Ramblage

Ramblage http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:00:00 GMT http://bandzoogle.com TIMBER # 10 - April 16th 2012: No, really? http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=1986946 It never ends does it? No, I don’t mean half the songs that I write (they do end, it just seems as if they don't), I mean this constant, persistent life business. It just goes on and on and on and doesn’t seem to show any signs of ever stopping. Obviously it stands to reason that it must sooner or later; life is finite after all. But until we reach the fin in finite it just carries on moving along, individually and en masse. There is nothing new about it under the sun and yet every day there is the potential for something new. And you never know what it will be, or when it will be or even if it will be. Because it might not be, not today. Tomorrow mayhap, but today, no not necessarily. And there are always people. People we didn't know before today and never know they were 'there' but who may have always been lurking just around some distantly close corner and who, for no apparent reason, have suddenly turned it and, for no equally apparent reason, seem to have or hold some measure of significance in your life. Or so it feels. Unanticipated significance. I don’t have any truck (did you see what I did there, Simonitov?) with this 'things happening for a reason' malarkey; things just happen. It's all cause and effect, randomosity, haphazard mismanagement of life to which we attribute some kind of rationalisation to, in order to give justification to it all for our own peace of mind. Things… just… happen. But be it random, rational, justified or, in fact, none of the above if my thoughts are to be believed, the spectre of unanticipated significance is still there. It might be a significance that is merely going to turn out to be fleeting or quite possibly a significance beyond fleeting, a significance that might, in fact, turn out to be significant. But, significantly, you will probably never know which it is until you do. It is certainly making no sense to me. You can probably tell. And so it goes. Life, the eternal game; life the eternal bringer of sadness and gladness, madness and something else that rhymes with gladness although, quite probably, it doesn't. I can make no sense of it but that doesn't stop it happening. It goes. So we go. So I go. The corner is turned. And I feel the breath of it on my life And then one has little choice but to stop and consider it and ask. Or at least it feels to me as if there is little choice. There might well be but I'm just not seeing it. Inquisitive thoughts abound. But does one need to question if there is any need to question whether there is any sense to it or even any sensibility to it or do you just go as it comes and follow it as it moves along, perhaps until it goes, perhaps until it turns another corner, perhaps making you turn in its shadow? I actually don't have a clue but I'm guessing that probably you should just go with it, just to see. Because it might turn out to be significant. And because life doesn't necessarily happen in the why, but it definitely happens in the now and it never happens in the if. Does anybody owe me a tenner? :) Steve B
There is nothing new about it under the sun and yet every day there is the potential for something new. And you never know what it will be, or when it will be or even if it will be. Because it might not be, not today.

Tomorrow mayhap, but today, no not necessarily.

And there are always people. People we didn't know before today and never know they were 'there' but who may have always been lurking just around some distantly close corner and who, for no apparent reason, have suddenly turned it and, for no equally apparent reason, seem to have or hold some measure of significance in your life. Or so it feels.

Unanticipated significance.

I don’t have any truck (did you see what I did there, Simonitov?) with this 'things happening for a reason' malarkey; things just happen. It's all cause and effect, randomosity, haphazard mismanagement of life to which we attribute some kind of rationalisation to, in order to give justification to it all for our own peace of mind. Things… just… happen.

But be it random, rational, justified or, in fact, none of the above if my thoughts are to be believed, the spectre of unanticipated significance is still there.

It might be a significance that is merely going to turn out to be fleeting or quite possibly a significance beyond fleeting, a significance that might, in fact, turn out to be significant.

But, significantly, you will probably never know which it is until you do.

It is certainly making no sense to me. You can probably tell.

And so it goes.

Life, the eternal game; life the eternal bringer of sadness and gladness, madness and something else that rhymes with gladness although, quite probably, it doesn't.

I can make no sense of it but that doesn't stop it happening.

It goes.

So we go.

So I go.

The corner is turned.

And I feel the breath of it on my life

And then one has little choice but to stop and consider it and ask.

Or at least it feels to me as if there is little choice. There might well be but I'm just not seeing it. Inquisitive thoughts abound. But does one need to question if there is any need to question whether there is any sense to it or even any sensibility to it or do you just go as it comes and follow it as it moves along, perhaps until it goes, perhaps until it turns another corner, perhaps making you turn in its shadow?

I actually don't have a clue but I'm guessing that probably you should just go with it, just to see. Because it might turn out to be significant.

And because life doesn't necessarily happen in the why, but it definitely happens in the now and it never happens in the if.

Does anybody owe me a tenner?

:)

Steve B
]]> Tue, 17 Apr 2012 10:00:00 GMT B0167FC6CB794680091FF66E74ADD733 TIMBER # 9 - December 14th 2011: Is that the time already? http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=1623601 Sometimes it is hard to keep track of exactly what is going on in life; . sometimes it is the price of cheese, sometimes it is the weather and sometimes it is where the hell did that last year go to? The latter is a particularly tricky question in some respects, those respects being that I personally haven't really got a clue as to what the answer is. I mean, yes, okay, if I sit and think about it for a few hours then I dare say I'll be able to map out a few salient points and perhaps vaguely recall some bits and pieces between the salient points and then, with a bit of luck, possibly have some kind of broad if ever so vague overview of the last year. But, as I can't be arsed to do that, quite simply, I have no idea where the last year went to. The last time I wrote anything here I started off by stating the fact that I hadn't written anything here for a long time. Well… I'll see that long time and raise it to even longer. Why is this? Good question. Fortunately, that answer is one that I can make up as I go along and therefore don't need to do any research as such, so there is not need to map salient points and/or other miscellaneous bollocks… Ooh… he said bollocks. He did, he did. Anyway… Moving on to the reason for the absence… As you may or may not know, both myself and Simonitov have highly developed apathy glands that can eat the average run of the mill or even professional, starred for their countries procrastinators for breakfast. Without touching the sides. And that's it. Apathetic bastards the pair of us and that's pretty much why I haven't written a thing here. Well, that and the fact that some of the things that do cross my mind are probably not of great interest to any of you. And even if they are, they shouldn't be. Oh yes. Or possibly, oh no. Indeed. Shut up at the back. Damned hecklers. Anyway… You may now be asking yourselves why I have now reappeared to write these words after such a very long absence and, if you are, then my question to you would be: haven't you got anything better to do than loiter around websites where nothing ever changes from month to month to month to month, etc, etc, ad lib 'til fade… Obviously not. In which case… I have reappeared here to write these things after such a very long absence because I haven't written anything here for a very long time and thought I ought to make the effort. And now I have. I suspect it wasn't worth the effort but at least it gave me something to do while the kettle was boiling. :) Steve B
The latter is a particularly tricky question in some respects, those respects being that I personally haven't really got a clue as to what the answer is. I mean, yes, okay, if I sit and think about it for a few hours then I dare say I'll be able to map out a few salient points and perhaps vaguely recall some bits and pieces between the salient points and then, with a bit of luck, possibly have some kind of broad if ever so vague overview of the last year.

But, as I can't be arsed to do that, quite simply, I have no idea where the last year went to.

The last time I wrote anything here I started off by stating the fact that I hadn't written anything here for a long time. Well… I'll see that long time and raise it to even longer.

Why is this?

Good question.

Fortunately, that answer is one that I can make up as I go along and therefore don't need to do any research as such, so there is not need to map salient points and/or other miscellaneous bollocks…

Ooh… he said bollocks.

He did, he did.

Anyway…

Moving on to the reason for the absence…

As you may or may not know, both myself and Simonitov have highly developed apathy glands that can eat the average run of the mill or even professional, starred for their countries procrastinators for breakfast.

Without touching the sides.

And that's it.

Apathetic bastards the pair of us and that's pretty much why I haven't written a thing here.

Well, that and the fact that some of the things that do cross my mind are probably not of great interest to any of you. And even if they are, they shouldn't be.

Oh yes.

Or possibly, oh no.

Indeed.

Shut up at the back.

Damned hecklers.

Anyway…

You may now be asking yourselves why I have now reappeared to write these words after such a very long absence and, if you are, then my question to you would be: haven't you got anything better to do than loiter around websites where nothing ever changes from month to month to month to month, etc, etc, ad lib 'til fade…

Obviously not.

In which case…

I have reappeared here to write these things after such a very long absence because I haven't written anything here for a very long time and thought I ought to make the effort.

And now I have.

I suspect it wasn't worth the effort but at least it gave me something to do while the kettle was boiling.

:)

Steve B
]]> Thu, 15 Dec 2011 11:34:17 GMT E396E2A60C7D513A73BCAF7948E8CD8F TIMBER # 8 - January 24th 2011: Absinthe Is Not An Anagram Of Secret http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=719370 The other day (actually I have to admit that it was a couple of months ago now; apathy is, after all, my strong point) Simonitov pointed out to me that I had not written anything here for a while. I had to throw my hands up and admit it, yes, it was true, I hadn’t. I couldn’t deny it – the evidence wasn’t right there before my eyes. I hadn’t written a single word. “But why not?” came the rousing cry from nowhere. Which is, to be honest, a fair enough question no matter where it came from even if it didn’t come from anywhere at all, other than from the convenient heckler in my head who just happened to be Johnny on the spot at exactly the right moment. And the answer (somewhat less rousingly and coming from somewhere, i.e., me, standing next to the heckler in my head) is that, quite obviously, I had nothing to say. This was a conclusion that needed no great thought, no lengthy period of consideration. In fact, such was the rapidity of the stated conclusion, I’ll say it again just in case you missed it the first time: I had said nothing because I had nothing to say. Admittedly, having nothing to say doesn’t always stop me but nevertheless. Such was the case, here. And such has been the case for almost seven months. That’s quite a long time, all things considered. The first time that Simonitov brought it to my attention it came as a bit of a shock that so much time had passed since the last time I had posted wordage. So I steeled myself to do something about it. That was two months ago. Good intentions, etc. But anyway, here I am now, steeling myself once more and… …concluding that, actually, I still have nothing to say. About anything. To anyone. Cryptic or otherwise. It doesn’t happen very often. But this has obviously been one of those ‘doesn’t happen very often’ moments. Correction - is one of those moments. And this particular moment has obviously gone on for quite a bit – and going on a bit is generally what people accuse me of doing although in this particular instance I haven’t so you really ought to appreciate the irony. Although, having said that, it does appear that I am in fact now going on about not going on which either negates the original irony or doubles it up – I’m not sure which. Anyway… In spite of the fact that I still have nothing to say, I feel that I ought to at least make the effort and say something, no matter how banal and tedious. So, that is what I will do; I will make the effort and say something. And having thought about it for a considerable length of time (i.e., the length of time between the last sentence and this one) because I still have nothing to say, I shall endeavour to say something about not having anything to say. Sounds riveting doesn’t it? Yes it does, but probably not in a good way. Those who know me will obviously appreciate that this is quite possibly the moment where I, to borrow the well-known phrase, go off on one – although in a non-violent manner, naturally. You might want to do the same thing. But if not: Prepare the tangents. Here I go. Gosh. How exciting. How tedious. “Get on with it!” cried the heckler. Oh. I’d best get on with it then. Okay, I will. Right, here I go. Again. And so… (By the way, the possibilities for the following monologue are probably both endless and interminable, and limited in length only by how bored I get tapping the keys on this keyboard trying to say whatever it is I may try to say, or by how infuriating the dodgy power connector on my laptop (which is causing major monitorial fluctuations) becomes before I am forced to concede defeat and do something else. Either way, it would probably be best to get yourself a brew before you read any further– I’m feeling persistent today and this may take some time. And I did say earlier that having nothing to say doesn’t always stop me so it’s not like you haven’t been warned.) Ready? Okay, let’s go. No, really, let’s go. And so (encore)… Some thoughts about why I have had nothing to say about anything whatsoever for months and months.... I think perhaps that the best way to start is for me to think about the reason for why I have had nothing to say – because there has to be a reason for that. So, to attempt to establish that reason, first off, I’ll ask myself the opening question pertaining to my absence in these quarters for the past six months: Why? Why indeed. I have already said that I have said nothing because I have had nothing to say, but is this really true? Did it really just come down to the fact that I really had nothing to say and therefore didn’t say it because there was nothing there to be said, or was it more the case that I had nothing to say that I wanted to say here and therefore simply kept it to myself? Because there are things that are better left unsaid. Anybody who has ever said something and then wished that they hadn’t knows this to be true – this covers more or less everyone. Anyway… I think a lot. No, really, I do. I think a great deal in fact, all the time. Like we all do. But crucially (and that’s not life or death crucially but crucially in the context of instilling some sort of dramatic purpose and effect into this narrative to make it seem a lot more interesting than it actually is and, truly, it actually isn’t) having thought about it again for the amount of time it takes to get from one sentence to another, I have concluded that not everything that flickers through my tiny mind is suitable for family entertainment on the grounds of dullosity, banality, pointlessness, insensibility and, the most important one of all, which is: Frankly it’s got bugger all to do with anyone else but me. In the case of the latter, it therefore stands to reason that it stays exclusively inside my head. Lately, or at least in the long months since I last placed wordage here, a lot of the ‘stuff’ that has been firing the synapses, in my head at least (which is obviously the only head I am qualified to comment about), is not necessarily stuff that actually needs to be written down (because who needs to know if I cleaned my teeth this morning?) or it is stuff that shouldn’t be written down anywhere at all and absolutely least of all here on the worldwide web where at least three people, including myself and Simonitov, might read it. Because, as I said but a paragraph or two ago, for all sorts of reasons there are some things that are best left unsaid and have nothing to do with anyone else but me – or from the point of view of you and your shoes, you. Come to think about it, there are very probably some things that are best left un-thought of as well for that matter – but both, unsaid thoughts and un-thought thoughts are exactly the sort of thoughts that should most definitely not be put down into a legible format for the consumption of the aforementioned three people, even if one of those three are responsible for what is being written in the first place. I think. At least I think I think. I get confused, you know. Can you tell? Moving on… So then, here I am, me and my thoughts… My thoughts meander a great deal from topic to topic. That is probably not unique, I suppose most people’s thoughts do, although I cannot be certain about the thinking patterns of others – like I said I’m only qualified to comment about mine, not that I am entirely confident about what is going on in there at any given time, only that something is in fact going on. Anyway… So, yes, those pesky thoughts indiscriminately zip about in a pin-ball fashion around my neural network, dredging one train of thought from one shadowy corner into another shadowy corner, colliding it haphazardly and probably (but not necessarily) randomly into another train of thought, hopelessly mixing and perhaps tainting one with the other, causing a mix and match tapestry that would, in all probability, not get it top billing at a handicraft competition on any WI circuit anywhere in the world. In short then (ha ha!), a veritable cocktail of a train wreck of thought, the type of which, on balance, should almost always be best kept to the shadowy corners where they can do no harm and definitely not be posted on the interwebbery to be shared with the masses – yes, all three of them. “But surely” I hear you question, “there must have been some great wisdom which you could have shared with us over the past six months?” To which I reply: Nah. Because… if my head has been full of stuff that I have had no inclination to write about here, then they have been all-consuming and therefore there has been no space for anything else, nothing to say, nothing to see, nothing of any consequence. In retrospect I suppose that I could have reported the teeth cleaning or even bowel movements in a Facebookesque kind of way but… why? There you go then. I mean yes, alright, I could report on bowel movements, give an in-depth description and appraisal of each one, provide diagrams and, of course, refer to the Bristol Stool Guide without which no serious study of bowel movements would be complete or accepted by any serious scientific research team. But I can’t do it. Others can: I am sure that on some social networking website any number of people are religiously sharing with the world the news of their latest momentous movement, which in turn is then openly scrutinised and analysed by their online peer group with exacting tediousness, quite possibly becoming, wittingly or unwittingly, the ultimate in interactive toilet gags. Obviously, this may have an appeal to certain sections of certain communities; possibly hundreds of thousands of people are tuning in every day to discover what has been hanging on to who – or whom. But me, I’m not just seeing it. (And no, please do not suggest using a mirror; I can look in the bowl just like everyone else.) Maybe it is because of my advancing state of old codgeriness. Maybe. Maybe not. All I do know is that I feel fairly certain that no bowel movement of mine shall ever receive worldwide media coverage. Although, having said that, if it does I shall be the first to hold up my hands and say: “Hey, I was wrong, I was really wrong to diss the movement. Because you know something? Like, wow, that bowel movement really spoke to me, man.” And shed a tear. Cosmic. Anyway, getting back on to whatever it is I was talking about before the power of the movement, which I believe was the subject of why I haven’t written anything here for seven months, the reason, pure and simple and already stated about a thousand words ago is because I have really had nothing to write about. Or at least nothing to write about that I want to write here. Because there has been plenty of stuff going on in my cluttered mind, but it is the kind of stuff which has been far too important to be the subject of anyone’s scrutiny but mine. Because that sort of stuff is a whole different universe of thought from everything else; it’s a different type of important. It’s different from the insightful stuff (not that I have ever written anything insightful – I know enough not to get above myself and get any ideas about being insightful because I know I'm not) which is a separate type of important and that type of stuff, the insightful stuff, the clever stuff should be shared. Stuff like: Hey, I have just discovered how to turn lager into water. Or maybe not that. But other stuff perhaps, stuff that will do good, bring about world peace, provide free cheese for the common man (and woman), produce answers to questions that really matter in the big wide world such as: Eastenders – WHY?! And whereas that is obviously important stuff because it is stuff that reflects on the impersonal big wide world and which can change universes and bring down empires etc., and therefore is obviously made for sharing, the other important purely-to-me stuff is just not in the same category – it’s much more important than that. It’s all about me and the universe is not invited. It’s mine, leave it alone. Bugger off. We all have that sort of stuff within us; classified information for our eyes only. Revelatory stuff, revelatory about ourselves. Revelatory about our own personal universes – your personal universe, my personal universe – and they are not for mixing. It’s the sort of stuff that we would never want to let the light of the outside world illuminate, either because it is of no concern to the outside world or because if the outside world saw it they might well indeed be concerned – and be concerned when, actually, there is no real need to be concerned because sometimes thoughts are just thoughts; no harm done to man nor beast as long as they are kept in the drawer marked ‘Top Secret’. We all have secrets. And a secret shared with just one person (or in the case of this website, three persons including me) is no secret at all. So much better to keep it to ourselves under our own lock and key. Sometimes, perhaps inevitably, bits leak out. The mind is only so big after all – stuff it with enough thoughts and some are bound to get squeezed out through the gaps. A small piece of a puzzle here, an edge, a section of sky, but nothing that really says anything about anything; just a piece of pointless trivia that gets lost in the stampede of everything else. And sometimes we reveal things by the things that we do not say: revelation by omission. Me, the stuff I don’t talk about occasionally leaks out in song lyrics – or pours out on occasion. Fortunately though people are generally too busy reaching for the razor blades to make the pain end, to realise… But, generally, if we are sensible, everything that we would rather not say anything about has nothing said about it and that is the way it should be. And I suppose that’s the reason for me having nothing to say here; I have had plenty to say in the last seven months but I have only been able to say it to me because me is what is has all been about – the really important stuff, for my eyes only. Everything else has just been bowel movements – and you know my feelings about that. See you again in seven months. :-) Steve B PS: No absinthe was consumed in the divulgence of this non-divulgence of secrets. But it probably should have been.
“But why not?” came the rousing cry from nowhere.

Which is, to be honest, a fair enough question no matter where it came from even if it didn’t come from anywhere at all, other than from the convenient heckler in my head who just happened to be Johnny on the spot at exactly the right moment.

And the answer (somewhat less rousingly and coming from somewhere, i.e., me, standing next to the heckler in my head) is that, quite obviously, I had nothing to say. This was a conclusion that needed no great thought, no lengthy period of consideration. In fact, such was the rapidity of the stated conclusion, I’ll say it again just in case you missed it the first time: I had said nothing because I had nothing to say. Admittedly, having nothing to say doesn’t always stop me but nevertheless.

Such was the case, here.

And such has been the case for almost seven months. That’s quite a long time, all things considered.

The first time that Simonitov brought it to my attention it came as a bit of a shock that so much time had passed since the last time I had posted wordage. So I steeled myself to do something about it. That was two months ago.

Good intentions, etc.

But anyway, here I am now, steeling myself once more and…

…concluding that, actually, I still have nothing to say.

About anything.

To anyone.

Cryptic or otherwise.

It doesn’t happen very often.

But this has obviously been one of those ‘doesn’t happen very often’ moments.

Correction - is one of those moments.

And this particular moment has obviously gone on for quite a bit – and going on a bit is generally what people accuse me of doing although in this particular instance I haven’t so you really ought to appreciate the irony. Although, having said that, it does appear that I am in fact now going on about not going on which either negates the original irony or doubles it up – I’m not sure which.

Anyway…

In spite of the fact that I still have nothing to say, I feel that I ought to at least make the effort and say something, no matter how banal and tedious. So, that is what I will do; I will make the effort and say something.

And having thought about it for a considerable length of time (i.e., the length of time between the last sentence and this one) because I still have nothing to say, I shall endeavour to say something about not having anything to say. Sounds riveting doesn’t it?

Yes it does, but probably not in a good way.

Those who know me will obviously appreciate that this is quite possibly the moment where I, to borrow the well-known phrase, go off on one – although in a non-violent manner, naturally. You might want to do the same thing.

But if not: Prepare the tangents.

Here I go.

Gosh.

How exciting.

How tedious.

“Get on with it!” cried the heckler.

Oh.

I’d best get on with it then.

Okay, I will.

Right, here I go. Again.

And so…

(By the way, the possibilities for the following monologue are probably both endless and interminable, and limited in length only by how bored I get tapping the keys on this keyboard trying to say whatever it is I may try to say, or by how infuriating the dodgy power connector on my laptop (which is causing major monitorial fluctuations) becomes before I am forced to concede defeat and do something else. Either way, it would probably be best to get yourself a brew before you read any further– I’m feeling persistent today and this may take some time. And I did say earlier that having nothing to say doesn’t always stop me so it’s not like you haven’t been warned.)

Ready?

Okay, let’s go.

No, really, let’s go.

And so (encore)…

Some thoughts about why I have had nothing to say about anything whatsoever for months and months....

I think perhaps that the best way to start is for me to think about the reason for why I have had nothing to say – because there has to be a reason for that.

So, to attempt to establish that reason, first off, I’ll ask myself the opening question pertaining to my absence in these quarters for the past six months: Why?

Why indeed.

I have already said that I have said nothing because I have had nothing to say, but is this really true? Did it really just come down to the fact that I really had nothing to say and therefore didn’t say it because there was nothing there to be said, or was it more the case that I had nothing to say that I wanted to say here and therefore simply kept it to myself?

Because there are things that are better left unsaid. Anybody who has ever said something and then wished that they hadn’t knows this to be true – this covers more or less everyone.

Anyway…

I think a lot.

No, really, I do.

I think a great deal in fact, all the time. Like we all do.

But crucially (and that’s not life or death crucially but crucially in the context of instilling some sort of dramatic purpose and effect into this narrative to make it seem a lot more interesting than it actually is and, truly, it actually isn’t) having thought about it again for the amount of time it takes to get from one sentence to another, I have concluded that not everything that flickers through my tiny mind is suitable for family entertainment on the grounds of dullosity, banality, pointlessness, insensibility and, the most important one of all, which is: Frankly it’s got bugger all to do with anyone else but me. In the case of the latter, it therefore stands to reason that it stays exclusively inside my head.

Lately, or at least in the long months since I last placed wordage here, a lot of the ‘stuff’ that has been firing the synapses, in my head at least (which is obviously the only head I am qualified to comment about), is not necessarily stuff that actually needs to be written down (because who needs to know if I cleaned my teeth this morning?) or it is stuff that shouldn’t be written down anywhere at all and absolutely least of all here on the worldwide web where at least three people, including myself and Simonitov, might read it.

Because, as I said but a paragraph or two ago, for all sorts of reasons there are some things that are best left unsaid and have nothing to do with anyone else but me – or from the point of view of you and your shoes, you. Come to think about it, there are very probably some things that are best left un-thought of as well for that matter – but both, unsaid thoughts and un-thought thoughts are exactly the sort of thoughts that should most definitely not be put down into a legible format for the consumption of the aforementioned three people, even if one of those three are responsible for what is being written in the first place.

I think.

At least I think I think.

I get confused, you know.

Can you tell?

Moving on…

So then, here I am, me and my thoughts…

My thoughts meander a great deal from topic to topic. That is probably not unique, I suppose most people’s thoughts do, although I cannot be certain about the thinking patterns of others – like I said I’m only qualified to comment about mine, not that I am entirely confident about what is going on in there at any given time, only that something is in fact going on.

Anyway… So, yes, those pesky thoughts indiscriminately zip about in a pin-ball fashion around my neural network, dredging one train of thought from one shadowy corner into another shadowy corner, colliding it haphazardly and probably (but not necessarily) randomly into another train of thought, hopelessly mixing and perhaps tainting one with the other, causing a mix and match tapestry that would, in all probability, not get it top billing at a handicraft competition on any WI circuit anywhere in the world. In short then (ha ha!), a veritable cocktail of a train wreck of thought, the type of which, on balance, should almost always be best kept to the shadowy corners where they can do no harm and definitely not be posted on the interwebbery to be shared with the masses – yes, all three of them.

“But surely” I hear you question, “there must have been some great wisdom which you could have shared with us over the past six months?” To which I reply: Nah.

Because… if my head has been full of stuff that I have had no inclination to write about here, then they have been all-consuming and therefore there has been no space for anything else, nothing to say, nothing to see, nothing of any consequence. In retrospect I suppose that I could have reported the teeth cleaning or even bowel movements in a Facebookesque kind of way but… why?

There you go then.

I mean yes, alright, I could report on bowel movements, give an in-depth description and appraisal of each one, provide diagrams and, of course, refer to the Bristol Stool Guide without which no serious study of bowel movements would be complete or accepted by any serious scientific research team.

But I can’t do it. Others can: I am sure that on some social networking website any number of people are religiously sharing with the world the news of their latest momentous movement, which in turn is then openly scrutinised and analysed by their online peer group with exacting tediousness, quite possibly becoming, wittingly or unwittingly, the ultimate in interactive toilet gags.

Obviously, this may have an appeal to certain sections of certain communities; possibly hundreds of thousands of people are tuning in every day to discover what has been hanging on to who – or whom.

But me, I’m not just seeing it.

(And no, please do not suggest using a mirror; I can look in the bowl just like everyone else.)

Maybe it is because of my advancing state of old codgeriness. Maybe. Maybe not. All I do know is that I feel fairly certain that no bowel movement of mine shall ever receive worldwide media coverage. Although, having said that, if it does I shall be the first to hold up my hands and say: “Hey, I was wrong, I was really wrong to diss the movement. Because you know something? Like, wow, that bowel movement really spoke to me, man.”

And shed a tear.

Cosmic.

Anyway, getting back on to whatever it is I was talking about before the power of the movement, which I believe was the subject of why I haven’t written anything here for seven months, the reason, pure and simple and already stated about a thousand words ago is because I have really had nothing to write about. Or at least nothing to write about that I want to write here.

Because there has been plenty of stuff going on in my cluttered mind, but it is the kind of stuff which has been far too important to be the subject of anyone’s scrutiny but mine. Because that sort of stuff is a whole different universe of thought from everything else; it’s a different type of important.

It’s different from the insightful stuff (not that I have ever written anything insightful – I know enough not to get above myself and get any ideas about being insightful because I know I'm not) which is a separate type of important and that type of stuff, the insightful stuff, the clever stuff should be shared. Stuff like: Hey, I have just discovered how to turn lager into water. Or maybe not that. But other stuff perhaps, stuff that will do good, bring about world peace, provide free cheese for the common man (and woman), produce answers to questions that really matter in the big wide world such as: Eastenders – WHY?!

And whereas that is obviously important stuff because it is stuff that reflects on the impersonal big wide world and which can change universes and bring down empires etc., and therefore is obviously made for sharing, the other important purely-to-me stuff is just not in the same category – it’s much more important than that.

It’s all about me and the universe is not invited. It’s mine, leave it alone. Bugger off.

We all have that sort of stuff within us; classified information for our eyes only. Revelatory stuff, revelatory about ourselves. Revelatory about our own personal universes – your personal universe, my personal universe – and they are not for mixing.

It’s the sort of stuff that we would never want to let the light of the outside world illuminate, either because it is of no concern to the outside world or because if the outside world saw it they might well indeed be concerned – and be concerned when, actually, there is no real need to be concerned because sometimes thoughts are just thoughts; no harm done to man nor beast as long as they are kept in the drawer marked ‘Top Secret’. We all have secrets.

And a secret shared with just one person (or in the case of this website, three persons including me) is no secret at all.

So much better to keep it to ourselves under our own lock and key.

Sometimes, perhaps inevitably, bits leak out. The mind is only so big after all – stuff it with enough thoughts and some are bound to get squeezed out through the gaps. A small piece of a puzzle here, an edge, a section of sky, but nothing that really says anything about anything; just a piece of pointless trivia that gets lost in the stampede of everything else.

And sometimes we reveal things by the things that we do not say: revelation by omission.

Me, the stuff I don’t talk about occasionally leaks out in song lyrics – or pours out on occasion. Fortunately though people are generally too busy reaching for the razor blades to make the pain end, to realise…

But, generally, if we are sensible, everything that we would rather not say anything about has nothing said about it and that is the way it should be.

And I suppose that’s the reason for me having nothing to say here; I have had plenty to say in the last seven months but I have only been able to say it to me because me is what is has all been about – the really important stuff, for my eyes only. Everything else has just been bowel movements – and you know my feelings about that.

See you again in seven months.

:-)

Steve B

PS: No absinthe was consumed in the divulgence of this non-divulgence of secrets. But it probably should have been.

]]> Tue, 25 Jan 2011 05:15:00 GMT AD52B14086ABDB1367AD43388CAF831B TIMBER # 7 - July 16th 2010: Finales No More Encores http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=358354 For some weeks now I have had something on my mind. It’s one of those things that crop up in my head from time to time, and which is given due consideration before being re-consigned into the mish mash of all the other thoughts that languish in my brain waiting to be dusted off once in the proverbial blue moon to spend a few more moments in the light of day. But this ‘something’ has been hanging about for some time now, flitting about in the semi-shadows reminding me it is there and wondering when I am going to give it a voice. And I have continued to consider it and wondering much the same thing because, frankly, if I don’t give it a voice it will probably continue to loiter with intent to distract me from other things. So then… I’m giving it a voice. Whether or not it will make sense is a whole other physical activity played (allegedly for fun) with a spherical object. A few weeks ago, I saw two bees mating. One moment I was standing on my porch admiring the weeds in the garden, and the next moment a bee piggy-backing another bee were launching themselves in my general direction before blatantly charging into my shed to… well… do ‘it’. I was quite bemused and then amused at the time. And then, a bit later, after the pair had paused for a fag and then disappeared into the afternoon, I wondered if I would see such a thing again in my lifetime. I decided that the answer was “probably not” but it provided one of those internet-esque bumps to my thoughts… A couple of weeks before the sexed up bees, I had been out walking. I was walking along a path (not a metaphysical or spiritual path, but a real honest to goodness, paved, flag-stoned path) that I have walked along maybe a thousand times before over the course of my life. I’d probably first walked it when I was five years old and, now (or then), there I was walking it again at the tender age of 105 years old, more or less, give or take the odd year or two (of which there have been several odd years). And it occurred to me that sooner or later, the footsteps that I trod along that path would be the last time I trod it. Sooner or later, I concluded, I would walk along that path for the very last time. And so, not one for looking an opportunity to think along maudlin lines in the face and refusing to look it in the eye, that sparked my mind into thinking about all the last times that were probably to come, and also the last times that maybe I had already had. Let’s face it: We do things every day of our lives and some of those things are things that we do day after day and don’t think twice about, don’t give a second thought to. Yes, the usual take it for granted scenario. But yet, those things are always subject to being that ‘last time’. From the trivial and fairly insignificant “will today have been the last time I ever eat chips?” to the less than trivial and fairly significant “will this be the last day I wake up?” Alright, the latter is extreme, admittedly. So then, a less-extreme example. Peeling potatoes. Will today be the last day I peel potatoes. Actually, come to think about it, I didn’t peel any potatoes today. Okay… Forget potatoes. How about the act of me writing these words and posting them here on this website? Maybe this is the last time I will do that. For those of you who said "we live in hope" you are gits. Okay, so forget this wordage too (well, not entirely forget as that will rather prevent you from reading further, obviously). Forget wordage, think places, think locations. There are places I like to go but don’t necessarily go that often. I like to walk up the Zig Zag at Selborne Common. Once upon a time I would probably do that several times a year but now, in my dotage (!), it has probably been a year since I last went there. So, I have to ask myself, was the last time I went there the very last time I will visit it? Where else? Reaching into the memory banks – Cerreg Cennen Castle in Wales. It’s one of the grooviest castles stored in my memories and I have been there a couple of times, the last time being about 15 – 20 years ago. I’ve often thought about going back, to see its walls silhouetted against the skyline, to feel all the memories I attach to that place come flooding back, and yet I never have. Will I? Possibly. Maybe. Perhaps not. Maybe I have in fact already visited that place for the last time. Distance is… a barrier. Okay then, closer to home where the barrier is somewhat less barrier-like - the Castle at Greywell, the ruin on the canal. I’ve been there perhaps a hundred times. The last visit was only a matter of a couple of weeks ago. But was that the last time I will do so? Probably not, but then again who knows when the double-decker of life will decide to jump the red light and… Cheery? Moi? Perhaps I attach too much importance to this way of thinking. Just because the thought has been bugging me and refuses to go away doesn’t necessarily mean it’s important; it might just mean I have too much time on my hands. And maybe the latter is true. Because, in all probability and in the greater scheme of things, the majority of these ‘last time’ moments that I have been rambling on about have, on balance, very little importance and/or impact on my life today. We all visit many places in the course of our lifetimes and do a great many things, and the vast majority of these one-off occasions where the first time is more or less the last time is perfectly okay because that was how they were always supposed to be. One shot moments. And then finito. Done. Dusted. Into the recycle bin. Forgotten. Which is fine. I suppose. And I should have ejected the bugging thought pattern back into the mish mash at that point in the unwinding of thoughts and been done with it. But then… But then… But then I extended the thought from places and things to something else: to people. Because it’s about people too. And not just any people. Friends. There are so many people, friends that I used to see regularly and now no longer see at all or see so infrequently as to be much the same thing. Many, if not most of these people, if not all of these people, are important to me in one way or another and yet how many of them have I already seen for the last time? I suspect that the answer to that is too many. And if that is the case does that beg the question as to how important are they really, or does it simply highlight the fact that no matter how important they are, sooner or later the last time really will be the last time… Last times, final words. And also… Last chord sequences. Another sooner or later: Sooner or later, Simonitov and I will write our last song together. No, that is not a moment for rejoicing, thank you very much. But sooner or later, the final touches that Simonitov puts to one of our songs really will be the finishing touch. And sooner or later the last lyric I wrote will be the last lyric I write – and no, that is still not a moment for rejoicing… If you were thinking that then you too are gits. Today a friend reminded me that in the end everybody dies. Not that I needed to be reminded. But… …it’s a worrying thought. Because I am sure that there is much left that I need to do. And much left that I need to do again. In my memories there are far too many ‘last times’ that need to be resurrected so that the last time of yesterday becomes the last time of tomorrow. I wonder if I can achieve any of them before the double-decker hits me? Or before the double-decker hits one of those people, one of those friends? Recently, a very good friend of mine that I see only rarely was viciously attacked in the street and badly beaten. If my friend’s attackers hadn’t been interrupted maybe they wouldn’t have stopped at just badly beating my friend. Sometimes we do not dictate the last times; sometimes other people dictate them for us. It’s a quite a sobering thought and probably the reason why the whole ‘last time’ thing is refusing to completely go away. Because, maybe, it is trying to tell me something. And maybe, I should listen properly. Just for a change. Just one more time. Just one more last time. Steve B :-/
But this ‘something’ has been hanging about for some time now, flitting about in the semi-shadows reminding me it is there and wondering when I am going to give it a voice. And I have continued to consider it and wondering much the same thing because, frankly, if I don’t give it a voice it will probably continue to loiter with intent to distract me from other things.

So then… I’m giving it a voice. Whether or not it will make sense is a whole other physical activity played (allegedly for fun) with a spherical object.

A few weeks ago, I saw two bees mating. One moment I was standing on my porch admiring the weeds in the garden, and the next moment a bee piggy-backing another bee were launching themselves in my general direction before blatantly charging into my shed to… well… do ‘it’. I was quite bemused and then amused at the time. And then, a bit later, after the pair had paused for a fag and then disappeared into the afternoon, I wondered if I would see such a thing again in my lifetime. I decided that the answer was “probably not” but it provided one of those internet-esque bumps to my thoughts…

A couple of weeks before the sexed up bees, I had been out walking. I was walking along a path (not a metaphysical or spiritual path, but a real honest to goodness, paved, flag-stoned path) that I have walked along maybe a thousand times before over the course of my life. I’d probably first walked it when I was five years old and, now (or then), there I was walking it again at the tender age of 105 years old, more or less, give or take the odd year or two (of which there have been several odd years).

And it occurred to me that sooner or later, the footsteps that I trod along that path would be the last time I trod it. Sooner or later, I concluded, I would walk along that path for the very last time.

And so, not one for looking an opportunity to think along maudlin lines in the face and refusing to look it in the eye, that sparked my mind into thinking about all the last times that were probably to come, and also the last times that maybe I had already had.

Let’s face it: We do things every day of our lives and some of those things are things that we do day after day and don’t think twice about, don’t give a second thought to. Yes, the usual take it for granted scenario. But yet, those things are always subject to being that ‘last time’.

From the trivial and fairly insignificant “will today have been the last time I ever eat chips?” to the less than trivial and fairly significant “will this be the last day I wake up?” Alright, the latter is extreme, admittedly.

So then, a less-extreme example.

Peeling potatoes. Will today be the last day I peel potatoes. Actually, come to think about it, I didn’t peel any potatoes today.

Okay… Forget potatoes. How about the act of me writing these words and posting them here on this website? Maybe this is the last time I will do that. For those of you who said "we live in hope" you are gits.

Okay, so forget this wordage too (well, not entirely forget as that will rather prevent you from reading further, obviously).

Forget wordage, think places, think locations.

There are places I like to go but don’t necessarily go that often. I like to walk up the Zig Zag at Selborne Common. Once upon a time I would probably do that several times a year but now, in my dotage (!), it has probably been a year since I last went there. So, I have to ask myself, was the last time I went there the very last time I will visit it?

Where else? Reaching into the memory banks – Cerreg Cennen Castle in Wales. It’s one of the grooviest castles stored in my memories and I have been there a couple of times, the last time being about 15 – 20 years ago. I’ve often thought about going back, to see its walls silhouetted against the skyline, to feel all the memories I attach to that place come flooding back, and yet I never have. Will I? Possibly. Maybe. Perhaps not. Maybe I have in fact already visited that place for the last time. Distance is… a barrier.

Okay then, closer to home where the barrier is somewhat less barrier-like - the Castle at Greywell, the ruin on the canal. I’ve been there perhaps a hundred times. The last visit was only a matter of a couple of weeks ago. But was that the last time I will do so? Probably not, but then again who knows when the double-decker of life will decide to jump the red light and…

Cheery? Moi?

Perhaps I attach too much importance to this way of thinking. Just because the thought has been bugging me and refuses to go away doesn’t necessarily mean it’s important; it might just mean I have too much time on my hands. And maybe the latter is true. Because, in all probability and in the greater scheme of things, the majority of these ‘last time’ moments that I have been rambling on about have, on balance, very little importance and/or impact on my life today.

We all visit many places in the course of our lifetimes and do a great many things, and the vast majority of these one-off occasions where the first time is more or less the last time is perfectly okay because that was how they were always supposed to be. One shot moments. And then finito. Done. Dusted. Into the recycle bin.

Forgotten.

Which is fine.

I suppose.

And I should have ejected the bugging thought pattern back into the mish mash at that point in the unwinding of thoughts and been done with it.

But then…

But then…

But then I extended the thought from places and things to something else: to people.

Because it’s about people too. And not just any people. Friends.

There are so many people, friends that I used to see regularly and now no longer see at all or see so infrequently as to be much the same thing. Many, if not most of these people, if not all of these people, are important to me in one way or another and yet how many of them have I already seen for the last time? I suspect that the answer to that is too many. And if that is the case does that beg the question as to how important are they really, or does it simply highlight the fact that no matter how important they are, sooner or later the last time really will be the last time…

Last times, final words.

And also…

Last chord sequences.

Another sooner or later: Sooner or later, Simonitov and I will write our last song together. No, that is not a moment for rejoicing, thank you very much. But sooner or later, the final touches that Simonitov puts to one of our songs really will be the finishing touch.

And sooner or later the last lyric I wrote will be the last lyric I write – and no, that is still not a moment for rejoicing…

If you were thinking that then you too are gits.

Today a friend reminded me that in the end everybody dies. Not that I needed to be reminded. But…

…it’s a worrying thought.

Because I am sure that there is much left that I need to do. And much left that I need to do again. In my memories there are far too many ‘last times’ that need to be resurrected so that the last time of yesterday becomes the last time of tomorrow.

I wonder if I can achieve any of them before the double-decker hits me? Or before the double-decker hits one of those people, one of those friends?

Recently, a very good friend of mine that I see only rarely was viciously attacked in the street and badly beaten. If my friend’s attackers hadn’t been interrupted maybe they wouldn’t have stopped at just badly beating my friend.

Sometimes we do not dictate the last times; sometimes other people dictate them for us.

It’s a quite a sobering thought and probably the reason why the whole ‘last time’ thing is refusing to completely go away.

Because, maybe, it is trying to tell me something. And maybe, I should listen properly.

Just for a change.

Just one more time.

Just one more last time.

Steve B

:-/
]]> Fri, 16 Jul 2010 04:32:04 GMT 89C1A0AECF29236430EC2EAEDB3F0B94 TIMBER # 6 - May 10th 2010: Je Ne Comprend Pas http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=278969 I would be the first to admit that there is much about the world, about life, that I do not understand. I would probably also be the second one to admit to it too. And the third. And the fourth. In fact, such is the interest amongst the humanoid life forms on this planet in anything that I would admit to, I could probably get the first several hundred thousand admissions in before someone else raised their hand to mention it. I don’t understand the complex; I don’t always understand the trivial. A lot of the time I don’t understand me. Not once I get past the socks anyway. What else? Ah, yes… Car engines. I don’t understand those in a very comprehensive way. Show me anything about a car engine, explain it to me in either painstaking detail or childlike simplicity, I won’t get it. I won’t understand it. Did you feel that jet of air on your eyebrows? That’s the wake of my understanding not only going over my head but your head too. The binary system. I don’t understand that. To my mind there really ought not to be a lot there to not understand but, nevertheless, I don’t understand it. Chord theory. I don’t understand that at all. Simonitov probably explained it all to me once but once again the rippling of air through your eyebrows will indicate that the facts, the explanations, totally failed to stick in my slowly wizening yet un-wise brain. The Dewey System. I think I may have understood that once, but if I did, I don’t now. Oh, oh! I’ve got another one! Yes! The new car registration plates!! I totally have no idea what they are all about. I mean, what was wrong with the old system? Baffled, that’s me. Baffled. Baffled and baffling And baffling, the B word, gets me onto the P word. Politics. Because politics totally baffles me. I expect it probably baffles a lot of people. But I expect, that on some level, a lot of people do understand it beyond and/or through the bafflement. I don’t. I was watching a news broadcast this evening. The Prime Minister lost the election. And yet there he is, still being the Prime Minister. Still scrabbling to stay in power – apparently for the good of the country. I thought about that for a while and then had to concede that, “Nope, I’m still not understanding it”. Then there was the bit of the political news that went on about how the ‘team’ that totally lost the election now has the power to decide who ‘wins’ it. No matter how hard I think about that, I just cannot make understanding descend upon me and illuminate my brain cells to the point where they go “BING!” and enlightenment engulfs me. I really just don’t understand. I’m not taking a political stance here; politics is too emotive, too devisive, just too much everything to go around doing that. Even Simonitov and I don’t agree on politics other than that politicians are a necessary evil (citation required!) and are generally a bunch of self-serving power seekers even at the local level where they spend most of their time having pictures taken of themselves pointing at things for the glossy brochures that they do so love to give out. So anyway, politics, Simonitov and I, we don’t go there. We talk about women instead. Broadly speaking. Snigger. :) And, of course, women are another avenue of not understanding that I can lay claim to. Of course, I feel fairly certain that I am not alone in this. And of course, it works both ways; I’m equally certain that women don’t really understand men – other than what it takes to get them to go shopping and attempt a bit of DIY. It’s the whole book malarkey about Venus and Mars. And talking of Mars, I see there was a new dark chocolate version out recently of that particular classic confectionary. I didn’t understand that either. I mean, why? Why a dark chocolate Mars Bar? What’s wrong with the tried and tested milk chocolate variety? It’s beyond me – as most things are. Another thing I don’t understand – why, as happened the other day also, can I not remember the catchy little tune I was bashing out about an hour ago? Why has it slipped from my memory when it was patently such a groovy little tune? Ah, such is life I suppose. Curiously enough, I have just written a song (for a flexible value of given – i.e. I wrote it a couple of months ago now and have just gotten back to faffing with it again) called Too Much Information in which I make the spurious claim that “I understand it all”. Considering that everything I have just written here contradicts that claim, it would seem that said claim may not be entirely accurate. Hmm… hoisted on my own petard. And by my own hand too. I guess that you won’t be surprised to discover that I really don’t understand that either. Ho hum, said Pooh. Steve B :-)
I don’t understand the complex; I don’t always understand the trivial. A lot of the time I don’t understand me. Not once I get past the socks anyway.

What else? Ah, yes…

Car engines. I don’t understand those in a very comprehensive way. Show me anything about a car engine, explain it to me in either painstaking detail or childlike simplicity, I won’t get it. I won’t understand it. Did you feel that jet of air on your eyebrows? That’s the wake of my understanding not only going over my head but your head too.

The binary system. I don’t understand that. To my mind there really ought not to be a lot there to not understand but, nevertheless, I don’t understand it.

Chord theory. I don’t understand that at all. Simonitov probably explained it all to me once but once again the rippling of air through your eyebrows will indicate that the facts, the explanations, totally failed to stick in my slowly wizening yet un-wise brain.

The Dewey System. I think I may have understood that once, but if I did, I don’t now.

Oh, oh! I’ve got another one! Yes! The new car registration plates!! I totally have no idea what they are all about. I mean, what was wrong with the old system? Baffled, that’s me.

Baffled.

Baffled and baffling

And baffling, the B word, gets me onto the P word. Politics.

Because politics totally baffles me. I expect it probably baffles a lot of people. But I expect, that on some level, a lot of people do understand it beyond and/or through the bafflement.

I don’t.

I was watching a news broadcast this evening. The Prime Minister lost the election. And yet there he is, still being the Prime Minister. Still scrabbling to stay in power – apparently for the good of the country. I thought about that for a while and then had to concede that, “Nope, I’m still not understanding it”.

Then there was the bit of the political news that went on about how the ‘team’ that totally lost the election now has the power to decide who ‘wins’ it. No matter how hard I think about that, I just cannot make understanding descend upon me and illuminate my brain cells to the point where they go “BING!” and enlightenment engulfs me.

I really just don’t understand.

I’m not taking a political stance here; politics is too emotive, too devisive, just too much everything to go around doing that. Even Simonitov and I don’t agree on politics other than that politicians are a necessary evil (citation required!) and are generally a bunch of self-serving power seekers even at the local level where they spend most of their time having pictures taken of themselves pointing at things for the glossy brochures that they do so love to give out. So anyway, politics, Simonitov and I, we don’t go there. We talk about women instead. Broadly speaking. Snigger. :)

And, of course, women are another avenue of not understanding that I can lay claim to. Of course, I feel fairly certain that I am not alone in this. And of course, it works both ways; I’m equally certain that women don’t really understand men – other than what it takes to get them to go shopping and attempt a bit of DIY.

It’s the whole book malarkey about Venus and Mars.

And talking of Mars, I see there was a new dark chocolate version out recently of that particular classic confectionary. I didn’t understand that either. I mean, why? Why a dark chocolate Mars Bar? What’s wrong with the tried and tested milk chocolate variety?

It’s beyond me – as most things are.

Another thing I don’t understand – why, as happened the other day also, can I not remember the catchy little tune I was bashing out about an hour ago? Why has it slipped from my memory when it was patently such a groovy little tune?

Ah, such is life I suppose.

Curiously enough, I have just written a song (for a flexible value of given – i.e. I wrote it a couple of months ago now and have just gotten back to faffing with it again) called Too Much Information in which I make the spurious claim that “I understand it all”. Considering that everything I have just written here contradicts that claim, it would seem that said claim may not be entirely accurate.

Hmm… hoisted on my own petard. And by my own hand too.

I guess that you won’t be surprised to discover that I really don’t understand that either.

Ho hum, said Pooh.

Steve B

:-)
]]> Tue, 11 May 2010 01:12:45 GMT C1CF90AA5F1240FA29887732F70ACB03 TIMBER # 5 - May 1st 2010: Changes? I Think Not http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=265685 I’ve been writing new lyrics of late. Writing new lyrics and trying to find new tunes. Of course, there aren’t really that many new tunes in the world to find, and chances are that any new tunes that I do find have already been found a zillion times before by a zillion other different people. Possibly a couple of zillion people. There are, after all, only so many notes. Likewise, there are only so many letters and therefore only so many words that you can shape them into. So there is a limitation there too. Plus, a lot of the words that you could shape them into are not words that you would want to put into a song. There are also a great many more words that could not easily be press-ganged into service. The word ‘meretricious’ for example is a word that I would quite like to put into a song but I fear that it would be hard to do so in an uncontrived fashion – and I really hate it when things have to be contrived. Which is not to say that I am not guilty of contriving (I probably am), it’s just that I have never noticed myself really doing so. Thus far, I don’t recall ever having made the attempt to put meretricious into a song. It’s obviously not impossible (and I may well try to include that very word in some future ditty) but it might be tricky and it’s not the normal sort of word (whatever ‘normal’ actually is) you’d generally reach for when constructing a lyric. I do recall that some years ago it was my word of the day though. I have no idea why. Anyway, before I sidetrack myself too far, once you’ve ruled out all the words that you either can’t use, are difficult to use or you simply don’t want to use, this imposes further limitations on the variations of lyrical sentence structure at your disposal. And that limitation must, at some hugely distant point, be an ultimately finite limitation. This in turn must surely mean that anything you write or, for the purpose of this ramble, anything that I write, has probably already been written before by someone else somewhere in the cosmos. That nonsense about monkeys and Shakespeare comes to mind. The last example is highly unlikely in the general scheme of things of course, but the likelihood of eventual duplication (for a variable value of eventual) must surely be much more likely if you write exclusively within the limited area of subject matter that I normally occupy – that is, the framework of a miserable b****** musing endlessly about “women who done brung me down and made me miserable in the first place”. This, I am sure you’ll agree, is hardly a unique subject area in the whole song-writing malarkey so it’s not too much of a leap to assume (if you can be bothered to think along these lines for this length of time and not decide to watch something on television instead) that lots of people are already doing it or, indeed, have already done it. This means that somebody else has already written almost exactly the same lyric that I have written and, up until I embarked upon this tedious thought process, lovingly thought of as being mine. Oh, those plagiarising *******! This tedious thought process is, of course, not a new train of thought, either for me or an entire planet of songwriters past and present (and almost certainly future) who have already (or will sooner or later) mused about this concept. But it was a thought that occurred to me again this week as I sat twiddling with a Bsus4 and wondering what to do next. At the time I concluded that whatever it was I did (I forget now) was probably very much the same thing that I have done before when confronted with a Bsus4. Probably more than once. Of course, I try to make things different but I doubt that I achieve much variation because, over the course of a lifetime, I’ve scribbled and strummed and then completely forgotten about more written wordage and hummed/strummed tuneage than I can (fairly obviously) remember; so I feel that it’s an odds on certainty that I must be repeating myself. And, at the same time, also unknowingly doing something someone else is doing, and quite possibly at the very same time. Ah, so actually it’s me that is the plagiarising *******! Ho hum… you know, it’s thinking like this which might make you occasionally think “what’s the point?” give up, sell all your guitars and take up stamp collecting. Fortunately though, I haven’t got the slightest interest in stamp collecting and, having only comparatively recently come into possession of the bestest guitar I have ever owned and which is a total joy to strum until the proverbial cows come home, I’m not really in the mood to trade in my instrumentation for a leather embossed stamp album, so, on the whole, I think I’ll persevere with the wordage and well-trodden chord sequences. I suppose the one area in the whole song-writing thing that I could possibly make significant effort to change is the subject matter – that whole melancholy ‘because of women’ deal… The trouble is, although that sounds as if it ought to be easy enough, it is exceedingly hard to break the habits of a life time. And, for me, writing on that subject is a habit of a lifetime. I didn’t just decide to be a miserable ******* you know, I’ve had to work at it. I’ve recently found it necessary to tidy up the attic (that’s a real attic, as in the attic in my house, as opposed to some deep metaphorical mental attic) whereupon I came upon my stash of old notebooks. There must be 40 or 50 of them, dating back about 30 years, packed full of the scrawl of my younger self – strange drawings, curious notes, odd phrases that must have meant something at the time, and lots and lots of lyrics. And even then, those early, quite often naïve jottings, are invariably about women-inspired heartbreak. And I’m not entirely sure why. Why am I not sure? Well, because at the time that I wrote many of these ancient verses, the lyrical content pre-dated any major involvements that I had with women - and the heart-break nonsense that inevitably goes along with it and which I was, for some reason, writing about. It’s a mystery: Why the heck was I writing that sort of thing at a time in my life when I absolutely know now that I had never, ever experienced it? It’s kind of peculiar really. The only way to rationalise it is by assuming that I must have been getting into a state of readiness for the future moment (or moments) when it did happen. A sort of pre-season training for romantic downfall. A general preparation for failure, even. Or simply honing another dimension to that will to fail that I have more than once been accused of having. Hmm… Obviously I should have got out more when I was younger. Mind you, I still think much the same thing about the older version of me, now. Ha ha. Anyway, I guess that, not for the first time, the only unoriginal conclusion which I can draw to this extremely dull line of thought is this: Behind the endless repetition of words and music that blanket the world and, nearer to home, my not quite so endless progression through life and the constantly revolving finite amalgam of thoughts and words that I think and assemble, nothing ever really changes. Everything remains, as has been observed by cleverer minds than mine, much the same. Oh, deep, deep joy. Yes, that’s right, I always think it’s nice to end on a cheerful note. Changes? I think not. :-) Steve B
Likewise, there are only so many letters and therefore only so many words that you can shape them into. So there is a limitation there too. Plus, a lot of the words that you could shape them into are not words that you would want to put into a song. There are also a great many more words that could not easily be press-ganged into service. The word ‘meretricious’ for example is a word that I would quite like to put into a song but I fear that it would be hard to do so in an uncontrived fashion – and I really hate it when things have to be contrived. Which is not to say that I am not guilty of contriving (I probably am), it’s just that I have never noticed myself really doing so.

Thus far, I don’t recall ever having made the attempt to put meretricious into a song. It’s obviously not impossible (and I may well try to include that very word in some future ditty) but it might be tricky and it’s not the normal sort of word (whatever ‘normal’ actually is) you’d generally reach for when constructing a lyric. I do recall that some years ago it was my word of the day though. I have no idea why.

Anyway, before I sidetrack myself too far, once you’ve ruled out all the words that you either can’t use, are difficult to use or you simply don’t want to use, this imposes further limitations on the variations of lyrical sentence structure at your disposal. And that limitation must, at some hugely distant point, be an ultimately finite limitation. This in turn must surely mean that anything you write or, for the purpose of this ramble, anything that I write, has probably already been written before by someone else somewhere in the cosmos. That nonsense about monkeys and Shakespeare comes to mind.

The last example is highly unlikely in the general scheme of things of course, but the likelihood of eventual duplication (for a variable value of eventual) must surely be much more likely if you write exclusively within the limited area of subject matter that I normally occupy – that is, the framework of a miserable b****** musing endlessly about “women who done brung me down and made me miserable in the first place”. This, I am sure you’ll agree, is hardly a unique subject area in the whole song-writing malarkey so it’s not too much of a leap to assume (if you can be bothered to think along these lines for this length of time and not decide to watch something on television instead) that lots of people are already doing it or, indeed, have already done it. This means that somebody else has already written almost exactly the same lyric that I have written and, up until I embarked upon this tedious thought process, lovingly thought of as being mine. Oh, those plagiarising *******!

This tedious thought process is, of course, not a new train of thought, either for me or an entire planet of songwriters past and present (and almost certainly future) who have already (or will sooner or later) mused about this concept. But it was a thought that occurred to me again this week as I sat twiddling with a Bsus4 and wondering what to do next. At the time I concluded that whatever it was I did (I forget now) was probably very much the same thing that I have done before when confronted with a Bsus4. Probably more than once.

Of course, I try to make things different but I doubt that I achieve much variation because, over the course of a lifetime, I’ve scribbled and strummed and then completely forgotten about more written wordage and hummed/strummed tuneage than I can (fairly obviously) remember; so I feel that it’s an odds on certainty that I must be repeating myself. And, at the same time, also unknowingly doing something someone else is doing, and quite possibly at the very same time. Ah, so actually it’s me that is the plagiarising *******!

Ho hum… you know, it’s thinking like this which might make you occasionally think “what’s the point?” give up, sell all your guitars and take up stamp collecting.

Fortunately though, I haven’t got the slightest interest in stamp collecting and, having only comparatively recently come into possession of the bestest guitar I have ever owned and which is a total joy to strum until the proverbial cows come home, I’m not really in the mood to trade in my instrumentation for a leather embossed stamp album, so, on the whole, I think I’ll persevere with the wordage and well-trodden chord sequences.

I suppose the one area in the whole song-writing thing that I could possibly make significant effort to change is the subject matter – that whole melancholy ‘because of women’ deal… The trouble is, although that sounds as if it ought to be easy enough, it is exceedingly hard to break the habits of a life time. And, for me, writing on that subject is a habit of a lifetime. I didn’t just decide to be a miserable ******* you know, I’ve had to work at it.

I’ve recently found it necessary to tidy up the attic (that’s a real attic, as in the attic in my house, as opposed to some deep metaphorical mental attic) whereupon I came upon my stash of old notebooks. There must be 40 or 50 of them, dating back about 30 years, packed full of the scrawl of my younger self – strange drawings, curious notes, odd phrases that must have meant something at the time, and lots and lots of lyrics. And even then, those early, quite often naïve jottings, are invariably about women-inspired heartbreak.

And I’m not entirely sure why. Why am I not sure? Well, because at the time that I wrote many of these ancient verses, the lyrical content pre-dated any major involvements that I had with women - and the heart-break nonsense that inevitably goes along with it and which I was, for some reason, writing about.

It’s a mystery: Why the heck was I writing that sort of thing at a time in my life when I absolutely know now that I had never, ever experienced it?

It’s kind of peculiar really. The only way to rationalise it is by assuming that I must have been getting into a state of readiness for the future moment (or moments) when it did happen. A sort of pre-season training for romantic downfall. A general preparation for failure, even. Or simply honing another dimension to that will to fail that I have more than once been accused of having.

Hmm… Obviously I should have got out more when I was younger. Mind you, I still think much the same thing about the older version of me, now.

Ha ha.

Anyway, I guess that, not for the first time, the only unoriginal conclusion which I can draw to this extremely dull line of thought is this: Behind the endless repetition of words and music that blanket the world and, nearer to home, my not quite so endless progression through life and the constantly revolving finite amalgam of thoughts and words that I think and assemble, nothing ever really changes.

Everything remains, as has been observed by cleverer minds than mine, much the same.

Oh, deep, deep joy.

Yes, that’s right, I always think it’s nice to end on a cheerful note.

Changes? I think not.

:-)

Steve B

]]> Sun, 02 May 2010 00:31:51 GMT E3C4B0F25E3D20E6C2E61DE0155478C4 TIMBER # 4 - April 23rd 2010: And? http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=251993 What is the point? I only ask because, quite often, I really don’t see it. And today, I really don’t see it. I mean… Really… What is the point? Can you tell me? Probably not. But still: What is the point? I’ve been assured that there has to be one, somewhere, but if there is one, more often than not, I’m afraid that I don’t see it. Actually, sometimes I’m fairly terrified that I don’t see it. Sometimes people with bigger brains than me go the trouble of telling me what the point is. But as far as I can see, the trouble with doing that, is that they are telling me the point according to them. Therefore, it is their point, not mine. Not mine. And therefore that point just doesn’t work for me. Hmmm… there is room for doubt and confusion there, methinks. But then there is always room for doubt and confusion in this big, wide world. And life… Life is big too isn’t it; a great big brute of a thing. And rammed full of doubt and confusion. Most of it mine, probably. But it is so big and so full that I’m almost convinced that it is beyond all understanding, especially mine. Somewhere there is a big picture, a grand scheme of things. A map of the cosmos with an arrow saying “you are here” and directions to tell you to where you are supposed to be going. Or maybe there isn’t. But there really ought to be. I don’t understand; I don’t understand it at all. Although, I’ve been told that the trick is in not trying to understand it, but to just to get on with it. Sometimes that seems like sound advice, and sometimes that seems to work. Well, at least up to that point where it doesn’t. I once wrote a 9½ minute song about that. Don’t worry, I probably won’t play it at you. And at that point… Well, cue the opening line. I’m in a bad mood right now. You had an inkling? Ah, your powers of perception have not waned. But yes, it is true, I am in a bad mood right now. Well, I say bad (and I did – you just heard me say it), but maybe I mean grey. Maybe I don’t know what I mean. Maybe. Maybe I was right the first time and I am in a bad mood. Or I’m just fed up. Yes, let’s go with that. I’m fed up. I shouldn’t be. I have no reason to be. But, nevertheless, I am. It’s the trivia that gets me. Or gets to me. The little stuff that is unimportant until it bites a chunk of flesh out of your soul. So… not actually trivia after all, then… Today: I couldn’t pick up a guitar without wondering why I was even bothering. My fingers defaulted to the usual open G position. I picked and hammered on and off the notes around that G shape in the usual way that I always do. And that lasted about two seconds. And then I put it down again. Defeated. Oh… I’m so bored. I think. I think I’m bored. Although it might not be boredom. It can’t be boredom; it must be apathy. Apathy would fuel the question of what or wherein lies the point, fuel it and drive it to the territory of frustration. Okay then, today I am frustrated. So, not in a bad mood, not grey, not fed up, not bored, just apathetic and frustrated. I’m frustrated in the knowledge that I am wasting the time that I know that I will continue to waste regardless of the fact that I know that I am wasting it and already regret and will continue to regret said waste. And so… Today: I couldn’t even pick up a guitar and slip effortlessly into E and thence to the blues riff which is my secondary default position on the fret board. Fingers hinted at the notes, but… Everything sounded wrong to my ears, to my mind. So… Another two seconds wasted. “Step away from the guitar. Give it up. There’s no way out of this place today.” It is that bad. Deep sigh. Honestly… What is the point? Don’t feel obliged to answer. And anyway, even if you did, as I sort of hinted at earlier, I probably still wouldn’t see it – your point, not mine. So then, I will resort to Plan… not sure what letter of the alphabet it is. Let us call it P. So then, I resort to Plan P… And Plan P is, very simply: to curl up in a ball and wait for darkness to overhwhelm me. No, not the darkness of death you doom merchant – I’m frustrated, not suicidal! I mean the darkness of sleep; to just let the world slip away into nothingness, beyond the sprawling tensions of consciousness. Let it disappear and let it, the very big, very wide world, haunt somebody else for a while. It needn’t be me all the time. So that is what I will do. I will close my eyes and hide. Because the concept is simple enough: if I cannot see the world, it cannot, therefore, see me. Well, sometimes it works. Another deep sigh. And a note to self: Today could be better. But tomorrow I’ll write a song about it. If I can see the point, obviously. Obviously. Good night world; welcome, sleep’s healing oblivion. Hopefully. Maybe I’ll dream of a point. :) Steve B
I only ask because, quite often, I really don’t see it. And today, I really don’t see it.

I mean…

Really…

What is the point?

Can you tell me? Probably not. But still:

What is the point?

I’ve been assured that there has to be one, somewhere, but if there is one, more often than not, I’m afraid that I don’t see it. Actually, sometimes I’m fairly terrified that I don’t see it.

Sometimes people with bigger brains than me go the trouble of telling me what the point is. But as far as I can see, the trouble with doing that, is that they are telling me the point according to them. Therefore, it is their point, not mine.

Not mine.

And therefore that point just doesn’t work for me.

Hmmm… there is room for doubt and confusion there, methinks. But then there is always room for doubt and confusion in this big, wide world.

And life…

Life is big too isn’t it; a great big brute of a thing.

And rammed full of doubt and confusion. Most of it mine, probably.

But it is so big and so full that I’m almost convinced that it is beyond all understanding, especially mine. Somewhere there is a big picture, a grand scheme of things. A map of the cosmos with an arrow saying “you are here” and directions to tell you to where you are supposed to be going. Or maybe there isn’t.

But there really ought to be.

I don’t understand; I don’t understand it at all.

Although, I’ve been told that the trick is in not trying to understand it, but to just to get on with it. Sometimes that seems like sound advice, and sometimes that seems to work.

Well, at least up to that point where it doesn’t.

I once wrote a 9½ minute song about that. Don’t worry, I probably won’t play it at you.

And at that point…

Well, cue the opening line.

I’m in a bad mood right now. You had an inkling? Ah, your powers of perception have not waned. But yes, it is true, I am in a bad mood right now. Well, I say bad (and I did – you just heard me say it), but maybe I mean grey. Maybe I don’t know what I mean. Maybe.

Maybe I was right the first time and I am in a bad mood.

Or I’m just fed up. Yes, let’s go with that.

I’m fed up. I shouldn’t be. I have no reason to be. But, nevertheless, I am. It’s the trivia that gets me. Or gets to me. The little stuff that is unimportant until it bites a chunk of flesh out of your soul. So… not actually trivia after all, then…

Today: I couldn’t pick up a guitar without wondering why I was even bothering. My fingers defaulted to the usual open G position. I picked and hammered on and off the notes around that G shape in the usual way that I always do. And that lasted about two seconds.

And then I put it down again. Defeated.

Oh… I’m so bored. I think. I think I’m bored. Although it might not be boredom. It can’t be boredom; it must be apathy. Apathy would fuel the question of what or wherein lies the point, fuel it and drive it to the territory of frustration.

Okay then, today I am frustrated.

So, not in a bad mood, not grey, not fed up, not bored, just apathetic and frustrated.

I’m frustrated in the knowledge that I am wasting the time that I know that I will continue to waste regardless of the fact that I know that I am wasting it and already regret and will continue to regret said waste.

And so…

Today: I couldn’t even pick up a guitar and slip effortlessly into E and thence to the blues riff which is my secondary default position on the fret board. Fingers hinted at the notes, but…

Everything sounded wrong to my ears, to my mind.

So…

Another two seconds wasted.

“Step away from the guitar. Give it up. There’s no way out of this place today.”

It is that bad.

Deep sigh.

Honestly…

What is the point?

Don’t feel obliged to answer.

And anyway, even if you did, as I sort of hinted at earlier, I probably still wouldn’t see it – your point, not mine.

So then, I will resort to Plan… not sure what letter of the alphabet it is. Let us call it P. So then, I resort to Plan P…

And Plan P is, very simply: to curl up in a ball and wait for darkness to overhwhelm me. No, not the darkness of death you doom merchant – I’m frustrated, not suicidal! I mean the darkness of sleep; to just let the world slip away into nothingness, beyond the sprawling tensions of consciousness. Let it disappear and let it, the very big, very wide world, haunt somebody else for a while. It needn’t be me all the time.

So that is what I will do. I will close my eyes and hide. Because the concept is simple enough: if I cannot see the world, it cannot, therefore, see me.

Well, sometimes it works.

Another deep sigh.

And a note to self:

Today could be better.

But tomorrow I’ll write a song about it.

If I can see the point, obviously.

Obviously.

Good night world; welcome, sleep’s healing oblivion. Hopefully.

Maybe I’ll dream of a point.

:)

Steve B
]]> Fri, 23 Apr 2010 04:10:00 GMT 97E1ED4D6FD82F20A363A8D9388DB37B TIMBER # 3 - April 14th 2010: A Bloke On The Phone Called James http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=241565 So here I am, or, more to the point, there I was, working away on the history of cheese in relation to the Women's Institute when suddenly, in the way that they do, or the way that it does or, indeed, the way that it did, the telephone rang. I was slightly surprised, perhaps vaguely surprised, perhaps both, I can't be certain. I can be certain that there was some degree of surprise involved though, because it wasn't the time of day that I would be expecting to receive a telephone call. Hence the surprise. "Hello" I said. I should have put it down then of course. As soon as I got the four seconds of silence I should have put it down. But no, I held on to the phone and said it again: "Hello." And that's when 'James' introduced himself. "Hello, Mister Brown?" "What's it about?" said I, full of good cheer at the sound of his sweet foreign tones pleasantly framed with background office noise. "Hello, I'm James..." Yes, you're correct - I should have put it down at that point too. But instead, whilst thinking "with an accent like that, if your name is James I have the largest personal tool in Christendom" I responded with a welcoming and inviting: "Yeeeeaaaaahhhhhh?" He probably didn't fully comprehend my subtle alliterative nuances because he proceeded to launch into his spiel about his company that was, in fact, a computer security business. He quickly went on to tell me that my very own computational device was sending out warning messages to them, to him personally, right there and right then... And yes, right then was the point that I did finally put the phone down; put it down and considered that that was another 30 seconds of my life that I wasn't going to get back. Ever. And then I spent a few more seconds considering the fact that it was lucky I wasn't a gullible old codger (I admit that I am in fact an old codger, obviously). But a gullible old codger who didn't know any better would very probably have lapped up every word that 'James' was saying. And no doubt it would all have ended in tears, recriminations and large quantities of money going missing out of somebody's bank account. (Although, it's probably fairly safe to say that it wouldn't have gone missing from my account in the event that I had been a gullible old codger. For it to have gone missing it would have to have been there in the first place and there is just never any money there to be missed. So "Ha!" to you 'James'!! Poverty: the ultimate weapon in financial security.) Anyway, I thought, probably not for the first time, what a sad old world it is but, alas, I conceded to myself that this is the way of it. Once upon a time a conman had to get off his bottom and ply his trade door to door (and obviously some still do) but it is now so much easier to do it over the phone. 'James' had no luck with me today. But I guess that no matter how often and how many times 'James' hits the proverbial brick wall, if he makes enough calls sooner or later he is going to hit a wall with an open door in it. He probably got one today, eventually. I suppose it's a bit like corny chat up lines really. If you've got the nerve to use them, and keep using them, then sooner or later one of them is going to work on somebody, somewhere. Mind you, speaking on a personal level, they have never worked for me. And anyway, I only have one, a very old one, which is, essentially: "Hello darling, fancy a shag?" Yes, I know, subtle. And did I have any luck with it? Well... the best response, as some of you will already know, was: "Yes. But not with you." Harsh, I thought. Still, not as harsh as what I would like to do to telephone sales callers seemingly unaffected by my presence on the Telephone Preference Service. I mean, what is the point of the TPS? I think that I have had more sales calls in the past couple of months than I have ever had. Have the TPS delisted me? Did I do something to upset them? Did I miss their birthday? I mean, what? Deep sigh. Oh well, I suppose I shall just wait for 'James' to call again. Maybe when he does I'll listen to what he has to say. And then speak in a thick country accent. That usually confuses them. It's ironic really. I fondly recall how I once engaged a 'James-type' person in a conversation whilst using a very slaaaaaack cockney accent. Eventually they hung up on me because they said they couldn't understand me. Foot, boot, the, on and other. Result. I expect I could write a song about that. Oh, and by the way, that bit about the chat up line, the 'fancy a shag?' bit... well, that was a joke. I've never actually had a chat up line in my life. And I could probably write a song about that too. Oh... Hang on - I already have. :-) Steve B   So here I am, or, more to the point, there I was, working away on the history of cheese in relation to the Women's Institute when suddenly, in the way that they do, or the way that it does or, indeed, the way that it did, the telephone rang.

I was slightly surprised, perhaps vaguely surprised, perhaps both, I can't be certain. I can be certain that there was some degree of surprise involved though, because it wasn't the time of day that I would be expecting to receive a telephone call.

Hence the surprise.

"Hello" I said.

I should have put it down then of course. As soon as I got the four seconds of silence I should have put it down. But no, I held on to the phone and said it again:

"Hello."

And that's when 'James' introduced himself.

"Hello, Mister Brown?"
"What's it about?" said I, full of good cheer at the sound of his sweet foreign tones pleasantly framed with background office noise.
"Hello, I'm James..."

Yes, you're correct - I should have put it down at that point too. But instead, whilst thinking "with an accent like that, if your name is James I have the largest personal tool in Christendom" I responded with a welcoming and inviting: "Yeeeeaaaaahhhhhh?"

He probably didn't fully comprehend my subtle alliterative nuances because he proceeded to launch into his spiel about his company that was, in fact, a computer security business. He quickly went on to tell me that my very own computational device was sending out warning messages to them, to him personally, right there and right then...

And yes, right then was the point that I did finally put the phone down; put it down and considered that that was another 30 seconds of my life that I wasn't going to get back. Ever.

And then I spent a few more seconds considering the fact that it was lucky I wasn't a gullible old codger (I admit that I am in fact an old codger, obviously). But a gullible old codger who didn't know any better would very probably have lapped up every word that 'James' was saying. And no doubt it would all have ended in tears, recriminations and large quantities of money going missing out of somebody's bank account.

(Although, it's probably fairly safe to say that it wouldn't have gone missing from my account in the event that I had been a gullible old codger. For it to have gone missing it would have to have been there in the first place and there is just never any money there to be missed. So "Ha!" to you 'James'!! Poverty: the ultimate weapon in financial security.)

Anyway, I thought, probably not for the first time, what a sad old world it is but, alas, I conceded to myself that this is the way of it. Once upon a time a conman had to get off his bottom and ply his trade door to door (and obviously some still do) but it is now so much easier to do it over the phone.

'James' had no luck with me today. But I guess that no matter how often and how many times 'James' hits the proverbial brick wall, if he makes enough calls sooner or later he is going to hit a wall with an open door in it. He probably got one today, eventually.

I suppose it's a bit like corny chat up lines really. If you've got the nerve to use them, and keep using them, then sooner or later one of them is going to work on somebody, somewhere.

Mind you, speaking on a personal level, they have never worked for me. And anyway, I only have one, a very old one, which is, essentially:

"Hello darling, fancy a shag?"

Yes, I know, subtle. And did I have any luck with it? Well... the best response, as some of you will already know, was:

"Yes. But not with you."

Harsh, I thought.

Still, not as harsh as what I would like to do to telephone sales callers seemingly unaffected by my presence on the Telephone Preference Service. I mean, what is the point of the TPS? I think that I have had more sales calls in the past couple of months than I have ever had. Have the TPS delisted me? Did I do something to upset them? Did I miss their birthday?

I mean, what?

Deep sigh.

Oh well, I suppose I shall just wait for 'James' to call again. Maybe when he does I'll listen to what he has to say. And then speak in a thick country accent. That usually confuses them. It's ironic really. I fondly recall how I once engaged a 'James-type' person in a conversation whilst using a very slaaaaaack cockney accent. Eventually they hung up on me because they said they couldn't understand me.

Foot, boot, the, on and other.

Result.

I expect I could write a song about that.

Oh, and by the way, that bit about the chat up line, the 'fancy a shag?' bit... well, that was a joke. I've never actually had a chat up line in my life.

And I could probably write a song about that too.

Oh... Hang on - I already have.

:-)

Steve B

]]> Thu, 15 Apr 2010 00:40:00 GMT 9865CD6E6B72CA154171D669400F847E TIMBER # 2 - April 9th 2010: Fingernails - A Personal Discovery http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=235708 Fingernails. They're useful things. You can do all sorts of things with fingernails. Scratching is the obvious thing to come to mind. Clearing nasal and aural passages are a couple more. Spot squeezing can also be aided very successfully with judicious use of a couple of fingernails operating in tandem.  Sometimes, though, they just get in the way. Generally, what you don't need on your guitar fretting hand are fingernails - or at least long fingernails that prevent you from carrying out that complicated chord shape or, in my case, Em. Sometimes, those long fingernails just get in the way and have to be shown who is the paternal figure and cut down to size, their length and their potential for impediment curtailed. Often, I think, fingernails on my fretting hand can never be too short. And that is all well and good. But... what about the non-fretting hand? What about that set of fingernails? This is something that I have been considering this morning - the fingernails on my non-fretting hand. I have never considered the idea that I really use them to any great degree in my playing. I lack the dexterity to engage in hot finger picking (nasal and aural passages naturally excepted) where, no doubt, lengthy fingernails would come in handy (cough), and I do not have the well-executed claw-hammer technique of my good friend, Simonitov where, again, no doubt, some length of nail would be useful. In short, I am a strummer. A tongue between the teeth, hope I'm in time, strummer.  And I have never considered the length of the fingernails on my strumming hand to be of any great import. If I had thought about that naily concept, I would probably have thought that it wouldn't matter how long or short they were, and that they would have no effect on whatever passes for my strumming technique. Actually, when I think about it, I have never really considered that I had a strumming technique anyway - technique is for proper guitar players. Therefore, upon any considered reflection of this subject, I would probably have been forced to say that, once again, (my) fingernails could never be too short. However, it seems I was wrong. The fingernails on my strumming hand are always fairly long; and for no other reason than they just are. My thumbnails (on both hands) are always particularly long - pervily so, some have said. I'm not quite sure why they would be pervily so but the world is all about opinions, isn't it. And stuff. Anyway... During the course of a recent, very tense televisual experience, I gnawed the fingernails (pervy thumbnails included) of both hands down to the quick and now I have discovered that as far as my strumming hand is concerned, fingernails can be too short. I feel pain. My gnawed fretting hand is fine; it is as pain-free a zone as it always is. But, my strumming hand... Well, I have just discovered, as my strumming hand has just discovered, that, actually, after all, my fingernails are a fairly important part of my strumming technique (if technique really is a word that can actually be applied to my ham-fisted strumming) And, quite frankly, that has come as a bit of a surprise to me as I'd never considered that those fingernails played any major part; they were just... there. And, as my fingertips complain bitterly on the down strokes, and reiterate their grievances on the up strokes, I have been forced to conclude that I was in fact entirely incorrect about the whole fingernail business. Oh the humanity Oh the pain! I suppose that there is an upside to my painful discovery though. And that is that it seems as if I have some kind of musical playing technique after all. It's not necessarily a good one but it is one nevertheless. And I've waited years for one of those so it's quite a revelation. I wonder if they are like buses? Or cheese? Hmm... Whatever the case - I want my nails back. :-) Steve B

Fingernails. They're useful things. You can do all sorts of things with fingernails. Scratching is the obvious thing to come to mind. Clearing nasal and aural passages are a couple more. Spot squeezing can also be aided very successfully with judicious use of a couple of fingernails operating in tandem. Sometimes, though, they just get in the way.

Generally, what you don't need on your guitar fretting hand are fingernails - or at least long fingernails that prevent you from carrying out that complicated chord shape or, in my case, Em. Sometimes, those long fingernails just get in the way and have to be shown who is the paternal figure and cut down to size, their length and their potential for impediment curtailed. Often, I think, fingernails on my fretting hand can never be too short.

And that is all well and good.

But... what about the non-fretting hand? What about that set of fingernails?

This is something that I have been considering this morning - the fingernails on my non-fretting hand. I have never considered the idea that I really use them to any great degree in my playing. I lack the dexterity to engage in hot finger picking (nasal and aural passages naturally excepted) where, no doubt, lengthy fingernails would come in handy (cough), and I do not have the well-executed claw-hammer technique of my good friend, Simonitov where, again, no doubt, some length of nail would be useful.

In short, I am a strummer. A tongue between the teeth, hope I'm in time, strummer. And I have never considered the length of the fingernails on my strumming hand to be of any great import. If I had thought about that naily concept, I would probably have thought that it wouldn't matter how long or short they were, and that they would have no effect on whatever passes for my strumming technique. Actually, when I think about it, I have never really considered that I had a strumming technique anyway - technique is for proper guitar players. Therefore, upon any considered reflection of this subject, I would probably have been forced to say that, once again, (my) fingernails could never be too short.

However, it seems I was wrong.

The fingernails on my strumming hand are always fairly long; and for no other reason than they just are. My thumbnails (on both hands) are always particularly long - pervily so, some have said. I'm not quite sure why they would be pervily so but the world is all about opinions, isn't it. And stuff.

Anyway...

During the course of a recent, very tense televisual experience, I gnawed the fingernails (pervy thumbnails included) of both hands down to the quick and now I have discovered that as far as my strumming hand is concerned, fingernails can be too short.

I feel pain.

My gnawed fretting hand is fine; it is as pain-free a zone as it always is. But, my strumming hand...

Well, I have just discovered, as my strumming hand has just discovered, that, actually, after all, my fingernails are a fairly important part of my strumming technique (if technique really is a word that can actually be applied to my ham-fisted strumming) And, quite frankly, that has come as a bit of a surprise to me as I'd never considered that those fingernails played any major part; they were just... there.

And, as my fingertips complain bitterly on the down strokes, and reiterate their grievances on the up strokes, I have been forced to conclude that I was in fact entirely incorrect about the whole fingernail business. Oh the humanity Oh the pain!

I suppose that there is an upside to my painful discovery though. And that is that it seems as if I have some kind of musical playing technique after all. It's not necessarily a good one but it is one nevertheless.

And I've waited years for one of those so it's quite a revelation. I wonder if they are like buses?

Or cheese?

Hmm...

Whatever the case - I want my nails back.

:-)

Steve B

]]> Fri, 09 Apr 2010 23:00:00 GMT A9D2412DF9CF109D5C4922992DE13376 TIMBER # 1 - March 24th 2010: So, what is to be said? http://holygeorge.co.uk/timber.cfm?feature=1277623&postid=213725 This, I feel I should point out, is not actually a real blog. The blurb at the top of this page has already menitoned that but this is a good old-fashioned reiteration just to get the point across. I mean, yes, admittedly I'm writing words here - and blogs obviously contain words. But I have no actual point to make with any words I put here. I'm not looking to say anything deep or even interesting about anything at all. I'm just writing words - any words. The first words that come sweeping out of my mind will be the ones that I put here. The ones that I am putting here now. The ones that I have already put. It seems unlikely that any of them will make any sense or that anybody will or would have any interest in reading them. And that's okay because they do not need to make any sense and they will not make any more, or even less sense if nobody reads them. Essentially then, these words, here and now, are saying nothing about nothing, and saying them to nobody. I suspect that somewhere in that equation of words, there is an indication of some kind of fair balance - a workable equilibrium. So that's alright then. "But," you might be asking yourself (although I feel it unlikely) "why are you even bothering to write anything at all here?" And that is probably a good question. Unfortunately I ran out of really good answers for anything a long time ago. However, a good answer (involving elephants and contraception for example) is not required here as the true answer is not an overly exciting or overwhelming, let alone good one. And nor does it need to be when shove comes to push. It doesn't involve any deep insight into mine or anybody else's psyche or death defying leaps of faith - or faith defying leaps of death. It only involves one incredibly dull but simple truth and that is: I am testing the blog function that the web host (Bandzoogle) for this website (Holy George, that's the guys who decided to put this site up) provided as part of the attractive package deal. And I am testing it just to see what it does, how it does it and where it does it. I'm not so much interested in why it does it. I imagine that like many things, it does it because that's what it does, that is what it is designed to do. It doesn't need a motivational reason; it doesn't need a 'why' - the function just is. Functional. Of course, if I were a proper blogger and not just somebody experimenting with a function, a feature, and if I were a more intelligent person than I actually am, I could probably compare (in a cynical and negative way) the similarities (or disparities) between the 'just is' function of a piece of software and the 'just is' status of a human being. But I'm not a proper blogger and therefore can afford to ignore such nonsense. And on that note, that's really all I have to say about that. :-) Steve B   This, I feel I should point out, is not actually a real blog. The blurb at the top of this page has already menitoned that but this is a good old-fashioned reiteration just to get the point across. I mean, yes, admittedly I'm writing words here - and blogs obviously contain words. But I have no actual point to make with any words I put here. I'm not looking to say anything deep or even interesting about anything at all. I'm just writing words - any words. The first words that come sweeping out of my mind will be the ones that I put here. The ones that I am putting here now. The ones that I have already put.

It seems unlikely that any of them will make any sense or that anybody will or would have any interest in reading them. And that's okay because they do not need to make any sense and they will not make any more, or even less sense if nobody reads them.

Essentially then, these words, here and now, are saying nothing about nothing, and saying them to nobody.

I suspect that somewhere in that equation of words, there is an indication of some kind of fair balance - a workable equilibrium.

So that's alright then.

"But," you might be asking yourself (although I feel it unlikely) "why are you even bothering to write anything at all here?"

And that is probably a good question. Unfortunately I ran out of really good answers for anything a long time ago. However, a good answer (involving elephants and contraception for example) is not required here as the true answer is not an overly exciting or overwhelming, let alone good one. And nor does it need to be when shove comes to push. It doesn't involve any deep insight into mine or anybody else's psyche or death defying leaps of faith - or faith defying leaps of death.

It only involves one incredibly dull but simple truth and that is: I am testing the blog function that the web host (Bandzoogle) for this website (Holy George, that's the guys who decided to put this site up) provided as part of the attractive package deal. And I am testing it just to see what it does, how it does it and where it does it. I'm not so much interested in why it does it. I imagine that like many things, it does it because that's what it does, that is what it is designed to do. It doesn't need a motivational reason; it doesn't need a 'why' - the function just is. Functional.

Of course, if I were a proper blogger and not just somebody experimenting with a function, a feature, and if I were a more intelligent person than I actually am, I could probably compare (in a cynical and negative way) the similarities (or disparities) between the 'just is' function of a piece of software and the 'just is' status of a human being.

But I'm not a proper blogger and therefore can afford to ignore such nonsense.

And on that note, that's really all I have to say about that.

:-)

Steve B
]]> Wed, 24 Mar 2010 22:40:00 GMT A4AF8BC5CAB61BD520CC0D4FCFBC3405