skin on the way into Stark's Park. Nice photo-bomb also from the two seagulls, briefly away from their natural environment; Morrison's car park.
Dangerous breakfasts: On the right we have toasted seeded Hovis and peanut butter, on the left the same bread but with tomato, quince fruit cheese and peppery seasoning. Turned out OK.
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