WHY MOTHS LOVE LIGHTS
If you’re up now, maybe in front of a screen, of some kind, or perhaps hanging around under a streetlight waiting for trade, of some kind, or possibly even clung to the front of a moving vehicle, of some kind, you may well be sharing your space with a moth.
Now, we all know they love light like we love New York, but we don’t know why. I’ve scoured the entire web (insert insect/arachnid gag here) and some fat and clever books and I’ve yet to hear a decent reason. When we finally find out, in a roundabout way we shall solve the human headaches of time zones, arson, colour blindness, war and infertility - just don’t ask me to draw you a diagram.
Ask Paul at www.copyrightdavis.com
BUDDHA THE YOUNGER, ALLAH THE EDLER, KRISHNA THE MIDDLY
Do Gods have siblings, and if so, are they mortal?
MALE NAIL VARNISH (# 74,927)
I’ve been wearing it all week, courtesy of my daughter. It’s only the left hand, the hand with which I now type slowly and dizzyingly. By resting my head upon my right hand it helps the left hand to focus. The distance covered by my gliding left hand is so much greater, like a manic fly in its lasts throws of life having been locked in a room with stale air polluted by unwashed socks worn by a farm labourer for 6 days solid graft in a field of cabbages. Ahhh, the release. Labouriousness gets a bad name. It could easily have been christened ‘patience’ but its mother suffered a c-section breach and they had to break her hip to get it out. This is not a cheap quip about labour, it is a true story to be found in the register of births, deaths and marriages.
ULTRA-MICRO-CLIMATE
Micro-climates like to flex their stats. Findhorn and San Francisco brag temperatures that dwarf their chilly neighbours. Generalizing as I like to do, if you live anywhere hilly, near the sea, with a great gush of water ebbing in and out, you have a fair chance of qualifying for micro-meteorology.
If we stopped looking at climate through weather goggles and chose to treat it as a societal phenomenon comprised of millions of multi-cultures, we’d make progress. Homogeneity is no way to treat the diversity of the elements. By encouraging ice caps and deserts to travel and share the same postcode, we create climate equality, which in turn, allows the planet to blown hot and cold like a human being.
A DOG WRITES (# 74,928)
ddfcxz`rrfdfcb b dvb vcdcesv xszq2dc
The text above was written by a Jack Russell in between the cleansing of her thighs, with a tongue that stank of dehydrated dog breath. Its paw typed with the skill of Shaun Wright Phillips, and at a glance, they could be twins. If you own a terrier and it is howling at the moon as you read, this may mean that the canine motto translates as ‘fox’. That, or ‘leave my fucking leg alone, idiot man’.
RAOUL MOAT IS STRANGER THAN FICTION
Turn the telly on now.
THE SUBSTANCE OF CENTRED TEXT (# 74,929)
STORE IN A COOL,
DRY PLACE
AWAY FROM DIRECT LIGHT
SUICIDE BIRDS
There are way too many birds flying headlong into buildings, trees, hillsides, and cliffs. These are static objects. You may not have noticed, but you will now. They make soon mistake you for one of the above as you wait for a train. It got me wondering the following:
Are windows cleaner than ever?
Have these birds been briefed by an extreme crow?
Are they struggling with a double dip recession a year or two ahead of us and therefore trying to tell us to cut our losses and die with glory?
Are mobile phones confusing the sonar frequency of birds thus making them crash?
Are birds about to evolve into a land-based on foot species?
If you wonder greater wonders, please add them here>
WALLS HAVE MOUTHS (# 74,930)
The whereabouts of the nearest wall affects what and how we write. Many of us sit at a desk with our face to the wall as we shunt our desk up against a wall so things don’t fall off. Facing a wall creates a visual focus but leaves our back open to surprise unless we are writing in a super narrow room such as a water closet in which case we write novels which we assume are works of genius, but are, in a word, shit. Now flip round 180 degrees. With our backs to the wall, we are suddenly secure but distracted. All that shit is now going on in front of us. We write emotionally but irrationally, the opposite of before. If we write in the open air, miles from the nearest wall, the only boundaries that will hem in our writing are hedges. If we write in a car, the confinement is offset by the movement. If we write in a stationary car, you’re right, it’s akin to writing bollocks in a toilet. To conclude, walls do not have ears as much as mouths. To unconclude, writing on walls is a separate discussion with its own laws of influence.
In case you’re wondering, this post was written on a toilet in my last day of solitary confinement, but tomorrow I get parole.
SELF HARM WITH A PIG’S BLADDER
I don’t mind admitting I like football. I wish I could say I ‘did’ after this afternoon’s debacle, but the tense is still present. I do like the games that go belly up, even when it’s us on the receiving end. Sure, like you I want the players to accept their penance and volunteer 5 weeks community service when they return to the UK but I know they’ll be forgiven by amnesia-ridden fans in 4 weeks once the new season starts and they’ve run out of things to say about goal-line technology. The knobs.
As a national football team, we are destined to fail when asked to succeed, yet there exists this superiority complex holding hands with a delusion of grandeur every time we talk to the media about it. But failing is the language of Beckett. There is something poetic and scientific hiding here - the choice to fail when they are given every chance (money, facilities, coach, easy opposition, etc) to win. It’s a form of self-harm. A highly knackering public form of masochism. Maybe I should tape hacksaw blades to my typing fingers to truly understand. Or celebrate that we lose with more sadness and drama than France or Italy, and more ego and selfishness than Australia or Serbia, or more comedy and chaos than South Africa or New Zealand.
Stevie Wonder just said playing the final act at Glastonbury’s 40th birthday was fun.
Play for fun.
Got that Fabio?