Category: Uncategorized

I have taken some slagging this weekend. I think I might have brought much of it on myself, right enough.

Apparently, referring to David Bowie as an artiste is deemed incredibly pretentious and results in, Ooh, la, la’s and Lah de dah’s from my jokers here. Having a Glaswegian accent does not allow you to insert French, or any other language, into general conversation. I don’t care what they say. I know they all think he definitely had a certain je ne sais quoi.

Bastards.

The main piece of slagging actually started on Thursday and continued right through until yesterday. My own fault, as I said.

Hubs and I had to get passport photos taken (our old ones are so out of date, they’re relics). But hubs has been growing a beard. Yeah. No problem with that. His face. He can do what he likes with it. Up to a point…

“Talking Heads”
Painting by Vickie Scarlett Fisher
From fineartamerica.com

talking heads at their mischief
poking rude digitized fingers
in everyone’s eyes
acid viper tongues slither
toward everyone’s ears
pseudo-intellect trash-talk
combustible commentary
sucking the air from the room

all it takes to defeat their agenda
demote their celebrity
steal all their power
take aim at their pixel heart
zap the remote
change the channel
rebreathe common sense and
replenish the lungs of the mind

Very often I have  to decide what image is the one I want to keep.  I don’t need two or three, which would make the things much easier. Only one. “He who has a choice, has a torment”.

It helps when I know exactly what the image will be used for.  Below, there are two photographs of the same swan – the cropped one is a header image. That is easy.

Sometimes I have two things that I have to choose between, and neither of them is good. It is like you have to choose what house you have to move in, and these are your only options:

Choosing between two imperfect things is a difficult choice most of voters have to deal with…

In modern society, The Media tells people how to live and what to think. Many of those who imagine themselves free, independent and having their own opinion, are in fact tied up…

“Lily 4 Apotheosis”
Painting by Petro Bevza
From fineartamerica.com

will we grow
duly wiser
more able
to tell
right from wrong
or is aging
mere process
by which
to obtain
the free frank
realization
we no longer
give a good damn

It takes grace to break the rules with style

It takes grace

For one, from one, to one.

Say, you gathered a group of five of your White friends and five of Your Black friends and asked them to have a no-holds barred discussion about race.

My prediction echoes Major Strasser in Casablana, “You would find the conversation a trifle one-sided.”

Your Black friends would be ready, their ideas formed, their sentences flowing like legal arguments pitched by Harvard-trained attorneys in front of the Supreme Court.

Your White friends would nod.

It’s true. I know of which I speak. I’ve been one of the mute, nodding White people.

I think there are a lot of reasons why White people are so tongue-tied when it comes to race.

They don’t know what they think. This is because, on any given day, they think a thousand different random things about race depending on which Black person they saw or talked to or thought about that day. Black guy at a…

A Cheese Omelet at Midnight

You can’t ever leave without saying something,
no matter how insipid. That sweater looks good
on you. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. I’m sorry
I burned the omelet. Nasdaq has plunged 3% 

since last week. And I, in return, can’t let you go without
replying in equal measure. It matches your eyes. I love
to smell rain in August. That cheddar was delicious.
Maybe I’ll start a savings account. Next month.

So I wash dishes when you’re gone, wipe down the
counters, pour salt into the shaker, grab a book, join my
cat in bed. This tune’s been overplayed, the grooves’re
worn down. Maybe next time I’ll say what I mean,

tell you what I want: It would look better in a heap
on the floor. How about a shower here, tonight? Kiss
me and I’ll never think of it again. I don’t give a…

In a land before transformation, where a corpulent charcoal moon tracks a faraway sun one cannot see black from white such is the blinding brume of eternal eclipse. It is there that the archer is superfluous, the hunter marksman nonessential. No place for transparent miracles, imperturbable martyrs, just wishful thinking fumbling lovers.  No pistols at dawn in such foggy places, no arrow can be aimed in such murk for what prevails befriends only the little brown mushroom and the three blind mice.  The language spoken in this place neglected to baptise the philosopher’s aspirational understanding of the fundamental causes and principles of a universe unexposed.

Testosterone charged Big Chuck drove a monster four by four something or other. His expedition into the Dark Forest of Out There Somewhere had gone horribly wrong yet ever the sucker to prove an urban myth his quest to capture the Ghostly Virgin of the…