Stillwater

He reached out for the cup of coffee, sipping it without pause. He glanced at it as he put it back on the messily anonymous table. It looked the same as it did everyday. It tasted the same. Today felt the same as yesterday, as the day before- one day was segueing into the other this week.
He paused, recognizing in this observation both pitfalls, and potential. Where was this mundanness going? [ Why was it mundane-ness? Mundanity sounds so much better. As good or not as wastefulness and laze and lack of discipline, he dryly thought.]

There was that germ of a great idea he could revisit, the promise of that piece he could finish. The pondering of a future with a reasonable amount of reality or resoluteness, that was an option. Every reasonable, or reasonably interesting, thought he had thought in the last 10 days, it waited to be spoken to, caressed, expressed. But they needn’t have held their breath.

He reached out for the coffee. It would get cold soon.

A Nation of Nowhere

“There are people everywhere who form a Fourth World, or a diaspora of their own. They are the lordly ones! They come in all colors. They can be Christians or Hindus or Muslims or Jews or pagans or athiests. They can be young or old, men or women, soldiers or pacifists, rich or poor. They may be patriots, but they are never chauvinists. They share with each other, across all the nations, common values of humor and understanding. When you are among them you know you will not be mocked or resented, because they will not care about your race, your faith, your sex or your nationality, and they suffer fools if not gladly, at least sympathetically. They laugh easily. They are easily grateful. They are never mean. They are not inhibited by fashion, public opinion, or political correctness. They are exiles in their own communities, because they are always in a minority, but they form a mighty nation, if they only knew it. It is the nation of nowhere.”

Jan Morris's wonderful words form the epigraph for Tales From Nowhere.

a state of english

On a slow day at the office, I happened upon this essay by George Orwell. Apart from the general thrust of the piece which is the role of language in political writing, I was struck by how the opening paragraph sounded so 'current'. Hardly something that has come from the first half of the previous century.

Most people who bother with the matter at all would admit that the English language is in a bad way, but it is generally assumed that we cannot by conscious action do anything about it. Our civilization is decadent and our language -- so the argument runs -- must inevitably share in the general collapse. It follows that any struggle against the abuse of language is a sentimental archaism, like preferring candles to electric light or hansom cabs to aeroplanes.

dickshit

no bullshit here :
(note the headline!)

from here (the article has since been fixed, so good I took the screenshot)

30.09

A few days ago I was:
the blink in the sleep, the spark in the joy, the dark in the grey, the hush in the quiet, the everything in the nothing.

the sieve

Many thoughts, many ideas, much flitting, no action.

symphony 92.4

For the last two weeks, when I get in to bed, I have been listening to classical music on the radio as I read, and then drop off to sleep.

black & white

The first of a fair few Tudor-style houses I saw in England. I find them striking, and very charming. Some were just facades but in Oxford we saw a couple that were real Tudor buildings, all creaky looking and leaning.

days that weren't

Beautiful, heartbreaking, but maybe even uplifting. These are things on the mad internet worth sharing. Go to it with a few minutes of time.

Days with my Father

shells & whisky

I’m early. They’re running late. The peanut shells have already formed a small pile in front of me, as if by themselves. I have not yet thrown any down. Its unlike me. Here, I usually begin dropping the shells on the floor almost immediately. Its like a sign that yes, I am here; or I have settled in. I must be careful, they get eaten at amazing speeds. Even faster than the drinks on happy hours. Mine has just arrived.
The guy tells me they have been to Bangkok, the entire staff of these bars on Emerald Hill. They were taken on a trip, partied hard, drank lots. It shows, he looks exhausted. But that’s great, isn’t it? That they were taken out, and the bars were all shut for a couple of days. I did not know that all these places were owned by the same person.
The whisky is tasty. And generous, as always. Later, maybe, a classic margherita pizza awaits- with that thin, thin crust and flavourful tomatoes. I have a feeling this pile will look embarrassingly big soon. Maybe I will slow down, or maybe I will scatter them all over the floor.

a swiss gerbera

At the table; a wedding recption in Sion, Switzerland.

from flickr

Picking a read

Books I will have to pick to read in the next couple of days, when I am done with this.

Abandon - Pico Iyer
Kafka On The Shore - Murakami
Confessions of a Yakuza - Junichi Saga
Delhi: Adventures in a Mega City - Sam Miller
300 - Frank Miller
The Adventures of Amir Hamza
Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said - Philip K Dick

That's six, but who's to say I wonn't end up with a seventh?

an ominous grey

A glorius summer day turned into a dramatically grey afternoon.

The London summer was all it was supposed to be, but also all I had wanted it to be. Sunny, warm, bright, clear; yet a few times it was chilly and grey and stark and imposing.

from flickr

Back

I’m back here now; but my mind is somewhere in transit, my heart is sloshing in memories that were the present just a few days ago, my body is sleepwalking in the present; this life is lost in time and space.

Summer '09

Average temperatures....
London, in June: Max 21C, Min 13C
Edinburgh, in June: Max 16C, Min 8C
Geneva, in July: Max 24C, Min 14C
Milan, in July: Max 30C, Min 19C
Venice, in July: Max 28C, Min 19C

thoughts on wheels

Inanities in a car. They bounce off each other. They pry and prod and sprinkle and hang.

Look at me, I’m so funny. I even laugh the loudest at my jokes. It doesn’t bother me that he is sitting there, smiling blandly, look at him.

Look at me. I’m smirking confidently. I can be a part of this car, I can talk anything, and be at ease. I know enough and understand enough and can say enough. Not like him, squeezed and confused in the middle, in more ways than one. At least that other guy is quiet and cool because he is driving. He is meant to focus on other things. But maybe that’s just his excuse.

Look at them, exchanging their opinions for free. Everyone wants to be at ease doing it though everyone is forced together by circumstance and space. Forced natural smiles, contrived spontaneity, cultivated laughter. Look at me, thinking I am different from them, or worse still, above it all. Look at me, my words colliding in my head, reveling in their depth.

All the while, just inanities in a car.

getting the rap

I think rap music has a lot to do with it. It makes it sound cool not to conform, and to be violent

Andrew Flintoff, sounding suspiciously like a retired colonel from Tunbridge Wells, on the breakdown of British society

Seriously, Freddie?

look up!

I really appreciate the effort, but there is a slight problem. You can’t quite string up a knife in the air and then say I don’t have to worry about a sword hanging over my head. No, tell me, really. Makes sense? Not? Huh?

sty

I have a sty in my eye
An ache in my head
A laze in my brain
“Oh, sigh”, he said.

Blink, wince, droop
Ho, hum, ooh, aah.
Stroke, clutch, leak
Push, pull, poke, ah.

I have a sty in my eye
I’m too tired to write
I have an excuse now
But I still type this shite

curiosity

A beautiful little girl in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

from flickr