I went to get the vaccine on Monday.
Before receiving the jab there was all sorts of questions to answer and information to be given.
Like the possibility of some side of eggs
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Side of eggs
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I want to lick your face
There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, but just haven’t found the right words or way.
Today that changes.
Ian Arkley: one; reflections on
Somewhere in an isolated corner of Wales there is an unassuming shed with a humble wooden door and simple brass knocker.
It’s unlikely anyone would ever stumble upon this rudimentary little shelter, but if they did the sort of welcome they could expect is indicated by the presence of a lock.
Continue readingZen vs. the Art of Consistency
Legends
A few weeks ago something prompted this to pop into my head and now I can’t remember what. It definitely gave it context, I remember that much. Anyway, the show, as they say, must go on; so to compensate for lack of reasoning an alternative timeline for your contemplation follows the verse.
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Uncle Sam’s on Mars
Some possibly tongue in cheek thoughts on those celebrating the latest invasion of Mars.
Smokin’
Following on from Fern Stone’s last guest post, where misogyny was taken to task, the poem that ‘started’ it all.
On top of the sexism, there was also the by comparison minor failure to recognise someone else’s art as a finished piece and appreciate it as it should be beheld.
In The Medusa Protocol II what constitutes art is central to the conversation at Kirsty/Medusa’s apartment; ‘how alike a painting of a bowl of fruit is to a real bowl of fruit doesn’t reveal the first thing about how good the art is,’ etc. Both there and previously here (Brigitte Bardon’t: Radio Songs; a Review) I’ve quoted Martin Creed:
“My work is about fifty per cent what I make of it and fifty per cent what people make of it. Meanings are made in people’s heads. I can’t control them.”
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Big dreams and worst nightmares
Geezers and Goldfish Bowls
In the early 90s I worked London’s markets; the following is an account of true events (continued from: Songs T Taught Me and the Mystery of Charlie Chaplin):
Spaces always look smaller when empty; something in this case helped big time by the stage being hidden behind a curtain. The area once full of merry drinkers now occupied by a solitary pool table, five ‘chaps‘ drinking and smoking round it.
It’d become one of those pubs where unless you knew someone already there, everyone there would assume you undercover plod worthy of a good stabbing–up. The fact one of us was a loud Aussie doing nothing to allay suspicions; on the contrary, what better way for a rozzer to hide than appearing to be from a different country.
Last thing to do: turn tail and leave.
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Fruit Baskets; a damning indictment
Before fruit baskets it was just a bunch of grapes the sick got given. It made sense that while in hospital with nothing to do they’d have plenty of time to tread grapes for wine, a drink essential to healthy wellbeing, big pans left under the bed for anytime they fancied a little squish of fruit beneath feet and between toes.
However, thanks to advances in medicine the sick are no longer as ill as they used to be, and these days can be given whole fruit baskets so their time convalescing can be spent creating not just vino but also all sorts of juices and smoothies as well.
Who knows, but at this rate it surely won’t be long before the unwell are able to operate micro breweries and small artisan patisseries while recovering too.
