Friday, 13 April 2007 12:09:01 A.M.
I realised its midnight and therefore tomorrow has come and this the present is in the past and a new page opens for the future to be written,
Sorry that was just me playing some shit on the grey cells left awake.
I love the solitude of writing for pleasure.
I’ve just inserted today’s date, I don’t know for the life of me why I decided to choose this date format, which would inform me it is in fact Friday the thirteenth.
Good job I’m not superstitious.
A flute on speed is playing something way to quick for this time of night, this is the first complaint all day so not too bad.
I’ve reached the conclusion that I’ve had the best of the smoke, this one has no apparent kick even though its well loaded.
You notice I choose to say apparent kick because I’ve learnt to look out for the unannounced visitor when smoking, he usually carries a sledge hammer to make you aware of his presence.
Kinda like, Hi honey I’m home, then takes half the back of your skull of with one blow.
I sometimes miss those days, unadulterated quality gear.
People harp on about the increase in the strength of cannabis nowadays and saying that because of this increased potency their poor little naïve kids are becoming potheads.
How come so many smokers are saying in agreement that the stuff on the streets today is rubbish,
I for one know the quality and therefore the potency has decreased dramatically over the last ten years or so.
Its as if someone is allowing large scale distribution of low grade gear to piss off the more astute, read hardened smoker.
Am I right in contemplating such an idea, will the stone be different for a 17 yr old than for me in my fifties?
If it isn’t then all I can say is there must also be a lot of young potential customers getting ripped off.
I pull myself up short by the reins of reason.
Why do I continue to be amazed when the truth is so obvious.
See how I slotted that one in, apparently one of the signs of manic behaviour is belief in conspiracies and persecution.
I could clock up a few more brownie points on the scale of lunacy by recalling any religious enlightenment I’d experienced lately, any chats with the Pope for example? Yes No?
I knew I was in the shit when trained professionals were shooting in the dark and asking such strange questions.
I have strayed off the path and am in danger of entering the fields bearing the bitter crop of anger.
Well at least I picked up a couple of badges for my site, and a complimentary comment.
Will anything ever make something else worthwhile, yet on its own be worthless?
I’m approaching the hours when I would either begin to flag or receive a second wind, tonight I feel the arms and wrists getting weaker,
I have to relax my head and let it roll backwards to relief the pressure and tension release is like an elastic band been released, or similar a release of power.
I fucking knew it, the last joint has crept up on me and I’m going to be feeling sick again soon and want to be laid down so good night from him and good night from his other personality.
8:45 AM finished session about one, lay in bed for hours and then eventually got to sleep before dawn.
Woken up to another fine day and thanks to yesterday’s medicine I am feeling a lot better, mostly pain free.
That was one helluva session yesterday, enjoyed every minute of it.
Don’t know why I did it, nothing was planned just happened to pan out that way.
When I’m in the mood for a session it generally follows without too much organisation.
Cost me about £10.00 for session so not bad value for money when beneficial side effects are taken into account.
Just read about a drive by shooting involving a shotgun in a town just up the road.
Co- incidentally appears to be area where dope is coming from so no mystery over motive.
Police urge the men to give themselves up because they will be caught!
Excuse me, have a look at some of the crime figures before issuing such threats.
Three men arrested in connection with a drive-by shooting at a Teesside house have been released on unconditional bail.
O.K. so I was wrong.
All in all not a bad few days, drives cleaned up and most of problems resolved.
Perhaps too good a clean up have lost log in details for course work, no problems will retrieve it from tutor.
Have installed gallery but don’t think it will be here for long, too expensive unless I can find a source of HD on the web.
Also installed notebook, think may be either a complete nuisance or possibly quite handy.
http://onliner.ws/2007/04/09/idiotskaja_chelovecheska_logika.html Worth a look at, crazy use of Honda 50’s and bicycles.
Just thought I’d throw this one in just to be nasty. Have just finished first joint of day and regretted it when I lit up remembering I have a doctor’s appointment later; at least I won’t feel like a drink afterwards. Preserve sanity and current state of mind.
The Sorites Paradox
This is another ancient paradox bequeathed to us by those awfully intelligent Greek fellows.
Imagine you have in front of you a heap of sand.
It is unquestionably a heap of sand. It has more grains of sand in it than you would care to count.Okay? get the picture, a heap of sand big enough to get a builder excited.
Now it seems fair to say that given any heap of sand, if you were to take one grain of sand away, then it would still be a heap of sand. Agree?
Feel free to argue at any point. But for now keep shut and read on.
If you were to take another grain of sand away from the remaining heap,
It would still remain a heap. This could turn out to be one of the longest posts in history so will cut to the chase.
But what if you were remove so many grains of sand you were left with only one grain?
Well it would no longer be a heap. No brainer you must agree.
But we have just proved that it must be! A heap I mean.
For the removal of one grain of sand from a heap, still leaves us with a heap.
By repeated application, we must always be left with a heap.
But at some point along the line it stops being a heap and our reasoning leads us astray.
What has gone wrong?
This is a paradox that arises out of the vague use of our language. We know what a heap of sand is – but we do not know how to draw the line between a heap and a non-heap. Our use of language does not prescribe an answer.
I took some time to research the birth of the English language and its companion English literature, mainly because it was claimed that the English language had been so fucked up by people as lowly as typesetters wanting to earn extra coppers by inserting unnecessary letters.
The French influence caused a lot of trouble to the written language and hundreds of anomalies began to occur.
Apparently there is a movement afoot to simplify the English language and adopt a more common sense logical approach to spelling; anything to help the kids of today get a modicum of a grasp of their country’s language.
Hey, I’m not talking about adopting a merge of text language; just s simple housekeeping exercise to correct anomalies, which were caused hundreds of years ago.
Must admit I never got the impression I was learning an exceptionally difficult language, struggled with French and wasn’t even considered bright enough to tackle German or Latin, thank fuck.
Yes it was an old fashioned school I attended, steeped in history, It eventually crumbled under pressure and became a college, the change happening whilst I was there.
Could never grasp the idea, that only by accepting the superiority of my lecturers, would I be rewarded by being instructed to learn a set routine, churned out year after year with little change.
Apparently, the last few lines have got the checker in a temper.
Everything I write is being flagged, at first to my annoyance, but now I take the time to investigate each flagging and take note of the rare occasions when the alternatives often flag up obvious mistakes in grammar.
Am quite enjoying stone and sounds are just right volume to mask all but the loudest of outside noise, i.e. the trains.
When I first moved here and realised that there was a busy railway line not 50 yards away, I remembered an old 78 my parents had, forget what it was called but taking a guess it would probably be something simple and along the lines of…
There’s a railroad runs through the middle of our house.
In truth I seldom hear them now, no of course I hear them but no longer take notice of the sound.
Better than living next to a church with working bells, worse still, I was living in a pub! Next to a church with all accessories, Sunday mornings would be fucking murder.
I wake up in the cold bath, having been drinking till 6 in the morning, bloody bells ringing out not 50 foot away from the pub and my bedroom.
I went through some horrendous mornings, unable to recover, unable to escape; just laid on top of the bed waiting for it all to end, bit like the old friend with mixie, waiting for release.
Its amazing how many times that picture of the rabbit waiting to die, comes back to me; every time it emerges it brings with a memory of a poignant part of a poem I read simply called Mixamatosis.
16:59
Been doctors, went chemist but was heaving so called in got lottery tickets, cheese pasty and two cheese and red onion sandwiches. That lot on top of chops, mash, peas, and carrots should see me through the night.
Sat now with 5 skin and pint of chilled milk.
Just changed from lounge to chill out vibes and noticed speed is only 48k, may look for an improvement one day.
For some reason I thought I’d read that poem in a slim booklet titled the glory of Stalingrad and other poems.
Joint is smoking in all directions, side and middle, getting slight stone but am too busy typing.
At last the end is burning even and its half way gone. Pessimist.
Drawing deeply. Optimist.
Oh what a happy chappie I become,
When I smoke the weed,
A happy chappie; Yes indeed.
Make a not to go thought blog and label poems. Was annoyed was unable, truthfully couldn’t be bothered to go through blog looking for a particular poem.
Yes there are some poems littered along the roadside, some which have caught my eye and some I’ve knocked off myself after getting inspiration from others.
Today I read some poems written by people who were obviously distressed, some going through depression others treading in unknown territory.
When we take that step into the dark unknown we hope,
That someone will supply something solid to walk on,
Or some fucker teaches us how to fly, pronto.
Reminds me of an animation I once saw decades ago.
The inhabitants of the planet lived their lives being circled by these huge black, pterodactyl looking birds.
They had few rituals except to feed these birds everyday.
When the old folk died they carried them to a hole and dropped the bodies in.
The bodies fell through this hole going the full length of the planet and they come out of the other side as
Large, black, pterodactyl looking birds/-flying reptiles.
I thought that was ever so sweet.
Joint creeping on as the mist creeps in over the fields and surrounds the estate like a soft perimeter fence.
Drying up,
I close my eyes and contact that hero of mine who usually had an answer for every situation.
Dylan the rabbit from, The magic roundabout.
Someone actually took the time to do a deep and meaningful analyse of the program. Never seen it but would interested, to learn the political bias of such a program.
Dylan is as usual perched among the boughs of the tree, guitar clutched to his chest; this guy took everything steady, took him ages to open his eyes if he was, god forbid called upon to take part in the sketch.
If I live to be a thousand I would never figure out what drove mental processes towards choosing such a mix of characters and personalities.
I can still remember the upbeat music that always, always accompanied the train going through the tunnel, would have been the original crazy frog for me if that fucking irritating Benny Hill theme tune hadn’t been around.
I never saw rabbits as being laid back creatures, in fact the 50 odd I had in the back garden were by nature anything but laid back and sedentary.
But no this rabbit has to be depicted as being so out of his head as to barely function.
I must have done some very near impersonations over the years.
He who says little, hears much.
I roll my second to last joint up and spark it up, belching deeply several times before I do.
I pause and the music doesn’t please me, the sounds are wrong, luckily it is just finishing.
Its like a funeral dirge with beat box over the top, really crap.
Fitting title would be Ode to an iron lung.
I hate listening to sounds which have annoyed me, I take any break in the continuum an annoyance be it a break in the stream or a crap track like this one.
To cap things off the track is followed by the obligatory commercial.
Back to sounds and a tropical rumba tries to tempt me towards foreign sun kissed shores, basking in the company of dusky maidens. Voices make unmistakeable promises in a foreign tongue, and a gentle lilting string section mimics the motion of the sea breaking and falling against the shoreline.
All I can think of is the rain,
How clean and fresh everything seemed to be after a bloody good tropical type downpour.
I still haven’t come up with dream part of my conception of what my equipment could have been used for.
I visualised a movement into new areas of art, never before tried, in its simplest terms a return to moving art akin to the colour wheel effects.
Art that is influenced by temperature, lighting all types of stimuli.
I thought of morphing, as an art form and thought ideas would come from that.
Perhaps I’d better shut the fuck up till I know what I’m talking about.
Always a first time.
A piece of art may catch my eye one day and may even hold my interest for a while in as much as I look at it often, but eventually it will be replaced, I may see it again and not give it a second thought, because something else is keeping my interest.
All depends what mood I’m in as to what artwork I would search for or failing that at least what genre.
I seem to have veered over the road somewhat in my directions,
See Dylan would have slowly opened up his eyes, stared blankly towards me and
Said, “I told you to stay put then you can’t get lost”. And gone back to sleep, clutching his guitar to his chest.
Everyone loved the mentally challenged cow, Ermintrude, I’m getting worried I’m actually remembering this.
She would ask ridiculous questions, go into P.M.T. fuelled mood swings, moods changing from minute to minute.
She was always chastising Dougal, the Blue Peter presenter’s god send.
Easiest here’s one I made earlier, sales of well know washing liquid soar.
Dog that had a terrible addiction for sugar lumps, so Dylan is the recognised pot head but Dylan is the one with the addiction to the white stuff, after all he is a class above.
Talking of class A drugs we move to speed, there’s this little old man on a turbo charged tricycle whizzing around from to to fro with little or no regard for the safety of the other “actors”. Mr. Rusty. probably a drug dealer.
There was also another annoyance for the main character the dog known as Dougal, formally Prince, no not really, in the shape of a snail,
Brian the common snail, the brunt of all Dougals’ sadistic torture, and brunt of many a heart rendering cruel put down, time after time. But this Norman Wisdom character in the body of a small snail carried on regardless and was always ready to oblige with a stupid grin. He’s the one who would make cup of tea for everyone during the blitz and crack stupid jokes to keep up moral.
So he had some strong features, he could command some amazing feats of short distance sprinting and if annoyed would curl up whilst body popping himself back inside his shell, presumably till someone apologised.
As you can see there is little mention of my hero Dylan his character was low key, the lengthy gaps between appearances lent extra gravity to any words of wisdom he may or then again may not decide to utter before closing his eyes and clutching his guitar to his chest he returns to sleep.
How cool was he? Hadn’t a clue about anything but had a solution for everything.
At first its hard to close ones eyes and shut the world out, you are frightened naturally of losing contact with something tangible, is that right word?
You then learn to relax and use closed eyes to aid focus.
Eventually it becomes and art form if you can master the ability to just shut your eyes and let the world go by.
I may be wrong but my heart may have just given me a little tickle.
Have had a good couple of good days stoned.
A stoner may look relaxed but sometimes the heart is often going some rate of knots for no reason whatsoever.
I take a deep breath and chill, muscles along my spine a re fluttering uncontrollably, in as much as I ain’t asking them to move, no panic because certain among of movement will do it good.
Dylan would often be seen taking deep breaths and letting them out in frustration.
I’m struggling to get any kind of thread going and if I can’t keep the thread up how will I find my way home?
The other main character is young girl Florence, who is a follow on to loopy loo who used to hop into bed with strange bedfellows at the end of each show.
We all knew Florence was a virgin but just to confirm the point some band brought out a record stating the fact, or were they questioning it?
Writing about it I’m thinking why was I so utterly addicted to that program?
I loved it but I found it funny, I watched a few episodes some 25 years later, thanks to boxed collections on V.H.S.
First time I watched it; it was indeed partly funny, next time I watched it was seriously twisted and sinister.
I know everyone’s done it, but magic roundabout is ace for turning down the volume and getting stoned and each player taking on a character.
I watched a brilliant piece of work not so long back called, “The Agricultural show”, the cow on that was muking fagic.
Reminded me of ermintrude immediately but also realised her character could be so complex if sufficient people sent their recordings to the tube.
Would get boring after a while, but hell there’s a lot of episodes and they’re only three minutes or so long, perfect for the attention span of a stoner.
Yes we gave them personalities and occupations as varied as Health and safety inspector to politicians canvassing.
I hear you shout this guy deserves to be locked up.
I realised its midnight and therefore tomorrow has come and this the present is in the past and a new page opens for the future to be written,
Sorry that was just me playing some shit on the grey cells left awake.
I love the solitude of writing for pleasure.
I’ve just inserted today’s date, I don’t know for the life of me why I decided to choose this date format, which would inform me it is in fact Friday the thirteenth.
Good job I’m not superstitious.
A flute on speed is playing something way to quick for this time of night, this is the first complaint all day so not too bad.
I’ve reached the conclusion that I’ve had the best of the smoke, this one has no apparent kick even though its well loaded.
You notice I choose to say apparent kick because I’ve learnt to look out for the unannounced visitor when smoking, he usually carries a sledge hammer to make you aware of his presence.
Kinda like, Hi honey I’m home, then takes half the back of your skull of with one blow.
I sometimes miss those days, unadulterated quality gear.
People harp on about the increase in the strength of cannabis nowadays and saying that because of this increased potency their poor little naïve kids are becoming potheads.
How come so many smokers are saying in agreement that the stuff on the streets today is rubbish,
I for one know the quality and therefore the potency has decreased dramatically over the last ten years or so.
Its as if someone is allowing large scale distribution of low grade gear to piss off the more astute, read hardened smoker.
Am I right in contemplating such an idea, will the stone be different for a 17 yr old than for me in my fifties?
If it isn’t then all I can say is there must also be a lot of young potential customers getting ripped off.
I pull myself up short by the reins of reason.
Why do I continue to be amazed when the truth is so obvious.
See how I slotted that one in, apparently one of the signs of manic behaviour is belief in conspiracies and persecution.
I could clock up a few more brownie points on the scale of lunacy by recalling any religious enlightenment I’d experienced lately, any chats with the Pope for example? Yes No?
I knew I was in the shit when trained professionals were shooting in the dark and asking such strange questions.
I have strayed off the path and am in danger of entering the fields bearing the bitter crop of anger.
Well at least I picked up a couple of badges for my site, and a complimentary comment.
Will anything ever make something else worthwhile, yet on its own be worthless?
I’m approaching the hours when I would either begin to flag or receive a second wind, tonight I feel the arms and wrists getting weaker,
I have to relax my head and let it roll backwards to relief the pressure and tension release is like an elastic band been released, or similar a release of power.
I fucking knew it, the last joint has crept up on me and I’m going to be feeling sick again soon and want to be laid down so good night from him and good night from his other personality.
8:45 AM finished session about one, lay in bed for hours and then eventually got to sleep before dawn.
Woken up to another fine day and thanks to yesterday’s medicine I am feeling a lot better, mostly pain free.
That was one helluva session yesterday, enjoyed every minute of it.
Don’t know why I did it, nothing was planned just happened to pan out that way.
When I’m in the mood for a session it generally follows without too much organisation.
Cost me about £10.00 for session so not bad value for money when beneficial side effects are taken into account.
Just read about a drive by shooting involving a shotgun in a town just up the road.
Co- incidentally appears to be area where dope is coming from so no mystery over motive.
Police urge the men to give themselves up because they will be caught!
Excuse me, have a look at some of the crime figures before issuing such threats.
Three men arrested in connection with a drive-by shooting at a Teesside house have been released on unconditional bail.
O.K. so I was wrong.
All in all not a bad few days, drives cleaned up and most of problems resolved.
Perhaps too good a clean up have lost log in details for course work, no problems will retrieve it from tutor.
Have installed gallery but don’t think it will be here for long, too expensive unless I can find a source of HD on the web.
Also installed notebook, think may be either a complete nuisance or possibly quite handy.
http://onliner.ws/2007/04/09/idiotskaja_chelovecheska_logika.html Worth a look at, crazy use of Honda 50’s and bicycles.
Just thought I’d throw this one in just to be nasty. Have just finished first joint of day and regretted it when I lit up remembering I have a doctor’s appointment later; at least I won’t feel like a drink afterwards. Preserve sanity and current state of mind.
The Sorites Paradox
This is another ancient paradox bequeathed to us by those awfully intelligent Greek fellows.
Imagine you have in front of you a heap of sand.
It is unquestionably a heap of sand. It has more grains of sand in it than you would care to count.Okay? get the picture, a heap of sand big enough to get a builder excited.
Now it seems fair to say that given any heap of sand, if you were to take one grain of sand away, then it would still be a heap of sand. Agree?
Feel free to argue at any point. But for now keep shut and read on.
If you were to take another grain of sand away from the remaining heap,
It would still remain a heap. This could turn out to be one of the longest posts in history so will cut to the chase.
But what if you were remove so many grains of sand you were left with only one grain?
Well it would no longer be a heap. No brainer you must agree.
But we have just proved that it must be! A heap I mean.
For the removal of one grain of sand from a heap, still leaves us with a heap.
By repeated application, we must always be left with a heap.
But at some point along the line it stops being a heap and our reasoning leads us astray.
What has gone wrong?
This is a paradox that arises out of the vague use of our language. We know what a heap of sand is – but we do not know how to draw the line between a heap and a non-heap. Our use of language does not prescribe an answer.
I took some time to research the birth of the English language and its companion English literature, mainly because it was claimed that the English language had been so fucked up by people as lowly as typesetters wanting to earn extra coppers by inserting unnecessary letters.
The French influence caused a lot of trouble to the written language and hundreds of anomalies began to occur.
Apparently there is a movement afoot to simplify the English language and adopt a more common sense logical approach to spelling; anything to help the kids of today get a modicum of a grasp of their country’s language.
Hey, I’m not talking about adopting a merge of text language; just s simple housekeeping exercise to correct anomalies, which were caused hundreds of years ago.
Must admit I never got the impression I was learning an exceptionally difficult language, struggled with French and wasn’t even considered bright enough to tackle German or Latin, thank fuck.
Yes it was an old fashioned school I attended, steeped in history, It eventually crumbled under pressure and became a college, the change happening whilst I was there.
Could never grasp the idea, that only by accepting the superiority of my lecturers, would I be rewarded by being instructed to learn a set routine, churned out year after year with little change.
Apparently, the last few lines have got the checker in a temper.
Everything I write is being flagged, at first to my annoyance, but now I take the time to investigate each flagging and take note of the rare occasions when the alternatives often flag up obvious mistakes in grammar.
Am quite enjoying stone and sounds are just right volume to mask all but the loudest of outside noise, i.e. the trains.
When I first moved here and realised that there was a busy railway line not 50 yards away, I remembered an old 78 my parents had, forget what it was called but taking a guess it would probably be something simple and along the lines of…
There’s a railroad runs through the middle of our house.
In truth I seldom hear them now, no of course I hear them but no longer take notice of the sound.
Better than living next to a church with working bells, worse still, I was living in a pub! Next to a church with all accessories, Sunday mornings would be fucking murder.
I wake up in the cold bath, having been drinking till 6 in the morning, bloody bells ringing out not 50 foot away from the pub and my bedroom.
I went through some horrendous mornings, unable to recover, unable to escape; just laid on top of the bed waiting for it all to end, bit like the old friend with mixie, waiting for release.
Its amazing how many times that picture of the rabbit waiting to die, comes back to me; every time it emerges it brings with a memory of a poignant part of a poem I read simply called Mixamatosis.
16:59
Been doctors, went chemist but was heaving so called in got lottery tickets, cheese pasty and two cheese and red onion sandwiches. That lot on top of chops, mash, peas, and carrots should see me through the night.
Sat now with 5 skin and pint of chilled milk.
Just changed from lounge to chill out vibes and noticed speed is only 48k, may look for an improvement one day.
For some reason I thought I’d read that poem in a slim booklet titled the glory of Stalingrad and other poems.
Joint is smoking in all directions, side and middle, getting slight stone but am too busy typing.
At last the end is burning even and its half way gone. Pessimist.
Drawing deeply. Optimist.
Oh what a happy chappie I become,
When I smoke the weed,
A happy chappie; Yes indeed.
Make a not to go thought blog and label poems. Was annoyed was unable, truthfully couldn’t be bothered to go through blog looking for a particular poem.
Yes there are some poems littered along the roadside, some which have caught my eye and some I’ve knocked off myself after getting inspiration from others.
Today I read some poems written by people who were obviously distressed, some going through depression others treading in unknown territory.
When we take that step into the dark unknown we hope,
That someone will supply something solid to walk on,
Or some fucker teaches us how to fly, pronto.
Reminds me of an animation I once saw decades ago.
The inhabitants of the planet lived their lives being circled by these huge black, pterodactyl looking birds.
They had few rituals except to feed these birds everyday.
When the old folk died they carried them to a hole and dropped the bodies in.
The bodies fell through this hole going the full length of the planet and they come out of the other side as
Large, black, pterodactyl looking birds/-flying reptiles.
I thought that was ever so sweet.
Joint creeping on as the mist creeps in over the fields and surrounds the estate like a soft perimeter fence.
Drying up,
I close my eyes and contact that hero of mine who usually had an answer for every situation.
Dylan the rabbit from, The magic roundabout.
Someone actually took the time to do a deep and meaningful analyse of the program. Never seen it but would interested, to learn the political bias of such a program.
Dylan is as usual perched among the boughs of the tree, guitar clutched to his chest; this guy took everything steady, took him ages to open his eyes if he was, god forbid called upon to take part in the sketch.
If I live to be a thousand I would never figure out what drove mental processes towards choosing such a mix of characters and personalities.
I can still remember the upbeat music that always, always accompanied the train going through the tunnel, would have been the original crazy frog for me if that fucking irritating Benny Hill theme tune hadn’t been around.
I never saw rabbits as being laid back creatures, in fact the 50 odd I had in the back garden were by nature anything but laid back and sedentary.
But no this rabbit has to be depicted as being so out of his head as to barely function.
I must have done some very near impersonations over the years.
He who says little, hears much.
I roll my second to last joint up and spark it up, belching deeply several times before I do.
I pause and the music doesn’t please me, the sounds are wrong, luckily it is just finishing.
Its like a funeral dirge with beat box over the top, really crap.
Fitting title would be Ode to an iron lung.
I hate listening to sounds which have annoyed me, I take any break in the continuum an annoyance be it a break in the stream or a crap track like this one.
To cap things off the track is followed by the obligatory commercial.
Back to sounds and a tropical rumba tries to tempt me towards foreign sun kissed shores, basking in the company of dusky maidens. Voices make unmistakeable promises in a foreign tongue, and a gentle lilting string section mimics the motion of the sea breaking and falling against the shoreline.
All I can think of is the rain,
How clean and fresh everything seemed to be after a bloody good tropical type downpour.
I still haven’t come up with dream part of my conception of what my equipment could have been used for.
I visualised a movement into new areas of art, never before tried, in its simplest terms a return to moving art akin to the colour wheel effects.
Art that is influenced by temperature, lighting all types of stimuli.
I thought of morphing, as an art form and thought ideas would come from that.
Perhaps I’d better shut the fuck up till I know what I’m talking about.
Always a first time.
A piece of art may catch my eye one day and may even hold my interest for a while in as much as I look at it often, but eventually it will be replaced, I may see it again and not give it a second thought, because something else is keeping my interest.
All depends what mood I’m in as to what artwork I would search for or failing that at least what genre.
I seem to have veered over the road somewhat in my directions,
See Dylan would have slowly opened up his eyes, stared blankly towards me and
Said, “I told you to stay put then you can’t get lost”. And gone back to sleep, clutching his guitar to his chest.
Everyone loved the mentally challenged cow, Ermintrude, I’m getting worried I’m actually remembering this.
She would ask ridiculous questions, go into P.M.T. fuelled mood swings, moods changing from minute to minute.
She was always chastising Dougal, the Blue Peter presenter’s god send.
Easiest here’s one I made earlier, sales of well know washing liquid soar.
Dog that had a terrible addiction for sugar lumps, so Dylan is the recognised pot head but Dylan is the one with the addiction to the white stuff, after all he is a class above.
Talking of class A drugs we move to speed, there’s this little old man on a turbo charged tricycle whizzing around from to to fro with little or no regard for the safety of the other “actors”. Mr. Rusty. probably a drug dealer.
There was also another annoyance for the main character the dog known as Dougal, formally Prince, no not really, in the shape of a snail,
Brian the common snail, the brunt of all Dougals’ sadistic torture, and brunt of many a heart rendering cruel put down, time after time. But this Norman Wisdom character in the body of a small snail carried on regardless and was always ready to oblige with a stupid grin. He’s the one who would make cup of tea for everyone during the blitz and crack stupid jokes to keep up moral.
So he had some strong features, he could command some amazing feats of short distance sprinting and if annoyed would curl up whilst body popping himself back inside his shell, presumably till someone apologised.
As you can see there is little mention of my hero Dylan his character was low key, the lengthy gaps between appearances lent extra gravity to any words of wisdom he may or then again may not decide to utter before closing his eyes and clutching his guitar to his chest he returns to sleep.
How cool was he? Hadn’t a clue about anything but had a solution for everything.
At first its hard to close ones eyes and shut the world out, you are frightened naturally of losing contact with something tangible, is that right word?
You then learn to relax and use closed eyes to aid focus.
Eventually it becomes and art form if you can master the ability to just shut your eyes and let the world go by.
I may be wrong but my heart may have just given me a little tickle.
Have had a good couple of good days stoned.
A stoner may look relaxed but sometimes the heart is often going some rate of knots for no reason whatsoever.
I take a deep breath and chill, muscles along my spine a re fluttering uncontrollably, in as much as I ain’t asking them to move, no panic because certain among of movement will do it good.
Dylan would often be seen taking deep breaths and letting them out in frustration.
I’m struggling to get any kind of thread going and if I can’t keep the thread up how will I find my way home?
The other main character is young girl Florence, who is a follow on to loopy loo who used to hop into bed with strange bedfellows at the end of each show.
We all knew Florence was a virgin but just to confirm the point some band brought out a record stating the fact, or were they questioning it?
Writing about it I’m thinking why was I so utterly addicted to that program?
I loved it but I found it funny, I watched a few episodes some 25 years later, thanks to boxed collections on V.H.S.
First time I watched it; it was indeed partly funny, next time I watched it was seriously twisted and sinister.
I know everyone’s done it, but magic roundabout is ace for turning down the volume and getting stoned and each player taking on a character.
I watched a brilliant piece of work not so long back called, “The Agricultural show”, the cow on that was muking fagic.
Reminded me of ermintrude immediately but also realised her character could be so complex if sufficient people sent their recordings to the tube.
Would get boring after a while, but hell there’s a lot of episodes and they’re only three minutes or so long, perfect for the attention span of a stoner.
Yes we gave them personalities and occupations as varied as Health and safety inspector to politicians canvassing.
I hear you shout this guy deserves to be locked up.
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