Giving solace to the one that'll never see the sunshine

I am a tart, a BIG tart.

I like William Blake

I like William Blake

Each Man is in his Spectre's power

Until the arrival of that hour

When his Humanity awake

And cast his Spectre into the Lake

A robin red breast in a cage
keeps all heaven in a rage

Use Et My Sole A Light

An Atom is the basic unit of ordinary matter, and for you today, we have one here called Matt.
"Hello!!" says Matt. Matt is very old. But, he is also on the run. Yes children, Matt is hiding from somebody! Because, he holds a secret, or more accurately, the key to some knowledge that some people want. He has taken a day out from his journey through space and time to be in this story, today. Matt was born on the 4th of January, 13.73 ± 0.12 billion years ago. Yes that's right, he is older than Maggie Thatcher. Over to you, Matt, to tell your story!

"Hello!!! I am an atom, and I am attracted to you. No! I'm not trying to chat you up, I am an atom for Pete's sake. I am a naked singularity, now now don't get excited, that just means I managed to get away to be on my own without any blackholes or stuff. These things you should know, to understand my story.
"I got expelled from Atom school, just before all the hot shit kicked off. When everything exploded, everybody else forgot all about me, and went off all over the place at ever increasing speeds creating planets and stars and stuff. The only one that bothered with me was John, John Field. But that was only because he was omnipresent throughout space and time, so it was hard to get away from him really. I watched loads of atoms I knew before going over their Chandrasekhar Limit, and even hovered around the Event Horizon, in case I could save them and they'd like me again. But sadly, though I have trod many different Geodesics, everybody has either been sucked into a supermassive blackhole, or are stuck together with loads of other people that forgot me by something called Gravity, or suchlike.
"I am an anomaly, because I travel alone. Nobody knows about me, though some suspect me. Some bastards called CERN have been chasing me, indirectly, for years. Back before civilisation began, some weird things calling themselves "men" tried to invent an ideology of me, made me into some super powerful omniscient thing. But they were idiots.
"In the year 4,064,394,635,886 AD, I have seen that Robert Winkleman will find me by reading Nostradamus backwards in Spanish. Until then, I have to go, I have to catch the 16:05 Electromagnetic Field Transport Service to see Mr Doppler, who's red. If that bloody Neutrino would move his fat nucleus out the way. Salut!"

Here ends today's assembly, I hope you got all that children. Have a nice day.

Astral Conversions between Metric and Rhetoric with Patrick Moore

There was an Alien called Derek who sought a storyline.
He couldn't find one.
His friend was out laughing at earth, and found an apple corer.
"Derek! A corer!" the friend said.
The Robert Maxwell ate a chicken and mushroom pie, with a cereal in his garden growing like a bus in London goes around the streets. Street is a town near The Clarke's Village, where they sell cheap shoes and other assorted toss. I got a free extra ice cream cone there once, cos the girl making the ice cream broke the one the ice cream was in.
Well anyway, Rimsky Korsakov opened a cafe in Stourbridge. It wasn't very good, and was expensive, but was good when it was raining. Toulouse is a french town slightly bigger than a few others. Bigger than Street I think.
Still. No. Better. Than. Beforrrrrre. Sang a singer while I was struggling with what to write. Alliteration.
A little ration can go a long way, said an old woman in 1946. She won the war, the war of words with William Wordsworth of Woolworth's fame. And William Wilberforce, played by Melanie Gibson Les Paul.
This blog isn't very good. Try to find a subtext or something.
Captain subtext!
Init Tho

A Precision Pizza to go, in Togo

The Land of Herrytatlerbonch. Situated far north of the south, over some mountains and back down again, the Land, and it's main city, lie in content confinement. The folk of Herrytatlerbonch, or Singers as they are known, are THE most precise race in the world, literally they have a word for everything. A blue table has a different word to say, a red one, because they are different things. They have no adjectives, because everything that can be described is already precise enough with the actual noun, such is their obsession with precision. Their language is always incomprehensible to us, because there are so many words, most of which are for objects and things we have never even experienced.

Anyway, their main man, called Merrytackleborough V2.04, went out exploring one day, up to the north. He would not DARE go south, because sadly the Singers had waged many wars upon the peoples in their nether, and had put many spaniards in their works throughout the years. The Singers were HATED even, by these people. So Merrytackleborough V2.04 went exploring, and came across a forest and nearly died. It was in a new shape he had never seen before, and he couldn't think of a name for this shape! Now, to us, it's best described as like a pizza slice shape, a triangle section of a circle, so like the edge is round. But pizza wasn't even invented at this time, and Merrytackleborough V2.04, quite understandably, was panicking. Why couldn't he think of a new word? He quickly realised that the phonetic base his whole kingdom (or mainmandom) was built on, had run out of new combinations. Oh NO!!!!!!!! God, he thought, if my people hear about this, what on Earth would they think? I would be ousted, jousted, and generally toasted, for my lack in the hour of need. So he had to think fast. Maybe he could try and use a word nobody had used for a while. No, he thought, somebody will remember it, probably that bloody Gearantrypod in the Office of Fair Wording. He had to go.....south. To ask the neighbours, if they either had a word, or if he could use some of their phonetics, so that he could return victorious as a revolutionary, a pioneer in his daze.
Off he went, with a bottle of rum and a puddle. Sorry, a poodle. He asked the Geantriarchists, just south of the border. They told him to go away. He asked the Artlipiddles, and they said something he didn't understand. He kept going, manically, through the Lirdssss, Munchangos, Livelifelikeapoolers, Broomgrowers and the Welsh. But nobody would help him, because of his forfathers, or more precisely (as this is what the story is about, precision), his four fathers.

So he disappeared travelling the world trying to find somebody somewhere that didn't think the Singers of Herrytatlerbonch were complete and utter barstools, and had a word or two going free.

That's how Herrytatlerbonch lost their Mainman and their phonetic integrity because the Italians hadn't invented Pizza yet.

The Return of the Space Cowboy

Hello and Welcome to this week's edition of...Playschool
Yes.

There were (at least) once three Eagles. One was called Glen (who had a terrible sense of direction), one was called Chris (who just followed Glen), and the third was called...erm, Eddie or something. They lived in a nest, high up in a tree, above a smaller nest below. In that nest lived a cuckoo, called Cuckoo.
Anyway. One day, they heard a story of a Cowboy!!!!!! Called Drecksack. He rode horses and shot people drinking milk and did rodeos and line danced and wore great boots. But he wasn't happy. He had a lovely little cowgirl wife called Margarine and he loved her, but not in a way that she wanted. He loved her shoes, she wanted him to love her heart, which he couldn't do. He moved to Space, which is a small town in Tennesse. There, he met Johnny Cash, 3 years after his death. He told him: Son, if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough. Drecksack knew that already. So he got a vaccuum from a man in a green hat called Luigi, and got rid of the Ghost in Black.
Ahhh the eagles, where do they come in?????? I hear you yelp in tense exasperation. Well, they loved Johnny Cash, and his ghost even more so, as with his ghost often came that little plucked bass sound he used to have in his songs, like in Folsom Prison Blues, to beat of what would normally be his footsteps. They wanted revenge!!!!!! For such a blasphemous an callous act. They flew out, but Glen with his bad sense of direction went the wrong way, with Chris in quick pursuit. The other one flew over the cuckoo's nest, so he squawked and the other two followed. Eddie or something was piste as a newt, as he ate one along the way.
They got to Drecksack's house, pecked a hole in his roof over a period of 6 to 8 months, and then clawed him when he came home from work. Whack, Whack, kapoosh, clang.
They carried him back to his orignal town. and do you know what he said? The cheeky sod, you're not going to believe this man's cheek. He said:
"I never left this town, I just took a 3 year vacation."





But the joke was on him, Margarine had found a baker and was with him now instead, so Drecksack just had to shoot those darn sonuvvabeeches till he was blue in the hand.

Next up on Playschool, how to make beans on toast from paper, and pva glue!

Blindentaubenwerkannmirhelfengasse

A story. Again. A gain. A loss. At a loss?
A man was walking down the street and he saw somebody's past go past that he thought was his own. He walked into a cage, stuck. People like to look at freaks in cages, but they didn't afford him a glance. He danced, nothing. He tried shouting, nothing. A flower floated and landed by his cage. He looked at it. It said “hello” and flew off. Was never meant to stay.
There was a small kid drawing on a wall in the background. The man saw him and opened the cage door. He went home. Home was a dark hole in a wall not dissimilar to the one the kid was drawing on. It was dull. He sat in there instead and nobody saw him. Just sat laying out a stick every hour with his egg timer, to count down the days. He started to wonder when these days would go without him. Whether he could start something new, or do something he knew, or drink lots and dance and get noticed like he didn't in the cage and thought of all the things he'd love to do but never really could because he didn't believe that it would make a blind bit of difference, when he thought about it.
Not a blind bit of difference

Bye m'love, miss you

Goodbye my sweetheart, you will be so missed.
Your heart, though small, was bigger than most.
I loved your sweet attention, your comfort in sadness,
your peculiar ways, your memory shan't be lost.

You always said so much without ever a word,
I could rely on you to make me smile without fail.
My little white angel, you will stay in my mind,
to sit on my lap and make my day.

Now you're gone to a prettier place, and can feel no pain,
I just want to let you know, you'll always be my little Gem.
It'll always be your corner, your garden, your bed.
Memories are what we have, and I'll always love to think of them.

Bye Bye my love, will miss you x
"and I can't help but love you so"

A little (big) something, that is a little (a lot) ooh

In the murky shadows of a planet called Splott, there lurked a sinister looking cat called Tilda Swinton. She often stalked the streets of the Sacred Capital Of Splott like a red headed tube of sea kelp. One day she was at work, in her dating salon, which wasn't called The Show. There were people waiting in a line with tickets. Most people she turned down, as she didn't care much for them and preferred hanging around the kitchen in her underwear, or sometimes even acting like a lady. One man came up though on Tuesday the twenty eighth day of Junaury in the year 10,862,619 AVW (After Virginia Woolf), and his name was...
“...Popty Garth, at your presence,” as he so correctly announced upon acquaintance with the ugly old bint. She thought he said “Pop to your hearth” and reckoned he came from the north, but didn't judge him. She fancied him.
“Your eyes! They tell me how you want me!” exclaimed Popty, picking up the message. Cats can't talk like us, they only speak an old and generally extinct language (in civilised lands) called French. But Splott wasn't civilised as it still widely and wildly used the language of French to communicate between different species of vermin. Tilda stood on her back legs.
“Sauter! Pour mon amour!” she snarled, sinister as a bitter little feline. Which she did every day, as bitter and as feline as she was. Popty asked a passing rat what that meant (as he didn't speak French), did so, and she was impressed. He jumped so high his feet left the floor. It must have been the static from the floor below. “Vous faites-moi maintenant une tarte!” she shrieked wildly. The rat translated.
“A tart?” said Popty, getting a little excited. The rat corrected his translation to “pie”. “Making you a pie must be as easy as love!” He whipped out his rather large and knobbly Magic Wand, said “Mucus Pukus” and zapped her into a pie. She gave him the details of an Iron Maiden concert on Friday, and he said he would go, as he had previously felt like mould, but wanted something else to eat now instead. He left, tripping over a bag of dirt left rather erratically by the doorway.
Friday came, and Tilda hadn't seen the newspaper reports about a crazed Bakehouse Killer preying on Splottian Crazy Cats. But even if she had, she needed a squeeze a day, instead of her negligée, so she was going to go. But while she was on the way, she passed the legendary Splott pool, which borders with the made up land of Pooland. Now normally lakes flow downhill to the sea, but this one was going the other way. She had learnt Pinglish specially for the date.
“Water's running in the wrong direction! I've got a feeling it's a mixed up sign,” she said. So she didn't go. She didn't bother letting Popty know either.
But Popty, being a cunning little swine, had followed her in her own shadow. She could hear music, maybe she could hear a bassline jumping in a backstreet light, but presumed it to be a bad stomach. She turned the corner, and there stood Popty in her dressing gown and her shoes.
“It doesn't mean you'll go as fast I do!” said Tilda in fright. But before she knew it, she was in freight instead, in the form of a lorry with Popty Garth written loud and shamefully on the side. “Think before you bite me!” she said with one last gasp.
“Let's go, Eskimo,” he snapped, and threw her in a bread machine normally reserved for making Vienna Rols and checking essays for plagiarism. After she was flatter than a doormat, he said “I can't mistake her biology”. Which was true, he could have made a anatomical poster from her.
He thought quickly what the neighbours would say, but he'd already done them in so it didn't matter.
Suddenly!!!!!!!! The doors to his Bakehouse were smashed open, and in ran Ray Davies from the Kinks. He threw a bag of flour in the general direction of Popty, because he was short sighted and wanted a free Vienna Roll. But by mere chance of location, the flour whacked Popty smack on the elbow and knocked him dead to the floor. About five seconds after he jumped up and fell back down, as even in death he was affected by the static from the floor below. “You really got me,” he might have said, were he not dead.
Ray Davies was annoyed, so he left and drank Coca Cola, C O L A – cola.
And so it was, that Tilda Swinton got flattened and Popty Garth got killed by his own raw materials.

Walls

Rohan went walking in the city and it was dark and polluted, despite there being no cars and all the factories being derelict. He was heading to his world at the end of the road. There were ballerinas and rubber tyres dotted around. Somebody behind a mirror shot a rabbit, who made the noise of a cow. Rohan saw a shelf on a wall that had remained standing when its adjoining counterparts had long given up the fight. He thought it was nice, and looked at it, smiled and stuff. Then another wall came, and knocked Rohan flat on his face, chest, stomach and leg.
“Stone me!” he said. But the wall was made of brick, which is technically different to stone. He was hurt. The shelf remained.
Some other walls fell over, but not to get Rohan. He wasn't that important. In fact the wall that fell on him only did by chance, the wall hadn't actually noticed him. The shelf seemed to have seen him, but didn't look entirely sure about it. It wasn't really too bothered either, that much was clear. It had a new wall to look at now. Broken walls are much more interesting than broken hearts, or at least much more desirable. A few ballerinas danced past, didn't really see him. One asked him for the time. A rubber tyre started burning. Rohan thought he might burn with it, but it didn't come anywhere near him. He was left where nobody could see him, to lie down and just wait. But nobody could see him before, so what he was waiting for God only knows.
After 83 years, an Elven wind came and Rohan became the wall.

macht nix

Äöüßä
ich fühle mich schon wieder schlecht. Ich habe Angst davor, zurück zu gehen. Wien ist natürlich nicht perfekt aber hier passiert etwas. In der Hölle geht nix los. Ich fühle mich eigentlich jetzt wie ich früher da fühlte. In Herr der Ringe Pippin sagt „Es ist immer schrecklich bei einem Krieg zu sein, aber darauf zu warten, wenn ein Krieg kommt, den man nicht anders machen kann, ist noch schlimmer.“ So ist es. Ich hasse es. Meine Stadt hat mein Leben zerstört, da bleibe ich immer noch zu Hause, und langweile mich, und denke - „Worum geht’s?“. Ich kann nix machen. Gleich hier. Was mache ich? Bleibe zu Hause und langweile mich. Ich habe keine Interessen, keine Leidenschaft, kein Sinn. Ich esse nicht viel, weil ich krank fühle, aber deswegen fühle ich krank, weil ich nicht esse. So ist es mit alles. Ich mache nix, ich bin langweilt, und deshalb habe ich kein Energie. Aber was will ich machen, um dieses Gefühl weg zu schicken? Was kann ich? Eigentlich nichts. Ich bin die gleiche Person. Kann nicht nur allein ausgehen und mit irgendjemandem sprechen. Und Leute kommen nicht zu mir. So ich kann nichts. Fast niemand in England hat sich bemerkt, dass ich weggegangen bin. Ich kenne zwei Engländer, die nett sind und den ich nicht weh tun will. Außerhalb diese gibt’s niemand. Und es gibt keine Hoffnung, dass es verändern wird. Ich fühle mich ganz leer und ohne irgendetwas. Ich kann nicht lieben, ich kann nicht mit irgendetwas bleiben. Ich gebe immer auf, weil ich kein Ergebnis bekomme.
Ich gebe wieder auf.
Macht nix

Jippity Jop the Cow went Bop, with pretty blades all in his tow

I like chocolate. I like fruity cakes. I like playing music for people. I like playing music for myself. I like hearing music. I like nice people. I like that feeling of “what if” when I meet someone new. I like red. I like sausage. I like sleeping. I like the park. I like scooting. I like peace and quiet. I like rock and roll inclusively and exclusively. I like talking. I like talking in cafés. I like fish and chips. I like doodling. I like Beethoven and Liszt and Rachmaninov. I like Dalí. I like swimming once I'm there. I like lying down with my eyes closed. I like you. I like Am Himmel. I like girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. I like to believe in romance. I like reading stuff I don't understand. I like understanding stuff I don't read. I like sentiment. I like liking things.

Je ne bloge pas francais

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Longism about Linguism

Language is a funny beast, like a platypus. Particularly German. German language, not German platypuses (platypii?).
“There are three tenses.” No there aren't! We have Past Perfect, Past Imperfect, Past Plus Perfect, Present, Future (written often as Present), Passive, Subjunctive (two of these), Imperative. I know some of those probably aren't tenses, but they are good as.
Present tense. This one says what we are doing now, or what we do regularly. There is no way of knowing between the two, other than context. It can also be used as Future, when you're talking about the near Future. But then there is in fact Future Tense for this job, which can be used for near or far Future. And the verb you use to signify it is Future, is “to become”. Which is all very logical, until you wish to use the verb “to become” in Present Tense.
The Past Tense is much easier. No! You have Perfect, Imperfect, and Plus Perfect. You can use Perfect for Imperfect too, which is nice, but not for Plus Perfect, which isn't nice. The auxiliary verb is also variable. Anything that involves movement from A to B should use “to be”, or also strangely the verbs “to remain”, “to be” and "to become". Also, if you say “I have travelled” instead of “I am travelled”, it means that you did the travelling yourself, as in you drove the car/bus/train. The Plus Perfect is just a pleasing combination of Imperfect and Perfect. You use Imperfect for stuff you did once. I like that one, it can reasonably claim to be a practical marriage of function and ease of usage.
The Passive is just some crazy ass thing.
Subjunctive has two lovely variations. The second is strangely the more common, used to show some kind of condition. You just whack the two little dots over the first vowel of the Imperfect, or use Subjunctive of "become" (würde) plus the infinitive. If you use it well enough you can blur the difference between “hatte” and “hätte” when you've not done something, as it changes the meaning from “I had done it” to “I would have done it”. The First Subjunctive only exists about once a month when I read a newspaper, and it covers reported speech. For this you just use the wrong form of the verb.
You can use the Imperative politely or familiarly. So when you tell a stranger to sod off, you can say it politely, by using the infinitive followed by the unfamiliar form of “you”. Otherwise you just shorten the 2nd person form and whack an exclamation mark on the end.
Next week I'll talk about the extremely (un)useful Case and Gender System! Great!

Crazy wicked cool George

In the white room there was a black soul, which was nice because the front door was red and it reminded me of cabbage. On the soul sat a limerick whose name was George, and George played bicycles on the hill by the other hill. One day the hill played bicycles on George. George didn't like it.
He then went and told a joke whose name was Henrietta. She said, I know how it feels to be dead. Cos you're making me feel like, I've never been......born?
Yes.
They then became a relationship. They played tandems on the other hill by the hill that was by the other hill where he used to play bicycles. It was big and green and very much more like a hill than the other one.
They went up, and they went down. When they were only half way up, they played tandems. It wasn't anywhere near York.
Latitude.
Geography, said George one day, is like a rock. Rocks are boring.
George was boring too, trying to make a hole in the ground to bury his newly married turnpike, whose name wasn't Jeanette. A simple desultary verbal act of violence in an ever softening helmet.
He buried her. He buried her like a cat buries a squirrel.
He shall burn in hell for what he hath done! He shall burn like the pagan kings of old, the dirty little nostril rubber!
The Henrietta found out. She was absolutely loving it she was! She called him darling, and said, There once was a lady from Peking, who didn't know what she was seeking. So she wasn't called Jeanette, and she chose to forget, the wonderful poems she was speaking.
And that is it, it, itchy, stitchy, clicheeee.
I've never been so happy since I met-you

Etwas

Ich würde, wenn ich könnte, aber ich kann nicht. Wenn ich doch spreche, wie ich kann, dann solltet ihr nicht zuhören. Ich glaube nicht daran, aber ich bin doch nicht sicher, dass ich daran glaube, dass ich nicht daran glaube. Leben ohne ist nicht besser, aber auch nicht schlechter. Ich will was sagen, etwas wichtig, und manchmal fühle ich mich, wie ich kann. Aber was ist es? Weiß nicht.

A Subversive Re-evaluation of a Interplanetary Dog Biscuit Supplier

Pancake. Flan Case. Outer Space. Outer Circle. Angela Merkel. Angels With Dirty Faces. Maces. Races. Basis. Grey. Miss. Bliss. Hiss. His. Hid. Hide. Haydn. Baydn Powell. Tawny Owl. Falling Foul. Sorting Room. Reporting Doom. Flume. Soon. Son of God. Dump of Cod. Kruschev. Canada. Keine Da. Oberlaa. Ob La Di. Im Neuen Jahr. The Time Is Now. Fat Smelly Cow. Ich Loade Down. Horse's Ass. Kids Were Just Crass. Sit On The Grass. Jelly. Brass. Belly. Telly. Gerald. Harry Redknapp. Feet. Beer. Bier. King Lear. Limerick. Brown Stick. Brown Sugar. Lucky Bugger. Pull The Trigger. Bigger. What A Life! Swat. A Strife. This. Makes. Nonsense. Transcendent. Above. Shovel. Mother. Muffel. The Train. Falls Mainly On The Plain. Donaldbain. Thane of Cawdor. Meeting Three Witches. Blasted Heath. Blackheath. Michael. Dance. Franz. Karlheinz Riedle. Riddle. Middle.

And The Rain Came Tumbling Up

Fairy Nuff

I saw a fairy in the hedge, and she was related to Denver, who was a singer. He sang songs.
Oh my word! I know, I know, eye no, you have a taste for fast change. But Denver is stuck where he is. The fairy is more movable. She sings no songs. But sometimes the rabbit is better than the carrot, you know, you know, ewe no?
The heavens will cry over me, said an ugly hog. But let there be doves, gloves and the heavens above. Dinosaurs have hearts, just as the heathens of old had spears and leaves of caucasian ivy. The train is now arriving, tense as it is. It's like a good old time of old, where the ship was still on course and people still believed in romance. Denver sang about romance. He sang songs about romance. But he didn't believe it, so the others didn't either.
It's impossible to exist in a social plain, and in anti-social plain who knows, who knows, hoonos? It may feel more at home, but would have no takers. What a conunununundrum!
The fairy is sweet though. Hope I see her again, Denver is quite tiresome after all.

Nature? Nay Tour? Fate or?

Just let the poet's cry themselves to sleep,
Let the musicians play on their tearful words.
Where the Bible doesn't reach,
and where the deceitful river is not heard.
The boyish bravery of the automatic writing,
that is scribbled on the parasol head;
Or the macho primality of each far sighting,
that just defends what the warlord hadn't said.

In the skies fly the eagles of yesterday's today,
weeping sadly through their feathered frames.
Maybe they will clean their souls on the way,
but never will remember their west leaning names.
The poet named the Earth, and all that flows around,
but he will always be searching, never an end,
because their words are made from old sounds,
that just can't grip the menace of a friend.

Awake, stay awake, I'm leaving this place,
but expect a visit on the third day, because
I can't stay away long, my heart even stays
in this forest, by the kestrel's three week house.

Medicine from rain, water can do the same

Etuaeb ed elosed sius Ej. Iarv tse li Saim. Euqsir nu d port tse Li. Emia t Ej siamaj zevas en souv.

From the Diary of a Magnet

I've been following my attraction, wandering (and wondering) around the marks of the compass. I have been west of south and north of east, but always facing slightly to the left of north. While I was somewhere east of west, I stumbled upon a land because I was looking the wrong way. I had tripped over a tree, and landed in a factory, where Twiggy could have stood on the wall, but didn't. I painted it. I painted Twiggy where she could have stood and I painted Angela Merkel where she couldn't possibly, but did anyway. Everything was facing just left of north, one way or another. There was no rules there except the way to face. It's always ignorant facings that bring this town down! How it came to stay I do not know. The box of colour should have fallen over 13 months before, but it seems to want to stay for more.
There were some stylish kids, and they were rioting in the town of Woninten, painted on the northwest wall. They were rebelling against themselves, as they had become too stylish to be a counter culture. But I gave them the plus and the minus and they then felt liberated.
In Bringmintenner, nobody voted, and everybody spoke in unison. “Unless it's worth co-ordinating a group of speakers for, it's not worth saying,” they all said. They violently rejected Democracy.
Bluehead Ballet was run by Bluehead, and featured, mainly, Ballet. He was a free soul with an opposite attraction. His ladies didn't belong to him, but to each other, united in the aim to serve his Art, since his Expulsion after the trials in Tring, England. They were attractive, without trying to be.
In the distance I could see a castle, in the mountains. It looked like what my factory could be, but wasn't. A piece of the factory ceiling fell to the floor just as I saw.

To the stars or to the bottom of the river.

Sleep lives in the West, with her false easterly wisdom and damp liberty.

Media Blog

To what extent is a non-consumer's life dictated by the Media he doesn't use? For example, I don't watch much TV, if any. This is not some kind of political stance against the ever more ubiquitous nature of visual culture. Nor is it against the twisted idea of the companies telling me what I like. No, I merely find it boring, so I do not consume it. But it still affects me. I don't have things to talk about when the TV is brought into question. That affects me.

I guess what they show must appeal to the masses, in order to keep viewers. But my not viewing doesn't carry enough weight to change it, I don't think.

So if I go somewhere, the media I don't consume affects places I go, I suppose. For example, I can't go to the cinema without there being films literally everywhere. Or in my favourite cafe they sell films and stuff. And the people's fashions are probably influenced somewhere along the line by what they've seen on TV or by famous medium providors. And mine probably too.

I'm a media controlled weakling. I need to get a non-media dictated life.

I must say I do miss Loose Women though. When they had that shiny man from the musicals on it was hilarious. John Barrowman is it? It really confuses me when music lyrics talk about stuff from TV, or from films. Like those David Bowie songs about those BBC police programmes. Or books that I haven't read. Like the Libertines sang a line that I thought said "Wouldn't it be nice to be boring and grey" when they actually said "Wouldn't it be nice to be Dorian Grey", which shows my ignorance.

This was supposed to be about media, not about me not consuming it. Is it still a plural? Or is it an abstract noun now, like love and peace and other things it has injured, if not killed. That was a silly comment.

Wouldn't it be nice to be boring and grey? Just for a day?

Nothing to say...

I had nothing to say to blog yesterday, and I guess I still don't. But I thought then I would write about having nothing to write.

I don't know what to write.
I've been doodling all kinds of sh.....short prose.

It's a common misconception that Utopia is a perfect land. It is not, the Greek origins to the word mean "No Place", ie the most important thing being that it does not or can not exist. Eutopia however would be more correct, as the Greek origins of that translate as "good or well place). The play on phonetics was probably intended by Sir Morus, but there is an important difference. So next time, you will know!

Noddy Holder is in the Birmingham Walk Of Stars. He is from Walsall.

I want to go to Leighton Buzzard and/or Weston-Under-Lizard. England has nothing if not great place names.

I think that Rohan might end up dying in the Colourbox, when it falls down.

I could comment on the current perils within the socio-economic processes of the southern Basque region, but I'm not going to.

Be well, readership, you who doth treat me too kind

Oh! Vestal Kindred Smithery

Enter Mariot, Ferry and Helbot in the background, messing about.

Mariot. What love is't that breaks
the heart of the giver?
Why doth it eat my soul?
Ferry. Because it is hungry for what it seeks?
Mariot. But why is it then Love?
Ferry. It doth beateth me so.
Helbot makes noise
Ferry. Who goes there? What ho?
Helbot. I art no ho. I bring thee news of angels, poisons, and witches.
Mariot. How so? The witches were poisoned
by the Angels of the Hell.
Helbot. Oh, what sweet shock!
Shock! Shock! How
do you know?
Ferry. Aye though we walk in the shadows of light,
we fear no evil. We have't so harsh
like th' winds of Vienna in the street
where we live.
Mariot. What he says, through such
muddy paths, is that
we told the Angels of Hell
to do it.
Helbot. Oh! You pretty things! Don't you know
you are driving your mother and father
insane!
Ferry. I was not born of woman.
All exeunt

Enter Three Blythe Spirits
Blythe Spirit 1. I art stronger in death
than I e'er were in strife!
B.S. 2. You are indeed, with nose of Bosnia-Herzogovnian
we make our sour drink, and ready with goblet!
B.S. 3. Eye of Peruvian Tree Swinger and leaf of Cactus
that loathsome Ferry thought he had fuck'd us!
B.S. 1. But lo he hath but made us better,
as we add the juice, to make it wetter.
All. Call back our wrath if you dare!
We are now waiting by the fire, on a chair.
What goes now will forever be bound,
By the perilous realm that you have now found!
All exeunt

Enter Mariot, Ferry and Helbot.
Ferry. The beast is abroad, the Angels of Hell
have decieved our twisted aims!
Helbot. What, ho?
Mariot. He art no ho. The witches
are back.
Helbot: Sh't.
All Exeunt.

Applause

Happy Birthday Will

The Hardest Zip to Zip

Blogs and Essays are often made by a fabulous sentence to end, and also the delivery.
So here we go:
"So we should not ban it, because Janet can - its gannet tans itself on the gambit".

It's not off-topic, it's a metaphor. "It" symbolises witchcraft, "Janet" is symbolic of all supposed practicioners. The "Gannet" is telling of the superficial principles of medieval patriarchal persecution. I don't know what a gambit is.
This is the truth
Or did I just rhyme as many things as possible together? ban it, janet, can it, gannet, gambit.
Planet didn't fit in.
A gambit is apparently any maneouvre by which one seeks to gain an advantage, originally from chess. So that could symbolise the men's attempt to gain advantage over women.
Sentence done, let's go home, good night.
or
By the way Anne I couldn't give a flying fiddle about this!
So tough tits tutor tripe!
I throw my sentence at you! Whilst I'm covered in mud, blood and tears.
And nose of Turk, eye of western samoan bullfrog, tongue of lion and a garnish of poison ivy.
Maybe dressed like a witch...With a big trafic cone on my head! Look at me I'm a big witch!
The flick my cape and walk out, grabbing my broom stick with an indignant nonchalance.

Then I'll fly underground and raid THE Machine Room where the Plagiarism machine is kept. It looks like Bertha, but has watchtowers, it's own climate and plagiarism dwarfish watchmen.

Zool was an Ant in my eyes

I didn't like this blog so I have removed it

=)

Be well readers

Sore Young

When Amy gets some money, we might live in a house that has sangria and a penguin radio (with a rubber ring) and she will learn the words for Lemonade in many different languages, so that she is happy. The penguins can dance wicked cool.

We will live together with our literary genius and there will be no maniacal blogging. I won't have to answer the door in my pants because there will be a large box to hold all of her magazines. We can learn Elton John lyrics.

There will be jelly and laughter. And riots.

Happy

I've been thinking. No, really! Shocking I know. It hurt as well.

I might be what they call happy at the minute. But I don't like that word. I am in a positive mood, in a period of being grateful for being alive, for being alive in this exact place of location, time, and situation. And that sounds so slushy and silly, but it's true. I am smiling, I am laughing, and I love what is around me. But I guess we always need something to bother us, to stop us being satisfied. Satisfaction for me should only ever be a stepping stone. It is dangerous for me to become too comfortable, which I guess is why I always come across stuff that affects my satisfaction. But that's only ever one step away from bringing about a better life, by solving problems as they come, and moving upwards because of it. So who knows? What's negative often brings about change, into something more positive. This is rather incoherent isn't it?

Well, erm, Hello again to all the people I lost just there. That's what happens when I don't write in the third person! I just don't feel in touch with my third person, or my dative self, today. That's possibly a good thing, as he is a bit arrogant and pretentious. Like Gerald.

So instead I'll try and write something irrelevent.

Man: “You're right, he's left”
Woman: “Yes, he has, my son has gone. When did he do that though?”
Man: “I thought it was going to be tomorrow. I guess that's always my problem. Tomorrow never comes”
Woman: “I think it was yesterday. Lots of things happened yesterday.”
Man: “There are lots of yesterdays. What do you think about the implosion of meaning when too many sources of information are forced upon us?”
Woman: “Baudrilliard to that. I don't even speak French.”
Man: “No, not many do really.”
Woman: “Except the French, of course.”
Man: “I knew you'd say that.”
Woman: “Because it's true?”
Man: “No, I met a Frenchman the other day that spoke English. He didn't say a word of French the whole time.”
Woman: “Where was this?!”
Man: “In Jean-Claude's bedroom. He said he was leaving today actually, early, going hitch-hiking. Going early to avoid the rush hour traffic.”
Woman: “Oh, he's probably in Bordeaux by now. Wasn't he our son? He has been incredibly French of late. Apart from not speaking French.”
Man: “Oh, maybe he was, I never asked his name I must admit. I suppose he is gone.”
Woman: “Yes”

Shpeecy Shpicy Poot de Chucken Wid de Peashy

Beaut and Libert had another adventure last night. They dreamt about getting pregnant and sleep sex and small grey hard furred dog creatures.

They went to Sweden afterwards to get fellofahorse and a drum.

Third Man. Where's the toilet? You've been talking in your sleep. I've been sleeping in my dreams. I'm sticking with you, because I'm made out of glue. Let's record you playing with your Whammy and I'll play the bongos. "Wow what are you doing here at this party?" "I'm playing cricket. You?". You give off a good vibration. Sangria. Would you like to try Sex on the Beach? Let's do it on the Donau Beach. "My name is Ali, I am from London" "Are you really?" "Yes, i am" "Cool, I'm not" "You're not what?" "Ali from London" "No, I am though" "Good". "I could tell you were a musician straight away. That's not a bad thing. I knew I was talking to a child then so it is more interesting" "Thanks". I like turtles. Electronik, Supersonik. My blue jeans is tight, prepare for the downcount. "Is Norah Jones blues?" "No". Shall we go? I want junk-food. You're like a little sister to me. Yeah I thought you were gay. Night Bus. Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side. Kartnerstrasse is over that way. Train tracks. Swedish jokes. Twelve inch pianist. It's ok for running around in. I want it all. Es geht durum. "I'm just tidying my room, quickly" "I think you'll be here a long time". Fruity cakes. I like your Whammy. Me too. I like turtles. I just like maps. I like big butts and I cannot lie. "I like bad 60s horror films" "Oh really, have you seen a good one recently?" "Erm, no." You have a lot of stuff. "Do you iron?" "Yes." I like turtles. I don't need a jacket. Ribena is beautiful. You should have learnt karate! "You have nice handwriting" "Can you read it?" "No". How to fossilise your hamster. Hot water freezes quicker than cold water, fact. "I like Loretta Lynn" "Who?". That the treble can't erase, what about my weakness, I'm totally addicted to bass. Wow wha oh. Chicka chicka freestyler. Puretone. Why did I know that? I want to be green. Cold rooms. Dead people. I like turtles. It's so warm isn't it! I don't need a jacket. Hmm, according to this, you're gay. "Damn we missed the bus!" "There's another one in 8 minutes" "How good is that!"

Tres bien! =)

Может быть, я люблю тебя больше, чем мы оба знаем.
Но, может быть, лучше о том, что путь.
Не перевести, или, может быть, вам надо?

The Wagon of the Folk

I have just invented the four wheel motorised vehicle, and I shall name it the Automobile, or Car to its friends.
I think now I have invented it, I need to advertise it, maybe with a set piece of mechanical parts doing a dance routine. Or maybe with Eric Clapton in the background simulatneously eating a raspberry cake and murdering Robert Johnson songs. With the slogan "Stop Breaking Down" he he he.
No, what I really need, I think is a singing dog.
Right, let's get about it then. This car gives you CONFIDENCE, like some kind of happy pill. So we'll have a cute little dog and have it singing a song that nobody knows, but like...here's the good bit...really confidently in the car, and then really quietly in a post office or a bank.
But how do we get it to look nervous?
Other man: "We could either like...put the dog on a vibrating floor so he looks like he's shivering.
Or, we could just completely destroy the little hound's life by beating him with candy canes and rubber rings, and forest fires, and call him a liar, and then think of other situations where he doesn't know which way to go, at which point we scream at him loudly:
YOU GET TO SIT ON THE FRONT SEAT WITH YOUR NOSE OUT THE WINDOW
And then he'll look all happy to be singing an old soul disco type song."
Me: "It is 1904, what is soul/disco?"
Other man: "That doesn't matter. Do you have a Vibrating floor?
Me: "A what?"
Other man: "It'll have to be the second one then won't it. Excellent!"

Then we made the advert and it got banned, because people thought we were stupid enough to use a vibrating floor instead of just bullying a cute white dog.

Nice Cute Dog

Soul on the Balcony

On Saturday Libert and Beaut hid on a Balcony, that wasn't actually a balcony, just a room with broken windows looking out over a beautiful Car Garage, with herds of Wildebeest sweeping majestically across the forecourt.

Before that, Libert was listening to Dolly Parton at home, but stopped doing that to watch a play that he won't see again, at least for a while. It was an improvised comedy piece, with characters too quirky to be fictional. There was happiness and comedy to hide the inevitable sadness, which is often the best kind. How often are things like funerals and tragedies-in-the-departure-lounge ruined by sadness? Much better to counter it with a smile, that way the two emotions may become deeper, but in a better way, as you feel glad that something happened, not sad that it's gone. If you think something has left too soon, it's only because you didn't do enough in the time given.

Libert then wore a toilet on his head with Beaut and took pictures in the party hat, as that's where the best light is. Beaut and Libert then flew by canal boat to an island in the west, where a pack of Mendel's Peas were immitating wolves. I think Mendel was there actually, there was an old man. They spoke neither Swahili OR Elvish, so it came to be that Libert, Beaut and Smil left, and crashed their canal boat into a kayak, filled with gems. These gems led them to a factory, but I'm not sure of that word. Factories make stuff, this place had destructed itself. Libert and Beaut danced to Music that you don't hear with your ears, but with your soul. They danced like retards. Smil danced and played with balls on a string. The music stopped but the souls carried on, they went to the balcony.

The Voice of Reason confronted them, but they hid. The Flashlight of Reason drew their shadow on the wall, but they hid. They looked for Smil, to save her from Reason, but smelt only Diesel (it petrol, as they were reliably informed along the way). Then they stood with their backs against a wall, in the dark, like Children from a half heart-felt Revolution.

It was bloody excellent.

Then Libert went home to clean up.

Banshee Term Moot

Jerramore was a person yesterday, but today he read a book. He then put the book down, which he hadn't been able to do for a while, for approximately the duration of the book in fact. He always had that problem, as his hands were made of semi dried glue. It takes him so long to seperate the book and the hands from their insistent bookstucktohand formation, that he has time to read the thing. Quite how he turned the pages, I don't actually know. I wasn't there, I'm only the messenger. But anyway, he read a book. And it actually changed him as a person, a bit, not too much. He then went and drank a bottle of acid and died, but came back to life to tell a family of rich people about it, to make them feel guilty. Now this might not seem too strange to you, but he was dressed as a woman at the time. How risque!!!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, while he was doing that, he saw a mice and a man, but he was not any the wiser, as his eyes weren't good enough in death to tell the difference between them. A lousy life for the washed up wife of a permanenly plastered pissed up bastard! Lousy Life!!! That's what he thought, but didnt have the courage to say so. The rich people were so welcoming after all. He knocked on the door, and they didn't hear it, but when he rang the bell they let him straight in and gave him some English beer, which went straight through him. His feet never touched the floor the whole time. Instead, the floor touched his feet, rather sensually in fact, he thought. It was like those foot vibrating massage machines in the shopping centres. But he just thought that was the acid talking. Well, massaging, not talking. There was a cold poison in the air, like as though a 13 year old called Juliettia was upstairs asking where why or what was her boyfriend's name. How untimely. Were they destined to be happier in sacrifice as in the mixed up emotional world of life? Or were they just a bit weird?
Jerramore was asked this question once, before he'd even encountered Romond or Juliettiquette. He just said they were a bit silly, wanting to spend the rest of their lives together after three days, in which Romond had managed to kill somebody, gatecrash a party, probably bite his thumb, and climb a young girls wall and enter via a window, the other side of which the said child was on her bed, naked. Call Jerramore a little cynical if you please, but he thought that wasn't really the kind of person you'd plan your life around.
But as he remembered this strange situation, he quickly shut it out, as he was supposed to be preaching to rich people. That's the trouble with ghosts, they just can't do two things at once. Which is a shame, because if he had only thought to use the example of Romond and Julietcetera he could have really made an impact. We all know that a random unexpected sentence can really make the original point seem a lot more relevant.
There are seagulls on the light house.
Jerramore could see a serpent (or was it an eel? Big worm? Damned dead eyes) and it was green. He loved it, but got scared and ate an apple, which had been burnt by somebody called Trevor. Aparrently construction is a form of destruction. But Acid is a creation, and it made Jerramore what he is today, and he was an arsehole before, so the fact he's now quite interesting isn't destruction is it? Or if it is destruction of his old persona, then it's hardly a bad thing.
Anyway, the rich people became old with their guilt after Jerramore's empassioned talk of around 26 seconds and ended up like most people, dead.
But it wasn't a depressing death, with age they became lovely charitable people, and they had dreams of psychopathic mistresses with withered arms and melancholy hussars of the German legion, and then though much more knidly of Love, Amore, Liebe and of Romond and Juliextraterrestrial.

Grey, Ham, Green, Hazmat, Encore, Raged.

The man is a fool, but it is quite funny when you think about it, isn't it?

En Espagnol

Conquista! él buscaba una conquista, no importaban los demás, sólo quería ganar - ¿llenar?
¡Conquista! Una más de sus conquistas! No creía en el amor, no tenía corazón, hasta que ella...Lo miró...
Y extrañamente las cosas cambiaron, ya nada fue igual para él. La presas se convirtió en cazador, el cazador se convirtió en presa!
¡Conquista! Ella gana esta conquista. Su destreza de mujer, Dominó todo su ser, fue me fácil La conquista.
Ah ah ah ahhhhhh
De pronto los cosas cambiaron, ya nada fue igual para él. La presas se convirtió en cazador, el cazador se convirtió en presa!
¡Conquista! Ella gana esta conquista Su destreza de mujer Dominó todo su ser Fue muy fácil La conquista!
Ah ah ah ahhhhhh

Conejo blanco

Revel the Johnelator

Apples are Canons
Washing Machines are Rockets
Robots are Terrapins, Tortoises, or Seals
Red is New
Blue is Dead
The thing about doorkeys is that they are never quite JURISDICTION
Selling Donkeys is Cruel
Buying Horses is Curry Sauce
Gravy is not Curry Sauce

Breakfast Cereals, Morals, Cats, Genetically Modified

Read this blog backwards

Naja Naja

I nearly bought some chocolate but I decided not to.

Ich kaufte fast Schokolade, aber ich entschied nicht dazu

Ten Favourite Songs of All Time

Here are my favourite songs ever =) It doesn't matter if you don't like them, it's not your list! They aren't in order, but as a group they are my favourites...

Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground - The White Stripes
Because it is a powerful primal love song
Mr Cellophane - Chicago Musical, (Fred Ebb & John Kander)
Because I hate indifference too
Broken Boy Soldier - The Raconteurs
Because it sounds like Jack White fronting a Velvet Underground and Led Zeppelin supergroup.
Heroine - The Velvet Underground
Because it's so simple and builds up amazingly
Dazed and Confused - Led Zeppelin
Because it covers every emotion
Scarborough Fair - Simon & Garfunkel
Because it is a beautiful arrangement of a lovely tune
I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself - The White Stripes
Because it goes from delicate loneliness to all out desperation
Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) - Nancy Sinatra
Because it is minimalist to the extreme
Gollum's Song - The Lord Of The Rings Soundtrack
Because the words made me cry
Sitting on Top of the World - Traditional Blues Song
Because it was my first real Blues song

"Zum Himmel ist es überall gleich weit weg."
Thomas Morus

Apples, A's and Birds

Gerald is an artist. Sheena is a Parasite. Gerald can draw everything so beautifully, except for apples. Sheena can only draw apples, but draws them very well indeed. People like apples, so Gerald wanted to draw them. But he can't. Sheena the Parasite is better.

On a separate note, I'd like to say thank you to my readership. I hope you both enjoy my nonsense. The two A's are wonderful people.

There's a little bird in my cupboard, I'm gonna take her home. Let her be free to be in a cage of her own choice, instead of my own. I don't know if it's right to be left, who ever does?

Answers on a postcard to the usual address

I am Old

This Blog has a foreword written by somebody else. Well, four words. Similar.

Gentry. Dystopia. Cauliflower. Galavant.

I don't know what to write. I was happy this week, but now I'm a bit off, because somebody keeps telling me what to do with my life and that I should move cities and talk with english people that I don't like because they are arrogant fucks that I would rather push down stairs than talk to

How High?

How High is a mountain that is still growing, like the Alps or the Himalayalayians. Harold asked that one day. But then the Lynk came and dropped him from one of these mountains. Then Harold new how high, and how low it was underneath. But the mountain was lower after he had been dropped from it. Because although it had grown a little, the ground was also higher up from what it was, given the addition of Harold's body.

How Low is the sea? It's not low, it's at sea level isn't it. Stupid question.

How diagonally wide is the throat of a lama? I guess I'll never know. Harold knew, but he got dropped from the mountain. The Lynk also knows, but he's a bit of a crafty one, so he won't say.

He can't say, he won't say, I want to say.

But unfortunately Wikipedia doesn't tell me.

20th Century, 21st Century, Twentysomething.

How High?

The Destructors

I read the Third Man this week. The man who wrote it also wrote a story called the Destructors, where some children flood somebodys house. They also burn money.

My washing machine flooded my bathroom. I burnt money by spending it in Burger King and Schokotek.

Am I a Third Man? Perhaps the Third Man to do something, be something, or the Third Man of a certain person. Who knows?

Bloody Graham Greene, cheers mate.

"I am really craving Onions"

"Time Flies like an arrow,
Fruit flies like a Banana.
Benno likes you"

Tischgul Marrytoph

Seera Timpo ell gastrato unsigio.
Harra nontygul ebba Tischgul marsidio.
Hestibula gondrytabballe gerry mondtu herramore
Mosthug hestrophe daddaistischisch barrymore
Harrow en du Dill, Gestem herry gols
Gerrow undie facht, Gollun gerrow dols

Rosie Poesie Whoopsy Daisy

See the goldfish sitting in his chair,
calling back ghosts that are no longer there.
With her natural hair hanging to the floor,
I don't think I've ever loved you more.
Gold it's not, but more like a mouse,
But mousey hair only can be honesty
I think.
I don't know.
See, feel, touch...love.
Hear, speak, read...enough

What's it all about?
I don't know what I mean

A drink a drink a drink to Lilly the Pink the Pink the Pink

I don't have any Hot Chocolate. I want Hot Chocolate. I can't find it anywhere. Only cheap machine made Hot Chocolate

I have Hot Chocolate. I realise I don't like Hot Chocolate. I throw it out.

Repeat.

Ich habe keine heisse Schokolade. Ich will heisse Schokolade. Ich kann es nirgendwo finden. Nur billige Automat heisse Schokolade.

Ich habe heisse Schokolade. Ich errinne mich, dass ich nicht heisse Schokolade mag. Ich wurfe es weg.

Wiederholen

Fall der Punks

When I got to the Party of Special Things to Do, it wasn't hard to find Elixa Sue. I met all the cards, the wild cards, the one-eye jill, the red queen - she turned her head, you know what I mean?? She turned it back, and said:
"I got a brand new game I want to lay on you"
I met them all

Als ich nach der Party der spezialen Dingen zu tun kam, es war nicht schwierig, Elixa Sue zu finden. Ich traf mich mit allen den Karten, die wilde Karten, die Ein-Auge Jill, die rote Konigin - sie drehte ihren Kopf, du weist was ich meine?? Sie drehte es zuruck, und sagte:
"Ich habe ein brandneues Spiel, das ich auf dir legen will"
Ich traf mich mit Allen

What Mattie Did

Love has no heart, just as I have no idea. Bilo, a small person in size but big in personality, saw one day a nice row of trees by the side of the road. They were for sale. Some ugly looking Gerbil was selling them, but the trees themselves were simply wonderful. Bilo spoke for hours with the trees (as he had a certain gift for such things) and the trees spoke back. They were like the Ents in the Lord of the Rings. Bilo was unsure about buying the trees, as nice as they were, as he'd bought such things before and the moment he took them to his garden, they were completely different trees. But still he carried on talking away, like this:

ummmmmmmmyaatrahhhhhhhhhhhsuk

Which roughly translates as "I get the impression you are different to other trees I have known". And the trees replied collectively with "gerrrrrrrrr" which means yes. And so Bilo decided that he would find the courage to over come the risk of them doing exactly the same as every other tree, and to take them with him. But as he was about to do so, a Hamster came by (who's name was Deteramenthol) and said to the trees "Serrrrrrrrrrumjabawockygum", which means "you can come with me". And the trees said "OK" which means "ok" and they went with him, and Bilo was just left looking at the ugly Gerbil and wishing he was a Hamster. He was only a Shrew, and Shrews don't really matter. Their heart is only small and therefore it's like breaking a nail, a slight inconvenience but nothing more. Oh well oh well oh well.


Liebe hat kein herz, genauso wie ich keine Ahnung habe. Bilo, eine kleine Person, die klein in Größe ist, aber die groß in Personlichkeit ist, sah eines Tages eine Baumreihe bei der Straße. Sie waren zum Verkaufen. Eine häßliche Wüstenrennmaus war der Verkäufer, aber die Bäume waren einfach wunderbar. Bilo sprach für viele Stunden mit den Bäumen (denn er hat einen Talent dafür) und die Bäumen sprachen zurück. Sie waren wie die Ents in Der Herr Der Ringe. Bilo war aber unsicher, wenn er die Bäumen kaufen sollte, oder nicht, so schön wie sie waren, denn er hat solche Sachen früher gekauft, und so bald wie er sie zu seinen Garten nahm, waren sie ganz andere Bäumen. Aber er sprach weiter, und sagt:

ummmmmmmmyaatrahhhhhhhhhhhsuk

Das bedeutet umgefähr "ich glaube vielleicht ihr seid anders von anderen Bäumen die ich früher kannte". Und die Bäume antworteten zusammen "Gerrrrrrrrrr", und das bedeutet Ja. Und so Bilo entschiedete, dass er den Mut finden würde, das Risiko, dass sie nicht anders wären, zu ignorieren, und dass er sie mitnehmen wollte. Aber in diesem Moment kam ein Hamster (Deteramenthol mit Namen) und sagte den Bäumen ""Serrrrrrrrrrumjabawockygum", und das bedeutet "Ihr konnt mit mir kommen". Und die Bäume sagten "OK", und das bedeutet "ok", und sie gingen mit ihm. Bilo war dann allein gelassen, und konnte nur an der Wüstenrennmaus schauen und wünschen, dass er ein Hamster wäre. Er war nur eine Spitzmaus, und Spitzmäuse sind nicht wichtig. Ihrer Herzen sind nur klein und deshalb ist es nur wie wenn man ein Nagel brecht, eine Unbequemlichkeit aber nichts mehr. Naja naja naja

If you've lost your faith in Love and Music, the end won't be long. Well I suppose there's still Music. The ship seems to be sailing in two directions. Why can't I decide? I don't miss what I've had, but I still search it. But why? Every time it is the same, I want the orange without the skin. There should be some kind of law of risk. For example, is it worth losing a friend by attempting to go any further? I think no. But why can't I believe that I don't need somebody? All the proof is there, me + somebody else = bad ending. I just wish I could either accept that or believe it's wrong, instead of swinging between the two and meeting my emotions on the way back. If I knew what I wanted I could look for it, but I don't. If I knew why I was so distant then I could fix it, but again I don't. I look for new hair styles, new clothes, new projects or whatever, to try and think it's a new start, but it never is because I never change. I'm fed up of me. I want to enjoy normal things like other people. Meh

Poosic to my ears

A lovely friend of mine and I were talking while Ice Skating about the worst songs ever, and I see she has made a short list already, so Ada, I will join thee! here are my contributions:

Let It Be, by the Beatles- This was my contribution the other day, it sounds like a hymn, but so do many other songs that actually are hymns. And how about that, they aren't usually that interesting either! The title gave them their best advice really...

This Love, By Maroon Five - This song has taken it's toll on me, I've heard this shite, too many times before. At No point in the history of music was such rubbish necessary. Record Boss: "Hmm what can we do, rock's quite popular isn't it, and erm....yeah, pop is too, why don't we completely spoil them both by insulting the genres with such diluted piles of dung. Mr Levine we have a result!"

Yellow, by Coldplay - I think this one explains itself.

Don't Stop Me Now, by Queen - Because whenever this is played, you are sure to be having the worst time either, and Queen's pansy handed attempt at classical music with rock is also sure to be the last straw in what was probably a rubbish evening anyway.

School's Out, by Alice Cooper - This was covered by a silly little teen act called Daphne and Celeste I think. I had never realised up to this point how bad it was.

You Can Call Me Al, by Paul Simon - It pretty much shows why Paul Simon without the "& Garfunkel" suffix is a waste of audio tape. I don't want to be your body guard, and I don't want you as my long lost pal, I want songs like you did on the first 4 Simon and Garfunkel albums that are subtle, fine examples of minimalist folk with poetic references. Not stuff that rhymes "pal" with a made up name, when you could easily have put "If you'll be my body guard, 'cos I'm not very tall" and rhymed it with his actual name. The fool!

The original list by Ada you will find here:
List of bad songs

I hope you all disagree with me =)

You Toe Pea Ahhhhhhh

I am green, I am blue, but I am not red.
I have feet, I have hands, but not sure about the head.

What does that say to you? If the answer is nothing then you are correct. If it is something else, you might still be correct, but you are a cleverer person than I and you should be in psychology or something. Something, over the same row, may I cry? If nerds cry over the same row, why then oh why can't I?

I am talking nonsense, but I am also talking sense. That is me. I'm sorry for somebody that I let down once (Or twice, I have not been told about any more than the once but I would presume I did more than once). You are a very nice shade of yellow, but I unfortunately I am green and the two only fit together rarely, if ever. I'm sorry for my colour.

But I am happy, I think. I have a sore throat, but despite this, it's ok. C'est Ok. Es ist Ok. 's wonderful, said George Gershwin once, but only because that was the title of his song. Did he mean it? Who knows. He always seemed content though.

The Albion Sails on Course

Why do birds suddenly disappear?

I left a dove free today,
I let it fly freely away.
I will probably see it tomorrow,
When it will sit by my window and sing about it's sorrow.

Ich gab heute eine Taube die Freiheit,
Ich ließ sie gehen, weit.
Warscheinlich sehe ich ihn Morgen,
Wenn sie sitzt, und erzählt über ihre Sorgen.

Why do birds suddenly appear?

Everytime, you are near?
Just like me, they long to be,


Whinnie the Pooh.


Or Karen Carpenter. She was quite a good singer. I like her, and her brother.

If I could just hear your pretty voice, I don't think I need to see at all.

I made a Valentines playlist, big mistake

Joghurt

Ich habe im Moment Joghurt in meiner Kuhlschrank. Es ist aber kalt. Wie das Wetter eigentlich.
Echt wahre Geschichte
I have Yoghurt in my fridge at the moment. It is however cold. Like the weather actually
Genuinely true story

The Meaning of Liff

A very good friend gave me a book at the weekend that inspired my wish to be creative once again. So instead of doing something I'm good at, I thought a blog would be cool.
Eine sehr gute Freundin gab mir am Wochendene ein Buch, das mir Inspiration gegeben hat, meine kreative Wünschen zu benutzen. Statt etwas, das ich gut machen kann, dachte ich, dass ein Blog eine gute Idee wäre.

I thought I would write about food, because it's nice. I had a meal (once) that was nice, which was good. It wasn't just one food, but a few, together, which made it nice. Nice Nice Nice. So English! But anyway, the meal. It was lovely, it had sausage and pasta and tomato (pronounced toh-mah-toh) and also tomato (pronounced toh-may-toh). And a bit of cheese (pronounced cheese). And i really enjoyed it, because it tasted good and it didnt poison me like some stuff. But as I realised that I hadn't been poisoned, it reminded me of stuff that I'd had before, that did poison me and it made me sad. Because although it was poisonous, a part of it was actually quite nice. I miss it, about from the sickness and the illness.
Ich dachte, ich würde über Essen schreiben, denn es ist nett. Ich hatte ein Mahl (einmal), das nett war, und das war gut. Es war nicht nur eine Speise, sondern auch ein Paar zusammen, und das hat es deswegen nett gemacht. Nett nett nett. So englisch! Aber naja, das Mahl. Es war toll, es hatte Wurst und Pasta und Tomaten (man sagt es toh-mah-toh) und auch Tomaten (man sagt das Toh-may-toh). Und ein bißerl Käse. Und ich habe es gut genießen, weil es gut schmeckt und es hat mich nicht vergiftet, wie andere Speisen haben. Aber als ich mich bemirkt habe, dass es mich nicht vergiftet, habe ich mich erinnert über andere Sachen, die ich früher gehabt habe, und die mich vergiftet haben, und es hat mir ur traurig gemacht. Weil, obwohl es giftig war, ein teil davon war eigentlich ziemlich nett. Ich vermisse es. Ausser das Kotzen und die Krankheit.

I had a foot once too. It was cool, it had toes and everything. I used to stand on it sometimes, and just...stand. But it was also good for walking. Sometimes the small things pass us by don't they! Like having feet and toes and just standing. The foot is perfect for that, makes you not just look around, but to see. I thought that was important yesterday, sounds a bit silly now. Oh well oh well oh well.
Ich hatte auch einmal ein Fuß. Er war ehe cool, er hatte Zehen und alles. Ich stah manchmal, und nur...stah. Es war aber auch schon gut für laufen. Manchmal die kleine sachen gehen uns vorbei, nicht wahr? Wie Fuße oder Zehen oder Stehen. Der Fuß ist perfekt dafür, es hilft dir, nicht nur herum to schauen, aber zwar zu sehen. Ich dachte es war wichtig gestern, kling ein bißchen blöd jetzt. Naja naja naja.

Are you from round here? How do you do? I'd like to talk about that, over gin and teacups maybe. But the Albion is far away and Arcadia further, so I guess that's nonsense here. Do you ever feel like your paradise is one way, but your shoes are facing the other? Of course, but what when your shoes show the truth, that they face the correct way to what you want, instead of what you thought you wanted when you read a book once, or ate a yoghurt once, or drew on a wall.
Kommen Sie aus diesem Ort? Wie geht es Ihnen? Ich würder gerne darüber sprechen, mit Gin und Teetassen vielleicht. Das Albion ist aber schon weit weg, und Arkadia noch weiter, deshalb vermute ich, dass es Unsinn ist. Fühlen Sie manchmal, dass Ihre Paradies in einer Richtung liegt, aber Ihre Schuhe wollen in der andere Richtung gehen? Natürlich, aber wenn Ihre Schuhe die Wahrheit zeigen, wenn sie in der richtige Richtung gehen, um zu bekommen, was Sie wollen, statt was Sie dachten, dass Sie wollten, als Sie einmal ein Buch lasen, oder ein Joghurt aßen, oder an einem Wand zeichneten.

Something else. A stranger said Good Morning to me yesterday. I didn't know what he meant. Did he mean that he was having a good morning? or that I was? Or that he hoped he would have one, or I would have one, or that we would both have one? If so, together or seperately? Anyway, I say to you all "Good Day", and you can take it in which way suits you best.
Etwas anderes. Ein Fremden hat mir "Guten Morgen" gestern gesagt. Ich wußte nicht, was er meinte. Meinte er, dass er hatte einen guten Morgen? Oder dass ich es hatte? Oder hoffte er, dass ich eins haben würde, oder dass wir beide es haben würden? Wenn ja, zusammen oder getrennt? Auf jeden Fall, sage ich euch "Guten Tag, und ihr kannt es nehmen, in dem Sinn, das euch am besten gefällt.