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Time.

Fresh Out of..

Trip 35

Tunnel Vision

Stretch.

A photo a day keeps the painters at bay!
Day 1.

So Many People

Cambodian ScrapBook

Pink Teddies

I went to stand by my friends grave today. Im never quite sure what the protocol for "grave-visiting" is. Do you... chat?! I tend to just hang out for a decent amount of time and just let my mind wander.
Anyway, I committed to the trip within fifteen minutes made it up the hill to the churchyard. Tied the dog to the church gate, and strolled over to the grave. I usually pick up a dead flower or leaf from the actual grave, just to hold. Its amazing how it helps. I stood, head bowed for perhaps 5 minutes, my mind playing over crazy times had just above the church involving a ginger and a 6 foot wooden ramp. My meanderings were suddenly pierced however, when I glanced down and noticed a, slightly faded, pink teddy bear wreath. A little unusual in memory of a 21 year old adrenaline junkie. I shrugged off this small nonsense however, figuring that Rodge would have probably loved the flowery ted.
After what felt like a very suitable amount of time had been spent 'hanging out' with Rodge, I gave the grave the little "see you later" smile, as if somehow the past few moments have been filled with 'seeing each other'. Turned and started to walk away. I look down and realise, causing a burst of laughter which was by no means suitable for a graveyard, that I had just spent quality time, with the wrong grave.
I'm pretty sure Rodge would have been pissing his pants at me. I know I had a good chuckle.
I guess the pink teddy bear makes more sense now!
I tell you what is amazing though, for my initial five minutes of blissful ignorance, I was quite sure I could "feel" the presence of my buddy.Incredible what a Placebo raw belief in a situation can cause.

Stallion

I took a journey on the national express the other day. On a bus, between Cardiff and Leeds. After listening to an old lady tell her daughter she was a "lying cunt" my awareness of how weird bus takers actually are, was fairly high.We are most definitely a breed of our own, I certainly strole with that pride of lions.
So I was on the bus, sorted, ipod on, arm rest down, level 5 Tetris. I look up to see a slightly stubbly transvestite with a guitar bouncing from seat to seat. This made me smile in the way that in some situations, smiling is all you can do. A situation is somehow diffused with a smile. So when I clumsily let our eyes meet, I was a grinning beard. Great. Now the tranny thinks I'm eyeing her up.
About five minutes into the journey. Still stopy starty city driving, one of the many national express joys. I get a shock that only a bearded lady could induce. Spine shaker. "Didi you catcha zee Dylan gigg?" croaks our friend,I hadn't, but knew a bloke who had and said it was great. My first fatal error. I could have just said no. Now Im chatty with the tranny. Fabby. After a few more fumblingly English murmurings from boyo, she stumbles to the back seat and proceeds to 'tune' her slightly ukulele esque guitar. Already a fairly bold move in the world of national express conduct. A guitar being played is big points on the journey not being shit scoreboard. Little did we know the joys that awaited us. So the character profile springs a new growth. Not ownly is our lady unshaven, sweaty, and smelling of beer, shes Italian. A joy. In hindsight, but at the time I was thoroughly shaken. Sadly. I was stuck on a bus for the next two hours at least with a flirty wig wearing soprano. Not the most enticing situation, but the current one.
After about 10 minutes the laymans lady gaga has bounced her way back up my end of the bus, and sprayed her clumsy "I cleary did" Dylan gig conversation starter. The difference is, the two people she asked, /had/ been to the gig. What another joyous situation. Through the boredom laden waters of the bus journey comes drifting the iceberg of entertainment, a bus-based Bob Dylan fan club.
After minutes of burping Bob Dylan flavoured mumbles at each other Ms Man decides to retrieve her oddly shaped guitar from its back seat perch and strum a few chords of Dylan goodness. Having not heard much of Bob Dylan but having him resting on my "I know I should know it" list for a while I was more than happy to lend an ear. After thirty seconds of tune from our friend I felt quite sure that, although not knowing any of Dylans work, he was butchering it. She had the kind of "Im saving for the snip" rasp that perhaps the inhabitants of Royston Vasey are accustomed to.
His sausage fingers collided with the guitar strings in rhtym esque patterns. It wasnt long before he started throwing Brittany Spears verses in there, just for giggles. After all, Brittany was her, very clearly declared "third favourite" recording artist, after 1)Bob Dylan 2) Whitney Houston.
They then indulged in another geek session that people that travel on their own to Dylan giggs around the country have with one another. The young blonde lad with the ray bans, shyly murmurs across the isle, "where you there when he did the Watchtower medley?" "Yes mate, I even caught the one with the organ". returns the ageing fan with new, and not-so-keen girlfriend.
Our friend, who's name I sadly didn't get a hold of, had started strumming out a few genius Brittany Dylan love children. Whilst doing some slightly crusty looking poses for my camera. An opportunity I thought too good to miss. After a few alarmingly incomprehensible sentences, she would release another tune. During one of her more English monologues I picked up the fact that she couldn't afford another beer, and that was about really all she wanted. Im not really sure if any part have me would have guessed Id be buying an Italian transvestite a beer by lunchtime on a Wednesday. But as the words rolled of my tongue, they certainly surprised me. They sent a wave of "fuck what have I said" soaring through my veins, readying me for battle. My discomfort was hightend only by her misunderstanding what I said, warranting me to loudly, clearly and more importantly, five times over, declare my want to buy a beer for the "bus celebrity" tranny at the back. Great.
Spoiler alert. It gets down to it, we all get off the bus, I go look for beer, come back and realise I've been stood up. Adds to the humiliation somewhat.
So during my second, and thoroughly boring leg of my journey it got me thinking about journeys. Blimey what a journey The guitar lady must have had. What has life thrown at you, to come to bounce along the national express as an Italian transvestite, wearing a very obviously stuffed bra. Strumming away bad covers to strangers on buses. Peoples lifes follow such varieties of courses. Its amazing how many of the really colourful ones end up on buses around the world.
Im actually a little upset I didnt get to have that beer. Creepy as that may be, but Im pretty sure it would have been a fairly interesting beer, one way or another. What a cool afternoon hanging out with strangers on the move!

The knocking next door holds so much promise. Its true what they say about the grass on the other side. I presume the neighbours live a wildly exciting life, full of strange practices and productive habits, whose only residue on the outside world is the not-so-faint knocking on my kitchen wall.
Sadly I doubt my visions are truthful. My neighbours aren't cult leaders, or inventors, building flying cars and self cooking eggs. But wouldn't that be super, truely scrumptious Id say. Somebody has to have those guys as neighbours. One day, Id love to live next door to somebody really great. I don't really crave greatness myself, I just really enjoy its presence. People that aren't wired the same as the rest of us are so refreshing to watch, so uplifting to be with. They bring a new lease of life to a barely employed, unqualified and thoroughly bearded bum such as me. It is the minds full of colour and bizarreness of these people, and not my own, which lead me to conjure up strange and wonderful explanations for the unexplained noises in my life. In this case, my neighbours hanging another fucking Ikea print, with a sledge hammer by the sounds of it.
On another path, recently I have been attempting to write a kids story. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I guess its an easy audience to please, one similar to my own mind-set and perhaps the most honest of all critics. Plus I think it would be a pretty "awww" producing gift for my little sister. What I do know however, is that it is proving rather difficult. I can whack out page upon page of this stream of consciousness bullshit all day, but ask me to rhyme the word 'cow' with something that vaguely relates to the story I'm trying to tell, and I'm in dire straights. I am however, greatly looking forward to introducing you all to Dixie The Daredevil Dairy Cow. Shes a cheeky one.

Doodles

An Ovation to Oratory

I watched a show today, about young speakers. It was, what should have been a very shitty program if you had of believed its genre slot. A talent/freak based show weighing the difference between the serious talent and the painfully humorous. We all know the type, X-Factor, Britains Got Talent, Celebrity dancing on polar bears.
Thats how I approached this one anyway. But on this show, a fifteen year old performed a speech about how we should appreciate others in our lifes. Pretty dumb really, quite the cliché. But I then found myself hovering over that thought quite alot longer. What a true message, and one that we are all warned of so often, but that we so easily seem to ignore. With that in mind, I hereby declare my appreciation of the 'others' in my life. I can recommend this move. Cos it doesn't half feel horrible when you don't have the choice to anymore.
So.. the chances are that if you are reading this you are one of four people in the world that know about my blog thang. If this is the case.. your amazing. It makes me smile on a daily basis that I know you.
Glad we got that slushy shit out the way. Ill sleep well tonight! She really was a great speaker though the girl on that TV program. Really sold the idea y'know? Heres to good speeches! They really can tilt your head a little. "When the oratory's rockin' dont come a'knockin'"

Ip dip dog shit, you are not it.

Yesterday at work, I somehow got it into my head that my colleagues thought I was inadequate, a waste of space. Whether or not this is true is not only unknown, its entirely irrelevant. For, as a result of my little worry, I became.. a waste of space! How this is quite possible, when the sum total of my professional responsibilities amounts to putting bottles on shelves, Im not entirely sure. But a waste of space I was. I dropped bottles, put things on the wrong shelves, picked up the wrong items, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Notice how often the word 'wrong' featured in the last sentence? An awful feeling which definatley turned another day at the office into a 9 hour blushing marathon of apologies, mistakes and self asteem bashing. The thing is, Im not a waste of space. Not as far as I know anyway, but the very thought of me being seen as an incabable idiot turned me into just that. An incapable idiot. What influencial things those self fulfiling prophecies are. My very disbelief in myself led to me actually phyically dropping bottles, among other stupid things.
With this in mind, it becomes clear quite how risky the gamble the Metropolitan Police are taking at the moment actually is. The Met, the most powerful, influencial, and arguably important police in force in Britain have begun contacting a number of protest groups warning that the planned protests in reaction to the upcoming G20 summit in London are going to be "very violent". Not only this but senior commanders have been quoted saying that they are "up for it, and up to it". The idea behind this rather gung-ho tactic is of course to deter as many people as they can from the protests, in the hope that they can reduce the tens of thousands of expected protestors to a more managable number. The risk of course is that by advertising the fact that they believe April 1st to be a violent day in London, they may have just written there own futures. What more of a call to arms could the violence wanting, angry protestors of the UK want than the super confrontational language used by 'the man' , in this case.. the Metropolitan police. What they may have just done is deter the peaceful protestor, the average joe who isnt happy with climate change, capitalism, war and globalisation. And attract the radical shop smashing, effigy hanging anarchist. Of course I hope that April 'financial fools' day comes and goes with nothing but a very clear, profound and above all peaceful point being made by the protest.
My fear, is that if that the uber powerful self fulfiling prophecies which led me to drop a bottle at work yesterday, may just lead some people to throw them on Wednesday.

Photo Nasties.

A few scanned prints from back when me and the shutter release button were closer friends.

Trip, Stumble, Fall.

Why is controlling gravity so pleasing? Ok, so not necessarily controlling gravity, but twisting it a bit. We all know the kind of things.. Marble runs, kites, balloons, bike jumps, trampolines, all childhood staples. We all love them, or have loved them at some point in our lives. Maybe this is some throwback from our jumping monkey origins? who knows. But I fucking LOVE marble runs.
I find it fascinating how often the true roots and instincts of the human being show up much more clearly in children. Throw a baby in a pool, its gonna swim. My mum has been studying children, pychology and sociology in one way or another for as long as I care to think about. She lives and breathes sociology in a very applied way. When we are together, we are generally having a discussion about the milkmans autism, or some guy we know showing classic attention seeking behaviour due to his lack of attention in his early years development. I love it, it makes my brain tingle with the massivness of it all. There is so much going on in the world that has no physical being. It just 'is'. Anyway, as a result of my sociological curiosity osmosis c/o mummsy, I tend to over analyse people when first meeting them. Not in a "urgh your hair is greasy" or "wow big arse" kinda way. All that stuff really doesnt fuss me. More in a "definately on the autistic spectrum" kinda way. A big habit of mine. I just started a new job, in a supermarket. Its all great fun and thouroughly soul fullfilling as Im sure you can imagine. But in real terms what this means is a large body of new people to meet, get to know, and more importantly analyse. Obviously everybody meets new people on a daily basis. But its the situations where one meets lots of people, all at once. that really get my juices going. So far there are a few people which show signs of being great 'sociological specimins' for me and my mum to pick apart over our porridge in days to come. More to follow Im sure.
While dancing around the subject of autism and the like I had the thought of what a polarisng bunch we/they are. Im quite sure that a large number of my closest friends either show signs of, or are diagnosed as having, some kind of attention deficit syndrome or mild autism. The same applies for my (granted rather short) list of people who really nark me. The list of people I just know, 'the aquiantence list' as it shall be known, holds far fewer. I guess its the intensity which often comes hand in hand with ADHD and the like which really splits the pack. I have some brilliantly intense friends that never fail to amaze me with their thoughts and creations. They constantly delight me with their ability to dodge social constraints a little. Swimmingly awkward yet perfectly at ease. And then there are the other bunch. Both groups are kind of 'personal celebrities'. The BIG characters in my life. The people at either the centre of the party, or the centre of my dartboard.
One hundred and eiiiiiighty.

Erotic Atlas.

I find it hard to distinguish the difference between excitement and nervousness. This leads to some ridiculous predicaments. I get nervous before parties, excited before arguments, and confused prior to both. I remember the morning of my driving test I was so excited I couldn't stand still. Nerves didnt feature until about 3 minutes before actually getting in the car. Not the most convenient of times to feel like the sun and its orbitals are going to pop out of your throat. But this happens to the best of us.
This got me thinking, if I can mentally 'cross wires' between these two, granted fairly similar, emotions/feelings. How many other crossed wires must be kicking about going undetected. Connections between things physical, and emotional always make me chuckle, or pause for a second at least.
Its strange how certain items allow themselves to have a whole range of emotions 'attached' to them. While other objects are.. a little more fussy. A kitchen blender perhaps. I struggle to see how a blender could ever be the most arousing thing you have ever seen. A romantic sheep is quite hard to come by. As is a toaster oozing with sorrow. A poignant plate however, Ive seen plenty of those. Hightened only by the dissapointment laden chilli-con-carne congealing on its oh so poignant surface. Sexy stockings? not a problem. Aggresive cars? easy. Angry keys? Im not so sure.
I wonder if the objects that lack any kind of emotional capabilities are jelous of the rich tapestry of feelings other objects are open to? Or perhaps they just feel relief that they dont have the hassle.
It is of course all based on personal connotations. Whilst one object may bring sombody huge floods of emotion, the very same thing will go by entirely un noticed by others. Recently I have gone through a very bizare period where many objects, songs, places in my life have suddenly decided to switch the emotions they fill me with. This is most disconcerting. After the loss of one of the best friends I have ever had, things which used to bring joy, happiness, carlessness have all of a sudden decided to bring sorrow, grief, and memories. I have a CD with his handwritting on. a tear jerker. A strip of condoms he gave me as a stupid gift, guaranteed never to be used. Places that we used to go have somehow become monuments, memorials, places filled with memories. Its really quite beutiful I suppose. I guess this is how people 'live on' after death. Strange that it should come to the surface in my crying over a set of cereal bowls Tom once stole from my house. Of course these places, objects, songs still hold their original emotive qualities. They are all packed full of laughter and mischeif. But now they will always have a taint of somthing much more permanent.
Hows that for emo?
One thing is for sure, My mate Tom, he gave enough happiness and smiles to this world to last long after he has gone. So heres to that. Rock Out.

Pizza Anybody?

There is a man I know, a strange little man. Drinks in the local pub, has a nasty skin infection on his forehead, and a very ugly "shit I thought she was a lesbian" wife. This man, whose name just happens to be Mateo, has one Italian parent. If it wasn't for his slightly continental name and overly apparent pride of his "Mafia roots" there would be no way you could guess. He drinks Boddingtons bitter, enjoys pork pies, and perhaps more importantly, speaks in a broad Yorkshire accent. Or so I thought.
I went to hire a DVD the other night, and on my short walk home from a particualrly unsuccesfull mission (for other reasons) I pass a newly opened pizzeria. Nothing massively unusual so far. As I approach this place I hear the cackle of a very passionate accent wafting its way from inside. I am sure it was an Italian accent as I remeber thinking how great it was that a real Italian peson was making pizzas for the more-often-than-not uncultured people of my village. As I pass the door however I was stunned to see scabby little Mateo vigorously barking orders in a very obvious, overly lively Italian accent. Hardly the 'stallion' I had envisioned on my approach.
Now there is the most obvious case of identity crisis I have seen in a while (about 6 months to be exact.) This sad little man is willing to pretend to be an authentic, born and bred Italian just for the sake of the slightly lacklustre job of preparing 2nd class frozen pizzas in a damp little village. I just wonder how long he will keep it up.
I guess its working though, I now have quite a fancy for a pizza. If only my wage at a 2nd class supermarket in a damp little village would provide for that. Perhaps I should work on my Itallian accent?

and... GO!

Smudges with fingers,
ink left out of place.
The collateral damage
of a pen vs paper passion battle
blasting into blogosphere.

My life, my room, and at times it feels like my mind is filled with scribbled notes on torn paper. The tattered thoughts of paragraphs left shattered and unfinished. I've come to the conclusion that this is my subconscious screaming out, a mind desperately trying to map itself into some kind of sensible order. So, out of a kind of respect for the incomplete, an homage to the unfinished and a shrine to the downright nonsensical, I hereby declare this blog open! Who knows what shape it will take. Id like it to be maleable, gelatenous almost, but with a backbone. A spine of truth, observation and emotion. But then, what has my likes and dislikes, fancys and enemies got to do with the meanderings of my mind? Not alot I imagine.