(This title might grow over the course of the night - might end up 29 random musings, etc, we'll see how it goes. Have a look-see in the morning.)
Aggression. - Some people blow off the handle. Think of throwing a pot (on a wheel). You go to pinch in the top as if making a bottle or vase, and the whole top plops and careers off under the pressure of your fingers. Others shape the clay into a great big pointy spear, harden it with a blowtorch and pick up the entire wheel and hurl it at the object of their anti-desire. Others still headbutt the clay, then kick the wheel til their toes are all broken. I've been in all camps.
CPNish Freudian Foot and Mouth. - My CPN was asking me about my relationship with my father. I told him it was probably more healthy than my relationship with my mother. But I didn't mention I'm married to my sister. (Joke. But actually we've been mistaken loads of times for siblings. Sad eh? Some by incredulous yet friendly strangers, othertimes one can tell by the look of disgust - this is all pre-kiddie memories).
Fatherhood. - Speaking of children. Being a father of three small boys is a bit like being a rat in an electrified cage, wearing the negative contact on his testicles. If I slump down down down and crumple, zap goes the current, and zap and zap and ZAP APAAP ZA PAZ AP ZAP PDA DDY !!Z APX AP ZAP! = I get up again. I shiver and shudder and judder to imagine what life could be like without my perpetual get up pull-your-socks-up-machine that is called being a father, therefore responsible. I am very lucky. And I feel sick to my bones remembering a year ago, wanting to die, not caring about the effect I'd have on them.
Pottery. - The greatest pleasure is the learning through destruction. You make a bad pot. You cut in in half to look at the thickness of the walls. It's dead. You throw it in the bin for all the old bad dead pots. Gone. Bad drawings, bad writing... they hang about, you can learn from them. Dead pots, you kill, you learn, you say bye-bye.
Learning. - I always like to learn in parallel, not in series. I've made a bad pot. I'll make a handle and attach it before killing the pot. I've made two bad pots. I'll cut them on a skew, join them, make an ugly pitcher, form a bad spout, attach a handle, then kill it. There is nothing worse than waiting till you can do something well before progressing to the next stage - because then you'll break your own heart with your cack-handedness all over again.
Walter Benjamin. - Was a very wise man. A gleaner par excellence. What is left to humans but to sift for gold in the past? What is left for us but to re-infold all experience back into the past and into the present? Or to show the blind and deaf how the churning (oh shit, back to pottery) clay spirals back into itself. Eternal recurrence? Perhaps. Have a link.
Writing On (or off) The Hoof. - Can't you tell?
Fighting. - I never cease to be amazed how often I meet people who haven't been in a single fight since their schooldays. I never look for trouble, and indeed I can honestly say I generally try to avoid it, but somehow it always comes home to roost. You have to take my word for it that justice is always on my side, and that a situation has developed where an honest and upright man cannot hold his tongue, nor curb his flashing eyes. In other words, they didn't like my face.
Love. - A word everyone knows, yet has a thousand meanings. But if we qualify the word, it is demeaned by the qualification.
Form. - If you stand outside, and look at the horizon, and raise your arms halfway to horizontal, then your fingertips are pointing at the widest part of the globe below you. North and South are banished here.
Being a Jack of All Trades (Or Renaissance Man, as one would rather be known). - It is extremely satisfying, but one loses all credibility.
Love revisited (i). - True love. The love that is fated, that grows, that passes the years without vanishing. The love that is firm at a depth in the coalmine which can ignore any weather going on overhead.
Wine. - In truth, etc, well, perhaps. Unsluices the reservoir of unsaid, unthought, un, un, unnessess. Hic.
Artaud. - If any of you haven't read his Van Gogh essay yet, The Man Suicided By Society, then please do so at your earliest convenience.
Love revisited (ii). - Love of same sex friends. My oldest friend and I have always joked if we were gay, or if one or the other wasn't a man, we'd be married (come on, we have been together twenty years). Well, that's the way the cookie crumbles. I'm happy - he's happy - just another cosmic shrug and belly laugh I'm afraid. Still a wry smile at another possible past/present/future that was not. In another universe, it's a reality. ;-)
Cigarettes. - Are killing me. In fact, the only reason I went mad was to have an excuse to smoke again. On a serious note, there's a book called Cigarettes Are Sublime, which is a good read. Actually, it isn't. But it's a good book to pretend to others is a good read. I must try to give up again. My oldest boy keeps demanding I do or die etc... I smile reassuringly.
Religion. - For my sins, I was christened a Catholic. If my mummy and daddy weren't such awful sinners, I might have got to Confirmation, and then I might be very happy now. Mwahahahaha. Actually, I'm so glad they were dreadful sinners. :-) As it happened, I turned into an atheist on the balance of all the evidence at the age of six, and haven't looked back since. (Apologies ma and da - you were just normal sinners, not dreadful ones. Dx)
On the Internet Kiss. - Oh the etiquette! It used to be easy, but then a plague spread, and now it is all so difficult. I would rather say 'mwah', but that sounds so sneery, and not the intention. Irony in an internet kiss is hard to convey. For the record, if I do an 'x' (or should that grammatically be a 'x'?) then it means eXtra sympathy, solidarity, and love in the sense of... oh see love revisited iv.
Depression. - I've felt shit the last few days - but mixed. I've shouted at the children a hundred times more than I wanted to; I've been foul to live with. The only bloody reason I'm writing this shit down is to try to bump-start my brain into being 'up'. Not a bad BAD down. Daily suicidal thoughts, yes, but that's not what I would call bad. Not plans (though I know what my current options are), and not actions, nor actionable actions, nor actions that back in the day would be actionable either. So I am safe enough. I just want to pull myself out of the stupid pit. Writing blather and shite always used to do it if I kept doing it. (New topic, but continued.)
Mixed States. - Mania and depression are not two sides of a coin. They are two separate rivers. They flow and meander as they will. It is as easy to predict the next flood in Worcestershire or Norfolk as it is to predict what mood-state one will be in next month. Just imagine though... two rivers fighting in one riverbed. It would be pretty hellish for all concerned I would think, especially for the dim suckers who bought houses on the floodplains.
Psychiatrists. - May they rot in a hell of their own diagnosing.
Love revisited (iii). - Love for non-same-sexed friends (assuming orientations, etc). It really shouldn't be a problem, so long as morals and ethics are observed.
Equatorial Shenanigans Again. - Ok, relax your arms. Of course you all know from school that if you draw four lines within a circle all the same length you end up with a square, or am I just showing my age? (I'm 84 you know!) But, it is a very bizarre and sobering thought to be pointing your fingers at a 45 degree angle from your body through the ground at your feet, and simultaneously realizing that the world curves gently out out out out out out out out out round out round out round out round out round out round out round out round round round round round round round round round before it hits your own personal equator. There is an equator for each of you. It is simply the widest point below you. Think of Leonardo's Vitruvian Man. And think of him stood on top of a globe, arms 45 degrees down. There you have it.
Love Revisited (iv). - All of you bloggers. I don't mean it lightly. I rate you as high as my favourite landscapes, my favourite memories, all the things that are detached from the now and the real. You've all been grand over the last nine months or so. So thanks.
Conclusions. - I'm tired. How many? I've lost count. Count then. No, I can't be arsed. Make up a figure then. How many? Let me contemplate. Hurry up. All right, the figure should be twenty-five. But that isn't as many as I thought it might be when I started writing! Who cares... I don't, you don't, and everyone else will feel they got off lightly.
I've had enough.
Night all. D x (yeah, an internet kiss, but it still MEANS SOMETHING)
2016 - Best Books
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