THOUGHTS AREN’T LONERS (# 74,957)

We cannot think solitary thoughts. One always glues another. They are a social breed because they breed. By writing down anything, even the word “MILK” on the back of your hand, it stirs tea and dissolves sugar and agitates teeth. Try to think of a lone thought and you will soon have an abstract orgy of confusion in your head, clamouring for attention. This is because our outlets are sewers. Mouths, hands, and in some cases other parts of our anatomy, spew out mental stew. Sometimes the ingredients work, sometimes they don’t. And like foods, our thoughts are rarely whole. If anyone knows of a way to swap compounds for confounds, please let me know. Now I can full-sleep. Good allnight.

HALF-DOING IS HARDER WORK THAN FULL-DOING

This astute observation was pointed out to me today by my wife whilst I played schools with our nearly 5 year old. To submit and fully engage in something you don’t particularly want to do takes half the effort because it delivers double the fun. This loose equation can be applied to every verb in the English language. Just don’t ask me to prove it with kilojoules. It’s late now, so I’m off to half-sleep. Night.

CURE DEMENTIA BY OXYGEN

Do you remember hyperventilating as a child? Rapid manic breaths in and out of a crisp packet (preferably not containing glue), then flaking out in the playground to be brought to by a teacher way out of their comfort zone.

Now, as our children experiment with smart drugs, we can rekindle that good old tripping feeling with sea air and live longer to boot.

  1. Stand headlong into the wind a good ten feet from a cliff.
  2. Inhale as fast and deep as your lungs will allow.
  3. Wait for that Alka Selzer fizz in your brain.
  4. Float dangerously close to a stroke, like a boat flirting with the rocks.
  5. Roll your head 5 times in both directions.
  6. If you’re still conscious, you’ve judged it right and you just staved off dementia for another decade.
  7. Celebrate with a bottle of rough whisky.

PAPER, LOGS, LETTERS (# 74,958)

Today I wrote. For 5 hours I wrote. Then I chopped firewood. The logs and the page are sisters. Two acts united by material and method. My typing is forceful and my axing gentle. My bicep aches from the toughness of the log and my forearms ache from the awkwardness of the keys. Nature and man both making things difficult, but i wouldn’t want it any other way.

The wood now sits in piles, categorized according to its width. The words now sit in space, awaiting a reaction from the commissioner. The physical and mental have merged, as have the 2nd and 3rd dimensions.

I have no idea what these parallel worlds mean, but next time you need to compose a letter, go fell a tree.

THE END OF OIL

Tonight, my home ran out of fuel. Like a car stranded on the motorway, it takes a small scale emergency to remind us of our dependence on oil. Throw in a kid and a baby and withdrawal symptoms kick in before you can say kerosene.

It got me wondering.

What if power cuts were deliberate, say once a week, to wean us off the black stuff? Then the water boards turned off the supply to get our heads around droughts. Then the mobile networks shut down the signal every so often to let ears recover. If we rationed much of the things we take for granted on tap, we’d rediscover the meaning of the word ‘value’ and forget its lame link to Tesco.

Rather than one big bleak end, let’s drip feed lots of ‘ends’ for the rest of time. Think Nostradamus as a five minute cartoon before the 6pm news. This way, Armageddon becomes second nature, dystopia becomes utopia and we’ll all die happily ever after.

Another End.

THE 4TH LITTLE PIG

Built his house with ivy. Sadly, due to an allergy, it led to the death of the other 3 little pigs.

THIS IS A FIELD

If screens were made by nature and not men, what might we write? Would we just slam down the first pile of self-important dross like we usually do? Hell no. We’d treat edges as hedges. We’d treat the page as living matter and plant some words at a time of year when they stand a chance of turning into crops. If by law, writing became sustainable, we’d all stop and think about the amount of creative landfill we’re all piling up. We’d recycle thinking and ideas as readily and transparently as musicians and artists do, and be applauded for it. If computers became organic, and forced us to get our green ducks in a row, we would improve, really we would. This post, like so many, is compost. May the great rot continue.

FROM THE BRICKS TO THE STICKS

Sorry. This is one shambolic moving card. But perfection is a poisonous thing. Crave the incomplete. Half-do things. Cherish the ugly and leave it that way…ugly.

Where was I? Yes, disorientated, my life in boxes that may never empty such is the manner of moving home. As I write, a coastal fly with cowshit breath circles above me while the leaking fridge impersonates the groans of an uploading mac on its last legs. I want to kill it. I will, after we’ve spoken – I’d hate to implicate you in a murder trial.

I now live in the sticks, where patience governs technology. Today, broadband arrived at its own pace. The sea air induces one long stroke that takes around 40 years to sink into the central nervous system. But more of that later.

I’d like to dedicate this entry to Roberts & Denny’s, a removal firm and a half. Those boys put the hours in. If you need to lug your life sharpish, call them, and tell them your doctor sent you.