Archive for the ‘Ramblings’ Category

. . . . . answer & record is on

Posted: February 17, 2016 in People, poetry, Ramblings
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I just took my headphones, off!
you see, I thought I heard the door,
I could not have wanted more
at that moment of interruption
feelings became solid & pure.
but there is no one outside.
The polished crystal sphere of thought
of what we could do,
where to go,
how to dress,
what to eat,
where to dance,
its all there.
A finite group of details
mapped out 50 times?
I put the music back in my ears
and the phone says “answer & record is on”.
Another cold, sunny February day
you see,
I was born today.


ripped from sleep’s desert
I punch air and leap
into the days pain
roll from dampened moss
that was our bed,
and the mechanics begin,
the automaton who has
fouled the grave, again,
rises as smoke out of fire
but there are no ashes to clear.
A new dawn, new sheets?
and planted on a towel erect
an overturned soda glass
within the sheets
to assure an arid place
in this mattress creek
for arms of understanding.

 

 

dwk


I visited Joe Seeber’s blog today, out of courtesy, he follows me apparently.
It is a classic, the comment I left got so long it turned into this blog,
so his techniques must work I suppose, except I have never seen or read them and here is the reason why…

”Manifest my own reality…………..”?

“I mostly read personal development books as l am on a strict regimen of always improving myself as a person and offering as much value to the world."
I hope Joe’s self-esteem and confidence gains some ground because anyone pretentious enough to offer to guide others without knowing the way, grasping at other’s maps and trying to live the american dream of making money out of everything is not the dream of the majority.
Joe says don’t worry about others, do it your way. "Does your blog make the cut?" He presents himself as Judge, jury and hangman? Who put you in those positions over my little blog that does not have many visitors, but therefore, does keep the nest buzzing and here and there some honey for WordPress. Even I paid them to take the ads off one blog because the ads were so poor.
What about action Joe? -Why not take your improvement skills and GO and sort out the world’s eating problems, help starving people get hold of the tons of food dumped every night by supermarkets in the developed world. (That is reality not a left wing complaint). Help the obese lose weight and save them from diabetes. Make training videos of how to handle money better instead of blogs and throw your laptop away for real freedom. (Yes I did!)
and thankyou again for helping me to write my blog, which I only write when something pours out, rather like retching and probably of the same consistency.

http://www.joeseeber.com/how-to-get-more-traffic/

p.s. I just enjoy reading your blogs, not all as some dive into detail or cannot get across what they want to say despite magnificent language.

 

dwk


I watched something that has supported me like a scaffold rig for about 20 years, die last night. The confidence to pursue, the guts to fight seeping away from a group of extra ordinary people who forgot how to do what they do. A space was left between their ears, memory deflated of something they had done thousands of times for most of their lives. Fantastic physical specimens paid a lot of money to entertain us in a sport that is very tribal despite their bank balances they simply ceased to do what has entertained millions and give courage through joy, pride and self-confidence through example.
I know they will come again and again but this team one wears the colours of, particularly on match day, are my family, my people, with my commitment which is a great therapy.
Even for the fullest in fitness, they present an opportunity to unwind, to scream and shout at a stadium or even in your shell. Mentally urging them on and on one is raising oneself out of gloom and of course winning is achieved for us all. Resulting in a better frame of mind on a Monday morning a happier outlook without the need for sunlight. I  need the tribe (a psychologist suggested that the other team in most sports is NOT the enemy in a symbolic battle, the opposition players are not to be considered other than obstacles in the way. The enemy is the net to be hit, the line to be crossed, the basket to be filled. that is the winning of any symbolic struggle on a sports field). I think he is right. Some people just don’t get it but have never been to a live game and felt the enthusiasm among so many and it is interesting how they find their self-confidence from other things. If someone hates sport I guarantee they are hooked on something else and can talk for hours of it!
Last night was sad you see, because I fall over a lot, do strange things etc. and so am isolated but I find self-assurance in what my team does. So when it fails it hurts, when starts to fall to pieces so do I.
I await a new era acknowledging that big time sport worldwide only exists because of the money to be taken from its spectators through tickets or TV, but the reason they spend is more than a little entertainment.


I am more and more, getting the feeling I should write that down, that’s funny, that sounds right for a wordpress site (I always use a small w as I know of the humility this community of key pounders carries with it as its honour medal). But tangents always interfere and I never get here. The ideas simply disappear. You see the theory that the more one digresses within conversation or even passage of writing the more implanted or embedded, (popular word at the moment with software or apps or applications as I prefer, or even executive applications if you are a stickler and want people to know what you are actually talking about) become one’s dreams, as in deep sleep or even ideas that come to one when there is no envelope around during brief resurface. There in the digressive chat pops up that tiny bit of information that could make you a fortune or some even call them Freudian slips and sliding. That something you thought lost will flourish in the most irrelevant, evolving and constantly changing memory ground.

I admire the idea my brain is rushing around storing data during sleep. From filing cabinet to cabinet, rushing around, paper floating everywhere, or even scanning all paper to turn important information into digits so its all accessible on screen. My local doctor’s surgery has achieved this in the last couple of years. Trouble is no one seems to look down there (scrolling) or even read my nuerologist’s recommendations for a change in medication in the process of filing or scanning or whatever device they use. They look like bad photocopies on screen and it aint the screens fault as it glistens in the shabbiness of a practice taken over by a contractor paid by a local health trust. I can’t blame doctors any more, its a company now the lead sawbones has left, not that I ever saw him! Now everything is run by a management and another word firmly rising in conversation, locums. This general medical practice is now led by a lady with nursing experience. Neglect is the word my care-worker friend says is the technical word for the removal of information from that file stacked wall that looked almost reassuring as you walked into the surgery and that mass of information almost welcomed you. Dusty ancient files in those cheap NHS packaging cardboard coloured sleeves that fitted the size of a medical prescription or a once folded letter precisely. That perhaps only my observant UK friends would know of? A whole wall from floor to ceiling 20 feet long! These small file sleeves were an obvious element in the architects design dimensions of this modern functional environment. Reassuring because you knew someone could lay an experienced hand on your file when needed.

Storing while I am snoring, making a storyline from the chunks and fragments to help in the process, a fairytale (whoops, computer doesn’t like fairytale its red underscored it again! Is it banned? or am I being somehow maliciously discriminatory?) or even a nightmare dream to bring all floating flotsam data to rest in the right place or even disposing of it, recycle binning it? Then I wake up, turn off the apnoea therapy device off, jump out of bed, do me stretching, wash (yes we still do that in old England, its underscored again, wait it just corrected and put a capita E on England, and again! I am going to have to have a word with windows 8 – ah no capital W!!! I know wordpress (red underscored) is not so stringent in its correction parameters) and while choosing the day’s clothing, from my vast wardrobe, a million things come flooding through and I run to the nearest pad or keyboard – but it is gone. . . . .

. . . . . . something about digression and being able to convince myself to write some sci-fi, because that would make a great plot and the rest is just a matter of filling out with detail say the “how to” writers. But, can I convince myself to take that time and with my useless grammar hammer it out? Write a book? But it IS gone! Even the joke about reassuring my mother the abbreviated f word was actually the name of the publisher involved in the forthcoming book, sorry, tablet readers, download. Honestly mam, faber & faber (both underscored again ah-ha, this clever device is not aware that the publishing house’s logotype is a simple lower case ff !) But then I am hardly an intelligent machine in a position to criticise as my random access is failing.


In this field of positivity, there is a stone. It cannot be moved by the plough of knowledge, it cannot be moved by the pneumatic drill of progress, and on  it letters have faded to braille or have sharply chiselled serifs. Not Buddha, Jesus or Mohammed’s words, but text only understood by who finds it. The greatest obstacle to this throne stone?

Singularity.

There are many productive meadows, in which to create, re-model, re-design the future, but there are no roads to this fertile grassland and there are no paths on the range , only chest high harvests of realisation. Drifting so far from belief, logic or reason means many miles of life walking and  if we find the field the best one can do is cling to the perimeter fence.

Some do not have fences as natural clustering or gathering together helps in the climbing search. Assists in the struggles with daytime movement and fights off the nightmare with mutual security. Civility is draining away, helping without gain is not fashionable. If you are not in the now you are no one. Rather group in a dark pool of street corner limelight, in the new team, the new faith, the new circle, as natural gregariousness will persist. These will never find the field, their feet never leave, in all its irony, street stone.

Difficult enough to find in a swaying harvest,  one’s  stone has to be uncovered,  is cracked granite, or perhaps  polished marble, but heavily compressed  needs no test and will always be a cornerstone. That is our conscience or the still small voice.

dwk

…flying to wuc

Posted: July 11, 2012 in Media, Photographs, Ramblings
Tags:

RedTrialsnet

…… and her surreal word imagery also pulling in strands of popular culture to anchor reality, so we have something to grasp if not on the same, dare I ? wave length? If you have not found her dream state yet, do listen to the pictures painted with widescreen aroma by the “wuc”.  I took this photograph for you wuc, to assist with the therapy I ruined, as am sorry, pleeease forgive me fellow blogger.

memory drawing

Posted: July 3, 2012 in family, People, Ramblings
Tags: , , ,

….one of our bloggers that I follow, mentioned how drawing had “alDavesMoet1ways been a part of her life”, showing us examples. When reading this and seeing her pictures I looked up from my key-board at this drawing above the desk. The only of my drawings that I have framed, I must urgently add because the frame was in need of employment more than anything else. No ‘tis true ! But the excuse or reason for my scribbling being on the wall was, truthfully, the clear memories it reflected of a family Christmas Holiday. My brother had returned from France and brought his delightful partner with him. To visit her potential mother-in-law. Both decided Noel could not be complete without champagne and other delicious french holiday food. Thus the metal caps which with the assistance of wire prevent foaming explosions during transport or intended bubble explosions over Grand Prix victors. The identification of the plant? I apologise that is not my corner of the garden. I know people who can tell you the Latin name assigned to catalogue nature, maybe I should ask them? This image does not show how soft lead pencils can do justice to the plants texture. We had to pick up my nephew after his last day at school before the Christmas break and my sister suggested I come with her as he may be pleased to see his uncle. So this must have been about 6 or 7 years ago as he is now a classic suffering teenager. But still much loved despite his distance. Geography cannot inhibit love. Waiting outside the school the bushes looked like white sea foam because of a fluffy seed distribution system. The breeze was beginning to create clouds of this. It must have been a late Autumn as this was December? I plucked one of the sprigs and it ended up on coffee table with the Moet cap and after drawing with nephew, this simply started as a doodle, which became more extended as mother’s television became more boring. There was no magnum bottle,unfortunately,  I just drew different scales of the same cap and there was some sort of relationship with the fluffy sprig of foam that somehow fitted, despite the metallic hardness against the natural softness. It brings back so much detail I will not bore you any further other than to say that I have been drawing since child, Art Ordinary and Advanced-Level at school, Art college and a bachelor of arts degree. My brother said of the drawing, at the time “its OK”! Well, he IS an architect! I once had a cartoon on my office wall of two children drawing. One is saying to the other “everybody knows if you can’t draw you can still be a graphic designer”.

dwk


Something that the now wide open door of communication leaves embedded are small carbon diamonds of connection beyond the everyday, impromptu, binary silicon handshakes. Our synapse log information, wanted or not.

Friends are found through intertwined threads forming the net. A subjective passage through idealistic spaces, not requiring the normally necessary unselfish tolerance of human faults or habits – for one may simply pull the plug and as eddies of bathwater, hours of contact conversation and enrichment spiral, swirl and vanish.

Stay inside your avatar shell. After hours of appreciation, interest and giving of ones golden self from within this untouchable wire cage, unless you are of stainless steel and can put reality aside. But most attachments remain as stains or delightful dye, which is so difficult to untie.

One is intoxicated with invoked, incomparable instances of incredible imagery, instigated initially by interaction with the internet. This is not a mere peripheral sighting. The woven web envelopes and is inclusive for those with the luxury of the fourth dimension – Time.

So is the web in place of: the lion slaying gladiator, the field or court sportsperson, the entertainer, the modern freak show? Even the culture of personality created by the unreal reality show? Even the writing and theatre of dissent all to keep the mob busy and quiet?

Then all this interconnection backfired and booted up the disorder .ini(tiation) file, on the streets of London and assisted spring rebellions. “Why”? asked a reporter of a London teenage girl “because they can”, she replied.


“I have this new phone, will you help me with it, because you are so smart”.

Smart huh? Long time since I have been called that. The phone race has replaced the Space Race! I have a deep like of clever design which falls naturally out of the barrel of my education, but have never been sucked into Apple’s plan to take over the world. No iPlayer or iPhone-like appliances in MY possession. Their design objective in relation to marketing of product is "come up with something new", to create "gadget want" to leave our existence somehow wanting, you MUST keep up with the crowd, – “but darling the Jones’s have got one”!

I still have a flip-open Motorola Razr (a Star Trek reality) that sits comfortably in my jean back pocket. I just want a phone for emergencies with a calendar that plays a jazz tune when I should go to next appointment or post a birthday card. Texting is the only advantage the mobile phone brought, so I can send a kiss to my beloved every time United score. It’s currency converter says I pay  $11 or 7 quid aPrint month for it and its enough !

EVEN Motorola is chasing and sent me this link in an email recently despite asking them not to update me on products – grrrrr, Yeah but is it ME proof? They too must stay in the race despite the functional, hand-size, comfortable, communications interface still working perfectly they have already provided. Sometimes perfection in relation to function can peak out ! In the future I will not be able to replace my phone with an identical one because they will “not be making them any more”.

“pleeeease beam me up Scottie”

dwk


…..one of the most important tools of visualisation is drawing.

I am not concerned that nurseries are not introducing children to hand and finger manipulation to express themselves, or the knowledge and understanding of colours and the tactile media they are presented with. Most importantly, of course, their hand/mind co-ordination, necessary for the lightest or  firmest of grip to touch, hold and lift anything for the next potential sixty plus years. Rather the drawing skills among ten year olds onward are vanishing, technical drawings by hand almost unheard of. Even drawing to domestic screens with stylus is rare.

I am worried that the ability to imagine a three dimensional object stereoscopically in one’s minds eye then rotate it, take it to pieces, modulate it and even mutate it to a functional object mentally, is lost to most. Now the ‘creative’ child or teenager is becoming dependant on the machine visualising for them. The best ideas really were scribbled on napkins or envelopes. I am writing this now, on paper before transferring it through the keyboard, even that is rapidly being pursued by the audio command and dictation software writer.

At 11 years old, I started several years of technical drawing (T.D.) and art classes beside the basics. Performing tasks which are now instant at the touch of a key or stylus or more difficultly by a computer mouse. I was lucky desk top publishing software was on the market when I graduated as a Graphic Designer, so witnessed the process of change from both sides, the old and the new. The ability to visualise three dimensionally is a skill used by all, most importantly when driving, thinking about the length of your vehicle within a tight space particularly. I am most worried that the ability to draw and express oneself, even if it is only to stave off boredom, will be lost. I am assured, for instance, that cartoons and comics will never vanish, but already the uniformity of computer line drawing, filling in and the grading of colour and texture because of the way pixels interlace is producing a similarity that defeats individual talent and identity.

Getting hands on the control interface and the 2D screen is leaving pencils and pens redundant when not only the ability but the pleasure to realise a potential idea and note it for further use or even rush it to the drawing board or screen is being sapped away by the latter. I have a good mind to photograph this page for my blog!

I am stuck with the habit of writing in capital letters, because it is fast for me. It happened because I was taught and advised to write all printer’s instructions this way so there were no disputable misunderstandings. So that if 10,000 copies were printed in the wrong colour after client’s proofed work, a printer could forget about invoicing me. I have read recently of illegible handwriting by those leaving school with only keyboard skills.

This pen is slipping and sliding a little on this glossy paper because I am recycling an old book as a memo pad. It was a book design mock-up, which had to be a centimetre thick. Can you imagine a text instruction from a mobile phone to a professional printer defining the weight and texture of the paper to be used let alone the colour mark-ups, resulting in every poster in a country announcing the name of a famous company, misspelt and logotype in the wrong colour? That is the other potential of drawing or writing in these penstrokes (the spellcheck can’t find penstrokes incidentally)! My scrawl gives up its mistakes faster than something that is not in a database and therefore paradoxically hiding, beautifully displayed in a uniform tidy typeface but wrong. My hand writing is a form of drawing remember, and its personalised, unique.

Philosophers such as George Berkeley and David Hume, and early experimental psychologists such as Wilhelm Wundt and William James, understood ideas in general to be mental images, and today it is very widely believed that much imagery functions as mental representations (or mental models), playing an important role in memory and thinking. Some have gone so far as to suggest that images are best understood to be, by definition, a form of inner, mental or neural representation. In the case of hypnagogic and hypnapompic imagery, it is not representational at all. Others reject the view that the image experience may be identical with (or directly caused by) any such representation in the mind or the brain, but do not take account of the non-representational forms of imagery.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mental_image


sniff, jog, run, sprint, race, ….. dig dirt, throw it around, mark virgin walls, desperate for volume, but note how filth slides off that non-stick, anonymous glass. Then claim looking for gold, in the slurry, those tiny glints of truth pushed aside by the odd self-absorbing obsessions of the day. That 5 second blink of headline. ……… I look up from my ranting and there is the face ejected from some ‘house’ the night before, a 5 minute superstar for failing. I don’t want to know, in my mute button hammering desperation, I don’t want to know ! What this is or thinks. But I notice how carefully prepared, made over, made up for the studio oven. This dressed up plain person is the moment. Treated like a globe winning deserving non-success. Shortcomings now grab our sec-span attention? The soon throwaway, vanishing, disappearing to be sucked clean of any possible pixel glitter before deletion. A 2-dimensional nutrient for flabby imaginations, dumbed-down, quiet, controlled.

We can’t wait to smell the next pervasive stain.


The frostbitten, modern, glass trolley sheds like the mist, they get to be noticeable in their ice negligee, sparkling in the sun, while I am crunching across frostarmac, writing headsongs. They are illuminated frozen lanterns, standing isolated, though there are a few cars, those brave enough to come out this early still wearing shorts and flip-flops of course, – its only chilly love, besides I will be in the car!” – and tomorrow they will complain about a cough, which is why I am out so early. My neighbours lungs have to be scraped off the walls each morning so I am shopping for my sick seniors (oh! what a hero, couldn’t you just clutch him to your heart) – (yes please, well, it is cold!)

On return, the weirdest thing; a neighbour I haven’t seen for a long time, sitting in her car, warming it up probably, not going anywhere. Only wearing a T-Shirt, floppy cardigan and trainers, unfreezing her fan-belt. I was actually beginning to worry about her because of the absence of car movement. After decades of listening to complaints about the large tree and our beautiful green forecourt and what it does to the vehicles (there are no greenies here), I don’t drive but understand. A paint removing gum falls from the massive tree onto the cars apparently, plus leaves and the pigeon’s contribution of course in a metropolitan area, – but that wasn’t the weird bit.

I had to ask 3 times! how she was. After a serious hospitalisation and gradual work recovery, I was still worried about my neighbour/friend!! NAH !! after finding a metal rod among the leaves, neighbour is gracefully poised over the windscreen and bonnet, and through the heavy condensation of her breath, is inserting the thick wire into every slot and groove she can find around the windscreen and removes up to a couple of hundred grams of – moss – and is so taken with this I have to virtually demand information of her health! I have never been allowed a car, but another example of how the metal beast transforms the most loving, sincere, honest, respectful etc., into…………….you too huh?


…..reading two separate, unrelated, articles in the weekend newspaper, the Saturday Times, one about a mother who went to a therapist for help with her relationship with her teenage son, the other an edited extract from a book called ‘You and Me: the Neuroscience of identity’ by Baroness Greenfield a Professor of Pharmacology, I noticed an overlapping of information.
The mother points out that her teenage son forgets everything all of the time and is almost told off by a therapist who specialises in family relationships:
“He is a teenager, his brain isn’t wired properly yet”. The therapist explains that at the heart of all parents problems with teenagers is that most don’t really understand the working of the teenage brain. She says there are enormous changes going on in the teenage brain. The brain is essentially becoming unwired, which means their decision-making skills go haywire and adult empathy levels are not there. She also points out that this “un-wiring”, where the brain disconnects from the frontal cortex, means that teenagers are genuinely forgetful and also tend to be more prone to taking risks.
Susan Greenfield writes: There is one alarm bell ringing which suggests that increasing two-dimensional screen existence may be having undesirable effects.
…..This could possibly be that if the young brain is exposed from the outset to a world of fast action-reaction, of instant new screen images flashing up with each press of a key, then such rapid interchange might lead to a shorter attention span….
…..The emphasis in most computer games is on the sensory laden thrill of the moment. An increase in physiological arousal can be linked to excessive release of the brain chemical dopamine. Could the screen experience be tilting the ancient balance in favour of the more infantile, senses-driven brain state. We also know that excessive recklessness is linked to the prefrontal cortex. This part of the brain only becomes mature in late teens or early twenties. When this area is damaged patients take a high degree of risk. We know too that dopamine suppresses the activity of neurons in the prefrontal cortex.
…..it is worrying that in a recent study from China of internet addicts there was a strong degree of correlation between months of addiction and significant atrophy in key parts of the brain. as revealed in scans. If we live perpetually in the present moment, could one stark and extreme possibility be that, in the end, such people may have simply no identity?
I apologise to the authors for the heavy editing but I wanted some of my friends to see this.

. . . . the prospect of leaving

Posted: August 30, 2011 in Ramblings

Growing up is about finding one’s personal road.
There is no road in childhood, simply a space, a field perhaps, containing objects between which a child skips backward and forward.
Then grass turns to a dirt track, then surfaced road and then for some even a motorway.
Some can see where their road touches the horizon, their lives mapped out in front of them. Another’s road may twist and turn and only the next hour is the extent of navigation.
Such people do like to speed on these swerving roads,despite the danger, perhaps because of the danger, for the rush?
Some people never take a step on the road ahead, just stand and look. Others do begin but soon come to a halt. Another group turn back and try to regain their childhood field.
Some adults despite no impairment at all, will never leave the space of their youngest years and even laugh at the prospect of leaving at all.

…….not fair!!!!!!

Posted: September 14, 2009 in Health and wellness, Poems, Ramblings

Its just not fair!
here I am a grown man
crying my eyes out as I type
there’s water rolling down my cheeks
…….why?
Because it is just not fair!
Who doles it out this…. fairness thing,
where is it?
I can’t find it!!!
…….and as for YOU !
the ‘you make your own luck
and/or deal with it’ crowd,
well I HAVE, for 36 years
but I just can’t get a break.
Why?
Where is this stuff
so I can buy some maybe?
I just want to be with someone
and be happy,
but I am not allowed that, oh no!
So I fight through the nettles of seizure.
Mostly pushing it away,
refusing to let it get the upper hand.
Even when it entangles me,
I can hear myself saying, NO! NO!
out load and then the scar tissue
turns several pages and I am lost.
Someone who HAS to be so in control is lost!
What happened?
I was OK wasn’t I?
Maybe, I should go after the one
who was doling out fate
in the form of my disability,
and I would have a few words with him!!
Some people type or print Him.
But he doesn’t deserve such reverence.
I just got an  email from someone
and it just blew me away,
because it’s just NOT fair!
I have given, I have loved, I have sacrificed,
I have avoided the suffering of holding back,
of staying out of the world.
I have not hidden myself away,
I have always tried to help,
so why can’t I have
the one opportunity before I fall cold,
of some sunshine in here?
Why…………. why?

dwk09

August

Posted: September 11, 2009 in Ramblings

Sorry guys looks like August just slipped by,spent most of it waiting on others,(both meanings of that sentence are applicable)but some good seems to pushing up and penetratingthe perma frost on the steppes of South London,(well it is windy on this hill), action at last!!Wait till I sort the photos and publish the DVDand perhaps a special disc for the Regeneration limited edition,thats what the market seems to demand today,if you can afford the time or trouble to visit this neglected space!

where is Picasso’s heir?

Posted: April 23, 2009 in Ramblings

 

The integration of thought and feeling must find expression in some form of creativity, an outpouring in its actioning!
Securing or anchoring thoughts to paper before they are overcome by more practical tangents is a simple necessity, rapidly being extinguished in the age of telephony, that requires mobility but strangely not personal contact?
Staying on the perimeter of closest friends’ lives to retain: the fashionable, any moment contact, to appear ‘cool’ or ‘with it’, and even perhaps to attain ‘street credibility’, be accepted, even achieve equality of sorts with one’s peers, is apparently essential!
But the essence of constant availability for communication through accepted, if not embraced technology is wholly dependant on more and more isolation of the individual.
How often on the high street or in a nightclub, I wonder, does someone talk loudly to their mobile or cell phone or furiously thumb type messages to people who never answer or who simply do not exist, despite an overloaded SIM directory of contacts?
If all the energy devoted to communication, networking and interacting was applied to some form of creativity how many more great musicians, painters or writers would blossom and make so many other lives endurable. That is not a claim that art provides relief from super highway stress, but certainly provides pleasure and of course indirectly effects more practical creativity such as design, architecture or engineering etc
Is the heir’s line engaged?

dwk

presents

Posted: February 24, 2009 in Ramblings

had a nice quiet birthday week, brother sent me a card with the wrong number on it! everybody sent me DVD’s, the echoed “we just don’t know what to get you” – from the most intellectual to the most trashy (all loved) of friends,….. so this place is now a relative cinema, maybe I should charge at the door?
In about 2 weeks there will be the slow but quiet enquiry, “that film we bought you Dave, was it any good”? “I was thinking of buying for myself” and other hints will be heaved. I’ll pretend I don’t realise they want to borrow it.
The other things were very expensive trash like a printed painting on a plate of my football team, (my very minimalist home doesn’t fit). and why did the ceramics people pick a guy who can’t paint!? oh!!! and the white and silver touch screen Su Doku game branded by a famous game show assistant, probably cost a fortune to look that bad!
One year someone will ask me for what I want and come up with the goods. Anyhow………..its pancake time!!!!

pockets

Posted: December 2, 2008 in Ramblings

This is the time to find the bottom of your pockets

is a sentence that just came to mind,

in fact, to turn your pockets inside out and find every penny and even piece of fluff available, then spin it into something knittable and at least make a jumper for the poor!

Too severe?

Too extreme?

Why? At this time of year you should go for it, holiday and gather around you those you love and NOT play scrabble or monopoly or obey the one eyed monster.

Take them all to a pantomime or football match, a play or a concert. Do a restaurant. Too expensive? Get together with friends and relatives and have a party, share the weight. It will only NOT happen because you decide the glass is half empty.

Enjoy it, enjoy them, enjoy what you do together and eat well and if you drink regular…….don’t! Spend it on something far more nourishing and less dehydrating or even someone else!! – I dare you – “Christmas without booze?” Not possible I can hear screaming! Yes it is and it clears the way for the sort of clarity that will surprise those who insist “I only occasionally have a glass”!!!

If you don’t drink, get plastered……but be careful, because I know some of us have holes in our pockets, our livers, our lungs etc.

Love is in those pockets somewhere but gift giving should not be a part of it really, but there is a symbolic precedent. The greatest gift, was a child given, a festival we celebrate (plus a load of northern European Winter festivals acknowledging the turning point of the sun having reached its lowest point in the sky, of course). When I give my dearest their carefully chosen things, I know that half are given for functional need, for use, but the other half a symbolic love for them because I like to make things for people and of course that does not mean I love them any less. But sometimes their faces………….. and I think I should have simply offered them a patch for the hole in their hearts.

 

DWK