Monday, February 29, 2016

Leap Day

 Leap Day and very thoughtless of the Planet to interrupt the calendar this way.

But it's all our fault that Leap Day happens in February.

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Stuff

The blast of mail order catalogues and promotional emails is upon us. They come in like Lions, roaring and spitting guilt, accusing us of failure to grasp the fundamental importance of renewing our commitment to something like an ergonomic trake, advising us of the importance of matching our kneepads to our secateur holsters, there's a whole thing about Bat Guano and Diatomacceous Earth which actually is the fossilized corpses of Diatoms, so it's all natural even if it is a little mean spirited. Then there's a bunch of Vegetable Garden friendly footwear made from recycled water bottles, and a wonderful collection of very glamorous sunhats sure to raise the odd eyebrow.

A gardener can't help but get sucked in. He sees the potential of The Mason Bee House, he can get very enthusiastic indeed around a Compost Pile Thermometer, his soul soars a little at the idea of a Little Burro Wheelbarrow Organizer and a Windmill Mole Chaser which uses the natural power of the wind to create an underground vibration that Moles just can't handle. Have to think that a combination of a wheelbarrow organizer, secateur holsters, an ergonomic trake, a couple of fossilized Diatoms and a thermometer anywhere near the Compost Pile would probably put sufficient uneasiness in the subterranean community a Windmill Mole Chase might be a completely unnecessary expense.

Saturday, February 27, 2016

The Chartists

US Presidential Elections take about two years, they are a billion dollar business, plenty of opportunity for work and profit, and for some good few years now the difference between the two major parties has been microscopic. In short there has been no fundamental disagreement and one of the consequences is an almost total absence of substantive debate, because there was actually nothing to debate. In other words every one was shouting at the same brick wall. Call it an Aristocracy, and if that suggests inbreeding call it an Oligarchy, defined as The Pestilence of the Elite. An old, old problem when the powerful become critically ignorant and castle dwelling.

Kinder to think of the current Presidential Election as a Peasants Revolt. Don't get me wrong, most Peasant Revolts were led by men of means and some education who saw in the anger of a populace an opportunity to achieve stature and position. Rarely did they succeed in producing very much more than a bloodbath of broken dreams and a memory of heroes which kind of lingered and whispered to future generations. Worth remembering the call of The Chartists, their leaders in South Wales hung, drawn and quartered in Chepstow. Of the six reforms in their charter was a secret vote for every male who was of sound mind and over twenty one. It took a while longer for the girls to be even considered.


Friday, February 26, 2016

A Home



We have someone's home. It has a tin roof, a chimney, stucco walls, eleven windows, two doorways and needs stuff like shutters, doors, paintwork and maybe a front porch light. In the meanwhile the question is who lives there and that question is very much up in the air.

What we do know is that somewhere in the age of n-gauge steam trains, a genetic anomaly accompanied by really good food must have resulted in a family of very tall people, and we're talking about seven or eight foot tall people. This house belongs to them, it's a very very big house relative to rolling stock and landscape.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

Roof and Walls

OK chaps, your N scale modeler has been hard at it with very little result, as a contractor he'd have been dismissed weeks ago but there could be a solution to the problem of texture on walls and roofs of buildings.

At a recent spin room news conference it was announced that following a visit from an out of state tin roof salesman, shingle walls and roofs have been deemed the work of the devil. And it's a big relief all round.

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Mavericks, Rogues and the Ruling Class

It is getting to feel like March. Clouds of Grackle uncertain of their destination crossing the sky from East to West then back again. And there's always a posse of Dove at this time of year who include in their number one who is apparently disgruntled, insists upon randomly lunging at other Doves, and when all lined up on the electric wire he or she keeps a good eighteen inches of aloof distance from the others. Call him a maverick, a word which outside of the Political Class means a Lost Cow, or perhaps if a person really needs to be rugged in the cowboy hat sense, call him a Lost Steer, or maybe a Lost Ox, or just think in terms of some kind of Bovine who's gone rogue and pissing off his Tribal Elders. Fun to watch.

Don't know very much about other opinions, but my own view following the Nevada Caucus is that Democracy is a wonderfully refreshing thing for tool making creatures who lay claim to the phrases "self aware" and "language using." So interesting how quickly a ruling class, what some prefer to call the elites because it's an apparently corrector word, lose touch with the rest of us as they go about deciding what's right for us all, telling us who we are and then assuming their definition is a correct one.  Sadly in the process they take on a sort of splendid isolation in which they increasingly have a hallowed being that often begins to look more like a geriatric and gated paranoia than something that might be fun to belong to or remotely real. The revolt, if ever there is such a thing, generally is a vigorous turning of the Compost Pile before ever it can be thought of as something new or even a tiny bit perfect.

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Milk Delivering

Many years ago as a much younger person your correspondent was gainfully employed seven days a week as City Milkman. His day would begin around three o'clock in the morning, and except for Friday and Saturday when he had to collect money from his customers his day would end sometime around the morning rush hour. There was one street he delivered to that was in that part of the city that had devoted itself to higher learning, more specifically to those who'd taken their first tentative steps into the cruel world that leads to Merchant Banking and a whole bunch of Ics and Ologies. I think you'd call them First Year College or University Students. Upwardly mobile youths who spoke with funny accents and seemed mostly to have a certain vacancy of expression when it came time to pay for their milk or get up in the morning, but the question that dominated your correspondent's imagination when in that part of the city was why did so many new students spend their money on a daily bottle of milk delivered to their door. It just seemed wrong and a little fishy, not to say incredibly dull, but your correspondent was able to convince himself that most likely the custom was based upon a combination of homesickness and obedience to the will of a distant parent holding a purse string.

For those who might not be aware of it, in higher learning both Friday and Saturday Night are devoted to the important and strange rituals of Bacchus and worship of the Leopard. Young devotees get failing grades for going to bed before sunrise and they are subject to expulsion unless they can demonstrate their commitment to learning by obtaining at least a plus grade in projectile vomiting in front of witnesses. Then one early Sunday morning, it was a beautiful morning, clear sky, a moon and stars up there looking down at the folly of it all, your correspondent diligently collecting his empty milk bottles and replacing them with full bottles, happened upon a worshipper of learning in an apparently emotional condition on the front step of his temporary residence. The Leopard had clearly touched the young man's soul, he'd had some kind of major revelation because he was urinating in an empty bottle of milk. Not a pretty sight under any circumstances and a wholly unnecessary thing to to do given the immediacy of rather sad stand of Rhododendron in the small front yard. Either way the young man's peculiar act did answer one of the big questions, and back at the Milk Yard he was a source of some entertainment.

Monday, February 22, 2016

EU

Not sure whether that part of the world which today is often referred to as The United Kingdom has ever been comfortable with the idea of Europe. A couple of miles of water separate the island from the mainland, nor is it like a smooth passage, prone to all kinds of storms and funny currents. All the same, sometime in the 1970's the UK chose to join a common market with Europe and agreed to accept the rules of the European Union. A whole bunch of regulations governing production, labeling of products, treatment of labor and so on, all of which were discussed and agreed upon by representatives of member countries who meet in a town called Brussels which is in Belgium.

Currently the United Kingdom is more than uncomfortable with its relationship with the European Union, and is struggling with the idea of leaving the Union. At first it was a threat by segments of the English political class, who reckoned upon using the threat to leave the European Union as leverage to negotiate better terms. English negotiators didn't do very well and now it appears there's to be a referendum on the question of whether the United Kingdom should remain in Europe. The other thing about the English Islands is that European nations have never really liked them. Football hooligans, The English Language, Waterloo, Trafalgar, Agincourt, first and second world wars, to name just a few. The big day for the referendum is June 23rd of this year.

Sunday, February 21, 2016

South Carolina

We've got rain, thunder, a little bit of visible lightning this morning and two Populist Candidates for High Office. One is a Billionaire, the other is a Gentle Socialist called Bernie. The Establishment is experiencing Shock and Awe. Think Tanks and the Chattering Classes are anxiously hunting down new ideas that might earn them a polite dollar before the Apocalypse is Now. The old problem is how to define Conservative with words that don't include bigoted, white, backward looking or Christian.

The Third Bush put away his spectacles and bowed out gracefully. The Second Clinton is sharpening her claws. There's a scary Canadian religious nut called Cruz or Trusted. There's a mother's boy from Florida called Rubio with the eyes of a reptile the mind of a car salesman. There's a former Brain Surgeon who reckons the Pyramids of Egypt were built to store grain and there's a Governor from Ohio who hugs crying men to demonstrate compassion. The nice thing about the USA is that pretty much anyone, who isn't poor or homeless or foreign, can run for Office.

Saturday, February 20, 2016

Caucus V Primary

In the US system of elections a caucus is when a group of people come together and agree upon who or what they're going to support. As I understand it, the word "caucus" emerged from a meeting long, long ago between men engaged in caulking the hulls of wooden ships. It was somewhere in the Irish Town of Boston Massachusetts. There's also the idea that caucus is Latin for drinking vessel.

The point is that at a caucus a person has to stand up in front of others and come to some conclusion about his position on a subject. This means there's plenty of room for peer pressure, bully, Stockholm Syndrome and people never speaking to each other again. Primaries on the other hand, are secret ballots, a person doesn't have to stand up to be counted.

Friday, February 19, 2016

Mockingbirds

High winds, sunshine with temperatures soaring into the 60's Fahrenheit. Feels like middle of March and the Bluebirds agree because the Boy Bluebirds seem to be bluing up, they're as deluded as everyone else. Me, I'm not fooled by any of it, not even thinking about it, this time next week there could be eight inches of snow on the ground, a Polar Vortex, frozen pipes, generator fumes and the entire panoply of a winter wonderland.

Much more interesting is the possibility of a Mockingbird taking up residence. He looks friendly. My own somewhat controversial theory for the absence of a resident Mockingbird these past few years is the sinister shadow of a Boy Thrasher. A sort of street corner Thrasher whose catcall and loitering and general demeanour is so creepy he's downgraded the neighborhood and chased away the Girl Mockingbirds. The Brown Thrasher is of course the State Bird of Georgia.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Tomislav Square

Our hero, who might still be a little disgruntled following his disagreement with a technical device that wiped out a couple of years of his time upon earth is again in The People's Socialist Republic, Broz Tito's entity that succumbed to the Baltic Sickness soon after The Great Patriot's departure from the earthly plain. Comrade Precious, a smuggler of cigarettes, owner of a canvass topped Deux Chavaux  and occasional carpenter is preparing to tell terrible lies to his mother. Not pretty for our hero, but as The Rabbit reminds his grandchild Comrade Precious could well have been the kind of person who'd call Jean Genet his Patron Saint.

The Rabbit for his part has become increasingly convinced that many centuries ago he'd been a Saxon Saint, and armed with this firm opinion, he's actually rather looking forward to meeting The Lead Bull so that he might demand of the Decrepit Old Fool why it is that he'd been treated so shabbily in subsequent lives, and if The Lead Bull's answer lacked either erudition or learning, our hero's grandfather had a plan to assassinate the Great One and take his place. Yes indeed it's all very tense in the hills north of Sipivo where the month of March is cold and damp and windy. Quite why the chapter is called Tomislav Square, has yet to be determined. 

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Determinants of Behavior.

There's been snow on the ground for some days now, there's been fog, there's been rain, there's been bone chilling damp, there's been a limbo of gloom in the outdoors that's no longer even a tiny bit entertaining. It's what you call "Sucky Weather" and some of us might have become "Restless."

Of the theories, the one I support, reflects the idea that "Sucky Weather Restlessness" leads to an emotional confluence that can result in such things as Vikings boarding their Long Boats and ransacking Lindisfarne.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

Squirrel with Wallnut

Squirrel with Walnut. It was a Grey Squirrel and not that charming. I guess I have a certain, possibly irrational, antipathy toward the Grey Squirrel. If it had been a Fox Squirrel there'd have been a softness to the soul, considerable purring from me and a range of reactions that add little to the masculine. And a person has to wonder about this bias against the Grey Squirrel, they are sneaky, very active, aggressive opportunists, not in the least laid back or soothing to be around, kind of like Creeping Grass or Hedge Fund managers.

I guess the reason for the bias goes back to the retreat of the Eurasian Red Squirrel. A totally adorable, arboreal, omnivorous, rodent with tufted ears, a minding my own business life style, and basically a joy to behold if ever you could see one. And it was the imported Eastern Grey Squirrels, just like the one with the Walnut in it's mouth which added to the pressure us people put on land which drove Red Squirrels from the park benches and gentrified woodlands to remoter more isolated places.

Monday, February 15, 2016

Spin Room

OK Chaps! N-scale is almost impossibly small and your N-scale modeler has failed miserably to achieve a structure that reflects any kind of realness. Fortunately this N-scale modeler is proud to announce that there is a Spin Room where polite representatives are happy to wax lyrical around the many awkward questions. A particularly regular smart arse comment heard in the spin room is "What happened to that tunnel and why is it named after a Saudi Arabian Prince, I thought this was supposed to be Kentucky?"

"The Prince Malik Nabi Jibreel Tunnel collapsed while the prince and his beautifully dressed entourage were fossil hunting. In an attempt to retrieve the prince's remains and at great expense to the prince's family the tunnel had to be cleared. The royal body was never found." "I thought The names Malik, which means Angel, Nabi which means Prophet and Jibreel which means Gabriel had been banned in Saudi Arabia?" "You're absolutely right, and there is a suspicion of foul play in the Prince's departure from the world."

Saturday, February 13, 2016

Categories

The White Throated Sparrow, or The Head Light Sparrow as The Artist insists upon calling him, is in the class of passerine or perching bird. One of the more absurd categories because it pretty much includes all birds except things like Penguins, Ostrich and anyone who might be too large to perch without risking serious damage, or who doesn't have the correct foot arrangement for perching on branches. Ducks might not be perching birds, but I've definitely seen Cormorants doing what I at least would call perching. It's all very well assigning universal categories so that the pompous arse world traveller in some distant place might begin his identification of an unfamiliar bird by asking the meticulous and incredibly dull question "Does he perch?" By the time the question's answered whoever the bird might be is long gone either toward the clouds or into the nearest bush, and the observer is left with a set of impressions that have nothing to do with anatomy, rather those impressions are of movement and characteristics of movement that touch familiar places that either smile back or frown.

Around here almost every bird perches except maybe the Sandhill Cranes who basically fly past in an often noisy manner and creatures like Ducks and Heron and there's a Rail that can sometimes get confused by the Vegetable Garden. But one of the things about most Sparrows is their capacity to hop, especially when it's cold and icy and miserable. They can skitter around like very determined fluffy mice and The White Throated Sparrow is definitely a prime example of a hopping bird. To have a category of "Hopping Bird" a person would have to go to the Latin, which just seems so wrong. But in German hopping translates into something like "Hupfen" and it does make great sense to think of Sparrows as "Hupfen" because a Sparrow does have that sort of grumpiness the word "Hupfen" inspires in the English Speaker. Henceforth I will always commence a process of identification of birds by saying "OK so he's most likely a passerine but does he have Hupfen." Yes indeed it's a sad thing when categories of anything alive or less alive ignore the existence of charm in their fellow beings.

Friday, February 12, 2016

Woodland Owl

Have to think the Puffy Headed Woodland Owl, or Barred Owl as some insist upon naming him, has a call he reserves primarily for other Puffy Headed Woodland Owls and at night when he calls not certain it's correct to conclude that he's talking to me, but you never know. There are times when it's very obvious that his call is in response to the Western Puffy Head because a person can hear the backward and forward of their discussion. The conversation between the two of them can fill the northern woodland and on occasion a very wise and ominous joke is shared, and I have to think it must be a sort of scrabble playing pun type joke that has New Yorker Magazine and Latte written all over it.

Never really given any consideration to the category of baby sitter birds, and yet for some reason in this political season the idea of a top ten list of "Baby Sitter Birds" seems extremely important. And here, a person can't help but think that the Barred Owl might be somewhere on that list. Not right at the top you understand, where the Cow Birds and Cuckoos and possibly Starlings dream of turning sand into glass. It's no more than an opinion of course but I do suspect the Barred Owl of Calvinistic tendencies and putting him on a list of "Baby Sitter Birds" might be a little extreme, so he's down near the bottom where pleasure still requires a modicum of creeping around or guilt management.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

Unified Theories

Spacetime simplifies, or brings beauty to a problem in mathematics of the simple three dimensions. The Euclidian geometry of up down backwards and forwards, sometimes round and round works well here on earth for the construction of such things as Pyramids, Skyscrapers and classrooms. But out there in the great beyond the galactic equivalent to Pyramids and Skyscrapers do not last long, they hit brick walls of observable and testable phenomena which sort of stand there and sneer at the Headmaster. And true, no one likes to be sneered at, so to make a theoretical understanding through math last longer theories about how to manage the survival of Pyramids and Skyscrapers in the great beyond became increasingly complicated with bigger and bigger fluffy bits, what in the old days we used to call Detention. Then when Einstein and others added time to the up down, backwards and forwards of space, we got the New Incomprehensible Math, but the equation for the universe needed fewer blackboards and a great deal less chalk to write it all down.

For some, and I put myself in this number, a theory is no more than the joy of its expression. It touches a part of the mind in the same way that a well scrambled egg might. It curves in the space of a person's being, it looks out and it smiles cheerfully, and soon enough it disappears into the day to day where a scrambled egg is just a scrambled egg. But for many, the whole point about a theory is that it can predict what happens next, and this apparently is a most useful thing. Trickle Down, for example, is a well considered theory of Economics, one of the Political Sciences, and frankly there's not much sign of the theory living up to its name, so probably better to go with Marx and call it Trickle Up. Either way, by assuming that time is a constant, that time doesn't change, it always ticks by at the same speed, the mathematics of the universe and the classroom stumbled into smart-arse problems with the observable. And if there is a point about observing a Gravitational Wave, it's not so much a better understanding of Gravity, which remains a wonderful mystery, rather it's the observation of a phenomenon predicted by a theory. Great news of course, because it means my own Unified Theory of Being currently titled "Slope In A Random Place" remains completely untouched.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Stormy Night

Always exciting for some of us when an establishment is poked in the eye. Have to think that might have happened in a small northern state of the union which has a border with Canada and has as its motto "Live Free or Die." Mind you with a motto like "Live Free or Die" a person might well be dealing with an imbalance on a perspective in the word "Free" that might have been arrived at during a moment of exuberance. New Hampshire was the first British Colony to establish its own government independent of the English Parliament and King George III.

My own adopted unbridled state of Kentucky has the motto "United We Stand, Divided We Fall." This motto comes from the Ancient Greek Aesop, of the Fables, yet it speaks more clearly to a definition of community that I at least can try to understand even if here in Kentucky it might have been an afterthought. But it was Disraeli, much quoted founder of the English Conservative Party, who gave The Establishment a cruel motto. In a moment of irritation he once yelled, "Damn your principles, sir! Stick to your party." The object of Disraeli's scorn was the First Baron Lytton, a poet, novelist, a playwright, politician, Secretary of the Colonies and a whole lot of other things who'd  coined the phrases "The pen is mightier than the sword," and the opening line "It was a dark and stormy night."

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Election 1980 Something

In 1980 something I remember hearing that a Star of the Silver Screen might have been elected President of the United States.  Back then of course a person had to wait for stuff like news on the radio, or a daily newspaper, and like many of my comrades I was inclined to think it an error of translation or some kind of sad attempt to explain Nixon. Then from a lowly corner of the bar a voice announced that The Film Star was a Republican and all hell broke loose. "What's the matter with you, there's no way a film star can be a Republican! It just doesn't happen, not even in America!"

It was a simpler time, a person couldn't just pop around to the Saloon Bar find someone with technical device and demand answers to perfectly sensible questions, and by the end of the evening the general mood in the Public Bar was such that either the world was about to end or the United States had their April Fools Day in November. When the dawn came, it was raining if I recall, the lunch crowd was dour. The United States had indeed elected a Republican Movie Star as their President. It was kind of like the world had been turned upside down, and we've been struggling with imported beer ever since.

Monday, February 8, 2016

Calendar Issues

In "feels like" terms the longest month of the year is eight days old. And this year is what they call a "Leap Year" which means there are twenty nine days in February. My own view is essentially that of all the months of the year to add a day to, why chose February? My preference would be to have an extra day in May. May 32nd makes huge sense, it bends the mind toward the idea that the Calendar actually gives a damn about the well being of its subjects. February 29th sounds more like a poke in the eye, unless of course you're some kind of Winter Bunny who's just traded for a new pair of fur lined boots.

The other point about February is that it gets its name from a Roman word that references a purification ritual that involved water and cleaning. The idea behind the ritual was to "purge" and whenever a Roman mention the word "purge" it usually got ugly. But at least a person can well understand why this purging ritual had it's origins in sickness and sweating fevers following weeks of being stuck in doors trying to keep warm. The early Romans before they became all full of themselves with conquering Italy and naming everything had no January or February, they reckoned upon winter being a monthless period, it just went on forever.  Makes perfect sense to me.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

Carolina Wrens

There's a Carolina Wren who chose to believe that this morning was Spring. Bless his noisy heart. His song has a sudden and explosive quality to it, more of an alarm clock than it is something soothing like the seduction of a White Throat Sparrow.  And while it's true a person can't help smiling and go back to sleep when he hears a White Throat Sparrow sing, a Carolina Wren announcing Spring when a cold sun cast a first icy shadow in early February does speak to a kind of optimism that just has to get out of bed and get things done.

It's hard to place a Carolina Wren in the category of "list writing birds." Harder still to ask the Carolina Wren whether he's a card playing or board game bird. He's far, far away from those consummate chess players the Bluebirds. Have to think it's the Girl Carolina Wren who runs his world. His moments of display, his loud noises, his practice nests all of them totally misplaced, without rhyme or reason. Better perhaps to think of him as an A for Effort Bird. And there are some of us who have a great fondness for this quality in any creature.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Citizens and Subjects

In the USA a political process is winnowing candidates. At the moment it's all up there in dreams of savior through obvious and simple solutions rather than anything remotely substantive. This gathering of the clans are called Primaries and in time the champions will meet on a Thursday in November of this year. Essentially we'll be electing a Monarch called a president who'll reign for four years, and we'll also be electing a great many of his or her courtiers, so it's what you might call a Big Day for a Citizen in a Republic who gets his chance to deny the condition of Subject without resorting to weapons.

Interesting for the Existentialist, if there are any left, is the wandering around the idea of a Candidate as authentic. The Clans of the Elephant have again stumbled into their definition of the Authentic Conservative, who might not be what he seems. They can tell you who he isn't but they've no idea who or what he is. The Clans of the Donkey walk the tightrope between the meanings of  Progressive, Liberal, Socialist, Communist, Wall Street and the knot would impress Gordian. Better to think of it all as steps in a dance, the colors of feathers, the drum beat and a crown of thorns, otherwise a person can get deeply depressed.

Friday, February 5, 2016

Creative Is

Totally missed Groundhog Day. A sure sign of an inward obsession where the more distant horizons narrow as a mind becomes focused upon smaller and smaller sentences. Indeed worth cursing the politics of grammar that has allowed the tiny word "is" to be defined thusly- The third person singular present indicative of be. Worth noting also that "is" is a verb. A Verb is the predicate of a sentence, they are the "action" parts of speech and I'm told you can't have a sentence without a verb. However "I is an Octopus" may well be an incorrect use of the word "is."

Whatever way I want to look at it "Creative Is" cannot be an officially recognized sentence, it has to be a title. It's like a noun. Amongst nouns "Creative Is" would be defined as a condition, like flu, small pox or whooping cough. All of them nouns that are definitely going somewhere. They don't just sit there because they're certainly doing something. The same with Roses, a rose is either coming or going, unless of course it becomes a dried rose then it might be dead, lifeless and still for a good long time.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Saint Barbara's Tunnel

Saint Barbara was imprisoned by her father in a tower that had no windows. There are probably a number of arguments around the question why he chose to imprison his daughter in a tower that had no windows, and of the possible answers one suggests that he was planning to go away on a business trip and did not trust her to behave while he was gone.

When he returned from his journey Saint Barbara's father discovered that the tower he'd built to keep his daughter safe from harm had windows. A person might think that such enterprise on the part of a child would be praised, but no. The old man was shocked and mortified. Either way your correspondent is thinking of a tower with windows as the proper tribute to the Patron Saint of Explosives, and it kind of goes with Saint Barbara's tunnel.

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Olim Fuit Monarchorum

The Vestry of Monnow Potlatch may or may not have been a good thing. It reminds me a little of a moment that was exorcised from The Windral because it really just made no sense whatsoever and yet it was such a neat moment your writer of pulp had terrible trouble removing it from the narrative. Our hero was in Reading, England, and he and his grandfather were rambling on about the Patron Saint of Reading being a Biscuit Manufacturer rather than something sensible like a Dane called Eric. Then for no good reason our hero was at the Reading, England, railway station where DH Laurence once lost his manuscript, all five hundred thousand words of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

And I think, if there is a point, it has to do with an inclination in your writer of pulp which sometimes leads him to assume that his access to narrative has more to do with channeling a great beyond of dancing figures, restless ghosts and broken dreams, and this access has just the occasional open window. Once the window's closed it can never be opened again, which sounds depressing. Of course in the olden days your correspondent could pop in and out of the window whenever he chose to, it was called heavy drinking. Yes indeed, The Vestry of Monnow begins on a park bench in Tomislav Square which is in the Croatian city of Zagreb. It's not quite the end of winter, there's a railway station and a debate.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

Hangover

A hangover from the Festival of Potlatch lingers. It creeps around in that area of grey that has its existence somewhere between your correspondent's two ears. Currently there's a debate around the issue of whether to forsake the keyboard altogether and return to the much purer form of pencil, pencil sharpener and loose leaf lined paper. After all The Venerable Bede did his most political work with quill of Owl and Oak gall ink.

Sadly a quick check reveals that somewhere over time your correspondent appears to have lost the skill of handwriting. A first effort is more of a squiggle with the odd full stop and the occasional capital letter. It's pretty much illegible, yet the spelling looks so excellent it could well be the way of the future. Then of course there's hubris. Look at me. And it's the ether that pats a person on the head.

Monday, February 1, 2016

Technical Device!!

Don't tell me a coffee and nicotine fueled geriatric can't stay up beyond Midnight.

It's around One in the Morning they fall to the blankets where they say their prayers and weep a little.