' Joe The Lion - made of iron.....'
Said David Bowie.
Who was influenced by
Bob Dylan
Who was influenced by
Dylan Thomas
Who was influenced by
Walt Whitman
Who was influenced by
William Shakespeare
who was influenced by
Ovid
Who was influenced by
Virgil
Who was influenced by
Lucretius
Who was influenced by
Epicurus
who was influenced by
Democritus
Who was influenced by
Pythagoras
Who was influenced by
his wife, Theano who
discovered The Golden
Mean. The principal on
whch the ancient Egyptians
and Greeks based their
architecture. A number
found in the spiral of a
Nautilus shell and in the pattern
of a sunflower.
MELONEY LEMON: SWEET AND SOUR.
Wednesday 30 May 2007
Sunday 27 May 2007
Chocolate a la Murakami
A man awoke on his 48th birthday.
It was cloudy, rain forecast. What had he expected?
A glorious May morning, coloured envelopes on the kitchen table
illuminated by a shaft of sunlight?
Just a normal day. A day like any other. Everything happening
slightly later than it should. Bathroom clamour, the brushing
of teeth and hair.
A hurried bowl of cereal and there were cards. Some expected
but one a surprise. It changed the day a little. And the children's
felt pen greetings. Their misspelt words stayed with him as he
gathered speed, joining the traffic, forehead damp with city drizzle.
He could see his office block ahead. He imagined the purposeful
atmosphere. people already at their work. Phones ringing.
The hum of the computer sytem.
He would buy chocolates. Make an effort. Today would be
be different. He cycled to a railing, locked his bike to it
and entered a newagent. He chose quickly, struggling outside the shop
to pull the rucksack clips together, careful not to crush the boxes.
They would turn from their screens to thank him. They would stop
writing and talking just to taste his chocolate. There would be a moment
when everyone would be thinking of him and his birthday.
He padded across the unpleasantly squashy office carpet, smelling the
scented, aftershaved morning. Slurped the froth from a cup of machine
coffee. It lay on his upper lip as he tore open the usual, large format
brown envelopes that lay in wait for him each morning.
He replied to a couple of urgent looking emails. Then fetched a pale yellow
serving platter from the office kitchen. This was really just a cupboard,
a sink and a fridge. If you wanted to make a snack you used the top of the
cupboard. This was not a place for serious food preparation.
He arranged the chocolates, with some thought, on the cold china.
They were proper Belgian ones, not just Quality Street.
Then he turned to his computer to compose his birthday announcement.
As he hovered the mouse over 'send' he noticed
a new message alert. He opened it:
' could all staff assemble in the conference room as soon as possible
thanks, Roy.'
He slid the sweets, still on the plate, into a drawer on to a pack of
printer paper. And there they stayed for a week.
Everybody had been a little anxious. Joking over
their nerves. Gatherings could mean sackings or serious financial problems.
There were faces, staff from other departments that he'd barely
spoken to. No one had put out chairs. Soon the entire practice
shuffled expectantly in one room, waiting for Roy.
Roy wasn't smiling. He pushed his hair back from his forehead.
His words faltered:
' Thankyou everyone for your attention. I erm..I have just received
news from, er, on behalf of, our colleague, Paul Kinley.'
Roy paused and seemed to swallow hard.
' I regret that I have to pass on the extremely distressing news
that Paul suffered a fatal heart attack at 6.30 this morning '.
There was a collective gasp, a murmer, then complete silence.
In this silence he thought of Paul's crumpled shirts.
The train journey they had once shared on the way to a meeting
and the photo Paul had shown him of his nine year old son on a
skateboard.
But mainly he thought of the china plate in his drawer. And
the sweating chocolates now slowly gaining a whitish bloom.
It was cloudy, rain forecast. What had he expected?
A glorious May morning, coloured envelopes on the kitchen table
illuminated by a shaft of sunlight?
Just a normal day. A day like any other. Everything happening
slightly later than it should. Bathroom clamour, the brushing
of teeth and hair.
A hurried bowl of cereal and there were cards. Some expected
but one a surprise. It changed the day a little. And the children's
felt pen greetings. Their misspelt words stayed with him as he
gathered speed, joining the traffic, forehead damp with city drizzle.
He could see his office block ahead. He imagined the purposeful
atmosphere. people already at their work. Phones ringing.
The hum of the computer sytem.
He would buy chocolates. Make an effort. Today would be
be different. He cycled to a railing, locked his bike to it
and entered a newagent. He chose quickly, struggling outside the shop
to pull the rucksack clips together, careful not to crush the boxes.
They would turn from their screens to thank him. They would stop
writing and talking just to taste his chocolate. There would be a moment
when everyone would be thinking of him and his birthday.
He padded across the unpleasantly squashy office carpet, smelling the
scented, aftershaved morning. Slurped the froth from a cup of machine
coffee. It lay on his upper lip as he tore open the usual, large format
brown envelopes that lay in wait for him each morning.
He replied to a couple of urgent looking emails. Then fetched a pale yellow
serving platter from the office kitchen. This was really just a cupboard,
a sink and a fridge. If you wanted to make a snack you used the top of the
cupboard. This was not a place for serious food preparation.
He arranged the chocolates, with some thought, on the cold china.
They were proper Belgian ones, not just Quality Street.
Then he turned to his computer to compose his birthday announcement.
As he hovered the mouse over 'send' he noticed
a new message alert. He opened it:
' could all staff assemble in the conference room as soon as possible
thanks, Roy.'
He slid the sweets, still on the plate, into a drawer on to a pack of
printer paper. And there they stayed for a week.
Everybody had been a little anxious. Joking over
their nerves. Gatherings could mean sackings or serious financial problems.
There were faces, staff from other departments that he'd barely
spoken to. No one had put out chairs. Soon the entire practice
shuffled expectantly in one room, waiting for Roy.
Roy wasn't smiling. He pushed his hair back from his forehead.
His words faltered:
' Thankyou everyone for your attention. I erm..I have just received
news from, er, on behalf of, our colleague, Paul Kinley.'
Roy paused and seemed to swallow hard.
' I regret that I have to pass on the extremely distressing news
that Paul suffered a fatal heart attack at 6.30 this morning '.
There was a collective gasp, a murmer, then complete silence.
In this silence he thought of Paul's crumpled shirts.
The train journey they had once shared on the way to a meeting
and the photo Paul had shown him of his nine year old son on a
skateboard.
But mainly he thought of the china plate in his drawer. And
the sweating chocolates now slowly gaining a whitish bloom.
Friday 25 May 2007
Lost In Space
I lost my post. An hours worth of words.
My Seven Pillars of Wisdom that I didn't
leave on a train.
Where is it ?
Where is it !
It WASN"T automatically saved by blogger.
My Seven Pillars of Wisdom that I didn't
leave on a train.
Where is it ?
Where is it !
It WASN"T automatically saved by blogger.
Saturday 5 May 2007
Monster Moths From Mars Ate My Past
For weeks, months, the house has been full of teeny silver moths
fluttering about their mothy business.
I found out their evil plot.
Opened an innocent looking army holdall.
In it I keep my collection of ethnic and historic textiles.
There is a long, indigo Gambian dress.
Bedouin embroidery.
Rajasthani mirror work.
An Afghan gold threaded table cover.
Tibetan woven apron.
My old bedroom curtains from when I was 6.
Some pieces of 1930's silk
Pieces of material that I just liked the pattern of.
Bits of Turkish kelim.
An Indian sari, block printed with vegetable
dye.
All ruined.
I unzipped the bag. A cloud of the little bastards
hit me in the face. There lay my shredded past
in a mass of frass and moths at every stage
of development. Vacated, gossamer cocoons,
grubs and full up, healthy looking, contented adults.
Well it was curtains for them - but not
as they knew it.
Yes this was definitely a lesson in letting go of worldly
objects. The transience of all things....
( which is why I think I gave up Textile Conservation
as a career several years ago.)
Anyway, I gave them Ariel hell in the Hotpoint.
Full voltage UV on the washing line.
I don't care. I'll get over it. I've learnt the lesson.
But now I fear I may come back as a moth.
fluttering about their mothy business.
I found out their evil plot.
Opened an innocent looking army holdall.
In it I keep my collection of ethnic and historic textiles.
There is a long, indigo Gambian dress.
Bedouin embroidery.
Rajasthani mirror work.
An Afghan gold threaded table cover.
Tibetan woven apron.
My old bedroom curtains from when I was 6.
Some pieces of 1930's silk
Pieces of material that I just liked the pattern of.
Bits of Turkish kelim.
An Indian sari, block printed with vegetable
dye.
All ruined.
I unzipped the bag. A cloud of the little bastards
hit me in the face. There lay my shredded past
in a mass of frass and moths at every stage
of development. Vacated, gossamer cocoons,
grubs and full up, healthy looking, contented adults.
Well it was curtains for them - but not
as they knew it.
Yes this was definitely a lesson in letting go of worldly
objects. The transience of all things....
( which is why I think I gave up Textile Conservation
as a career several years ago.)
Anyway, I gave them Ariel hell in the Hotpoint.
Full voltage UV on the washing line.
I don't care. I'll get over it. I've learnt the lesson.
But now I fear I may come back as a moth.
Ghost Jeans.......
.....In that if your ancestors were gold digging, jeans wearing pioneers
out west, you could inherit er, perhaps a liking for baked beans
or a tendency to fart.
Or if your distant desert forefathers had
given their lives to pyramid building, possibly
suffering scorching sun and a limited diet of beer and chicken
you might then be partial to chicken in a basket and half a
shandy on the veranda of your Marbella villa?
(With a dash of green eyeliner)
I was going to explain further and talk about past lives
and deja vu but my daughter just HAS to meet her friends
on Club Penguin. Sheesh maleesh...Now those Arctic
ancestors......
So if you want to know more you can. Just look up
'Epigenetics' and 'Ghost Genes'.
Go on then.
out west, you could inherit er, perhaps a liking for baked beans
or a tendency to fart.
Or if your distant desert forefathers had
given their lives to pyramid building, possibly
suffering scorching sun and a limited diet of beer and chicken
you might then be partial to chicken in a basket and half a
shandy on the veranda of your Marbella villa?
(With a dash of green eyeliner)
I was going to explain further and talk about past lives
and deja vu but my daughter just HAS to meet her friends
on Club Penguin. Sheesh maleesh...Now those Arctic
ancestors......
So if you want to know more you can. Just look up
'Epigenetics' and 'Ghost Genes'.
Go on then.
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