Land of Diskgrinder

META: about not of Every once in a while I take myself out (by bootstrap in my navel, hoist by my petard) and look askance at what I have I written. And with that helicopter view I see the curlicues of spiral grammar and allusive circumlocution (because the editor is there) and I have to say this is where I am: happy in the round

Where the bombs in my head go off, one after the other, Making spouting neurone fireworks (touch blue paper and retire to old man resignation dotage where wrinkles conspire to make a map of Mars on my face) That's where, in pleasant green hills grandfatherhood, I will look upon my golden retinue of children and children's children. The perpendicular gothic of stone beams and concrete arches will be a part (apart) of the defining way (a road to, an avenue between). All happy then, indescribable joy descends. Pick the meaning of the preceding, there's something there for all of you.

There's one reader of this blog that may feel some guilt attached, Some unreasonable responsibility. And to you, I have to say, don't take any blame, it's not you, never was you. Be happy in your various pursuits, your imaginings and realisations. It's all the same to me; undifferentiated needle points on the graph. You did your best, and your best was good enough.

Obviously not so very happy at the weekend. Wrote some things I thought were funny at the time (not deleted, still there). Reading them back they still make me smile, but I can see how some could find them offensive.

The homunculus editor in my head falls asleep before I do, and I get to say the things I wouldn't otherwise, like: I went to court for ABH (actual bodily harm), and case dismissed, because, although I harmed the actual body of the plaintiff, the magistrates agreed with me that he (the otherwise bully who poked his pool cue in me, the railwayman) deserved to have his front teeth smashed down his throat - he picked a fight that he should not have picked. I'll tell you about that one day. I love ultra-lounge, listening to perfidia right now gone for another reason too soon, too much

By now you will have realised that this blog is very up its own arse (ass, for you colonials). Here, I only write about me, the me that is. It's cheap therapy for me. I get to write (talk) shite for no cost. But, occasionally, I will break out of my navel-gazing (take my eye off the microscope in my tummy button) and write about something outside the endless introspection. And you know what - it all scans, it has a certain rhythm, a broken pentameter (because there's five), that makes the words move over themselves until they trip over the end of the sentence; the full stop. And I can break that with the opportune injection of a semi-colon; like that. And then I'll stuff an out-of-place conjunction in a place where some other word should be. And. But. But it's narrow in its service to the whole, the accelerating grammar of (something). See what I did there? No? Listening to Elvis now. You were always on my mind. If I made you feel second best. Tell me that you...

... of opening the comment stream, if I don't get comments? Eh? answer me that then. Surely I have been controversial enough to elicit some kind of feedfront? No? Fuck off then. Instead, I will rely on my imaginary friend, who always (invisible and anonymous) pulls me up short, and makes me think in generous ways.

"Again"? Those intelligent nano-pixies are predicting in my hypothalamus

It's not fine, it's not dandy. It's not a part of the bright life I imagined. When, years ago, I looked to the lit path, I didn't see the shadows. If there is a god, a bearded patriarch sitting up on a throne made of atheists' skulls, and if I get up there, and realise that all these sterile years that fucker's been there, my first thought, and last thought before I burn in hell, will be why didn't you tell me: you're omnipresent, omniscient, and omnipotent; with all that ubiquitous vision and power couldn't you have let me know? I will be exasperated .

Have at it. Still got a capcha, should weed out the botnets.

Pessimistic, miserable drizzling cynics. That's us, a nation of jealous, pasty complainers with bad teeth (well done you, good teeth, but fucked-up healthcare , I know what I prefer - having stained incisors over being a self-medicating trauma victim any day - I'm sorry, sir, you're not insured for involuntary decapitation, have a nice day ). We talk about the weather because we have weather (and a history). And whilst we invented concentration camps and genocide , we didn't feel righteous about it - if there was one reason the British Empire had to exist, it was to destroy the Nazis, and then fuck off into sunset obscurity. To vote (by a landslide) for the dissolution of our evil back in 1945 . But we are still envious, unpleasant snobs. We are still sanctimonious prigs. Joy is anathema to the intellectual Englishman, our forte is complaint and guilt, shame and desperation. You look up, we look at the pavement (it's not a fucking sidewalk). I have made some...

Google Analytics points out the continuing struggle to win the hearts and minds of the parvenu colonials (more green=more hits). Need to find some way of attracting the mid-west. Marshmallow-stuffed turkey ? Because I know you have fairly disgusting diets out there in the nasty blank miles of between. Or maybe I should find god? (Stuck to my sole). Rant incoherently for a while on plainly daft theories of ontology and epistemology? (How do I know I'm evolved from slime-mould?). Or is that too up its own fundamentalism? So if you have a friend (or a backwoods flange of interbred cousins you don't talk about) in the dead miles between cities, drop them a carrier pigeon and get them to access my blog (with their steam-driven Babbage engines , or hay-built abaci), let some slightly dingy British rain into their golden-corn lives. Also, it appears I'm not appealing to the redneck constituency. What's the matter with y'all? Too busy fucking your sisters?

The experiment is ended. The not drinking was fine for a while, and I was ok with all of that. The excess part is not such an issue. Anyway, I'm better looking when I'm pissed. Do you want a fight?

Just checking in, see how the pixels are, everything ok? Ok, good. See yah!

When I was studying at Oxford (polytechnic, architecture, 1984) I fell in love with a woman and didn't tell her, her name was Phillipa (and she asked me to nickname her, and I couldn't, because I loved her). For that summer year I had eyes full of light. At that time I was what's called a psychobilly (laughable now, and laughable then, as I had little ear for the defining music and was mainly quiff-centric in my admiration of the genre) and she was a northern-noise nearly-goth eccentric. I spent a year in total, distant love. And hated every silent minute that slipped by, without my saying so. But other shit happened there (badness in lots of hues) that got in the way, and I ran off.

is my favourite word Today I told my mother that we (the wife, the me) had come to the end. That was difficult because I didn't want her to take sides. See, I have a proportion of blame that counterbalances the whole thing. I'm not such a nice guy as I like to think I am I have a foible, an idiosyncrasy, that's past mending in this I'm big, I'm angry, I'm less than sympathetic But I'm not a bad man.

She lives in Clifton, on the hill above, looking out of her Palladian sash-corded windows, on the heaving red-lit, brake-lit commutation of car boxes below (A4 bound, and bound in ways that are vehicular and peculiar to that mini-headed, horizonless myopia of the driving unter-mensch) where tail-gating, nylon-suited and neckless, red-faced potential stroke-fucked frowning drones bang up against each other's foam-filled anti-pedestrian bumpers. That's the parametered and cloistered world, narrowed in by lane markings, cats-eye boundaries, that have a certain grace in the middle, median, of the night. Where you - on the boundless motorway, with lights and reservations sweeping by the dormitory conurbations, the suburban landfill hutches where dad and uncle, sister and cousin fill out their raining, weeping, days - where you fill your hole with grit and hard shoulders. And you, the focus of the typical lens, the eye, are behind the wheel - the wheel that you don't turn, th...

Wife leaves at the end of the summer and takes the three small sons with her. She becomes not a wife. I become not a husband. But we're still mother and father. It's ok. That's what we agreed. Long time coming, and mixed relief and sadness in there (in a corner). Normal life resumes.

Time to lighten up (like the tobacco smoke blue dawn that's at the window right now). Time to make an observation. Here's a thing that made me laugh (and at the same time cut me quick, because future opportunities for this are running out): quantum mechanics as applied to consciousness. There's this thing that's been going around for a while now in science circles (which are conic sections ): consciousness lags behind action. There's been experiments that show that intent to do follows after the done thing . Experiments involving dots on screens and stuff (no citation here). Anyway, the upshot is we're creatures of habit, no free will (and not in a Calvinist pre-determined way), we're clockwork toys; neurological and philosophic automata. And then you've got Roger Penrose theorising that there are structures deep in our neurones ( mitochondria probably) that are so small that quantum effects come into play. He goes on to speculate that these q...

I wanted to write about On being a man , because I think I have something to say about that: not hunch-shouldered laddish snickering , or creepy beardy bombastard; but confidence and generosity, respect and strength. Time to reclaim maleness from the cocksure thirty-somethings, the man-boys, the Tory twats, the lax and slack, and the loud and arrogant. Time to think, and keep what you think to yourself. Time to retrench to reticence. Time to shut up. But if it was that time, I wouldn't be writing about it. Best advice I got from my dad: there's nothing you can't say "fuck off" to.