Monthly Archives: August 2014

The Doing Being Conundrum

I never used to know who I was; I used to just go round doing things.

That’s changed somewhat, over the years. Part of getting older, more experienced I suppose. Sometimes as a result of bad things happening. Some of this change is sedimentary in nature – laid down over time; some of it is more igneous – born of fire and flood.

Anyway, try as I might – I cannot get the balance right. I long to just be, but the world simply will not let me and when I try it – well it doesn’t seem to much suit my constitution. Perhaps there is a way of being, whilst still doing, that I still need to discover. Meanwhile, I continue to try not to overstep the tipping point on the seesaw of life. And fail. I fail a lot. So much so, (and after the lines by Samuel Beckett) perhaps I should perhaps consider it to be my strength. And I should start playing to it a bit more.

beech tree

The Final Beer of the Week

Choo choo…


I do get tunnel vision from time to time. Not always when I need it, unfortunately.

I think it’s possible, as the week has gone on, my photography has become somewhat lackadaisical. I’ll be teetotal blogging from next week *crosses fingers behind back*

By the way, it’s a nice beer, from Holt in Wiltshire, not far from where I am staying this week. Actually, I am not sure I want to come home. I used to live in Wiltshire, some twenty-five years ago. It seems hardly possible, like it happened to another person altogether.

One hoot or two?

How many do you give?

two hoots

My Life in Beer

Well my week really, but it wouldn’t make such a catchy title.

This one Epic Saison is a ‘transcontinental fusion of Belgian beer and feisty American hops’ hailing from the Wild Beer Co in Somerset. They’ve got a wide range of beverages with great names. Hoping I get to try the Shnoodlepip soon.

wild beer

Everything’s bigger…

… in Texas.

WARNING: This week may carry a My Life in Beers theme.

lone star

The Universe may not be indifferent

But this lad sure as hell is…


Where’s the exit?

The summer has raced along, and all the while the world goes mad. Or more mad, were that even possible.

Things have been done at this end, certainly, but it’s never, ever enough.

Amongst other things, I’ve been watching Mad Men over the last few days. The protagonist, ad man Don Draper, delivered the following parting shot to a group of hippies he’d been getting high with (when his offer to fly to Paris from Idlewild, New York, had been turned down by his dark-haired lover).

Taking his leave he said, ‘the Universe is indifferent’.

I’m not sure if I much like Don Draper, and I am fairly sure the Universe is not indifferent or inert, rather that it works against us rather effectively, if we refuse to work with it. If we set our faces against whatever the Universe consists of we may as well spend the rest of our lives going up a down escalator, dancing the a waltz to the foxtrot, or jumping out of the plane without checking our emergency parachute.


‘The Way We Do It’

Re: the previous post.

This is more like it –  properly turned out for a music video too.

Here endeth the August jukebox mofos.  Back to peeling paint next time.

‘So High’

Good song, fo sho.  But the chutzpah of it  – turning up at the Royal Albert Hall to tinkle the ol’ joanna in just yer vest and not a medallion in sight.

It’s thrown me into a regular linguistic confusion.

Flaking Paint I

The quality of paint flaking away from wood is different from that on metal – something to do with permeability I suppose.  On wood, the denuding is more gentle; time chips away at the paint, almost imperceptibly. On metal the paint gives up the ghost more dramatically – giving way in a rush to rust, or full sun. It curls up suddenly, like dead leaves on trees in autumn, revealing more and more of what lies beneath…

To me, the patterns made by all this peeling paint activity look a little like maps. When consider this, I could be four years old again, perched on the toilet, swinging my feet, in my nan’s house in Surrey, seeing all manner of strange faces in the swirly crackle pattern of the lino.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned the lino before.  It was obviously formative.

flaking paint